That statement didn’t compute. Sunderland had told him that the FBI would be here as soon as possible. There was no way the Broker could have called that off. Unless she’d spoken to Sunderland. But she couldn’t know about him. His phone. Of course. The Broker only had to go through his call history to find the number. But then what? She couldn’t just call Sunderland. He wouldn’t know who she was. And he wouldn’t call off the raid just because some woman called him on his phone. Which left only one other option: the Broker knew somebody inside the FBI who could cancel a raid. It wasn’t too much of a stretch. A global racket like this couldn’t work without some corrupt officials looking the other way.
The headache got a lot worse. He closed his eyes.
“I see you agree with my assessment,” the Broker said. “You might as well. Your role in this undertaking has come to an end.”
“My superiors know exactly what I’m working on, and they know who the suspects are. You’re not getting away, even if you kill me.”
“I doubt that very much, but who said anything about killing? We have far more efficient means at our disposal.”
“Such as?”
“I’ll leave that to management to explain.”
“Management is coming here?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
A loud banging sounded from the front door.
“Police, open up,” a muffled voice shouted.
“With pleasure,” the Broker said, more to herself.
She walked to the door and opened it.
“He’s in there,” the Broker said, pointing. “We managed to immobilize him.”
Three men and a woman in blue warm-up jackets and trousers, guns drawn, hustled into the library. They came straight to Vermeulen and rolled him onto his stomach. One of them put his knee on his back and shouted, “Stay down!” A silly demand, since there was no way he could have gotten up. The other cops took up positions around him, one facing him, his gun ready, the others looking toward the entrance. Their jackets said “ICE” on the left front and “Police. Immigration and Customs Enforcement” on the back.
None of this made any sense to Vermeulen. Why would immigration cops show up at the Rosenbaums’ house? He thought of Rosita. That couldn’t be it. Besides, they weren’t searching the house. They’d come for him. And then he saw Sunderland walk into the room.
Vermeulen did a double-take. Sunderland? The surprise lasted only a moment; then the missing pieces fell into place. Sunderland could have gotten word to the gangbanger at the Elizabeth detention center who killed Odinga. He could have issued the threat to Luca at York Prison. He had access to Homeland Security computers and could have known about his flights to and from Vienna. His involvement provided the simplest explanation for everything that had happened in the past two weeks. Well, almost. Sunderland’s involvement didn’t explain why Odinga and Luca had been detained in the first place. But then he realized that Sunderland was with ICE, not Customs and Border Protection. Different bureaucracies, different chains of command. It all made sense. William of Occam would have approved.
“Is this man trespassing in your house?” Sunderland said.
Rosenbaum nodded.
“Can you speak up?”
“Yes, he is trespassing in my house.”
“Did he enter with a weapon drawn and threaten your guest?”
“Yes, he did.”
Sunderland turned to Vermeulen, who was watching the charade with increasing incredulity.
“Mr. Vermeulen, criminal trespass is an aggravated felony. The 1996 Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act lists aggravated felonies as cause for mandatory detention and deportation.”
“This is utter nonsense,” Vermeulen said. “You have no evidence that an aggravated felony occurred here. Besides, I work for the United Nations.”
“That doesn’t make any difference. Your G-4 visa doesn’t give you diplomatic immunity. And Dr. Rosenbaum says you trespassed with a drawn gun. That’s all we need.”
The four immigration cops grabbed Vermeulen and pulled him up, ready to drag him out of the house.
“Wait,” Vermeulen said. The cops stopped. “First, the Rosenbaums invited me into their house. We stood outside and discussed several matters. Then Mrs. Rosenbaum invited me inside. So there is no trespassing. Second, I didn’t bring any gun. She,” he pointed to the broker, “and her gangsters brought the guns and attacked me first.”
The cops were looking at each other, then at Sunderland.
“I see no gangsters,” Sunderland said. He turned to the Rosenbaums. “Are there any other individuals in the house?”
They shook their heads.
“That’s all I need.”
“This is an outrage. Even if this were trespassing, it’s not an aggravated felony,” Vermeulen said.
“That’s where you are wrong. The 1996 law gives broad leeway to ICE officers. I can declare shoplifting an aggravated felony, and there’s nothing you can do about that.”
Sunderland turned to the woman cop. “Linda, bring him to Elizabeth and book him.”
Turning to the Rosenbaums, he said, “He’ll be out of the country in no time. You have nothing to worry about.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Jackson had had it. Waiting in the car for hours on end wasn’t his idea of a good time. The first couple of hours were okay; it gave him a chance to shake off the hangover of whatever drug they’d pumped into him. He’d paced around the car for a while. But now he was getting antsy. He walked toward the street.
The silence was eerie. There was nothing like it in Newark, with its hum of traffic, people shouting, fighting. Hell, there was life. This place sounded like a graveyard.
He reached the tarmac and looked left and right. There were some lights to his right, woods to his left. He walked toward the lights. They turned out to be the gate lights of an estate he couldn’t even fathom. Somewhere in the dark there had to be a house, but he couldn’t see it.
This wasn’t a place where a black man should be walking at night. No Siree. Vermeulen had said that he was close by, at the doctor’s house. Only, which of these mansions was the doctor’s house? Vermeulen hadn’t said anything about a mansion. He walked back to the parking area by the lake. Maybe the house was on the other side of the woods.
He walked quietly past the wooded area, staying in the shadows of the shrubbery. Ahead of him a branch broke with a crack. He froze. Somebody was sneaking in the dark. There was another sound. Like someone shuffling in place, keeping warm in the cold air. Somebody watching? He eased forward. One step. Another. Even though it was pitch dark, he thought he could see something ahead. A mass even darker than everything else. It had to be the other watcher.
“What’re you doing here?” he said in a quiet voice.
The body whirled around. A person much smaller than he.
“Please, Mister, I do nothing,” a female voice said.
“I can see that. What are you watching?”
“Please, mister, I want no problem. I go now, okay?”
The woman sounded really scared.
“I’m not gonna give you any problem, lady. Just tell me what’s going on at that house.”
“La migra. They come to the doctor’s house. I got away just in time.”
“You work there?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Rosita.”
“I’m Earle Jackson. Is that Dr. Rosenbaum’s house?”
“Yes.”
“All right. At least I’m at the right spot. So why’s immigration here?”
“They come for me. The nice man told me to get out, that there’d be trouble.”
“That nice man, he’s like six feet and blond with a funny name? Vermoolen?”
“That’s him.”
“Okay, let’s get a little closer. I wanna see what’s going on.”
“Not me. I stay here.”
“Suit yourself.”
Jackson tiptoed forward until he found a place behind a large prickly bush that gave him a view of the doctor’s house. There were three cars parked in the driveway. In the bright porch lights, he could tell they were Crown Vics, cop cars. Like Rosita had said, immigration.
The front door opened and two cops came out. Behind those cops walked Vermeulen. He was cuffed. Two more cops followed. They brought Vermeulen to the first Crown Vic. The lead cop opened the back door and his buddy shoved Vermeulen into the rear seat. They took their seats up front and started the car. The other cops got into the remaining Crown Vics, and the three cars made K-turns and disappeared toward the town center.
That just didn’t make any sense. Vermeulen, the guy with the funny accent, working for the United Nations, hauled off like those sorry-ass Mexicans he’d seen lined up in Newark. Those immigration cops hadn’t come for Rosita. That was for damn sure. They’d come for Vermeulen. But why?
He walked back until he found Rosita again.
“They’re gone,” he said. “They took Vermeulen, the guy you talked about.”
“They took him? Why?”
“Beats me. Well, I gotta get home. You need a ride anywhere?”
“Yes, please. To Newark.”
“You’re in luck. That’s where I’m headed.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
It was five fifteen the next afternoon. The loudspeaker attached over the door of the cell crackled. There was a cough. Then a distorted voice said: “Vermeulen, visitor.”
Vermeulen rose from the thin mattress. The last twenty hours were right up there with the worst days he could remember. Being hauled off by ICE and dumped unceremoniously at the Elizabeth detention center was bad enough. But the worst was that they’d stuck him in solitary confinement. There were four cells; his was the only one occupied.
He’d banged against the door and demanded to see a lawyer until his fists were sore and his voice hoarse. Twice, a guard came to the door. Once to tell him to shut the fuck up and once to tell him they’d put him in restraints if the racket continued.
When they’d brought breakfast at five thirty, he’d told the guard that he wanted to speak to a lawyer.
“This ain’t a police station, buddy,” the guard had said. “Unless you already have a lawyer, we ain’t getting one for you.”
“How could I have gotten a lawyer? They just picked me up and brought me here.”
“Ain’t my problem.”
“Can I call someone?”
“No.”
“And why is that?”
“No idea.”
The conversation at lunchtime was no different. His attempts to speak to a supervisor were rebuffed with vague excuses. They were busy. Wait until after the shift change. They were still busy. Just quit hollering.
At four in the afternoon, somebody who seemed in charge finally came.
“I don’t know why you are making all that noise. You are held here pending your voluntary departure.”
“Voluntary what? I’m not leaving voluntarily. I want to speak to a lawyer.”
“The paperwork says that you asked for voluntary departure instead of being removed by court order. If you ask me, that’s the wise choice. Don’t change your mind. If a judge orders you removed, you can’t apply to come back for ten years. If you go voluntarily, you can come back again very soon.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to leave on my own.”
“Says so in my paperwork.”
“Somebody forged it.”
“Whoa. Hold it right there, buddy. My paperwork says you agreed to it. I didn’t forge anything. It came from the top. Listen to me.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice as he spoke. “It’s the better way. Get on that plane tomorrow, sort things out, and come back. You go before the immigration court, they’ll throw the book at you. Ten years is a long time.”
The supervisor left Vermeulen stewing until the loudspeaker announced that he had a visitor. He couldn’t imagine who might come to visit him, but getting out of the cell was a reward in itself.
The guard brought him to the visiting room. There was a long wall with small booths. Each booth had a plexiglass window with a plexiglass grating in the middle. The guard brought him to a booth near the center of the room. On the other side of the glass sat the last person he expected to see. Alma Rodriguez, the immigration activist and ice cream lover.
She smiled at the stunned expression on his face.
“I must admit, I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.
“I could say the same thing. But we don’t have much time. Tell me what happened.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Rosita Torres called me last night. Thanks to you, she missed the ICE raid. She was very grateful.”
Vermeulen gave her the broad strokes outline of how he’d ended up in the detention center.
“This tops all the abuses of immigration law I’ve seen,” Alma said. “An ICE official involved with a criminal gang? It’s usually the other way around. What did you say about voluntary departure?”
“The supervisor said I had agreed to it. Which I did not.”
She scratched the top of her left hand. “I guess it makes sense. It’s the only way they can avoid immigration court. Even the worst judges would have wanted to check out the story.”
“But why am I still here? If I agreed to voluntary departure, shouldn’t I be allowed out?”
“Not necessarily. ICE distrusts all aliens, no matter what their status. Even if you agreed to leave, they can still stick you in detention to make sure you don’t change your mind and disappear.”
“How do I fight this?” he said. Her calm demeanor set him on edge.
“I’m thinking. This is different from anything I’ve ever been involved in. This is organized crime.”
“Call my boss, Suarez.” He gave her the number for OIOS. “And the FBI.”
“I’ll call your boss, but I don’t know what he can do. And the FBI? I don’t know.”
“But there’s got to be a way to stop this,” he said.
“You’d think, but immigration law in this country is so screwed up, they can ship you out of the country and even charge you for the flight. I’ll also call one of our pro bono lawyers. I’m sure he’ll have to call someone else.”
“What can I do in the meantime?”
“Sit and wait. It’s what all our clients do. Don’t get into fights. Don’t harass the guards. Don’t do anything that gives them a reason to transfer you. Hopefully one of our lawyers will visit you tomorrow.”
“That might be too late,” Vermeulen said.
“Why?”
“Because the supervisor I talked to said that I’d be put on a plane tomorrow.”
“What? Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
She blew out a breath. “I’ve never heard of someone being deported so fast. That’s crazy.”
“Tell me about it. What’s your phone number, in case I get phone privileges anytime soon?”
She recited the number twice.
“I’d better hurry and make those calls,” she said. “The van with the deportees usually leaves between eleven and two. If they are coming to get you and you haven’t seen our lawyer yet, forget everything I’ve said about being nice. Whatever you do, don’t get on that van.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
The night oozed along like hot tar on a cold roof. Sleep was out of the question. So he paced.
Eight steps. Turn. Eight steps. Turn. Stop.
Nothing had changed.
Eight steps. Turn. Eight steps. Turn. Stop.
Still no change.
He kept up the pace, but didn’t stop anymore. The rhythm soothed his mind. Better than banging on the door and yelling for a guard who wouldn’t come anyway, or worse, would put him in restraints.
Sunderland.
The man had lied to him from the moment he told him that Abasi had been the victim of a street robbery. No coroner
would have overlooked the missing kidney. But it showed Vermeulen that rank, status, or position had no impact on whether a person followed their criminal instinct. The rich and well connected just chose different methods. Sunderland was in the perfect position to turn human trafficking into a racket to benefit himself. Sometimes opportunity was the only necessary condition.
Vermeulen couldn’t sort out if Sunderland or the Broker was in charge. The Broker had all the makings of a leader. But she was also on the frontline, dealing with day-to-day problems. That alone would make Sunderland the boss. However, Sunderland was a fed, part of a vast bureaucracy with people below him and people above him. Any one of them could’ve tripped him up. Would the boss be in such a vulnerable position?
At eleven that night, Vermeulen decided that Sunderland was the boss. Not a brilliant insight, really. But it kept him from hammering on the door and calling for the guard.
Pacing kept him sane.
Eight steps. Turn. Eight steps. Turn.
What about the Vienna operation? Or Kenya? Jackson said he was recruited as a donor in Nairobi. Was Sunderland in charge of those operations, too? That didn’t seem possible. A mid-level bureaucrat didn’t have the leeway to put together and maintain such a network. There had to be somebody above him. Maybe not. What if Kurtz in Vienna and whoever handled Nairobi were independents? They’d get the orders, supply the victims, and get paid. It was possible. But not likely. It required more trust than Vermeulen believed existed among crooks.
By two in the morning, he decided to call it a tie. There was a good chance of someone running the whole thing. But he had no evidence to support that. It could just as well be a loose network. If someone failed to keep their end of the deal, a hit man could always remedy the situation.
Eight steps. Turn. Eight steps. Turn.
Breakfast came at five thirty.“Hey, aren’t you the guy who asked about that African fellow who got himself killed?” the guard said.
Vermeulen recognized him as the man who’d stormed into the reception area two weeks ago and blurted out that Odinga was dead.
“Yes, I am.”
“Then what are you doing in here?”
“Someone at ICE is a crook and got me locked up here.”
Illicit Trade Page 24
