It was a somber meal. Zola was too worried and preoccupied to touch her waffle. Todd and Mark were genuinely concerned about her family, but they had stayed up most of the night fretting over their own predicament. Darrell Cromley had filed suit much faster than they had expected. The Bar Council was on their trail, no doubt tipped off by either Cromley or that prick Mossberg down in Charleston. Not that it really mattered; their little charade was over. They felt lousy about a lot of things, but the clients they were stiffing really bothered them. Those people had trusted them, had paid them, were now getting cheated, and would get chewed up again by the system.
As they ate and watched Zola, she picked up her phone and called Diallo Niang for the second time. Dakar, Senegal, was four time zones ahead and the workday was in full swing. Again, Diallo Niang did not answer his cell, nor did anyone answer his office line. In return for the $5,000 retainer Zola had paid weeks earlier, Niang had agreed to meet her family at the airport, arrange temporary housing, and, most important, keep the authorities happy. He’d claimed to be an expert on immigration matters and knew exactly what to do. When she couldn’t get him on the phone, she became frantic.
With so many people looking for them, returning to their address was not a good idea. They walked a few blocks, found a Starbucks, bought coffee, opened their laptops, logged in, and returned to the white pages. The search for more fake clients gave them something to do, something else to think about.
—
AS THE MONOTONY of the flight wore on, the passengers became less subdued and more talkative. Almost all claimed to have a friend or relative waiting on the ground, though the uncertainty was palpable. No one even pretended to be optimistic. They had been away for years and had no valid paperwork or identification, at least not of the Senegalese variety. Those who’d had fake U.S. driver’s licenses had been forced to surrender them. The Dakar police were notoriously rough on returnees. Their attitude was simple—if you don’t want to be here, who needs you? The U.S. is kicking you out, so no one really wants you. They were often treated like outcasts. Housing and employment were difficult to find. Though many of their countrymen dreamed of immigrating to the U.S. and Europe, they were scornful of those who’d tried and failed.
Abdou and Fanta had relatives scattered throughout the country, but they were not to be trusted. Over the years, they had been contacted by various siblings and cousins who wanted help entering the U.S. illegally. Abdou and Fanta had been unable, or unwilling, to get involved. It was dangerous enough living without documentation. Why risk detection by assisting others?
Now that they needed help, there was no one they could trust. Zola had assured them that Diallo Niang was on retainer and would take care of them. They were praying fervently for his intervention and assistance.
They flew into the sunlight and back into the night. After eleven hours, and two more rounds of brown bag food, the plane began its descent into Dakar, and once again the mood on board became somber. Their return trip ended after midnight, a twenty-four-hour adventure none of them had bargained for. The plane taxied to the main terminal and stopped at the last gate of a long concourse. The engines died but the doors remained closed. An ICE official explained that once inside they would be handed over to Senegalese officials, outside U.S. jurisdiction. Good luck.
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.