—
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.