A Harvest of Thorns

by Corban Addison

  Josh shook his head. “You’re speaking in the past tense.”

  Rana’s eyes glimmered with intrigue. “Siraj was replaced a year ago. Apparently we’re not the only ones who came here asking questions.”

  Josh drew the inference immediately. “Al-Karama.”

  Rana nodded. “And someone else too.” He paused for effect. “Presto.”

  Synapses fired in Josh’s brain, and words from the past fused into a mosaic of new meaning. Ashik Hassan in Bangladesh: Some people came a few months later. They said they were from America. And Enam in Kuala Lumpur: About this time last year, some auditors came to the factory unannounced. They were American, like you. The parallels were uncanny, as was the timing. All three incidents had happened in roughly the same period. Suddenly Josh understood. After the smoke had cleared at Millennium, Cameron had initiated an investigation of Presto’s supply chain that ranged far wider than the fire itself. Still, there were gaping holes in the puzzle. What had Cameron done with the information? Had he taken it to Vance Lawson and the board? And what, in the end, had turned Cameron against them?

  “Did they say anything more about Presto?” Josh inquired.

  Rana had another conversation with the men. “There were auditors who came after Al-Karama,” he said. “Then a man came who had very dark skin. He was dressed like a buyer. The men don’t know who he was, but Hamad was extremely deferential to him.”

  Josh’s jaw went slack. He almost spoke Cameron’s name before he caught himself. Rana had no idea that the general counsel was Josh’s source. He couldn’t know. No one could know.

  “Did you follow up about Alya?” Josh asked, changing the subject.

  “Not yet,” Rana replied. “I was getting to that when you knocked.”

  He turned to the group and spoke a few sentences in Bengali. Two of the men held up their hands. Rana spoke to them at length, and Josh studied his face for clues. The longer Rana talked, the more his eyes smoldered. When eventually he filled Josh in, his anger was palpable.

  “These men knew her. She worked in their line. She was young—no older than eighteen—and talented on the machine. She was also very beautiful. She was Siraj’s favorite. He abused her more than anyone. She was also one of the unfortunates. She got pregnant.”

  Josh felt sick to his stomach. “You’re using the past tense again. Is she gone too?”

  Rana wagged his head in the same manner as the men. “Her contract expired in January. Hamad sent her and the baby back to Bangladesh.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JAYMANIRGOL VILLAGE

  KHULNA DIVISION, BANGLADESH

  MARCH 25, 2015

  4:25 P.M.

  How hard was it to find one missing girl in a country of 156 million? It turned out not to be that hard, so long as the girl was born in a village, held a valid passport, and Rana Jalil was the person searching for her. When Josh and Rana left Jordan, they had nothing more to go on than a name—Alya Begum—and an age—no older than eighteen. Within days of their arrival in Dhaka, however, they had much more than that. Friends of Rana’s father greased the wheels of the government bureaucracy and delivered the name of Alya’s birthplace—Jaymanirgol—and her date of birth—February 15, 1996—which made her nineteen, but just barely. They also confirmed that she had cleared immigration at the Dhaka airport on January 24, 2015.

  The village of Jaymanirgol was located on a remote peninsula between two rivers just outside the Sundarban nature preserve. To get there, Josh and Rana had taken an early flight from Dhaka to Jessore, hired a car for the drive through the countryside, taken a ferry across the Mongla River, then hired another car for the trek to the village. In Jaymanirgol, Rana approached a vendor and obtained directions to the home of the village headman. After sharing a meal with him, they learned that Alya’s mother, Saima, lived with her four younger children in a house down the road. The headman showed them the way and made introductions, repeating their cover story that they were American journalists researching migrant labor.

  So it was that Josh found himself sitting with Rana on a thatched mat in a mud-brick dwelling, sipping tea with Saima Begum while her children peered in from the bedroom. From the lines on the woman’s face, she looked to be in her late forties, but Josh guessed she was a decade younger. He had seen the same effect across the developing world. The strain of subsistence living in the tropics without access to running water or proper sanitation accelerated the aging process dramatically. Yet for all the advantages that nature had denied Saima, it had blessed her with beauty. It was fading around the edges now, but Josh could still see it in her high cheekbones and full lips and large eyes.

  She sat with them on the mat, her legs tucked under her, her hair covered by a scarf. With Rana translating, she gave them a sketch of her husband—just enough to reveal his dereliction—and told them about the merchant in Mongla whose house she kept. She told them how Alya had assisted her until the agent came and wooed her with tales of lucrative employment in the Middle East. The prospect of sending Alya abroad had terrified Saima, but her children were growing and she had no other support. Her family needed the money, plain and simple.

  So Alya went and sent her earnings back. Not right away, but eventually. The money was a godsend. It paid for clothes and school fees and house repairs and transport to Mongla. For the most part, Saima’s story was unremarkable, but two things stood out. Her words were laced with piety. She believed firmly that Alya’s employment in Jordan was a gift from God. When Rana probed, asking if Alya had experienced trouble in Jordan, Saima gave no indication of knowing about the abuse. Nor did she understand that Alya had returned to Bangladesh. She talked as if her daughter were still sewing clothes at Sun Star.

  “When did she last hear from Alya?” Josh asked.

  Rana had a brief exchange with Saima. “Three weeks ago. She called to say she’d deposited money in Saima’s mobile banking account.”

  “I assume the money arrived?”

  Rana nodded. “The same amount she always sends.”

  Josh frowned. How in the world was she making that kind of money with a baby? Then it dawned on him. She was nineteen and beautiful. And she was alone.

  He opened his mouth to ask another question, but Rana preempted him, saying something in Bengali. Saima stood up and went to a chest of drawers, returning with her phone. After a moment, she showed them a photograph. The resolution was limited, but the resemblance was obvious. Alya was a teenage version of her mother.

  Rana turned to Josh. “Saima took this just before Alya went to Dhaka with the agent. It’s not great, but it’ll do the trick.”

  Josh looked at him in bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

  “Alya has a cousin who lives in Dhaka. I’ll explain in the car.”

  Two days later, at eleven o’clock in the morning, Rana’s driver, Anis, collected them from the Westin in Dhaka and drove them to the border of the Korail slum. Situated on the fringes of some of the most expensive real estate in Bangladesh, the slum was like an island in the city, a shantytown of mud, bamboo, and corrugated iron dwellings, and home to more than forty thousand people—the poorest of the urban poor.

  At the end of the last paved road, they left the car and hailed a boy driving a bicycle rickshaw. The boy carried them down a dirt lane, weaving in and out of pedestrians and stalls and rubbish heaps. The density of makeshift development was overwhelming. The buildings, such as they were, had two and sometimes three stories, and were crammed together in a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle with almost no airspace between them. Most of the paths that intersected the lane were barely wide enough for two people to pass on foot.

  Somewhere deep in the maze, the boy stopped and pointed at a green door. Rana knocked and a man stepped out. He was dressed in a white panjabi—a shirt that fell below the knees—and a matching skullcap. He shook their hands, then led them across an open sewer and down a footpath overshadowed by clotheslines. The path led to two more, then the man st
opped and gestured at a structure with a bamboo ladder that extended upward into a loft space.

  He called out a greeting and waited. Eventually sandaled feet appeared on the ladder. Legs soon followed, then arms and a sari-wrapped torso, and last of all a face. Alya greeted the man with a demure smile that seemed to brighten everything that was grim about the world. The man held out his hand toward Rana and Josh, vouching for them, and Alya turned her smile toward them, inviting them to come up.

  As he followed Rana up the ladder, Josh felt a hint of apprehension. He knew how unusual this was—two men entering the home of an unmarried Muslim woman to discuss something exquisitely painful and personal, something she had probably not talked about with anyone else. They had considered bringing along a woman, one of Rana’s cousins, but they had decided against it for reasons of privilege. They were lawyers—though Josh had never practiced, he was a member of the Virginia Bar—and Alya was a prospective client.

  When Josh poked his head through the opening, he was astonished by what he found. Alya’s living area was as cramped as a prison cell. Her mattress occupied 80 percent of the floor. The only other piece of furniture was a wood bureau in the corner. To create storage, the builder had layered the walls with plywood shelving, which Alya had filled with necessities. A tiny baby with a shock of dark hair was lying on the bed, wearing only a diaper. His eyes were open and he was staring at the ceiling, cooing.

  Alya climbed onto the bed and held the baby out for them to see. Josh offered her a smile, but his heart was at war with itself. She hadn’t chosen motherhood. It had been forced upon her by violence. He tried to imagine what it felt like to wake up each morning bearing such a burden, but his empathy didn’t reach that far. She was young and vulnerable in a society where men ruled, women lived at their mercy, and an illegitimate child was a permanent stain on the family honor. Rana had explained it on the drive back from Jaymanirgol. Alya hadn’t told her mother about her return to Bangladesh to avoid bringing Saima more grief. It was disgraceful enough that Saima was raising her children without a husband. But for Alya to come home with a child born out of wedlock would have doomed Saima to a purgatory of shame.

  So Alya had stayed away and contacted her cousin in Korail, and he had found her this loft and introduced her to a friend who made arrangements for men looking for companionship, businessmen who had wives and families but no compunction about paying for pleasure on the side. And she had gone with this friend, and done what the men asked, and taken their money, and deposited it in Saima’s bank account. These last details were speculation, but Rana had confirmed her cousin’s connection to the sex trade.

  Josh took a seat at the foot of Alya’s bed, and Rana did the same. Rana said something in Bengali, and the girl nodded, glancing at a window covered by a hinged screen. Rana pushed the screen out and propped it open, allowing a wedge of daylight to illumine the space.

  “Do you speak English?” Josh asked.

  “Little,” she replied. “Not much.” She spoke a few more sentences in Bengali.

  Rana interpreted. “She only made it through grade eight before she had to leave school.”

  “Thank you for having us,” Josh said. “Your son is beautiful.”

  Alya offered him a grateful smile. “Welcome. Dhonnobad.”

  Josh let Rana take the lead. They had scripted the conversation as far as they could see it, but much of it lay in uncharted territory. He heard Rana say the word Presto twice, and Alya began to wag her head, signaling that she was following the narrative. Before broaching more sensitive topics, they had decided to lay the groundwork with their core contention—that companies like Presto had an obligation to ensure that the people making their clothing were treated fairly. For workers like Alya, the inference was axiomatic. They weren’t making clothes for the factory. They were making for the brands.

  Eventually Alya spoke again, and Rana said, “Most of the items she made at Sun Star were for Presto. For a while, she thought the company owned the factory. Their quality-control people were always there checking on orders.”

  “Is she on board with our theory?” Josh asked.

  “She is,” Rana confirmed. “Sun Star paid her wages, but the money came from Presto.”

  “Good,” Josh said, feeling the suspense of what came next. “Go ahead, then.”

  Rana nodded and took the plunge. When Alya heard Siraj’s name, she shivered, as if touched by a frozen hand. Rana spoke quietly for about a minute, then gave her time to process the shock of his revelation. As the seconds passed, Josh watched the birth of her tears. They shined in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks, dripping onto her child’s stomach. She didn’t move or make a sound for so long that Josh worried that they had lost her. At last, she blinked and took a breath. She met Rana’s eyes and began to speak.

  “What they did to me was wrong,” Rana said, translating in real time. “I didn’t think anyone cared. I don’t know who you are, but I can see that you care by how far you have come to find me.” She paused and shed fresh tears. “Please tell me why. What do you want?”

  And there it was, the question on which everything hinged. But the answer was the gift. They hadn’t just come with a request. They had come with a proposition. When Rana explained, Alya stared at him in amazement.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. “Why would you do that for me?”

  “It’s simple,” Josh replied. “Because we can.”

  Still, she had doubts. “How can I trust you?”

  Josh gave her a tender smile. “You can come with us and see.”

  She looked down at her baby. His tiny eyes were shut, his nose flaring as he breathed. It was then that she made her decision. She put the child on the mattress and tied a sling over her shoulder. Then she lifted the baby and slipped him into the sling without waking him.

  “Ami prastuta,” she said. “I am ready.”

  The house was only fourteen kilometers away, but with traffic the drive took an hour and a half. The grounds were in Farashganj, in old Dhaka. The guards at the gate waved to Rana and admitted them without delay. The stone driveway looped through a garden of shade trees and flowering bushes and ended at the front steps. A butler escorted them into the parlor. The place was a museum of antiques—a brass lamp made from a saxophone, an engraved mahogany trunk, chairs upholstered in brocade, painted porcelain vases and gilt-framed paintings. Alya looked around in wonderment, as did Josh. Only Rana was unimpressed. He had grown up here.

  After a brief wait, a regal middle-aged woman entered the room, wearing a sari and an exuberant smile. She hugged Rana and welcomed Josh in English. “I am Nadia Jalil, so nice to finally meet you.” Then she greeted Alya in Bengali. The girl seemed overwhelmed by the attention, but Nadia put her at ease, sitting beside her and complimenting her baby.

  “My son tells me you had a good job at a garment factory in Jordan,” Nadia said kindly as Rana translated for Josh. “Have you found another job here?”

  By the way Alya blushed and studied the floor, Josh knew their surmise about her recent “employment” had been accurate. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “It is difficult with Fazul. My family is far away.”

  Nadia nodded gently, one mother to another. “Would you be interested in a position in my household? My housekeeper has been looking for help. Rana says you have experience.”

  Although they had prepared Alya for this, she still looked astonished.

  Nadia smiled. “I will pay you 50 percent more than what you were making in Jordan. Your meals and accommodation will be provided. When you are working, one of my attendants will look after Fazul. But you will always be free to care for him when he needs it.”

  Alya blinked and bowed her head respectfully. “It would be my honor to serve you.”

  “It’s settled then,” Nadia said happily. “I will send a car to collect your things. Now I have a phone call to make. As soon as I’m finished, I will give you a tour.”

  When
Nadia stepped out of the room, Alya looked down at Fazul and stroked his tuft of hair. Josh met Rana’s eyes. It was an odd moment, but it was also a delicate one. There was a final matter they had to discuss, but to raise it unbidden didn’t seem proper.

  After what seemed like an eternity, she spoke again. “I am glad I trusted you. Thank you for what you have done. In Korail, you talked about Presto and the American courts. Presto did not make Siraj do what he did, but they let it happen. For that I hold them responsible. If it would help the other women in Jordan, I will go to America and talk to the judge.”

  Josh grinned, feeling a victory as personal as it was professional. Alya would make a glorious witness. Presto could hire a battalion of jury consultants and the best lawyers in the world, but she would be untouchable on the stand.

  Now all they had to do was get her there.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ST. ANNE’S BELFIELD SCHOOL

  CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA

  MARCH 30, 2015

  3:05 P.M.

  For the first time in as long as he could remember, Josh was early to pick up Lily. He parked in front of the school and took a seat by the entrance beneath the covered walkway. Other parents soon joined him, waiting for classes to let out. The air was brisk yet warming beneath a sky shot through with sunshine. It had been a long winter in Virginia, but the signs of spring were abounding—green buds in the forest, blooms in the pear trees, daffodils joyous in their beds.

  He stood up when the doors opened and children streamed out. Seconds passed as the river of red-and-white uniforms parted around him. At last he caught sight of Lily. Her wavy chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail that bounced as she walked.

  “Daddy!” she shrieked, racing toward him and giving him a hug. “You’re home!”

  He stroked her hair and felt the weight of that word like a memory stone in his hands. Home. He had been so many places that his allegiance was a divided thing. But home was just as real. Instead of a place, it was a face, this face staring up at him, and another one like it but older and wiser and wounded by his failures. In his forty years, he had felt love many times, but never more than in the presence of this girl and her mother.