Forty Acres Read online

  Martin and Anna were greeted with smiles and warm hellos. The oldest couple in the group was the first to step forward. They were probably in their sixties but wore their age well. The distinguished-looking man shook Martin’s hand firmly.

  “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Solomon Aarons and this is Betty, my wife.”

  Martin paused, surprised. Did he hear right? “Did you say Solomon Aarons? CEO of AFG?”

  Solomon smiled kindly. There was a calmness about the man, as if he owned the world and it wasn’t a big deal. “That’s what it says on my office door.”

  Martin couldn’t help appearing a little stunned. The financial world wasn’t something that he kept track of, but even he knew that American Financial Group was a big deal. After the recent economic meltdown, it was maybe one of the biggest brokerage firms on Wall Street, and Solomon Aarons, its savior CEO, was known as a financial genius.

  “Everything okay?” Solomon asked.

  “Sorry,” Martin said, “it’s—well—”

  “Say it,” Damon prodded Martin with devilish grin. “You didn’t know that the CEO of AFG was black.”

  Martin smiled sheepishly to Solomon. “He’s right. I mean I’ve heard of you, but wow, I had no idea.”

  Solomon laughed along with other guests. “No need to apologize, young man. Believe me, I’m quite used to it.”

  Martin noticed Anna smiling at him along with the others. “Did you know Solomon Aarons was a black man?”

  Anna nodded. “Of course I did. He was profiled in Time and Fortune last year, baby.”

  Betty Aarons chuckled at Martin’s touch of embarrassment, then bowed her head to Anna. “Good for you, young lady. Looks like us girls take the early lead tonight.”

  A man sporting a mane of shoulder-length dreadlocks, wire-rim glasses, and an African beaded necklace over his tux stepped forward and laid a sympathetic hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, my brother. The sad truth is 57 percent of black males over the age of thirty would not be able to name the CEO of any corporation.”

  “Black CEO, white CEO, doesn’t matter,” the attractive woman at his side added.

  “Is that a fact?” Martin said, intrigued. “I must admit I’ve never heard that statistic before. I wonder if the numbers would be different for whites.”

  “Ah, now there’s an interesting question,” the man said with a smile. He stuck out his hand. “Kwame Jones. And this”—he gestured to the woman beside him—“is my queen, Olaide.”

  Olaide’s gown was a unique mix of a haute couture cocktail dress and African tribal ceremonial dress. Anna gushed over the outfit, and Olaide confided that it had been made for her by an up-and-coming designer who only worked with 100 percent natural fabrics and dyes.

  Martin noticed that unlike the other guests, who were all sipping wine, Kwame and Olaide were drinking sparkling water.

  “Kwame and Olaide are co-owners of one of the biggest advertising firms in the country,” Damon said. “They specialize in the African American market. You want to sell something to black people, you have to go through them.”

  “Got it,” Martin said. “That explains the statistics.”

  “Statistics, demographics.” Olaide shrugged. “Same difference.”

  “True, true,” Kwame said. “And to answer your question, the white male in the exact same economic subset is far more likely to be familiar with—”

  “Kwame, for Christ’s sake,” a tall bear of a man interrupted. “Give the man a chance to anesthetize himself with a few drinks before you pummel him with one of your social science lectures.”

  Kwame laughed along with the others. “Fine, fine. Just trying to elevate the conversation a little.”

  Damon introduced the big man as Tobias Stewart, founder and owner of Tobias Media. Martin didn’t know much about the company except that they owned and operated an insane number of cable networks, radio stations, and newspapers in every corner of the United States and Europe.

  The media giant was something of a giant in the flesh as well, but despite his three-hundred-plus pounds, Martin thought that Tobias appeared quite dignified in what could only be a custom-made tux. The svelte beauty dangling from Tobias’s arm, his wife, Margaret, helped a great deal to tame the burly man’s appearance.

  Tobias gave Martin a slap on the arm. “I’m ten grand richer because of you.”

  “Glad I could help. But I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I placed a little bet on the trial,” Tobias explained. “I knew Damon couldn’t win ’em all.”

  “You bet on the trial? I didn’t even know that was possible.”

  “You gotta get out of the courtroom more often, counselor. People will bet on anything. You just gotta know who’s taking the action.”

  “Let me guess,” Martin said. “I was a thousand-to-one shot and you dropped ten bucks on me.”

  Tobias’s thunderous laughter was as jolly as he looked. “No. It wasn’t that lopsided, but close. Hey, tell you what, next time you got a sure winner, you give me a call. I’ll cut you a percentage.”

  Martin wasn’t quite sure if Tobias was joking or not, but he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and just laugh it off. “Thanks but no thanks. Disbarment’s not exactly good for business.”

  Everybody laughed, Tobias louder than all the rest combined. The big man swatted Martin on the arm again. “You’re all right for a lawyer.”

  Martin winced and resisted the urge to rub his arm. “Ah, thanks.”

  Finally Damon introduced the last couple, Carver Lewis and his wife, Starsha. They were the youngest couple at the party. If Martin had had to guess, he would have said that they were both in their late twenties. Various tattoos peeked from beneath Starsha’s clingy gown as if they were anxious to come out and join the party.

  For Martin, Carver Lewis needed no introduction. Whenever Martin burned the midnight oil to prepare for a case, he liked to leave the muted television on for company—something other than a legal document or law book to glance at once in a while. Often when Martin would look up, he’d see Carver Lewis on an infomercial hawking his get-rich-quick real estate books and DVDs.

  Carver was a high-profile real estate speculator who had found a lucrative niche by specializing in what some of his competitors called insanely risky deals. Then Carver got really clever. Instead of selling properties, Carver began to peddle his reputation as a real estate guru. Martin remembered reading somewhere that Carver Lewis had made ten times the money from his late-night infomercials than he ever had with his broker’s license.

  “I recognize you from TV,” Martin said as he shook Carver’s hand. “You’re very convincing.”

  Carver replied wearing a strained smile. “Thanks . . . I think. I’m not sure ‘convincing’ is a compliment.”

  “I just mean that you’re a good salesman,” Martin said.

  “The only thing I’m selling is a way for ordinary people to dramatically improve their quality of life,” Carver said. “It’s a legitimate business like anything else. I’ve made a lot of people rich. No ‘convincing’ needed.”

  “I’m happy for you,” Martin said, with only a twinge of sarcasm. It was obvious that the young entrepreneur felt a need to prove something to his older and more accomplished friends, but Martin was not about to let the insecure punk walk all over him. Martin reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. “In fact, you totally sold me. Do you take Amex or MasterCard?”

  While the other guests laughed, Carver’s eyes drilled into Martin. “Funny. That’s real damn funny.”

  “Carver!” Solomon barked at the younger man. “Enough.”

  Carver deflated, his deep respect for Solomon apparent.

  Damon broke the tension by wrapping an arm around Carver. Then Damon winked at Martin. “Don’t mind Carver here.
He works too hard. I keep telling him, ‘Relax. Take it easy.’”

  “What do you mean?” Carver said with a smirk. “Easy’s my middle name.”

  They all laughed, including Martin and Anna.

  Juanita glided into the parlor. “So, is everybody nice and hungry?”

  CHAPTER 10

  Two 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

  After 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.