Free Mile Zero by Thomas Sanchez

always work.”
    “It’ll work.” Justo rubbed his bone and opened the door behind him into a bare room with a table and two chairs. A boldface black-and-white clock on the wall with a long sweeping second hand served as the only decorative reminder of what the true issue of criminal court is about.
“No te me tangues.”
    “Don’t worry. I won’t let you down.”
    “I know you won’t.” Justo slapped St. Cloud on the back with the bravado of a high-school football coach sending in his last bench warmer to save the big game. “By the way, at the end of the hour give the prisoner this.” Justo handed St. Cloud an egg carton tightly bound with thick twine. “He’ll need it.”
    St. Cloud watched Justo disappear down the long corridor and through the glare of glass doors at the courthouse entrance. He wanted to follow Justo into the sun, head for the closest bar to stop his body’s trembling from fear and alcoholic craving. He reluctantly motioned Voltaire into the empty room, seating him beneath the clock’s second hand as it swept past three o’clock. St. Cloud closed the door and punched in the button lock protruding from the knob. He sat quickly and peeled the bag from the neck of the rum bottle, swigging half a pint of amber liquid down in a swift gulp. He offered the bottle to Voltaire. Homesick syrup for the dispossessed. A dumb thing to do. St. Cloud knew the kid wouldn’t touch it, would rather bite off the head of a rabid bat and drink its blood than accept anything from this white devil, this corrupt symbol of authority, this pathetic messenger from the land of the free. St. Cloud knew that was not what the boy saw. Voltaire saw power, authority, someone not to be trusted, someone who threatened his security and kept him imprisoned, kept him an indispensable cog in a system he couldn’t comprehend. Then again, who could know what the kid really thought? St. Cloud knew he didn’t, he just had to trust his instincts, keep his own guilt in the saddle and ride for a touchdown of understanding. Fifteen thousand just like Voltaire had been busted along the shores of Florida in the past year, from seaside Palm Beach mansions to coral beaches of the Keys. Who knew how many got through? Who knew how many drowned or died of exposure on thesix-hundred-mile journey of open sea? St. Cloud took another drink. Who knew how those people on Voltaire’s boat died? Who had the nightmare script? Who knew what this kid lived through, what horrors he had seen, if he understood his chances of being shipped up to the Everglades detention camp were better than even unless Justo pulled off his miracle? All Voltaire had left was his life, and that was shaved down to pathetic irony, for life to a
paysan
meant land. Land was not only life, but the fountainspring of dignity giving man the strength to rise above being a common animal, walk on two legs with pride. When torrential tropical rains came in small Haitian villages, washing farmed soil loose, eroding it down to rivers and into the sea, the
paysans
would say, “There goes our life.” St. Cloud had heard their tales, had translated for hundreds of them. These were a people spun in a cocoon of misery. Like this boy before him, they still had an awesome sense of trust which allowed them to go forward. Courage in their language meant hard work. No matter how unspeakable the adversity, man-made or natural, no matter how inexorably the hardship river of tears washed the soil of life to the sea, as long as there was land there was hope. As long as there was hope there were families. This boy was guarded by all the saints and gods rubbing shoulders in the
hamforts
, the mystery houses, all summoned up to guard the
matelotes
, the shipmates on their final journey.
    3:15. Time was running out. St. Cloud removed his sweat-soaked sailing cap and took another drink. He smiled and offered a hello to Voltaire. Nothing. He reached into the inside pocket of his one and only “court