9

The waiting was excruciating. Todd killed time by working a few hours at the bar. Mark and Zola got out of the building and went to see a movie. They flinched every time their phones vibrated, but there was no news about the search. Law school friends were checking in, desperate for updates. Social media was buzzing with the news and gossip. The Post’s online edition was covering the story.

After work, Todd arrived at Zola’s apartment with a six-pack and they ordered a pizza. As they ate, Zola told them about her parents and brother. During the afternoon, they had been taken to an immigrant detention facility in Pennsylvania. Armed ICE agents had given them an hour to pack what little clothing and personal items they could carry, then herded them, handcuffed, along with four others, into a van. Her father had called from the facility, which he described as “little more than a jail.” He had no idea how long they would be kept there before the flight back to Senegal.

Mark and Todd were shocked and angry. The timing was particularly cruel. Zola was distraught and dealing with the suicide of a boyfriend, and now this. They decided to stay together, and at midnight finally fell asleep; Zola in her bed, Mark on the sofa, Todd in a chair beside him.

EARLY IN THE morning, as the three sipped coffee and shook off the cobwebs of a hard sleep, they heard voices and movement across the hall. Mark cracked the door and they listened.

Dr. Karvey, Brenda, and the Tanners were in Gordy’s apartment. They found it spotless, with every dish washed and put away, the refrigerator emptied of stale food, not a drop of alcohol anywhere. The den was tidy, its floors clean, and his work space at the dinette table was neatly arranged. His bed was made to perfection. Every stitch of clothing was clean and put away. On his dresser there was a large framed photo of Brenda, one he usually kept in a drawer. In the bathroom, his towels were folded and stacked. The floor, commode, shower, and vanity were practically shining. In his medicine cabinet there was no sign of his pills. They assumed he had gone to great lengths to spiff up the place before checking out.

Brenda broke down once. She sat on the sofa and sobbed as her father rubbed her knee. From across the hall, the three listened in a creepy silence.

The Tanners decided that a quick look around was enough for the moment. They would return later and retrieve his stuff. They locked the apartment and left with Brenda and her father. From a second-floor hall window the three watched them drive away, and felt painfully sorry for them.

IT WAS MONDAY, January 6. Classes would resume in a week, but there was no thought of law school. And while visiting an immigrant detention facility for the first time was not their idea of an exciting road trip, they needed to get out of town. Zola called in sick and Todd took a day off from the Old Red Cat. They left D.C. before noon and headed north. To avoid the Potomac River, Todd followed Connecticut Avenue into Chevy Chase and Maryland. For the first half hour, little was said. Zola, in the front passenger’s seat, was subdued and stared blankly out the window. Todd sipped coffee from a tall paper cup and fiddled with the radio, finally settling on an oldies station, but at low volume.

In the backseat, Mark flipped through some paperwork, retrieved a magazine article, and began, “According to the Post, Immigration and Customs Enforcement maintains fifteen detention centers around the country and on any given day there are 35,000 people in custody. Last year ICE detained over 400,000 undocumented workers and deported about the same number, at a cost of over $20,000 per deportee. The entire detention system eats over $2 billion a year. It’s the largest immigrant detention system in the world. In addition to the fifteen ICE facilities, the Feds contract with hundreds of county jails, juvenile detention centers, and state prisons to house their detainees, at a cost of about 150 bucks a day per person, 350 for a family. Two-thirds of all facilities are run by private companies. The more bodies they have, the more money they make. Homeland Security, which ICE answers to, has a quota, one mandated by Congress. No other law enforcement agency operates on a quota system.”

“And conditions are deplorable,” Zola said, as if she knew more than Mark.

“Indeed they are. Since there is no independent oversight, the detainees are often subjected to abuse, including long-term solitary confinement and inadequate medical care and bad food. They are vulnerable to assault, even rape. Last year, 150 died in custody. Detainees are often housed with violent criminals. In many cases, legal representation is nonexistent. On paper, ICE has standards for the facilities, but these are not legally enforceable. There is almost no accountability for how the federal funds are spent. The truth is, no one is looking and no one cares, except for the detainees and their families. They are forgotten people.”

“That’s enough,” Zola said.

Todd piped in with “Yeah, enough, and why are we talking about this?”

“What do you want to talk about? Gordy? Brenda? Law school? Classes start in a week and I can’t wait.”

That killed the conversation for a while. Mark flipped through more articles and hummed along with the radio. Finally, he asked, “So, Zola, can we talk about your family?”

“Sure.”

“Why did they leave Senegal?”

“My parents never talked much about their country. They were happy to be away from it and determined to pursue a new life here. I asked questions as I got older, but the answers were usually evasive. My father worked for some type of farmers’ co-op and there was a problem with the government. He made some enemies, lost his job, and thought it best to get out. He’s always been terrified of going back. Most of his family has scattered and there’s nothing there for him, nothing but trouble. He’s afraid he’ll be persecuted if he returns.”

“And your brothers?”

“Sory, the older one, married an American and now lives in California. His wife is not a Muslim and my father has little to do with him. My younger one—we call him Bo for short—was born in Senegal, so he’s in trouble too. He’s never married and is very devout.”

Todd said, “I thought ICE had a policy of not separating families.”

“It may be written down somewhere,” Mark said, “but it’s not always followed. I read an article last night about a family from Cameroon, parents and five kids, all living in an apartment in the Bronx. ICE kicked in the door one night, grabbed the father, and in due course shipped him back to Africa. The mother is undocumented too, and she and the kids live in fear that ICE will come snatch her too. Imagine what that’s like. The kids were born here, like Zola, so they could be separated from both parents. When ICE was asked about the case, some official said something like ‘The State of New York has an excellent foster care system.’ Can you believe that?”

“I’d rather talk about law school,” Zola said.

“Not me,” Mark said. “I can’t go back. Do you guys really plan to walk into class next Monday?”

“What are your options, Mark?” Zola asked. “If you drop out, you lose your job. You can’t quit with one semester to go.”

“I have a job only if I pass the bar exam, which, at this moment, seems impossible. Right now, I’m not mentally or emotionally stable enough to grind my way through the review courses. Are you, Todd?”

“It makes me nauseous.”

“It’s also seven months away,” Zola said.

“Why can’t we take off this semester, sort of kick the can down the road for a spell?” Todd asked.

“Because the loan sharks will eat us for lunch. If we’re not in school, we have to start repayment. There might be a loophole here or there, but I doubt we could find one.”

“No, we couldn’t be that lucky.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Zola said.

“Okay, but we’re running out of topics,” Mark said.

Another long stretch of silence, then Mark said, “Okay, I have a confession. When we were cleaning Gordy’s apartment on Saturday, I saw two thumb drives next to his computer. I took them, figured neither his parents nor Brenda would have any use for them. I had a look last night and found nothing to do with his suicide. However, he was on the trail of something.”

“Rackley?”

“Yes, but there’s more. Have you guys been following the scandal involving Swift Bank?”

“I saw some headlines,” Zola replied.

“No, I got my own problems,” Todd said.

“Swift Bank is now the ninth-largest bank in the country. A few years back, it tried like hell to get itself classified as too big to fail, but the Feds said no. Unfortunately, it didn’t fail, and has done okay since then. It was up to its ears in the sub-prime mortgage scams and has a history of fraud and corruption. It’s a really sleazy outfit that is involved in just about every type of low-end financing while at the same time spending a ton on marketing because it really wants to be your neighborhood bank.”

“We’ve seen the ads,” Todd said.

“Good. Well, Gordy thinks, or was thinking, that Rackley owns a chunk of Swift. How much he wasn’t sure, because, as usual, Rackley operates behind a wall of shell companies, most of them domiciled offshore. These fronts have slowly and quietly purchased the stock of Swift, always keeping their acquisitions under 5 percent. More than that, as we know, and they have to register with the SEC. Gordy was on the trail of three separate and apparently unrelated shell companies that owned a total of 12 percent of Swift. Current value of about four billion, and making Rackley by far the largest shareholder, something he would like to keep quiet.”

Todd said, “Ho hum. Where do we fit in?”

“Not sure we do, but it makes for fun reading, and since we can’t agree on anything else to talk about, I’ll just keep prattling on about Swift Bank and Hinds Rackley. Any objections? Good, now, about a month ago Swift landed on the front page with another scandal, nothing new for these crooks, but now they might have outdone themselves. So let’s say you, Todd, walk into your local Swift branch and open a routine checking account. You deposit a thousand dollars, get some cute little temporary checks, all is swell and you really liked the pretty account manager, who was super friendly. Well, once you leave, she turns into a crooked little bitch and opens some more accounts for you. A savings account, or two, a money-market account, a credit card, a debit card, maybe even a brokerage account. Instead of just one Swift account, you actually have seven. She gets a bonus, a pat on the back, good girl. You know nothing about the other six accounts, but good ole Swift sticks you for a few extra bucks each month in mysterious fees to cover the accounts.”

“Who squealed?” asked Zola.

“She did. Turns out that Swift account managers from coast to coast were trained in nefarious ways to push accounts on folks who didn’t want them, or, if they declined, simply create the extra accounts anyway. Millions of accounts. Your girl and a few others have come forward and blown the whistle. They claim they were under enormous pressure from the top down to create the accounts. The entire bank is upside down and Congress starts hearings next week.”

“I hope it’s all true, for Rackley’s sake anyway,” Todd said.

“And litigation?” Zola asked.

“Of course. The plaintiffs’ bar is in a feeding frenzy. Two class actions already, more to come. There could be a million customers affected.”

“Wish I banked at Swift,” Todd said. “Then I could take a shot at that asshole.”

“He’s got his claws into our skin deep enough.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Zola said.