PART IV
THE WAR ON TERROR
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Timothy Nagel had an enormous job ahead of him. He had to convince the jury that everything that they had heard was all necessary in the interests of national security, and that their safety depended on treating detainees in the manner in which Ahmed had been treated. It was a formidable task, but not impossible. Nagel only had 12 people to sway. George Bush had already convinced 100 senators and 435 Congressmen to obliterate 200 years of constitutionally-guaranteed freedoms for the sake of national security.
Brent had already tried Nagel’s case to a certain extent, by calling his star witnesses as adverse witnesses for the Plaintiff. But Nagel had saved his secret weapons for his own presentation. He called Captain James Billings, a reserve officer in the army, as his first witness. Brent was sure that Billings’ naval career was merely a CIA front to hide his real assignment, but there was no way to prove it.
“Captain Billings, what is your current rank and assignment with the U.S. Army Reserve?”
“I am a special investigator for United States Army Military Intelligence Corps, currently serving as a reserve officer.”
“As such, were you assigned to interrogate Ahmed Khury at the Guantanamo Bay Detention Camp 7?”
“I was.”
“Please describe to the jury the circumstances of that interrogation.”
Billings was smooth and cool, like the expert witness doctors who had testified before him. He sized up the jury right away, and made eye contact with them.
“Certainly. I was assigned an investigative file on Ahmed Khury, who was captured along with his brother, Sabeen Khury, a suspected money launderer for al Qaeda. I was one of a two-man joint investigative group assigned to interrogate Mr. Khury at Guantanamo Bay.”
“And who was the other member of the group?”
“Captain Louis Rapallo.”
“Was anyone other than Captain Rapallo with you in the room when you interrogated Mr. Khury?”
“No.”
“Captain Billings, in your interrogation of Mr. Khury, did you use any enhanced interrogation techniques?”
“No.”
“Captain Billings, do you know what waterboarding is?”
“Yes.”
“Did you use waterboarding?”
“No.”
Finally, after about 40 minutes of waterboarding, which seemed like a lifetime to Ahmed, the next time the cloth came off, Ahmed spit, sucked in air and screamed, “Please stop, I’ll tell you everything!” He couldn’t take any more and had decided to tell them everything they wanted to hear.
“He needed your help with his money laundering operation?”
“Yes!”
“For al Qaeda?”
“Yes!”
“And you met members of al Qaeda with your brother?”
“Yes!”
“Who did you meet? What are their names?”
Ahmed looked into the serious dead eyes of the two clean cut, shaven, non-military men. He was sure if he didn’t give them some names, they would kill him. The names couldn’t be just names. They had to go with faces. He thought of the few people he had met with his brother in Baghdad. Am I condemning these men to death? he questioned himself.
“Ali Bahar, Kasim Ghannam, and Mahmod Handal.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“Very good Haji, very good!” said Sergeant Brown, in the background. “You just may live another day.”
“Captain Billings, how long did your interrogation of Mr. Khury last?”
“The initial interrogation was eight hours long.”
“And was Mr. Khury given the opportunity to go to the toilet during the interrogation?”
“Yes.”
“I have to go to the toilet,” pleaded Ahmed.
“You will have the opportunity to go when we’re done,” said one of the strangers.
“But I can’t hold it any longer!”
“Don’t you piss your pants again, Haji,” said Sergeant Brown. I told you before, we’re not a laundry service.”
“Was Mr. Khury given water for hydration during the interrogation?”
“He was offered water, but refused. So we had to have a naval nurse give him an IV.”
“Was he offered food during the interrogation?”
“He was, but he refused to eat.”
The cloth finally came off again, and Ahmed spit out water, choked and gasped for air.
“What do you know about al Qaeda’s plans to move money out of Iraq?”
“I told you before, I don’t know anything!”
“Mr. Khury, would you like a glass of water to drink?”
“What? Are you kidding?”
“If you refuse water, we will have to give you fluids intravenously.”
“Captain Billings, was your interrogation of Mr. Khury audiotaped?”
“Yes.”
“Was the tape transcribed into a transcript?”
“Yes.”
“Showing you what has been marked for identification as Exhibit number 52, can you identify this document?”
“It’s the transcript of the interrogation.”
“Move Exhibit 52 into evidence, Your Honor.”
“Objection!” said Brent. Hearsay, res judicata, and best evidence.”
“Counsel approach the bench.”
“Your Honor, in the habeas corpus proceeding, you threw out the confession as coerced,” pleaded Brent.
“Your Honor,” said Nagel, “I’m not offering it for the truth of the matters set forth in the transcript. Only as evidence of the treatment that Mr. Khury received at the hands of his interrogators.”
“You opened the door, Counsel,” said Judge Henley.
“Your Honor, if this comes in, then I should have the opportunity to introduce my client’s sworn statement of the treatment he received at the hands of his interrogators.”
“Your Honor, that is an out-of-court statement that the Government did not have the opportunity to cross-examine,” objected Nagel.
“I offer it for the limited purpose of impeaching this witness,” said Brent.
“Your Honor, it contains hearsay within hearsay, and is too prejudicial to admit since we did not have the opportunity to cross-examine.”
“I’m afraid he’s right, Mr. Marks.”
“So this transcript of what they say happened comes in, and Mr. Khury’s does not, is that what you’re saying, Your Honor?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“My ruling is that the transcript may be admitted into evidence. Identification and admission of Plaintiff’s proposed exhibit for impeachment, which is the declaration of Ahmed Khury from the habeas corpus proceeding, is denied pursuant to Rule 402 of the Federal Rules of Evidence.”
It was a huge blow to Brent’s case. Now the jury would see the doctored and bogus transcript and would not even see Ahmed’s version of what happened in that interrogation room. As Brent was heading back to the counsel table, he saw that strange young man in the back of the gallery, smirking at him. The look in his eyes was wild and made Brent feel uncomfortable.
“Captain Billings, did you conduct a second interview of Mr. Khury?”
“Yes, two weeks later we conducted a follow-up interview.”
“Showing you what has been marked for identification as Exhibit number 53, is this a true and accurate transcript of that interview?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Move Exhibit 53 into evidence, Your Honor.”
“Same objection, Your Honor.”
“Overruled.”
The wind had been taken out of Brent’s sails. He dared not even cross-examine Billings, because he had already lied about waterboarding and dry-boarding, and had done it coolly and calmly, without changing his expression. He was a terrific liar, and the cardinal rule of cross-examination was never to ask a question that you did not know how the witness would answer. Brent could
not run the risk of making him look even better.
Nagel called Louis Rapallo to the stand, who testified, in clone-like fashion, in the exact same manner and as to the same facts as Billings. They had gotten their stories straight, and with precision. Napoleon said, “History is a set of lies agreed upon.” There was nothing that Brent could do at this point to rewrite history for the jury.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Colonel Robert Masters took the stand. Brent imagined how the jury would see him. Twenty years of military service had imprinted itself on the Colonel’s soul. It defined him. He was as stiff as a starched shirt, but, somehow, for him, that appeared to be normal.
Nagel had Masters describe the chain of command in Camp 7, and Masters was at the top of it. He answered to a General in Camp Delta, and was left to handle Camp 7 as he saw fit.
“Colonel Masters, can you please describe Camp 7?”
“Camp 7 is a classified, high security detention facility, used to house high value detainees. Due to the fact that it is classified, I cannot disclose its location or layout.”
“What do you mean by “high value detainees”?
“High value detainees are those who are the ‘worst of the worst.’ The types who have been accused of the 1998 Embassy bombings, the USS Cole bombing, planning the September 11th attacks…”
“Dangerous people.”
“Yes.”
“What kinds of precautions are taken in Camp 7 that are different than in the other detention facilities at Guantanamo?”
“The location of the camp is a strictly held secret. Detainees being moved from the Camp to other locations, such as military tribunals, or classified areas within the facility must wear blackout hoods to ensure the secrecy and integrity of the facility. Because the facility contains such high value and dangerous detainees, when detainees are moved, a special armed detail of guards are used to ensure the safety of personnel and to prevent escape.”
“Is torture ever practiced on detainees?”
“Absolutely not. Our standard operating manual prohibits torture. Detainees are treated within the spirit of the Geneva Conventions.”
***
Brent pulled Rick aside at the break.
“So who is that little fuck who sits in the back of the gallery every day and just loves it when I’m losing?”
“His name is Theodore Anderson. U.S. Marine Corps Corporal. Was part of a unit of guards at Gitmo during his last tour, but they transferred him.”
“Why?”
“He’s not exactly the calmest one in the bunch. Beat one of his comrades nearly to death in a fight for not being a good patriot. Not enough evidence for a court martial. Nobody would talk. They call him Balls, because he’s not afraid of anybody.”
“Now you tell me.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got your back. I can’t connect him to the case. Looks like just a nut who wants you to lose this one, that’s all.”
“Well, keep an eye on him. He gives me the creeps.”
***
“What precautions are taken when detainees show suicidal tendencies?” asked Nagel.
“If a detainee is suspected of being suicidal, he is referred to the psychiatric hospital for a suicide evaluation. If determined to be suicidal, he is issued special bed sheets and blankets that cannot be torn or tied.”
“Was Mr. Khury suspected as suicidal?”
“No, but he was referred for a psych eval because of comments that he had made to staff.”
“What comments were those?”
“That he would be better off dead than in this place, things like that. Things everyone has been known to say in their life from time to time. We just prefer to err on the side of precaution.”
“And, after hearing those comments, what did you do?”
“We referred him to a psychiatric evaluation, with negative results.”
“Did you take any other precautions?”
“Yes, he was placed on a one to three minute check, meaning that every one to three minutes, a guard would look into his cell.”
Colonel Masters picked up his radio.
“Masters.”
“Colonel, it’s Sergeant Brown. We got a situation here.”
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“This Haji – Ahab…Khury…He was being force-fed and stopped breathing.”
“Did you try to revive him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The nurse is there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he dead, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, all I can say is handle it. We can’t have a dead Haji in the feeding room.”
“Handle it, sir?”
“Make sure he’s found somewhere else, Sergeant, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were you surprised when he was found hanging in his cell, the victim of an apparent suicide?”
“Yes, I was.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Marks?”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Colonel Masters, before your assignment at Camp 7, what was your assignment?”
“I was assigned to Camp Delta in 2003.”
“And before Camp Delta, isn’t it true that you were assigned to duty at the Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq?”
“Yes, sir.”
Nagel looked at Masters like someone had just kicked him in the balls. He obviously didn’t know this fundamental part of Masters’s history.
“This is the same Abu Ghraib prison that was the subject of a criminal investigation by the United States Army Criminal Investigation Command for prisoner abuse, which found that guards in Abu Ghraib prison had physically and sexually abused, tortured, raped, sodomized, and killed prisoners?”
“Objection!” said Nagel. “May we approach?”
“Your objection, Mr. Nagel?”
“Rule 420, Your Honor, prejudicial effect of this testimony outweighs its probative value.”
“He’s your witness and this is cross examination, Mr. Nagel. I’m going to allow it.”
“Sergeant Brown served under your command at Abu Ghraib, didn’t he?” Brent continued.
“Yes, sir.”
Nagel turned slightly to Joe Cicatto and frowned and grimaced slightly, like he had just smelled a fart. He made a mental note to tear Joe a new asshole once they got out of the courtroom.
“Colonel, were you under investigation for prisoner abuse at Abu Ghraib?”
“Objection, Your Honor. Inadmissible character evidence.”
“Sustained.” Too late: the point had already been made to the jury. Nagel probably should have let that one go. He had no idea, but a “no” answer was coming and his objection made it look like he was hiding something.
Brent turned his head and winked to Rick, who flashed back a satisfying, but subtle smile. The day, which had started with disaster, looked to be ending on a good note.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Brent felt his nose twitching, and unconsciously went to scratch it with his finger. It happened again, and again, and he rolled over on the couch. Calico persistently jumped over his body into the crook of his arm until she could reach his face and began pawing again.
“What the hell?” Brent awoke, startled, to Calico’s purring engine. It was only 8 pm, and he had dozed off in the midst of going over his notes. “I guess my first mistress really is the law,” he said to the cat, as he yawned and stretched, and Calico joined him. “Somehow, your yawns seem like so much more fun,” he exclaimed, as she stretched three cat lengths, opened her mouth, and let it rip.
Brent realized that he had forgotten his dinner with Debbie Does Dallas, so he popped up from the couch to get ready. The familiar growl in his stomach told him that going out was the right decision. Since the trial, his home provisions had dwindled to cat food, eggs, mayonnaise and ketchup and, while that sounded like the beginnings of a terrific new experimental recipe, the idea of fajitas with fresh guacamol
e topped off with a margarita sounded better.
Brent picked up Debbie and they headed for El Paseo on Anacapa Street. As the music played to in time to the tinkling fountain in the middle of the courtyard and the margaritas flowed, Brent actually began to relax.
“I could get used to this,” he said.
“There is more to life than law.”
“My mentor, Charles Stinson, is turning over in his grave at that statement.”
“Why?”
“Because, during a trial, the trial is your life. Nothing else matters.”
“How’s it going?”
“Terrible. We’re on their case in chief now, and it’s almost impossible to cross-examine a good liar.”
“What about a bad one?”
“Haven’t run into one on this case, except for Corporal Reeding. He changed his testimony since I deposed him. I think someone got to him.”
“A cover up?”
“Yeah, I’m thinking all the way up, but with their military code of silence, nobody’s talking. I’m afraid the truth will never be known. But, whether it is or not, the jury will decide what they think happened.”
“What are your chances of winning?”
“If I had to guess right now, I’d say 50-50.”
“A hung jury?”
“Hope not.”
They decided to walk home to Debbie’s house, which was close to downtown. It was a pleasant night, with a full moon transforming the night sky into cobalt blue, above the twinkling lights of State Street. As they passed Brent’s office, he turned his head and instinctively tried to go into the front entrance. Debbie steered him in the other direction.
“Not now, Mr. Workaholic. You’ve got to walk this lady home.”
“With pleasure.” Brent gave Debbie his arm and they continued to her little bungalow on Anapamu.
“Want to come in?” she asked, as they paused at her doorstep.
Brent leaned in for a kiss, which was met with equal enthusiasm, causing a rush of hormones that would lead him on a one-way path.
“Raincheck?” he murmured almost helplessly, as she kissed him back passionately, and he felt the warmth of her soft body against his.