33

By 10:00 a.m., Zola had made the decision to go to Senegal.

They were sitting in the café at Kramer Books in Dupont Circle, laptops open, papers spread over the table as if they worked there every day, but they were not working, not as fake lawyers anyway.

They debated scenarios throughout the morning. Mark and Todd fully understood her need to go, but the obvious fear was that she would be detained and not allowed to return. Her father was already in jail. Fanta and Bo might soon join him. If Zola showed up and caused trouble, anything might happen. She argued that she was a U.S. citizen with a valid passport, and since a visa was no longer required for stays of fewer than ninety days, she could leave immediately. Zola said she would notify the Senegalese embassy in Washington of her plans, and if anyone in Dakar tried to block her return home, she would contact the U.S. embassy there. She saw little risk of being detained and, under the circumstances, was willing to accept it.

Mark suggested she wait a day or two and try to find another lawyer in Dakar. They found plenty online, many in what appeared to be old, reputable firms. Indeed, some of the firms looked so promising that Todd quipped about setting up a shop there once they were forced to flee the U.S. “Are there any white people in Senegal?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said. “Two or three.”

“I like it,” Mark said in an effort at a little humor. “A foreign branch of Upshaw, Parker & Lane.”

“I’m done with that firm,” she said and managed a smile. But she didn’t like the idea of again wiring money to someone she didn’t know. Money was not a problem, they assured her. There was $50,000 in their firm account, and all of it was available. She was touched by their generosity and eagerness to help, and for the first time revealed the little nest egg she’d been hoarding for just such a situation. They were impressed that she had managed to save over $16,000 during law school. It was unheard of.

They really couldn’t blame her for wanting to leave town. They were currently being sued by their landlords for skipping out in January. Darrell Cromley had just hit them with a $25 million lawsuit for gross malpractice. The federal government would soon pile on to the tune of something over $600,000, combined. Dozens of angry clients were looking for them. Clerks from the courts were calling. Maynard fired them, so they were genuinely unemployed. And their most urgent problem was the investigation by the District Bar Council. It was just a matter of time before their real identities were revealed and they would be leaving town too.

They drove to The Rooster Bar, where the boys watched the door while Zola ran upstairs and packed a bag. They stopped by her bank, where she withdrew $10,000 from her savings account. The bank could not convert any of it to West African francs, so they tracked down a currency exchange shop near Union Station. At a phone store, they paid $390 for four GSM unlocked international cell phones, complete with SIM cards, cameras, Bluetooth, full keyboard, and fully optimized for social networking. They would keep three and leave the other with Bo, if possible. At 4:30 they drove to Dulles and walked to the Brussels Airlines counter. Using an old credit card, Zola paid $1,500 for a round-trip ticket to Dakar, with a four-hour layover in Brussels. Barring delays, she would arrive in Dakar around four the following afternoon, after an eighteen-hour journey.

At departure security, they had a good hug and cry. They watched her until she disappeared into a mass of fellow travelers.

They returned to the city, and, on a whim, went to a Nationals game.

AT NINE THE following morning, as Zola was somewhere between Belgium and Senegal, Mark and Todd strolled into the student union on the campus of American University and found a table in a half-empty cafeteria. With jeans and backpacks they looked like everyone else. They bought coffee and made themselves at home, as if settling in for some serious studying. Mark pulled out one of his phones and walked to a wall of windows overlooking the campus. He called the Miami firm of Cohen-Cutler and asked to speak to a lawyer named Rudy Stassen. According to the firm’s website, Stassen was one of several Cohen-Cutler partners spearheading the Swift Bank litigation. A secretary said Mr. Stassen was in a meeting. Mark said it was important and he would hold. Ten minutes later, Stassen said hello.

Mark introduced himself as a lawyer in D.C. and claimed to have eleven hundred Swift customers all signed up and ready to join one of the six class actions.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Stassen said with a laugh. “We’re suing like crazy. Two hundred thousand at last count. Where are your clients?”

“All in the D.C. area,” Mark said as he placed his phone on the table and sat across from Todd. He punched the speaker button and lowered the volume. “I’m sort of shopping around, looking for the best deal. What are your fees?”

“Not sure. We think the attorneys’ fees will be negotiated separately. As of now, we have 25 percent contracts with our clients, and we’ll take an extra 8 percent off the gross settlement. All subject to court approval, of course. What’s your name again, Upshaw? I’m not finding a website.”

“Don’t have one,” Mark said. “I’ve solicited with direct mail.”

“Okay, that’s odd.”

“It works. What can you say about the negotiations?”

“Stalled, as of now. Swift is claiming, in the press of course, that it wants to settle and move on, but its lawyers are dragging their feet. They’re padding the file like crazy, billing millions, the usual routine. But we still think the bank will cave in and settle. You want in? You said you’re shopping around.”

“Eight percent sounds good. I’m in. Send me the paperwork.”

“Good move. I’ll turn it over to an associate named Jenny Valdez and she’ll walk you through it.”

“Got a question for you,” Mark said.

“Sure.”

“How does your law firm handle 200,000 clients?”

Stassen laughed and said, “With a lot of muscle. Right now we have ten associates who are supervising thirty paralegals and legal assistants. It’s a bitch, all right, the biggest class we’ve ever put together, but we can handle it. Your first class action?”

“Yeah. Looks like crazy work.”

“ ‘Crazy’ is a good word, but, believe me, it’s worth it. We do all right, Mr. Upshaw.”

“Just call me Mark.”

“Thanks for the business, Mark. We’ll get you included and you can tell your clients they’ll be signed up within twenty-four hours. After that, it’s just a waiting game. Here’s the number for Jenny Valdez. Got a pen?”

“Yep.” Mark wrote down the number and ended the call. He pecked away on his laptop while Todd left to fetch something to eat. Little was said as they chewed on muffins and sipped coffee. They were thinking about Zola, who had sent them a text with the message that she was on the ground, her flight uneventful.

Finally, Mark took a deep breath and called Jenny Valdez. He chatted with her for fifteen minutes, scribbled notes, and assured her their paperwork was in order. He was ready to zip along the PIS statements for all eleven hundred of their Swift clients. When he put his phone down, he looked at Todd and said, “When I push this Send button, we will be committing eleven hundred new felonies. Are we ready for this?”

“I thought we’d made that decision.”

“No second thoughts?”

“Everything’s a second thought. And third and fourth. But, it’s our only chance of escape. Let’s do it.”

Mark gently pushed the Send key.

ZOLA’S CAB INCHED along in traffic far more chaotic than she had ever seen. Her driver said the air-conditioning was broken, but she doubted it had worked in years. All the windows were down and the air was thick and rancid. She wiped sweat from her forehead and realized her blouse was soaked and sticking to her skin. Outside, small cars, trucks, and vans were bumper to bumper with horns honking and drivers yelling at each other. Scooters and motorcycles, most with two passengers and even some with three, cut and weaved through the gridlock, missing each other by inches. Pedestrians darted from cab to cab selling bottles of water while others begged for coins.

Two hours after leaving the airport, the taxi stopped at the hotel and Zola paid in West African francs, the equivalent of $65. She walked into the lobby and was relieved to find cooler air. The clerk spoke bad English but managed to understand her request. He called the room and within minutes Bo bounced off the elevator and hugged his sister. They had not heard a word from Abdou, nor had they seen the police all day. They were still under orders to remain in the hotel and afraid to leave. As Bo had realized, the hotel was used by the police to keep track of other newly returned detainees.

Of course, there was no sign of Diallo Niang. Zola had called his number while sitting in traffic, but got nothing.

With Bo translating, Zola paid cash for two larger rooms that connected, and went upstairs to see her mother. After they changed rooms, Zola began calling lawyers. During her flight, she had spent hours online searching for the right one. She wasn’t sure she had located her, but she had a plan.