Forty Acres Read online

  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

  Your 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.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Damon refreshed everyone’s drink, then rejoined the other men in the sitting area. A haze of tobacco smoke lingered over the group like a brewing storm.

  Martin was the only one seated with his back to a wall. So, despite the fact that the sofa and chairs were arranged in a cozy, informal ­circle, Martin could not shake the irrational notion that all the men were ­facing him. He almost felt as if he were on trial.

  “Look at it this way,” Solomon said to Martin. “Now that Barack’s in office, a lot of white people are thinking, Now we’re even. Now we can forget slavery and racism is finished. Our hands are finally clean.” Solomon slapped his hands together as if brushing away filth. “Of course, everyone in this room knows that that’s far from the truth. Not even close.”

  “The Zimmerman case is a perfect example,” Tobias said.

  “Exactly,” Kwame said. “Or how the Supreme Court recently gutted the Voting Rights Act of 1965. Some protestors gave their life to get that bill passed.”

  “Look,” Martin said, “I agree with everything said. But you guys can’t deny that electing a black president is a huge step forward.”

  The men all shook their heads. Wrong.

  “Think about it, brother,” Kwame said, leaning forward. “The accumulated wealth and power of the Caucasian race is so vast that it would take centuries for us to even get close. When you put it all into perspective, Barack’s election is just a drop in the bucket of history. A significant drop, no doubt, but still just a drop.”

  “Damn straight,” Carver said. “It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than sticking a black man in a White House to even up the score.”

  “I’m not sure I see things quite that way,” Martin said.

  “Really?” Carver smiled condescendingly at the new guy. “And what way would that be exactly?”

  “You know. That attitude that white people owe us something. Our energies are better foc
used on the here and now, on improving things for this generation and the next, not on trying to be compensated for an injustice committed centuries ago.”

  “Brother, you’re either living in a dream, or you’re a goddamned—”

  Solomon stifled Carver with a pointed stare, then turned to Martin. “Let me ask you a hypothetical question. Let’s say you owned a truck and a crook stole it. If that crook is caught years later, would you feel that he owed you anything?”

  “Sure,” Martin said. “He’d owe me a truck.”

  “Now,” Solomon went on, “what if you couldn’t afford another truck? What if the loss of that truck resulted in you and your family living in poverty, while, at the same time, that crook used that stolen truck to make his family wealthy? When this crook is caught, does he still owe you just a truck?”

  Martin gave it a moment’s thought. “I see where you’re going with this, but I think your analogy is too simple for something as vast and complex as slavery in America.”

  “Are you sure about that, Martin?” Solomon said. “Let me frame it in real terms. In 1889, twenty years after slavery was abolished, the United States government opened up the Oklahoma Territory to any American citizen who wanted to go west and tame the land. Imagine that. Free land. Now, do you think that our ancestors were allowed to participate in that bonanza? Of course not. Do white families, to this very day, profit from that land rush?”

  “You better fucking believe it,” Carver said.

  The other men murmured in agreement.

  “And that’s just one example,” Solomon continued. “American history is littered with events in which our ancestors were robbed of opportunities that white people profited from.” Solomon leaned forward and squeezed Martin’s arm. “Now, I’m not sitting here asking you to change the way you think or what you believe in. I’m just asking you to consider what I’m saying and decide if there’s any truth in it.”

  Martin couldn’t deny that Solomon’s argument stirred something inside him. An uneasiness that felt almost like fear. As if he was being forced to confront some terrible suppressed memory that he’d kept walled off for his entire life.

  “Will you?” Solomon asked. “Will you think about it?”

  “Of course,” Martin said. “You have an interesting way of looking at things. Very persuasive.”

  “Oh, please,” Tobias said. “Old Solomon here is just a lightweight. You should hear Dr. Kasim lay down the science. That man will make your ears tingle.”

  Martin noticed that the instant Tobias mentioned Dr. Kasim, the other men shot him a scolding look, like a group of monks who had just heard the Lord’s name spoken in vain. Tobias shrugged off their stares and reclined in his seat.

  “Who’s Dr. Kasim?” Martin had to ask.

  A moment of hesitance among the men was ended by Damon. “Dr. Kasim’s hard to describe. I guess you could call him an . . . underground philosopher.”

  Martin couldn’t help smiling. “Underground philosopher? Has he written anything I might have heard of?”

  The men flashed amused smiles at the question.

  “Dr. Kasim has written many books, brother,” Kwame said. “But you’re not going to find ’em in your local bookstore.”

  “Okay.” Martin was becoming more and more intrigued. “Does he have a website? YouTube videos? A Facebook page? What?”

  The men shook their heads, as if mentioning Dr. Kasim in the same breath with the Internet was the craziest thing they had ever heard.

  “Actually, Martin, I’m a little surprised that you’ve never heard of Dr. Kasim,” Damon said. “I mean, considering your activism in college.”

  The comment gave Martin pause. In the handful of times that the two men had spoken, during and since the trial, he was certain that he had never told Damon anything about his past.

  “Don’t look so surprised.” Damon smiled. “You think I became the best lawyer in the universe by sitting on my ass? Preparation is everything. I probably know more about you than your own mother. Let’s see . . . you attended Syracuse on a full academic scholarship. ­Majored in black studies. Your junior year, your roommate was ­harassed, ­humiliated, and arrested for nothing more than shopping while black at an upscale department store. While helping your friend win a settlement against the store, you also founded the Black Board, a small but aggressive group that took on the businesses around campus that had discriminatory policies against the black students. Despite being arrested four times for various marches, you were still successful in getting most of those businesses to change their practices.” Damon winked at Martin. “Pretty good, huh?”

  “Perfect,” Martin said, impressed. In legal circles Damon Darrell’s case preparation was legendary, but Martin had no idea that Damon’s research extended to the opposing counsel’s life history. “And you’re right.” Martin chuckled. “If my mother had known half the crap that I was up to on campus, she would’ve had a total breakdown.”

  The men laughed.

  “The point I’m trying to make,” Damon said, “is that it seems as though someone as involved as yourself would have at least heard of Dr. Kasim.”

  “So this Dr. Kasim is an activist as well, then?”

  “Activist, motivator, educator,” Solomon said. “All of those things and more.”

  “The brother is a straight-up genius,” Kwame said. “His ideas nurture the black soul.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Damon said to Martin, his voice earnest. “No one on this planet has inspired me more. No one.”

  As Martin listened, a troubling question formed in his mind. His first notion was to let it pass, but his desire to know the answer burned as hot as the sincerity in Damon’s eyes. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Martin said to Damon, “but what do you think Dr. Kasim would say about your law practice?”

  Damon beamed at Martin, like he had anticipated this question all along. “I assume you mean because I frequently defend corporate conglomerates against racial discrimination suits. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” Martin said. “Especially, it seems, in cases where the plaintiffs are African American. You know as well as I do that some of these companies blatantly take advantage of minorities, and yet you allow them to use you to put up a good front. From what I’ve heard tonight, that seems to go against everything you believe in. So why do you do it?”

  “That is an excellent question,” Damon said. He reclined in his chair and took a few easy puffs on his cigar before continuing. “Please excuse me for answering your question with a question. What do you think would happen if I turned down those cases? Even better, what if every conscientious black attorney refused to defend any corporation accused of racial discrimination?”

  “Those corporations would lose more often,” Martin said. “I know that much.”

  The men all laughed, Damon right along with them.

  “True, true,” Damon said, “but what I’m getting at is this: those corporations would just turn around and hire a white firm.”

  “So let them. At least they’re not putting up a false front of diversity to confuse the jury.”

  Solomon shook his head. “No, no, no. You’re not seeing the big picture, son.”

  “You gotta look deeper, brother,” Kwame said. “It’s not as simple as black and white.”

  “Not much ever is,” Martin replied.

  “Think about it like this,” Damon said. “My firm employs over two dozen lawyers. Every last one of them is black—and a millionaire. In a slow year our billing easily exceeds one hundred million. Every year I donate twenty-five percent of my firm’s profits to numerous black charities. College funds, food programs, recreation centers, housing initiatives, even campaign contributions to black politicians.”

  Martin’s eyebrows rose. “That’s very impressive. I had no idea.”

  “I don’t do it
for publicity, Martin, I do it to reach back and help my people. But here’s the thing. If those corporations pay their ­multimillion-dollar legal fees to a white firm instead of me, none of that amazing stuff happens. What the corporations siphon away from our people with their discriminatory practices, I take back tenfold when they get my invoice. What would Dr. Kasim say about my practice? I’ll tell you what he told me personally. ‘Keep up the positive work, brother.’”

  While the other men nodded in agreement, Damon sank back into his chair and took a long satisfying puff of his cigar.

  Martin took this in in silence. Then something chilling occurred to him. Something that made his gut tighten. “Are you saying that you lost to me on purpose?”

  “Did it seem like I was taking a dive?” Damon said.

  “No, but—”

  “Think about it. It doesn’t matter if I win or lose, my bill’s the same. Why would I risk ruining everything I’ve built? Hurt the people I want to help? Trust me, Martin, when I step into a courtroom, I fight with every ounce of my ability to win for my client, but I will tell you this.” Damon leaned closer, wearing a conspiratorial smile. “In my heart, I’m always pulling for the little guy. I was rooting for you the whole time, Martin, and you did not disappoint. Now those racist bastards have to pay twice.”

  Martin tried to smile in agreement, but he still had an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Seeing the look on his face, Damon said, “Relax. Sympathizing with your opponent isn’t unethical.”

  “And besides,” Carver added, “we have one unbreakable rule. Anything said between us, stays between us.”

  The men nodded.

  Carver studied Martin through the smoke curling from the fiery tip of his cigar. “Is that cool with you?”

  Damon, Solomon, Tobias, Kwame, and Carver all watched Martin, waiting for his answer. Martin understood why. These were important men. These were titans of industry. African American role models. Men under constant scrutiny by the media and the government. They had reputations to protect and images to uphold. Martin did not feel that anything they discussed was hateful or malicious, but he could see how, outside that smoke-filled room, the complexion of their words and ideas could be misinterpreted in ways that could harm them all. “Agreed,” Martin said with a nod.