Under the Rubble: Rescue Is One Step Away from an Undoubtable Faith

© 2013 by Jean-Pierre Leroy. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/10/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-6140-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-6141-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013910411

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Under the Rubble

Inspirational Novel

English version of the

original novel Retrouvailles De Rescapés

from the same author

Editing : Frederica Dephew

Contents

Preface

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

I dedicate this book

to the hundreds of thousands

of Haitians and foreigners

who died under the rubble

and to the survivors

of the January 2010 earthquake

that devastated Haiti.

This book is also

dedicated to my children,

Jean-Pierre Ervelt,

Saraloys and Jonathan.

Special thanks to my wife,

Fritzie Pamphile Leroy,

who contributed greatly

to the making of

this book.

Special dedication to

Rev. Larry White for his preface, and Federica Dephew for the editing

A special tribute to the motivational speaker Jean Diderot Delpé.

Under the Rubble is based on actual events, but it is partly fiction. The names were chosen for the purposes of the story and do not represent real people.

« Beyond optimism, the power of faith and positive affirmation can help you

overcome the greatest adversities

if you can get rid of the doubt. »

JEAN-PIERRE LEROY

Preface

What is it about catastrophe that draws us to look? Our tendency to rubber necks on the highway when there is an accident or our being intrigued by the ruins from Pompey is virtually universal. In the cinema, there is a whole genre of movies called disaster flicks that have drawn huge crowds—from Towering Inferno to TITANIC. Audiences have felt compelled to put down hard earned cash drawn by the intrigue of calamity.

Many of us are uncertain if that lure of devastation is something we should admit to. Most of us apparently watch or read about others’ misfortune with a desire to test our own coping skills against experiences of other caught in such tragedy. Jean-Pierre Leroy, in his gripping story of the earthquake in Haiti gives us just such an opportunity.

From the security of our armchair we are able to enter into the experience of a father who, not only survives the devastation of January 12, 2010, but then, begins the difficult and daunting task recovering his family members. If that were not hard enough, he, then, has to take on a gang who captured his son and held him for ransom.

Jean-Pierre, a native of Haiti and international broadcaster, knows something of the actual story he writes. Then, he superimposes on the actual events a highly imaginative layer of fiction to create a story that carries you roller coaster style into the thick of the upheaval brought on the Haitian people.

If you are intrigue by the culture and mindset of this impoverished nation, Under the Rubble will give you taste of reality. You will admire the courage of their people as they confront the daily life of maneuvering already a difficult situation, but one compounded by death and disruption of a magnitude that boggles the imagination.

But be prepared to meet in the pages of this book a courageous man who moves ahead with faith and hope in the face of grave discouragement and even temptation.

Rev. Larry White

I

It was 4:30 when I reached the Police headquarters. The sun over Port-au-Prince was still blazing. It was so bad I could hardly breathe. Six months had passed since the earthquake of January 12th, which killed thousands in Haiti. The duty officer waved me in. As expected, two black, double cabin pick-ups with tinted windows were already waiting for me with engines running. I got in one of them and a member of the SWAT team passed me a bulletproof vest. The policeman at the wheel started driving slowly. The other followed at close range.

We were heading south of the capital, Port-au-Prince, for Operation PP-7 (Police-Press, signifying six policemen and one journalist). For the first time in my life I was part of a police operation. The goal was to dismantle a network of kidnappers in Martissant, Carrefour, near Port-au-Prince. That area is notorious for gangs and criminals.

I was filled with anxiety for my son, Jeff, who’d been kidnapped and was being held for ransom by one of those gangs. But if all went well, I’d soon be able to hug him again.

It began two days earlier, when my cell phone rang. It was Jeff, and he was crying.

Papi, I’ve been kidnapped. There are three other children. They beat us. We are in the area of Car—

He didn’t have time to finish his sentence. I heard him cry out. I shouted, Jeff! Jeff! But he didn’t answer. Instead, a harsh voice came on the line.

Si ou vle wè ti gason w lan ak twa lòt zanmi l yo vivan, mwen ba ou de jou pou peye 20 000 dola.

(I give you two days to pay $20,000, if you want to see your son and his friends alive.)

I couldn’t speak. My throat was tight. Fear washed over me. I thought about the children abducted and murdered in Haiti during the last three years. And now my son! I had very little money in the bank. How was I going to pay a ransom?

I’d done six months of painstaking research in my effort to find him, but I didn’t expect to hear his voice under these circumstances. The seconds passed. I didn’t know how to answer. I took a deep breath.

Patnè ou konnen tout moun pèdi tout bagay apre tranblemanntè a. Kote mwen pral jwenn 20 000 dola pou m ba ou. Menm prete, mwen pap jwenn prete tout lajan sa a.

(My friend, you know we lost everything in the earthquake. Where in the world can I find $20,000? No one will lend me that much money.)

Apre pitit ou a fin pran kèk sabò, li di m ou se jounalis. Nou pa renmen jounalis. Pa pèdi tan si ou pa vle l mouri. M ap ba ou chans ou. Wap peye 10 000 dola, pou pitit ou ak ti zanmi l yo. Mwen ba ou twa jou.

(Your son, after having been heartily slapped, agreed to tell me you’re a journalist. We don’t like journalists. We may kill him if you don’t hurry. We’ll give you a break. You will pay $10,000 for your son and his three friends. You have three days.)

Ban m jiska samdi. M ap bezwen fè kèk apèl. Mwen pap ka jwenn tout lajan sa a nan twa jou.

(Three days is not enough. Give me until Saturday, time for me to make some calls. I can’t get that much money in three days.)

Kote sa mèt radyo w la, radyo Signal 9, pa ka peye la a. Mwen ba ou jiska samdi. N ap rele ou pou n di ou ki kote w ap pote lajan an. Men tou, pa rele lapolis. Si ou fè sa, n ap konnen. Pa fè ankenn tantativ moun fou pou malè pa rive ti moun yo. Pou chak jou reta n ap touye youn ladan yo. N ap rele w vandredi o swa samdi maten.

(The owner of Signal 9, the radio station you work for, can pay this modest sum. You have until Saturday morning to deliver the ransom. Don’t notify the police. We will know. Don’t be stupid. The children will pay the price. For each day of delay we will kill one of them. We’ll contact you Friday or Saturday morning.)

Without another word, he hung up. I had no time to lose. I had to act fast if I wanted to see Jeff and the other children alive. I had $2,000. in my bank account. I had to find the rest of the ransom quickly. I decided not to tell my wife’s relatives about the kidnapping, with the exception of my brother-in-law Bob. With the help of my friends Hervé and his sister Janine, who’d been hosting me since the earthquake, I’d use these four days to work on a plan.

I had nothing to go on. Jeff hadn’t had time to tell me where he was. His last word came back to me. He said he was in Car—. It could be Carrefour or Carrefour-Feuilles, two areas infested with bandits. As I was thinking, the name Black Fè came to my mind like a click. Baboune Elou, known as Black Fè, was a former gang leader who converted to Protestantism. We used to attend the same church. After narrowly escaping death during a confrontation with another gang, he decided to change his life and give it to God. He became a police informant. I called him and he agreed to help. I gave him a picture of Jeff.

As the former head of a gang, Black Fè had developed leadership skills, field experience and contacts. Within two days he narrowed his search to the areas of Carrefour and Carrefour-Feuille, the two areas I’d thought of after speaking with my son. Black Fè, with help from his friends, was able to locate the bandits’ base two days before the ransom was due. He stationed two informants in the neighborhood to watch the criminals’ every move. The children were being held in an abandoned school in Martissant. The kidnappers left early every morning and returned after 6 p.m.

With this information, I decided to ask the Judicial Police for help. Black Fè objected, fearing that a corrupt agent might inform the bandits. He didn’t want to take any risk that would put the hostages’ lives in danger. He agreed only after I promised we’d be very careful.

Two days before the deadline, I called the director general of the judicial police, Commissioner Hantz Hermitus. Before the earthquake I had often interviewed him. He talked to me freely because I could give him balanced information on criminal matters.

That morning he didn’t answer the phone. After repeated tries, I hung up without leaving a message. Five minutes later, he called me back. He didn’t usually return calls, so it was my lucky day.

Commissioner Hantz Hermitus—what can I do for you? he said.

Jacques Vallès, Haitian Press Centre. I must meet with you today. It’s a matter of life and death.

What’s this all about?

Let’s meet in a couple of hours.

Let me see.

After a moment, he said, That’s fine with me. We can meet in two hours.

At the appointed time, I went to police headquarters. I showed my journalist’s ID to the security officer. There was a crowd of impatient people waiting to complete legal process for the registration of their vehicles. The atmosphere was hectic and noisy. After fifteen minutes, I was called into the commissioner’s office. He stood and shook my hand.

Mr. Vallès, what is this matter ‘of life and death?’ He motioned for me to close the door and sit down.

Promise me you won’t say a word about what I’m going to tell you. I came to request an operation to save my son and three other kidnapped children, who may be executed within forty-eight hours.

I gave him all the details. I shared with him the fears of the informant Black Fè and told him about the kidnappers’ connections within the police department. The commissioner was playing with a pen as he listened to me. When I finished, he looked me straight in the eye and nodded with a smile.

Congratulations, Mr. Vallès. You did a real piece of investigative work. I salute your courage. Instead of paying the ransom, you’d rather involve the police in your plan. Don’t worry. The operation will be kept top secret. I will immediately get my six best agents on the anti-kidnapping squad. The operation will be known as PP-7 (Police-Press-7).

By the day of the operation, Commissioner Hermitus had made careful plans. For more than three hours, the special agents and I studied every detail. After much discussion, he agreed to let me be part of the team. My research had helped the police plan one of the most important anti-kidnapping operations since the earthquake.

Finally it began.

Our two black vehicles were rolling slowly. There was no way to go faster on a road littered with concrete debris. Transit vans and small trucks (tap-taps) were stopping to pick up and drop off passengers, adding to the traffic jam.

From time to time, I glanced at my watch to encourage the driver-agent to use his siren so we could move faster. I was nervous and jumpy. We had to get there before sunset and before the bandits. The bulletproof vest was heavy and I was sweating, despite the air conditioner. A phone call came from Black Fè.

Jacques, depeche w pou vini san pèdi tan. Mesye yo kapab tounen nan baz la pi bonè jodi a. Mwen eseye rapwoche m de kay la. Gen yon sèl nèg yo met veye otaj yo. Mwen kapab fè divèsyon pou nou metrize misye. Depeche w. M ap mete ou o kouran.

(Jack, hurry up! The bandits could come back early today. I got closer to the house where the hostages are being held. There is only one guy guarding them and it won’t be hard to create a diversion. Hurry!)

Will the agents be able to surround the house? I asked him loudly, to encourage our driver to hurry.

Li pap difisil si ou rive avan li fè nwa.

(It won’t be difficult if you arrive before dark.)

I put my phone on speaker. The policeman, following the conversation, finally made the move I was hoping for. He turned on his siren and sped up. The other police vehicle did the same. Operation PP-7 was well and truly launched. I still couldn’t believe I was part of a police anti-kidnapping operation. I tried to stay calm and empty everything out of my mind. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, watching, in my imagination, the filmed story of my journey, frame by frame, from its beginning six months ago.

II

When I opened my eyes that morning, I could hardly move my left foot. An IV tube was feeding into a vein in my arm. In the same tent, three other patients with serious injuries were groaning. One of them had just had a foot amputated. I was suffering from partial amnesia and didn’t understand what was going on around me. I called the nurse to ask her what had happened. At that moment, the earth began to shake. The aftershock triggered my memory, and recent events came flooding back. I shouted desperately, calling out for my wife and children.

I remembered, now, the nightmare of Tuesday, January 12, 2010. I was at work and I’d just turned off my computer and glanced at the clock. It was 4:45, time to pick up my daughter, Vanessa, who was still in school. She was in eighth grade in Marie-Claire High School, a religious institution at Christ-Roi in the area of Bourdon. Her volleyball class usually ends at 5:00 and I leave my office around 4:30 to have a chance to see her play. My office was on the second floor of the Haitian Press Centre at 353 Avenue John Brown, Route de Bourdon. It was a three-minute drive from her school.

That afternoon, I was winding up preparations for my Thursday Forum. As usual, I’d called the journalists from different media in the capital, as a reminder. I’d just started walking toward the door when the building began to shake violently. Within seconds, the rear of the building, where my office was located, collapsed. I just had time to take a quick look out my window to see the other buildings falling like sand castles, tiny particles of debris rising like smoke. I didn’t have time to move.

In a flash, the first story of the building flattened onto the ground floor. I was in semi-darkness. A piece of concrete had injured my right arm and left leg. My first instinct was to touch my pocket with the other hand to see if my cell phone was there. It was! Even though I couldn’t move, I breathed a sigh of relief.

I pulled the phone from my pocket to call my wife, Katie. Our home was at Delmas 33 on the third floor of an apartment in a residential area surrounded by slums. Urban overcrowding had led to this situation in many nice neighborhoods in Port-au-Prince and its suburbs. Katie stayed home in the afternoon, usually working on her computer in search of good opportunities online. She was probably there when the quake struck. Jeff was at the Haitian-Canadian school with his basketball team, practicing for their game the next day.

A thousand and one thoughts dashed back and forth across my mind. I was terrified for my family. Anxiety gripped my