Last to die

by James Grippando

  Rene was a pediatrician who had volunteered for a three-year stint with Children First, a human rights organization that was fighting against the forced servitude of children in the cocoa fields. The inspiration had struck her in her last year of residency at Boston Children’s Hospital. One night in the lounge, while wolfing down her typical dinner of a diet soda and a candy bar, she read an article about the reemergence of slavery. Studies by the United Nations and the State Department confirmed that approximately fifteen thousand children, aged nine to twelve, had been sold into forced labor on cotton, coffee, and cocoa plantations in Côte d’Ivoire. The situation was only predicted to get worse, as prices for cocoa continued to fall, and almost half of the world’s cocoa came from the very region that had stooped to child labor to boost profitability. Her candy bar suddenly didn’t taste quite as sweet. It just so happened that she was at one of those “Why did I go to med school?” junctures. Was it time to move to Brookline and wipe snot from the noses of kids who came to checkups in the company of their nannies, or did she yearn for something more? Before she had time to reconsider, she was on a plane to Abidjan, her ultimate destination being Korhogo, capital of the Senoufo country, a nine-hour bus ride north.

  Côte d’Ivoire had been rocked by a military coup in 1999, and Rene arrived just in time to find it besieged by a host of medical problems-malnutrition, AIDS, infant mortality, even genital mutilation among some migrant tribes. She did it all, but she tried to focus on the mission that had moved her. Officially, the local governments denied that child slavery existed. Soon enough, however, Rene was able to put a face on the crisis, the faces of children who were routed to her clinic for assistance as they struggled to find their way home to the most impoverished of countries that neighbored Côte d’Ivoire. Children who told her of men luring them away from their families in bus stops and busy shopping markets in countries like Mali, Benin, or Burkina Faso. Many traveled by sea, packed in crowded old ships at ports like Cotonou, ironically a thriving center of slave trade in earlier centuries. Others came by land, trucking through the brush and canoeing across rivers until they reached plantations far from civilization, farther still from home. They stopped only when it was time for the men to get out and negotiate with cocoa farmers near Lake Kossou, when two or three or twelve children at a time would march off to meet other children of the same fate. They lived in overcrowded huts without cots, without plumbing or electricity, but with strict rules against talking, because talking led to complaining, and complaining led to revolt. They told Rene of twelve-hour workdays in the fields, sunup to sundown, and the hunger in their bellies from lousy food, mostly burned bananas, maybe a yam if they were lucky. They showed Rene the scars on their legs, arms, and backs, told her of the beatings when they didn’t work fast enough. The beatings when they didn’t work long enough. The beatings when they tried to escape. Beatings, beatings, and more beatings. All for no pay to the child, just a promise of perhaps a lump sum payment of ten or fifteen dollars to the child’s family, a payment that was frequently never made. No one wanted to call it slavery, but one of the first rules Rene had learned in med school was that if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck…

  Chickens clucked behind her, startling her.

  “Ysugri, nassara,” said the man as he passed her on the street. Excuse me, white woman.

  Rene stepped aside. The man had a long wooden pole across his shoulders, balanced on either end by live chickens unhappily hanging by their claws. The official language of Côte d’Ivoire was French, but few Africans spoke it, particularly in the north. Based on his tongue and dress, she guessed the man was from Burkina Faso, a desolate, landlocked country to the north that made Côte d’Ivoire glisten like a model of prosperity.

  Rene flowed with the stream of cows, mules, and pedestrians to the city market. Some of the streets were paved, but others were just dirt trails that wound through the city like footpaths to centuries past. She knew her way, but it was easy enough for anyone to find it this time of year, as any gathering of this size stirred up a reddish-pink cloud of dust that was visible from across town. There wasn’t much to do in Kohorgo, and the afternoon market was a reliable source of entertainment, if you could stand the heat.

  Rene stopped at the corner to sip water from her canteen. Two years earlier, she would never have gone out this time of day, but time had made her more durable. Or crazier.

  “Wanwana, wanwana?” she heard the tourists ask. Travelers did indeed find Kohorgo, mostly on their way to someplace else, almost always in search of its crude and unusual painted toiles, a native form of art that found its way into just about every hotel and expat home in the country in the form of wall hangings, bedspreads, napkins, and tablecloths. The question at the afternoon market was always the same: “How much?”

  “Good price,” she whispered as she passed a couple of hard-bargaining Australians.

  “Thanks, mate,” said one of them, and then he went on haggling.

  Bargaining was a way of life at the market, though Rene had stitched up more than one tourist who’d failed to realize that once you negotiated one of these artists down to a certain level, it was extremely insulting if you ultimately did not buy.

  A blast of wind sent the dust swirling, and Rene covered her face with her scarf. This was a particularly noxious blast, carrying with it the stench of sewer. Perhaps some rain had fallen to the north last night, or the authorities had simply decided it was time to unload the overflow.

  The wind eased back a notch, and Rene opened her eyes. Dust continued to swirl, and the market was suddenly a haze, as if she were dreaming. The labyrinth of brown walls and buildings made of mud-brick almost seemed to melt into the earth. Shawls and wraps flapped in the dirty breeze. Animals stirred at the more subtle desert odors blown in from the north. And the tourists kept haggling.

  In a few moments she was able to focus once again, and her eyes fixed on a young boy standing on the corner, a boy like many others she’d seen. Skinny legs, muddy trousers, plastic sandals. The tattered shirt, eyes filled with fear. Anyone else would have thought he was lost. But Rene knew the look.

  This boy was running.

  Slowly, she started moving in his direction, careful not to scare him off. She kept watch without making eye contact, wending her way through the crowd, taking a circuitous route to the street corner that the boy seemed to have claimed-he and scores of other children who passed their days begging in the streets.

  The onslaught began as she drew closer, child after child with outstretched hand.

  “S’il vous plaît, mademoiselle. S’il vous plaît.” If you were white, even the street children knew enough French to say please in the official language.

  It was hard to ignore them, but she couldn’t help all of them. Only the slaves among them.

  Though surrounded by other children, she never lost sight of the boy. Just ten feet away, her suspicions were confirmed. She could see the blisters on his hands and the crisscrossing of scars around the calves and ankles. Boys in the field cut the cocoa pods with machetes. It took one or two good lengthwise whacks to break open the woody shell and scoop out the beans. A good boy could split open five hundred pods an hour, though with fatigue or lack of experience they often slashed themselves. At least this one still had all his fingers and toes.

  Finally, after continuous effort, she managed to plant herself beside him.

  “S’il vous plaît, mademoiselle,” he said with outstretched hand.

  His French was remarkably good, so she replied in the same language. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’ve come to help you.”

  He took a half-step back. Clearly he understood.

  “I’ve helped lots of boys like you,” she said. “Boys who work in the cocoa fields.”

  Other beggars tried to force their way between them, but Rene kept working him. “I’m a doctor.”

  She pulled a photograph of her clinic from her pocket. She’d found it useful in past cases
to be able to show the boys something. “It’s just around the corner. Come with me. I can help you get home.”

  He shook his head, as if he’d heard that one before.

  She stepped toward him, then stopped, fearing that she was coming on too strong. “Please,” she said. “You don’t look like the other children, you understand? Come with me. Let me help you before the child brokers find you again.”

  He looked into her eyes, and she didn’t dare look away. Being a woman was such a huge advantage when talking to a boy who’d been lied to by so many men.

  He nodded slowly, and she immediately took his hand. It was the coarse and calloused hand of an old man, surely not of the boy he was. She led him back across the market, down a dusty shortcut she knew to her clinic.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kamun.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Do you want some water?”

  “Yes.”

  They stopped, and she let him drink from her canteen.

  “Thank you.”

  She smiled and patted his head. “You’re welcome.”

  At the end of the dusty trail was the Children First clinic, which didn’t look like much of a clinic. It was one of the older buildings in the neighborhood, thick walls of mud-brick and an adobe-style roof. But it did have a noisy air-conditioning unit sticking out the window, which seemed to delight the boy.

  “Cool,” he said, smiling.

  “Yes. It is. Come inside.”

  He followed her in, and she closed the door behind him. He seemed nervous again, so she took him by the hand and let him stand directly in front of the A/C and turned it on full-blast. He smiled, even laughed a little as the cold air dried the sweat on his brow.

  Through the holes in his shirt she saw scars across his back, and she wondered how long it had been since he’d laughed like this.

  “Come in here,” she said. She took him into the other room-there were only two-and sat him on the examination table.

  “I want to listen to your heart,” she said. She placed the stethoscope on his knee and listened.

  “I don’t hear your heart,” she said.

  Finally, he laughed. “That’s not my heart,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She put it on his elbow.

  He laughed again, and she laughed with him. But if he thought this routine was funny, he was probably younger than she’d guessed. She placed her stethoscope on his heart and listened.

  “Good strong heart,” she said.

  “Yes. That’s what Le Gros said.” Le Gros-the Big Man.

  “Is that who you worked for?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “Six.”

  “Months?”

  “No. Harvests.”

  Rene had been around long enough to know that most cocoa farms had a main harvest lasting several months and a mid-crop harvest lasting several more. Six harvests meant that Kamun had been working almost three years straight.

  It’s not going to be easy to get this boy home.

  “What did you do there?”

  He didn’t answer, which was to be expected. It generally took them a while to warm up.

  “May I take your shirt off?”

  He shook his head.

  “I noticed some marks on your back. I just want to take a look.”

  He folded his arms, refusing.

  “It’s okay. We can do that later.”

  She paused, then prepared herself to ask the one question she always asked. She knew the answer she’d get, talking to a child who’d never known a home with milk and sugar in the cupboard. But she asked anyway, hoping the answer would help her see purpose in her work and strengthen her resolve, hoping that it wouldn’t simply dampen her spirits and break her heart.

  “Kamun. Have you ever tasted chocolate?”

  “Chocolate?”

  “Yes, chocolate. Have you ever tasted it?”

  He shook his head. “What is…chocolate?”

  The main door opened, and a man and woman entered. “Post” they said with their usual cheery smiles.

  Rene quietly assured Kamun that they were friends. It was Jim and Judy Roberts, nonmedical volunteers who ran the administrative side of Children First’s operation. Rene had liked them from day one on the job, a couple of down-to-earth Oklahomans who didn’t do charity just to get their mugs in the society pages and who’d found a meaningful way to spend their retirement together. They were back from their daily jaunt to the post office, Jim the former Iowa State football player having led the way. Rene stepped out of the examination room and asked, “The usual?”

  “No,” said Mr. Roberts. “There’s actually something here for you today.”

  “Really? Put it on the desk. I’m with a patient.”

  “It’s from a lawyer,” he said.

  That piqued her interest. She crossed the room and took a look. She didn’t recognize the name.

  “Who’s the boy?” asked Mrs. Roberts.

  “Sorry?” said Rene, still focused on the envelope.

  “The patient. Who is he?”

  “His name is Kamun. I’ll introduce you in a minute. This looks kind of important. Maybe I should open it.”

  Mr. Roberts handed her an opener. She quickly sliced the envelope from end to end, then removed the letter. It was one page long. Her eyes shifted from left to right as she read, then her lashes fluttered and her hand began to shake.

  Mr. Roberts asked, “Is everything okay, Rene?”

  Instinctively, she brought a hand to her mouth. “It’s my sister,” she said.

  “She’s okay, I hope.”

  Rene looked up from the letter and said, “She’s dead.”

  Mrs. Roberts came to her, put her arm around her. “Oh no.”

  Rene lowered herself onto the edge of the desk, the quickest place to sit down. “She was shot. A robbery or something. They don’t know exactly. In Miami.”

  Mr. Roberts took her hand. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

  Mrs. Roberts said, “She was such a sweet girl. I mean, it seems like she was just here with us.”

  “It’s been over two years since she left.”

  “Really? That long? Oh, time flies. But she was still so young. I think I’m going to cry.”

  “Please, don’t,” said Rene.

  Mr. Roberts glanced at his wife, as if telling her to be strong for Rene. She cleared her throat and quickly toughened her resolve.

  “Thank you,” said Rene.

  Mr. Roberts grimaced and said, “She really was such a nice person.”

  “Would you like a minute alone?” asked Mrs. Roberts.

  “I’ll be fine, really. But thank you both. It’s kind of you to say such nice things.”

  Mrs. Roberts said, “We can arrange for some time off, if you would like.”

  “I don’t expect I’ll be going anywhere.”

  “It’s no problem, if you want to go home.”

  “Sally was the only family I had left. Now she’s gone. There’s nothing to go back to.”

  The older woman smiled flatly, as if she were trying to understand. “It’s up to you, dear. Whatever you want to do.”

  Rene returned a sad smile, then started back to the examination room. She stopped in the doorway, then turned and looked at both of them. “I don’t want you or the organization to be at all worried about me. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Like we said, Rene. It’s totally up to you.”

  With a final nod, she tried to convey that this would be the end of the matter. Then she stepped into the examination room and turned her attention back to Kamun.

  Twelve

  At noon on Thursday, Jack took Sally Fenning’s ex-husband to lunch.

  He’d spent the morning in court at the Criminal Justice Center, so they met just a few blocks down the Miami River at the Big Fish Restaurant, one of Jack’s favorite lunch spots. For all its mi
les of breathtaking waterfront, Miami offered amazingly few places that actually allowed you to sit by the water and eat seafood. The Big Fish was right on the Miami River, nothing fancy, just a relaxing place to score fresh dolphin, tuna, or shrimp ceviche while soaking up a historic stretch of river where ninety-foot yachts bound for the West Indies shared the right of way with rusted old container ships filled with stolen SUVs destined for South America. It was a landmark of sorts, a piece of old Miami where mariners from houseboats at the west end of the river sidled up alongside bankers and lawyers from the office towers to the east, where the mouth of the five-and-a-half-mile river emptied into Biscayne Bay. Jack was sentimental about the place, too. It was over broiled grouper and french fries that, as a federal prosecutor, he’d talked his first mobster into testifying for the government.

  Jack didn’t think he’d ever duplicate the sense of symmetry that came from nailing Tony “the Big Tuna” Dilabio at a place called the Big Fish. But he still felt a rush of adrenaline as he shook hands with Sally’s ex-husband.

  “Thanks for coming,” said Jack.

  “No problem.”

  They took a small table by the window, which overlooked an old fishing pier that had been half-submerged in the river for as long as Jack had been coming here. Miguel was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and blue, form-fitting bicycle pants. He’d joined the City of Miami Police Department near the tail-end of his marriage to Sally, and he was now part of the downtown bicycle brigade, a small team of officers who patrolled the parks and streets by pedal power on twelve-speeds.

  Miguel’s full name was Miguel Ortiz Rios, a first-generation Cuban-American. Jack’s mother had actually been born in Cuba, but he didn’t mention it to Miguel. She died just hours after his birth, so his Latin connection was purely genetic, and he came across about as Cuban as Yankee pot roast. He knew from experience that if he told Miguel he was half Cuban, Miguel would start speaking Spanish, Jack would do his best to respond in kind, and Miguel would quickly revert to English, surmising that Jack was a lying sack of shit gringo who was trying to forge an instant rapport by claiming to be Latino.