CHAPTER 1Luisa
Unfortunately, newspaper deadlines don’t come with a twenty-four-hour birthday curse extension. I should’ve known my birthday would be the worst possible day of the year to turn in a story I’ve been working myself to the bone to write for months.
Abuela called me at the crack of dawn this morning, bursting into a sweet but abysmally off-key rendition of “Las Mañanitas,” after which she delivered the “auspicious news” that she’d had a vision of San Juan Bautista, which meant all my shitty birthday luck was about to be over. “Thisis the year you will finally shake off the mal de ojo,” she exclaimed in Spanish. “Your birthday falls on the spring equinox, mija! It’s a sign.”
Now it’s midmorning and my thighs burn as I double my stride, praying Abuelita’s right and this birthday will be different, calamity-free. I’m trying in vain to keep up with Nina, my managing editor. She’s a five-foot-one force of nature with two speeds: sprinting and catch-me-if-you-can. Which is how I find myself panting as we climb three flights of stairs from the bowels ofThe Georgia Times, where the printing press is located, to the newsroom on the second floor. Apparently, Nina doesn’t believe in elevators.
“Nina,” I plead for the hundredth time, “this is ready for publication.” In my hand, I’m brandishing a draft of my latest article as if it were a sword. The two of us have been going at it over this story for weeks: me pushing forward, Nina pushing back—and for no good reason. “I spoke with experts. I have multiple sources. What’s this email about standing down? This is a solid story. Did Chip even read it?”
Chip is our publisher. Harold “Chip” F. Marshall IV, to beprecise. He’s the kind of guy who loves to cry out “Show me the money!” at staff meetings, repeatedly rubbing his thumb and forefinger like some hapless, middle-aged Tom Cruise wannabe.
“Oh, Chip read it all right,” she says, speed walking ahead of me, parting the newsroom in her electric-blue sheath dress, stylish short Afro, and diamond studs. This woman has mastered the busy boss lady look—laptop in the crook of her arm, eyes on her phone, thumb scrolling down the screen. No one dares interrupt her, except me.
“This family is about to lose their home, their farm—their livelihood!—over a deed that magically materialized in the clerk’s office.” My hands gesticulate wildly in front of me, trying and failing to catch up with my words. I know I’m getting worked up, but I don’t care. I refuse to “tone it down” so other people can feel more comfortable with my loud (and proud) Puerto Ricanness. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the three years I’ve worked atThe Georgia Times, it’s that my Latinidad gives me access to the kind of stories most of my colleagues can’t get on their own. Stories like this one.
Two months ago, I was working late when the crew boss for the night-cleaning service tapped me on the shoulder, scaring the bejesus out of me. In Spanish, she introduced me to her cousin, Gloria Castillo, the owner of a family-run, sustainable farm in Westlake, about forty miles east of Atlanta. Gloria explained that she and her husband were set to inherit their farm from her father-in-law, Don Luis, after he passed away from an aggressive form of cancer. But days after the funeral, the Castillos received notice of an unknown security deed placed on the property.
According to the deed documents, Don Luis had taken a six-figure loan against the property from a lender called Peachtree Holdings, LLC. Yet there was no paper trail confirming Don Luis had signed away his farm or that he’d received a transfer of funds to any of his bank accounts. And even though the deed was recorded with the clerk’s office, Peachtree Holdings turned out to be a ghost company with no working phone number or email. The address on file belongs to an empty lot owned by the city of Westlake.
The Castillos called the police, but without solid evidence of fraud, there was nothing they could do. If they wanted their property back, they’d have to repay the loan. Money they don’t have.
“What exactly is not clear about my email? Or the three others I sent previously?” Nina says, still speed walking and focused on her phone. “We’re shutting the story down. Time to move on, Luisa.”
I follow her into her office, pulling documents out of my research binder: photos of the Castillos, development plans, interviews with local officials, a copy of the security deed. I’m ready for a fight. As one of the paper’s dying breed of investigative journalists, I must be equal parts detective, historian, forensic pathologist, psychologist, and entertainer, if I’m to have any chance in hell at (a) uncovering the truth, and (b) presenting the truth in a way that will make reel-obsessed audiences actually give a fuck.
“Look,” I say, pointing to the photograph I’ve just placed on her desk. “This is the family: Gloria and Pablo, Little Mishel and Abelardo. They will be homeless soon.” I leave unsaid that Pablo’s kind eyes remind me of my late father—killed by a drunk driver during my freshman year in high school. I don’t tell her that the kids burrowed their way into my heart, just like each of my three nieces did the second they were born. And I absolutely don’t mention that after spending countless hours sharing meals over their kitchen table, there is nothing I won’t do to keep them from losing their home.Nothing.
Losing your childhood home breaks you in ways you never knew possible. Sure, you can move. Even start over. But you’ll never be the same. A part of you tears off and stays behind.
And yeah, maybe I’m breaching some objectivity rules, but my counterargument is this: anyone who works to screw over a family of dedicated, kind-hearted immigrants to build yet another golf course for rich white folks is objectively an asshole who must be taken down.
In the days and weeks that followed my first meeting with Gloria, I looked into her family’s story. “Rage” is an appropriate word to describe how I felt when I came across plans for a future multimillion-dollar housing and golf course development calledThe Preserve at Lake Chiaha. That’s when everything clicked into place.
I roll open the plans for the Preserve, guiding Nina’s attention with my finger. “The developer already scooped up all the land around the lake—future golf courses and clubhouses.” I trace the familiar plans until I reach the community’s main entrance. “The only way in and out is over the Castillos’ property.”
I go silent for a beat, expecting her to share in my moral outrage, but her expression remains impassive. “Nina, a bunch of rich white developers are ripping off a hard-working family—in a less-than-legal way—just to get even richer.” I throw both hands in the air in disgust. “The city council approved the development outright. No bidding war. No competition. Apparently, this GCJ Construction promised they would include low-income housing, which is total bullshit. Since when do ‘world-class’ private communities have housing for the poor?”
Nina settles into her Italian leather office chair and releases a sigh. I stand uncomfortably in front of her. There are no other chairs in Nina’s office, which I’ve been told is by design.
“Maybe they’re building living quarters for the help,” she deadpans.
“They’re set to break ground in the fall, just as the security deed expires.” My stomach sinks at the reminder of that deadline. “The developer is some guy called Griggs Johnson, out of Atlanta.”
“Some guy?” Nina scoffs, finally making eye contact. “Please tell me you know who Griggs Caldecott Johnson III is.”
“I’ve already done a deep dive into his company and assets, if that’s what you’re asking. This man’s dealings raise more red flags than a circus tent. He’s using an offshore bank in Panama for his business, which only makes sense if you’re trying to hide something.”
I drop an organizational chart on the desk. “One of the main investors in the Lake Chiaha development, Jim Wade, sits on the state’s Board of Natural Resources. And lo and behold, he also happens to hold the foundation’s purse strings.” I jab a finger over the man’s simpering face. “There’s zero oversight, Nina.”
She doesn’t react, so I press on, offering a series ofspreadsheets and tax filings, everything I could find in public records. “I’m convinced this family foundation is a front. Money’s probably getting diverted straight to the development.” I leaf to the end of the company brochure, where I find a marked page containing photos of various happy families Griggs’s foundation has allegedly helped with affordable housing. “But that’s just a theory. I’ll need more time to dig on that end.”
“Oh, honey, that, right there, is your problem.” Nina points one red, manicured fingernail in my direction. “That guy called Griggs,” she says, tersely, “is a big fucking deal in this town.”
“And he’s the person who stands to win big if the Castillos lose their land,” I counter. “Given the only road access to the development is through their parcel.”
Nina shakes her head. “Chip thinks your story is one big hunk of Swiss cheese.”
“Swiss cheese?” I ask, stumped and suddenly angry at the utter lack of chairs in this office.
