32

At the Bardtown Federal Detention Facility, Zola’s parents and brother were awakened at midnight and told to gather their things. Each was given two canvas bags to fill with their possessions and thirty minutes to prepare for the trip. Along with about fifty other Africans, some of whom they’d met in detention and knew to be primarily Senegalese, they were loaded onto a white unmarked bus that was designed to transport federal inmates. They were handcuffed and remained so on the bus. Four heavily armed ICE agents, two wielding shotguns, escorted them to their seats and instructed them to sit quietly and ask no questions. Two of the agents assumed positions in the front of the bus, two in the rear. The glass windows were locked and covered with thick metal screens.

Zola’s mother, Fanta, counted five other women in the group. The rest were men, almost all under the age of forty. She was stoic and determined to keep her composure. Emotions were raw, but they had long since accepted the reality of removal.

After four months in captivity, they were relieved to be out of detention. Of course they preferred to remain in the country, but if life in the U.S. meant living in a cage, things could not be much worse in Senegal.

They rode in quiet darkness for almost two hours. The agents occasionally talked and laughed, but the passengers made no sounds. Highway signs told them they were entering Pittsburgh and the bus headed to the airport. It was cleared through security gates and parked inside a large hangar. An unmarked passenger jet waited nearby. On the other side of the airport, far away, the bright lights of the terminal were visible. The passengers left the bus and were herded into a corner where more ICE agents were waiting. One by one, the detainees were questioned and their paperwork reviewed. Once they were cleared, their handcuffs were removed and they were allowed to retrieve their two bags, the contents of which were examined again. The processing moved slowly; no one was in a hurry, especially those headed home.

Another bus arrived. Two dozen Africans got off, all looking as dazed and defeated as those on the first bus. Someone’s paperwork wasn’t in order so the others waited. And waited. It was almost 5:00 a.m. when an official led the first group of passengers to the airplane. A line formed behind them. Slowly, they climbed aboard with their bags and were directed to their seats. Boarding took another hour. The passengers were relieved to know they would not be handcuffed for the flight. Another official read the rules regarding movement while in flight, use of the restrooms, and so on. Yes, they were allowed to talk, but quietly. At the slightest hint of trouble, all passengers would be handcuffed. Any disturbance would lead to an automatic arrest upon arrival. Half a dozen armed agents would accompany them. The flight would take eleven hours, nonstop, and food would be provided.

It was almost seven when the jet’s engines began making noises. The doors were shut and locked and an official instructed them to fasten their seat belts. He then went through the safety and emergency procedures. Brown bags were given to all passengers. A cheese sandwich, an apple, and a small container of juice. At 7:20, the airplane shuddered and began moving toward a taxiway.

Twenty-six years after arriving in Miami as stowaways on a Liberian freighter, Abdou and Fanta Maal were leaving their adopted land as criminals, and headed for an uncertain future. Their son Bo, who was seated behind them, was leaving the only country he’d ever really known. As the plane lifted off, they held hands and fought tears.

AN HOUR LATER, a caseworker at Bardtown called Zola with the news that her family was en route to Dakar, Senegal. It was a routine call made to the contact person listed by each detainee. Though Zola knew it was coming, she nonetheless took it hard. She walked upstairs and informed Mark and Todd, and they spent an hour trying to console her. They decided to take a long walk and find some breakfast.

It was a somber meal. Zola was too worried and preoccupied to touch her waffle. Todd and Mark were genuinely concerned about her family, but they had stayed up most of the night fretting over their own predicament. Darrell Cromley had filed suit much faster than they had expected. The Bar Council was on their trail, no doubt tipped off by either Cromley or that prick Mossberg down in Charleston. Not that it really mattered; their little charade was over. They felt lousy about a lot of things, but the clients they were stiffing really bothered them. Those people had trusted them, had paid them, were now getting cheated, and would get chewed up again by the system.

As they ate and watched Zola, she picked up her phone and called Diallo Niang for the second time. Dakar, Senegal, was four time zones ahead and the workday was in full swing. Again, Diallo Niang did not answer his cell, nor did anyone answer his office line. In return for the $5,000 retainer Zola had paid weeks earlier, Niang had agreed to meet her family at the airport, arrange temporary housing, and, most important, keep the authorities happy. He’d claimed to be an expert on immigration matters and knew exactly what to do. When she couldn’t get him on the phone, she became frantic.

With so many people looking for them, returning to their address was not a good idea. They walked a few blocks, found a Starbucks, bought coffee, opened their laptops, logged in, and returned to the white pages. The search for more fake clients gave them something to do, something else to think about.

AS THE MONOTONY of the flight wore on, the passengers became less subdued and more talkative. Almost all claimed to have a friend or relative waiting on the ground, though the uncertainty was palpable. No one even pretended to be optimistic. They had been away for years and had no valid paperwork or identification, at least not of the Senegalese variety. Those who’d had fake U.S. driver’s licenses had been forced to surrender them. The Dakar police were notoriously rough on returnees. Their attitude was simple—if you don’t want to be here, who needs you? The U.S. is kicking you out, so no one really wants you. They were often treated like outcasts. Housing and employment were difficult to find. Though many of their countrymen dreamed of immigrating to the U.S. and Europe, they were scornful of those who’d tried and failed.

Abdou and Fanta had relatives scattered throughout the country, but they were not to be trusted. Over the years, they had been contacted by various siblings and cousins who wanted help entering the U.S. illegally. Abdou and Fanta had been unable, or unwilling, to get involved. It was dangerous enough living without documentation. Why risk detection by assisting others?

Now that they needed help, there was no one they could trust. Zola had assured them that Diallo Niang was on retainer and would take care of them. They were praying fervently for his intervention and assistance.

They flew into the sunlight and back into the night. After eleven hours, and two more rounds of brown bag food, the plane began its descent into Dakar, and once again the mood on board became somber. Their return trip ended after midnight, a twenty-four-hour adventure none of them had bargained for. The plane taxied to the main terminal and stopped at the last gate of a long concourse. The engines died but the doors remained closed. An ICE official explained that once inside they would be handed over to Senegalese officials, outside U.S. jurisdiction. Good luck.

When the doors finally opened, they grabbed their bags, shuffled off the plane and down the ramp. Inside they were led to a large open area separated from the concourse by a row of uniformed policemen. Cops were everywhere, none of them even remotely friendly. An official in a suit began barking instructions in French, the official language of Senegal.

When they were arrested four months earlier, and removal looked likely, Abdou and Fanta resumed speaking in their native French. After twenty-six years of trying to avoid the language and working hard to learn English, they struggled at first. But it eventually came back, and perhaps the only positive aspect of their detention was the rediscovery of a language they loved. Bo, on the other hand, had never heard French around the house and was not encouraged to learn it at school. He couldn’t speak a word, at first, but became highly motivated while at Bardtown. After four months of nonstop French with his parents, he was somewhat proficient.

But the official spoke rapidly and with a full vocabulary. Most of the refugees were somewhat rusty and found it hard to follow. The processing began as the police reviewed the paperwork from the U.S. An officer waved the Maals over and asked questions. What part of Senegal were they from? When did they leave? Why did they leave? Where did Abdou work before he left Senegal? How long were they in the U.S.? Did they leave family behind? Did they have family in Dakar, or another city, or the countryside? Where did they plan to live? The questions were pointed, the responses scoffed at. Several times the officer warned Abdou that he’d better be truthful. Abdou assured him he was.

Bo noticed that other returnees were being escorted away from the area to a place down the concourse where people were waiting. Evidently, the lucky ones were being released to their friends and relatives.

The officer asked if they had a contact in Dakar. When Abdou gave the name of Diallo Niang, their attorney, the officer asked why they needed a lawyer. Abdou tried to explain that one had been arranged by his daughter in the U.S. because there was no family to rely on. The officer studied a sheet of paper and said Mr. Niang had not contacted the police. He was not waiting for the family. The officer pointed to a row of chairs, told them to wait there, and walked over to a man in a suit.

An hour passed as the police escorted more of their fellow passengers away from the area. When a dozen or so remained, the man in the suit approached the Maals and said, “Mr. Niang is not here. How much money do you have?”

Abdou stood and said, “About five hundred U.S.”

“Good. You can afford a hotel room. Follow that officer. He will take you.”

The same policeman nodded and they picked up their bags. He led them along the concourse, out of the terminal, and into a parking lot where a police van was waiting. He sat with them in the rear, said nothing for the twenty minutes they weaved through empty streets, and told them to get out in front of a grungy five-story hotel. At its front door, he said, “You will stay here because the jail is full. Do not leave under any circumstances. We will be back in a few hours to get you. Any questions?”

His tone left little doubt that questions would not be appreciated. At that moment, they were grateful to be where they were and not in jail.

The cop stared at them as if something more needed to be said. He lit a cigarette, blew smoke, and said, “And I would like to be paid for my services.”

Bo looked away and bit his tongue. Abdou set down his bags and said, “Of course. How much?”

“One hundred U.S.”

Abdou reached into his pocket.

THE CLERK AT the front desk was napping in a chair and seemed irritated at being bothered at such an hour. At first he said there were no vacancies; the hotel was full. Abdou assumed the hotel and the police were in business together and the no-vacancy routine was part of the act. He explained that his wife was ill and they had to sleep somewhere. The clerk studied his computer screen and managed to find a small room, at a premium rate, of course. Abdou seemed unfazed and chatted away like a real charmer. He said he had only U.S. cash, which, of course, was unacceptable. Only West African francs. Fanta managed to act as though she might faint at any moment. Bo was having trouble following the exchange in French, but he wanted to leap across the desk and strangle the guy. Abdou refused to take no for an answer and practically begged for a room. The clerk relented somewhat, and said there was a bank down the street. They could check into the room, but first thing in the morning he wanted his money in the local currency. Abdou promised and thanked him profusely, and the clerk reluctantly handed over a key.

Abdou asked if they could use the phone for a call to the U.S. Absolutely not. When the room was paid for, a phone call would be allowed, but only if its charges were prepaid. It was almost 3:00 a.m. local time—11:00 p.m. in the U.S.—when they entered the small, stuffy room on the fourth floor. A single, narrow bed hugged the far wall. The men insisted that Fanta take it. They slept on the floor.

ZOLA WAS AWAKE at 3:00 a.m. because sleep was impossible. She had worked through the night calling, texting, and e-mailing Diallo Niang, but without any response. When her phone beeped with an unknown caller she grabbed it. It was Bo, and for a few seconds the sound of his voice was a relief. He gave her a quick version of what had happened, said there was no sign of the lawyer, and that the police had just left the hotel with Abdou.

“Are you and Mother safe?”

“Well, we’re not in jail, yet. They’ve said twice that we can stay at this hotel because the jail is full. Guess they found a spot for Dad. We can’t leave the hotel.”

“I’ve called the lawyer a hundred times,” she said. “Have you tried to call him from there?”

“No. I’m using the phone at the front desk and the clerk is staring at me and listening to every word. He doesn’t like folks using his phone, but I begged him for this one call.”

“Give me the number and I’ll think of something.”

Bo handed the phone back to the clerk, then found a café near the lobby. He bought two croissants and coffee, and took them to the room, where he sat with Fanta in the semidarkness. Fanta was relieved that he had spoken with Zola.

They ate and sipped coffee, and waited once again for the knock on the door.