The Legacy
The Legacy
A New World Legal Thriller
Marjorie Florestal
Contents
1. Stop
2. Notice
3. The Call
4. The Pocahontas Lady
5. The Beautiful City
6. The Trial
7. Museum of the Insane
8. The Element of Surprise
9. Columbus?
10. Yours in Solidarity
11. The Old Ways
12. Caltrop
13. Yaguana
14. Taino Barbecue
15. Artifacts
16. A Beginning
17. Columbus Journal I
18. Never Surrender
19. Columbus Journal II
20. Dan Brown's Bad Day
21. The Billion Dollar Lawsuit
22. Wahopartenie
23. The A Team
24. The Coin
25. Columbus Journal III
26. Winning an Argument
27. Freedom
28. Period
29. The Crash
30. The Hummingbirds
31. The End of The World
32. They Won
33. All The Colors of The Rainbow
34. The Scales of Justice
35. The Pocahontas Lady Too
36. The Taino-Colón Descendants
37. The Rat Problem
38. All Is Right With The World
39. Three Generations of Imbeciles
40. And We Are Not Saved
About the Author
Copyright © 2015 by Marjorie Florestal
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
To Jamie Rizzo with love and gratitude.
1
Stop
The smell of urine pressed in her nose. It was a human thing, angry, acidic, and biting. It stung her nostrils as she fought to push him away.
“Stop! Stop!”
He bit her ear, as if that would stop the cries. The more she struggled, the more he pressed down, until she felt his teeth, like sharp razors, skimming across flesh and cartilage. She cried now for this new pain and for the feel of his hand ripping at her panties. He pushed into her with three hard thrusts, then it was over.
She rolled away, wincing as a spring poked through the mattress to dig into her flesh. “Why did you do this to me?” she cried, wrapping her body in a tight bud.
By now he was staring at her with confusion and a look of dawning horror. “Why are you crying?” He reached out to wipe her tears, but she shrank from his touch. “Please, don’t cry.”
She pushed him away, and that seemed to unleash something inside her. Hands balled into fists, she began punching and hitting him, trying to inflict even a fraction of her own pain. It was impossible. She climbed over his prone body and rearranged her crumpled skirt, her belly heaving with sobs.
“I’m sorry,” he said as she rushed from the room. “I am so sorry.”
2
Notice
Ten Years Later
The City of Boston groaned under the weight of its fifth consecutive blizzard. On the deserted streets of Braddock Park, Renee François made her way against a wind so fierce it turned the snow into stinging nano-missiles that attacked her with the force of a thousand mosquito bites. It was not a day to brave the outdoors on foot, but what choice did she have? There was no way that she was going to miss her conference call, not even for a blizzard.
Her law firm was only a few blocks away, and she usually enjoyed the walk. Even now, she couldn’t help but cast an appreciative glance at the snow-laden, redbrick row houses that lined both sides of the street. The mishmash of Greek and Renaissance revival architecture was part of the South End’s charm. It was a community that poured immigrants, gays, artists, and misfits of every stripe into one huge cauldron and stirred the pot, producing one of the most vibrant neighborhoods in Boston. She felt more at home here than she ever had growing up in Brooklyn.
The storm intensified. By the time she made her way to the five story row house that served as her office, she was desperate to get out of the cold. She flung the door open and almost collided with a darkly-cloaked man who seemed to materialize from the shadow of the stairwell. Before she could utter an apology, he brushed silently past her to disappear in a veil of snow.
The wind nearly blew the door off its hinges, forcing her to push her full weight against the wood to get it closed. When she finally made her way up the stairs to her office, the blast of heat that greeted her was a welcome relief.
“Did you see him?” her secretary, Kelly, asked as she walked in the door.
“Who?” She pulled off her winter gear and hung it on a peg by the door.
“He wouldn’t give a name.” Kelly handed her an impressive stack of phone messages. “I told him to wait, but he left a few minutes ago. He said he’d be back later.”
“Was he a client or a reporter?” She scanned the messages: interview requests, clients calls, and two overtures from prominent law firms hoping to recruit her into their ranks. Her office was becoming very popular.
“Neither. He said it was personal.”
“If he didn’t leave a message, there’s not much I can do.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m going to be late.”
“Wait.” Kelly held up a hand as she turned to leave. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
The secretary pulled something from behind her back and waved it frantically in the air. “You’re on the cover of Time!”
She took the magazine, barely glancing at it. “The cover? Must be a slow news day.”
“Look at it,” Kelly demanded. “What do you think?”
She glanced down and saw her own face staring back at her under a headline that read, “Lawyers Who Change The World.” She hadn’t changed the world—far from it.
“That should certainly help increase billings,” she said.
“Is that all? I’m more excited than you are.”
“It’s exciting to be able to pay our bills,” she said dryly. “A few years ago, it was a different story.”
Kelly dismissed the practicalities with a wave of her hand. “All I know is that my family would go crazy if I were on the cover of a magazine. My mother would buy up every last copy in Boston.”
She tucked the magazine under her arm and changed the subject. “I’m expecting a call from President Aristide—”
“I know the protocol,” Kelly replied, visibly disappointed by her boss’s lack of enthusiasm.
“Good.” She turned and headed down a narrow hallway to her office, closing the door firmly behind her. Only then did she allow herself a hint of a smile. She didn’t usually care about this sort of thing, but it was Time magazine, after all.
She dropped the stack of phone messages on her desk and took her seat, transfixed by the magazine cover. She was just vain enough to appreciate the photograph. The lighting accentuated her flawless brown skin and softened her features, lending an almost hazy glow to her dark brown eyes and long, black hair. She stood with arms crossed, serious and unsmiling, ready to take on the world. The photo radiated strength and intelligence with just a hint of sexy. At nearly thirty-two, she would take sexy where she could get it.
She flipped through the magazine until she found the interview. It was a flattering look at her role during the Haitian refugee crisis. The reporter was good, he got her to talk about things she usually never talked about—like how she got involved in the crisis in the first place.
r /> Four years ago, she was glued to her television watching as the military ousted Haiti’s first democratically-elected President from power. It took just under an hour for Jean-Bertrand Aristide’s eight month presidency to collapse, and soon enough he was on a plane bound for exile in Venezuela.
Then the chaos began.
Military leaders rounded up Aristide’s supporters and strapped rubber tires around their necks before dousing them in gasoline and setting them ablaze. The screams were chilling, but even worse were the thousands of smiling faces dancing in the streets, chanting “down with Aristide” as the horror unfolded just a few feet away.
Shortly after that, thousands of refugees poured out of the island, taking to the open sea in boats so small they looked like glorified tuna cans. She had to do something. What right did she have to sit in her comfortable home and watch the crisis unfold as if it were no more than a made for tv movie?
Within a week, she quit her job and was on a plane to Guantanamo Bay to interview some of the thousands of Haitian refugees now trapped on Cuban soil. The U.S. Coast Guard had intercepted them at sea and herded them into detention camps. Women and men—even children—were piled like cattle behind steel and razor wire with little water and no protection against the brutal Cuban sun. Flies circled them, waiting to feast on their pain and misery.
She fought the Federal Government in court seeking political asylum for the detainees. The media quickly became involved. As one reporter said, her story had a certain “Cinderella” quality that made it impossible to ignore. A first generation Haitian-American—the daughter of a maid and a former bus driver—she had gone to Harvard Law School and worked at a prestigious “white shoe” Boston law firm. But she gave all of that up to fight Goliath. And just like David, she won.
Her clients were allowed to resettle in the United States, and she thought her work was done. But then Aristide called, and she soon found herself embroiled in an even bigger battle—this time with the White House.
She closed the magazine and let it fall to her desk. The article read like her personal version of The American Dream, but only because it left out the nightmarish parts. Her eyes darted to a framed picture of her parents she kept on her desk. Would her mother have been proud of her? She doubted it—Haiti had been a forbidden topic in their home.
The blinking light on the console snapped her out of her dark thoughts. She reached for the phone with a sigh of relief.
“You got a minute?” Kelly’s voice rang over the intercom.
“What’s up?”
“The guy I was telling you about is back.”
She glanced at her watch. “My call is in ten minutes.”
“He says it’ll take less than five.”
“Send him in.” She had a hard time turning away someone who needed help.
A few minutes later, Kelly ushered a man into her office. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked him.
“No,” he said. His voice was curt, bordering on impolite.
Kelly raised an eyebrow but left the office without a word, closing the door behind her.
Renee discretely observed her visitor. Nothing about the man stood out. He was medium height, medium build, with brown hair and dark brown eyes. He looked to be anywhere between mid-thirties to mid-forties. He was a man who would easily blend into a crowd. Probably a private investigator, she thought. In that line of work, it paid not to stand out.
But there was a current of energy swirling around him that left her cold. She suddenly wished Kelly had kept her office door open.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Renee François?”
He reached in his coat pocket, and she immediately stiffened. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
He pulled out a thin, business-sized envelope and handed it to her. “I’m delivering a message.”
She took the envelope from him, noting the postmark with some surprise. “I no longer have any dealings in New York, Mr . . . ?”
“Dan Brown,” he said, his tone clipped and impatient.
“Mr. Brown, are you sure you have the right person?”
“I think you’ll find your answer in that envelope.” Before she could respond, he turned and walked out of her office.
She stared at the envelope as if it were a particularly venomous snake. New York brought back bad memories. But she had been a lawyer for too long not to recognize the document in front of her—it was a legal filing, she couldn’t just ignore it.
Reaching for her letter opener, she stabbed its pointed tip at the base of the envelope and slid it open. A single sheet slipped out.
It was a Notice of Hearing.
Her eyes scanned the document, even as her brain tried to process what was in front of her. He was being released. No, she quickly assured herself. He was being considered for release—there was a big difference. The hearing would determine whether Cristobal Colón emerged from the Flatbush Psychiatric Institute a free man.
At least he got a hearing. She had been imprisoned for the last ten years with no possibility of parole.
The notice fluttered in her hand like a captured butterfly. A phantom odor of urine invaded her office, and she felt once more the sting of teeth on her soft flesh. Her chest tightened. The room began spinning on its axis. She put her head between her legs and struggled to breathe, forcing the air in and out of her lungs.
“Renee, your ex-husband is on the line.” Kelly stood at her office door, looking concerned. “I tried your intercom three times, but you didn’t answer.”
She sat up and tried to focus on her secretary. Her mouth felt scratchy and bone dry, almost as if she had ingested sandpaper. “What does he want?”
Kelly shrugged. “You know he doesn’t talk to The Help.”
She offered her secretary the semblance of an apologetic smile. Her ex-husband was the only child of rich parents and often found it challenging to relate to ordinary people. “I can’t handle him,” she croaked. In fact, Paul was the last person she wanted to talk to right now.
“Are you alright?
She shook her head. “No, I’m not.”
Five stories below, the man calling himself Dan Brown stood impervious to the wind and snow. “It’s done,” he said, speaking into his cell phone. He listened silently for a moment, brows furrowed. “I’ve got it under control. It’s time to do your part.”
He hung up and disappeared into the storm.
An ocean away, the Old Man stared thoughtfully at his now-dead receiver. His granddaughter had urged this change, but he was skeptical. The plan was too complex with too many moving parts. Could it succeed? He doubted it. But if it did, his family’s five hundred year old problem would finally be resolved. It was at least worth the effort to find out.
He dropped the phone in its cradle and went off in search of his granddaughter. They had work to do.
3
The Call
Renee cried all the way home. There was no one on the streets to care. The notice lay in her coat pocket, and each brush of the envelope against her skin was like plunging her hand in a vat of hot oil. It was the pain that helped her keep a grip on reality. Without it, she would have drowned in a pool of ten year old memories.
She could barely remember what she said to President Aristide during their call. He thanked her for persuading the Clinton Administration to send in the Marines to restore peace in Haiti—and to reinstate his presidency. But her work was hardly a success. In the end, Haiti’s first democratically elected president would serve a total of just ten months of his five year term. It was a concession President Clinton had wrung from them when he agreed to intervene.
So much for saving the world.
She raised her face skyward and let the hard pebbles of snow sting at her eyelids. After the call, she had practically run from the office. The last thing she wanted to do was sit there and pretend to help people when she didn’t even know how to help herself. What was she going to do? The quest
ion rang in her head even as her fingers reached for the envelope, like a moth singeing its wings on an irrationally seductive flame.
By the time she let herself in her house, she had managed to wrestle the tears under control. She sat on a small bench inside the entryway and kicked off her snow boots, laying them on a rubber mat underneath the bench. Next came the scarf and hat. Each item she removed made her feel lighter, less constricted. She stood up and took off her coat, hanging it on a rack next to the bench. A sliver of white peeked out from her pocket, wet and curled over. She pulled out the envelope and stared at it with blurred eyes. From the kitchen, a tinkle of laughter emerged, light and innocent, full of joy. It was the best sound she had heard all day.
The past was dead, she told herself. Let the dead bury their own dead. Crushing the soggy envelope in her hand, she threw it unceremoniously into a small waste basket by the door. She wouldn’t allow her old life to contaminate the new.
“Anybody home?” she called out as she made her way to the kitchen.
“Mommy!”
“Marie-Thérèse.” A small dynamo came charging at her. She lifted the little girl in her arms, pressing soft kisses on her cheek. “What are you doing?”
“Tantine Rose is teaching me to cook. We are making ak . . . ak—”
“Akasan,” a softly-accented voice behind her offered.
Marie-Thérèse nodded. “What Tantine Rose said.”
She laughed, putting the little girl down as she greeted Rose Fleurie, the housekeeper who had become her daughter’s “Aunty Rose.”
At six feet tall, Tantine Rose made an imposing figure. She looked like a ballerina—rail thin and full of grace—but she had the strength that came with a thirty-year career as a professional chef.
“You are home early,” Tantine Rose said, her English fading into a mix of French and Haitian Creole. Her piercing brown eyes roamed her employer’s face, missing nothing.