by Kenneth Eade
“Man, this is FUBAR,” said one of them, a skinny tall guy, as he took a drag off the last morsel of cigarette, then smashed it in the ashtray like he was squashing a bug.
“Yeah Skinny, but what can we do about it?” added another, a dumb looking kid who they called “Rock,” because his mouth was always hanging open like a retard.
“Plenty, Maggot. We’re Marines. I’ve got a plan,” said a cocky little dude with wild eyes they called ‘Balls,’ because he had the balls to do just about anything. “It’s gonna be a secret mission, so you all have to agree to follow my lead.”
“What’s the plan?” asked the fourth, a freckled boy who was always nervous, whom they had nicknamed, “Pumpkin Head.”
“We all swore to defend the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, right?” They all chimed in agreement between gulps of beer.
“I heard talk at Gitmo that there’s a domestic enemy right here Stateside cozying up to the fucking Hajis and going after our Brass in the courts.”
“That civilian lawyer? The one defending the dead Haji?” asked Rock.
“Pretty smart, Rocky boy. We’ve gotta silence him.”
“What do you mean, silence him?” asked Pumpkin Head.
“Dude, not even Rock here is as stupid as you. Silence, like convince him that he’ll be in a world of pain if he doesn’t fucking back off.”
“And how do we do that?” asked Skinny.
“ ‘Member how we used to haze the fresh boots?” asked Balls.
“Guys, man, I don’t know,” said Pumpkin Head.
“Fuck, dude, we all got our blood stripes, right? It’s not like we’re gonna kill him or anything,” said Skinny.
“Right, Skin. We have to do something,” said Balls. “It’s our duty to fight the terrorists, whether they’re in theater or here at home. Now, are we good to go? Whoever isn’t better speak up now.”
“Man, isn’t that kinda John Wayne? I mean, he’s not a terrorist, he’s a civilian,” said Pumpkin Head.
“The enemy comes in all kinds of shapes and sizes. This one even has an ex-FBI poking around where he doesn’t belong,” said Balls.
“Dude, he talked to me too,” said Rock.
“You didn’t tell him anything, did you retard?” asked Balls.
“No, man, I swear. I didn’t tell him shit. And don’t call me retard.”
“Guys, this is a threat that has to be taken care of. Are we good to go?”
“Yeah!” they all sung in unison.
“OO RAH!” said Balls, prompting an “OO RAH” from the chorus, and a simultaneous toast of smashing beer mugs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Brent finally got the good news in the mail that his tort claim against the Government was denied. That meant he was free to file the lawsuit, which he had been working on in anticipation of this moment. The past sixty days had turned up no new evidence and no witnesses, but he didn’t really expect any. Rick had had the door slammed in his face with every contact.
G. K. Chesterson said, “The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.” No matter what had been done to Ahmed, no matter what stomachs had dropped to the boots of however many post-adolescent servicemen; their honor had been inextricably entwined with loyalty without question to their superiors, and they weren’t going to talk about the ugly deeds that had either witnessed or done in the name of service to their country.
It was in this context that Brent threw the gauntlet against George W. Bush, the highest-ranking officer of the American military machine, the same man who had said, “One of the hardest parts of my job is to connect Iraq to the war on terror.” After all, a “War on Terror” was an anomaly. How could you have a war on terrorism when war is terrorism? Brent was secretly hoping that someone would come to their senses and come forward to keep the stink of war away from home.
The complaint was filed in U.S. District Court in Los Angeles, and announced in a press release, which drew both praise and criticism. Since the habeas corpus case was deemed “related” by the presiding judge, the new case was assigned to Judge Henley. The chat boards were alive with the news of the filing. Some called Brent a “liberal,” others “a defender of civil liberties,” and others still branded him an “opportunist” or a “terrorist lover.”
Stepping forward for something worth believing in is never popular if it goes against the mass hypnosis.
Americans are raised in school pledging allegiance to a flag; they sing the national anthem and feel tingle run up and down their spine when they hear it. Then, when they grow up, they play “follow the leader,” complying with every badge of authority flashed at them without question. In what little public discourse they have, they debate the issues of conflict between fictitious characters on television shows and repeat the opinions of media pundits as their own.
It was going to be tough to find a jury who would be sympathetic to a wife and family who had lost a husband accused of terrorism against the United States, and a Muslim one at that.
***
Private Lee Smith, also known as “Pumpkin Head,” was running through the jungle in his cammies being chased by a huge tiger. Then he tripped and dropped his piece, leaving himself completely unprotected. No matter how fast he ran, the tiger was still right behind him. He could feel the tiger’s breath against his neck, and then the tiger pounced, sat heavily on his chest and bared his teeth for the final kill.
Suddenly Smith awoke in his bunk to Balls’ strong hand clamped against his mouth and the gleaming blade of his K-BAR pinned against Smith’s throat.
“Did I detect a lack of enthusiasm last night?”
Smith mumbled, and Balls drew back the blade to allow him to shake his head “No.”
Balls lifted his hand from Smith’s mouth. “If I charge, what do you do?” he asked, removing his grip from Smith’s mouth.
“Follow you.”
“And if I retreat?”
“Kill you.”
“And if I die?”
“Revenge you.”
“Good. I don’t have to tell you that what happened in Gitmo stays in Gitmo, do I?”
“No Balls, of course not.”
“Are you good to go then?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good to go.”
Balls sheathed his knife and smiled.
***
After the complaint was served, Brent served his autopsy report from Dr. Orozco on the U.S. Attorney’s office, along with his early disclosures, and made an ex parte emergency motion for expedited discovery. All formal discovery in federal court was normally postponed until after the court holds its first conference, at which time both sides are expected to propose discovery plans. Brent was seeking an order to allow him early discovery.
Brent alleged that the fact that any one of his witnesses could be shipped off for deployment to Iraq or Afghanistan at any time was good cause to allow him to take depositions right away. The motion was granted, and Brent put out notices of deposition on Sergeant Brown, Corporal Reeding and Colonel Masters, all personnel he had met during his Gitmo visits. They were all still on the base in their current deployment, so he would have to make at least one more trip back to Gitmo to depose them.
“Don’t expect much,” Rick had told him. Brent knew that but he had to start at the tail of the snake to find the head.
The depositions were set by agreement with the U.S. Attorney’s office, which had to work with the U.S. Navy to obtain clearance for Brent and Rick. Brent also made a demand to inspect all documents, including the detainee contact logs for Ahmed, any use of force reports, the force-feeding facilities, the cells that held Ahmed Khury during his vacation at Camp 7, the interrogation and recreation facilities, and finally, all leg and arm restraints, belly restraints, black out hoods, ear muffs, and goggles and gloves, which all drew the objection that they were “classified,” something Judge Henley quickly threw out when the U.S. Attorney move
d for a protective order.
***
As the days neared his “fishing expedition,” Brent spent long hours at the office, keeping up with his other cases, so he could afford the week off that it would take to do a thorough job turning Gitmo upside down. News of the discovery trip circulated through the ranks, giving Brent a reputation as a hated man long before he had set foot on Cuban soil.
Brent’s routine the week leading to the trip was monk-like. He worked all day and most of the night, preparing for the depositions. He never saw Debbie, who had an annoying habit of calling him at night with nothing to say, and the only time he did get out was to meet with Rick to compare notes.
Brent preferred to walk to his meetings with Rick, which were invariably held in some dive on State Street within a mile of his office, so, when Rick called and asked him to meet him at Sonny’s, Rick’s favorite bar, Brent locked up the office and headed out on foot at about 11 p.m.
The walk to Sonny’s was about ten short blocks, and Brent was programmed on autopilot for it, having done it so many times before. As he approached Ortega Street, a teenage kid on a bicycle came up to him.
“Hey man, could you help me? I’m looking for my dog,” he asked Brent.
Brent was a little surprised. “I’m kind of busy right now, but good luck.”
“I’m just afraid the coyotes will get him. He’s down there,” the kid said, as he pointed down the street, “Every time I go near him, he runs away. I just need someone to stay here and catch him if he runs, while I come from the other side and try to get him to come out.”
“Okay,” said Brent, reluctantly, and phoned Rick to tell him he would be late.
“Let the kid find his own goddamn dog,” Rick replied.
“Dude, I’m only three blocks away, come on over, you can help me get it over with.”
As Brent waited with his eyes trained on the alley, he was grabbed from behind by two guys.
Brent strained to see his captors, and two more appeared before him in ski masks covering everything but their eyes and mouths. They threw him against the wall in the alley and taped his mouth, hands and feet with duct tape. One of them, the only one who did the talking, whipped out a huge knife. Another cocked and pointed a huge gun right at his head.
“Now listen up, Mr. Lawyer, because there’s gonna be a quiz after,” said the Talker, who laughed and the other three laughed along in chorus.
“And if you don’t get all the questions right, my buddy here is gonna put a bullet in your head. It’s only an eighty-cent bullet to us, so pay attention.” More laughter.
Brent nodded, his eyes wide open in terror.
“Your case against the Government is going nowhere. Nobody is going to tell you anything, because nothing happened. Do you understand?”
Brent nodded.
“You’re messing in shit where you don’t belong and you’re way out of your league,” said the Talker, who ripped the duct tape off Brent’s mouth, shoved in a rag, and taped it back over his nose and mouth.
“Am I making myself clear?” Brent nodded, trying not to panic and hoping that Rick would get his ass there, and quickly. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Rick creeping up on them, making the silent “shhh” sign with his finger.
Rick was like a wild animal when he attacked, and disarmed the man with the gun at the same time he kicked the knife out of the Talker’s hand: A real James Bond. The Talker tried to rush Rick, but he stood in front of Brent and pointed the gun at all of them back and forth in a semi-circle. “Who wants a piece of this?” he yelled, “Let’s see how many of you I can shoot before you get to us.” The four ran off in a unison retreat, as Brent turned purple.
Rick quickly ripped the tape off his mouth and Brent coughed and sucked in as much air as he could in one breath.
“You okay, buddy?” he asked, as Rick cut him free from his bonds.
“Good, cause I’ve gotta go get those motherfuckers.” Rick whipped out his cell phone to call his cop buddies.
“Let’s get you out in the light. Rick ushered Brent back to State Street. Can you get to Sonny’s and wait for me there?” Rick asked, putting his hand on Brent’s shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m alright.”
“Okay, I’ll be back,” he said, evoking an image of Schwarzenegger, and ran off, his cell phone attached to his ear.
***
Rick finally got back to Sonny’s around 1 a.m. “The trail went cold,” he said, “They were probably military or ex- military. The knife is KA-BAR, they call them K-BAR, standard Marine Corps issue. No prints on the handle and I messed up the prints on the gun when I took it to save our asses. Probably our buddies from Gitmo- the same ones I tried to interview.”
“I thought Gitmo guards were mostly Army.”
“They are, but the ones who guard the base itself are Marines.”
“Did you give the cops a list of names?”
“I’m way ahead of you buddy. If any of those assholes are in California, we’re going to haul them in.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The following week Brent and Rick were on a plane to Ft. Lauderdale, and then off to Gitmo for a week of depositions and discovery. Their plane was met by Corporal Lance Peppard, a young 20-something who could have passed for Corporal Reeding. He even had the same Southern drawl.
“Where’s Reeding?” asked Brent.
“Oh, he was reassigned months ago, sir.”
Rick was shocked at the cloak and dagger methods that were used to keep them from figuring out the location of Camp 7.
“Even if we knew where Camp 7 was, then what?” he asked Peppard through his blackout hood.
“I assume that was rhetorical, sir?”
“Yes, Peppard, don’t get your balls in an uproar.”
Corporal Peppard took them on a tour of the specific points that were enumerated in the court order. First stop was the cell that Ahmed had lived in the last days of his life. It was a small concrete block with no windows: just a steel door with no bars. Rick took photographs of every detail of the cell. Only one detail was missing: There was no heavy metal music played during the entire tour. The hole where Ahmed spent his days in solitary confinement was even smaller, with no bed, no toilet, and no wire mesh ceiling.
The force-feeding room looked like the bland and plain room that you would expect to find in a medical clinic, the centerpiece of which was the bizarre force-feeding chair, with the hand, foot and head restraints you may expect to find on a chair used for lethal injections or the electric chair.
They examined the two-foot long nasal feeding tubes and gravity feeding bags. The jackpot came when Rick and Brent were given a copy of a video which showed every sickening detail of Ahmed being force-fed, including the presence of the feeding team who had extracted Ahmed from his cell, dressed in full riot gear: bullet proof flak jackets over their camouflage fatigues, helmets with visors. Brent and Rick watched in horror the 25-minute-long video, which showed Ahmed being strapped in the chair, screaming in pain as the tube was inserted into his nostril without anesthesia, coughing and spitting out the tube twice, and finally vomiting blood after the feeding.
“Is this the only video of Mr. Khury being force -fed?” asked Brent.
“Yes sir,” replied Corporal Peppard.
The tour finished in the TV room, where detainees were shackled to the floor to watch television, the interrogation room, with its four blank walls and the post in the floor to shackle detainees’ arms and legs in a fetal position while they were being interrogated, the shower room, where detainees are allowed one 15-minute shower per week, and finally, the exercise area, a 10-five by eight foot chain link structure, like a small dog run, with multiple fences and loads of barbed wire, where Camp 7 detainees are allowed 15 minutes of “exercise” per week.
***
“Dude, that place is a Gulag,” said Rick, as they sat in the ‘House of Yum,’ exhausted both physically and emotionally. “They’ve got this McDonald’s and
KFC on the outside, total Americana, right? And they’re right next door to the House of Pain.”
“Write a letter to your Congressman, Rick,” said Brent, facetiously.
“No, seriously, they say you’re a terrorist, ship you off to a U.S. base and do anything they want to you because you’re technically not in America? That’s gotta be a crime.”
“The president’s legal advisors don’t think so. They say the Geneva Conventions don’t apply to detainees, and neither does their own Military Code of Justice.”
“Dude, we could never get away with that shit in the States.”
“Yes they can,” said Brent. “Thanks to the Patriot Act, they can secretly raid your house, eavesdrop on your email, and grab your private banking and library records. They can look up your online asshole with a microscope using their ‘roving warrant.’ They can hold you on no charges for up to five days, and, if you’re an immigrant, indefinitely.”
“It’s not right.”
“That’s why we’re here. This is not the greatest vacation destination, you know?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Depositions are usually tedious and boring. They are a discovery tool which allows the attorney taking the deposition to ask more than he would at the time of trial, because there is no judge present to rule on objections, which are mostly for the record, to be decided upon at trial if the transcript of the deposition is used for something. Even if a witness was lying, you can get a good indication of his demeanor as a witness at trial.
Rick Penn’s presence was invaluable to Brent, as he was an expert at reading facial expressions and body language. He was the closest thing to a human polygraph machine.
