chapter 15a 

(Cell Seven) 

Moïse Berri 

and the Reconstruction of the Haitian 

Space Agency 

by Jude Jarda 

15a 
Cell Seven 

Captain Pintado and Chief Police Malvenu block off the entrance of the municipal jail of Mizerikod with a company of sixty UN Peacekeepers. Pintado sent Lieutenant Menendez to the south side of the bridge. He ordered him to wait for his instructions or his return. The captain wrote down three simple questions on his notepad. Three important issues he would like the mysterious French Canadian detainee from Rimouski to help him clarify. The answers provided by the Quebecker will tell if he is indeed a real danger to the stability of the State of Haiti or just an additional victim of Moïse Berri's mercurial criminal mind. According to his written testimony, Réal Couture thought that he was only doing his job, performing as an actor, playing the role of a fictional character, a benefactor and NGO director named Moïse Berri. He had no clue about the scale of the plot being hatched around him. A phone call to the Provincial Police in Quebec exonerated Couture almost immediately from multiple accusations. His reputation as a ladies man, a binge drinker and an extroverted artist did not match the typical pedophile profiling. Local police even confirmed that the locks of his residence were forced during his absence and his personal computer broken into. The conspiracy theory Réal Couture repeatedly denounced began to make sense. The Sûreté du Québec also admitted that Couture was reported missing by the RCMP for two months, according to a municipal police report filed by Couture's impresario, a new beneficiary of the Canadian Witness Protection Program. 

Mayor Amédée Fleurinor welcomes Captain Pintado and Chief Police Malvenu in the insalubrious office of Oscar Perceval, the prison warden. Mayor Fleurinor offers them some hazelnut flavored coffee and sweetened cassava bread. The head of the city council has no objection to the interview that the UNPOL wants to conduct with the prisoner in cell number seven. But before they proceed, he would like to have a word in private with the commissioner in the corridor. 

“You are from now on my official successor, Yves-Arnold, my trusted and long time loyal friend. I am leaving the presidency of the municipal council as of today. Only one man deserves to inherit that lucrative and secure post and that man is you.” 
“You said the elections were not before May.” 
“Change is progress. I'll speed them up and arrange them to your advantage.” 
“Just last month, you were planning to illegally prolong your term, Mr. Mayor. I'm a little bit lost.” 
“The position of the stars in the sky recently shifted, my esteemed comrade. I am now a businessman. You can call me, O.D., that's for Oil Driller.” 
“You're leaving the country?” 
“On the contrary, my very close ally, I have never felt such a powerful attachment to my homeland. Black gold is right under our feet, Yves-Arnold. I am since morning the proud owner of one third of the commune's soil, as the newly named CEO of Ayiti Oil Fleurinor and Associates. The Associates means you and a chosen few, but unfortunately, I cannot make you an executive in my drilling and distribution enterprise at this point; that would look too suspicious. Let's face it; you don't know zit about fossil energy. However, I can make you a strategic partner by electing you the commander in chief of the municipal council. I will organize your election campaign like a Mexican wrestling bout. I'll count the ballot boxes myself. Let me assure you that there will not be a breathing opponent. We'll select several names from the tombstones of the old cemetery. What am I saying? That was done yesterday. I am over qualified when it comes to organizing stuff and making things work. Your future assistants have already been picked. There is Herman Rodrigue Latrimus, dead in the seventies, and Jules Gilbert Calemard, dude with no deceased date, which is perfect for us. You think that's all? No way, Amédée Fleurinor likes to go to war fully loaded. I just hired Leopold de Grâce; an experienced white collar thief who speaks three languages and holds a MBA in finance from the Berkeley Haas School of Business. Stop me when you think we're strong enough. Victor Gourdet is also part of our team. Consider Victor our secret weapon, our kryptonite. Victor controls the local information and he is so TV-friendly with that bow tie, the kakis, his tobacco pipe and the made-up Parisian accent. Both men will be briefed on their duty and salary real soon. listen, Yves-Arnold, my good companion, you guarantee complete immunity for two or three of my employees with a gangrened past and I make you richer than your imagination can picture in your wildest dreams.” 

Mayor Amédée Fleurinor and Commissioner Malvenu head back to the office of Oscar Perceval. Captain Pintado is now in the company of the night guards: Picot and Albin; and two notable bandits of the town of Mizerikod: Jim Falafel and Jeff Sprinter. The hoodlums look like a pair of hardworking scientists, with their spotless lab coats, latex gloves and protective glasses. Mayor Fleurinor only hopes that they kept their mouth shot about his personal businesses. Jim Falafel is supposed to be a Nigerian chemist with a hearing problem and Jeff Sprinter, an Angolan geophysicist who only speaks Mbundu. Amédée Fleurinor tells them in a botched Bantu to return immediately to their laboratory upstairs in order to pursue their cutting edge experiments. Chief Malvenu observes the whole thing with stupefaction. The mayor then asks the two prison guards to lead them to the French Canadian's prison cell. 

“What were you talking about with the foreign officer?” the mayor asks Albin in Creole. “Do you think I'm paying you to socialize with strangers?” 
“We just wanted a taste of the cassava,” Albin explains. 
“Don't you worry, Boss, we didn't invite him to chat,” Picot says. “Do you remember Pamphile Dutervil, Boss, the cross-eyed cook, the jealous husband of Melissandre Présumé? The rumor in town says that he is not dead like everyone thought. Vidal Gascon and the guys from housekeeping at the clinic claim that Pamphile Dutervil is returning to Mizerikod to kill all the perverts that touched his wife during his long absence. Our friend, Albin, King of Viagra and Duke of the Dildo, right here, being one of his potential victims, I was laughing my ass out thinking about a public fight between the two. On the left corner, Pamphile Dutervil with his set of kitchen knives, on the right corner, my man, Albin the Stallion, loading his pneumatic nail gun.” 
“I never went past friendship with Melissandre Présumé,” Albin protests. 
“You'll have to explain that to that loony around the coffee table while he is sharpening his equipment,” Picot teases with a big grin on his face. 
“Do you sometimes stop talking nonsense, the two of you?” the mayor erupts. “Open cell number seven, presto!” 
“Uh, we have all the keys except the one for cell seven and the private bathroom on the second floor,” Albin says. “Oscar insisted on keeping them for himself after his shift.” 
“So you don't have a double or a master key? What are the procedures in case of fire or flooding?” 
“There is none. One would be the unluckiest bastard in the world, being a prisoner in here and a disaster victim at the same time. On a positive note, you can speak to the suspects through the slot we use to pass them food. You bend down like this and, voilà.” 
“You call that positive, you feeble-minded orangutang? Is that okay with you, Captain Pintado?” the mayor asks in English. 
“What is okay? I wasn't following your conversation.” The captain replies. 
“I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Captain, but you must converse with the captive without a visual contact, right through that metal slot down here at knee level. Those two brainless mollusks don't have the key for cell number seven, even if it says prison guards on their dirty shirts.” 
“I've been through much worse since my arrival in that country, Mr. Mayor.” 

Pintado kneels down and immediately starts pounding on the iron door of the jail cell. 

“All right, Couture, we know more about you than both your parents, your doctor, the credit agencies and Revenu Quebec combined. I've got a couple of questions for you. You can forget about evoking your right to remain silent, no one knows that you are trapped in that muggy hole. If I don't get your entire collaboration, I cannot guarantee that you'll ever see the light of day again. Do you read me, Couture? The people running this jail ignore the existence of the Human Rights Declaration. Question number one: how did you get your hands on a passport bearing the name of Moïse Berri?” 
“Quiet!” a convict complains on the other side of the door. “Is it too much to ask for some silence when I'm trying to sleep?” 
“Answer the question, Couture; we don't have much time at our disposal.” 
“Your White man is gone, Spaniard! Give us tranquility or give us our liberty.” 
“Who am I speaking to?” 
“Las Vegas.” 
“What?”
“Las Vegas.”  
“Uhh! Okay. How many men are in the cell with you, Mr. Las Vegas?” 
“Two… three, if you believe that the cannibal is still part of the human race.” 
“What about the Quebecker?” Mayor Fleurinor asks. 
“Gone with Oscar Perceval,” the inmate known as Las Vegas answers. 
“How is that possible, Albin?” the mayor panics. 
“I don't know. I arrived about ten minutes after Oscar left.” 
“And what about you, Picot?” 
“I punched in after Albin, but I saw Senator Fleurant's limousine leaving the premise. I didn't think it was somehow unusual, because the old man comes and walks around here as he pleases all the time since I started working here as a prison guard.”