Talbott, the Deputy Secretary of State; Jamie Gorelick, the Deputy Attorney General; and David Cohen, the Deputy Director of Operations for the C.I.A. “Look, they came out of the woodwork when [Constant] started singing,” says Ferro.
It was then—“at the eleventh hour,” as Ferro recalls—that government officials received information regarding a plot to assassinate Constant when he was returned to Haiti. Many at the I.N.S. maintained that, even if true, the report merely meant that Constant should remain in a U.S. prison until a later date. “We have Cubans from the Mariel boatlift who remain in jail,” Ferro says. “We have people from the Middle East who are in jail who can’t be sent back. This is not a new process.” But, according to several officials involved in the deliberations, the information swayed the senior decision-makers. “I didn’t want to send someone, even a killer like Constant, to his summary execution,” one person involved in the case told me. When I asked a senior official who it was that had uncovered the plot on Constant’s life and prepared the classified report, he answered simply, “Reliable U.S. intelligence sources.”
Ferro and several of his colleagues at the I.N.S. made one last attempt to press their views, insisting that they could not in good conscience send a suspected terrorist into a community where he might harm U.S. citizens or where, just as likely, U.S. citizens might harm him. But it didn’t matter. The final decision was hammered out over several days, and senior officials from the Justice Department, the State Department, and the National Security Council participated.
Ferro himself gave Constant the good news.
“They called me at the prison and said I could get my things and go,” Constant says today, still surprised.
“I basically just read from the script,” Ferro says. “This guy was believed to have murdered and assassinated all these people, and we released him into our society. It was outrageous.”
A copy of the legal settlement that set the terms for Constant’s release, which I obtained from Constant, reveals certain conditions: Constant must live in his mother’s home in Queens and must remain within the confines of the borough except for visits to the I.N.S. office in Manhattan; he must check in with the Immigration and Naturalization Service every Tuesday; and he must not talk about, among other things, Haitian politics or the details of the legal agreement. “I like exposure,” he says, “so this is the worst thing they can do to me, this gag order.” (As may by now be apparent, Constant takes an expansive view of the restrictions.) Constant’s formal legal status is this: he is under an outstanding order of deportation whose execution has been withheld on the advice of the State Department.
When I asked Warren Christopher about the deal with Constant, he said he could not recollect the details of what had happened and would try to call me back. Later, his assistant called and said that he still didn’t have “sufficient recollection of the matter that you discussed to comment.” Constant’s lawyer, J. D. Larosiliere, who has continued to cite the threat to his client’s life, says, “I knew that he wasn’t going to be deported, but I needed a hook in the legal system to allow them to have a way out. Plausible deniability. That’s all this game is about. Plausible deniability.”
A “TELL-ALL AUTOBIOGRAPHY”
One day, after our initial meeting in Larosiliere’s office, Constant invited me to his house in Laurelton, where he was living, as he put it, “like a hostage.” Part of a long row of nearly identical English Tudors, the house had fallen into disrepair: the facade, once white, was weather-stained, the front steps needed paint, and the storm window overlooking the porch was shattered. Haitians had told me, among other things, that Constant kept the bones of his victims in his room, practiced late-night voodoo rituals, stored C.I.A. arms in the basement, and shot trespassers.
As I hesitated on the stoop, the front door suddenly opened and Constant appeared, holding a cigarette. “Come on in,” he said. I followed him into the living room, which was musty and dimly lit; the walls were covered with Haitian art, and the couches and chairs were draped in plastic. Constant sat across from me in a rocker, swaying back and forth as he smoked. During our initial encounter, I had pressed him about FRAPH murders and rapes. He said that there was no evidence implicating him and that he could not be held accountable for every member of such a sprawling operation. “If somebody the day of the vote killed another individual in the street of New York, and they found he just voted Democrat, they’re not going to make Clinton responsible,” he said. He insisted, “My conscience is clear.”
Now, as I started to ask him more questions, he took a tape recorder from his pocket and said that he was working on a book about his life. “I went to take a class about self-publishing your book, and one of the things the guy told me was if you’re talking about your past, then record yourself,” he said. I thought he wanted to make sure I quoted him correctly, but a moment later he handed me a book proposal: “This proposal offers a ‘hot’ new ‘tell all’ expose on Emmanuel ‘TOTO’ Constant code name ‘GAMAL,’ and FRAPH.… The market analysis suggests that with at least 2 million Haitians in the U.S. and at least 50,000 others in the U.S. who have interest in Haiti … this book could easily sell over 1 million copies.” The book was tentatively titled “Echoes of Silence.” He had drawn up a dummy book jacket that said:Emmanuel “Toto” Constant, notorious leader of FRAPH … and alleged murderer, rapist, and terrorist thug, breaks the yoke of silence. Speaking from his heart, he exposes the real man behind the villainous images. Interesting, provocative, informative and sensitive, “Echoes of Silence” candidly portrays the complexities of life in Haiti, where nothing is simple. It might lead one to conclude: The political frenzy in Haiti, as addictive and dangerous as any narcotic, keeps the masses alive mentally and emotionally even while it kills.
This was Constant’s latest attempt to earn a living. Since his release from prison, he had tried all sorts of ways to set himself up. He had taken computer classes. He had sold used cars. But, each time he had found employment, the other Haitian immigrants in the community had risen up and driven him from his job. “The worst time is when they came in front of the real-estate office … because I really had a good situation,” he said.
Since that day, he had become what he called an “investment consultant,” which seemed to mean selling and renting properties as covertly as possible. Whenever I was with him, his cell phone would ring with a prospective client. Once, I listened to him raise and lower his voice like an auctioneer: “
His wife had moved to Canada with their four children out of fear for their safety. “My wife is leaving me,” he told me at one point. “We’re having discussions about the kids. I wanted them to come the way they used to, and she doesn’t want them to. So we’re having an argument, but everything will be O.K.”
After a while, his phone rang, and I asked if I could look around the place. “No problem,” he said.
I headed upstairs, past several cracked walls and closed doors. Constant’s room was on the third floor. It was small and cluttered with videos and men’s fashion magazines. By his bed was a framed picture of him from his appearance on “60 Minutes.” In one corner was a small shrine. Candles and figurines of Catholic saints, which often play a role in voodoo, were arranged in a neat circle.
As I bent down to inspect them, Constant called out my name. One of the statues was the patron saint of justice; on its base was inscribed, “Be ever mindful of this great favor and I will never cease to honor thee as my special and powerful patron.”
Constant called my name again, and I hurried downstairs. “Let’s go out,” he said, putting on a leather jacket.
As we walked through Laurelton, the sound of
The store was packed, and we could barely fit inside. A small circle of Haitians were playing cards in the back. As Constant pressed up against the counter, I realized that everyone was staring at him. “I need some goat,” he said, breaking the sudden silence. He pointed at some enormous hind legs hanging from a meat hook. He glanced at the back, where several people seemed to be saying something about him, but he appeared unfazed. The butcher began to cut through the bone and gristle of a goat leg. His thick arm pushed down, slicing in clean strokes. “Everybody here knows who I am,” Constant said on the way out. “Everybody. They’ve all read about me or seen my picture.”
He darted across the street to a barbershop. A “Closed” sign hung on the door, but we could see the barber
