NOTE: This is part of a continuing online novel. Here is the Table of Contents.

The America Diaspora is a sequel to The Chinese Century.

How much can a man change in just one day?

That was the question all of South Africa was asking over its dinner, some in shock, some in awe, others with a rueful nod of recognition, as Mark Cuban was brought out for his arraignment.

The CNN announcer talked about his orange jumpsuit and the shackles around his ankles. From the Virgin Maverick offices, over some Indian takeaway, I noticed other things. I noticed the gray in the hair at the temples, I noticed the stubble on the face, some of it coming in white.

Mostly I noticed the eyes. The life and joy I’d seen in them were gone, replaced by cold, hard rage, and no small amount of fear. Stripped of his victory, stripped of his dignity, thrown into a cage, then trotted out like a circus animal, he obviously feared the worst.

His attorneys tried to reassure him, but sitting at the defendant’s table Cuban was having none of it. After all, he had done nothing wrong. He had simply made an investment, a very good investment, in an opportunity the U.S. government had suddenly turned on.

On the other side the predatory smile of the U.S. Attorney also spoke volumes. He would much rather be facing The Lady or Sir Richard. Mark Cuban would have to do.

The list of charges was long, impressive, but we all knew entirely bogus. Unable to come up with an outright treason charge, since South Africa was, nominally, still friendly toward the U.S., the Justice Department had defined nearly ever transaction Cuban had undertaken over the last year as a grand piece of larceny, conspiracy, or tax evasion.

This was all a formality, kind of an American kabuki. We all knew it was just a witch-burning. CNN, Fox and MSNBC had already assigned their full Michael Jackson teams to the case, renting whole floors in the best Dallas hotels, creating their tent city of satellite trucks opposite the federal courthouse. In their studios, in New York, New Jersey. Atlanta and Los Angeles, so-called “experts” (former prosecutors and ineffectual defense attorneys) prepared to spin Mark Cuban into O.J. Hell. Nancy Grace had already descried the lack of a death penalty in the case.

Cameras are seldom allowed into a federal courtroom. This was an exception, agreed to by Cuban’s attorneys, practically demanded by the U.S. Justice Department.

The sudden appearance of U.S. Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez threw the whole courtroom into quiet turmoil. The judge banged his gavel, and Gonzalez marched right up to her, conferring briefly and then stepping back to the prosecutor’s table, where a place had already been made for him, an assistant U.S. attorney being pushed back behind the railing, the U.S. Attorney trying to hide his being upstaged.

“The government is prepared to proceed?” asked the Judge.

Without sitting down, Gonzalez nodded solemnly. “Yes, your honor. The defendant is accused here of many terrible crimes, crimes that demand stern punishment. We ask that the highest possible bail be set.”

Cuban’s attorney felt his jaw dropping. “We plead not guilty, your honor, and intend to fight these false charges aggressively,” he said, although his heart wasn’t in it.

“What is the government suggesting?” asked the Judge.

“We’re thinking of about $250 million,” said Gonzalez.

Cuban looked at Gonzalez, rolled his eyes, threw up his hands, then whispered to his attorney. “Would a property bond be sufficient?” the attorney asked, his face whitening.

“The government would accept that,” said Gonzalez snappishly.

“We all seem to be agreed. Mr. Cuban, we’ll also have your passport.” The gavel banged down and, seeming taller somehow, Cuban was led away through a side door. I thought I detected something like a smile.

I wasn’t awake for the rest of it. Bad form for a journalist, I know, but I’d long ago crossed over to the “dark side,” doing PR work for my own company, Always-On Technologies, and for Virgin-Maverick when called upon (sometimes even before being called upon).

The full story was startling enough. Cuban surrended his beloved Dallas Mavericks to the court. Ignoring his lack of a passport, he was then driven in a limousine to DFW Airport, where Richard Branson’s personal Gulfstream was awaiting him, Branson himself at the controls. By the time I woke up, Branson had landed at Heathrow, had helicoptered to a stage outside the old Millenium Dome in Greenwich, and was presenting Cuban to a packed, impromptu news conference.

The Flight of the Maverick transformed the story, from American crime drama to international cause celebre. Once the plane left U.S. airspace, Cuban had forfeited his bond, meaning the World Champion Mavs were now the property of the U.S. government. He was also, technically, a man without a country, a wanted fujitive subject to the not-so-tender mercies of U.S.-based bail bondsmen, operating under a federal court order.

But that order would not come. It was almost as if a deal had been struck, speculated CNN host Lou Dobbs on the Larry King show. Grace, on the same panel, bit her lip and denounced the government. “You can’t give bail to a criminal with the means to escape justice,” she said. “Justice is being perverted.”

Down in Johannesburg, however, the mood was one of jubilation. I quickly called all the local press down to the Carlton Centre conference room, with a large, flat-screen TV behind a short podium, so that the local press could watch me watch TV.

The press conference was delayed, however. I got a call from London and ordered in breakfast for the local press. A few stations sent anchor teams down. I set about the task of creating mini-sets for them, in other Virgin Maverick conference rooms. There they could be seen in front of slides with their station logos, or they could plug directly into any feed we had. I didn’t want to tell them their set-ups were primitive compared to those available to us. I think they knew it anyway. We’re polite here.

So I spent a quiet, easy morning, being interviewed (I’d become an old hand), sharing coffee, even discussing exchanging recipes with one local anchor on-the-air when we ran out of other things to talk about.

The feed from London finally came on at 10 AM local time. I excused myself and went back to the main conference room.

The first speaker was a surprise, former Home Secretary David Blunkitt. He called the charges against Mark Cuban “a grave injustice against democracy, against fair play, even against the market economy.” Since Blunkitt might yet regain his place in the cabinet as the last Blair Administration played out, this was extremely good news.

Blunkitt then introduced Sir Richard Branson, who spoke for about five minutes about honorable Mark Cuban was, how honest and upright he had always been, about how he had shared a great dream with him for a new Africa based on peace, prosperity for all and free markets.

“What America was, Africa now is,” he concluded, and then with a wave of his hand a curtain parted and Mark Cuban himself stepped up to the microphone.

As much as his night in jail had changed the man, his flight to freedom had changed him even more. Gone was the baggy warmup, the childlike bangs. Now he wore a flash suit, white, with a solid yellow tie on a light blue shirt. His hair was now swept back, styled so that he finally looked his age, maybe a few years past it, but he wore that very well. He looked like the “after” picture on a Queer Eye show, only the eye on this case was that of Sir Richard.

A crowd of Virgin employees bused in for the occasion exploded in rapture. Cuban caught the energy, smiled and waved. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out a South African passport, and held it up triumphantly. He smiled, laughed, posed, and Branson kept the applause going for him, so what Americans would see over their breakfast was a happy, healthy, wealthy man, renouncing America and sticking a finger in George Bush’s eye.

I had to laugh myself, and clap a few times. It was all so right, all so Branson, all so staged, just as my own rescue had been staged. Branson had rescued Cuban, who would now be for all time the junior partner in Virgin Maverick but, because of his rescue, the active partner as well, giving Branson himself leave to concentrate on other things.

I logged on to the blog I’d launched just six months before, and found a vibrant community actively celebrating, white and black together, both on and off the V-M grounds.

Richard Branson, I said to myself, you are one piece of work.