Illicit Trade

by Michael Niemann

  “No shit?”

  “Really. Listen, I need to make a call. They didn’t let me make one last night.”

  “I don’t have a key to let you out.”

  “Could you call for me?”

  The guard looked left and right. “I don’t know, man. It’s a shit job, but it’s the job I got. I don’t need any trouble.”

  “Nobody needs to know.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Call the first number. Tell them you are calling for me and that they should call the second number.”

  “That’s it?”

  Vermeulen nodded.

  “Okay.”

  Vermeulen gave him the number for the OIOS office and Alma’s number. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Alma. He couldn’t think of anything else to do. He wished somebody would call Tessa, but there was nothing she could have done.

  They came for him at eleven thirty. Four men in ICE uniforms.

  No lawyer had materialized. Nobody had talked to him. Alma’s plan had failed.

  He retreated to the farthest corner of the room. Whatever you do, don’t get on that van.

  The head ICE cop grunted, “Let’s go.”

  “I’m not going,” Vermeulen said. “I demand to see a lawyer.”

  “You’re not entitled to see a lawyer; besides, you are going voluntarily. So let’s make this quick. The plane isn’t waiting.”

  “I’m not going.”

  The other three ICE officers came to take him out of his cell. Vermeulen let himself slide to the floor. He wasn’t leaving the cell. That was for sure.

  Two cops pulled him up by his arms and carried him to the door, his feet dragging behind on the linoleum. He grasped the doorjamb, clamping his hand as hard as he could around the metal frame. The head cop peeled his hand off, one finger at a time. They were calm and methodical. Vermeulen was not their first deportee.

  In the end, all four carried him out of the detention center, two holding him by the shoulders and two by his legs.

  “Does this look like voluntary departure?” he shouted.

  He could see other detainees flocking to the windows of their dorms, staring, afraid. This was their future.

  “I’m not leaving voluntarily,” Vermeulen said again. “This is a criminal setup. You are committing a crime.”

  The officers didn’t care one bit. They carried him through a double door into a loading area. A windowless gray van, its side door open, waited for them. They shoved him into the van and cuffed him to a rod welded to the partition that separated the rear from the cab. The door slid shut with a bang. It had no handle on the inside. Two of them got in the front. The van drove out of the loading area, crossed the employee parking lot, and turned into the street.

  Almost immediately, it came to a stop. Loud shouting.

  “Fucking protestors,” the cop behind the steering wheel said.

  Vermeulen craned his neck to peer through the window in the partition. A crowd of people occupied the street. Their signs were the same he’d seen during his first visit to Elizabeth. “Not One More Deportation.”

  There was one difference.

  Ten or so protesters had formed a human barrier across the width of the street. They had chained themselves together and to the lamp poles on either end. There was no way the van could pass. Still, the cop drove forward until the front of the van touched a woman at the center of the chain. The cop revved the engine. The woman didn’t budge. Instead, she smiled. Despite the hat and scarf, Vermeulen recognized the smile. It was Alma.

  On the other side of the human chain, several Elizabeth PD cruisers had parked. The cops were attempting crowd control. It didn’t work very well. A supervisor with a bullhorn kept shouting for them to disperse or be arrested for trespassing, but nobody moved. A police van arrived and two cops came with bolt cutters. The protestors booed them and flocked to the street to form human shields around the chain. The cops began to drag people away. Ear-shattering whistles accompanied the process. The protestors already shoved to the sidewalk tried to run back to the human chain. More cruisers arrived. The officers put up a temporary pen to keep people away from the human chain.

  It took a half hour before the officers with the bolt cutters came close enough to cut the chains.

  “Finally,” the ICE cop at the wheel said. “We’re gonna make the flight after all.”

  Once the first chain was cut, the police just pushed the two ends of the human barrier off the road until there was a gap wide enough for the van to pass.

  The cop at the wheel revved the engine. The van jolted forward.

  That’s it, Vermeulen thought. The end.

  Except it wasn’t. Three black sedans came to a squealing halt and blocked the road. Behind them, a blue Corolla stopped in the middle of the street. A man jumped from the Corolla and ran past the Crown Vics toward the van. Six men in FBI jackets followed him. He knocked at the driver’s window and pressed a piece of paper against the glass. The ICE cop cranked the window down.

  “This is an injunction issued by a federal judge. You are to release that man immediately.”

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  “More coffee, hon?” Sandy said. There weren’t many patrons in the diner. It was the afternoon lull, and the waitress had been hovering near their table.

  “Yes, please,” Alma said.

  Sandy poured from her thermos. She eyed Vermeulen, who nodded. She poured again.

  “You made a decision about the pie yet?”

  Vermeulen said, “Blueberry.”

  Alma said, “Apple.”

  “À la mode?”

  Both nodded.

  “We really can’t make a habit of this,” Alma said.

  “What? Meeting or eating pie?”

  “Eating pie, of course. You really didn’t have to, you know.”

  “There isn’t enough pie in the world to thank you for what you did for me.”

  The two had just come from another protest against deportations. Nothing like the one a week earlier that had sprung Vermeulen from the clutches of ICE. Alma had invited him to join them. The protest only involved holding up signs. There was no van leaving the Elizabeth detention center that day. Nobody was carted off to the airport for deportation. But Unidad Latina came out anyway. Reminding everyone that just because it was quiet didn’t mean there weren’t people stuck inside the prison.

  Since his release, Vermeulen had a new appreciation for the work done by Alma and her organization. He wanted to thank all those folks who’d braved the police and faced arrest to save him. He couldn’t think of a more humbling experience. Cynicism was an occupational hazard in his job. What they did for him was the perfect antidote. Supporting their cause seemed the best way to thank them. And eating pie with Alma was a pleasant conclusion to the afternoon.

  “So, what happened after the FBI whisked you away?” she said.

  “They took me to the Newark FBI office. The Special Agent in Charge and my boss were waiting for me. I told them what I knew, they interrogated me, went over everything three times. That took a long time. They let me go at five.”

  “Did they clear you?”

  “Eventually, two days later. I had to leave my passport with them and was lucky to be allowed to go home.”

  He forked a bite of pie into his mouth and chewed slowly. What a simple pleasure! As nice as being back in his bed that first night after leaving the detention center.

  “What about you and your friends?” he said. “Did the police hassle you a lot?”

  She put down her fork, and brought her thumb and index finger close together. “Just a little. One of the FBI agents spoke to the lieutenant and explained the situation. After that, the cops let us go. They usually do. We’re all trained in non-violent protest. They know we won’t do anything to harm them.”

  They savored their pies quietly.

  “What about the trafficking network?” Alma said. “They caught the guys, no?”

  “They
arrested Sunderland at his house, suitcase in hand. The ICE agents called him after the FBI took over and he tried to leave town in a hurry.”

  She smiled. “I know the next Special Agent in Charge won’t be any different when it comes to deportation, but I was happy to see a crooked one be arrested.”

  “I can see why. The investigation is still ongoing. We at OIOS don’t get the details, but the FBI sent us an update, sort of a courtesy for having brought the network to their attention. According to that report, Sunderland was the man in charge.”

  “What about the doctor?” Alma said, putting down her cup.

  “I don’t really know. I saw him come into the FBI office the next day. He had two people with him. They looked like lawyers. I have no doubt the three already had a strategy to weasel out of it. The FBI update didn’t include any information about him.”

  “And that woman? What was she called?”

  “The Broker. Her real name is Camille Delano, the daughter of a dead New Jersey mobster. But this doesn’t seem to be an operation of those gangsters. She had her own crew. Not the brightest bulbs in the chandelier. The police found them a day later. They were the ones who gave up her name. The police put out an APB, but Delano had disappeared.”

  “Aren’t you worried? She sounds dangerous,” Alma said.

  “She certainly is. She is also smart. I bet she’s left the country. She struck me as someone who’s prepared for all eventualities. She’ll surface somewhere. People like her never just retire.”

  He took another bite of pie and washed it down with a swallow of coffee.

  “The oddest character in this whole thing was Jackson,” he continued. “His story was the key evidence against the whole network. He’d actually been recruited as a donor under false pretenses. He gave them the name of the contact in Kenya and the FBI forwarded that to the Criminal Investigation Division in Nairobi. But Jackson disappeared after the first interview. Just didn’t show up for the second one.”

  “He’s the African-American man who found the other victim at Broad Street Station, right?”

  “Yes. We never really talked much, but I knew right away he was a hustler. He had some kind of racket going that made him afraid of the FBI, said something about Medicare being a federal program. He changed, though. Brought some of the money Abasi had back to his family in Kenya. At least that’s what he said. He probably kept enough to stay afloat for a while. The FBI wasn’t too happy. He would have been the prime witness. Now they’re interviewing Mihaly Luca at York Prison. With the network destroyed, he should be willing to testify.”

  His phone rang. He checked the display. It was Gaby.

  “I’ve got to take this,” he said to Alma, stood up, and walked toward the door.

  “Hello, Gaby. What a surprise. Where are you?”

  “Hi, Dad. I’m back in Düsseldorf. You can’t imagine how nice it is to be in my own bed again.”

  “I can, believe me, I can. I spent two nights in jail.”

  “What? When? Why didn’t you call?”

  “A week ago, and I didn’t want to bother you. You were still recuperating.”

  “Whose nose did you bend this time?”

  “It wasn’t like that at all. Once I got back to New York, the gangsters there were already waiting for me. I had no choice but to confront them.”

  “Oh, talking to the police was out of the question, eh?”

  “There was no time.”

  “Yeah, I know. There never is,” she said.

  “Do you want me to tell you the story or not?”

  “Better not. You can tell it to me in person.”

  “What? How?”

  “Well, my doctor at home told me I needed another two weeks of rest and relaxation before going back to work. So I thought I’d come and visit you?”

  “Should you be flying?”

  “He didn’t think it would be a problem. So, I’ll be there the next weekend. Is that okay?”

  “Sure it is. How long will you stay?”

  “A week. I can’t wait to see New York City. You can show me around?”

  “I sure will. Can’t wait either.”

  “And don’t worry, I know you’ll have to work. I can do things on my own, too.”

  “No worries. I’m still on unpaid leave, remember? They’re still investigating my conduct in Vienna. I may have to pop into the office once or twice.”

  “I can’t believe they’re still doing that. They ought to give you a medal.”

  “I know, but the wheels of bureaucracy turn slowly, and it’s not always assured the truth will emerge.”

  “I’ll be there to support you.”

  “Thanks, darling.”

  “Oh, Tessa says ‘hi,’ ” Gaby said.

  “Anything else?”

  “She said you two need a good talk. I think she’s right.”

  “So you’re giving relationship advice now?”

  “Dad, I know you care for each other. But a relationship doesn’t thrive unless it is tended. So use your time wisely.”

  “What do you mean?” Vermeulen said.

  “Oops. My big mouth. I promised not to tell, but Tessa has an assignment in Thailand. She decided to take the long way there.”

  “The long way?”

  “Via New York. She’ll be there tomorrow evening. You didn’t hear it from me, so pretend to be surprised. I’ll email you my itinerary. Love you, Dad.”

  She ended the call before he could answer. He had to smile. Having your daughter back in your life was amazing. That she also got along with your lover was icing on the cake.

  “You look like you’re in a good mood,” Alma said when he got back to the table.

  “Yes, I’ve got some wonderful company to look forward to.”

  * * *

  Photo by Joanna Niemann

  Michael Niemann grew up in a small town in Germany, ten kilometers from the Dutch border. Crossing that border often at a young age sparked in him a curiosity about the larger world. He studied political science at the Rheinische Friedrich-Wilhelms Universität in Bonn and international studies at the University of Denver. During his academic career he focused his work on southern Africa and frequently spent time in the region. After taking a fiction writing course from his friend, the late Fred Pfeil, he embarked on a different way to write about the world.

  For more information, go to:

  www.michael-niemann.com

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