by H. M. Naqvi
“Why does it matter to you?”
“What do you mean? I’m a self-respecting Muslim atheist, just like any, ah, nonpracticing Christian, secular Jew, or carnivorous Hindu—”
Our response involves far more than instant retaliation and isolated strikes. Americans should not expect one battle, but a lengthy campaign, unlike any other we have ever seen. It may include dramatic strikes, visible on TV, and covert operations, secret even in success. We will starve terrorists of funding, turn them one against another, drive them from place to place, until there is no refuge or no rest. And we will pursue nations that provide aid or safe haven to terrorism. Every nation, in every region, now has a decision to make. Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists.
“Eye for an eye, baby! The heirs of the fucking Enlightenment, and our response is, ah, biblical. How d’ya like dem apples? When push comes to shove, chum, we’re all animals, every last one of us. Someone hits you, and you hit back. That’s the law of the jungle. That’s human nature.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Ask me anything!”
“Why do you want to become an American?”
“C’mon, chum!” AC snapped, turning the TV volume down. “I don’t have to see eye to eye with this bastard! Hail Emma Goldman! Hail Chomsky! Hail Zinn! Hail Mary! Yo, I thought this country was based upon freedom of speech / Freedom of press, freedom of your own religion / To make your own decision, now that’s baloney / Cause if I gotta play by your rules, I’m bein’ phony—”
The riff was interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up outside. An engine churned to a stop; a door opened and shut. AC and I exchanged bemused, expectant looks with raised eyebrows, stiff necks. We both figured that it was the Shaman because that’s the way he was: random. You could imagine the Shaman entering bearing a lopsided grin, unconcerned that we were ensconced in his living room, that AC was frolicking in his tighty whities, or I was sipping Goldschläger from a teacup. He would have just been happy as hell to see us.
Except something was not right. We heard unfamiliar, orotund voices and the deliberate, lockstep click of heels on the sidewalk. We followed the footsteps across the lawn with our eyes, up the steps, to the front door. There was a heavy knock-knock-knock, knock, more admonition than announcement. “Are you expecting anybody?” AC inquired, just to make sure.
“Nope,” I replied.
“Well,” he said, folding his arms like a djinn. “Let’s see who’s dropped by for happy hour.”
Two clean-cut men—one young, one not so young—stood in the porch like totems. From a distance, they might have appeared to be a pair of proselytizing brothers, more Church of Latter-day Saints than Jehovah’s Witnesses. They cut stiff, polite poses, wore cotton shirts, dark suits, broad filigreed ties, and black shoes. Up close, however, it was obvious that they weren’t men of God. The elder, arguably middle-aged guy wore a combed crown of dirty blond hair and a dubious expression. “Mr. Shaw?” he asked.
“What?” I blurted. “Oh, oh no. You mean the Shaman, I mean, Mohammed, Mohammed Shah. He’s not in.”
Fixing me with small cornflower eyes, he asked, “Are you family, sir?”
“What? No, no. We’re actually just friends of his—”
“I’m Agent Trig,” he said by way of introduction and, gesturing vaguely to his colleague, added, “and that’s Agent Holt.” Holt scratched his head. Towheaded and floppy-eared, he was not much older than us. “We’re from the FBI,” Trig reported and, after a pause, clarified, “The Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Flashing a badge, he said, “Do you mind if we come in?”
“Sure,” I shrugged, playing it cool, as if the good folks from the FBI were regular cocktail guests, but I was jelly. In my mind, I tried tallying the number of possible reasons that could have brought the Federal Bureau of Investigation to our door that night. I couldn’t. There were too many.
Trig trudged in, wiped his feet on the doormat, and glanced around in the circumspect manner characteristic of a trained German shepherd, acknowledging AC’s presence and state of dishabille with a nod. “Whose cab is parked outside, gentlemen?”
“What’s this about, officer?” AC asked.
“Mine,” I replied. “Actually,” I added, “technically, it’s not really mine. I just lease it and drive it on shifts—”
“What happened to your eye, son?”
“Oh. I, um, got mugged. A few nights ago. Monday, or actually, it was Tuesday—”
“Did you file a police report?”
“No, sir. It was late, real late.” Trig wanted more so I found myself saying, “I didn’t want to get the police involved,” before biting my tongue.
“Why not? The authorities are here to serve you, son—unless you’ve got something to hide.”
“Hide? What would I have to hide?”
Trig searched my face for some indication of evasion or deceit, but he did not have to look hard because his accusatory gaze made me feel guilty, criminal, and I must have looked it. “Where’s Mr. Mo-hammid Shaw?” he asked.
“What’s this about?” AC persisted, and again the query did not register. I noticed a cold hard glint in his narrowing eyes, and for an instant I wondered whether AC was more dangerous drunk or sober. At that juncture, however, it was an academic issue. At that juncture, it was imperative that AC shut his face. Instead, AC blurted in Punjabi, “Ay ki bakvass eh?”
Enunciating, Trig repeated, “Where. Is. Mr. Mo-hammid Shaw?”
“He,” I began, “I don’t exactly know where he is—”
“What are you gentlemen doing here?”
“Well, we hadn’t heard from Mohammed for some time, so we thought we’d just, you know, check up on him.”
“Does anybody else live here with him?”
“I don’t think so, officer … no.”
“You mind if we look around?”
“Do you have a search warrant?” AC interjected. Arms crossed, hairy legs astride, world on shoulders, he stood like Atlas in a loincloth, daring to be trifled with. It was a pigheaded pose, a misguided, arguably American strategy. “I know my rights,” he testily continued, “and I’m sure you are cognizant of the concept of habeas corpus ad subjiciendum that’s virtually enshrined in our Constitution—the, ah, American Constitution. Article one, section nine, clause two. ‘The Privilege of the Writ of habeas corpus shall not be suspended, unless when in cases of rebellion or invasion the public safety may require it.’ So even though you’ve briskly, and I must say, rather rudely, ignored my queries, I’m going to ask you again: What. Is. This. About?”
Trig blinked rapidly, processing the rodomontade, while Holt, who had been by the door all this time, stiff and erect, one hand on belt, began fidgeting. I could tell he had not been in such a situation before. Neither had we. Turning his head slowly toward AC, then his body, Trig addressed him in a decidedly measured tone: “We received an anonymous tip last night that there’s been some … suspicious activity in this house. We were told that a cab—a New York City yellow cab—has been standing outside all night, and these days we take these things seriously. So if you’ve got nothing to hide, I’d strongly urge you to cooperate with us. This is a matter of public safety.”
“Yes, yes,” I said, “we’re ready to cooperate.”
“Where are you gentlemen from?”
“With all due respect, officer, that’s none of your goddamn business,” AC interjected.
“You need to relax!”
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, chum,” AC began. “I’m going to light an American Spirit, put my legs up on this couch, and scratch my groin with, ah, bestial abandon. The pursuit of happiness is my constitutional right. I’m going to exercise it right now. Ki samjha, chitay?” As AC proceeded to deliver, I noticed his hand tremble lighting the cigarette. Then all hell broke loose.
The sequence of discrete incidents that led to our arrest remains somewhat fuzzy, partly because it all happened so fast, partly bec
ause the adrenaline coursing through my head blinded me, but whatever happened, happened with the momentum of inevitability. When Trig demanded to see identification, AC showed him the birdie, and then I think Jimbo thundered down the stairwell, bellowing “BANZAI,” as if startled by a nightmare. Although we knew Jimbo to be a gentle giant, Jimbo is a large man, the sort you may not want trailing you in a dark alley. And who knows, maybe Holt felt as if he were in a dark alley. I think he was the first to draw, and for the first time in my life, I found myself staring into the nozzle of a gun. Instead of raising my arms, however, I instinctively cowered, holding my head between my hands. I remember praying, Allah bachao, God save us. I remember Trig instructed us to sit-the-fuck-down and shut-the-fuck-up. I remember Jimbo muttering, “We’re cool, we’re cool.”
When we squeezed uncomfortably next to each other on the couch, necks stretched, knees clamped, one of us sat on the remote, triggering the volume control.
After all that has just passed, all the lives taken, and all the possibilities and hopes that died with them, it is natural to wonder if America’s future is one of fear. Some speak of an age of terror. I know there are struggles ahead, and dangers to face. But this country will define our times, not be defined by them. As long as the United States of America is determined and strong, this will not be an age of terror; this will be an age of liberty, here and across the world.
For a moment, the agents, like us, listened. Then Holt barked, “YOU NEED TO TURN THAT OFF RIGHT NOW.”
We complied immediately, guiltily.
8.
The night was pleasant and the poplars were still, but there was great activity on Elm Street. People had come out on their porches in ones and twos, in striped pajamas and robes to gawk at the spectacle: in the coruscating lights of four squad cars and an unmarked sedan arranged in a broad semicircle around a yellow cab, a congregation of a dozen or so cops talked among themselves in low voices and into radios as a couple of suits paraded by with three disheveled, swarthy men in handcuffs. Although there were no reporters or cameras, there was an air of theatricality to the mise-en-scène. The local cops might have been extras in the grand scheme of things, but they had arrived in numbers in a show of force. They were on edge but played their parts, posing stiffly with brave, brittle faces. And I was broken, depleted, more cipher than actor, but kept thinking don’t trip, don’t break a leg, walk with your head up high, like you’ve done nothing wrong, but couldn’t, and it didn’t really matter, because no matter what I did, I couldn’t change the way I was perceived.
From the corner of my eye, I caught a woman silhouetted in a doorway pick up a child and whisk him inside as if to shield him from the grim vicissitudes of the world. You could imagine the child asking unusually probing questions for a five- or six-year-old when being tucked in bed that night, touching geopolitics, and who knows, notions of collective identity. The next-door neighbor, an elderly lady with pink curlers in her hair, covered her mouth as I passed by. In better times, she might have been yawning. You could imagine what she’d say to reporters if asked: I saw them going in, coming out, and they seemed okay—you know, not from around here—but okay, but who knows anything about anybody else, especially these days. The man with the dog was stationed at the top of the cul-de-sac, hand on hip, dog muzzling the air.
A cop announced over a bullhorn, “Show’s over, folks. Go home. There’s nothin’ to be worried about.” Then I was shoved into the sedan, hooded, and sandwiched between two bodies, presumably Agents Holt and Trig, but I couldn’t be sure. I was sure that I wasn’t nestled among friends. Jimbo and AC had been behind me out the door, but I realized I had lost track of them in all the hoopla.
We drove fast, taking several quick turns, and before long were gunning down some highway, honking, swerving, overtaking cars. The interior smelled of wet cigarettes and Old Spice, a heady, insidious aroma that permeated my hood and settled into my consciousness. I had to open my mouth to breathe, close my eyes to think. As I hurtled through the dark, a voice in my head kept saying just relax, stay calm, this isn’t happening, but the smell and chafing cuffs reminded me this is happening, this is for real. About a half hour into the drive, full-on nausea threatened. When a wad of phlegm shot up my esophagus, I cleared my throat and asked, “Would you mind stopping? I’m afraid I might vomit …”
There was a beat, an exchange of looks perhaps. The guy to my left said, “You gotta be kiddin’!” It wasn’t Holt or Trig. Shrill and out of breath, the speaker sounded small and dumpy, like Mickey Rooney.
“No, sir,” I replied, my stomach churning audibly. “I’m not kidding. I wouldn’t kid about something like this … not right now.” Somebody up front lowered a window, and we began to slow down. A voice warned, “Don’t do anything stupid,” which could only have meant: do not attempt to break free and scamper, hooded and hands bound, across the highway.
When we stopped, I was grabbed by the arm like a recalcitrant child and yanked out onto the curb. A couple of cars sped noisily and dangerously by. We weren’t at or outside a rest stop. The air was cooler and fragrant with grass and wet earth. Swallowing mouthfuls, I felt better. Then I was led a few steps away from the vehicle and instructed to retch: “Go ahead. Do it. Do it here! Barf, buddy, barf!”
As instructed, I attempted several times, but performance anxiety, or something like it, stifled the urge. Had I not been cuffed, I might have gagged myself. Turning to my handler, I shrugged, saying, “It’s not, um, coming out—”
“You’re messin’ with me,” yelled Rooney. “I knew it,” he added, “I knew it,” almost to himself. Yanking me back inside, he announced, “He didn’t puke! Can you believe that shit?” Turning to me, he cried, “You even squirm now, and I swear you gonna regret it. You hear me?” I nodded but now needed to piss.
Two, maybe three hours later, we arrived somewhere. We could have been in Boston, or Albany, or Mars, PA, for that matter, though when I thought about it, I had heard a scratchy voice over the CB say something like Passaic, then somebody else say no, MDC. I didn’t think twice about it at the time, but we would later learn that the worst abuses in the American prison system after 9/11 took place at MDC, the Metropolitan Detention Center. According to later, possibly hyperbolic headlines, MDC was “America’s Own Abu Ghraib.”
At the time, I was only sure that we weren’t upstate, as there were intimations of a city in the background mewl of traffic and in the breeze that carried the whiff of garbage and the tincture of smog. I could imagine being surrounded by buildings, by great facades of stone, and it was mildly and momentarily reassuring.
Then I was briskly led through a series of heavy gates, down a musty flight of stairs, and deposited in a cold room on a metal chair that was fixed to the ground. A door slammed shut, and I was alone. The night assumed the tenor of a childhood nightmare: my hood was fastened tight, the darkness was severe, complete; sweat trickled down my side; I needed to go, but there was nothing to do but squirm. I wondered if Jimbo and AC were nearby, in adjacent cells, also squirming and wet under the armpits, and the thought of camaraderie comforted. Stop sweating, chum, I chastened myself, we’re in this together. We’ve done nothing wrong. We’ve got nothing to worry about. This is obviously a mistake. You’ll get your phone call. Everybody gets a phone call—
Just then the door swung open, and footsteps marched in. “What were you doin’ at Mo-hammid Shaw’s?” It was Rooney, and he was in my face.
“Look,” I began, crossing and uncrossing my legs as my bladder pushed against my insides, “there’s been some kind of mistake—”
“Let’s get things straight, buddy. The name of the game is: We Ask the Questions, You Answer Them. All right? All right!”
“All right, all right,” I repeated. “I just want to know what’s going on.”
“You want to know what’s goin’ on? You’re in big fucking trouble. That’s what’s goin’ on. We’re holding you under the Material Witness Statute. Know what that is? That mea
ns that you’re a material witness to a crime—”
“What crime?” I blurted. He was obviously fishing.
“What crime? What crime?” he repeated, his disembodied voice now before me, now behind me, now whispering in my ear. “How about breaking and entering?”
“What?”
“How about cigarette running?”
Shit, I thought. I would fail the polygraph. “Cigarettes?” I said. “What cigarettes?”
“Lemme ask you something: How d’you feel about what happened on September eleventh?”
“What—”
“Did it make you happy?”
“This is ridiculous. I want to make my phone call. I know my rights.”
“You aren’t American!” he fired back. “You got no fucking rights.”
Pausing, he allowed me to process the assertion. The logic was strangely unassailable. I had never thought of it that way and had no reason to. “And you got no time,” Rooney was saying. “We just checked with the INS. Your visa’s expiring, buddy—the what’s it—H-1B? You’ll be illegal in a week.” Shit, I thought. “So you cooperate with us, or we can lock you away for a long time—no phone call, no lawyer, no nothing. And if you’re lucky, someday we’ll put you on a plane—a one-way ticket back to Bumfuckistan. We can and will deport you. We can and will deport your pals.” Shit, shit, shit, I thought. “So let’s start again. Why were you at Shaw’s?”
“Mohammed’s a friend of ours,” I began weakly. “We hadn’t heard from him for a couple of weeks, so we decided to drive up from the city, from New York, from Manhattan, to check on him, and because he wasn’t there, we just hung around and—”
“When was the last time you spoke to him?”
“I guess I haven’t spoken to him since July, July fourth.”
“What kinda friend are you?”
