The Illegal Page 7

  Viola looked around. “I’ll see if I can find someone.”

  “Bless you! And tell my sister I made it. Loretta Williams, in Yagwa City.”

  A police constable standing on the far side of the paddy wagon appeared to be telling people what to do. Viola wheeled over to him.

  “A woman over there can’t wake her baby.”

  “She’ll have to wait.”

  “But the baby could be dying!” Viola said.

  “Not my concern.”

  “I work for a national news outlet and you are telling me that you don’t care if a baby is dying?”

  “If you weren’t way down in that contraption, I’d smack you and arrest you for disturbing the peace. Beat it, before I get angry.”

  Viola aimed her phone at him. If he did something stupid, she would catch it on video.

  “Viola Hill, reporter with the Clarkson Evening Telegram, and I’m simply asking you where you are taking these men and women—and why.”

  The constable started walking away.

  “I’m going to call 911 if you don’t go see that baby!”

  “Christ almighty,” he said. “Where’s the damn baby?”

  Viola pointed to the mother, and the constable walked her way.

  Suddenly, cars began streaming into the parking lot by the wharf. Men and women, all white, mostly over forty, gathered at the pier. There were about a dozen of them, three with placards: “Enough Is Enough,” “Send ’Em Back” and “Who Invited Them?”

  Viola took photos of the placards. Then she wheeled up to the demonstrators.

  “Sir,” she said to one, “I’m Viola Hill with the Clarkson Evening Telegram. Can you tell me why you are here?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I just told you who I am. Who are you?”

  “We’re with SIB.”

  “SIB?”

  “Send Illegals Back.”

  “Who told you that these people were being arrested?” Viola asked.

  “We scan the police radios. Our country is wasting good resources detaining this scum. Should have turned the boat around and sent it back home.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Don.”

  “Last name?”

  “None of your business.”

  “If you turned this boat around, those people would die.”

  “Is that our problem? We didn’t invite them to Freedom State. Our country is not a house without a door. They can’t just keep crashing into it with no passport, no documentation, no legal right to be here.”

  “Why, exactly, are you so worked up about refugees? A mother who was just arrested is worried about whether her baby is still alive.”

  “And why are you such a bleeding heart? How do I even know you’re a journalist? You don’t look like a journalist. Do you have ID? How do I know that you’re not a refugee too?”

  “Just tell me what your problem is with the refugees. So readers will understand.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, our country is going down the drain. We’re supposed to be a wealthy nation. But we have violence, unemployment, dropping exports and then the whole black market system in AfricTown is draining our economy. It costs thousands of dollars to detain, clothe and feed an Illegal for a year. Take ’em out of prisons and send ’em back to where they came from, and bulldoze AfricTown while you’re at it.”

  There was a break in the parade of people, and Viola saw one man lift his hands up and away from the officer arresting him.

  “I will go peacefully,” the man said. “But no handcuffs. I’m no criminal!”

  Two police officers began beating him with billy clubs. He crumpled to the ground. When they stopped, he offered his wrists.

  The protestor named Don yelled, “Are you ready? Not so cocky now, eh?”

  “Sir,” Viola asked the refugee, “what is your name?”

  “Desmond Torrance,” he mumbled.

  “Why did you make the trip?”

  “My days were numbered. I took my chances.”

  The police constable came to stand in front of her, blocking Viola’s view of Torrance.

  “Listen, girlfriend,” he said sarcastically, “back off.”

  “I’m a reporter with the—”

  “I don’t give a shit who you say you are. You’re impeding police business.”

  One of the demonstrators with a placard shouted, “Arrest the bitch. Send ’em all back home.”

  Viola looked at the constable. “What about the demonstrators? Are you asking them to leave?”

  “Last warning,” the cop said.

  Viola turned, retreated ten metres, and spun her chair around once more to face the cop. “Satisfied?”

  “I’m warning you to stay out of the way. No communicating with the criminals.”

  “Criminals?”

  “None of them have permission to enter Freedom State. This makes them Illegals, which makes them criminals.”

  Viola did a head count. Fifty people arrested: thirty men, ten women, eight children and two babies. None of them looked like they had showered, eaten properly or slept in weeks.

  The police officer slammed the paddy wagon doors. “Before I lock up, there’s room for one more,” he said to Viola.

  “I’m going, I’m going,” she said to the constable. “But what’s your name?”

  “It’s on my badge,” he said.

  Constable Devlin James.

  “Where are these people to be detained?”

  “Same place we put any other criminals. The City Jail.”

  VIOLA SKIPPED A SHOWER AND MADE IT TO THE NEWSROOM in time to write and file the story and to send in the photos she had taken, before beginning her shift for the sports department.

  Mike Bolton, the city news editor who had resisted every non-sports story she had pitched, called her to his desk.

  “Viola, what’s your beat?”

  “I assume that is a rhetorical question,” she said.

  “Did anyone ask you to leave the world of sports and file a story about a routine arrest of no consequence?”

  “It was on my own time,” Viola said. “And it’s not routine.”

  “We have refugees being arrested—off boats or in AfricTown—every week.”

  “This story—”

  Bolton put up his hand. “Stop. Just stop. Next time you have the grand idea to try your hand at writing news, how about going through me first? I have no room in the paper for this story.”

  “Bolton, your head is up your ass.”

  “Keep talking. I could have you disciplined for insubordination.”

  “You wouldn’t know a news story if it yanked the pillow out from under your head.”

  “I am the city news editor! And you’re a—”

  “What am I, Bolton? Go on. Say it.”

  “A sports reporter.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  OH, THIS WAS FUNNY. THIS WAS RICH. VIOLA HILL had been agitating for months to get off the sports page. So she could hardly refuse when Mike Bolton sent her out on an assignment dull enough to induce a coma: the Annual Awards Luncheon for the Best Essays Written by High School Students in Freedom State. Bolton said a major political figure would attend. Maybe even the prime minister. Whoever attended, Bolton said, she should get a quote.

  Viola arrived early to get a spot at the front of the Dixon Theatre. Being low down in a wheelchair, she had to be in the heart of the action. The only way to grab someone for a quick interview would be to catch their eye or call loudly. The awards were for essays about science, geography, literature, culture and politics. There were two categories: one for students ages fifteen and under, and the other for students sixteen to eighteen. Three of the ten winners hailed from the same school: the Clarkson Academy for the Gifted. Honestly. Anybody suffering from sleep problems should just throw their meds in the trash bin and come to this ceremony. The prime minister had skipped the event and sent a cabinet minister instead.

  When it came time
to award the grand prize, Viola stopped yawning. It was for the best essay written by a high school student of any age, on any subject. All other award winners had received a thousand-dollar cheque, but this prize came with a catch. The essay writers had had to supply a paragraph explaining what they needed to further their own academic advancement and outlining a reasonable budget.

  Federal Immigration Minister Rocco Calder was called to the stage to announce the winner. He was a tall, buff, blue-eyed, square-jawed, middle-aged white dude who was a recreational runner—Viola respected him for that, if not for his politics. Calder, a fabulously successful used car salesman and newcomer to politics, didn’t know a damn thing about immigration. He had been transportation minister but had recently acquired the immigration portfolio in a surprise cabinet shuffle. It had to be the worst job in the world: to preside over a national effort to deport people without documentation. But he had no voice, authority or independence in cabinet. Everybody knew that the prime minister and his advisers ran and controlled immigration policies and practices. The government called undocumented people “Illegals,” but Viola refused to use the term. As far as she was concerned, it was fair to accuse somebody of doing something illegal but not to say that they were illegal. Viola wondered if Calder believed in the “Deport the Illegals” movement that had brought his government to power, or if he was just a lemming.

  Calder took the steps to the stage two at a time. Students, teachers, parents and education officials filled the auditorium. Calder told the audience that the prime minister sent his regrets but had asked him to convey his regards, and that he was proud to participate in a ceremony celebrating academic excellence. Yada, yada, yada. He summoned the donor of the funds for the best essay prize. A woman climbed up the stairs. White woman, as old as the hills. Blue-eyed too, and hair turned as white as a cloud. Steady step, and a no-bullshit gaze as she looked over the audience. Calder mentioned her name, but Viola didn’t catch it. She checked her program. Ivernia Beech.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Calder said. Viola sighed. Loudly. What self-respecting modern woman wanted to be called a lady these days? And gentlemen were a vanishing species. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the minister repeated, “the best essay by a high school student in Freedom State in the year 2018 is entitled ‘North and South, We Are All Ortizians.’ The winner, from the Clarkson Academy for the Gifted, is . . . John Falconer.”

  There was a small round of applause. The very title of the essay seemed to slap the ruling Family Party in the face. Freedom State was in the North Ortiz Sea, Zantoroland in the South Ortiz Sea. The Family Party had come to power for the first time in the history of Freedom State two years earlier and was implementing policies to draw a firm line between those seas, to stop the ships carrying refugees north and to live up to its election campaign promises to initiate a robust deportation program.

  “John, would you come to the stage?”

  A boy ran up the stairs in his Clarkson Academy uniform. But his tie was loosened, and he wore running shoes. He looked twelve years old. Didn’t look like he even belonged in high school. And there was one other thing. Every other prize winner was white. Virtually every person in the audience, except for Viola, was white. But this kid had curly hair and a coffee and cream complexion, and it was clear to Viola that he had some black in him.

  “Congratulations, John,” the minister said, shaking the boy’s hand.

  “Thank you, Minister. Could I get an interview with you?”

  People laughed.

  “Why sure, boy,” the minister said.

  “Do you promise?” the boy said.

  The minister’s mouth fell open, but he recovered and said, “Yes, I do. How old are you?”

  “I’m fifteen, but you should know that ‘boy’ is a condescending way to refer to people of African heritage.”

  A murmur went through the crowd, but the minister smiled. “Well, I’m sorry, son, I didn’t know about your heritage. I’ll give you that interview, but today we’re here to congratulate you.”

  Ivernia Beech shook John’s hand vigorously. “Fabulous essay,” she said, “just fabulous.” Turning to the audience, she read from a slip of paper: “‘John has written a historical essay about the racial politics of deportation in Freedom State in the nineteenth century. His prize is ten thousand dollars’ worth of computer and video-recording equipment, which he has requested so he can make a documentary film about AfricTown.’”

  She gave the boy the cheque. They posed for a photo.

  “You’re helping me go after a dream,” John told her.

  “Go do it,” she said. “And while you’re at it, give ’em hell.”

  “I intend to,” he said. He reached to shake her hand, but she gave him a hug instead.

  “When you’re eighty-five, you don’t get to give out many hugs,” she said. People in the audience laughed. “And when you reach my age, you don’t always get to do something meaningful. But to help a student move forward with his artistic passion means a great deal to me.”

  Mrs. Beech gave John a slip of paper and told him to call her up. “Can’t cook to save my life, but I’ll take you out to lunch.” She smiled and exited the stage.

  “Son, that’s an incredible achievement,” the minister said. “But will it be safe for a young fellow to be wandering about AfricTown with a video camera?”

  “Should be safe enough,” John said. “I live there.”

  While the audience clapped, Viola scribbled as fast as she could. She looked up and hollered as John walked off the stage. Sometimes hollering was the only way for a woman in a wheelchair to get any attention.

  “John Falconer. Over here, please.”

  He approached her obediently.

  “Viola Hill, the Clarkson Evening Telegram.”

  He shook her hand. “Sounds like a good job. One day, I’d like to write for the Telegram.”

  “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Viola said. “But never mind that. Did you say you live in AfricTown?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Bungalow Hill. Brown shipping container. Yellow stripes. Next to Water Tap 17.”

  “Whose child are you?”

  “You know AfricTown?” John asked.

  “Born and raised,” Viola said. “But I’m asking the questions.”

  “How about we each ask questions,” John said, “’cause now I’m making this documentary, and I could talk to you.”

  “How about we respect the fact that I’m on a deadline for a daily newspaper? So whose child are you?”

  “My mom is Mary Falconer. My dad disappeared before I was born. Bartholomew Falconer—you know him?”

  “Nope. And you are fifteen and in Grade 9 at the Clarkson Academy for the Gifted.”

  “Yep! You still live in AfricTown? It’d be hard to move about in a wheelchair.”

  “I got out when I lost the use of my legs.”

  “Oh,” John said. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be,” Viola said. “If I hadn’t had the accident, I probably would have stayed. And maybe I’d be dead now, or strung out on drugs or booze. I have to ask you this. John, are you black?”

  “You know how it works. My mom is white. But my dad, he was mixed. Half and half.”

  “Good enough for me. According to the customs of this country, he was black and so are you. You ever heard of any other black student at the Clarkson Academy for the Gifted?”

  “I’m the first.”

  “What’s tuition cost?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars a year.”

  “You on scholarship?”

  “Ain’t no other way,” he said with a smile.

  “Can I get a copy of your essay?”

  He pulled folded papers from his inside breast pocket. “Here—”

  “I’ll get this back to you. Gotta run. Give me your cell and email.”

  Viola wrote them down, wheeled away and got to Calder before he left. She
asked how he felt about awarding a prize to a student who had criticized the country’s immigration policies.

  Calder said, “Today it’s not about politics. It’s about academic excellence. I respect this boy’s intelligence.”

  Viola’s story made the back of the A section. Her first byline off the sports page. She persuaded Bolton to run a short excerpt from John’s essay as a sidebar.

  NORTH AND SOUTH, WE ARE ALL ORTIZIANS

  BY JOHN FALCONER

  GRADE 9, CLARKSON ACADEMY FOR THE GIFTED

  We brought thousands of people from Zantoroland in chains, enslaved them here in Freedom State and used them to build what is now one of the world’s biggest economies. But when slavery was abolished in 1834, we solved the “Negro problem” by deporting those same slaves and their descendants. We sent them back by the shipload into the South Ortiz Sea, paying Zantoroland a twenty-five-pound-sterling resettlement fee for each man, woman or child repatriated.

  It was a complex job, so authorities in Freedom State created a racial grading system to determine who could stay and who had to go. If you were defined as full black, half black (mulatto), one-quarter black (quadroon) or even one-eighth black (octoroon), you were packed up and sent to Zantoroland. Even if you’d never seen the country. Even if you were born in Freedom State. But if you were defined as one-sixteenth black (quintoon) or less, then you were allowed to reintegrate into the white race and stay in Freedom State.

  Most blacks were indeed forced to leave. Some managed to stay. Others began returning illegally in boats. Although the trans-Ortizian slave trade ended in 1834 and the Grand Repatriation drew to a close some two decades later, Freedom State and Zantoroland continue to be connected. A steady stream of migrants continue to move north, settling in AfricTown on the southern outskirts of our capital city of Clarkson. People refer all the time to AfricTown as a slum, a ghetto, a township. It is none of the above. AfricTown is a community. Some hundred thousand people live there, many of them in fifteen thousand used shipping containers owned and rented out by the unofficial queen of AfricTown, Lula DiStefano. I know. I live there, and Lula is my landlady.

  Viola had hoped Bolton would continue to let her write for the news department. But she had only been sent to cover the national essay awards because the education reporter had called in sick that day. He returned to the job twenty-four hours later, and Viola returned to sports.