They reveled in the story for a couple of days, then abruptly forgot about it.
Two days later, on June 24, Mark Frazier, Todd Lucero, and Zola Maal were indicted on federal racketeering charges by a grand jury in Miami. The charges were part of an ongoing investigation into numerous allegations of class action fraud in the Swift Bank settlement. More indictments were likely, according to the first report on Bloomberg. As Mark and Todd watched, the story spread throughout the web, but never achieved headline status. In the world of major business news, it wasn’t much of an event.
Perhaps not to the nation, but to the three defendants it was a rather big deal. Though they had been expecting it, the news was still frightening. However, they were prepared. They had a suitable hiding place and the FBI didn’t have a clue.
Zola was another matter. Mark and Todd doubted the FBI would go to the trouble of tracking her all the way to Dakar, and expect the police there to cooperate with an arrest, and then expect the Senegalese courts to extradite her, all for a crime that had nothing to do with terrorism, murder, or drug trafficking. They believed this, but they kept it to themselves. They were fully aware that by now Zola had little confidence in anything they said or believed, and with good reason.
Zola was making her own plans. She summoned them back to Dakar for an important meeting, one she had been putting together for some time. With the help of an intermediary referred by Idina Sanga, Zola had slowly worked her contacts until she found the right person. The deal was as simple as it was complicated. For $200,000 each, the government would issue new identities, new ID cards, new passports, and new proofs of citizenship to the three former UPL partners. The facilitator was a career state department official with clout. Zola met with him three times before they fully trusted one another. It was never clear how much the facilitator would earn, but Zola expected the loot would be diminished as it moved upward.
The deal was simple because it was cash for citizenship, a transaction hardly unique to Senegal. It was complicated because it required the rejection of who they were and where they were from. It was possible to maintain dual citizenship, but not in their real names. If they wished to become Senegalese and thus protected by the government and ostensibly hidden from the U.S. authorities, they could no longer be Mark, Todd, and Zola. Dual citizenship meant dual identities, something no government sanctioned.
They took the deal with no hesitation, except for some minor bitching over its cost. Their stash was now down to about $2.5 million, a nice cushion but the future was so uncertain.
They returned to Saint-Louis, and to their decaying villa, with new ID cards, new credit cards, and rather handsome new passports with their smiling faces. Mr. Frazier was now Christophe Vidal, or simply Chris. His sidekick was Tomas Didier, or Tommy around the house. Just two young men of French descent, though neither spoke a lick of their native tongue. The Caucasian population of Senegal was less than 1 percent, and the addition of two more gringos hardly moved the needle.
Zola was now Alima Pene, a proper African name. They began calling her Alice.
Bo, who wasn’t facing a string of felonies in the U.S., remained who he was. His paperwork would be far less expensive but take longer.
—
THE LAZY LIFE of sleeping, reading, watching the Internet, strolling the beaches, drinking, and having ocean-side dinners at midnight soon gave way to boredom. After a month or so of being full-blooded Senegalese, Chris and Tommy were looking for work, preferably something legitimate this time.
Their favorite bar was a thatched-roof hut nestled between two small resorts on the main beach, a five-minute walk from their villa. They spent hours there, playing dominoes, throwing darts, chatting with tourists, soaking up the sun, having lunch, and drinking Gazelles, a lager that seemed to be the Senegalese national beer. The bar was owned by a cranky old German woman whose husband had recently died. She waddled in occasionally to drink a few and snarl at the staff, all of whom rolled their eyes behind her back. Tomas began flirting with her and before long introduced his friend Christophe. They charmed her over a long lunch. The next day she was back for more, and during the fourth lunch Tomas asked if she had ever thought about selling the place. They were looking for something to do, and so on. She admitted to being old and tired.
They bought the bar and closed it for renovations. With Alice on board, they pumped in $80,000 for a fancier kitchen, bar equipment, and big televisions, and they doubled the seating capacity. Their business plan was to make it more of an American-style sports bar while keeping the local music, food, drinks, and decor. When it reopened, Alice was in charge of the dining room. Chris and Tomas worked the bar. Bo supervised a small staff in the kitchen. The place was packed from the opening bell, and life was good.
For the sake of memory, and a tip of the hat to another lifetime, they called it The Rooster Bar.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
As usual, I played fast and loose with reality, especially the legal stuff. Laws, courthouses, procedures, statutes, firms, judges and their courtrooms, lawyers and their habits, all have been fictionalized at will to suit the story.
Mark Twain said he moved entire states and cities to fit his narrative. Such is the license given to novelists, or simply assumed by them.
Alan Swanson guided me through the streets of D.C. Bobby Moak, a tort specialist with an encyclopedic knowledge of the law, once again reviewed the manuscript. Jennifer Hulvey at the University of Virgina School of Law walked me through the complex world of student lending. Thanks to all. They are not to be blamed for my mistakes.
The question all writers hate is: “Where do you get your ideas?” With this story the answer is simple. I read an article in the September 2014 edition of The Atlantic titled “The Law School Scam.” It’s a fine investigative piece by Paul Campos. By the end of it, I was inspired and knew I had my next novel.
Thank you, Mr. Campos.