MREs Falling Hardest in New Haiti : Caribbean: Morally Repugnant Elite are paying for their loyalty to deposed regime with money, homes and freedom.

It’s been quite a fall for Romeo Halloun. Gone are the Uzi submachine guns, the baskets of no-questions-asked money, the $60,000 cars and the swagger that comes with being the biggest thug on the block.

Halloun, a 30ish son of a wealthy trader in smuggled goods, sits in a U.S. Army detention cell here, representative of a short-lived class of Haitians notable for their audacity and, in the minds of many people, their stupidity.

They were a group of mostly young Haitians who, not content to merely enjoy the money their families had made over the years in their largely illicit businesses, had attached themselves to the Haitian military after the September, 1991, coup that overthrew populist President Jean-Bertrand Aristide.

They had money, sometimes millions of dollars. They had guns and drugs, they had fancy cars and big homes, and the power that came with being the favorites of the most brutal and corrupt military in the region.

They were members of what American diplomats and journalists called the Morally Repugnant Elite, or MREs--a group previously reserved for Haiti’s old and rich business sector.

What they did not seem to have was the common sense to realize that they had hitched themselves to a star that would flame out in the long run.

Their time was up on Sept. 19, when the first of nearly 20,000 U.S. troops landed here and put an end to the reign of the killers and looters who passed themselves off as Haiti’s army.

Among the first to fall was Halloun, who was arrested when he and a cousin, Patrick Mourra, tried to pass through an American Army roadblock. The U.S. troops arrested Halloun and Mourra after realizing that they were listed as possible criminal suspects both in Haiti and the United States and after finding several automatic weapons in their car.

A couple of dozen other MREs today share the detention facilities with Halloun and Mourra, waiting to see if they will be sent to the United States for prosecution or held until the Haitian judicial system is rebuilt and they can be tried here.

Others have followed the lead of their masters--former army commander in chief Lt. Gen. Raoul Cedras, chief of staff Brig. Gen. Philippe Biamby and Port-au-Prince Police Chief Michel-Joseph Francois--and fled the country.

But most have stayed, some even hoping that last week’s restoration of Aristide is a passing inconvenience. Others protest their innocence or have turned informer, while still others have fallen into despair and bankruptcy.

One close associate of Francois who had abandoned his respected profession as an engineer to advise the police chief on his business dealings has seen his life collapse. Work on a multimillion-dollar home has been abandoned, and his daughter had to give up hope of attending a university in Paris and settle for a much more modest school in Martinique.

This man, who customarily wore a different silk shirt every day and seemed to have gold watches and bracelets to match every shirt, has been reduced to soliciting journalists to rent one of his three luxury cars to provide some ready cash.

Another young man, also in his early 30s and a graduate of Columbia University in New York, saw Biamby as his hope for wealth and power. Using his connections, he made a fast fortune in smuggled cars, French perfume and other embargo-breaking goods.

Within days after the U.S. troops landed, his business was bare, the three automatic rifles in his closet were confiscated, and his cocaine dealer was looking for him.

This man and most of the others seemed to believe that their distorted existence would go on and on.

“They just spent and spent,” said an American businessman who had to do business with some of the new MREs to export his products. “What they got, they spent. If it was a hundred-dollar bribe, that bought them a dinner at Cafe des Arts (a favorite of the MREs and Cedras). If it was a million dollars on a cement deal, that bought a new house.”

In addition to the money, the young Haitian man has lost the right to swagger. He has had to bury the automatic assault rifle given to him by Francois.

He and many of his fellow MREs live in constant terror of retribution from the ordinary Haitians who suffered under the military regime. He watches fearfully whenever a car approaches his home. His apprehension grows if he sees a group of ordinary Haitians walking on his road.

“He sees dechoukaj all around,” said a friend, using the Creole word for uprooting that connotes utter devastation. “He is afraid he’ll lose everything.”

The Dunes Casino, a tacky gambling house that tolerated open cocaine use and no-limit blackjack games, now refuses to give him and his fellow MREs credit and has posted a sign saying no one carrying a gun will be admitted.

Restaurant owners who once catered to their tastes in food and wine now ignore them or turn them away for not having reservations.

How could these people have misjudged so badly?

“They were blinded by the money, the power,” an associate of one said. “And their hatred of Aristide was so strong they couldn’t believe anyone would help him.

“But in the long run, whatever intelligence they had was overrun by greed, it’s that simple.”