In the gritty interview room, I found myself grinning, thinking of her but made sure the students, and Big Brother couldn’t see it. Watching Gerri’s self-confident smirk, I thought, yeah, Christie, the word was right. She had known how uptight I had been about the interviews and tried to get me to laugh a bit. It worked.
Tess’s question brought me back to the present. “Now that you are facing execution, who do you blame for your fate?”
Both men admitted to having a quick temper, though they said something like they “only gave it to those who asked for it.” The single time I noticed Tess falter with both men, her hand stopping its relentless path down the notebook page, was when she asked if either was sorry for what he did. Both men expressed little remorse for the act--“he had it coming” (Reggie) and “he was comin’ after me and I jus’ got him before he got me” (Gerri).
The time reserved for each interview had been twenty minutes, but with Tess’s probing, each session went a few minutes over. When Gerri Fitzpatrick was led back out, the chain between his wrists and ankles dangling against the metal door, we got out of the uncomfortable chairs to stretch and I turned to talk to my students.
“Well, Rashid, what do you think of the first two interviews?” I asked.
“I must admit I am impressed,” he said. “Miss Esselmann has handled our questioning quite well.”
“I agree. Tess has done a remarkable job,” I said and smiled at Tess, who blushed at the compliments. “It looks like we’ll have lots of quotes to sift through for our special edition. How many pages of notes have you taken, Tess?”
Licking her thumb, she rifled her way back through the scribbled pages of the notebook. “Seventeen. ... No eighteen.”
“Great job, Tess. I’ve only taken down a few comments that struck me so I only have a couple of pages.” I asked, “What about you, Rashid?” even though I knew his answer.
I studied the youth. He squirmed slightly at the question. Then, the hardened, young Mideastern man reemerged. “I do not take notes. I do not believe you asked me to take notes, Ms. Sterber.” He paused and then gave me a cold stare. “I have very strong memory. In my country, where it is not possible to waste the luxury of paper and pen on children, students must learn to remember without such aids.” His voice even held an edge of rebuke. “And besides, you have the recorder.” He pointed to the table.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the slightest flare in Tess’ face and I intervened. “Okay, Rashid, I selected you, so please don’t make me regret it. When you get home tonight, put down on paper as much as you can remember fom that great memory and turn in your notes to me tomorrow. That way, we’ll have them to compare with the notes that Tess and I took. Plus we are going to need your perspective as an Arab, especially for Akadi, to provide another perspective for our story.”
As the electronic lock clanged open again, both students glanced at me quizzically. I nodded, smiling. “Let’s go.”
We took our places again as Akadi, shackled hand and foot, was led clumsily to the empty chair at the table. Without a word, the guard stepped back and stood, his back against the wall beside the door, his hand on his gun, a parallel form to the guard who never moved. I noticed for the first time that both figures would be just beyond the view of the camera. I shot a quick look over at Tess and she began.
“Thank you, Mr. Akadi, for agreeing to speak with us,” she began. “My name is Tess Esselmann and I am the editor for The Anvil, the student newspaper for James Thurber High School.” She looked straight at the prisoner. Pointing to her left, she indicated me and continued, “And this is our advisor, Miss Sterber.” She pointed to her right, “And this is Rashid Hermani, who is a student like me and who has agreed to assist in translating, if needed.”
I was studying the prisoner and saw what I took to be a flicker of recognition in his eyes. His words erupted in a flurry, Arab syllables snapping out in furious cadence like automatic gunfire. I managed to catch a few snatches of words and was trying desperately to translate them in my head. Something about “what is going on here” and “I swear by Allah” was all I could decipher. Before Tess or I could get a word out, Rashid answered back in another rapid sequence in what I took to be the same dialect.
There was a pause and when Rashid started to say something again, I interrupted him. “Rashid, it’s Tess’ responsibility to conduct the interview.” And then I turned to the prisoner, ”Mr. Akadi, I have asked Miss Esselmann to conduct the interview. Mr. Hermani is here to assist to be certain we get any translation issues correct.” I stared directly at Akadi who would not meet my gaze and instead continued to peer at Rashid.
Asad emitted another quick string of words. This time I didn’t have the chance to intervene because Tess beat me to it. “Mr. Akadi,” she said firmly, staring at the prisoner directly across from her. “I have watched you on TV and I know you speak quite good English. As editor of this paper, it’s my responsibility to ask the questions, and that’s what I plan to do.” Her gaze was intense and she waited until at last his stare moved from Rashid and met hers.
His initial reaction--one of angry defiance, I saw explode in his eyes like a pair of quick, mirrored flares. Then his look softened, and a small smile broke across his face and he spoke, this time in English. “My apologies, Miss ... Esselmann, for my bad manners,” he said. His voice was not the shrill call of the accused Islamic terrorist we had heard on TV, but had a soft, almost warm tone. “It is true that I speak English, though not as well as you may think. Much of what you see and hear on the news are words I have...how do you say, practiced?”
“Rehearsed?” Tess offered.
“Yes, I think that is it, rehearsed,” Asad continued, his smile broadening. “So, what I am trying to say is dat it is harder for me to think and talk in English.” His voice was now soft, a humble entreaty. “This may be last time I have chance to give my story. I would like to speak in my language and boy,” he nodded to Rashid, “could translate for me.”
“Mr. Akadi,” Tess interrupted before I could interject. “This is not an interview with The New York Times or The Washington Post. We’re just talking about a school newspaper. I believe your English is probably good enough for The Anvil.” I had to admit, she was going to make a hell of a journalist in a few years.
Akadi seemed to be caught off guard and he regained his composure and went on. “Miss, you may be from small school paper, but you are here interviewing international terrorist. And you have come wanting terrorist story, no?”
“Yes, but...” Tess began, but Asad cut her off.
“If I am to speak to you about my life, I wish to speak in my own tongue so nothing is lost,” the prisoner continued.
Tess turned to me, the question in her eyes. I looked across at Rashid and noticed that he was staring back at me. “Rashid, what do you think?”
“I will do whatever you ask, Miss Sterber,” the Mideast teen responded, keeping his dark eyes level on mine. Glancing between the two Arabs, I realized I was out of my depth, and so was Tess.
I decided. “Okay, Tess will read each question and Rashid, you will translate them as precisely as you can. When Mr. Akadi answers, you will translate back to English so Tess and I can record his answers. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Miss Sterber,” Rashid said. After a moment’s hesitation, Tess nodded in agreement and picked up her pen to begin her notes.
“Okay, Rashid, let’s begin by making it clear to Mr. Akadi how we are going to handle the interview,” I turned toward the terrorist whose stare was now fixed on me.
Rashid began slowly at first, gesturing to the prisoner who in turn nodded his understanding. His explanation went on for a while and I labored my way through my own rusty command of the Arabic language. Forcing my left side of my brain to comply, I was able to make out some phrases and one or two complete sentences, always well behind the exchange between Rashid and Asad.
Even as I struggled to process the first exchange, Rashid nodded to Tess to ask the fi
rst question.
“Now that you are faced with inevitable death and condemnation from most of the world, you must see things differently than before. If your sister confided to you she was planning …”
I was hearing Tess’s words, but wasn’t able to concentrate on them because something of the earlier exchange between Rashid and Asad still nagged at me. I tried to replay the missing part of the conversation in Farsi. “Tess will ask...she is careful to get it right...she comprehends,” Rashid was saying. What does that word mean? I struggled, willing my brain to remember.
Rashid’s translation of the question completed, Akadi was already part way through his answer, an answer I hadn’t even heard. I tried to tell myself to let it go, that it would come back to me later, but I couldn’t.
Two sentences in Farsi, three sentences in English to translate. A follow-up question from Tess, all the while her hand writing furiously, recording everything. Another sentence in Farsi, this time from Rashid and then no response from Akadi. The terrorist seemed to be stunned. Then, for Tess’ benefit, two more translated English sentences. No matter how hard I concentrated, I couldn’t keep up.
When, a few moments later, the answer came barreling through my consciousness, I gasped. I couldn’t help myself. As one, Asad and Rashid turned to me, ceasing both answer and translation simultaneously. Even Tess looked up from her notebook, perplexed.
“Sorry,” I said, trying to cover my gaffe. “Please continue.”
For a long moment, no one said anything and the silence hung heavy in the small room. Then Akadi started again, the Farsi phrases began flowing again. As the terrorist spoke, he appeared to grow more confident again with each sentence and Rashid translated effortlessly. The process of turning response into translation became almost fluid, the two working easily together.
While I fought to display nothing on my face, my brain silently screamed the sentences it had struggled to translate: “Be careful what you say. She understands our language.”
Chapter 25
By the time Rashid arrived at the second floor of the Red Roof Inn and was admitted into the room, the rest of the men had already gathered. The massive frames of the three Arab men were crowded tightly around the small circular table, their faces hunched over papers on the surface. Yassim returned to the far end of the room and gestured for Rashid to join the others at the table.
“It is good that we are all here,” began the leader, standing over the three seated men. “This is Rashid, the youngest member of our team.”
“Fadi,” said the first man with broad shoulders and a long gray beard.
The next man was even larger, with huge muscles on both arms. “Mustafa,” he grunted.
The fourth man said without waiting, “The name is Jesus and we have already met in the halls of James Thurber, I believe.”
Rashid remembered passing Jesus in the hallway at school and had wondered about him. He knew the Sheik had men everywhere. But seeing him here, with this group, Rashid thought Jesus looked strangely out of place, like a beautiful koi in an ugly pond.
“I am glad that we are together,” Yassim said, “though this will be the only time all the members of the Baqir cell will meet ... until we execute our assignment. This meeting will be short.”
Yassim gestured to the papers spread out on the table and Rashid realized they were his rough drawings of the school. “The young one has provided us with good maps of the school building. Although Allah has found a way to provide us with actual blueprints of the building, they are too complicated for our plans.”
Rashid knew where the original blueprints had come from, even though he wasn’t supposed to. He mused that it was interesting that Yassim had attributed them to Allah, but he was not about to contradict the cell leader.
“Fadi, have you committed the boy’s maps to memory?” the leader was saying.
“Yes.”
“Mustafa?”
The man with the huge arms said, “ Of course, and these are sufficient for knowledge of the building, but I will need the blueprints for my work.”
“You will have them when you leave,” the cell leader replied. “Jesus, what have you learned about the building?”
“I have learned much already,” the handsome man responded, smiling. “I was given a full tour of the building.”
“How did that happen?” Yassim asked, concern in his voice.
“I simply asked,” Jesus said.
“Did you not think that would appear strange?”
“No, not at all. I was new to building and asked a teacher if she could show me their new building, explaining we have nothing like this in my country.”
“Which teacher?”
“The one we talked about, Miss Sterber,” Jesus said.
Rashid looked up sharply at the mention of the name and then lowered his head, hoping he hadn’t been noticed.
“She seemed quite happy to help. I think she may have thought I had secret reason for the request.”
“What would that be?” Yassim asked.
“Romance!” Jesus said, sporting his bright smile. The other men laughed, showing rows of stained and decaying teeth.
“Let us go over the preparations again,” the leader said. “Mustafa and Fadi, you will arrive with the delivery of janitorial supplies. I have made arrangements with the Stark driver and he says delivery will be about 5:00 a.m. He will leave the panel door unlocked overnight and you will need to find a good time during the night to get inside. You will be in the back of van and will come out after the contact comes to get you.”
“Who is our contact?” asked Mustafa.
“A building janitor by the name of Jose,” Yassim replied. “Also, the weapons and explosives will be hidden in one of the delivery drums, the one marked degreaser. The contact is to take you and weapons to a safe place, a storage closet off the cafeteria. There you will wait for me. Do you understand?”
Both men nodded.
“Rashid,” Yassim said, “you will be there, at school?”
“I am there every day,” Rashid answered, “as instructed.”
“Good,” the cell leader said. “And Jesus, do you have more substitute teaching jobs?”
“Yes, I have already received calls for the next several days,” he replied, “and I expect more calls. They like me.”
“What about you?” Fadi asked and everyone turned toward Yassim.
“Did you not know,” the cell leader answered, a smile now in his voice, “that I am the milkman? The school uses Silver Dairy products and we have contacts in the company. I will deliver milk on the appointed day ... as well as Allah’s justice.” The men grinned at this.
“Any other questions?”
“Yes,” said Mustafa, “when do we strike?”
“Soon, quite soon. Allah will let us know. You must now wait, pray, and make sure you are ready. You will keep your phones on you always?”
The other three men nodded, but Rashid looked puzzled. The cell leader said, “Not you Rashid. You do not have a cell phone because you are not permitted to have one in school. And you will be there every day, yes?”
Rashid nodded.
Yassim looked into the faces of all the men and said, “Allah be praised!”
The others answered in unison, “Allah be praised!”
“It is time to leave. Fadi, you shall leave first.”
Fadi rose immediately, his beard sliding off the edge of the table as he stood.
“Mustafa, come here.” Yassim went over to the bottom drawer in the small dresser. The cell leader moved some sweaters and pulled a legal-sized manila envelope from the drawer. “Since you cannot memorize such a document, keep it safe at all times.”
“Yes, of course.” When Mustafa reached for the envelope with his large right hand, Rashid noted a “c” shaped scar on his rippling biceps. Mustafa took the package and went out the door.
“Jesus,” the cell leader said, “you may go now.”
Jesus grabbed
Yassim’s hand and shook it Western style. “May Allah give us good hunting!” he said, still grasping the cell leader’s hand.
Finally Rashid was alone again with Yassim. A familiar tremor of fear rippled through his body.
Yassim turned. “You have a question?”
Rashid suddenly felt the need to clear his throat. “Is there any reason I will not know ahead of time the day of our strike?”
“I thought it best you not be burdened with that knowledge,” Yassim answered quickly. “You are young yet and the task ahead will be hard enough for those of us hardened in battle. Jesus will inform you when the day is upon us.”
Rashid nodded and turned toward the door. The cell leader asked coolly, “Do you have a message for your family?”
Rashid stopped at the door, the handle half way through its turn. He did not look back. “May Allah keep them safe.”
Chapter 26
“I think today is the day!” Christie whispered to me in full conspiratorial mode.
We stood in the lunch line in the cafeteria, studying the day’s “gourmet” offerings. You see, teachers--at least at our school--get to cut in line, so we don’t spend half our generous lunch period waiting behind bored teenagers and can actually use most of our 37 minutes to enjoy the fabulous cuisine of “Chez Thurber.” Just one of the great perks of our job, like grading a hundred papers a night and chaperoning the prom.
Struggling with the difficult choice of lard-fried chicken patty or chili fries, I hadn’t realized Christie was talking to me.
“I just know today is going to be the day. Last night when I was making out the final invitations, I stole a glance at the horoscopes. Yours said, ‘You will receive an unexpected invite. Accept it.’”
I knew I’d be sorry, but I asked, “What are you talking about?”
She leaned closer to me and said in my ear, “Jesus is subbing again today and this is the day he’s going to ask you out!” she practically squealed into my eardrum, like a six year old telling a secret.
I looked at her, shook my head. “You’re certifiable, girl.” I grabbed a bowl of almost fresh fruit and moved down the line.
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