Forty Acres: A Thriller (4 page)

CHAPTER 10

T
wo years before, for their third anniversary, Martin had decided to splurge and take Anna out to a five-star restaurant. At the time, the firm was three years old and past all the growing pains that come with starting a new business, and Martin’s bank account was beginning to reflect the fact.

Martin picked an elegant restaurant near Central Park called San Domenico that people raved about. He and Anna were not disappointed. The atmosphere, the food, and the service were all perfect.

Martin remembered that magical evening at San Domenico as the best dining experience of his entire life. Until that dinner party at Damon Darrell’s house.

He experienced a seven-course gourmet tour de force, served by a crack team of uniformed waiters. The menu favored fresh, local ingredients. Several of the dishes were delicious modern interpretations of Southern classics, as though an elderly aunt’s cookbook had been translated by a five-star French chef. It was intoxicating, and Martin found himself anticipating each course, waiting to be surprised by whatever came out of the kitchen.

The conversation at the table was light and pleasant for the most part. Much of it focused on Martin and Damon’s courtroom skirmish. Surprisingly, despite their all being guests in Damon’s home, no one seemed hesitant to voice delight at Autostone’s defeat. Tobias went so far as to exclaim, “Those rednecks got what they deserved. Amen.” Damon, meanwhile, did not appear to be in the least offended by these comments. The seasoned attorney just kept smiling and stayed true to his role as the gracious host.

As the dinner went on, it struck Martin that several of his fellow guests almost seemed to be studying him. Whenever he looked up from his plate, he would notice one or more of the men watching him. Not in a glancing way, but in a more intent, inquisitive way. There was even an awkward moment when a passing glance at Carver turned into a brief staring contest. Flooded with self-consciousness, Martin finally looked away. What the hell was going on? Had he said something wrong?

Anna, seated opposite Martin, shot a look across the table that asked,
Are you okay?

Martin pivoted his face side to side to show both cheeks and gestured to the front of his tux, hoping his wife might spot a crumb or stain that would explain the odd attention.

Anna shook her head, then silently mouthed the words, “
Relax. You’re fine.
”

Anna’s reassurance had the effect of a soothing neck rub. She was right, of course. In such distinguished company, who wouldn’t feel a little paranoid?
Chill out, Mr. Grey,
a little voice in his head said.

Martin winked at Anna, then picked up his wineglass and took a long, relaxing sip.

CHAPTER 11

A
fter dinner the husbands and wives split into two separate groups. The wives retired to the living room for after-dinner cocktails, while the men followed Damon down a long hallway to what he called his game room.

It was a rich man’s playpen. Plush leather furniture, vintage pinball machines, a high-tech home theater setup, a beautiful hand-carved billiards table, and the centerpiece of it all, a fully stocked bar that would rival the city’s finest watering holes.

Damon proceeded to play bartender, a role he appeared to enjoy very much. He prepared each of his guest’s favorite drinks without asking them. For Solomon, Damon cracked open a bottle of thirty-year-old single-malt scotch. For Tobias, he poured a tall foaming glass of imported beer. For Carver, a straight double shot of Stoli. And lastly, for Kwame, a tall glass of tomato juice with a sprig of parsley and a fresh carrot stick.

After receiving their drinks, each man helped himself to a fat Cuban from the antique humidor at the end of the bar, then flopped down onto the plush leather furniture and kicked his feet up.

Martin noticed that this entire evening seemed quite routine to the other men—the conversation before and after dinner, the way the men automatically separated from the women after the meal, and having Damon mix their drinks with barely a word spoken. Martin had assumed that the dinner was a special event, but this was clearly a gathering that occurred quite regularly.

“And what will you have?” Damon asked Martin, the only guest still standing at the bar.

“Vodka tonic.”

“Stoli, Belvedere, Grey Goose? You name it, I got it.”

“Stoli sounds good.”

Damon mixed Martin’s drink and garnished it with a perfectly cut double helix of lemon and lime peels. For himself Damon poured another glass of scotch. Then Damon pulled open his humidor with a flourish.

“Help yourself. Cubans. Best in the world.”

Martin waved them off. “No thanks. I don’t smoke.”

Someone snorted. Martin looked over and saw that it was Carver. The young millionaire shook his head in dismay, as if Martin had just turned down a million dollars. “A good cigar isn’t smoking; it’s more like living.”

The other men nodded in agreement as they blew smoke at ceiling.

“The kid’s right,” Damon said to Martin as he unbanded and snipped the ends. “Nothing like a good cigar.” Damon held out the ready-to-be-lit Cuban. “Are you sure?”

Martin was tempted to give in just for the sake of fitting in, but the risk of choking on the smoke and looking like a total pussy was too high. “No. Maybe another time.”

“Suit yourself.” Damon shrugged, then he flicked flame from a gold lighter and puffed the cigar to life.

Martin noticed framed photographs hanging on the wall behind the bar. Shots of Damon, Solomon, Tobias, and Kwame on various white-water rafting trips. The changing waistlines and hairstyles visible in the different photographs told Martin that these images were taken over a span of at least a decade. Carver appeared in several of these vacation shots as well, but only the more recent ones. Martin guessed that the oldest photograph that included Carver was only about three years old.

Damon noticed Martin looking at the photos. “You ever been white-water rafting?”

Martin laughed at the very thought. He was a city boy, born and bred. The closest he ever came to white-water rafting was a thrill ride at Great Adventure amusement park called Roaring Rapids. And he’d hated that. “Nope,” Martin said. “Not much white water in New York.”

“We sneak away a few times a year,” Damon said. “Nice change of pace, you know?”

“Looks fun.”

“Oh, it’s fun all right.” Damon smiled at the other men. “I can honestly say it has changed my life.”

Wearing grins, the men all nodded in agreement.

Martin found their enthusiasm a bit odd; none of these guys, with the exception of Tobias, looked like the rugged outdoor type. More than likely, Martin thought, these trips were just an excuse to get away from their wives. They probably spent more time drinking and gambling than taming the rapids.

Instead of crossing the room to sit with the others, Damon insisted on giving Martin a tour of his game room. Damon showed off his billiards table, which he said had been custom built for James Brown and acquired when the deceased Godfather of Soul’s estate was auctioned off. Next Damon showed Martin his collection of vintage pinball machines dating back to the fifties, all fully restored and in perfect operating order.

“And over here are my most
significant
possessions,” Damon said, leading Martin to a large glass display cabinet. It took up an entire wall and looked like the sort of thing that you would find in a museum. And, indeed, the strange array of items inside that cabinet would have been right at home in a museum.

Heavy iron restraints, rusted and corroded with age. Chains, leg irons, wrist shackles, steel collars, wooden neck and wrist stocks. Crude, medieval hardware all used for one purpose.

Martin knew what the items were before Damon spoke.

“All of these objects were used to capture and imprison African slaves,” Damon told him with heavy eyes. “These very devices may have been used on my ancestors. Or yours.”

Staring at the items, Martin couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like to be burdened with one of those inhuman devices. To be collared like a wild animal. The mere thought sickened him. “Why do you collect these things?”

“A reminder. A motivator. Black men have an anger in them. Many are consumed by that anger and it ruins them. It’s undeniable. Just watch the nightly news or visit a prison. All my life I’ve used that anger to drive me.”

At the center of the display a framed antique document glowed in the beam of a warm spotlight. The paper was tinged and cracked with age. The old-style cursive writing was faded and difficult to read. Damon gazed at the document with a gleam of pride. “Do you know what that is?”

Martin could only make out a few words and numbers and a signature, but even for a document so old, the format was unmistakable. “It looks like some sort of contract.”

Damon smiled. “That’s right. It’s the contract used to purchase my great-great-grandfather when he was first brought over here on a slave ship.” Damon pointed to one name among a column of blurred names. “It’s hard to make out, but that’s him right there.”

Martin’s eyes widened. “How in the world did you find this?”

“It wasn’t as hard as you’d think. They documented everything back then. Of course, it was pure luck that the document was still around.”

Martin stared at the antique contract with new eyes. He knew intellectually that the slave trade had been a thriving and very lucrative industry, but to stand before a legal record of such cruelty was, for a lawyer, a vivid reminder of how integrated African bondage had been with everyday American life for centuries.

“Inspiring, isn’t it?” Damon said. “Our ancestors were dragged here in chains. Now look at us.” He gestured toward the other guests lounging in his high-tech playpen.

When Martin turned, he noticed that the other men were all watching him. Fixed on him.

“Every last man in this room,” Damon went on, “could buy the bastards who enslaved our forefathers a thousand times over.”

“I’ll drink to that shit,” Carver said, raising his glass. Damon and Martin walked over to join in on the toast as crystal clinked.

Martin had to admit to himself that he had been more than a little intimidated when he first walked in the door and found himself in the company of some of the most powerful men in the country. Who was he really? A storefront lawyer with some recent success but nothing compared to these titans. But at that moment, in the presence of a ghost that haunted all their pasts, he was beginning to feel like he belonged.

Martin stared back at the cabinet of slavery artifacts. “It is inspiring. Especially now that we have a black president.”

This comment did not get the reaction Martin expected. To Martin’s surprise, a couple of the men snorted. Others rolled their eyes. They were reacting as if he had just said he’d voted for McCain or Romney.

“I say something wrong?”

“Not wrong,” Kwame said. “Just ignorant. And I mean that in the truest sense of the word, brother. Not an insult.”

The others nodded in agreement.

“You’re saying nobody here voted for Obama?”

“Of course we did,” Tobias bellowed at Martin. “You’re missing the point.”

“Okay, what is the point?”

Damon wrapped an arm around Martin’s shoulder. “Look, we all support brother Barack, but there’s a bigger picture. And in that bigger picture his presidency does more harm than good.”

“I can’t wait to hear what you mean by that.”

Solomon gestured to an empty chair. “Have a seat, Martin, and allow us to enlighten you.”

CHAPTER 12

Y
our Martin seems like a wonderful man,” Juanita said through a perfect smile as she sat down beside Anna on the sofa. “You’re very lucky.” The women were all gathered in a cozy sitting room decorated with Darrell family photos. Juanita and Damon had two boys, both from Damon’s first marriage. Both were in college studying pre-law to follow in their dad’s formidable footsteps. As they sipped wine and martinis, the wives traded stories on two topics: their children and their latest shopping adventures. Anna politely engaged in some of this idle chitchat, but her thoughts were nagged by how provincial it all seemed. A hundred years ago, maybe even fifty, having the men and women split into two camps after dinner might have been acceptable, but in the twenty-first century it just seemed a little backward. After making the rounds and spending time with the other women, Juanita had finally made it over to Anna.

All the women seemed to agree that Martin was handsome and smart and that Anna was very lucky to have him. Anna did not disagree, of course. Martin was terrific, and hearing a roomful of beautiful women gush over him only served to remind her just how fortunate she was. Their praise also reminded Anna to keep her man happy—or else some young thang or an unhappy wife would be more than eager to snap him up.

One of the wives turned to Juanita and asked, “So, what do you think? Will they ask him? Martin seems to fit right in.”

Juanita shrugged. “It’s hard to tell, but Martin does seem like the perfect candidate.”

“Perfect candidate for what?” Anna asked.

The wives all exchanged an uncertain look.

“What? What is it?”

Juanita leaned closer to her. “You see, Damon and the fellas have this little club. Every three months or so they go on these so-called male bonding trips to prove how macho they are.”

The wives shook their heads. Anna could see that this was not their favorite topic. “Where do they go on these trips?”

“Would you believe,” Juanita said, “white-water rafting?”

Anna’s brow furrowed. “Wait . . . you mean like in those flimsy little rubber boats?”

“That’s right,” Juanita said. “And no river guide or survival expert along with them either. Just a group of black desk jockeys splashing around on some violent river in the middle of nowhere. You ever heard of anything so crazy?”

Anna had expected to hear camping or fishing or, at the very worst, hunting, but nothing as arduous as white-water rafting. Juanita was right. Their husbands weren’t athletes, they were businessmen. “That does sound pretty dangerous,” Anna said.

Juanita snorted. “Yeah, well, you just try telling them that. Sure, they swear it’s safe, but you know men—always pushing to prove their manliness.”

“She’s right,” Olaide Jones said. “And that especially applies to the ones who just push paper all day. I’ve seen actual studies.”

Tobias’s wife, Margaret, shook her head. “Men are so damn dense.”

From their faces, Anna could tell that these wives had been down this road a million times.

Juanita made an almost imperceptible signal with her hand, and a server began to refill their wineglasses. “We can’t stop them,” Juanita said to Anna, “so instead we’ve found a distraction.”

“And what’s that?”

“When they go on one of their little jaunts, we take a trip of our own. A shopping trip. Paris. Rome. Milan.”

Anna stifled a gasp. “Halfway around the world just to shop?”

“Oh, we get in a few sights and museums between boutiques. But shopping is key. You wouldn’t believe how it calms the nerves. Right, ladies?”

The wives laughed and clinked their glasses.

“So, what do you think about Dubai?” Juanita asked Anna. “That’s where we were thinking about going next.”

“You really think they’ll ask Martin to join?”

“Are you kidding?” Juanita said. “Damon will ask him for sure. If only to have Martin around so that he can get some revenge. My Damon is not a good loser.”