Justice at Risk Read Free Page A

Suddenly, her eyes darted with relief across the restaurant, toward the entrance.
    “There he is now!” She raised her long, slim arm, waving a hand. “Oree! Over here!”
    Templeton hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d used the word spectacular to describe Oree Joffrien. He was roughly my height, six feet, maybe an inch taller, with a lean, lanky frame and surprisingly broad shoulders that tapered to a waist so narrow it suggested that his upper body might topple. The attractive frame was draped in a stylish, loose-fitting, dark brown jacket, a brightly patterned tie against an off-white dress shirt, and pleated, tawny-colored slacks that floated slightly as he moved. I figured his soft loafers for Italian, and probably expensive. His motion had the ease and grace of an athlete, reminiscent of the finest runners—those in the long-legged events, like the hurdles, or the four hundred meters.
    For all that, it was his remarkable face that riveted my eye: molasses brown, clean-shaven, with piercing dark eyes set at an attractive slant, hinting at the Asian blood I’d been cautioned not to mention. His cheekbones arched dramatically, like his dark brows and oddly pointed ears, toward a smooth-domed head shaved clean. His nose was broad and blunt, and his upper lip voluptuously large, shaped sensually like the double-curved crown of a valentine heart. With his keen, narrow eyes and unsmiling mouth, he looked almost fierce. Not a scowl, exactly; more like a statement of pride, challenging anyone to think otherwise. What some with small minds might call supreme confidence in a white man, and arrogance in a man who was black.
    As he made his way in our direction, Templeton leaned across the table and said quickly: “I didn’t find out until our third date that he’s gay. How was I supposed to know? He’s so masculine.”
    “I thought that stereotype died with Rock Hudson.”
    She made a quick face, then smiled as we stood to meet Oree Joffrien. The hostess was right behind him, bringing menus. Templeton introduced us and we shook hands—single grip, the old-fashioned way, which seemed to be coming back into style—but he barely looked at me as we sat down. Without being asked, he ordered a bottle of Congolese beer called Ngok’. The menus were handed around, and they kept us busy for a minute or two. Joffrien was apparently well acquainted with the cuisine—it was he, I learned, who had suggested we meet at the Addis Ababa and Templeton asked him for recommendations.
    “Both the wat’ and the alich’a are quite good. They’re both spicy beef stews—red peppers in the wat’ , green peppers in the alich’a .” Joffrien’s voice was deep, rich, and cultured, with a trace of Louisiana bayou country. “I’m told the kitfo is also quite good here, though it’s beef served raw. If you’d prefer it lightly fried, ask for lebleb .”
    Templeton made a face at the mention of uncooked beef.
    “I’m suddenly feeling veggie.”
    “You might try the lentil salad then. They season it with chopped shallots, lime, minced ginger root, and serrano chiles. Tasty, and fairly substantial.”
    She slapped her menu shut.
    “You’ve made up my mind. Justice?”
    I closed my menu as well.
    “I’ll try the beef t’ibs ,” I said evenly, referring to a braised dish served with a hot red chile paste on the side.
    Joffrien raised his eyebrows in understated salute.
    “You’re the adventurous type.”
    “Or maybe just independent-minded.”
    His penetrating eyes settled calmly on mine.
    “Admirable, either way.”
    “To a point,” Templeton put in. “Justice has a way of taking things to extremes.”
    “I got that impression when I read the GQ piece.”
    This time, my eyebrows did the arching, though less pleasantly.
    “You’ve already seen Templeton’s article?”
    “She faxed me a copy this morning. Thought it might be a good icebreaker when we met this evening.” He glanced her way, as calm and composed as a