When Death Comes for You

by Marjorie Florestal

  “I’m here to find out why you postponed Rose Fleurie’s hearing.”

  Adam rocked back in his seat and propped his feet on the desk. There wasn’t a hint of friendliness in his demeanor. “I’ve postponed all processing of Haitian migrants,” he said. “Order must be restored to the island.”

  “Order has been restored. The refugees are back in their tents. We need to move forward.”

  “How are we supposed to do that? These people are animals who can’t appreciate anything we do for them.”

  “Have you been down to the camps?” she demanded. “Have you seen how they live?”

  “I’m sure it’s better than anything they had in Haiti, but if they don’t like it, we’re happy to send them home.”

  “We have a legal obligation to treat the refugees like human beings,” she said.

  “We’re doing the best we can in a difficult situation. It’s the migrants who’ve turned this place into Little Haiti.”

  She gritted her teeth to hold back a string of curses. “When will you begin processing asylum applications again?”

  “I’ll be happy to send you a postcard when that happens.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He didn’t bother to respond.

  “When can I expect to meet with my client?”

  He crossed his hands behind his head and stared up at her. “I don’t think you understand. We can’t risk letting troublemakers into the country. We’ll need a thorough evaluation of our asylum procedures before we restart this process. Unfortunately, that will take some time.” He shook his head in mock regret. “You go home the day after tomorrow, don’t you?”

  Her blood ran cold. Was he really planning to run the clock and simply wait her out? There wasn’t much she could do to stop him. “Are you at least going to talk to the refugees? Tell them what’s happening with their applications?”

  He shot her a scornful glare. “The US government owes no explanations to migrants.”

  She stalked past his desk. He sprang out of his seat as quick as a banana rat. A mountain of books crashed to the floor, and a framed picture of him and Gigi landed on top of them.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He hit a few keystrokes, shutting down his monitor and plunging the office into shadow.

  She threw up the shades and jerked open the window, flooding the room with sunlight. “You see the people down there, Mr. Hartmann?” she said, pointing in the direction of Camp McCalla. “They are sitting in those tents with nothing to do but fume and roast in this heat. How long before they start protesting too?”

  He shrugged. “If they riot, the marines will take care of them.”

  “They deserve basic information about their asylum applications. Surely you can give them that much?”

  “These people will get what I give them.”

  She tried to slow the red-hot ball of rage growing inside her. In law school, her favorite professor liked to say: Don’t let your opponent set the terms of the argument. It was the same lesson she learned when she took up self-defense. Whether in the courtroom or a back alley, focus on the outcome you want to achieve. Play offense not defense.

  “You keep calling Haitians ‘these people,’” she said, silently congratulating herself on the steady, even tone of her voice. “You realize your girlfriend is one of them?”

  He gave a snort of disgust. “Gigi is nothing like them.”

  “She was born in Haiti.”

  “She’s French,” Adam insisted. “Her birth parents might have been Haitian, but thank goodness she was raised in a civilized society.”

  “A civilized society?” She gave him a smile that did little more than bare her teeth. “Would a civilized society set up an AIDS camp in the middle of a Caribbean outpost?”

  His eyes grew wide behind his smudged glasses. “You know about that?”

  “You don’t deny it?”

  He ran a hand through his hair and licked his suddenly dry lips. “No one is willing to take them, so what are we supposed to do? Let these people into our country, so they can spread their disease to unsuspecting Americans?”

  “It can’t help anyone to keep them caged in these unsanitary conditions,” she said.

  Adam gave her a hard stare. “They’ll be dead before it becomes a problem.”

  She could crush his voice box with a single blow, watch him drop to the floor and foam at the mouth as he choked on his own blood and vomit. “You won’t mind when this story runs on the front page of the New York Times? I have a friend who would love to make you famous.” She was bluffing, but he didn’t know that.

  Before she could react, Adam had closed the distance between them. They stood nose to nose. A vein jerked at his temple. His face was the red of a freshly opened wound.

  “You tell anyone about this, and I’ll make damn sure you regret the moment you set foot on Guantanamo Bay.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I Was Here First

  Renée stepped into the sunlight, almost grateful for its piercing glare after the dark of Adam’s cave.

  The little shit had threatened her. She wouldn’t have believed he had it in him, but this man was different from the pasty, hunched-over lawyer she’d met yesterday.

  She scanned the front of the airplane hangar for John’s jeep, but the lot was empty. Where the hell was he? She wanted to get out of here. The exchange with Adam had stirred a memory—

  The door to the airplane hangar swung open, and Adam stepped outside, blinking owlishly into the light.

  Their eyes locked. A childhood memory clicked into place.

  She had practically grown up at the Belleville Psychiatric Hospital, roaming its halls as her playground. Most of the patients were like her father, run-of-the-mill depressives and schizophrenics who should never have been institutionalized.

  And then there was Luther.

  The day Luther arrived, even the battle-hardened nurses were spooked. They dropped syringes, served up the wrong medications, and congregated in the halls, speaking in low harsh tones.

  “He killed them,” one of the nurse’s whispered. “His wife. Those beautiful little girls. Killed them all.”

  “He was an accountant for goodness sake,” another replied in disbelief.

  Luther was a family annihilator. A mild-mannered little man, he came home one day and murdered his perfect wife and their two perfect daughters. Then he sat down to a perfectly prepared dinner of roast beef and fingerling potatoes.

  They strapped Luther to a gurney and wheeled him through the halls of Belleville. Ten-year-old Renée hid behind a potted plant to catch a glimpse of the monster. He looked disappointingly normal, except for his eyes. Those eyes stared back at her, sharp, unfiltered, and capable of anything.

  Adam Hartmann stared at her now with those same eyes. He took a step forward, and she instinctively recoiled.

  The sound of an engine broke the silence. It was John. She clambered into the jeep almost before he could come to a full stop.

  “Sorry,” John said as they drove off, leaving Adam in a fog of dust. “I didn’t expect to be gone this long.”

  She said nothing, letting her heartbeat return to normal.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Where were you?”

  “I wanted to check on my family. They just announced that military dependents will be evacuated.”

  Her heart sank. “Because of the riot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry, John.”

  “Actually, it might be good for us. My wife’s been having a hard time.” He shook his head and sighed. “She’ll be better off in Boston. My mom can help with the kids.”

  “I’m glad you’re making it work.”

  He glanced at her with a worried frown. “What happened with Hartmann?”

  She thought about Adam’s eyes and the feeling in her gut, but all she said was, “He’s put a hold on the asylum applications. The people here will be stu
ck in bureaucratic limbo until they’re so fed up they volunteer to return to Haiti’s death squads.”

  “He can do that?”

  They drove past Camp McCalla, which was at least double the size of Camp Bulkeley. Other than that, they were the same—a barren wasteland of beige tents and brown bodies. “The government says Guantanamo is foreign territory, so the constitutional guarantees don’t apply here. Adam can do whatever the hell he wants.”

  “What about UNHCR?”

  “The High Commissioner for Refugees is seeking assurances from the very highest levels of the US government that people will be treated fairly.”

  “Huh?”

  “Inside joke.” Her mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “I don’t know what’s happening with UNHCR. I can’t even get in to see them.”

  She turned back to the scenery. They had left the camp behind. The sun-bleached landscape gave way to a vast turquoise sea. Waves crashed against rocks, sprinkling droplets of water like a warm summer rain. On the roadway, a foot-long iguana darted onto the asphalt. John tapped his breaks.

  The lizard rotated its scaly head to glare at them, as if to say: I was here first. Renée glared right back. The damn thing was free to roam the streets, protected by the Endangered Species Act, while Haitians were thrust into military camps beyond the reach of US and international law.

  The iguana’s tongue flicked out, probably to catch a fly. But for an instant, it looked like it was taunting her.

  She stuck out her own tongue, then burst into laughter. She was having a pissing contest with an iguana!

  The iguana lumbered across the road, and John resumed his driving. “You okay?”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t have time to figure it out. I’m here on a three-day pass.”

  “Talk to the base commander. He can extend your stay.”

  “He can?” She perked up at the idea. “How do I get in touch with him?”

  “I’ll get you an appointment. His secretary owes me a favor.”

  “Why would you help me?” she asked bluntly.

  He hesitated. “It’s my job.”

  She wasn’t buying that. “This goes above and beyond. Why?”

  He offered her a wry smile. “I grew up in Dorchester, remember? There’s a big Haitian community in that part of Boston. Coming up as a kid, my best friend was a Haitian guy named Emmanuel Saint-Ange.”

  “That was a long time ago.” She couldn’t shake off the feeling there was something he wasn’t telling her.

  John’s face was grim. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “My father was a mean drunk. When things got rough at my house, I used to go over to Manny’s. Practically grew up there. His mom helped us with our homework, then she’d cook up some red beans and rice with some spicy-ass chicken. We’d sit in her kitchen stuffin’ our faces and watching those Haitian soaps she loved so much. His dad taught us to play soccer and dominoes. He even gave us our first taste of clairin—Haitian moonshine. You ever tried that stuff?”

  She shook her head. The tension in her shoulders eased.

  “Well, don’t,” John said with a wistful smile.

  “What happened to them?” she asked softly.

  His smile vanished. “Mr. Saint-Ange used to be a big-shot lawyer in Haiti before that dictator, Papa Doc Duvalier, exiled him. He became just another Boston cabbie. One day, he lost it. Went down to the statehouse and lit himself up. His suicide note said he did it to free Haiti.”

  “That’s horrible,” she said.

  “It devastated the family. Mrs. Saint-Ange got depressed, lost her job, her house. Now she’s basically a shut-in over at the Franklin Field housing project, and Manny . . .” John’s voice trailed off.

  “And Manny?” she prompted.

  “Became a crackhead. Died of an overdose a few years ago.”

  She closed her eyes against the echo of pain in his voice. What did you say to that kind of trauma? “I’m sorry,” she offered, knowing the words weren’t nearly enough.

  “Some of the guys around here talk about Haitians like they’re not even human,” John said. “It’s migrants this and boat people that. I go along to get along, but none of that shit makes sense to me. All I know is that I owe Manny and his family. I owe them big. I want to do right by them.”

  They pulled up to the Pearl of the Antilles. “Thank you,” she said. She had meant to say something more profound, but those were the only words to get past the lump in her throat. He seemed to understand.

  “We got rehearsal at seven tonight,” he said. “Think you could make it?”

  “I’d love to.” She got out of the jeep, but before he could drive away, she asked the question that had been niggling at her. “Do you speak Creole?”

  John gave her a mischievous grin. “Pi bon pase ou. Better than you.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Get Out

  The lobby was eerily silent when Renée walked into the hotel. The front desk stood abandoned, and the clock above the desk clerk’s station had stopped working—as if time had come to a standstill on Guantanamo. Where was Monica? Without someone manning the front door, an intruder could easily break into the rooms. She made a mental note to speak to the hotel manager. They needed better security. Even Mayberry had a sheriff.

  She stepped into the elevator. Her hand hovered over the buttons until she finally pressed the fourth floor, but when she stood at Gigi’s door a few minutes later, she wondered if that was the right move.

  There was only one way to find out. She knocked.

  “Chéri, I didn’t expect—” The door swung open, but Gigi stopped short at the sight of Renée. “What are you doing here?” A hint of red lace peeked out from the folds of her loosely belted silk robe.

  “We need to talk,” Renée said.

  “Now?”

  “It’s urgent. Can I come in?”

  Gigi’s hesitation was slight, but it was there. “Forgive my rudeness,” she said as she ushered Renée into the room, “I wasn’t expecting you.” She hurried to the minibar and held up a bottle of Cabernet. “Would you like a glass?”

  “Please.”

  As her reluctant hostess prepared their drinks, Renée stole a curious glance around the room. It was bigger and more luxuriously appointed than her own. There was a small table dressed in white linen and long tapered candles. It was laden with overripe grapes, the flesh wrinkled and bursting from the heat. A vase of wilted red roses sat in the center of the table, their perfume mingling with the pungent odor of rotting fruit . . . and sex.

  Gigi glided back with two glasses in hand. “Let’s sit on the balcony,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the mess of tangled sheets on the king-size bed.

  The balcony had a panoramic view of the ocean, and the sharp bite of sea air was a welcome relief from the cloying scent in the room. Renée followed Gigi to a small bistro table and accepted her wine with a murmur of thanks.

  “Adam plans to stall the refugee applications until I leave town,” she said in a rush, her index finger twirling around the rim of her glass.

  “I guessed as much,” Gigi admitted.

  “I need your help to set up a meeting with UNHCR.”

  Gigi stirred uncomfortably. “Renée—”

  “Hear me out,” Renée insisted. “This isn’t only about Rose. Thousands of lives are at stake. You were at Camp Bulkeley today—you saw how quickly things can escalate. How are the refugees going to react when they learn they’re stuck here?”

  “We’re just a small delegation. What do you think a meeting with UNHCR will do?” Gigi kept her gaze fixed on the ocean, as if it held the answer to her question.

  “I don’t know,” Renée admitted before taking a sip of her wine. “The United States is violating its obligation under the law. We’re not supposed to return asylum seekers to a country where they are likely to be persecuted. There’s a strong
case to be made to the international community.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to challenge the US Coast Guard’s actions?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Renée muttered defensively. “I just wanted to try another strategy first.”

  Gigi studied her wine. “Adam said the non-refoulement argument doesn’t work because Haiti signed an agreement allowing the US to legally turn back Haitian ships. Is that true?”

  “In 1981, Reagan and Jean Claude Duvalier signed the Alien Migration Interdiction Operation,” Renée admitted. “But technically, it only allows the US Coast Guard to board a Haitian vessel and ‘inquire’ about its destination. If the coast guard finds that some violation of US or Haitian law occurred, only then can they force the vessel to return to Haiti.”

  Gigi finally looked at her. “The high seas are neutral territory. A Haitian vessel should be allowed to pass without having to answer to the United States. Why would Baby Doc sign such a deal?”

  “He wanted money. Reagan promised to increase Haiti’s development aid, so Baby Doc signed the agreement. Of course, that money never went to the people who actually needed it.”

  “He was a greedy imbecile,” Gigi said with a shake of her head. “At least under Papa Doc people had food, clothes, and access to education.”

  Renée wasn’t interested in debating the merits of Haiti’s family of dictators. Stupid or smart, they had all done their damage. “Will you help me?”

  Gigi shifted in her seat. “You’re asking me to break a promise to Adam, but I still don’t see how a meeting with UNHCR helps you.”

  “I need to understand where the international community is going with this.”

  “But you could—”

  Renée held up a hand. “Am I missing something? A few hours ago, you were urging me to file a lawsuit, and now you won’t set up a meeting. I thought you cared about the refugees. Are you going to let your boyfriend destroy them?”

  “Fiancé,” Gigi said softly. She fished in the pocket of her robe and pulled out a small but brilliant diamond. “He proposed.”