Джон Гришэм - Sooley

On July 19, one month to the day after that horrible Sunday morning at the Acropolis, The Sooley Fund was launched. The website featured a beautiful color sketch taken from Murray’s favorite photo of his friend. There was Sooley, with the ball held high over his head, and a wicked smile on his face, soaring high above the rim for another rattling dunk. There were photos of the refugee settlements, the starving children, of healthier teenagers playing basketball on dirt courts, and a tribute to the great Central team that had so captivated the sports world. The website and social media pages were linked to each other in every way possible.

By midnight of launch day, over 50,000 viewers had visited the site and 11,000 had sent money, a total of $148,000. Murray forced himself to close his laptop and he tried to sleep. By noon the next day, the money was at $305,000 and the deluge was on. The Fund was going viral.

Sooley’s popularity was astonishing. His tragic death only heightened the public’s desire to help in some small way. The comments and condolences were overwhelming and poured in with the money.

After seventy-two hours, more than 100,000 people had paid by credit card, with the average gift at about $8. After four days, the Fund topped $1 million and Murray was giving interviews.

He sent a long memo to his board — Ecko, Lonnie, Jason, and Ida — and described in detail Sooley’s desire to extricate his family and his plans for doing so.

With the board’s approval, he called Gary Gaston.

Three weeks later, Gaston arrived at the Walker home for a preflight briefing. He brought with him an African American woman named Silvia, who he described as one of his associates. She specialized in “extrication logistics,” something as vague as Gaston could possibly make it sound, but the Walkers were not about to ask for any clarification.

A week earlier, Gaston had explained to Murray that a woman would be a nice addition to the team because Beatrice and the boys might feel more comfortable around her. They were likely to be thoroughly rattled if not traumatized, and women handled those situations better. There was some loose talk about Ida making the trip, though she was not keen to go. That talk got nixed when Gaston explained that he and Murray, along with whatever woman they took, would run the slight risk of being arrested upon their entry into the U.S. The charge could be aiding and abetting an illegal entry. Gaston was prepared to risk such a minor charge. Murray was undaunted. Ida preferred not to be arrested and flatly said no. She needed to stay behind and organize the legal team and deal with Immigration. Gaston said that with two prior extrications, both involving Syrians, the planes landed in Bangor, Maine, where Immigration was not known to be as aggressive as, say, Miami. The families surrendered to the authorities, were detained, and Immigration never pursued anyone for aiding and abetting.

Over dinner at Ida’s table, Gaston walked them through each step of the extrication and answered all their questions. He showed them the forged passports for the Sooleymons. Using photos that Ecko had taken with them in December, the forger had done what appeared to be a masterful job of producing Ugandan passports. Since Sooleymon was a familiar name throughout East Africa, and Beatrice, James, and Chol were not uncommon, their new passports used their real names. Murray had been able to obtain their birthdates from Ecko.

Gaston expanded on the story he had told Murray about the failed extrication a year earlier at Heathrow. The paperwork had been fine, but the Immigration official became suspicious when the mother flubbed her fictitious birth date.

Ernie wanted to know what could go wrong. Several things that they knew of and several that no one had ever heard of. The biggest fear was the airplane. The Gulfstream 650 had a range of 7,500 miles and Entebbe was 7,300 miles from the airport at Raleigh-Durham. Flying west, they would certainly face headwinds, and if they were strong enough the jet might be forced to make a pit stop. Landing anywhere but the U.S. was risky. However, the pilots would monitor the weather closely and would know what they were facing before they took off. Plan B would be to land in the Canary Islands, a favorite fueling stop for international flights and a place known for customs agents who could be convinced to look the other way. Gaston had contacts there.

There was always the chance that trouble might erupt at Rhino Camp South and prevent a quiet exit by Beatrice and the boys. There were other risks, but on the whole Gaston and Silvia were confident.

After they said good night and left for their hotel, Murray went to his room and finished packing. As he did almost every hour, he checked in with the Fund, now at over $3 million and counting. He had been forced to hurriedly hire a part-time secretary to deal with the details and make sure the donors, all 265,000 of them, were properly thanked. Their systems were upgraded; more powerful software was added. Murray was chasing his tail and in need of full-time help, and the last thing he needed was a trip to Uganda.

But he wasn’t about to miss the adventure.

Before they were buckled in, the copilot welcomed them aboard and briefed them on the flight. Thanks to a tailwind, their estimated flight time was only thirteen hours. Thirteen sounded only slightly better than fourteen or fifteen. Just minutes before their scheduled 11 a.m. departure, the flight attendant took their drink orders and handed them lunch menus.

The jet seemed plated with gold. The leather recliners were soft and deep. The carpet was thick, plush. A mahogany dining table sat midway aft, and beyond it were two sofas that folded into beds, complete with silk sheets. Screens were everywhere and there was an endless selection of movies and channels.

It would be Murray’s third trip on a private jet, and something told him it would probably be his last. Classes started in two weeks and it was back to the grind. Then basketball, without Sooley and without Coach Britt, and a season that looked less than promising.

Murray found a chair in the rear, kicked off his shoes, buckled himself in, and vowed to enjoy the trip.

The two soldiers were Ugandan Defence Forces, the usual troops seen around the camp. They wore the standard green fatigues, shiny black boots, smart black berets, and, as always, had Kallies strapped over their shoulders. They found Beatrice behind her tent tending to her small plot of vegetables. They were friendly and polite and asked her to step away for a private word.

They informed her that she had been selected to move to a newer section of Rhino Camp South, to a nicer home. Keep it quiet. She had heard the rumors of new housing to replace their rotting tents, but those rumors had been around for months. The refugees spent half their time sifting through rumors, or creating more of them.

They returned to her tent where a third soldier was waiting with two army duffel bags. Beatrice balked and said she wasn’t sure she wanted to leave. Her close friends lived on each side of her and she wouldn’t go without them. The soldiers smiled and said her friends would make the move tomorrow. Within minutes, she had packed everything she owned — clothing, blankets, pillows, tins of food, some notebooks from school, and two plastic jugs for hauling water. The soldiers carried the duffels as they left the area. Beatrice looked back at her tent, her home for the past year, and wondered if she would ever see it again. An army jeep was waiting. The soldiers helped Beatrice into the front passenger’s seat and tossed her bags into the back where another soldier was sitting. The jeep weaved slowly through the settlement and came to its edge, near the school. Standing in front under the shade of a tree was a teacher with James and Chol.