This loophole allowed me a measure of confidence. In my West Africa story, none of the boys I’d melded into one had access to a telephone, and I had accurately quoted all the people who were reachable. I was never called by the fact-checkers to read from my notes, so I didn’t have to invent any further lies. It was a relief, but not a great surprise, to find out that my article was judged to be clean. Despite the problem with the photo, I now assumed I was home free.
I was handed a copy of the article, complete with my mislabeled photo, to review one more time before it was sent to press. I sat in a cubicle in a quietish corner of the magazine’s offices, on the eighth floor of the Times building, in midtown Manhattan, and as I reread the piece, a terrible feeling came over me. I described it in my journal as “a screaming in my head.” My heart raced; my hands shook. I felt the need to explain to someone what I’d done.
But what could I say? I was about to leave for Afghanistan. Adam Moss, the magazine’s editor-in-chief, had just taken me out to lunch, during which he expressed such faith in me that he said I didn’t need a specific assignment to cover the war—he trusted my instincts, and thought I was capable of finding great stories with only minor supervision from the home office. If I confessed to any deception, I knew that my status at the magazine would be severely diminished, at a minimum. It wasn’t worth it. I’d told my lies, and now, I reasoned, I had to live with them.
I remained silent. I went to Afghanistan, where I spent two months and filed two stories, both of which were well received. I’d cut my teeth as a war correspondent. I’d ducked bullets, survived an incident in which a car I was riding in was partially run over by a tank, and written fine—and thoroughly honest—prose. My reputation at the Times, it seemed, was solidified. I’d soon be covering all the biggest stories in the world. My articles would be widely read. It was the greatest job I could ever imagine.
When I returned home from Afghanistan, there was an e-mail waiting for me from the relief agency Save the Children Canada. The agency was upset by my West Africa article. I’d mentioned Save the Children by name and had suggested that their work in the region—counseling the victims of slavery—was perhaps addressing the wrong problem.
“Save the Children Canada has read your article closely,” said the e-mail, which was written by a woman in the advocacy, research, and policy department, named Anita Sheth. “We have located Youssouf and are slightly confused by what we hear, the timing of his stay and your visit etc. Please let us know more details as it will help clarify some issues.”
I was alarmed, certainly, but not ready to admit anything. I replied with my own e-mail. In the most ingratiating tone I could muster, I said that I had meant no disrespect toward their agency. I mentioned that I’d seen Save the Children workers in Afghanistan, and I effusively praised the organization for its humanitarian efforts. Then I tried to slide my way out of the situation. “Originally the story was going to be longer,” I wrote, “but the events of Sept. 11 changed the focus of the magazine, and so it was cut. As I’m sure you know, whenever a piece is cut there is always some loss of nuance.”
Save the Children did not fall for my tricks. A few days later, I received another e-mail from Sheth. This one explained that the agency had sent some of their staff members into the Malian countryside and had found Youssouf Malé. They’d interviewed him at length, and learned that his story and mine did not match. “This information leaves us wondering about the NY Times article and the details recorded therein,” said the e-mail. “At this point we would appreciate any information you can provide us with in clearing up this matter.”
Now I was more than alarmed. But again I refused to yield. This time, backed into a corner, I tried to sneak out behind a smoke screen of verbiage. I wrote a long e-mail in which I attempted to explain my actions without actually saying I’d done anything wrong. “I wanted to do something a little different,” I wrote. “I was really hoping to compose a story that would sing, in a way—that would have a single, sustained voice, that would really be a story that would carry the reader through…. Obviously, this styledemands some educated guesses—of course I can’t really write from inside the mind of a young Malian…. It was my hope that thereader would understand what I was trying to do, and forgive me in the spots where the story did not work. Basically, I wanted the sum of the story to be greater than its parts.”
This only made matters worse. In the two e-mails that followed, Sheth wrote that “Save the Children is shocked by the details revealed to them about the story construction,” and then, far worse, she disclosed that the agency had discovered the one piece of truly incontrovertible deception: “From what we have gathered, the picture you have identified as Y. Male is reported to not be him.”
I was caught, and Save the Children was threatening to expose me. I was now gripped by full-bore panic. I considered flying to Toronto and attempting to bribe Save the Children—perhaps a sizable donation would convince them to cover up their findings. I remember thinking that $10,000 would be necessary. I could empty my savings account and bring them cash, a stack of crisp hundreds. In my journal, I even began drafting a cover letter to accompany the donation. “You work for a relief agency; you obviously have a big heart,” the letter began. “Can’t we drop the whole matter?”
Instead, I spoke with Sheth on the phone. I admitted to some of my charade, though I tried to share the blame with the editors and the photo department. After some discussion, Sheth and I reached an agreement. If I wrote a letter of apology to the executive director of Save the Children Canada, in which I stated my regret for any harm my article may have caused the agency, Sheth would require only that the Times run a correction about using the wrong photo. Neither of us would mention that I’d created a composite character. This arrangement, I thought, would allow me to save my job.
I phoned my editor at the Times, Ilena Silverman, and told her that I’d been contacted by Save the Children and that I’d evidently made a mistake. In the mad rush to finish my West Africa article, I said, I must have accidentally mailed the wrong photo. Silverman took the news well, far better than I’d expected. She said that the magazine would run a correction, but that it wasn’t a big deal. She told me not to worry.
But when Silverman informed Adam Moss, he was less understanding. In fact, he was extremely suspicious. How could I possibly spend weeks writing a richly detailed story about one boy, and then send in the wrong photo of him? He telephoned me and expressed his concern. He asked, more than once, “Does Youssouf Malé really exist?” I assured him that he did. But there was a catch in my voice, and Moss must have heard it. He said that the deputy editor of the magazine, Katherine Bouton, would be thoroughly rechecking my story. He told me to express-mail my notebooks to the magazine, immediately.
My notes, I knew, would sink me. I stayed up most of the night, frenzied with worry. I thought, seriously, about burning all my notebooks. Then I thought about faking them—adding bits and pieces that would make my tale true. I even found the shade of blue ink that matched the one I’d used in West Africa. I attempted to forge one page, but it looked so obviously phony, I didn’t bother with a second. Even in my panic, I knew that this idea was beyond my limits.
What I did was cash in some frequent-flier miles and book a flight to New York City. I left the next morning at dawn. I called Katherine Bouton on my way to the airport, and on her voice mail I told her that instead of mailing my notebooks I was delivering them in person. I was already in Minneapolis, changing planes, when I received the message she left on my cell phone in reply. She was still under the impression that this whole thing was a misunderstanding, and that once she received my notebooks everything would be clear. “There’s no need to come to New York,” she said, cheerfully. “I just have a few questions. But if you’re already on your way, it’d be lovely to see you.”
I arrived at the Times building, on Forty-third Street, and Bouton came down to the lobby to meet me. She took one glance at me—my eye
s must have looked wild and frightened—and instead of escorting me upstairs, she took me out of the building. We walked to a restaurant around the corner. I had almost no appetite, but I couldn’t slake my thirst. Over cup after cup of iced tea, I told her about the West Africa story. I told her exactly what I’d done; I held nothing back. I came clean.
Bouton was kind to me. We both knew I was in big trouble, there was no pretending otherwise, but she managed, somehow, to seem supportive. She told me to wait an hour and then return to the office. She said she’d relate what I’d just told her to Adam Moss. Just take a walk, she said, and then she fixed me with a strange, worried look—a look that said to me, You won’t do anything rash now, will you?—and disappeared into the building.
I walked uptown, to Central Park. I felt numb. There were pedestrians; there was traffic. An empty water bottle was pushed by the wind. A man sold poems at Columbus Circle. Squirrels ran in the trees. The iced tea caught up with me, and I urinated under a footbridge.
I shuffled back to the Times building, through the revolving door, and into the lobby where the pillars were decorated with headlines from world events. I phoned Bouton, and she came down and brought me through security. We went into the elevators and up to the eighth floor. We didn’t speak. We walked past the travel section, and the book review, and into the magazine’s offices, with the big blown-up photos on the walls, past the cubicles, crowded and messy, and I finally asked her, “How did Adam take the news?” and all she said to me was, “Not well,” and it was like a doctor saying this is really going to hurt, and my chest felt as though the wind had been knocked from it.
The editor-in-chief’s office was at the far end of the floor, in the corner, and I walked there staring straight ahead. I didn’t want to make eye contact with anybody. Moss was waiting for me. He ushered me inside, along with Bouton, and shut the door.
I had been in his office a few times before. It was, by Times standards, a nice one—a giant desk, a decent sofa, a view of lower Manhattan. We had a sort of tradition, Moss and I. Whenever I returned from an assignment, I’d arrange a layover in New York and stop by the office to meet with him. I had come there after spending time on the Haitian refugee boat, after witnessing the uprising in the Gaza Strip, and, just a few weeks earlier, after covering the war in Afghanistan.
I’d sit outside his office, always feeling a touch nervous, like a schoolkid waiting to see the principal. Sometimes Ilena Silverman would wait with me. It never took more than a few minutes before Moss poked his head out the door and waved me in. He would give me a hug and say welcome back. I’d sit on his couch, and Moss would wheel his chair around from behind his desk and sit near me. He’d usually invite a few other editors to join us. He’d ask me what happened on my trip, and I’d tell my story.
The editors would listen, and then, when I was through, they’d comment on what I had said. My article would start to take shape. I’d feel the weight of the task before me—it was always a long, sleep-deprived struggle to complete a piece for the Times Magazine—but after the meeting Moss would tell me to take a friend and go eat a great dinner in the city before I left, and put it on my expenses. That was his way of sending me home. Then we’d hug again and I’d saunter across the eighth floor, slowly, flirting with the women in the photo department, chatting with the editors in the cubicles. I’d take the elevator down to the street, walk through Times Square, through the full floodwaters of humanity, everyone seemingly in a mad rush save for me, and I’d feel like a big shot—like I’d conquered New York City.
This time Moss remained behind his desk. The look on his face, as if I were a stranger, was crushing. The meeting didn’t last long. Moss simply verified what I’d done. He didn’t yell; his voice remained even and quiet. I remember shrinking back into the sofa, squeezing myself between the cushions. “You are young,” Moss said to me, trying to be consoling. “You have a long career ahead of you.” Then he paused before letting the hammer fall. “But not here,” he said.
Those were some of the last words he spoke to me. I escaped from Moss and broke down in Bouton’s office, next door. But I felt suffocated in there, so I fast-walked down the hall, past the book review and the travel section, to the elevators. I fled through the revolving door, away from the building. The Editors’ Note was published the following week.
SEVENTEEN
THE VERY DAY that Christian Michael Longo was placed on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted Fugitives list—January 11, 2002—a Canadian woman contacted the bureau and said she’d just returned from Cancún and believed she had seen Longo there. This information was immediately passed on to Special Agent Daniel Clegg, the coordinator of the FBI’s fugitive program in Mexico City.
Clegg printed a hundred copies of Longo’s wanted poster and sent them to police headquarters in Cancún. The posters were hung on phone booths around the region. Two days later, on Sunday, January 13, at about nine-thirty in the morning, the U.S. Embassy received a call, which was patched through to Clegg. It was a Mexican citizen, a freelance tour guide. The guide told Clegg that he’d escorted an American man through the jungle near Tulum the day before. He’d seen the wanted poster, he said, and was certain he’d guided the same man.
Clegg caught the next flight to Cancún. He landed at 5:30 P.M. and was picked up at the airport by Mexican officers. In total, a dozen officers in four cars, all unmarked black sedans, drove the seventy miles to Tulum. The officers were dressed casually, some in shorts, some in slacks. None wore a police uniform. Clegg wore long pants, a gold-colored shirt, and hiking boots. He didn’t carry a weapon, but the Mexican officers had either rifles or handguns.
They drove to a place on the beach called the Santa Fe, where the tour guide said he’d picked up Longo. An advance team was sent in. The team shined flashlights into the cabanas—it was easy to see through the bamboo-slat walls—and Longo was swiftly located. “We have him,” the captain of the advance team said, over the radio, in Spanish.
Several officers burst through the cabana’s door and brought Longo out, handcuffed. Clegg made sure he had the correct man, then informed Longo that he was wanted for murder. Longo did not respond. “He just looked down at the ground,” Clegg said.
Clegg asked Longo where his belongings were, and Longo led him to the cabana he was sharing with Janina Franke. “I was completely confused,” Franke later said. She had no clue what the raid was about. She asked one of the officers, who told her that she’d find out soon enough. Look on the news, he said. The next day she checked online and learned of Longo’s real name and the crimes he was wanted for. “I cried for hours,” she said. “If I thought he was in any way suspicious, I never would have spent time with him. His story was perfectly believable. He was polite, charming, friendly. He was good-looking. I could have fallen in love with him if we’d spent more time together.”
Longo’s possessions were confiscated from their cabana, and he was loaded into the rear seat of one of the sedans, his hands still cuffed behind his back. He was sandwiched between two Mexican officers. A third drove. Clegg sat in the front passenger seat.
“Were you aware that we were closing in on you?” Clegg asked, after they’d started the trip back to Cancún.
“I wasn’t even aware that you were looking for me,” said Longo.
Clegg told him that he’d made the Ten Most Wanted list, which seemed to astonish Longo. Otherwise, there was no discussion of the murders. They arrived at the Cancún police station a little after 10 P.M. Clegg explained to Longo his options: He could either be extradited or deported, or he could return voluntarily to the United States.
Extradition or deportation, Clegg said, could involve a lengthy stay in a Mexican jail. He knew one person who’d awaited extradition for eleven years. Clegg described the conditions in Mexican jails. He talked about the food and water; he mentioned tuberculosis and dysentery. Longo stated, emphatically, that he did not want to spend time in such a place. So Clegg made plane reservations for the next mor
ning—a Continental flight from Cancún to Houston, leaving at 7:20 A.M.
They remained in the police station all night. Longo was never put in a cell; he sat in a chair, his hands cuffed at first behind his back and then, later, in front. Clegg bought him a hamburger and French fries, and he watched a little television, in Spanish. Longo closed his eyes a few times but did not sleep. He was wearing faded blue jeans, a gray T-shirt, and sneakers with no socks. He was not interrogated by either Clegg or the Mexican police.
Before dawn, Clegg and Longo were driven to the airport. At the airport, Clegg handed Longo a sheet of paper enumerating his legal rights. At the bottom of the document, under the heading WAIVER OF RIGHTS, it read, “At this time, I am willing to answer questions without a lawyer present.” Longo signed his name, as did Clegg.
They boarded the plane before any other passengers. They sat in the last row—Longo at the window, Clegg in the aisle, an empty seat between. The row of seats to the front and side of them were left vacant. Once Longo was seated, his cuffs were exchanged for plastic restraints, which were tied to his belt.
For the first fifteen or twenty minutes of the flight, neither man said anything. Drinks were served; Longo ordered a tomato juice. Then came a meal. When they finished eating, Clegg began to talk. “Listen,” he said, “I’m going to ask you a few questions about what happened back in Oregon.”
Clegg began by explaining that he had transferred many fugitives from Mexico to the United States. He mentioned that he’d read a report on the Longo family crimes. He made eye contact with Longo and said, “You don’t look like a monster to me. You’re clean-cut. You look like you would be a good father.” He continued. “There’s always some rationale, some logic, in my experience, to every crime. The report describes someone who committed a horrendous crime. And you don’t look like that kind of person.”
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