Right to Die

remembered it, a little north of the Massachusetts border. It turned out to be only an hour and ten minutes from Boston up Interstate 93 and a couple of scenic country roads that hadn’t yet yielded to suburbia’s manifest destiny.
    The plant itself was three stories high and roughly square. The tall windows were recessed into an old facade of gray brick, giving the impression of a structure that had been built for one purpose and converted to another. I drove a circuit around the plant. On one side was a receiving dock, a Mack tractor-trailer just pulling away. On the second side, facing west, the windows were boarded up. On the third side of the building was another dock, this one with men loading boxes into the back of another trailer. The fourth side fronted a parking lot for a hundred cars, maybe fifty vehicles in it on a Wednesday morning. I left the Prelude next to a large sign saying sarrey coop packing-best veal in the east.
    Inside the main door was a staircase and a blank concrete block wall. The stairs seemed more inviting. At the top was a door standing ajar and a catwalk. The catwalk curved out of sight toward sounds like a carpentry shop in high gear.
    The doorway led to a minimalist office, a young woman in a lumberjack shirt and jeans behind an old partners’ desk. She was drowning in a sea of multipart invoices and order forms. As the woman flailed through the paperwork, the bangs of her hair fell to her eyes.
    I said, “Excuse me?”
    She looked up through the bangs like a sheepdog. “Help you?”
    “I’m looking for Ray Cuervo.”
    “He’s down on the kill floor with the rabbi.”
    “How can I find it?”
    “If you’re not in the business, mister, maybe you don’t want to know.”
    “Please?”
    The woman blew out a breath, more to clear her hair than to show exasperation, I thought. “You’re not dressed for it.” She pointed to the catwalk and said, “Follow the walk around. You’ll know it when you see it. Might want to stay on the walk for a while, get used to things.”
    I thanked her and moved around the walk.
    Below me, about forty men and women were wearing white butchers’ outfits, yellow aprons, and black hip boots. At one end of the huge room, a worker prodded a calf from a wooden corral down a concrete ramp. Another worker affixed shackles, trailing chains from the ceiling, to the animal’s hind legs. As soon as he was finished, a woman touched a long wand to the calf s temple. It jerked spasmodically and went down like a sack of potatoes. The shackler cranked something, and the calf rose by the shackles, hanging upside down.
    The chains moved the calf forward to a burly man in a full beard with ringlets of sideburns. He was dressed like the other workers except for a yarmulke on his head. With one clean slash of a big knife, the man cut the calf’s throat. He stepped away from the torrent, joining another man who was holding a clipboard. As the man in the yarmulke sharpened the knife, the man with the clipboard talked with him. I pegged Clipboard to be in his early thirties, about six feet tall and slim, with wavy black hair and a black mustache.
    The calf began to move slowly along the line, workers gutting the animal and sorting the organs. Next, two women and a man skinned the calf with hand-held rotary saws like a pathologist would use on the skull during an autopsy. After they finished, one of them brought the hide to a washing machine, taking other hides out and heaving them down something like a laundry chute. At the next station for the carcass, the head was taken off and put on a rack next to twenty or so others, the tongues protruding. Then the rest of the animal, still hanging from the shackles, went off to a room from which I could hear water jets like a car wash. All in all, the process seemed pretty humane, kind of a reverse assembly line in which each part seemed destined for further use.
    The only problem was the blood smell. A warm, steamy thickness to the air, like being in a kitchen when someone was steeping the wrong kind of soup.
    “Hey?”
    I turned around.
    Clipboard, stripped to a dress shirt, tie, and slacks, was standing on the catwalk ten feet from me, grinning. “Ray Cuervo.”
    “John Cuddy.”
    “Come on into my office. We can talk.”

    “Sure you don’t want some coffee?”
    “No, thanks.”
    Cuervo sipped from his paper cup. We occupied two metal chairs in a cramped room. The shelves above and behind his desk held some