“Not going to happen, Hobart.”
At Central Jail, Mark and Todd were pulled out of the rear seats and jostled roughly into a basement entry. Once they were inside, the handcuffs were removed and they were separated. Over the next hour, each filled out two intake forms, got fingerprinted, and then was set in front of a camera for the standard mug shot. They were reunited in a holding cell where they waited for another hour, certain that they were about to be thrown in a cell with some real criminals. At 5:30, though, they were released on their own recognizance and informed that they could not leave the District of Columbia. Their citations directed them to appear in Division 6 in a week for their first appearances. They knew the place well.
Throughout the morning, they monitored the Post online and saw nothing about their arrests. Certainly, they could not be that newsworthy. They decided to wait before telling Zola that there was an arrest warrant with her name on it. She had enough on her mind anyway, and she was safely out of reach.
In their apartment, they spent two hours writing checks from the firm account. Refunds, to current clients who’d paid them in cash and were now getting stiffed because their lawyers were out of business. As bad as they needed the money, they simply could not walk away from their clients. The total was almost $11,000 and it was painful to part with, but they felt better when they mailed the envelopes. Mark managed to sell his Bronco for $600 at a used-car lot. He took the money in cash, signed over the title, and resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at the old wreck he’d driven for the past nine years. After dark, they loaded the firm’s new desktop computer, color printer, and three boxes of files into the back of Todd’s car. They threw some of their clothes into the rear seat, had one last beer at The Rooster Bar, and drove to Baltimore.
While Mark killed time in a hotel sports bar, Todd finally told his parents that he would not be graduating in a week. He admitted he had not been truthful, had in fact not gone to class at all that spring, did not have a job of any sort, was $200,000 in debt, and was now drifting and trying to figure out life. His mother cried while his father yelled, and the episode was even uglier than he had anticipated. On his way out, he said he was taking a long trip and needed to leave his car in the garage. His father yelled no, but he left it anyway and walked half a mile to the hotel.
The following morning, Mark and Todd caught a train to New York City. As it was leaving Penn Station, Todd handed over the Washington Post. At the bottom of the front page of the Metro section, a small headline read, “Two Arrested for Unauthorized Practice of Law.” They were described as law school dropouts, former students at Foggy Bottom, where no one in administration had anything to say. Nor did Margaret Sanchez with the D.C. Bar Council. The two had apparently been roaming the city’s courtrooms soliciting clients under assumed names and routinely appearing before judges. An unnamed source described them as “pretty good lawyers.” A former client said Mr. Upshaw worked very hard on her case. A current client said he just wanted his money back. There was no mention of Zola Maal, though the story said “a third suspect is involved.” If found guilty, they could face up to two years in prison and a fine of $1,000.
Their phones were crazy with calls from old friends at Foggy Bottom.
Todd said, “My dad will love this. Me, a felon.”
Mark said, “My poor mother. Both of her sons headed to the slammer.”
35
Zola was horrified at the news that her partners had been arrested. Even worse, the cops were looking for her as well, though she wasn’t too worried about being tracked down in Senegal. Mark and Todd were in Brooklyn and claimed to have things under control, but she had serious doubts about that. They had been wrong about almost everything since January, and she found it difficult to accept their abundant confidence at this point. She found the story online and monitored it. Her name had not been mentioned and she found nothing about herself in the court dockets. Her Facebook page was flooded with comments and questions from friends, but she had stopped responding weeks earlier.
Idina Sanga had not been allowed to visit Abdou in jail, and after two days of waiting Zola was even more concerned. The police had been to the hotel twice to check on her mother and brother, but offered nothing in the way of news. Being with her family was comforting, and her presence and reassurances gave them hope. Bo and Fanta asked repeatedly about her studies, and graduation from law school, and the bar exam, and so on, but she managed to deflect their questions and keep the conversations away from the mess she had created back home. If they only knew. But, of course, they would not. They would never again set foot on U.S. soil, and Zola wasn’t sure she wanted to either.
On the flight over, Zola had read a dozen articles about the crowded and dangerous conditions in Dakar’s jails and prisons. She hoped that Bo and her mother had not been so curious. The places were deplorable.
Eventually, Zola ventured out of the hotel and went for walks around Dakar. The city sprawled across the Cap Vert peninsula and was a jumble of villages and former French colonial towns. The streets were hot and dusty and badly maintained, but brought to life each morning with heavy traffic and swarms of people. Many of the women wore long, sweeping dresses made of bright fabrics. Many of the men wore fine suits and seemed just as busy as those in D.C., with cell phones and briefcases. Horses pulling carts laden with fruits and produce battled with sleek new SUVs in the clogged intersections. As frantic as it looked at first, the city had a laid-back feel to it. Everyone seemed to know everyone else and few seemed to be in a hurry. Chatter and laughter filled the air. Music was everywhere, roaring from car stereos and shop doors and thumping from street bands giving impromptu concerts.
During her second full day in the city, Zola found the U.S. embassy and registered as a tourist. An hour later, as she was nearing the hotel, two policemen stopped her and asked for identification. She knew the police had broad powers to question and even detain. For almost any reason, anyone could be jailed for forty-eight hours.
One of the cops spoke a little English. She said she was an American and spoke no French. They were surprised to see her U.S. passport and her (real) New Jersey driver’s license. She had wisely left the fake stuff at the hotel.
After a very long fifteen minutes, they handed her documents back and let her go. The incident was frightening enough, and she decided to save the tourist stuff for another day.
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