The Illegal

by Lawrence Hill

IT HAD BEEN A GOOD RACE. HOT AS HADES OUT THERE. Rocco must have lost two litres of sweat. He drank at every water station, did not answer the cell while running and finished the half-marathon in ninety-four minutes. Not as fast as he had been hoping, but he didn’t suffer too much. He was fifteenth in his age group—men fifty to fifty-five years old—and that made him feel pretty good. Overall, he finished 250th, which was not bad in a race of five thousand.

  Rocco checked the race results posted on the bulletin boards. He was looking for the finishing time of Candace Freixa. He hadn’t seen that babe once in the whole race. Maybe he had beaten her today. Maybe she had wilted in the heat. He watched for her, too, in the finishing area, where they served food and drinks, but she was nowhere to be found. He looked again at the race results board and finally found her name. She had beaten him by eleven minutes. Damn, was she fast.

  He checked the top of the bulletin board. No result for Keita Ali. Weird. He checked the bottom of the board. It listed the runners who did not finish—each name had a big DNF beside it. Keita Ali was one of them. What had happened?

  Someone tapped his shoulder.

  Geoffrey. In shades and a Tilley hat that made him look like a Canadian tourist.

  “Taken away by ambulance,” Geoffrey said.

  “What?”

  “Keita Ali collapsed and was taken away by ambulance.”

  “What happened?” Rocco asked.

  “No idea. Try to find out, would you? And meet me in the office tomorrow. Bossman and I have a few things to go over.”

  Geoffrey spun on his heel and walked away. Rocco thought again about the next election. Two more years, and he would be out of there.

  IN THE MORNING, ROCCO GOT TO HIS OFFICE EARLY. JUNE was waiting for him. She stood close to him and whispered, “Since you’re interested in that runner fellow, I want you to hear the message that some guy left on the Illegals hotline. Nobody else has heard this.”

  On Rocco’s initiative, a five-thousand-dollar reward had been offered to any citizen who reported an Illegal, provided that the report led to the individual being caught and deported. Not many legitimate tips came through the hotline, but this man seemed determined. He identified himself as Jimmy Beech and said, in an angry voice, that an Illegal using the name Roger Bannister was mooching off his mother, Ivernia Beech, at 37 Elixir Bridge in Clarkson. The message ended “I should be entitled to my five-thousand-dollar reward for this and would appreciate receiving it at your earliest convenience.”

  Rocco shook his head. He didn’t buy Ivernia Beech’s politics but admired her activism. Too bad the old woman was stuck with a meddling son. She deserved better. But at least Rocco now knew where Keita lived.

  “The prime minister is asking to see you now,” June said. “In his office. Shall I delete the message?”

  “Good thinking,” Rocco said.

  As Rocco walked along the fourth-floor corridor, a black man with opaque sunglasses emerged from the PM’s door and walked quickly toward him. The man was walking purposefully, but Rocco was tired of mysteries. He stood right in the man’s path.

  “Excuse me, who are you?”

  “Who are you?” the man said back.

  “Rocco Calder, federal minister of immigration.”

  “Saunders,” he said, “and I’m just leaving.”

  “Saunders who?”

  “It’s just Saunders.”

  “What do you do?”

  “This and that,” Saunders said.

  He had one helluva attitude, and he was not the least bit intimidated by Rocco.

  “Who were you just meeting with?” Rocco asked.

  “Ask them,” Saunders said, slipping past him and hurrying to the stairwell.

  “Hey,” Rocco said.

  The man did not answer or slow down.

  Rocco knocked on the PM’s door. Inside, he found Wellington and Geoffrey.

  “Who was that guy?” Rocco asked.

  “And good morning to you too, Rocco,” the PM said.

  “The black guy who took off like a shot. Wearing shades.”

  “Sit down,” Geoffrey said, “we need to talk.”

  Rocco took a chair.

  “What can you tell us about this Keita Ali?” the PM asked.

  Rocco told him much of what he knew: Keita was apparently from Zantoroland, and he had used an alias to run in Freedom State; he was a talented runner who had collapsed at the Grant Valley Half-Marathon; apparently, he was not registered as a citizen or legal visitor, and his visa to enter the country had expired. All these things Rocco had learned by having his people dig through the files in the immigration department.

  “Where does he live?” the PM asked.

  “No clue,” Rocco lied.

  “We want you to help us find him,” Geoffrey said.

  “I’m told he was taken to a hospital after the race,” he said.

  “He checked out of the Freedom Hospital late yesterday afternoon,” Geoffrey said. “He left no address.”

  “Guy’s fast,” Rocco said.

  “We need to talk to him,” Geoffrey said, “so have your people look, and meanwhile, scour the files.”

  “And Rocco,” the PM said.

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry about the mix-up in AfricTown. We had no idea that a police raid would be conducted.”

  “It happens,” Rocco said.

  “Did you get anything out of Darlene?”

  “You know what? Not a single thing! I was just settling in when the raid began. So there was no time. I did catch the wrestling, though. Man. Gotta watch out for snakes.”

  “There’s trouble brewing in AfricTown,” the PM said. “They’re unhappy about those raids we’ve been conducting, and they are raising hell about Yvette Peters. Lula DiStefano is threatening to stage a demonstration and name people who have visited the Bombay Booty lately.”

  Rocco cleared his throat. “That could mean a lot of trouble, for a lot of people.”

  “Just be prepared,” the PM said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  INSIDE THE FREEDOM BUILDING, VIOLA USED HER PRESS pass, rolled into the elevator, went up a floor, got out and wheeled along the corridor. She was looking for the office of Rocco Calder.

  When she found it, she rolled past his secretary and straight into his office, stopping near his desk. Calder was behind it.

  The secretary followed, chastising her. “Excuse me, you can’t barge into this office.” But then she saw Viola’s face, and everything changed.

  “Hey, June,” Viola said.

  “Viola Hill.” June laughed. “Been a very long time. You really got the stuff in that chair. Move like greased lightning.” June had grown up in AfricTown, and like Viola, she had escaped.

  “Working girl’s got to move,” Viola said.

  “You fast in that thing,” June said. “Ripped arms too. You working out, child?”

  “When I ain’t chasing immigration ministers.”

  Rocco got up and came around his desk. “Ms. Hill. To what do I owe the honour?”

  “Sorry to barge in, Minister, but I’ve been calling and calling, and it just can’t wait.”

  “June,” Rocco said, “please, close the door behind you.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Viola, go easy on him.” June flashed her a grin.

  “Sure thing,” Viola said.

  When they were alone, Calder said, “She’s been working for me for two years, and that’s the first time I’ve heard her talk naturally.”

  “Don’t you ever speak naturally, Mr. Minister? All alone, with the boys?”

  “Not really,” Rocco said. “Not much these days. Anyway, I saw you at the half-marathon, taking notes, interviewing people. You never stop, do you?”

  “I saw you running. Ninety-four minutes, right? Not bad for an old white guy running in the heat.”

  “At least you didn’t say ‘old dead white guy,’” Rocco said, laughing. “I guess we’re both just working with what we�
��ve got.”

  “Mr. Minister, we all grow. But not everybody loses their legs.”

  “When you put it that way,” he said. “I’m sorry if I sounded callous.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I work on being callous every day. But I sure didn’t feel callous when Keita Ali fell on the finishing line.”

  “Me neither,” he said. “At the starting line, the guy was stuck in the thick of the runners, just like me. He couldn’t even get up to the front to start with the elite guys.”

  “He was beaten up not long before the race.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Tell me about Yvette Peters. And Zantoroland.”

  “I cannot speak on the record. I told you that last time, and you quoted me anyway. I caught hell from the PM for saying I had nothing to do with the girl’s deportation. If the PM walked in here now, I’d be thrown out of cabinet.”

  “This is off the record,” Viola said.

  “Completely?” he asked.

  “Completely. I’m going to Zantoroland, and I need to figure a few things out.”

  “Okay, but first you tell me something.”

  “Okay.”

  “Who is Saunders?” Rocco asked.

  “Black man, not six foot, thin, attitude as big as his head, packs a revolver?” she said. “That the Saunders you mean?”

  “I didn’t know about the revolver.”

  “Grew up in AfricTown,” Viola said. “Now he’s a freelance thug. Tells secrets about people in AfricTown. He’s paid by your own government and anyone else who wants the inside scoop on what goes down there.”

  “He was just in with the PM,” Rocco said.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Viola said. “That is a very interesting fact.”

  “An off-the-record fact. Are we clear?”

  “Clear.”

  “The PM says there’s gonna be a demonstration soon by Lula what’s-her-name,” Rocco said.

  “DiStefano. Also good info. Saunders must be the PM’s snitch. Okay, my turn for questions.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You came into office swearing that you’d turn boatloads of refugees right back to Zantoroland.”

  “My government did. I only moved into this portfolio recently.”

  “You were going to get tough with Illegals and intercept their boats in our territorial waters and send them right back home before they even landed in Zantoroland?”

  “Right.”

  “And you know how for its first two years in office, your government has been unable to send significant numbers of Illegals back to Zantoroland?”

  “Yes. That’s not going so well.”

  “It’s well known that traditionally, Zantoroland has only agreed to accept small numbers of the refugees that Freedom State wanted to send back. Why have two big boatloads of refugees suddenly been intercepted in Freedom State waters and been turned back to Zantoroland? Why is Zantoroland now allowing that?”

  “Beats me. They told me to crack down on the big numbers, and I’ve been unable to do it.”

  “Whose permission is needed to deport someone to Zantoro-land?” she asked.

  “Normally my signature is needed. Or that of my deputy minister, but he never signs without my say-so. Or the minister of justice.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “The head of the Immigration and Refugee Board.”

  “And who is that person?” Viola asked.

  “The prime minister,” Calder said. “Not many people know that. But the PM took over that role when we came to office.”

  “So when Yvette Peters was deported . . .”

  “You’re the reporter. You’ll come to your own conclusions. But I will swear on my own life that I did not sign her deportation order.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Minister.”

  “Off the record, right?” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Off the record. Thanks for helping.” As Viola swung her chair around to leave, she said, “I’ve been interviewing scores of Zantorolanders here in Freedom State. Some have close ties to what is going on in their home country. Word on the street is that there’s some sort of secret arrangement between our two countries, which has us shipping dissidents back to Zantoroland.”

  “I know nothing about that.”

  “Would that have to go through cabinet?”

  “No. The PM’s Office could handle it. The PM’s Office handles everything.”

  TODAY, IT SEEMED THAT EVERYBODY WANTED A PIECE OF Rocco. Mitch Hitchcock was next in line.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Minister,” he said when he was seated in Rocco’s office. “I see you ran the half in ninety-four minutes.”

  “Thanks,” Rocco said. What did this joker want? The man had recently been named to head up the men’s Olympic marathon team for 2020. What kind of Olympic coach dressed like a hippie?

  “It’s about Keita Ali,” Hitchcock said.

  “How did one Illegal end up occupying my whole morning?” Rocco said. “What’s with that guy?”

  “I just want to help him,” Hitchcock said.

  “Nothing in it for you, is there?”

  “It’s not about me, but I would bask in his glory if he ran well in the Olympics.”

  “Olympics? For Freedom State? Isn’t he an Illegal?”

  “Minister, every country in the world makes exceptions for world-class athletes who wish to run in the Olympics.”

  “Is he good enough to race in the Olympics?”

  “He’s running already at an elite level, without any support in this country.”

  “And you want . . .”

  “Would you consider granting him citizenship so that he can race for Freedom State?”

  “Has he agreed to that?”

  “No, but he will.”

  Rocco sat up in his chair. The fellow ran beautifully. Once in a while, you had to bend the rules and let someone stay in the country. What a public relations coup it would be, if Keita ran in the Olympics—for Freedom State. By the time the next Games came around, Rocco hoped to be out of politics. He’d be running a car dealership again. Talk about a perfect corporate sponsorship!

  “I’ll think it over,” Rocco said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  IVERNIA RUMMAGED IN HER CLOSET FOR CLOTHES. plain flats. Pressed black pants. White blouse. A lime-green scarf and a thin coffee-coloured jacket. Lots of tooth brushing, mouthwash, red lipstick and a hint of blush. She arrived at the Office for Independent Living fifteen minutes early, found Room 301, checked in at reception and sat in a waiting room that felt like a doctor’s office.

  There were two other people sitting in the plastic chairs. One man and one woman. Both alone. She wondered if she looked as old and frail as they did. A TV screen was attached to the wall, and it played cartoons.

  When her name was called, she stood up and turned to the other two. “Good luck.”

  Ivernia was led into a windowless room with the Freedom State flag in the front left corner, a portrait of Prime Minister Wellington on the front right, and the judge’s desk in the middle. Ivernia sat in a small chair facing the desk. When the judge came in, she stood up and was invited to be seated again.

  “Ivernia Beech?” said Judge Rosalie Highcomb, checking her papers and not looking up.

  Highcomb was about forty. White. No nonsense. No rings. Ivernia wondered how this woman enjoyed making decisions about the lives of old people—their freedom or loss of independence. Did she think, ever, that she would one day be old?

  “Yes,” Ivernia said.

  “One moment,” the judge said, reviewing her notes. “At the accident, there was no personal injury to anyone, correct?”

  “That’s right,” Ivernia said.

  “And you made restitution for the damage caused to the cars, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “The report says you have a volunteer job at the Clarkson Library. How’d you swing that?”

  “I applied,” she said, �
��and met with a bit of luck.”

  “You also have attended meetings held by the immigration minister. All very topical. Good for you.”

  Ivernia cleared her throat. She didn’t want to say thank you.

  “You received praise from Mrs. Pasieka, the social worker who visited your home,” the judge said. “However, I am concerned by some of the details in your file. When you had the accident, you damaged two cars, one after the other, not simultaneously. Second, your son Jimmy has written numerous times to all manner of government employees, including to this office, attesting to your incapacity to go on living alone. He says that you have given shelter to an Illegal. Is that true?”

  “A man has come to take care of some domestic tasks, such as cooking and gardening. He stays in the basement.”

  “Is he an Illegal?”

  “I did not ask,” Ivernia said.

  “Employers in Freedom State are required to obtain proof of citizenship or visitor documentation from their employees.”

  “It didn’t occur to me that this applied to domestic services—gardeners and the like.”

  “You must know that it violates the laws of this nation to give employment, housing or professional services to an Illegal.”

  “I see,” Ivernia said. She did not want to overplay her naiveté.

  “Mrs. Beech, I am concerned about the soundness of your judgment, but I also hear alarm bells when a son argues so adamantly on this score. I am going to put you on six months’ probation. In that time, you are to register any worker hired by you. You are to ensure that any tenant you take in is a citizen of Freedom State or legally entitled to be here. I am reinstating your driver’s licence, but you will lose it forever if you are found to be at fault for any other accident. You may continue to live alone, but your assets will be managed in trust for another six months. If at the end of six months there have been no more accidents or traffic violations, and if you comply with all of these conditions, you shall have your assets unfrozen, and this case will be closed. But if you are in violation, the Office for Independent Living will proceed to guide you into assisted living facilities with permanent loss of your driving licence, sale of your property and supervision of your assets. Is that clear?”

  “You are saying that I still don’t have access to my own money, and that if I don’t behave, there will be big trouble.”