
Eighty-nine people in fifteen states got sick in November 2024. Thirty-six of them went to the hospital. Seven developed hemolytic uremic syndrome, which is the polite clinical way of saying that a child’s kidneys shut down. One person died. On January 15, 2025, the CDC and the FDA closed the file, recorded the vehicle as romaine lettuce supplied by a “common supplier,” and said nothing else. No processor. No grower. No point of service. The public notice the agencies had issued for every comparable romaine outbreak going back to 2010 was simply never issued for this one.
I wrote about that silence at the time and called the post “CDC and FDA — Romaine Silent.” I have now spent a year and a half on the other side of it, and the outbreak has become the clearest illustration I have of why transparency is not a courtesy the government extends to consumers when it is convenient. It is the thing that makes everything else — choice, accountability, deterrence — possible.
Start with what secrecy actually purchased. Because my firm represented families in several states whose infections were whole genome sequencing matches to one another, our staff epidemiologist did what the agencies would not publish: she found the common denominator. It was Taylor Farms romaine. In April 2025 we filed suit, and the company answered with a flat denial — its product was not the source, and any reporting connecting it to those illnesses was dangerous and irresponsible. That denial was only available to them because the FDA’s own traceback summary had been released with nearly every name that mattered blacked out under the (b)(4) exemption. The processor was a gray box. The grower was a gray box. The ranch, the distribution centers, the brokers, the lot codes — all gray boxes. A company cannot be contradicted by a document nobody is allowed to read.
I stayed on the agency, and in stages it took the boxes off. What had been hidden was this: Taylor Farms of California in Salinas was the sole processor, and the FDA’s summary says it supplied all the romaine available at every point of sale during the timeframe of interest. Anthony Costa & Sons of Soledad was the single grower. The records also named Andre’s Banquets and Catering of St. Louis as the caterer at the center of the largest cluster — three events over November 6 to 8, 2024, including a marching band banquet and a Veterans Day luncheon at a high school, with twenty-two illnesses from that one point of service.
None of that is a trade secret. A harvest date is not a proprietary formula. The identity of the company that processed lettuce that killed somebody is not confidential commercial information. It is the basic factual record of a public health disaster, and the only thing the redactions accomplished was to hand the responsible companies a period of deniability they had not earned.
If this were the first time, I would call it a lapse. It is not the first time, and I can trace the same habit across my entire career because I have been on the receiving end of it since the beginning. In the 1993 MMWR that described the hamburger outbreak that made me a food safety lawyer, Jack in the Box is called “Restaurant A.” In medical journals it still is. In 2010, two concurrent Salmonella outbreaks sickened 155 people in twenty-one states, and in 2011 a Salmonella Enteritidis outbreak sickened sixty-eight more across ten states — both attributed by the CDC to a “Mexican-style fast food restaurant chain, Restaurant Chain A.” I worked the elimination publicly, matching chain footprints against the ten outbreak states, and reporters at Food Safety News called every candidate. The name finally came out in February 2012, not from the CDC, but from a document the Oklahoma State Department of Health released after the agency let a deadline pass without telling the state what to do. It was Taco Bell.
In 2025 the mystery company was “a common supplier.” Last week, in the Cyclospora outbreak still going on, the FDA’s own recall notice listed the brands as “CV, JB, Mark and more” — internal customer codes, not brands, which no shopper has ever seen on a bag of lettuce. Restaurant A, Restaurant Chain A, a common supplier, CV and JB. Four decades of the same redaction in different clothes.
What is striking about the Taco Bell episode is that the agency said out loud why it was doing it. The policy, as described at the time, weighed public health against the business concerns of firms that could be hurt by bad publicity, and officials explained that the outbreak was over and that they wanted to keep relations with the chain cordial while it cooperated. I wrote then that this has it exactly backwards, and I have not moved an inch since. If a company will help find the source of an outbreak only in exchange for permanent anonymity, that tells you what its commitment to safe food is actually worth. Cooperation purchased with secrecy is not cooperation. And the government does not exist to protect a company’s bottom line from the consequences of selling food that hurts people. The reputational hit is not a bug in transparency. It is the point of it.
There is a further cost, and it is the one consumers never see happening. Naming a company is not only about stopping today’s illnesses — in most outbreaks the food is long eaten before anyone knows the source. It is about building a track record, so that a school district, a distributor, a restaurant group, or a mother in the produce aisle can see which firms keep turning up in the same sad story. That ledger only exists if somebody writes names in it. Taylor Farms’s entry would read: the 2013 Cyclospora outbreak traced to salad mix from its Mexico operation, the 2015 celery-and-onion mix tied to E. coli in Costco chicken salad, the 2024 slivered onions behind the McDonald’s Quarter Pounder outbreak that sickened more than a hundred people and killed one, this romaine outbreak, and now the Cyclospora outbreak of this summer. Four of those five entries exist because an agency, a court, or a reporter published a name. The romaine entry exists because this lawyer pried it loose eighteen months after the funeral.
I have heard the rest of the arguments too, and I have answered them one by one: that bad publicity is unfair economic harm, that the agencies cannot risk a tomatoes-then-peppers mistake, that surveillance is too underfunded to finish the job. That last one is not an argument at all. It is a confession, and the answer to it is to fund the work rather than redact our way out of admitting it is not getting done. As for the sky falling, we already ran the experiment: USDA has named contaminated-meat manufacturers for twenty years and the retailers who sold the product since 2008, and the beef industry’s trade secrets are still intact. I asked back in 2012 whether the 1993 outbreak happens at all if the 1982 one had carried McDonald’s name instead of a letter of the alphabet. I still do not know. Neither does anyone else, which is rather the problem.
Here is the part that has stayed with me longest. When the government declines to write the record, the regulated company writes it instead. I watched that happen again this month. In the middle of the Cyclosporaoutbreak now sickening more than ten thousand Americans, Taylor Farms’s public statement was rewritten on the same web address inside of about forty-eight hours — no version history, no correction note. Concern for the sick moved from the first paragraph to the fourth. The company’s grievance against the FDA moved to the lead. And the sentence acknowledging that the agency’s traceback pointed at a specific farm simply disappeared. That is what a record looks like when its author has an interest in the outcome. It is exactly the record consumers are left with whenever the agency holding the traceback data decides the names belong behind gray boxes.
I would put the principle as plainly as I can, and it has not changed since I was a young lawyer reading about Restaurant A. When people are hospitalized and someone dies, the public’s interest in knowing who grew and processed the food is at its highest and the commercial interest in anonymity is at its lowest. Redaction practice in cases like this one inverts that balance completely, treating the company names as the secret most in need of protecting when they are the single most important thing the public is entitled to know. In every one of these fights the name came out eventually — through a reporter, a state records officer, a FOIA request, or a lawsuit. Never once through the agency that had it first. The families at that Veterans Day luncheon should have been able to read it in a government notice in January 2025, in plain text, with no gray boxes at all.
There is something to do about it, and it is sitting at the FDA right now. In February, Stop Foodborne Illness filed a citizen petition asking the agency to stop treating a company’s name as confidential commercial information and, failing that, to disclose it anyway under its own statutory duty to keep food safe. The petition is right, and I said so at the time. Its argument is straightforward: the Trade Secrets Act protects sales figures and proprietary processes, not the factual identity of a firm that sells food to the public, and the D.C. Circuit has held that a company name is not commercial information in and of itself. The agency can grant it tomorrow with a memorandum — no rulemaking, no years of waiting. I would ask for one thing more. The petition speaks of the consumer-facing company, and in the 2024 E. coli outbreak, there was no such thing: the lettuce moved from a grower to a processor to a distributor to a caterer and onto a banquet plate with no brand on it anywhere. Disclosure has to reach the processor and the grower too or produce outbreaks will keep ending in gray boxes for the simple reason that nobody’s logo was on the bag. The petition’s own lead example is the outbreak in this post, and the child it describes is my client — Colton George, nine years old, eighteen days in the hospital, nine days of continuous dialysis and five more of intermittent, five transfusions, still seeing a nephrologist. His father spent months trying to learn the name of the company that sold the lettuce that did that to his son. He should not have had to.










