The Rooster Bar (7 page)

T
he waiting was excruciating. Todd killed time by working a few hours at the bar. Mark and Zola got out of the building and went to see a movie. They flinched every time their phones vibrated, but there was no news about the search. Law school friends were checking in, desperate for updates. Social media was buzzing with the news and gossip. The
Post
's online edition was covering the story.

After work, Todd arrived at Zola's apartment with a six-pack and they ordered a pizza. As they ate, Zola told them about her parents and brother. During the afternoon, they had been taken to an immigrant detention facility in Pennsylvania. Armed ICE agents had given them an hour to pack what little clothing and personal items they could carry, then herded them, handcuffed, along with four others, into a van. Her father had called from the facility, which he described as “little more than a jail.” He had no idea how long they would be kept there before the flight back to Senegal.

Mark and Todd were shocked and angry. The timing was particularly cruel. Zola was distraught and dealing with the suicide of a boyfriend, and now this. They decided to stay together, and at midnight finally fell asleep; Zola in her bed, Mark on the sofa, Todd in a chair beside him.

EARLY IN THE
morning, as the three sipped coffee and shook off the cobwebs of a hard sleep, they heard voices and movement across the hall. Mark cracked the door and they listened.

Dr. Karvey, Brenda, and the Tanners were in Gordy's apartment. They found it spotless, with every dish washed and put away, the refrigerator emptied of stale food, not a drop of alcohol anywhere. The den was tidy, its floors clean, and his work space at the dinette table was neatly arranged. His bed was made to perfection. Every stitch of clothing was clean and put away. On his dresser there was a large framed photo of Brenda, one he usually kept in a drawer. In the bathroom, his towels were folded and stacked. The floor, commode, shower, and vanity were practically shining. In his medicine cabinet there was no sign of his pills. They assumed he had gone to great lengths to spiff up the place before checking out.

Brenda broke down once. She sat on the sofa and sobbed as her father rubbed her knee. From across the hall, the three listened in a creepy silence.

The Tanners decided that a quick look around was enough for the moment. They would return later and retrieve his stuff. They locked the apartment and left with Brenda and her father. From a second-floor hall window the three watched them drive away, and felt painfully sorry for them.

IT WAS MONDAY,
January 6. Classes would resume in a week, but there was no thought of law school. And while visiting an immigrant detention facility for the first time was not their idea of an exciting road trip, they needed to get out of town. Zola called in sick and Todd took a day off from the Old Red Cat. They left D.C. before noon and headed north. To avoid the Potomac River, Todd followed Connecticut Avenue into Chevy Chase and Maryland. For the first half hour, little was said. Zola, in the front passenger's seat, was subdued and stared blankly out the window. Todd sipped coffee from a tall paper cup and fiddled with the radio, finally settling on an oldies station, but at low volume.

In the backseat, Mark flipped through some paperwork, retrieved a magazine article, and began, “According to the
Post,
Immigration and Customs Enforcement maintains fifteen detention centers around the country and on any given day there are 35,000 people in custody. Last year ICE detained over 400,000 undocumented workers and deported about the same number, at a cost of over $20,000 per deportee. The entire detention system eats over $2 billion a year. It's the largest immigrant detention system in the world. In addition to the fifteen ICE facilities, the Feds contract with hundreds of county jails, juvenile detention centers, and state prisons to house their detainees, at a cost of about 150 bucks a day per person, 350 for a family. Two-thirds of all facilities are run by private companies. The more bodies they have, the more money they make. Homeland Security, which ICE answers to, has a quota, one mandated by Congress. No other law enforcement agency operates on a quota system.”

“And conditions are deplorable,” Zola said, as if she knew more than Mark.

“Indeed they are. Since there is no independent oversight, the detainees are often subjected to abuse, including long-term solitary confinement and inadequate medical care and bad food. They are vulnerable to assault, even rape. Last year, 150 died in custody. Detainees are often housed with violent criminals. In many cases, legal representation is nonexistent. On paper, ICE has standards for the facilities, but these are not legally enforceable. There is almost no accountability for how the federal funds are spent. The truth is, no one is looking and no one cares, except for the detainees and their families. They are forgotten people.”

“That's enough,” Zola said.

Todd piped in with “Yeah, enough, and why are we talking about this?”

“What do you want to talk about? Gordy? Brenda? Law school? Classes start in a week and I can't wait.”

That killed the conversation for a while. Mark flipped through more articles and hummed along with the radio. Finally, he asked, “So, Zola, can we talk about your family?”

“Sure.”

“Why did they leave Senegal?”

“My parents never talked much about their country. They were happy to be away from it and determined to pursue a new life here. I asked questions as I got older, but the answers were usually evasive. My father worked for some type of farmers' co-op and there was a problem with the government. He made some enemies, lost his job, and thought it best to get out. He's always been terrified of going back. Most of his family has scattered and there's nothing there for him, nothing but trouble. He's afraid he'll be persecuted if he returns.”

“And your brothers?”

“Sory, the older one, married an American and now lives in California. His wife is not a Muslim and my father has little to do with him. My younger one—we call him Bo for short—was born in Senegal, so he's in trouble too. He's never married and is very devout.”

Todd said, “I thought ICE had a policy of not separating families.”

“It may be written down somewhere,” Mark said, “but it's not always followed. I read an article last night about a family from Cameroon, parents and five kids, all living in an apartment in the Bronx. ICE kicked in the door one night, grabbed the father, and in due course shipped him back to Africa. The mother is undocumented too, and she and the kids live in fear that ICE will come snatch her too. Imagine what that's like. The kids were born here, like Zola, so they could be separated from both parents. When ICE was asked about the case, some official said something like ‘The State of New York has an excellent foster care system.' Can you believe that?”

“I'd rather talk about law school,” Zola said.

“Not me,” Mark said. “I can't go back. Do you guys really plan to walk into class next Monday?”

“What are your options, Mark?” Zola asked. “If you drop out, you lose your job. You can't quit with one semester to go.”

“I have a job only if I pass the bar exam, which, at this moment, seems impossible. Right now, I'm not mentally or emotionally stable enough to grind my way through the review courses. Are you, Todd?”

“It makes me nauseous.”

“It's also seven months away,” Zola said.

“Why can't we take off this semester, sort of kick the can down the road for a spell?” Todd asked.

“Because the loan sharks will eat us for lunch. If we're not in school, we have to start repayment. There might be a loophole here or there, but I doubt we could find one.”

“No, we couldn't be that lucky.”

“Let's talk about something else,” Zola said.

“Okay, but we're running out of topics,” Mark said.

Another long stretch of silence, then Mark said, “Okay, I have a confession. When we were cleaning Gordy's apartment on Saturday, I saw two thumb drives next to his computer. I took them, figured neither his parents nor Brenda would have any use for them. I had a look last night and found nothing to do with his suicide. However, he was on the trail of something.”

“Rackley?”

“Yes, but there's more. Have you guys been following the scandal involving Swift Bank?”

“I saw some headlines,” Zola replied.

“No, I got my own problems,” Todd said.

“Swift Bank is now the ninth-largest bank in the country. A few years back, it tried like hell to get itself classified as too big to fail, but the Feds said no. Unfortunately, it didn't fail, and has done okay since then. It was up to its ears in the sub-prime mortgage scams and has a history of fraud and corruption. It's a really sleazy outfit that is involved in just about every type of low-end financing while at the same time spending a ton on marketing because it really wants to be your neighborhood bank.”

“We've seen the ads,” Todd said.

“Good. Well, Gordy thinks, or was thinking, that Rackley owns a chunk of Swift. How much he wasn't sure, because, as usual, Rackley operates behind a wall of shell companies, most of them domiciled offshore. These fronts have slowly and quietly purchased the stock of Swift, always keeping their acquisitions under 5 percent. More than that, as we know, and they have to register with the SEC. Gordy was on the trail of three separate and apparently unrelated shell companies that owned a total of 12 percent of Swift. Current value of about four billion, and making Rackley by far the largest shareholder, something he would like to keep quiet.”

Todd said, “Ho hum. Where do we fit in?”

“Not sure we do, but it makes for fun reading, and since we can't agree on anything else to talk about, I'll just keep prattling on about Swift Bank and Hinds Rackley. Any objections? Good, now, about a month ago Swift landed on the front page with another scandal, nothing new for these crooks, but now they might have outdone themselves. So let's say you, Todd, walk into your local Swift branch and open a routine checking account. You deposit a thousand dollars, get some cute little temporary checks, all is swell and you really liked the pretty account manager, who was super friendly. Well, once you leave, she turns into a crooked little bitch and opens some more accounts for you. A savings account, or two, a money-market account, a credit card, a debit card, maybe even a brokerage account. Instead of just one Swift account, you actually have seven. She gets a bonus, a pat on the back, good girl. You know nothing about the other six accounts, but good ole Swift sticks you for a few extra bucks each month in mysterious fees to cover the accounts.”

“Who squealed?” asked Zola.

“She did. Turns out that Swift account managers from coast to coast were trained in nefarious ways to push accounts on folks who didn't want them, or, if they declined, simply create the extra accounts anyway. Millions of accounts. Your girl and a few others have come forward and blown the whistle. They claim they were under enormous pressure from the top down to create the accounts. The entire bank is upside down and Congress starts hearings next week.”

“I hope it's all true, for Rackley's sake anyway,” Todd said.

“And litigation?” Zola asked.

“Of course. The plaintiffs' bar is in a feeding frenzy. Two class actions already, more to come. There could be a million customers affected.”

“Wish I banked at Swift,” Todd said. “Then I could take a shot at that asshole.”

“He's got his claws into our skin deep enough.”

“Let's talk about something else,” Zola said.

T
he Bardtown Federal Detention Facility was in a secluded valley three miles off Interstate 99 and twenty miles south of Altoona. If there was a town nearby, it wasn't visible. The entrance was a wide asphalt drive that appeared new and ran downhill, giving them a panoramic view of the place as they arrived. Spread before them was a complex of flat-roofed, boxlike buildings, very similar to classroom trailers used at overcrowded schools. A double line of tall chain-link fencing surrounded the rows of buildings in a neat square. Thick rolls of razor wire glistened from atop the fencing and gave the entire facility a foreboding sense of being nothing more than a prison.

As Todd slowed the car, he said, “It looks like one of those old black-and-whites of Auschwitz.”

“Thanks, Todd,” Zola said.

It was a demoralizing sight, and Zola could not control her emotions. She was crying when Todd pulled in to the gravel lot. They sat for a few moments and stared at a two-story building at the front, obviously the place where they would check in. It, too, was flat-roofed and appeared to be made of wallboard. So far, the entire facility gave the impression of having been constructed overnight.

Zola finally said, “Let's go,” and they walked to the front door. A temporary sign beside it read, “Bardtown Federal Detention Facility. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Office of Detention and Removal Operations. Department of Homeland Security. DHS, DRO, ICE. Administration Building.”

They stared at the sign and Todd mumbled, “Alphabet soup.”

To which Mark replied, “Let's hope they've met the ACLU.”

They walked through the doors and entered a reception area. There were no signs to guide them, so Mark stopped a thick young man in a uniform. “Excuse me, sir, but where is the visiting area?”

“What kind of visitors?”

“Well, we would like to see one of your inmates.”

“They're called detainees.”

“Okay, we would like to see one of your detainees.”

Reluctantly, he pointed down the hall and said, “Try down there.”

“Thank you so much.” They drifted down the wide hallway, looking for a sign that would indicate anything to do with visitation. Because it was a federal facility, there were employees everywhere, all in uniforms that varied. Beefy young men swaggering around with guns on their belts and “ICE” in bold letters on the backs of their parkas. Clerks with white shirts and ties and gold badges over their pockets. Cops who appeared to be nothing more than county deputies.

They walked to a counter where three young ladies were camped out. One was shuffling papers while the other two were enjoying their afternoon snacks. Zola said, “Excuse me, but I'm here to see my parents.”

“And who are your parents?” asked the gal with the paperwork.

“Maal. My father is Abdou, my mother is Fanta. Maal. M-A-A-L.”

“Where are they from?”

“Well, they're from New Jersey, but Senegal originally. They were picked up yesterday.”

“Oh, they're detainees?”

Mark bit his tongue to keep from blurting, “Of course they're detainees. Why else would we be here?” But he stared at Todd and said nothing.

“Yes, they are,” Zola said politely.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Well, no, but we've driven two hours to see them.”

The officer shook her head while another put down her brownie and pecked on a keyboard. The second one, an older white lady, said, “They have not been processed yet.” This, obviously, was a deal killer.

“Okay, well, then process them,” Zola said.

The first one said, “We'll take care of that, okay? But I'm afraid you can't see them until they've been processed.”

“You must be kidding,” Zola said.

“Sorry,” she said without the slightest trace of sympathy.

“How can you hold them if they haven't been processed?” Zola demanded.

Number one, a middle-aged black woman, sneered at her as if she would enjoy putting Zola in her place. “We have our rules,” she said firmly.

Mark and Todd took a step toward the counter. Todd was wearing jeans, sneakers, and an old leather jacket. At that moment, Mark was slightly better dressed in khakis, hiking shoes, and an insulated vest. Todd nodded to Mark, who leaned forward and said in a loud voice, “Look, I'm her attorney, okay? She is an American citizen and she has the right to see her family. We've driven two hours for this visit and you will not deny her. Her parents and brother were picked up yesterday and are about to be sent back to Africa. She may never see them again.”

The third one stopped eating. The second one stopped pecking. The first one drew back and managed to say, “I'm afraid you'll have to see the supervisor.”

“Great!” Mark yelled. “Get him out here!”

The disturbance attracted some attention and two ICE boys came over. One of them, Gibson, said, “Got a problem here?”

“Damned right we got a problem!” Mark growled at him. “My client here just drove from Washington, D.C., to see her family one last time before they are deported back to Senegal. Now we're told she can't see them because of paperwork.”

The ICE boys looked at the three clerks. The first one said, “You know the rules. No visitors until they have been processed.”

Gibson looked back at Mark and said, “Well, there you have it. Rules are rules.”

“Can I see the supervisor?” Mark demanded.

“You can stop yelling, that's what you can do.” He took a step closer, eager for a physical confrontation. Two more agents ventured over to back up their buddies.

“Just let me talk to the supervisor,” Mark said.

“I don't like your attitude,” Gibson said.

“And I don't like yours. Why is attitude important here? What's wrong with allowing my client to see her family? Hell, they're being deported. She may never see them again.”

“If they're being deported it's because a judge said so. You don't like it, go see the judge.”

“Well, now that you've mentioned a judge, you're playing my game. I'm gonna sue you first thing in the morning in federal court. What's the first name, Gibson?” Mark took a step closer and eyed his nameplate. “M. Gibson. May I ask what the
M
stands for?”

“Morris.”

“Okay, Morris Gibson. Write it down, Todd.” Todd pulled out a pen and grabbed a sheet of paper off the counter. Mark looked at the next ICE agent and said, “And what's your name?”

“Why do you want to know?” he replied with a smirk.

“For the lawsuit, sir, I can't sue you if I don't know your name.”

“Jerry Dunlap.”

Mark whirled and zeroed in on the three clerks, all of whom looked petrified. “What's your name?” he growled at the first one.

She glanced down at the nameplate pinned above her left pocket, as if to verify things, and said, “Phyllis Brown.” Todd scribbled away.

“And you?” Mark said to the second one.

“Debbie Ackenburg.”

Todd asked, “Would you spell it, please?”

She did. Mark looked at the third and said, “And you?”

With great trepidation, she softly said, “Carol Mott.”

Mark turned again and noticed four other ICE agents watching the dispute. “Any of you guys want some of the action? It's a lawsuit in federal court, filed first thing in the morning. You'll be forced to hire lawyers, at least one each, and I'll make it drag on for the next two years. Anybody?” The four stepped back in unison.

A man in a suit rounded the corner and asked angrily, “What the hell is going on here?”

Mark took a step toward him and said loudly, “I'm collecting names for a federal lawsuit. Are you the supervisor?”

“I am,” he said proudly.

“Great, and what's your name?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Mark Frazier, with the Washington law firm of Ness Skelton. I'm the attorney for Zola Maal, this lady right here. We've driven from D.C. so she can see her family. She's an American citizen and she has the right to see her family before they are deported. Your name please.”

“George McIlwaine.”

“Thank you. And you're the head guy around this place?”

“I am.”

Todd was still scribbling names. Mark yanked out his cell phone, tapped it, called no one. Glaring at McIlwaine, he said to his phone, “Hello, Kelly, it's Mark. Get me Kinsey in litigation, right now. Tell him it's an emergency.” Pause. “I don't care if he's in a meeting. Get him now!” A longer pause as Mark stepped closer to a third ICE agent who was standing a bit too close. Over his shoulder he barked at Todd, “Add T. Watson to the list. What does the
T
stand for?”

Watson glanced around and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Come on, Mr. Watson, you don't know your first name?”

“Travis.”

“Attaboy. Add Travis Watson to the lawsuit.”

Todd scribbled away. Zola took a step back, a little distance between her and this wild man. Back on the phone, Mark said, “Yeah, Kinsey, look, I'm at the Bardtown Detention Facility and they are denying our client the right to see her family. I want you to prepare a quick lawsuit and file it as soon as possible. I'll text over the names of the defendants.” A pause as he listened to no one. “That's right. Start with Homeland Security and ICE, then add the names of, hang on.” He pointed at the three ladies, the three ICE agents, and McIlwaine. “Seven of them, individually.” Mark looked at the other agents and said, “Any of you guys want a piece of this?” They backed away even farther. “Guess not. Do it quick, Kinsey.” Another pause. Gibson and Watson shot fearful glances at McIlwaine. The three ladies were wide-eyed and afraid to move. Back to the phone, Mark said, “Great! File it this afternoon online. Eastern District of Pennsylvania, federal court. See if you can get Judge Baxter. He'll throw the book at them. Call me in ten minutes.”

Mark tapped his phone and put it in his pocket. He glared at McIlwaine and said, “I'm suing all of you individually for monetary damages and when I get them I'll enroll the judgment, then I can garnish your paychecks and put liens on your homes.” He turned around and barked at Todd, “Give me those names.” Zola and Todd followed him to a row of chairs against a wall. They sat down and Mark pulled out his phone again. Holding Todd's list, he appeared to be texting the seven names.

McIlwaine finally moved. He took a deep breath and stepped toward them. With a fake smile he said, “Look, we might be able to work out something here.”

TWENTY MINUTES LATER,
Agent Gibson led them to a small room at the back of the administration building and told them to wait. When they were alone, Todd said, “You're crazy, you know that?”

“It worked,” Mark said with a smug grin.

Zola managed to laugh and say, “I wouldn't want you to sue me.”

“Who needs a law license?” Mark asked.

“Well, practicing without one can get you in trouble,” Todd said.

“And you think these clowns are going to call the D.C. Bar Council and dig for information?”

Zola opened her bulky purse and pulled out a black hijab. As they watched, she draped it over her head and shoulders, tugging here and there until it was in place. “I'm supposed to wear this when in the presence of men who are not in my family,” she said properly.

“What a good little Muslim,” Todd said. “And you chose a long dress instead of those tight jeans we've been admiring for years.”

“What jeans? It's the least I can do for my parents since I may not see them for a long time.”

“I think you're cute,” Mark said.

“I am cute, just don't say anything, okay? My father is suspicious enough.”

“You look rather virginal,” Todd said.

“Knock it off,” she said.

The door opened. Her parents and brother Bo spilled into the room. Her mother, Fanta, grabbed her and they embraced, both in tears. She hugged her father, Abdou, and Bo, and finally looked at Todd and Mark. She introduced them, described them as friends from law school, and explained they had driven her up from D.C. Mark and Todd shook hands with Bo and Abdou, but not her mother. Her father thanked them again and again, and when the moment became awkward, Mark said, “We'll be in the hallway.”

When he and Todd left the room, the entire family was crying.