For no reason, I might add. His words to me, out of Eve’s earshot, have left a bruise. “I don’t trust you, Stone, and I’m warning you—stay away from my daughter, unless it’s work related. I don’t want you to get her into trouble.”
Everything for the rest of my life will be classified as work related, you can bet on it. But I would really prefer Mulligan to like me, especially since he’s going to be sticking around.
How? I’ll figure that part out later.
I reach over Eve’s shoulder and point to a listing down the page. “What is that article about a protest?”
It’s something from a Canadian news site about an organized protest. Eve reads it as fast as I do.
“It looks like Good Earth coffee was named by the protesters as one of the perpetrators of child labor,” she says, summing up what I’ve just read. “There’s a long list.”
“Who are the protesters?”
“A conglomerate group. The article mentions Free the Children, a couple church groups, and the International Child Labor Defense League.”
“Yahoo that.” That sounds weird. Apparently “Google it” doesn’t translate. “Search for the Child Labor Defense League,” I say, simplifying.
She’s already typing it in and a few hits come up. “It’s a group out of DC. They’ve been involved in a number of protests around the country. Here’s one in Oregon, and another in New York City.”
She pulls up the article. “Oh, wow, they’re not exactly peaceful. Seattle. The burning of…a coffee shop.”
“Was anyone arrested?” I’m reading it too, but Eve’s always been a faster reader than me.
“A couple people. Gus Silva and…Jo De Paulo.”
“Do a search—”
But she’s already typing, and there is a hit for a Gustavo Silva, Brazilian footballer.
Brazilian.
“He immigrated to the US a year ago with D.C. United,” Eve says. “And was arrested about three months later.”
I sit back and shake my head. “What is a Brazilian footballer doing hooked up with a child labor protest group in Seattle?”
“According to the Child Labor Defense League, Brazil is one of the leading countries that uses child slave labor to pick their beans.”
“Interesting. Where is Gustavo from in Brazil?”
“There’s a picture of his team.” She’s pulled up the team roster. “Wow, about half these guys are international.” She is scrolling down and right about the middle of the page, my gut clenches.
“Stop.” I point to the screen. “That’s Ramses.”
“The guy you chased today?”
I nod and it’s all I can do to sit here, every corpuscle in my body on fire. “I knew it.”
“You think he’s involved with the Child Labor Defense League?”
“He and Gustavo.”
She has clicked on Gustavo’s picture, and is reading his stats. “He’s from a village in the State of Espirito Santo…” She clicks on Ramses pictures. “Bingo. Same as Ramses.”
“They knew each other in Brazil.”
She’s typing again, and the awkwardness of feeling older, even more experienced is starting to dim, flushed away by that familiar, sweet jazz we get when we’re onto something.
“The State of Espirito Santo is the biggest producer of Robusta coffee beans in the world.”