A beat-up truck with dark windows and no license plates pulls into the main market of Miragoâne, a hardworking coastal town in Haiti ’s southern peninsula. The no-nonsense government commissioner, Jean Ernest Muscadin, steps out into the fierce August glare and shoulders his rifle for a patrol. Bald, clean-shaven, and muscled enough to fill the sleeves of his shirt, he walks with quick and purposeful strides, accompanied by his squad of enforcers — a mix of civilian henchmen and police officers in tactical gear and balaclavas. Word of Muscadin’s arrival ricochets through the warren of street stalls, and supporters rush out to greet him with a flood of raw emotion. Men clutch his hands and whisper praise in his ear. A woman kisses him on the cheek; others break into sudden fits of clapp

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