Chapter 6 — Shrimp Street Without Name

Le Thi Tuyet's name appeared in her father's case file as a technician who directly performed antibiotic residue testing on the poisoning batch, and the person who signed the result sheet became the main incriminating evidence. Hai Yen spent a morning asking through some old family acquaintances, finally finding out that Ms. Tuyet was still working at the regional testing laboratory, just transferred from the main technician position to a less stressful administrative position.

She chose the most natural approach possible: officially registering to work with the testing laboratory to compare the independent sample testing process, a completely reasonable request within the scope of audit. When she entered the small office where Mrs. Tuyet sat, the forty-six year old woman with hair that was more gray than her age was diligently entering data into the computer, not looking up immediately.

"Miss Tuyet, I'm Hai Yen, an inspector at the Certification Center, need to discuss a few things about the antibiotic residue testing process." She opened her mouth in a purely business tone.

Mrs. Tuyet looked up, and in the moment their eyes met, Hai Yen clearly saw a fleeting change on her face — not the surprise of someone meeting an inspector for the first time, but something close to the wariness of someone who has just recognized a familiar name in an unfamiliar face.

“What do you need to ask?” Mrs. Tuyet replied, her voice was somewhat reserved.

“I want to understand the sample collection and preservation process here, especially with shipments suspected of exceeding the threshold of antibiotic residue.” Hai Yen sat down on the opposite chair, trying to keep enough distance to not create a feeling of pressure. "I'm also reviewing some old cases to refer to precedents."

“What old case?” Ms. Tuyet's voice stiffened slightly.

“Ken Ba cooperative case, ten years ago.”

Ms. Tuyet's hand that was typing on the keyboard paused. She no longer looked directly at Hai Yen, but looked down at the computer screen, although it was clear that she was no longer reading anything on it. “That case is very old, I don't remember the details.”

"You were the one who directly signed the test results in that case," Hai Yen said, trying to keep her voice as gentle as possible, even though every word she said was carefully considered. “I just wanted to understand how the process worked at that time, not to overturn the case.”

“I told you, I don't remember clearly.” Mrs. Tuyet stood up suddenly, pushed her chair back, making a shrill sound on the tile floor. "I have to go, please understand. If you need information about general procedures, ask the department head, he knows better than me."

“Sister Tuyet—”

“I really have work.” Ms. Tuyet took her bag and quickly walked out the door, leaving Hai Yen sitting alone in the middle of the office with the computer screen still lit, displaying an unsaved data entry table.

Hai Yen did not chase. She knew that in situations like this, chasing would only make people huddle tighter. Instead, she sat for a few more minutes, observing the small room, noting details that might be useful: a calendar on the wall with a few days circled in red for unknown reasons, a small photo frame on the table of Mrs. Tuyet with a young girl wearing a bachelor's gown, probably a girl.

Another employee in the room, younger, sitting at the next table, glanced at Hai Yen slightly and then bent down to the screen as if not wanting to get involved. When Hai Yen asked probingly, it was like asking When asked casually about whether Ms. Tuyet is often busy with family matters, the young employee simply replied, "Mrs. Tuyet rarely talks to anyone in private, she goes home immediately after work, and rarely sits down and chats with colleagues." That answer, although short, made Hai Yen believe that Ms. Tuyet's reticence was not an innate personality, but a habit forged over many years of caution.

Before leaving, she left a business card on the table, handwriting a line on the back: "I don't want to make things difficult for anyone. If you need to talk, I'm always ready to listen, outside of work hours, wherever you feel comfortable."

In the evening, she stopped by her mother's house as promised. Mrs. Sau prepared a simple tray of rice, braised fish and sour soup, dishes she remembered from childhood but had not eaten properly for a long time. Throughout the meal, mother and daughter talked about trivial things, avoiding mentioning work, avoiding mentioning the past, like a tacit agreement that both understood but neither said it.

Only when Hai Yen was about to leave did Mrs. Sau call her back and lead her into the small room at the back, where an old wooden cabinet was still in the same position as ten years ago. She opened the bottom drawer, took out a notebook wrapped in a yellowed plastic bag, and gave it to her daughter with both hands, as if giving something heavier than its actual weight.

“Your father's book,” she said, her voice hoarse. "I've been keeping it for ten years, intending to burn it to end the matter, but I can't help it. Take it, do whatever you want, I won't stop you."

Hai Yen held the notebook, her hands shaking slightly. The notebook's cover was worn out, not a brown leather cover embossed with waves like the notebook she saw on Mr. Bao's desk, but just a normal paper-covered notebook, the kind sold in grocery stores. She flipped through the first few pages and saw her father's familiar handwriting, lines recording yields and harvest schedules, mixed with the last few pages were rows of symbols and numbers that did not follow any clear pattern that she could immediately recognize.

“Do you know what these symbols mean?” she asked, pointing to a page at the end of the book.

Mrs. Sau took the notebook, brought it closer to the flickering oil lamp in the room, squinted at each line as if trying to re-identify an acquaintance she had not seen for a long time. She flipped through the first few pages, her voice suddenly softening. “On this page, my father recorded the date of stocking the first crop of that year. I still remember, because it rained heavily that day, he came home soaked but still smiled, saying this crop was sure to be a success.” She continued flipping, her finger stopping on a page in the middle of the book. "This section lists the names of several households that owe money for shrimp food. I remember Mrs. Tam Com's house, the debt was so long that I couldn't pay it back, and my father didn't have the heart to ask harshly."

But when she turned to the last pages, where the rows of symbols began to appear more densely, Mrs. Sau shook her head, but her eyes were averted in a way that made Hai Yen suspect that her mother knew more than she was willing to say. "I don't know much about your father's books. He is the homeroom teacher and manages everything, I only worry about food and the children."

"Mom, you've kept this notebook for ten years and aren't curious about what's written in it?"

Mrs. Sau was silent for a long time, then sighed. "I read it. But I don't understand it, Yen. Your father often abbreviates and writes in his own style. I can barely read the words. I just keep it, because it's the last thing left of him besides the pictures."

Hai Yen hugged the notebook to her chest, feeling like she was holding a piece of her father that she never knew been touched for the past ten years. She thanked her mother, promised to be careful, then left in the yellow streetlight of the alley leading to Mrs. Tu's boarding house.

Returning to her room, she spread the notebook out on the table, took a photo of each page with her phone to have a copy before starting to read carefully. Most of the content is the usual management records of a shrimp farming cooperative: stocking schedule, harvest schedule, list of participating farmers. But towards the end of the notebook, the pages of notes became more and more fragmented, interspersed with sequences of numbers she could not yet decipher, and on the penultimate page, a line was hastily written, the pen stroke was much more shaky than the other pages:

"We can't let this continue. We have to speak out, even if we lose everything."

There is no date, no clear context attached. Hai Yen read and reread that line many times, trying to imagine her father's mood when writing it, trying to guess what "this story" was, and whether the line was written before or after the poisoning shipment was discovered.

Her phone lit up with a new email from the central laboratory, just as she was sitting silently before her father's last words. The test results of three samples she took herself from container DH-0417 were available, eight hours earlier than expected.

She opened the attached file, her eyes quickly scrolled down the results table. All three samples showed that the chloramphenicol index exceeded the allowable threshold, significantly higher than the number recorded in the official results sheet that the Dai Duong company submitted to Japan and to her certification organization.

This difference cannot be explained by normal technical errors. It can only come from one of two possibilities: either the official sample was taken from another, cleaner batch to be swapped, or the results on the official slip were edited after the real test results were available. Both possibilities lead to the same conclusion that Hai Yen can no longer deny: someone, in Dai Duong's supply chain, is deliberately concealing the truth about the quality of the export shipment, exactly like how ten years ago, another shipment was also hidden in some way, and in the end, the person who had to pay the price was her father.