“The first of its kind anywhere in the world,” Gigi said.
“How many people are we talking about?”
“Two hundred and sixty-seven, including family and accompanying dependents.”
Renée gave up on catching the server’s attention. He appeared and disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving a trail of amber bottles to mark his presence. “Every single one of them has a credible asylum claim?”
“They’ve all been screened in,” Gigi said. “If they didn’t have HIV or full-blown AIDS, they would have been sent to the US weeks ago.”
“Is that why Rose is at Camp Bulkeley? She has HIV?” If that was true, it would completely change their legal strategy. In fact, it would destroy it.
“She’s not on our list.”
Renée nodded, though her mind was already on the next question. It hurt to even ask. “How about the little girl, Lucie?”
“She’s not on our list either.”
Renée breathed a sigh of relief. The thought of Lucie having to deal with one more tragedy was unbearable. But what kind of a life could a little girl have here? “The United States has built an AIDS camp, so what’s UNHCR doing about it?”
Gigi gave her a humorless smile. “The High Commissioner for Refugees is seeking assurances from the very highest levels of the US government that people will be treated fairly.”
Renée waded through the diplomatic doublespeak. “In other words, nothing.”
“There’s not a whole lot we can do. We don’t have much leverage.”
“You could help the refugees relocate to another country.”
Gigi gave a disgusted snort. “We’ve asked every country in the hemisphere for help. We’re trying to resettle about thirty-five hundred healthy people, and Jamaica and Venezuela have each agreed to take a hundred. Cuba will take sixty-three. A few other countries have signed on in equally small numbers. No one will accept even a single HIV-positive refugee.”
“Damn.” Renée slammed her empty bottle on the table.
“How about you? There must be something you could do?” Gigi asked. “The coast guard has basically constructed a floating Berlin Wall around Haiti. They’re returning ninety percent of those who try to escape. Can’t you file a lawsuit?”
“We don’t think a lawsuit is the best approach at the moment,” Renée mumbled, sounding like her boss at his most robotic.
“Why not?”
“The courts defer to the president on immigration policy, so a lawsuit probably wouldn’t be successful. We’ve come up with a less antagonistic strategy.”
Gigi reached for the bowl of peanuts and popped a handful in her mouth. “What’s that?”
“We’ve put aside the legality of the coast guard’s actions—at least for now. We’re focused on getting the INS to appoint lawyers for the refugees to help them with their asylum applications.” Renée squirmed in her seat. She knew how calculating this must sound to a nonlawyer, but she had done the research, and she agreed with Fabrice. Working within the system was their best option. “That’s why Rose’s hearing is so important. We win her case, and it proves that lawyers are essential to this process. We can use that as leverage with the INS.”
“What if that doesn’t work?”
“We’ll go to the Attorney General if we have to.”
“No lawsuit?” Gigi sifted through the bowl of peanuts, lifting out charred bits and dropping them on the table.
“First we need to show we’ve negotiated in good faith.”
A few more damaged bits landed on the table. “Sounds like a lengthy process. I don’t think the refugees at Camp Bulkeley have that kind of time.”
Renée could feel her jaw clench. She reached up to massage the back of her neck. “It’s the best option for the most people. Frankly, I don’t think a lawsuit would help the Camp Bulkeley refugees. US policy prohibits foreign nationals with HIV from entering the country. Even if we challenged that policy and won, the Justice Department would have us tied up in court for years.” She believed every word she said, so why did she feel so bad?
Gigi leaned forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I understand what you’re dealing with. I’m just worried. People are feeling hopeless, and the protest today was only the beginning. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Renée forced her tense muscles to relax. Gigi was right. Hundreds of refugees crammed in hot, stifling tents and guarded by men trained for combat was a combustible situation. For much of the morning, she and Gigi had worked to persuade the protestors away from the fence—and the armed military response. They had finally succeeded, probably because the heat had risen to unbearable levels, but there was already talk of more protests and even a hunger strike. The truce promised to be only a temporary reprieve.
“I need a drink,” she said.
Gigi raised a hand and the server appeared in an instant.
“Hello, pretty ladies.” He greeted them with a huge smile. Renée immediately recognized him as Gigi’s knight in shining armor—the server who had rustled up a grilled cheese yesterday when the bar didn’t even serve lunch.
He placed two beers on the table. “Thank you,” Renée said as she reached for one and took a healthy swig.
“Anything else I can get you, love?” He tugged playfully at a stray curl that had escaped Gigi’s topknot.
Gigi whipped back as if scalded. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The server’s eyebrows shot up. “I . . . er—”
She glared at him until he fell back a step. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he finally muttered. “My mistake. Won’t happen again.” He left without another word.
“What was that about?” Renée asked.
“Male ego,” Gigi said, waving a dismissive hand. “I forgot to tell you how proud I was of you today. I didn’t think you had the guts to walk into that camp, but you did it. You don’t scare easily.”
“Kem pa sote,” Renée sang, echoing the protestors’ battle cry.
“I’m afraid of that accent,” Gigi laughed. “We’ll have to work on it.”
“And my Creole,” Renée added dryly.
“Kreyòl,” Gigi said. “You should probably know something about our language and culture if you’re going to be a champion of Haitians. I have a small gift that might help.”
“That’s very thoughtful,” Renée said, genuinely touched.
Gigi stood. “It’s up in my room. I’ll go get it.”
“Now?” Renée glanced at her watch and frowned. “I’ve got a meeting with Rose at two p.m. My escort will be here soon.”
“It’ll just take a second.”
“It’s not necess—”
Gigi hurried off before Renée could finish her sentence. There was nothing to do but watch her friend sashay through the crowd as dozens of male eyes gave chase.
A British pop star droned on about being too sexy for his shirt.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Gift
Fifteen minutes later, Renée drummed her fingers on the table and looked at her watch for the last time. Gigi had disappeared. She couldn’t stay any longer; John was probably waiting for her in the lobby. She glanced around for the server to pay the bar tab, but she couldn’t find him in the rowdy, hard-drinking crowd. She settled with the bartender and hurried out.
Where most hotels made a show of their front entrance, with fancy chandeliers and upscale furniture, the Pearl of the Antilles lived down to expectations. The lobby sported dingy beige wallpaper, orange-sherbet sofas, and an enormous Formica-topped desk with chrome legs. It did not give off a “retro fifties” vibe, which might suggest some effort. Instead, it looked like it had been decorated in the 1950s and simply forgotten.
The clock hanging above the front desk gave the time at a quarter to two, but John wasn’t there, which surprised her. He was always so punctual. The protest at Camp Bulkeley must have thrown him off schedule.
She considered heading back to the bar, but the crowd
and the raucous laughter had taken their toll. Going upstairs was out of the question—she couldn’t bear that stuffy little room any more than necessary. She took a seat on one of the sofas.
A faint prickle at the back of her neck caused her to turn around, and her gaze collided with the desk clerk’s. The young woman gave her an uncertain smile before hurriedly averting her eyes. Renée wasn’t up for small talk. She pulled a file from her briefcase and pretended to read.
Ten minutes later, John still hadn’t arrived. With a sigh, she trudged over to the desk clerk. “Do I have any messages?”
“No, ma’am,” the desk clerk said in an unmistakable Jamaican lilt. “Would you like me to call someone?”
“That’s okay.” She had no idea how to get in touch with John. He had always simply shown up for their appointments. She was about to leave when the young woman stopped her.
“Ms. François, I want to thank you. My boyfriend is so excited to work for you.”
“Your boyfriend?” she questioned, though the pit in her stomach warned that she wouldn’t like the answer.
The young woman nodded. She was pretty, with dark skin and long thin braids that flowed down to her shoulders. “Eric Higgins is my boyfriend,” she said with the unmistakable pride of first love—the kind as yet untested by the vagaries of life.
Eric, the chatty bellhop. She had specifically told him not to talk to anyone about the autopsy report, yet his girlfriend obviously knew something. Rose Fleurie’s case had become more important than ever. Thousands of lives were at stake. She couldn’t afford to have her research leaked to Adam Hartmann. Why had she trusted Eric?
“What do you know about the work your boyfriend is doing for me?” She tried to keep the annoyance from her voice, but the desk clerk’s smile faltered.
“Nothing,” the young woman hurriedly assured her. “It’s just, he didn’t come to bed last night. He spent all that time in his books or talking to his old professor. When I asked, he said he was working for you . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Did he tell you what he was doing?”
“No, ma’am,” the desk clerk said, but a flicker in her eyes belied her words.
“You’re sure?” Renée pressed.
“He didn’t tell me, but I heard . . . I mean, I—”
“You heard what?”
The desk clerk glanced at Renée, then cast her eyes down. “I was walking by the little room he uses for an office, and I could hear him on the phone. He was talking about an autopsy report. He said, ‘I knew it couldn’t be true.’”
Renée felt her antenna go up. “What couldn’t be true?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look, Ms. . . . ?”
“Monica,” the desk clerk supplied.
Renée let out a breath and tried again. “Monica, this is a serious legal matter. I need you to tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know anything else.” The young woman was practically in tears. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that I was worried, you know? Eric’s a mon, and we have our problems. When he start hiding in his office, whispering on the phone, I have to check.”
Renée swallowed her irritation. It wasn’t fair to take it out on Monica. She needed to talk to Eric. “When will he be here?”
“Tonight. His shift starts at eight.”
“I want to see him as soon as he gets here.”
The desk clerk nodded as she fiddled with one of her long braids. “Please don’t tell him what I did. He’ll think I don’t trust him.”
The elevator doors swung open with a soft ding, and a voice called out, “Renée! I’m glad you’re still here. I thought I’d missed you.”
A moment later, Gigi was upon them, breathless, her long brown curls loose and slightly disheveled. “Am I interrupting something?” she asked, glancing from Renée to the young woman with the glistening eyes.
“Give me a second.” Renée turned to Monica with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’ll be careful what I say to Eric, but I need to see him tonight. Will you tell him that for me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the desk clerk mumbled.
Renée and Gigi walked back to the sofa, leaving Monica alone at the front desk.
“What was that about?” Gigi asked as they sat down.
“A misunderstanding,” Renée said with a slight shrug. “What happened to you? I waited over fifteen minutes.”
“I thought you’d left. Aren’t you supposed to meet with Ms. Fleurie?”
“My escort’s late.”
Gigi pulled something from her handbag. “I was going to have the desk clerk put this in your mailbox, but now I can give it to you myself.” She handed Renée a small, neatly wrapped package. “Open it.”
Renée looked down at the package, then up at her friend. Were her eyes too bright? Her smile slightly forced? “Where were you?” she asked again.
Gigi’s smile dimmed. “I had to wrap your gift.”
“You changed your clothes.” Gone was the scarlet dress with its plunging neckline. Although Gigi looked equally attractive in a formfitting pink dress that was anything but girlish.
“It had a stain. You lawyers with all your questions.” Gigi gestured to the gift. “Would you open that already?”
With her thoughts in overdrive, Renée slowly peeled back wrapping paper to reveal two books and a CD.
“The CD is from the band Boukman Eksperyans,” Gigi explained. “They’re the ones who sing Kem Pa Sote. I had to turn my room upside down to find my copy.”
“Oh,” was the only response Renée could get past the lump in her throat. When had she become so suspicious of everybody?
“This is a Kreyòl/English dictionary, and that book is one of the classic texts on Haitian Vodou. You’ll find lots of information on Erzulie,”
“Thank you, Gigi.”
The other woman smiled. “We’ll make a Haitian out of you yet.”
She slipped the gift into her briefcase. Gigi’s good humor only made her feel worse.
“Looks like your escort’s here,” Gigi said, pointing to the front door.
Renée looked up as John stepped into the lobby. “There you are,” she called out. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten our appointment.”
John walked over to them, a look of confusion on his face. “You were waiting for me?”
“Two o’clock with Rose Fleurie, remember?” She glanced at her watch and frowned. It was 2:10. “We’re late.”
“Hartmann canceled. He didn’t tell you?”
“No, he didn’t,” Renée bit out. “Did he tell you why?”
“The riot. Everything’s pretty much shut down.”
“But Rose’s hearing is tomorrow. I still have questions for her.”
“Hartmann said the hearing was postponed.”
“Did he?” Renée’s temper flared. Why was she learning all this from John? “Until when?”
He shrugged. “No idea.”
She turned to Gigi. “Did you know about this?”
Gigi shook her head. “I told you, Adam and I keep our work lives separate.”
“Why would he postpone the hearing?”
“I don’t know.”
Renée started to say something but thought better of it. “I’m being rude. Let me introduce you to Petty Off—”
“We’ve met,” Gigi interrupted, standing to press her lips against both of John’s cheeks. “Bonjour, Petty Officer Wilkes. It is a pleasure to see you again.”
She stepped back and smiled as a dark-red stain spread across John’s cheeks. “I hope I have not embarrassed you, chéri? I am French; this is our way.”
“I—I don’t,” John stammered, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Pleasure’s all mine, Ms. Bienaimé.”
“Gigi, remember?”
If possible, John turned even redder. “Of course.”
In another time, Renée would have been amused by his flustered reaction. Right now, sh
e was too angry to care. “I need to talk to Adam Hartmann.”
“You can call him,” John said.
She shook her head. “He’ll just hang up on me. I need to talk to him in person. Will you take me to his office?”
A look of disappointment flashed in John’s eyes before dissolving behind a composed mask. “Sure,” he said.
“I think I’ll head back to the bar. I could use another beer.” Gigi sauntered off with hips swinging.
Renée waited, watching John’s eyes follow the other woman into the Pearl Jam. “Shall we go?” she finally said when he made no move to leave.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sure.”
They headed for the exit. John held the door as she stepped outside. The sun’s attack was immediate. Her lungs resisted breathing in the scalding air.
“Why did you come here if our meeting was canceled?” she asked.
They were crossing the parking lot. John stumbled on a small rock but quickly regained his footing. “I thought I’d follow up on your visit to Camp Bulkeley. How’d it go?”
After a slight hesitation, Renée said, “It was fine.” The heat clawed at her, perspiration dripping from her forehead, but she hardly noticed.
Her attention was on a single question: Why had John Wilkes just lied to her?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
These People Will Get What I Give Them
Adam Hartmann’s office was a cave. With the shades drawn tightly against the afternoon sun, the room’s sole source of light was the flickering glow of the computer monitor. It only heightened the feeling of being trapped underground. Renée longed to throw open a window. The place reeked of sweat and McDonald’s french fries.
Adam sat at a desk littered with books, files, and empty soda cans. He looked like he’d been startled awake. He made no effort to straighten the tie that hung limply from his neck, but he did run a hand through his disheveled hair. “What can I do for you now, Ms. François? You always seem to need something. You have that in common with the migrants.”
Renée stood on the other side of the desk, her hands balled into fists. She had spent the length of the car ride trying to convince herself that Adam could be made to see reason. Who was she kidding?
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