Brent left Catherine with the assignment of digging up every piece of paper she could on Ahmed: a copy of his passport, his naturalization papers, his work history, even his banking records.
Brent would have to present on paper the picture of a good American citizen. George W. Bush said, “It will take time to restore chaos.” Brent was about to confront Bush’s creation head on.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ahmed’s tortured soul finally got to rest, but it wasn’t for long. In the middle of the night his tormented sleep was interrupted by a strong hand over his nose and mouth. Ahmed swung his panicked arms, which were caught by another strong pair of hands, which restrained him as his ears were muffed and his head was bagged with some type of hood device. Am I dreaming? he thought.
Unfortunately, it was no dream. Ahmed was still blind, but his heightened senses of smell and hearing could not help him. The hood and ear muffs deprived him of both. As the two men took turns pushing him along, once again he had the sensation of falling in space, only to be broken by the reality of the hard ground. Ahmed struggled to get up, to the laughter of his captors.
The two men shoved Ahmed into a room and pushed him down onto a flat, cold surface. He felt them immobilize and strap his arms and legs with some kind of restraints. Then, as the hood and ear muffs were ripped from his head, the room exploded with brilliant white light and a symphony of sounds. His eyes stung. I’m not blind! He moved his head from side to side, as blurry images came into focus. What’s happening? But just as he experienced that realization which should have given him tremendous happiness, his torturers confronted him, once again.
“Now you’re gonna tell us, Haji, what you were doing in Baghdad,” said a grinning Sergeant Brown.
“My name is not Haji.”
“Shut up! Everyone’s a Haji here,” screamed Brown, an inch from Ahmed’s face. He could feel the spit from his lips and smell his stale tobacco breath.
“You fucking maggots are all the same, and, if it was up to me, I would squash every last one of you!”
Brown moved back, and two suited strangers moved in. Their lack of military garb and their stoic expressions set them apart from the rest of the robots in camouflage gear. One threw a cloth over Ahmed’s face.
“What were you doing in Baghdad?” asked one of the strangers.
“I went to see my brother, he needed my help.”
“You helped your brother with his money laundering operation?”
“What? No. He’s a grocer. He said he was in trouble. I came to do whatever I could to help him.”
“So you helped him launder money for al Qaeda. Who did you meet there from al Qaeda?”
“I don’t know anyone from al Qaeda!”
“I’m going to ask you one more time. Who did you meet from al Qaeda? I want names.”
“I didn’t…”
Ahmed gasped for air as water was poured on the cloth over his face. He felt like he was drowning, as one of the men poured water into the cloth. He gasped for air, but all he felt was water in his nose and mouth. It was impossible to breathe, so he held his breath.
After what seemed like a lifetime, the cloth was lifted and Ahmed sucked in and blew out air one, two…three times, then they slapped the cloth back on his face and he was drowning again.
“You went to Baghdad to help your brother launder money, didn’t you?”
The cloth came off, and Ahmed sucked in air, as if he had reached the surface of the water.
“No! He needed my help!”
They again slapped the wet cloth over Ahmed’s face and poured water over it. Ahmed held his breath for what seemed like the longest time. This is it, he thought. If I stop holding my breath, I die.
CHAPTER NINE
After an eternity, Ahmed was moved from solitary confinement to a concrete block cell, with concrete walls, a solid steel door with no bars and no windows, about ten feet long, seven feet wide and about eight feet high. Unlike his solitary cell, it had a stainless steel wash basin/ toilet combination, and a part of the wall was fashioned into a bed with a thin mattress and a pillow. Bright light blazed through the wire mesh ceiling, accompanied by loud, heavy metal music.
It was difficult for Ahmed to get used to the routine because it varied. At any given moment, he was rousted from his cell for further interrogation, which was always preceded by a rectal and groin search. Following the questioning, he was either forced to stand for eight hours, or forced to crawl inside a small metal box and stay there for four hours. The standing was easier.
***
No sooner than Ahmed had accepted his fate, and drifted to sleep, he was awakened by four soldiers in full riot gear, his head covered in a sensory deprivation mask, and taken out of his cell. As the men led him away from his cell, they body slammed him into the walls as they moved him along to the interrogation room, where he was left, masked and shackled, until he had lost all track of time. Ahmed figured it was approximately nine hours, but he had no point of reference.
When the mask was finally taken off, Ahmed got a chance to breathe, but not for long. As he lay on the floor, he looked up and saw the two suits who had waterboarded him.
“Hello again,” said one of the suits.
“What do you want from me? I told you everything,” said a terrified Ahmed.
“We just want to make sure you didn’t leave out any details,” said the suit.
Ahmed’s hands and feet were shackled to a solid steel chair, which was bolted to the ground. Then, one of the agents stuffed some rags in his mouth and said, “Listen very carefully, your life depends on it.”
The agent peeled off a generous section of duct tape, ripped it off with his teeth and, to Ahmed’s horror, taped it over his nose and mouth. In a panic, Ahmed writhed and buckled against his constraints. His body craved air, and his faced turned blue. He felt faint, like he was going to pass out, and thought, this is the end. In his mind, he said goodbye to his darling Catherine, Cameron and Karen, and their faces flashed before his eyes.
Then, the agent ripped the tape off, and, like a drowning man reaching the surface of the water Ahmed gulped in as much air as he could.
“Now we want the details,” the agent said, as he removed the rags from Ahmed’s mouth while the other agent looked on.
“What details?”
To that, the agent had no verbal response. He simply stuffed the rags back into Ahmed’s mouth. All of Ahmed’s movements to resist were as futile as an insect trying to escape the crushing heel of a boot. Why don’t they just kill me? he thought, Put me out of everyone’s misery.
CHAPTER TEN
Sergeant Brown marched into his CO’s office, stood in front of his desk and saluted.
“At ease, Sergeant,” said Colonel Masters, who busied himself with reports on his desk. Masters was a career officer, on his last tour of duty before retirement. He had no love for anyone, and even less patience. He looked up at Brown with an empty expression. “A civilian lawyer from California is coming today to visit one of your Hajis.”
“Which Haji is that sir?”
“Khury.”
“He’s a troublemaker, sir. Doesn’t want to talk. The spooks were at him all day yesterday.”
“Just make sure the lawyer is comfortable, and that he understands all the rules.”
“Yes, sir.”
Masters went back to his reading, paused, and then looked up. Brown was still there, waiting to be dismissed.
“That’ll be all, Sergeant.”
“Yes, Sir.” Brown saluted, turned and walked out the door.
***
“Welcome to Guantanamo Bay,” said the pilot over the PA system as the small plane kissed the tarmac. Brent looked outside the window: Not very welcoming at all. It looked as he had expected; military buildings of sorts installed on hills in a chaparral type landscape.
As he exited the plane, a heavy wall of sticky tropical heat filled his lungs and, by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, h
e was already wiping beads of sweat from his forehead.
After being processed, Brent was given a military clearance pass marked “Escort Only” to get him onto the base. He was assigned Corporal Reeding, a 20-year-old soldier from Macon, Georgia, as his escort. Brent supposed that Reeding would be at his side to make sure he didn’t see anything he wasn’t supposed to see, or talk to anyone he wasn’t supposed to talk to. The two of them boarded a ferry to cross the bay to the windward side of the island.
Reeding could have been any kid in any American town, attending the University, cheating on his studies during the week and getting drunk every weekend. In his military camouflage fatigues, he looked as out of place as a little boy trying on his father’s suit.
“So you’re a civilian lawyer, sir?” asked Reeding.
“Yes, why?”
“We don’t get too many civilian lawyers here. Mostly military lawyers or lawyers appointed by the Pentagon.”
“I see.”
“After the ferry, we’re going to be transported to Camp 7,” said Reeding.
“I hear they call it ‘Camp No’ because if anyone asks about it, they say it doesn’t exist.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, sir.”
When the ferry docked, Reeding escorted Brent to a khaki-colored van with no windows in the back or sides.
“This is our transport, sir. Before we get out, you’ll have to choose which one of these blindfold devices to wear.”
Reeding help up a regular looking blindfold in one hand, and a black hood that seemed like it would cover the entire head.”
“Which one do the detainees wear?”
“They’re required to wear the hood, sir.”
“I’ll take the hood.”
The inside of the van was a windowless box. Brent could not even see into the driver’s compartment. Reeding rode in the back with Brent, as they took a seemingly circuitous route over the bumpy terrain, and, finally, came to a stop. The cloak and dagger security was almost ridiculous. To get on the base required military clearance. To get to the prison required even more red tape. Reeding handed Brent the hood, he put it on, and Reeding adjusted it. Brent heard the van door open and felt the tropical heat again instantly. Reeding helped him out of the van. Inside the hood it was completely black and it didn’t take long before it became hot and very uncomfortable.
“You okay, sir?” asked Reeding.
“Yes, but it’s kind of uncomfortable with this hood. How much longer do I have to wear it?”
“Not too much longer, sir. Don’t worry.”
Brent heard the sound of the metallic chain link gates being opened and closed, and finally the clang of a metal door, as Reeding guided him into the prison camp.
When Reeding lifted the hood, Brent found himself inside a concrete compound. Several military personnel, male and female, in camouflage fatigues moved about busily. Brent was asked to take off his watch, his belt, to empty his pockets, and put his briefcase through the X-ray machine before going through the medical detector.
“Sir, may I open your briefcase?” said the X-ray screener.
“Yes, of course.”
The screener looked through the pockets of the briefcase, pulling out Brent’s legal pad, pens, and a sealed envelope.
“What’s in the envelope, sir?”
“It’s a letter to my client from his wife.
The screener took the letter and the briefcase, and handed the pad and one pen back to Brent.
“You’ll get the rest of the materials back when you leave.”
“What about the letter?”
“It’ll be put through secondary screening.”
“What for?” Brent asked.
Reeding answered, “Some al Qaeda operatives have been known to receive terrorist communications from their relatives. I’ll escort you to the conference area,” said Reeding, and Brent followed him down the corridor.
Once inside the conference area, which was a windowless room, Brent sat on a small stool that protruded from a metal arm, welded to a solid steel table, and looked around at the four blank concrete walls as he waited for his client. He noticed not one, but two smoke alarms in the ceiling, which he surmised were equipped with video and audio devices, because the “test buttons” were clear and seemed to be pointed at the conference table.
“Can I be assured that my meeting with my client will be confidential?” he asked Reeding.
“Sir, all the attorneys have the opportunity to discuss matters confidentially with their clients,” he answered.
Suddenly, not his client, but another soldier, entered the room and closed the door.
“Hello sir, my name is Sergeant Brown,” he said. Sergeant Brown, like the rest of the soldiers he had seen, wore camouflage fatigues and looked very serious. He was a towering black man with very big hands that looked as if he could tear you apart with them. Brent thought, this is never someone you would want to meet in a dark alley.
“Hello Sergeant.”
“I just want to remind you of the rules here, sir. It is prohibited to discuss the facilities of Camp 7 with anyone from outside this camp. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“And it is prohibited to discuss your client’s jihadist activities, do you understand?”
“He has no jihadist activities.”
“Sir, I asked, do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“It is prohibited to discuss with your client information about current or former detention personnel, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“And you must speak in the same language to your client, do you understand?”
“Is English alright, Sergeant?”
Brown scowled at Brent. “Do you understand, sir?”
“Yes, I understand. Sergeant, may I ask you a question?”
“What, sir?”
“What can I speak with my client about?”
“Sir, I am only explaining the rules about attorney-client communications in Camp 7. I am not restricting your attorney-client communications. Do I have your agreement that you will abide by these rules?”
“Well I don’t have much choice do I?”
“Do I have your agreement, sir?”
“Yes, you have my agreement. Will my conversation with my client be monitored, Sergeant?”
“Sir, I cannot discuss any more details with you. My objective is simply to determine that you will comply with the rules.”
“I will comply.”
Sergeant Brown handed Brent the envelope containing the letter from Ahmed’s wife. It had been opened. “Your letter has been cleared for the detainee,” he said.
When we deny the rights of others, we deny them to ourselves. Brent felt ashamed that his country, once a leader in human rights, had gone down this sorry path, sacrificing personal rights for an illusion of safety.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Brown brought in Ahmed, hooded and shackled and dressed in an orange jump suit. He put him in his seat, fastened his ankle shackles to one of the fixed metal posts of Ahmed’s chair, and his hands to a post on the table.
“Is that really necessary?” asked Brent.
“Sir, do I have to remind you that this is a classified facility, with strict procedures, and that you are here as our guest? A guest who has agreed to abide by those procedures?”
“No, you don’t. Now, may I have a confidential discussion with my client?”
Brown removed Ahmed’s hood and turned for the door. “You have fifteen minutes,” he said as he walked away.
“Wait a minute!”
Brown shut the door. Brent stood up and looked at the smoke detector with the lens pointed at his side of the table, and spoke directly to it. “Nobody told me that our time would be limited. I need more than fifteen minutes with my client to prepare our case! And, for the record, we do not agree to a surveillance of this conversation. It is a privileged attorney-client communication.”
 
; He turned his attention back to the shackled man at the table. Ahmed looked tired, worn down and emaciated, like he hadn’t eaten or slept for days. But, even so, he had a pleasant and friendly look. He didn’t fit Brent’s preconceived image of what a terrorist would look like. He looked simply like one of the many Muslim immigrants Brent had seen: doctors, taxi drivers, lawyers and accountants; his experience with them had never been negative.
“Ahmed, my name is Brent Marks. Your wife hired me to be your attorney.”
“Hello Mr. Marks,” said Ahmed. “I would shake your hand but, as you can see, my hands are handcuffed to this table.” Ahmed gestured with his hands within the limitations of their restraints. “And they don’t allow any personal contact.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed there are many differences here than prisons in the United States.”
“Oh, but Mr. Marks, this is not a prison.”
“So I heard. Now, I’m not allowed to ask you about any of your jihadist activities.”
“I don’t have any jihadist activities!” Ahmed’s forehead wrinkled in frustration and he looked defeated. All he could think about was how he had just met this lawyer, and the lawyer had preconceived notions that he was some kind of a terrorist.
“I know. But there are certain things I’m not allowed to speak to you about and to represent you, I had to be clear on your status. Now I am.”
“I’m not a terrorist, Mr. Marks. I’m just a U.S. citizen who was born in Iraq. I love my life in America and my new country.”
“Why did you go to Baghdad?”
“I got a call from my brother. He said he needed my help.”
“With what?”
“He couldn’t say. But I could tell he was in trouble.”
“So you went to Iraq, knowing that your brother was in some kind of trouble, but you didn’t ask what?”
“He’s my brother! He asks for help, I go. It’s that simple.”
“And what happened after your arrival?”