Brent Marks Legal Thriller Series: Box Set One

by Kenneth Eade

  “That’s just it. Nothing happened! My brother picked me up at the airport, drove me to his place, and I spent a few days there. Before he had a chance to tell me what was wrong and how I could help, there was a raid.”

  “A raid?”

  “Yes. One of my brother’s friends got a call, and they all left: they went out the window. A few minutes later, the MP’s were breaking down his door.”

  “What happened to your brother?”

  “I don’t know. They separated us. I think they killed him.” Ahmed hung his head in despair.

  “Ahmed, I don’t know how much time we really have.”

  “He said fifteen minutes…”

  “Yes, so let’s use all of the time we have wisely.”

  Brent jotted down everything that Ahmed could remember, about his brother, the names of his friends, and every detail about his time in Iraq.

  “So your brother runs a store. That’s why they suspected him of being a money launderer.”

  “Yes, but that little store couldn’t possibly take in that much cash.”

  “Ahmed, I’m going to file a procedure called a habeas corpus in Federal Court in the States. If the application is granted, you can be moved to the States and get a trial there.”

  “I don’t even know what they’re charging me with. They won’t say.”

  “You leave that to me.”

  ***

  Ahmed recounted a tale of torture and abuse that rivaled that of Nazi Germany or the Spanish Inquisition. He described the isolation of the concrete holding cells with no windows and steel doors instead of bars, to prevent contact among inmates. He told of fellow inmates’ suicides and the famous force-feeding chair, for those who attempted hunger strikes. In short, his story violated every parameter that Brent was given for the interview, but the explosive facts made a habeas corpus petition a virtual shoe-in.

  There was a pounding on the door and Brown entered. “Time’s up,” he declared.

  Brent handed Ahmed the letter from his wife.

  “From your wife.”

  Ahmed took the letter with his shackled hands and looked at it in awe as if it was a bar of gold. His eyes, filled with gratitude, met Brent’s. He smiled as opened it and read, My dearest love, It has been so long since I wrote a letter to you. Pressures and responsibilities of life can make some things seem routine, but it’s always a happiness to be by your side, sharing everything together. I feel so lost without you; like I’m drifting aimlessly in the darkness of space. There is always quiet peace at the end of the day, after the children have gone to bed and we spend time together just being with each other. It’s always been my favorite time. But now it’s just a quiet time; quiet and empty and the peace is gone. I miss your warm touch, your gentle strength; that security I feel in your presence. I miss waking up with you by my side and falling to sleep at night on your shoulder. It seems I can’t sleep without it.

  I can’t imagine the terrible ordeal that you are going through, and I feel selfish when I wallow here in my own misery. But I know that we will be together soon, so that gives me hope. I pray every day that this will be the day you come home. Know always that my heart is always full of love for you. Karen and Cameron are sending you their hugs and kisses. I haven’t told them what’s going on yet. They still think you’re in Iraq…

  Brown tore the letter from Ahmed’s handcuffed hand and bagged his head. “The interview is over,” he declared.

  It was William Penn who said, “Right is right, even if everyone is against it, and wrong is wrong, even if everyone is for it.” Brent knew that there was nothing right about this place and the way the prisoners were treated, and he was determined to do whatever he could to change that.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Brent’s mind was working non-stop like a locomotive on the flight back to Los Angeles. When the plane landed in Miami, his first stop, everyone had to go through customs and immigration control. Brent knew that, but what was unusual was that the Captain had announced that every passenger should have passports out and ready to show them to officers as they deplaned.

  It took unusually long for the plane to empty, and, when Brent reached the end of the jetway, there were two armed border patrol officers there checking passports. Brent showed his passport to them.

  “Just the gentleman we’ve been looking for. Please come with us, sir.”

  One of the officers, a young man, took Brent by the arm, and the three men moved in tandem.

  “What’s this about?” asked Brent.

  “We don’t know. You’ll have to discuss it with the interrogating officer,” said the unattached officer.

  “Am I being arrested?”

  “Not at this time, sir,” said the officer.

  “Well then, why the armed escort?”

  “Do you have an outstanding warrant for your arrest in any state?”

  “No.”

  “Then, it’s probably just routine.”

  Brent imagined a routine where long-term American citizens like him were treated like criminals every time they came back from a trip abroad. The walk to the screening section seemed like it would take forever. Brent had never been detained or placed in custody before. Sure, he had been in plenty of prisons, but never as the prisoner, only as a visitor.

  The subsequent two-hour wait in the screening section, a locked area, with officers standing behind a glass wall like bank tellers, seemed like a lifetime.

  “Excuse me, can you tell me how long this will take? I’m going to miss my connecting flight,” he said to one teller.

  “Wait for your name to be called,” was the only response he was given.

  They had retrieved Brent’s name in-flight from the passenger list, which was automatically transmitted to the Department of Homeland Security in Miami. Someone had put an alert out for Brent’s passport.

  “Brent Marks,” called one of the tellers.

  Brent was shown into a private screening room, where an armed Border Patrol Officer sat in front of a computer.

  “Mr. Marks, was this your first visit to Cuba?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t go to Cuba, technically it was Guantanamo Bay. That’s considered U.S. territory.”

  “Are you trying to argue with a United States Border Patrol Officer, Sir?”

  “No, I’m not, I just…”

  “What was the purpose of your visit to Cuba?”

  “I’m a lawyer. I was visiting a client.”

  “Can you prove that you’re a lawyer?”

  “Of course. Here’s my bar card,” Brent said, as he opened his wallet at took out his California State bar membership card.

  “What is your final destination in the United States, sir?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  After taking Brent’s address, the name of his client, and examining the papers that proved he had been granted permission to visit Gitmo, the Officer said, “You’re free to go, Mr. Marks. Welcome home.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is this all about?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot discuss that with you, Sir. If you have any questions or grievances, you can visit our website.”

  Welcome home. Brent had left the United States a free man. Why did he not feel free when he came back?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The long ride to Santa Barbara gave Brent pause to reflect on everything that had happened at Gitmo and his return. Now the surreal images of hooded and shackled prisoners in orange jumpsuits kneeling on the ground among armed guards that he had seen in news reports were a sobering reality. Something had to be done, and he was in a position to do it.

  When he finally reached Coast Village Road, he exited the freeway and took the long way home by the beach. Brent had seen enough concrete on his trip to Gitmo, and he wanted to enjoy the fresh air and the lovely beach vista on the final few miles of the drive home.

  Brent rolled down the windows and smelled the misty, salty air as he gazed acr
oss the palm studded grassy knolls of Chase Palm Park and its late afternoon joggers along Cabrillo Blvd. Once again, he was reminded why he chose Santa Barbara. L.A. had some nice spots, and it was great to be in the action, but it was a concrete jungle compared to Santa Barbara, which was calm and beautiful 365 days a year. Passing State Street, he saw people strolling along the beach among the bicycle riders and roller skaters on the bike path, and the tourists taking their walks down State Street to Stearns Wharf, perhaps to select a restaurant for the evening. Brent headed toward the Mesa via Shoreline Drive. The picture postcard view of the Santa Barbara harbor loomed above the houses as he descended toward his Harbor Hills Lane home.

  When he walked in, he received a homecoming from his orange and white cat, Calico. Her cheerful face was always synonymous with home. Calico’s purr motor was idling, and she rubbed her body against his legs, first with her face, and continuing along the length of her slinky body until the tip of her snaky tail. Then she repeated the process on the other leg, all the while idling at 700 rpm.

  Before Brent had a chance to set down his suitcases to feed the cat, the phone rang. Brent set down his bags, negotiated what little space was left between them and the cat in the entry, and raced the cat to the kitchen to pick up the phone.

  “Brent, it’s Debbie, are you okay?”

  “Hi, Deb, yes, I’m fine.”

  “I was just worried, haven’t heard from you since I got your text that you landed. How did it go at Gitmo?”

  “We should talk about it over dinner.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Let me just jump in the shower and I’ll pick you up in about an hour?”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh Deb?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for taking care of the cat.”

  Calico’s mewing, before a steady drone in the background of the phone call, had turned into wailing. Brent scooped out a generous gourmet feast for her and she quickly changed from wailing back to purring.

  ***

  Magic hour was beginning to set in as Brent and Debbie left for the Santa Barbara Biltmore. By the time they arrived, the sun was perched above the horizon for another breathtaking Santa Barbara sunset. After the valet fetched the car, they walked across the street to the beach and stood there for a moment to enjoy it. The sky bathed the ocean with an explosion of red, orange and yellow as it descended through the clouds, kissing the horizon. When their eyes met, Brent stroked Debbie’s hair and moved in for the kiss.

  “Now, that’s a homecoming to remember,” she said.

  It didn’t take long, however, for the small talk to turn to business. Debbie was too curious to let it pass. She needed an update. Brent gave her a summary of the bizarre and curtailed interview in the house of horrors that was Camp 7, as well as his own strange treatment at the hands of the Border Patrol upon his arrival in Miami.

  “So what’s next?” she asked, batting her eyelashes over her baby blues. She may be blonde, but she was no dummy. In fact, she was quite the opposite. As a CPA in the audit department of Ernst & Young, she found talking about Brent’s work more interesting than thinking about her own.

  “I’ll file a habeas corpus petition, and try to get him out of that shit hole. Maybe we can determine what charge he’s being held on and get him a hearing.”

  “They haven’t charged him with anything?”

  “Not yet. They have a confession with him admitting he came to Iraq to help his brother launder money for al Qaeda.”

  “That’s a serious accusation.”

  “Apparently, after 20 minutes of waterboarding, not only will you admit allegiance to Osama bin Laden, you’ll gladly die just to have relief.”

  “So the confession was coerced.”

  “Ya think?”

  Brent thought about Ahmed and how free he was in comparison to him. How he had always taken this freedom for granted: The freedom to follow the rules if he found them to be tolerable, and to break them if he found them to be too onerous. Ahmed was only free in his dreams, if that.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Brent wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or his lips were being rubbed with sandpaper. He felt a heaviness on his chest and a tickling on his face. Upon opening his eyes, he discovered that it was Calico, treating him to some early morning affection as a prelude to her breakfast. As he rolled out of bed, the cat flew off and charged for the kitchen.

  Even though it was Saturday, there was no time for leisure. Every minute that Ahmed spent in tortuous confinement was a minute too long. Brent got ready for a long Saturday at the office.

  ***

  The writ of habeas corpus, which literally means, “produce the body,” derives from 14th century English law, and is traditionally used to free a person who is wrongfully detained without just cause. It was the only guarantee of a right written into the Constitution itself: The others came in amendments. The ten first amendments were called the “Bill of Rights.”

  If a petition for habeas corpus is successful, a writ is issued by the court commanding that the prisoner be brought before the court for a hearing to determine whether the custodian has authority to detain the prisoner. If no legal authority is found, the prisoner must be released.

  If Ahmed had been held in any prison in the States, obtaining his release would be a relatively simple task, but he was a suspected enemy combatant. Courts had already upheld detentions at Guantanamo under the Authorization for Use of Military Force passed by Congress three days after the September 11th attacks. Given that his “confession” tied him to al Qaeda, the Government would argue that they had the power to hold him indefinitely, or until such time as the military conflict no longer existed.

  Because of the destruction of the Afghan and Iraqi infrastructure, the enormous problem of policing, the incredible expense of rebuilding, and the $700 billion U.S. defense budget, it was foreseeable that the “military conflict” there could go on for decades, to the delight of military contractors like Halliburton, Lockheed and General Dynamics. War is good for business.

  Robert Kennedy said, “Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring those ripples to build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.” Brent began work on his own tiny ripple of hope.

  Normally a habeas corpus petition had to be filed in the Federal District Court in the district where the prisoner was confined. However, in this case, Brent decided to file in the Central District of California, since Ahmed was incarcerated outside the U.S. but was a United States citizen with a residence in that district.

  Ahmed had been denied a cornucopia of basic rights of one normally accused of a crime, including his Sixth Amendment rights to counsel, to a speedy trial, to confront the witnesses against him, to a trial by jury, and the right to be informed of what he was charged with. He had been denied his Fifth Amendment right to a trial by jury, the right to due process, and his coerced confession violated his privilege against self-incrimination. Finally, his treatment at Guantanamo violated his Eighth Amendment right to be free from cruel and unusual punishment.

  In any other situation, Brent would have been able to use the notes that he had taken from his interview with Ahmed. But, in Ahmed’s case, as was the case with every prisoner in Gitmo, Brent had to turn in all his notes and could not use them until they had been “cleared.” Given this handicap, Brent worked from memory.

  Brent’s request for a visit and examination for Ahmed from the International Red Cross was denied by the military, on the grounds that Ahmed was being held as an “unprivileged enemy combatant,” to which the Government considered the Geneva Conventions of 1949 did not apply.

  ***

  As Brent worked on the habeas corpus petition, Ahmed paid the price for finally exercising his right to counsel. Armed with Brent’s notes, wh
ich violated Ahmed’s right to counsel and the age-old attorney-client privilege, his captors now had another reason to torture Ahmed: Revenge. It began with Sergeant Brown, of course. Ahmed knew he could count on an early morning visit from him, and that it would be anything but pleasant.

  “Your Jew lawyer broke all of our rules, A-hab,” Brown said as he entered Ahmed’s small cell. “That means no TV, no exercise yard and no toilet privileges for you, Haji.”

  This was no big deal for Ahmed. He had been forced to soil himself many times during his short captivity. And being shackled to a chair in the TV room was not really his idea of entertainment, just as the 15 minutes per week of exercise he was allowed was not really exercise.

  “Since that idiot Jew chickened out, you’ve been appointed a new lawyer by the Government,” added Brown with a smile, “He’ll be seeing you soon, so try not to shit yourself.”

  ***

  The new lawyer for Ahmed was a young, clean-cut man with a generic American accent. Whereas Ahmed had felt a natural trust for Brent, he did not feel the same about this new lawyer, Steven Jackson.

  “Will you be filing a writ of habeas corpus for me?” Ahmed asked Jackson.

  “Well, let’s talk about that. We have a hearing coming up before the Combatant Status Review Tribunal. You’ll be given an opportunity to show why you shouldn’t be designated an enemy combatant. Why do you think a writ of habeas corpus would apply in your case?”

  This lawyer must be kidding. “What firm are you with?” asked Ahmed.

  “I’ve been appointed by the Government. Mr. Khury, and I’m asking the questions here. We don’t have much time to prepare.”

  “I’d like to see Mr. Marks.”

  “Didn’t Sergeant Brown tell you he declined representation?”

  “Yes, but I prefer to hear that from him. Until I do, I won’t be saying anything.”