The Rooster Bar

  When the doors finally opened, they grabbed their bags, shuffled off the plane and down the ramp. Inside they were led to a large open area separated from the concourse by a row of uniformed policemen. Cops were everywhere, none of them even remotely friendly. An official in a suit began barking instructions in French, the official language of Senegal.

  When they were arrested four months earlier, and removal looked likely, Abdou and Fanta resumed speaking in their native French. After twenty-six years of trying to avoid the language and working hard to learn English, they struggled at first. But it eventually came back, and perhaps the only positive aspect of their detention was the rediscovery of a language they loved. Bo, on the other hand, had never heard French around the house and was not encouraged to learn it at school. He couldn’t speak a word, at first, but became highly motivated while at Bardtown. After four months of nonstop French with his parents, he was somewhat proficient.

  But the official spoke rapidly and with a full vocabulary. Most of the refugees were somewhat rusty and found it hard to follow. The processing began as the police reviewed the paperwork from the U.S. An officer waved the Maals over and asked questions. What part of Senegal were they from? When did they leave? Why did they leave? Where did Abdou work before he left Senegal? How long were they in the U.S.? Did they leave family behind? Did they have family in Dakar, or another city, or the countryside? Where did they plan to live? The questions were pointed, the responses scoffed at. Several times the officer warned Abdou that he’d better be truthful. Abdou assured him he was.

  Bo noticed that other returnees were being escorted away from the area to a place down the concourse where people were waiting. Evidently, the lucky ones were being released to their friends and relatives.

  The officer asked if they had a contact in Dakar. When Abdou gave the name of Diallo Niang, their attorney, the officer asked why they needed a lawyer. Abdou tried to explain that one had been arranged by his daughter in the U.S. because there was no family to rely on. The officer studied a sheet of paper and said Mr. Niang had not contacted the police. He was not waiting for the family. The officer pointed to a row of chairs, told them to wait there, and walked over to a man in a suit.

  An hour passed as the police escorted more of their fellow passengers away from the area. When a dozen or so remained, the man in the suit approached the Maals and said, “Mr. Niang is not here. How much money do you have?”

  Abdou stood and said, “About five hundred U.S.”

  “Good. You can afford a hotel room. Follow that officer. He will take you.”

  The same policeman nodded and they picked up their bags. He led them along the concourse, out of the terminal, and into a parking lot where a police van was waiting. He sat with them in the rear, said nothing for the twenty minutes they weaved through empty streets, and told them to get out in front of a grungy five-story hotel. At its front door, he said, “You will stay here because the jail is full. Do not leave under any circumstances. We will be back in a few hours to get you. Any questions?”

  His tone left little doubt that questions would not be appreciated. At that moment, they were grateful to be where they were and not in jail.

  The cop stared at them as if something more needed to be said. He lit a cigarette, blew smoke, and said, “And I would like to be paid for my services.”

  Bo looked away and bit his tongue. Abdou set down his bags and said, “Of course. How much?”

  “One hundred U.S.”

  Abdou reached into his pocket.

  —

  THE CLERK AT the front desk was napping in a chair and seemed irritated at being bothered at such an hour. At first he said there were no vacancies; the hotel was full. Abdou assumed the hotel and the police were in business together and the no-vacancy routine was part of the act. He explained that his wife was ill and they had to sleep somewhere. The clerk studied his computer screen and managed to find a small room, at a premium rate, of course. Abdou seemed unfazed and chatted away like a real charmer. He said he had only U.S. cash, which, of course, was unacceptable. Only West African francs. Fanta managed to act as though she might faint at any moment. Bo was having trouble following the exchange in French, but he wanted to leap across the desk and strangle the guy. Abdou refused to take no for an answer and practically begged for a room. The clerk relented somewhat, and said there was a bank down the street. They could check into the room, but first thing in the morning he wanted his money in the local currency. Abdou promised and thanked him profusely, and the clerk reluctantly handed over a key.

  Abdou asked if they could use the phone for a call to the U.S. Absolutely not. When the room was paid for, a phone call would be allowed, but only if its charges were prepaid. It was almost 3:00 a.m. local time—11:00 p.m. in the U.S.—when they entered the small, stuffy room on the fourth floor. A single, narrow bed hugged the far wall. The men insisted that Fanta take it. They slept on the floor.

  —

  ZOLA WAS AWAKE at 3:00 a.m. because sleep was impossible. She had worked through the night calling, texting, and e-mailing Diallo Niang, but without any response. When her phone beeped with an unknown caller she grabbed it. It was Bo, and for a few seconds the sound of his voice was a relief. He gave her a quick version of what had happened, said there was no sign of the lawyer, and that the police had just left the hotel with Abdou.

  “Are you and Mother safe?”

  “Well, we’re not in jail, yet. They’ve said twice that we can stay at this hotel because the jail is full. Guess they found a spot for Dad. We can’t leave the hotel.”

  “I’ve called the lawyer a hundred times,” she said. “Have you tried to call him from there?”

  “No. I’m using the phone at the front desk and the clerk is staring at me and listening to every word. He doesn’t like folks using his phone, but I begged him for this one call.”

  “Give me the number and I’ll think of something.”

  Bo handed the phone back to the clerk, then found a café near the lobby. He bought two croissants and coffee, and took them to the room, where he sat with Fanta in the semidarkness. Fanta was relieved that he had spoken with Zola.

  They ate and sipped coffee, and waited once again for the knock on the door.

  33

  By 10:00 a.m., Zola had made the decision to go to Senegal.

  They were sitting in the café at Kramer Books in Dupont Circle, laptops open, papers spread over the table as if they worked there every day, but they were not working, not as fake lawyers anyway.

  They debated scenarios throughout the morning. Mark and Todd fully understood her need to go, but the obvious fear was that she would be detained and not allowed to return. Her father was already in jail. Fanta and Bo might soon join him. If Zola showed up and caused trouble, anything might happen. She argued that she was a U.S. citizen with a valid passport, and since a visa was no longer required for stays of fewer than ninety days, she could leave immediately. Zola said she would notify the Senegalese embassy in Washington of her plans, and if anyone in Dakar tried to block her return home, she would contact the U.S. embassy there. She saw little risk of being detained and, under the circumstances, was willing to accept it.

  Mark suggested she wait a day or two and try to find another lawyer in Dakar. They found plenty online, many in what appeared to be old, reputable firms. Indeed, some of the firms looked so promising that Todd quipped about setting up a shop there once they were forced to flee the U.S. “Are there any white people in Senegal?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said. “Two or three.”

  “I like it,” Mark said in an effort at a little humor. “A foreign branch of Upshaw, Parker & Lane.”

  “I’m done with that firm,” she said and managed a smile. But she didn’t like the idea of again wiring money to someone she didn’t know. Money was not a problem, they assured her. There was $50,000 in their firm account, and all of it was available. She was touched by their generosity and eagerness to help, and for
the first time revealed the little nest egg she’d been hoarding for just such a situation. They were impressed that she had managed to save over $16,000 during law school. It was unheard of.

  They really couldn’t blame her for wanting to leave town. They were currently being sued by their landlords for skipping out in January. Darrell Cromley had just hit them with a $25 million lawsuit for gross malpractice. The federal government would soon pile on to the tune of something over $600,000, combined. Dozens of angry clients were looking for them. Clerks from the courts were calling. Maynard fired them, so they were genuinely unemployed. And their most urgent problem was the investigation by the District Bar Council. It was just a matter of time before their real identities were revealed and they would be leaving town too.

  They drove to The Rooster Bar, where the boys watched the door while Zola ran upstairs and packed a bag. They stopped by her bank, where she withdrew $10,000 from her savings account. The bank could not convert any of it to West African francs, so they tracked down a currency exchange shop near Union Station. At a phone store, they paid $390 for four GSM unlocked international cell phones, complete with SIM cards, cameras, Bluetooth, full keyboard, and fully optimized for social networking. They would keep three and leave the other with Bo, if possible. At 4:30 they drove to Dulles and walked to the Brussels Airlines counter. Using an old credit card, Zola paid $1,500 for a round-trip ticket to Dakar, with a four-hour layover in Brussels. Barring delays, she would arrive in Dakar around four the following afternoon, after an eighteen-hour journey.

  At departure security, they had a good hug and cry. They watched her until she disappeared into a mass of fellow travelers.

  They returned to the city, and, on a whim, went to a Nationals game.

  —

  AT NINE THE following morning, as Zola was somewhere between Belgium and Senegal, Mark and Todd strolled into the student union on the campus of American University and found a table in a half-empty cafeteria. With jeans and backpacks they looked like everyone else. They bought coffee and made themselves at home, as if settling in for some serious studying. Mark pulled out one of his phones and walked to a wall of windows overlooking the campus. He called the Miami firm of Cohen-Cutler and asked to speak to a lawyer named Rudy Stassen. According to the firm’s website, Stassen was one of several Cohen-Cutler partners spearheading the Swift Bank litigation. A secretary said Mr. Stassen was in a meeting. Mark said it was important and he would hold. Ten minutes later, Stassen said hello.

  Mark introduced himself as a lawyer in D.C. and claimed to have eleven hundred Swift customers all signed up and ready to join one of the six class actions.

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Stassen said with a laugh. “We’re suing like crazy. Two hundred thousand at last count. Where are your clients?”

  “All in the D.C. area,” Mark said as he placed his phone on the table and sat across from Todd. He punched the speaker button and lowered the volume. “I’m sort of shopping around, looking for the best deal. What are your fees?”

  “Not sure. We think the attorneys’ fees will be negotiated separately. As of now, we have 25 percent contracts with our clients, and we’ll take an extra 8 percent off the gross settlement. All subject to court approval, of course. What’s your name again, Upshaw? I’m not finding a website.”

  “Don’t have one,” Mark said. “I’ve solicited with direct mail.”

  “Okay, that’s odd.”

  “It works. What can you say about the negotiations?”

  “Stalled, as of now. Swift is claiming, in the press of course, that it wants to settle and move on, but its lawyers are dragging their feet. They’re padding the file like crazy, billing millions, the usual routine. But we still think the bank will cave in and settle. You want in? You said you’re shopping around.”

  “Eight percent sounds good. I’m in. Send me the paperwork.”

  “Good move. I’ll turn it over to an associate named Jenny Valdez and she’ll walk you through it.”

  “Got a question for you,” Mark said.

  “Sure.”

  “How does your law firm handle 200,000 clients?”

  Stassen laughed and said, “With a lot of muscle. Right now we have ten associates who are supervising thirty paralegals and legal assistants. It’s a bitch, all right, the biggest class we’ve ever put together, but we can handle it. Your first class action?”

  “Yeah. Looks like crazy work.”

  “ ‘Crazy’ is a good word, but, believe me, it’s worth it. We do all right, Mr. Upshaw.”

  “Just call me Mark.”

  “Thanks for the business, Mark. We’ll get you included and you can tell your clients they’ll be signed up within twenty-four hours. After that, it’s just a waiting game. Here’s the number for Jenny Valdez. Got a pen?”

  “Yep.” Mark wrote down the number and ended the call. He pecked away on his laptop while Todd left to fetch something to eat. Little was said as they chewed on muffins and sipped coffee. They were thinking about Zola, who had sent them a text with the message that she was on the ground, her flight uneventful.

  Finally, Mark took a deep breath and called Jenny Valdez. He chatted with her for fifteen minutes, scribbled notes, and assured her their paperwork was in order. He was ready to zip along the PIS statements for all eleven hundred of their Swift clients. When he put his phone down, he looked at Todd and said, “When I push this Send button, we will be committing eleven hundred new felonies. Are we ready for this?”

  “I thought we’d made that decision.”

  “No second thoughts?”

  “Everything’s a second thought. And third and fourth. But, it’s our only chance of escape. Let’s do it.”

  Mark gently pushed the Send key.

  —

  ZOLA’S CAB INCHED along in traffic far more chaotic than she had ever seen. Her driver said the air-conditioning was broken, but she doubted it had worked in years. All the windows were down and the air was thick and rancid. She wiped sweat from her forehead and realized her blouse was soaked and sticking to her skin. Outside, small cars, trucks, and vans were bumper to bumper with horns honking and drivers yelling at each other. Scooters and motorcycles, most with two passengers and even some with three, cut and weaved through the gridlock, missing each other by inches. Pedestrians darted from cab to cab selling bottles of water while others begged for coins.

  Two hours after leaving the airport, the taxi stopped at the hotel and Zola paid in West African francs, the equivalent of $65. She walked into the lobby and was relieved to find cooler air. The clerk spoke bad English but managed to understand her request. He called the room and within minutes Bo bounced off the elevator and hugged his sister. They had not heard a word from Abdou, nor had they seen the police all day. They were still under orders to remain in the hotel and afraid to leave. As Bo had realized, the hotel was used by the police to keep track of other newly returned detainees.

  Of course, there was no sign of Diallo Niang. Zola had called his number while sitting in traffic, but got nothing.

  With Bo translating, Zola paid cash for two larger rooms that connected, and went upstairs to see her mother. After they changed rooms, Zola began calling lawyers. During her flight, she had spent hours online searching for the right one. She wasn’t sure she had located her, but she had a plan.

  34

  Over at the Bar Council, Margaret Sanchez had become obsessed with the case of Upshaw, Parker & Lane. As Chap Gronski slowly pieced together its scheme and scam, and the extent of its brazenness became clear, Ms. Sanchez was determined to nail the three. But first she had to find them. With a nod from her boss, she contacted the District police and, with some difficulty, convinced a detective to take a look. In the scope of the District’s criminal activity, the police department had little interest in some law students who were gaming the system and not physically harming anyone.

  Detective Stu Hobart got the nod and reviewed the case with Ms. Sanchez. Ch
ap had tracked down the owner of The Rooster Bar, and he and Hobart made the visit together. They found Maynard in his office, one floor above the Old Red Cat in Foggy Bottom.

  Maynard was fed up with Mark and Todd and their shenanigans, and he had no patience with anything that might provoke the cops to come sniffing around. Since he knew little of what was actually going on upstairs at 1504 Florida Avenue, he didn’t say much about it. He did, however, possess the critical information.

  He said, “Their real names are Todd Lucero and Mark Frazier. Don’t know about the black girl. Lucero worked for me here for about three years, great bartender, everybody’s favorite. Last January, he and Frazier moved to the other building and set up shop. They worked off the rent by tending bar.”

  “For cash, of course,” Hobart said.

  “Cash is still legal,” Maynard said. He was dealing with a city cop, not the IRS, and he knew Hobart really didn’t care how he paid his employees.

  “Are they still living there?” Hobart asked.

  “As far as I know. They’re on the fourth floor, the girl is on the third, at least that’s what I’ve been told. I fired Mark and Todd last week, but they’re renting the place through June 1.”

  “Why’d you fire them?”