by John Moore
Chapter Thirty-Two:
Reckoning
I was stunned and speechless for a few seconds. “How did you do that?” I asked.
“Your blog generated so much heat on him. Yesterday, ACC posted on their website that they had no association with Bart Rogan. They canceled their contracts with him. I called my friend, the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of Louisiana, who is here in New Orleans, and asked if he could persuade the Justice Department to allow Rogan’s extradition to India. Without ACC’s lobbying on his behalf, the Department ended their opposition to his extradition. I had him arrested on the Indian warrant. He is being held in Central Lockup in New Orleans. His bail hearing is scheduled for the day after tomorrow.”
“Holy shit,” I said. “That’s great news. Now I know why the ACC lawyers treated me so well.”
I described the settlement conference Tom and I had attended with Rogan’s pollution victims. Sophia was happy to hear that ACC was going to clean up my property. She sounded so strong on the phone. She was recovering quickly. She told me that her doctors agreed to let her attend the bail hearing as long as she remained in a wheelchair.
Tom and I headed to the bank that had foreclosed on my family’s farm. I introduced myself to the receptionist and she asked me to have a seat. Bank lobbies remind me of hospital waiting rooms. You sat in uncomfortable chairs waiting for news that was rarely good.
A slim man, with a haircut that reminded me of Adolf Hitler, wearing a navy blue suit, white shirt and red and gold striped tie approached Tom and me, “Hi, Ms. Lee, I am Alvin Harris, bank president. Please come with me.”
He led me to his plush office, leather chairs, cherry desk, and marble floors screaming ostentatious at me. I wondered how the big banks could all go broke and go crying too big to fail to the American taxpayers, asking for help, yet not cutting no one else slack themselves. If there was one thing I’d learned over the last few months, it was that life wasn’t fair. We all have to fight for everything we acquire and battle like hell to hold on to it.
“I understand you are here to pay off the loan we made to your father and stop the foreclosure of your property,” he said. “The payoff balance is $25,000.”
“But I received a letter from your bank stating my father was $15,000 past due. Why do I owe $25,000 now?”
He looked out of his window as if bored by our conversation before he said, “We have to add attorneys’ fees, court costs, sheriff’s commission and accrued interest to the original figure. I’m sorry.”
Banks and big business always seem to get paid in full. The rest of us have to scratch out a living getting what we can when we can. Are the cards stacked against the average person? Sure seems like it. What happened to the American Dream? It seemed that it had been replaced by a disturbing daytime reality in which people bought homes only to lose them to foreclosure. Property values cratered, wages went stagnant, and all the while corporations got richer. CEOs of failing banks received multi-million dollar bonuses. The American Dream has turned into the American nightmare. Still, this is the greatest country in history. We have opportunities that don’t exist in other places in the world. I saw true poverty, desperation, and corruption during my short visit to Colombia. I love this country and I am going write my blog rallying common folks to make it stronger. I’ll shine the light on corporate vampires. I’ll track serial killers to stop their murderous rampages.
With all of these thoughts running through my head, I wrote the check and saved my farm. My mother was surely looking down at me, my father and Sarah standing beside her, telling everyone, “That’s my Alexandra.”
Tom and I went to the farm to check on its condition. Everything was just how I’d left it, except the grass needed mowing and the flower beds weeding. Tom’s eyes brightened as he fell in love with the uncomplicated farming life it he imagined we’d have living there. My emotions were mixed, knowing how lonely living on a farm could be.
“Alexandra, can we come here more often?” he asked.
“As much as you’d like, Tom. We do have to find a contractor and watch over the remediation. There is so much I love about this farm. But New Orleans is a very special place. The people are warm, and there is always a festival happening. No matter how peculiar you are, you’ll find someone to identify with in the Big Easy. Besides, Sarah’s beautiful house is mine now. It’s the palace I’ve always dreamed of owning. We’ll just have to split our time between both places.”
Spring in Indiana can be gorgeous. Today was one of those days. The air was cool and clear, wild flowers were dotting the sides of the roads in all directions. We went to a park with a walking trail and hiked for two hours. Trees were budding, displaying their brilliant green foliage and wildlife scurried about watching us with careful eyes. What a beautiful day to be alive.
Tom and I went back to the hotel and celebrated our hard fought victories with pizza and wine. We talked about our futures. Tom asked if I was interested in joining ROLFS. Had he asked me three months ago, I would have told him he was crazy. Not now. I wanted to join the fight for marine and all other life against chemical poisoning. He promised to introduce me to the New Orleans area members when we returned. We both had a little buzz and made wild, passionate, uninhibited, romantic animal love till we were completely worn out.
The next morning we headed to the airport to catch our flight to New Orleans. There seemed to be a more than the usual number of people traveling to New Orleans that day. Our flight was full. No problem though as Tom and I would have sat jammed against each other regardless.
I had time to reflect on my experiences on the flight to New Orleans. My life had changed more than I would have ever imagined over the recent months. My priorities had shifted away from the party night life of the city care had forgotten. I was much more like the little girl who wrote about the expired food in the high school cafeteria than the city girl who partied at The Cat’s Meow on Bourbon Street. My life would never be the same. In a way, I was Cinderella. I had a handsome prince beside me. I shed the people who had tormented me and my family. I was independent and happy. I had freed the real me just like Cinderella breaking free of her stepmother and stepsisters.
When we landed, I asked Tom if he would mind if I went to the battered woman’s shelter in Laplace. He couldn’t go, of course, but he was happy for me to do whatever I wanted. He needed to go the Aquarium of the Americas and update his friends on our Colombian trip anyway. I had something I needed to do in LaPlace.
The drive was wonderful. The sun was out, a gentle breeze fluttering the leaves on the trees, and the temperature was pleasant. I knew Susan was so worried about losing the shelter’s building. I wanted to comfort her, and when I arrived, Susan greeted me with a huge hug. You would never know her world was completely turned upside down.
“Come in, Alexandra, and have some coffee with me,” she said. “I’ll make us each a cup.”
We sat down in her office with our coffee. She could see I had something on my mind, so she asked me what was consuming my thoughts. I guess in her line of work, she had become quite the face-reader.
“I do have something on my mind,” I said. “I’ve been thinking a great deal about the center and the problems you face. I have made a decision.” I paused and looked in her eyes without saying a word.
“What is it, child?” she asked.
“You know Sarah left me her huge house on St. Charles Avenue in her will,” I said. “We have completed the succession and the house is mine. I want to donate it as the new battered women’s center for you. After all, Sarah would want these poor women to have it if she were here today.”
Susan almost fainted. “I have been praying for a miracle but I never dreamed something like this would happen,” she said with big tears running down her round cheeks along with most of her mascara. “Are you sure?”
“I have never been surer of anything in my life,�
� I said. “The house is huge and there are lots of rooms and bathrooms. The backyard is large enough for all of the kids to play. It will be perfect. I want to call it ‘Sarah’s House for Battered Women and Children.’ I’m sure everyone will shorten it to ‘Sarah’s House,’ and that’s fine with me.”
Susan and I finished our coffee and joined the women’s support group meeting. The stories these women told reminded me of being held captive by El Alacran. Just like them, I had felt powerless to protect myself. I was trapped, and I couldn’t see any way out. Without this center they would stay trapped in deadly relationships. We left the meeting and watched the children play for a while. They were so beautiful and full of hope, and I prayed they would make better choices than their parents.
On my way back to New Orleans, I got a call from Dan Broussard. Oh shit, I thought, tomorrow night is when I promised to have dinner with him and his family.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hi, Alexandra, this is Dan Broussard. My family and I are looking forward to you joining us for dinner tomorrow night. My wife is cooking something special and my son, Bob, is helping. The whole family is looking forward to seeing you.”
“Yes, Mr. Broussard. What time did you say I should get to your house?”
“7:00 PM. Does that work for you?”
“Yes, see you tomorrow night,” I said as I hung up.
That really sucks, I thought. Tomorrow morning I am going to Rogan’s bail hearing and then to Broussard’s house. That dinner should be awkward. Mrs. Broussard will probably be drunk again and his son, Bob, will bore me with jet-setting stories and maybe even have Mandy Morris with him. So what. I’ve learned I can make it through anything. Besides, I’ll have my car and can tell them to kiss my ass and leave when I want.
When I told Tom what I’d done with Sarah’s house he hugged me so tight I thought he’d break all of my bones. Tom wasn’t into material possessions. The dream of owning a house was mine, and I still had the dream. It was just postponed. I was young yet, and could see a future full of possibilities. Besides, I think I would love to live in the French Quarter. It has so much character and characters. You never knew what you would see when you walk down the streets in the Quarter.
Tom and I took it easy for the rest of the evening and got up bright and early to go to the Federal Courthouse on Poydras Street. I called Juan Garcia to see if he needed any help getting Sophia to court. He’d rented a van with a wheelchair ramp to make her trip easier. He was so protective of his big sister. Not only did he not need any help, he and Sophia were already at the courthouse. The U.S Attorney wanted to meet with her and the police officers from India before court. We all took our places in the courtroom. At 9:00 sharp the judge entered with her black robe flowing behind her as she walked with a deliberate pace. We all rose and sat back down when the clerk ordered.
“Marshals, bring the defendant into court, please,” she ordered.
Bart Rogan, dressed in an orange prison outfit, walked into the courtroom and sat beside his lawyer. He didn’t look so high and mighty anymore. But his posture gave him away. He was still confident. The bastard didn’t look worried in the least.
“Proceed, counsel,” the judge ordered.
“Your honor, Mr. Rogan is not a flight risk or a danger to society. He is a businessman with close ties to the city of New Orleans. He owns an interest in Bayou Oil Company, a well-respected business in our city for more than 40 years. If your Honor sets bail at $500,000, the people’s interest should be adequately protected.”
The judge then asked the prosecutor if he had any witnesses to call. The prosecutor called Sophia. She testified about the years she’d been following Rogan’s reign of terror. She informed the court about the deeds that led to his indictment in India so many years ago. She detailed his connections to the Colombian drug cartels and the sinking of the barge to hide his contract fraud. The prosecutor played the recording made by the captain of the tug boat. Then he listed the long line of potential witness against Rogan over the years that had one thing in common. They were all mysteriously killed. I took the stand and showed the judge the letter given to me by Mark Stevens. I also outlined the conversations I had with Gary Bennett before and after he killed Mark. Then, the prosecutor asked me to describe the circumstances leading to Sarah’s murder. I went into great detail, over the objections of Rogan’s lawyers. When I related what the events that took place at my condo with El Serpiente, the judge rocked back in her chair, put her chin in her hand and muttered “Hmmm.” Then she asked me to tell the story of my trip to Colombia. She was shocked when I testified about my kidnapping at the hands of El Alacran and how he threatened to cut off my head, like Camila’s, if I didn’t give him the tape the captain had made. When I finished, Juan Garcia took the stand and told the stories of Rogan’s spraying of Agent Orange on the crops and villagers in Colombia. He testified that the tape we’d recovered from Sarah’s safety deposit box was the link he needed to get an indictment of Rogan in Colombia. The prosecutor told the judge that if the statute of limitations had not run on Rogan’s crimes in the United States, he would be prosecuted. When the prosecutor detailed the comings and goings of Rogan in his jet carrying cartel members to and from Colombia, the judge said she’d heard enough.
“Bail denied,” the judge said at the top of her voice. “Mr. Rogan will be bound over for an extradition hearing to be fixed two days from now.”
Rogan’s defense lawyer jumped to his feet and screamed, “But your Honor...”
She looked at Rogan with laser-sharp eyes and said to his defense lawyer, “Counselor, I’ve ruled. One more word from your mouth and you will be joining your client in an orange jump suit.” Then she stood, whirled, and abruptly left the courtroom.
We all rose to our feet as she exited. Rogan turned to me and mouthed, “This isn’t over, bitch.”
The marshals led him through the courtroom to jail. We congratulated each other and the U.S. Attorney on a job well done. The Indian policemen asked the prosecutor how long it would be before they could take Rogan to India to stand trial. The prosecutor grinned and said by the look on the judge’s face and her tone of voice they shouldn’t unpack very many clothes. Sophia, Juan and I had forged a friendship that we intended to keep long after Rogan was in jail. We talked about Tom and me visiting them in Colombia as Juan wheeled Sophia to the van parked curbside to take her back to Tulane Medical Center.
Tom and I walked along Poydras Street to my car, savoring our victory, the sounds of the city in our ears. A black Lincoln Navigator with completely blackened windows pulled up beside us. The rear window slowly rolled down and there inside sat El Alacran. I thought he was going to gun Tom and me down right there on the street. But, he smiled, blew me a kiss and said, “I’ll see you again, Alexandra.” Then the driver sped away.
Tom wasn’t shaken. Instead he wanted to chase the car down and beat the shit out of the bastard. I wasn’t scared either. I knew there was no rest from the evils in the world. I would always be ready to fight the bastards. When El Alacran and I met again, the story would be written differently.
Tomorrow I’d go to Dan Broussard’s house.
Chapter Thirty-Three:
Debts Come Due
When Tom and I woke the next morning, we went to Cafe Du Monde for coffee and beignets. I was in the market for new clothes, because over the last few months, I had lost about 25 pounds. Tom said I was hot but I’m not sure his opinion was unbiased. At least I hoped it wasn’t. My eating habits had changed. I quit eating so many processed carbohydrates and ate more fresh vegetables. I felt better, whether I looked better or not. Today was different. We decided to splurge, and celebrate our victories over ACC and Rogan.
When we walked into the Cafe Du Monde, Zach was seated with his new friend. Tom felt like he knew Zach from our conversations over the last few months. I told Tom how Zach and his new boyfriend met, and Tom suggested
we stop by their table and make introductions.
As we approached their table, Zach yelled, “Alexandra, you bitch, he’s gorgeous.”
Tom turned crimson immediately, everyone in the restaurant within earshot turning and laughing. Zach stood and hugged me and Tom. He introduced us to Ron Selzer, his new boyfriend from California. Ron wore a navy shorts, deck shoes without socks and a white Polo shirt. He explained he seldom make it to New Orleans but enjoyed the city when he was able to visit. Something didn’t sound right to me because Zach had given me the impression that he spent much more time with Ron. I didn’t think much more about it. Tom and I sat at a table in a corner away from most other people to talk about our future.
“I have it set up for you to meet the ROLF crew,” Tom said.
“Wonderful,” I said. “When can I meet them?”
“Well, you have dinner planned with those disgusting Broussard people tonight. Maybe we can get together with the guys and girls tomorrow,” he said. “How’s that sound?”
“That sounds perfect. I am not looking forward to hanging with the Broussards tonight. But, I want to hear what Mr. Broussard has to say about buying the Times. The deal may be off now that Rogan’s out of the picture. I’ll cut out of there as soon as dinner is over. No telling what my reception will be like.”
Tom and I spent a relaxing morning together, enjoying the city we both loved. The beignets and coffee au lait were amazing. New Orleans has every other town beat, I thought. We discussed the serial killer still loose in the streets of the French Quarter. He had never been caught, and I knew from speaking with Detective Baker that the police didn’t have any leads. After all, they were willing to pin the whole thing on Mark Stevens just to get the heat off themselves. There were many posts on my blog about the Quarter Killer but no real factual information. I told Tom I was going to focus on the blog finding the killer. I had the inside track with my relationship with Detective Baker. Tom seemed a little annoyed with my interest in the Quarter Killer. He thought street serial killers received enough attention from the police. In his opinion, it was the polluters and corporate killers that needed our attention. Protecting the environment from those monsters was his driving passion.
