There was a long pause. Fowler glanced down at his single paper. When he felt the senators were about to fidget, he resumed, a calculated note of anger just coloring his tone.
“Then if you won’t do this for me, Senators, and you won’t do it for the men of Fisheries Control, maybe you’ll do it for Josefa Flores.”
“Josefa Flores?” echoed Petterson, looking wary. “Who, pray tell, is Josefa Flores? I’m afraid I don’t know the lady.”
“That’s not surprising,” continued Fowler. “She
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A Miracle of Small Fishes
doesn’t exactly wield strong influence in Congress. Or in the Canadian Parliament or in the National Assembly. You see, she’s only nine years old.
“Her grandfather is a fisherman—or was, until in our combined wisdom we took away his livelihood, and…”
Wheeling perked up, sat straighter on the hard bench. This promised to be more entertaining than the bumblebee. For the first time the young school-children stopped squirming and paid attention. The pair of newshawks woke up and hurriedly restarted their recorders, leaning forward intently like wolves who’ve just crossed a new scent. Wheeling could almost see little neon lights flashing: Human interest— human interest!.,
Fowler told the committee about little Josefa Flores, about her dying grandfather and the fish that didn’t come anymore—and about her one wish: that before he died, her grandfather should enjoy one last taste of his youth by taking an honest day’s catch of the sardine. Here was a story that even survived Fowler’s unabashed emotional embroidery. He kept telling it until the banging of Senator Petterson’s gavel drowned him out.