American Tropic - By Thomas Sanchez Page 0,43

the cake in front of Nina.

Nina stares wide-eyed at the cake. She looks across the candles to the other side of the table, at Luz. “Mom, can you help me blow them out?”

“Go on, honey. You can do it. This is your day.”

Nina inhales deeply and concentrates. She leans down and blows. Candles on the cake flicker and go out with little puffs of smoke. One smoking candle flares up again, its wick still burning. Nina’s smiling face turns to disappointment.

Zoe, next to Nina, puts her arms around her in a hug. “Brava, Nina! That last burning candle is for good luck in the future!” Nina beams as everyone applauds.

Luz holds up a gaily wrapped box. “There’s one more thing. Here it is, the most exciting part of the Quince.” She walks around the table and kneels next to Nina in her wheelchair. She unwraps the box. “You are becoming a woman today, so you get your first real high heels. That’s the tradition—we are a very traditional people.” She removes the box lid. Nina gasps at the sight of red high-heel shoes. Luz pulls off the flat white shoes Nina is wearing and slips the high heels onto her feet.

Nina throws her arms around Luz. “Mom! I love you!”

“You always wanted a pair of sparkling magic shoes like the ones Dorothy wore on her journey to see Oz. Now you’ll be able to walk the Yellow Brick Road all the way to the Emerald City. When you get there and you meet Oz, tell him”—Luz bends forward and kisses Nina’s forehead—“tell him how much your family adores you.”

Noah, Rimbaud, and the public defender wait in the courtroom at the defendant’s table. Noah keeps his eyes on the judge’s empty elevated podium at the front of the room. Rimbaud’s face muscles twitch. At the prosecution’s table, across the aisle, three attorneys chat in low voices as they shuffle papers back and forth from their briefcases. In the back of the crowded courtroom, a tall black man wearing a suit and tie sits in the last row. His face is stern, his attention bearing straight ahead at the defendant’s table.

A bailiff enters from a side door and commands loudly: “All rise. Court is in session. The Honorable Judge Helen Reese presiding.” Everyone in the room rises except Rimbaud, who didn’t understand what the bailiff said in English. Noah nudges Rimbaud to his feet.

The cloaked judge enters from her chambers and sits at her elevated podium. She looks down. “Be seated. Our court schedules are backed up, so time, as well as justice, is of the essence. I’ll make this brief. Since the defendant’s last appearance before me, I have reviewed investigative reports and detailed lab results pertinent to the murder of Pat Benson. I also perused briefs and motions from the defense counsel. I see no substantial evidence, not even circumstantial evidence, that Mr. Rimbaud Mesrine perpetuated a crime, let alone the egregious crime of murder.” The judge turns her focus to the attorneys at the prosecution table. “Would the prosecution like to make a statement?”

One of the prosecution attorneys stands and answers the judge. “Your Honor, having reviewed the facts of this case, we concur with the court and see no reason to move ahead with prosecution. If it pleases the court, we accept a motion to dismiss with prejudice.”

“Thank you. You may be seated.” The judge turns her attention to the defendant’s table. “I have consulted with federal immigration authorities regarding Mr. Mesrine’s legal status. The salient fact, as presented in Mr. Mesrine’s statement given voluntarily to the court interpreter, is that both his parents and three siblings were on the raft with him, headed from Haiti to America. Everyone on that raft was declared deceased upon reaching U.S. waters except for Mr. Mesrine. Since Mr. Mesrine entered the United States as an unaccompanied indigent minor, I hereby grant him political asylum and place him in the custody of his adult cousin, François Lefaille, a U.S. citizen with residence in Tampa, Florida.” The judge bangs her gavel. “Case dismissed.”

Rimbaud, confused, looks to Noah. His words blurt out in French: “What did she say? What’s happening?”

Noah answers in French. “Political asylum. She granted you political asylum.” He pulls Rimbaud up from his chair and claps him on the back.

Rimbaud looks around, still confused. He sees the tall black man walking straight down the aisle toward him. Rimbaud steps behind Noah for protection. The man stops before Noah and grabs Noah’s