All the Beautiful People We Once Knew

by Edward Carlson

  “Thank you, Mr. Thomas. That was very interesting,” Fleeger said. “Now I’m going to ask you some questions regarding the claims you filed with FreedomQuest. After your first alleged injury in Afghanistan, you filed an LS-208 with your employer, correct?”

  “Sir, why do you keep saying alleged?”

  “Because it’s alleged, Mr. Thomas.”

  “But I’m not making this stuff up. I don’t want to be this way. You think I want to be this way?”

  Fleeger continued.

  “You filed an LS-208, correct? And then afterward you filed an LS-203.”

  “A what?”

  Lazlis touched his client’s arm.

  “That’s a notice of assertion of rights, Major.”

  “Sir, I really can’t remember if I ever did that,” Thomas answered Fleeger.

  “Well you can’t file an LS-208 for war hazard benefits without first filing the LS-203 notice of assertion of rights?” Fleeger said. “It’s a two-step process.”

  Thomas entered a thick, red pill–induced fog.

  “A what?” he asked.

  “I’m explaining it’s a two-step process,” Fleeger said. “First you file the LS-203. And then you file the CA-94.”

  “I thought you said it was an LS-208,” Thomas replied.

  “I did.”

  “You did?”

  Whatever hard, sharp edges Thomas the warrior still possessed had now completely disappeared beneath his opiated, indigo surface. This makes me very angry. That’s what Marvin the Martian said. That was the line he purred, like an alien gladiator. The Marvin patch glued to the breast pocket of Thomas’ denim jacket pointed his silly raygun at Fleeger.

  “OK. Let’s go back, Mr. Thomas. That’s just one issue I have with your claims. There are more, and, truthfully, between you and me, I have a lot of issues with your claims. But moving on, have you had a chance to review the doctors’ reports, Mr. Thomas?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So then you are aware that on one occasion you reported to one doctor that it was your lower back that caused you pain. But I have here a record where you reported to another physician it was your cervical spine. Which is essentially your upper back. Which is it? Lower or upper back?”

  “Both, I think.”

  “If it was the shrapnel that struck your upper back, your cervical area,” Fleeger said, reaching over his head with both hands to illustrate the location of the cervical spine, “and not your lower back, would it be true that the difficulty you allegedly experienced caused pain to your upper, and not your lower, back?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And then wouldn’t it also be true that the medication you were taking for your lower back was actually prescribed for your cervical spine, which is more akin with the previous diagnosis predating your employment with the assured.”

  “Negative. Maybe. Negative,” Thomas said. “I don’t understand the questions, sir.”

  “Objection. Badgering the claimant,” Lazlis said. He uncrossed his fingers and sipped his coffee. Pleased that he had defended his client from Fleeger.

  “Sorry about that, Jimbo.”

  I discovered that my comfort level depended on where I placed my feet beneath the table. Thomas indicated he had a point he wanted to make.

  “I think some of these inconsistencies result from the cultural gaps between me and all these foreign doctors they sent me to at the VA,” Thomas said.

  “I didn’t ask you about your cultural gaps,” Fleeger said. “What I need to understand is how you expect me to believe, WorldScore to believe, that all of these boxes. You see all these boxes? That one man can actually really suffer all of these ailments and injuries and conditions that you allege result solely from your employment in Afghanistan with FreedomQuest, where you were employed for less than two years. Especially when there is nothing in the company’s contemporaneous incident reports during the years at issue that all substantiates any aspect of your multiple claims.”

  “When I got home it all just cascaded, sir,” Thomas said.

  “It all just cascaded,” Fleeger repeated.

  The receptionist knocked on the conference room window. She motioned to me that she needed to speak with Fleeger. I ignored her.

  “This entire exercise is about the veracity of your allegations, Mr. Thomas. And my job is to find, question, and verify objective proof that you in fact suffered the injuries that you allege,” Fleeger said. “And if I can’t find that proof, I have to deny your claims. Look at it from my position. You tell one doctor that five events caused your injuries. You tell another doctor it was two. And yet to another doctor you say it was a single, catastrophic event. But here’s my position: that your military records are replete with references to the claimed traumatic exposures, all of which predate your employment with FreedomQuest. Which means they are not compensable by WorldScore. Because they didn’t happen on our watch. That is my position. Now I understand you’ve filed an additional claim with WorldScore for terrorism benefits. Despite the fact you live in Pennsylvania and haven’t been in Afghanistan for three years. Can you explain that one for me?”

  The receptionist again tapped on the window.

  “Harker go take care of that?” Fleeger said.

  I exited the conference room. Watched Fleeger in the glass window with an outstretched arm, pointing his ballpoint pen at Thomas, the man’s scored scalp and chin now dripping with sweat.

  The receptionist looked nervous.

  “There is a woman here to see Mr. Fleeger,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “She won’t tell me her name. She says if she tells me her name, then Mr. Fleeger won’t speak with her. She wants to make sure he’s OK.”

  “How did she get past the security downstairs?”

  “It’s not Fort Knox, Mr. Harker,” she said. She looked at Fleeger. “She seems determined. And.”

  She paused.

  “And what?” I asked.

  “She’s very pretty.”

  I followed her to the reception area. Atop the oriental rug, next to the orchid in its ovular vase, rubbing one leg against the other, stood Tara. Sarda chiliensis lineolata. Lucky number twenty-three.

  “You’re not Robert,” she said.

  I told her no, I am not Robert, and asked her what she needed.

  “I need to see Robert.”

  “You can’t see Robert,” I said. “He’s busy.”

  “I need to see him right now.”

  She removed her jacket, revealing a black lace bra beneath a sheeny translucent blouse.

  “He’s taking a deposition.”

  “I don’t care.”

  She stepped out of one tall red heel. Untucked her shirt and began to sob. The receptionist placed a hand on her shoulder. She screamed. Acrylic fingernails stopped typing. An office phone rang unanswered. I entered the conference room and closed the door behind me. Thomas stared at the table as Fleeger almost berated him. I whispered near Fleeger’s shoulder.

  “You have something you have to deal with.”

  He looked at me, confused, opened his hands, what could it possibly be? What? I pointed at Tara outside the conference room. Leaning her face against the glass and discharging rivulets of crusty mascara.

  Fleeger cursed, stood up, banged his knee against the table.

  “Take over, Harker,” he commanded, pressing himself through the conference room door with one hand holding his knee as he led Tara down the hall toward his office.

  “How about you?” Thomas asked me. “You think this building is safe?”

  We were different men than on the night he drove at me on my street. He was scared, nervous, almost defeated. Because we were the bastards now and we had what he needed. And so he needed us to obtain it. Lazlis wasn’t going to get it for him. Lazlis would allow us to let this drag on forever. Thomas was desperate, more desperate than before, that was obvious, and because he was desperate, we had this. And he was on the cusp of accepting almos
t anything in order to obtain something.

  “I think we’ll make it through,” I said. I cleared my throat. “Mr. Thomas, let’s just be open here, shall we. Let’s be transparent.”

  He looked out the window. I pivoted him to the deposition.

  “Can you take me back?” I asked.

  “To where?”

  “Tell me about Afghanistan.”

  He shifted in his chair, winced, sipped his cup of black coffee.

  “This chair is killing my back. Can we take a break, sir?”

  I didn’t want him to. Not yet. If so I could lose him.

  “In a few minutes.”

  He nodded. I repeated my request about Afghanistan.

  “Well, for starters it’s a different world.”

  He was dismissive of the place. Different worlds being no big deal. For him, the only thing anyone needed to know about Afghanistan was that it wasn’t the world in which he wanted to live.

  “And where did you reside in this different world?”

  “At first I lived in the Green Village. Then in a three-story building off-site.”

  “Did you live alone?”

  “No, there was me and two other Americans.”

  “What were their names?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  “Both.”

  “OK. I’ll just subpoena the records if we have to call them as witnesses to corroborate your version of events.”

  “They’re dead.”

  “They’re dead? And yet you still can’t tell me their names?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “We’ll look into that.”

  I scribbled “dead colleagues?” on the notepad.

  “OK. Moving on. What were your duties with WorldScore?”

  “I was a military trainer. Training Afghan soldiers and police officers on the use of firearms.”

  “And how was that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me about your typical day.”

  “Well, at any given time probably 15 percent of the class were insurgents. So you were always concerned that one of them would turn their gun on you. Blue-on-green you. That’s what they called it. On account of the different colored uniforms. Which was why there were three of us at first. Two to watch the class of trainees while one performed the firearms training.”

  “What kind of guns did FreedomQuest provide you for the training?”

  “FreedomQuest didn’t give us the guns. They came from the Afghan army. Which meant they came from the US Army.” He paused, itching to scratch again. He took a deep breath to control himself. His face was filled with pain and sadness.

  “At first M4s but the M4s kept breaking so we arranged to get some AKs. Because the Afghans preferred the AKs.”

  “OK. Then what happened?”

  “We started experiencing a lot of mortar fire. It was indiscriminate. Killed a lot of innocent civilians.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I saw it.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Dead women, dead children, dead fathers holding dead children. But that was normal.”

  I sipped my coffee. Lazlis stared at Thomas while doodling on a Kilgore pad.

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “Then they cut the budget and at first there were two of us teaching the classes but then there was only one of us.”

  “And that was you?”

  “Correct.”

  “Why did they pick you?”

  “Because I spoke a little Dari.”

  “Any other reason?”

  “And because I volunteered to stay.”

  “Was that typical of something you would do? Considering the fact you didn’t want to be there?”

  “No, sir. That was atypical.”

  He intuited my next question. I now also had him on a roll. He was opening himself to me and that was exactly what I wanted. Soon he would incriminate himself and the veracity of his allegations and we were on the road to him and Lazlis settling for a fraction of their initial demand.

  “I wasn’t ready to go home. My home life wasn’t so good and I wasn’t prepared to deal with it and so I continued working with FreedomQuest to put away some money and try to have some options when the job ended. Despite my better judgment.”

  “And despite the fact that you were allegedly injured?”

  “Correct.”

  Strike one.

  “And despite the fact that you were allegedly mentally traumatized?”

  “Correct.”

  Strike two.

  “And yet still you agreed to continue working for FreedomQuest? Despite being injured?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because the injuries weren’t really that debilitating?”

  “I guess.”

  Strike three. Maybe. I commanded myself to keep it moving.

  “OK. So now you’re alone in Kabul. Tell me what happened.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Of course.”

  “I began to experience a lot of anxiety.”

  “On its own?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Or was there something that triggered it?”

  “Yes, there was something that triggered it.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  He shifted in his chair, winced, sweating throughout the hollows of his intense, sad face.

  “It was night. I was driving at night. In a soft-sided vehicle, meaning there was no armor. I had just dropped off my Afghan translator and was driving home alone. I lit a cigarette and I guess I wasn’t paying attention because I struck the car in front of me. Not real hard but hard enough to make them stop. I exited the vehicle before they did because I learned in these situations you don’t want to be sitting and waiting for the Afghans to approach you. Rather, you want to approach them first. Four Afghans exited the vehicle, all of them dressed in white and heading off to pray. The road was real dusty and the dust kicked up around the traffic lights of the passing busses and cars and the men walked toward me through this yellow, dusty cloud. With no expression. They just stood and stared at me. I had a 9 millimeter in my satchel and I placed my hand on the weapon, disengaged the safety. A crowd formed around us. First it was four but four became eight became twelve and then became twenty. Multiplying. Walking from roadside tea stands and exiting busses and cars to watch what would happen between us.”

  “And why was that?”

  “Because traffic accidents are like a form of public entertainment in Afghanistan. There were now maybe two hundred Afghans around me at this point. And they all just stared at me. Kind of as a way of asking what I was doing there but also to see what I would do next. They have this way of staring at you where you can’t tell what they’re thinking. Whether they mean you harm or not. There’s no other way to say it. I panicked. I took out the 9 millimeter and aimed it at all of them. But they didn’t react. They just kept staring. This made me even more nervous because I knew a man, a good man, who was killed by a crowd in Afghanistan. Bludgeoned to death. I fired the weapon in the air to make them step back but they didn’t. They moved in on me instead. Because the odds were in their favor and they knew it. I knew it too. I couldn’t shoot all of them. I only had eight bullets in the clip plus one in the chamber. Then they surrounded the truck and so I shoved a few of them out of the way and entered the vehicle pointing the gun at all of them. I started to drive through the crowd. They moved out of the way, but they also started banging the truck with their flat hands and as I pulled onto the main road and hit the gas, I clipped this motorbike with a man driving his wife and his infant daughter. The bike wobbled and fell and they all spun out on the ground. Like it was nothing. Almost like it was supposed to happen. You ever been in an accident you think was supposed to happen?”

  “Why do you think it was supposed to happen, Mr. Thomas?”

  “Because it triggered
what was there, just waiting for me, just below the surface. First a rock smashed the rear windshield. Followed by a pipe to the driver’s window and now there was glass all over me. I kept driving but they kept smashing at the truck as I was driving. Coming out of their homes and shops and shadows and smashing the windshield and the hood and the headlights and the brake lights and going for the tires and trying to pick up the truck and flip it. Rocking it. Afghans are skinny. Most don’t weigh too much. Unless they’re a warlord. But when they come after you in a pack there’s not much you can do but run them over.”

  “How many did you strike with your car?”

  “Maybe twenty.”

  “And what did that do to you?”

  “What can it do to you when you have no choice?”

  I wrote “have no choice” on the notepad.

  “And then what?” I asked.

  “I drove home to the empty house.”

  “Did you report the incident to FreedomQuest?”

  “No, sir, I did not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they wouldn’t care.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “They would say I had it coming to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they hated me.”

  “Why did they hate you?”

  “Because they thought I was a pain in the ass.”

  “And why did they think you were a pain in the ass?”

  “Because I was always telling them they were doing everything wrong.”

  “And why was that?”

  “Because they were. Because they were getting paid millions of dollars from the Department of Defense for US military contracts and they had no idea what they were doing.”

  “And you did?”

  “Yes, sir. I had been in the region for almost ten years with Special Forces. I knew what and what not to do when it came to working with the Afghans. But they wouldn’t listen.”

  I scribbled “wouldn’t listen” on the notepad.

  “Did anyone follow you? After the accident?”

  “No one. It was as if the accident never happened. Like it was all make-believe. If only the Afghans were steel and bulletproof. Then none of it would matter. But that’s not the case. They’re not bulletproof and I was tired of hurting people. I couldn’t do it anymore. I awoke with the morning call to prayer before dawn and called the head office in Raleigh on the sat phone and asked them to send me home. Told them that I was done.”