Konrad Marshall:
The weathered man stares through the screen door from his third-floor concrete block apartment, out onto the old industrial core of Jacksonville. But his eyes are fixed beyond the horizon.
A metal fan stirs left and right at his feet, pushing heavy air around a dusty linoleum floor. Coping with the temperature in slacks, a singlet and bare feet, Lexiuste Cajuste sighs and faces southeast.
He faces Haiti.
That is where he endured more than half a life of dictatorial rule, where his patriotism led to pain. The way Cajuste reclines on his couch, like some dandy - body shifted sideways, one leg crossed over the other, head cradled in palm - is the only way he can sit without feeling the reminders of his ordeal.
The kicks to his kidneys and guts. The beatings on his back. The brass knuckles.
Once a man who drew international attention, Cajuste walks among us unrecognized. A trash collector. A security guard. A nursing assistant.
And still, he is the father who interrupts interviews to answer phone calls from his eight children - a fount of positivity who has the words "Peace and Love" framed over his couch.
Cajuste hopes to help those who had to flee "ay-yi-ti" like he did. To do that, though, means returning to the nightmare. To allow his story to intersect again with that of another man, a Haitian of a similar age and background who chose another path.
Col. Carl Dorelien was a key leader in a brutal military junta. A convicted human rights violator, a war criminal, Dorelien was one of those who helped rob Haiti of elected rule, then fled when it was restored. He ended up in Florida, too, where the rays of light and fortune shone down thanks to the random flight of six plastic balls numbered 5, 7, 10, 15, 25 and 47.
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