“You’re a good friend,” said Vince. “I mean that.”
Chuck sniffed the air like a golden retriever, then did his baritone Sam-the-dog voice. “Hmm, the shit’s really gettin’ deep here. Can I go inside and wipe my paws?”
The receptionist greeted them in the lobby and took them to the computer lab. It was a room like any other to Vince. He heard the hum of fluorescent lighting overhead. He felt the cool draft from an AC duct on the wall. It was actually too cool—a sign of how many computers they were trying to keep from overheating—yet Vince was perspiring with anticipation. Finally, Dr. Adam Feldman joined them. Feldman had a PhD in neuroscience, hours of experience with a device called Brainport, and the good sense to cut the small talk short. He quickly launched into business.
“The basic premise here,” said Feldman, “is that you see with your brain, not with your eyes.”
“Which means I’ve seen a lot of the inside of my skull over the past three years,” said Vince.
“I meant that all sighted species see with their brains,” said Feldman. “All the brain needs is the input. In your case, the eyes can no longer transmit. That’s where Brainport comes in. Could you remove your sunglasses, please?”
Vince always wore them. To the office, at the beach, inside the house. He even wore them on his rock-climbing vacation last August. He heard a panting noise as he tucked the sunglasses into his coat pocket.
“Is that Sam or me?” asked Vince.
Dr. Feldman chuckled. Vince figured he wasn’t the first blind man to get a little giddy over this device.
Feldman described what he was doing each step of the way, partly to educate Vince, partly to help him relax.
“These special eyeglasses I’m putting on you have a small video camera mounted on the nose bridge. The camera acts as the eyes to gather visual information. The images are transmitted wirelessly in black, gray, and white to this handheld computer,” he said as he slid the device into Vince’s hand.
It felt slightly larger than an iPod. “Okay. But I’m not seeing anything.”
“Hold your horses there, cowboy,” said Feldman. “The computer will translate the visual information into electrical signals. Let’s turn it on.”
Feldman guided Vince’s thumb to the switch. Vince pressed it and waited. “I’m still not seeing anything.”
“Vince,” said Chuck, “One step at a time, all right?”
The anticipation was even beyond his first step onto a battleground as a marine, at least a million times greater than his first time with a woman. Well, maybe not a million. He took a breath and said, “Sorry, guys.”
“No problem,” said Feldman. “Just to give you some idea of what’s going on, Brainport is built on the concept of sensory substitution, which means that when one sense malfunctions, another sense can compensate, serving as a stand-in. Even a blind person walking down the street with a cane is basically using a form of sensory substitution.”
“Been there, done that,” said Vince. He reached down and patted Sam on the withers. “Don’t worry, buddy. I’m keeping you.”
“You raise a good point,” said Feldman. “I don’t want to overstate the device. It’s meant to supplement the cane and the guide dog. The idea is to help you perform everyday tasks that may seem simple to the sighted, such as reading street signs and searching for empty seats on a bus. A little additional information will make your life easier and safer.”
“Tell him how you’re studying it here at the institute,” said Chuck.
Vince couldn’t see him, but somehow he knew Feldman was smiling. “Again,” he said, “we’re talking about sensory substitution. Imagine a Navy SEAL with superhuman senses similar to those of owls or snakes.”
“Are you saying I have to walk around sticking my tongue out at people?”
“No. But you’re on the right track. The tongue ultimately replaces the eyes in transmitting visual input to the brain. That camera mounted on your glasses acts as your eyes, the visual images go to the little computer in your hand, and the computer translates the visual information into electrical signals. Those signals are transformed into gentle electrical impulses that end up on your tongue.”
“How?”
“The lollipop,” said Feldman.
“The what?”
“It’s an electrode that you hold in your mouth to receive the electrical signal. The white portions of images become strong impulses, the gray become medium impulses, and the black result in no impulses. The tongue sends these impulses to the brain, where they are interpreted as sensory information that substitutes for vision. The whole process works in much the same way that the optic nerve in the eye transmits visual information to the brain.”
“That’s great if it works. What do you think about that, Sam?”
The bushy tail brushed Vince’s ankle as it wagged.
“You ready?” asked Feldman.
“Beyond ready,” said Vince. “Bring on the lollipop.”
Chapter Four
At noon the following day Jack was having lunch near the federal courthouse at a Japanese restaurant called Sue-Him, Sue-Her, Su-shi—truly the kind of place that could whet the appetite of Washington lawyers, as long as the waiters avoided the obvious jokes about sharks eating raw fish.
The case of Khaled al-Jawar v. The President of the United States of America was heard in the same courthouse opposite the National Gallery of Art where, in that other world before 9/11, a grand jury had heard the sordid details of the Monica Lewinsky affair and Judge John Sirica had sorted out the Watergate scandal. Jack had elected not to have his client testify via secure video feed from Guantánamo, arguing that it was the government’s burden to justify the detention. By eleven thirty, the hearing had ended and the judge had issued her ruling from the bench.
Neil Goderich was on his third cup of sake, furiously drafting a press release.
“How’s this?” asked Neil, trying to make sense of his own scribble on the yellow legal pad. “ ‘Today, yet another Guantánamo detainee—Khaled al-Jawar from Somalia—was ordered released by a federal judge in Washington on the ground that there was insufficient evidence to justify his detention. While this is not the first detainee proceeding in which release has been ordered, the case of al-Jawar is particularly striking. He was just a teenager when he was shipped to Guantánamo three years ago, unquestionably tortured, never accused of being a member of either al-Qaeda or the Taliban, barely saved after a suicide attempt upon his arrival at Gitmo, and then locked in a cage indefinitely with no charges against him. The case completely unraveled after al-Jawar’s lawyer—Jack Swyteck, son of former Florida governor Harry Swyteck—presented long-concealed evidence that his client ‘confessed’ to sheltering al-Qaeda operatives in East Africa only after Ethiopian troops threatened and drugged him into submission. So unpersuasive was the government’s evidence against him that the judge excoriated the Justice Department in an unusually strident and hostile tone for attempting to continue his detention.’ ”
He paused, looked up, and frowned at Jack’s reaction. “What’s wrong?”
“Too much,” said Jack.
Neil took another hit of sake. “All right, I’ll leave your father out of it.”
“It’s not that. I just don’t like it.”
“But it’s all true.”
Jack put his chopsticks aside and leaned forward, his expression very serious. “What if he blows up a building tomorrow?”
“Then the government should have built a stronger case to keep him locked up. That’s their job.”
Suddenly, it was like old times. Most people thought Jack had left the Freedom Institute because he was nothing like the other lawyers: Eve, the only woman Jack had ever known to smoke a pipe; Brian, the gay surfer dude; and Neil, the ponytailed genius who had survived Woodstock. In truth, Jack considered all of them friends. They’d even shown up for his surprise fortieth birthday party. What had made Jack feel like such a misfit was the way they celebr
ated their victories. Forcing the government to prove its case was enough for Jack. Getting another guilty man released didn’t make him want to throw a party. Or issue a press release.
“Al-Jawar should never have been locked up,” said Neil.
“How do you know that?” asked Jack. “For that matter, how do you even know his name is al-Jawar?”
“Because he told us.”
“Yeah, in English. A language no one even knew he spoke until yesterday.”
“Whatever his name is, he’s not guilty of anything but wearing a Casio watch,” said Neil.
It was a reference to the fact that more than a dozen Gitmo detainees were cited for owning cheap digital watches, particularly the infamous Casio F914 watch, the type used by al-Qaeda members for bomb detonators.
Jack selected a pod of edamame from the bowl and brushed away the excess sea salt. “It bothers me that it never came out in court that he speaks English.”
“That wasn’t relevant. The confession they forced him to sign wasn’t written in English—or in any other language that he speaks.”
“I don’t believe his story about being from Somalia. I think he’s American.”
“So what?
“He’s hiding something.”
Neil shrugged and turned his attention back to his press release. “Al-Jawar is actually one of the lucky ones,” he said, speaking his edits aloud. “According to a report issued by Human Rights First, at least one hundred detainees in U.S. custody have died since 2002, many suffering gruesome deaths.”
Jack was about to reel in the polemic, but a woman seated on the other side of the restaurant caught his attention. It was Sylvia Gonzalez, the Justice Department lawyer who had argued the government’s case against his client.
“Don’t look now,” Jack started to say, but of course Neil did. He recognized Gonzalez instantly, as well as the man she was with.
“How fitting,” Neil said, as if spitting out the bad taste in his mouth. “She’s with Sid Littleton.”
“Who’s he?”
“Founder and CEO of Black Ice, the go-to private military firm for the Department of Defense. Surely you’ve heard of them. They’re the independent contractors that the military hires to do things the military can’t do, like shooting unarmed Iraqi civilians.”
It was the editorial spin of a former hippie, but just as Jack was about to goad him into saying something really entertaining, the prosecutor spotted them.
“Woops, here she comes,” said Jack. “Be nice.”
“Congratulations,” Gonzalez said as she offered her hand. Jack shook it. “You did a heck of a job,” she added.
The conciliatory tone and gesture put him off balance. It was extremely professional of her. All the more reason not to issue that stinging press release.
“Thank you,” said Jack.
He quickly introduced Neil, who remained in his chair, acknowledging her only with a weak wave of the hand. For Neil, anyone who lunched with the likes of Sid Littleton and Black Ice was the enemy, and there was never any fraternizing with the enemy.
“I was just putting the finishing touches on our press release,” said Neil.
Jack sighed, wishing he hadn’t mentioned it.
“You may want to hear what I have to say first,” said Gonzalez.
Neil chuckled, but Jack wasn’t sure why.
Gonzalez said, “I apologize for interrupting your lunch, but I’d rather not put this in an e-mail, and I think it’s only fair to give you a heads-up on some last-minute developments in the al-Jawar matter. Your client is on a flight to Miami as we speak.”
Jack bristled. I knew he was American. “Why?”
“Custody is being transferred to the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.”
Neil popped from his chair, unable to contain himself. “What do you mean transferred? The judge ordered his release.”
“He is being referred to the Miami-Dade state attorney for prosecution on criminal charges unrelated to terrorism.”
“What—jaywalking?” said Neil, his neck swelling. “This is ridiculous.”
“Easy, Neil,” said Jack.
“No, this infuriates me,” said Neil. “Every time a judge rules for a detainee, the DOJ tries to save face with vague references to some new evidence collected by the task force on detention that may lead to a criminal indictment. It’s sleazy. This is another example of the administration’s defiance of a court order and its refusal to admit that there was never any legal basis to detain these prisoners.”
“This morning a grand jury indicted your client on one count of first degree murder and one count of attempted murder,” said Gonzalez.
Neil fell silent.
Jack did a double take. “And you say this is unrelated to terrorism?”
“It’s purely a local law enforcement matter,” she said. “Your client is from Miami. His real name is Jamal Wakefield. And three years ago he killed a girl named McKenna Mays. Stabbed her to death.”
Jack gave it a moment to sink in. Then he looked at his old boss and said, “Let’s hold off on the press release, Neil.”
Chapter Five
Jack was back in Miami by nightfall. He was wandering around lost in the airport’s Flamingo Garage when he finally remembered that his car was in the Dolphin Garage. To a Floridian, parking garages named Dolphin and Flamingo were like identical twins named Frick and Frack. All that was missing was cousin Royal Palm. A ridiculously long moving sidewalk connected the two garages, and Jack’s cell rang as he stepped onto it. The display read SUNNY GARDENS OF DORAL. It was his grandfather’s nursing home.
“He’s being combative again,” the nurse said.
Jack got these calls about once a week. The usual scenario was that Grandpa was sleeping peacefully when the night nurse barged into the room, overpowered him with the health-care equivalent of waterboarding, and forced an unwanted and probably unnecessary medication down his throat fast enough to land her in the Guinness Book of World Records, Nursing Edition.
Who wouldn’t be combative?
Jack was tired of the arguments, and the sound of his grandfather ranting senselessly against the post office in the background was breaking his heart.
“P.O., no, no,” the old man shouted. “P.O., no, no!”
“Put him on the phone,” said Jack.
“I can’t. We’re restraining him.”
“What? I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
He hung up and ran to his car. He was speeding down the ramps from the roof of the garage when his phone rang again. This time, however, the word PRIVATE appeared on the caller-ID display, and the timing brought a much needed sense of calm.
“Andie?” he said, answering.
“Hi, babe,” she said.
Andie Henning was Jack’s fiancée. He’d popped the question at the surprise birthday party she’d thrown for him last month. Andie had accepted on the spot—and disappeared eight days later. When people asked him what it felt like to be engaged, Jack honestly couldn’t tell them. He didn’t know where Andie was, didn’t know when she was coming back, and had no idea when she would call next. She made him promise not to come looking for her, refused to share her new cell number, and wouldn’t tell him who she was living with. He didn’t know what she looked like anymore, though he was certain that the gorgeous long hair that had once splayed across his pillow had changed entirely. Jack didn’t even know her new name.
Andie was unlike any woman Jack had ever known—and not just because she was an FBI agent who worked undercover. Jack loved that she wasn’t afraid to cave dive in Florida’s aquifers, that in her training at the FBI Academy she’d nailed a perfect score on one of the toughest shooting ranges in the world, that as a teenager she’d been a Junior Olympic mogul skier—something Jack didn’t even know about her until she rolled him out of bed one hot August morning and said, “Let’s go skiing in Argentina.” He loved the green eyes she’d gotten from her Anglo father and the raven-black hai
r from her Native American mother, a mix that made for such exotic beauty.
He hated being away from her.
“When are you coming back?” he asked.
“You know I can’t answer that,” she said.
He knew. But on days like today, he couldn’t help but ask. Funny, he’d been divorced for years, perfectly fine with living alone. But Andie’s enthusiastic “yes” had been like the flip of an emotional light switch. The thought of being away from her tonight was almost too painful.
“I can’t talk long,” she said. “Just wanted to check in, say I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
“And Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not at liberty to say much about this, especially over the phone. But . . .”
He waited, then prodded. “But what?”
“Do yourself a favor,” she said. “Stay away from the Jamal Wakefield murder case.”
Jack gripped the phone. It had been one of their express understandings—a solemn pact to ensure a happy marriage between a criminal defense lawyer and an FBI agent. He didn’t tell her how to do her job—whether to take this undercover assignment or that one—and she didn’t tell him what cases to handle. He knew it wasn’t a rule she would have broken lightly.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “I’ll call again when I can.”
One more “I love you,” and she hung up.
Jack tucked the phone away and stopped the car to pay the teller at the exit to the Flipper-flamingo, string-bikini, piña-colada—whatever—garage. He tried to take Andie’s advice in the spirit in which it had been given. It was eating at him so badly, however, that he almost missed his exit for the Dolphin—what else?—Expressway. A cabdriver gave him the horn and the finger as Jack cut across two lanes. His train of thought switched to his grandfather shouting out random letters while trying to break out of the Alzheimer’s bed restraints, but he was also thinking about Andie’s advice. Warning. Whatever it was.
Afraid of the Dark Page 3
