by Paul Preston
The next day I arrived and Grace was already seated at the bar in a simple but tasteful dress. When I sat down next to her, she didn’t turn to me, say hello or acknowledge me in any way. I began to get stressed by her odd behavior. When I looked at her face, I noticed she was wearing sunglasses, indoors.
“Grace. Hi. Are you OK?”
She nodded.
“Why are you wearing sunglasses?”
“Oh… I had a little accident.”
I ordered two sodas and we took them over to a booth where we could talk privately. I set the drinks down and stared at her.
“Please take off the sunglasses Grace.”
“I’d rather not James, if you don’t mind.”
I reached over and carefully removed the glasses. Grace didn’t resist. Her left eye was terribly bruised. It made my stomach twist inside to see it.
“What happened to your eye Grace?”
She looked down at the table.
“Oh… I must’ve left one of the kitchen cabinets open and I walked right -”
I reached across the table and lifted her chin gently, forcing her to make direct eye contact with me. The look of her bruised eye both sickened and enraged me. I removed my finger from her chin and curling my fists into two tight balls. I felt the anger inside, churning, coming back up to the surface.
“Tell me the truth, Grace. What happened?”
“I will, but you have to promise me not to do anything crazy. Not to do anything that will get you in trouble. You have to promise me James.”
“I want to hear what happened first, before I make any promises. Tell me what happened…”
Unable to speak, she looked back down at the table. I couldn’t take my eyes of her tender blackened eye, so close to where I had been slashed in my youth. The red rage traveled up to my throat, making me want to scream in anger. I took a drink and swallowed.
“Why did he do it?” I whispered across the table, as calmly as I could.
“I really don’t know…”
“Has it happened before?”
Grace remained silent. She put her sunglasses back on. I kept imagining her husband beneath me as I held him down by the throat, pummeling him over and over with my fist until all that was left in his eye socket was gristle and blood.
“Has he hit you before Grace?”
“No. Never.”
I flashed upon the badly beaten face of Charles Anderson.
“Were you aware that your husband violently assaulted Charles Anderson on the evening of your sister’s funeral?”
“What? No…I didn’t know. Oh my God, I’m so sorry… Was Charles alright?”
“He was badly beaten, but he survived. Your husband has had two violent episodes. What will he do to you next time, Ms. Madsen?”
“I don’t understand. He wasn’t an angry person before he left for Afghanistan. He was just a simple shy boy.”
“Well, he’s clearly no longer the same person. I studied this in my Master’s Program in Criminal Justice. It’s statistically proven that if spousal abuse is allowed to go unchecked, it happens again. If he’s hit you once, he’ll do it again. Leave him Grace. Today. Right now.”
“James, it’s a very complicated situation.”
“No it’s not. Not at all. He’s at work. We drive to your house right now and pack everything you need and never go back. Move in with me Grace. We’ll start a new life together, you and me.”
“James, I fantasize about that. I do. I’ve fantasized about that ever since I met you. But you know I can’t for the reasons we’ve discussed.”
“You wouldn’t have to leave your family behind. We’ll stay right here, in Chicago.”
“James… I can’t…”
“Do you really want to stay with him after what he did to you?”
“Everyone makes mistakes,” she said. “I’ve decided to give him another chance.”
I shook my head and took a drink.
“You’re too good for him… Do you have any idea why he lost his temper? Did find out about us?”
Grace shook her head.
“No. It had nothing to do with us. I’m sure of it.”
“You said he went on a hunting trip with his army buddies?”
“Yes.”
“Did you say something in particular that made him lose his temper and strike you?”
“No, nothing in particular. His anger seemed to come out of nowhere. He never acted like that before with me. That’s what was so strange about it.”
“Tell me exactly what you talked about Grace…”
“I was feeling very guilty about… what happened between us. So I decided to make my husband a nice Christmas dinner when he returned from the trip. We ate our dinner and then opened the few gifts we got each other. Everything was going fine, though he seemed quieter than usual. After dinner, while we were washing and drying the dishes, I tried to make conversation with him, asking him about his trip. He never really talks much about his time in the military, so I asked if he and his friends shared war stories together. He just nodded. Before he left, when his army buddies had dropped by the house to pick him up, I overheard a conversation from the kitchen about “the A Team” and some place in Afghanistan called, “Wardak Province”. So, after we finished cleaning up, I asked my husband if he was on the A Team. He turned to me and gave me this strange look. “What did you say?” he asked. I told him I overheard one of his friends mention “The A Team” and some place in Afghanistan. “What place?” he asked. “Wardak Province,” I said. That’s when he hit me. He told me never to bring up that place again…”
I reached across the table and held her hand.
“Like I said, it came out of nowhere. He felt terrible about hitting me and he apologized over and over after it happened. He held an icepack on my cheek to help the swelling go down… I told him even if it’s against our religious beliefs, I’ll divorce him if ever hits me again… He promised me he’d never hit me again and agreed to get some counseling.”
I was so filled with rage that I wanted to go directly to the police station, wait outside and strangle him with my bare hands. I took a deep breath and stood up.
“James… What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“I’m going to go take care of the situation,” I said.
Grace quickly stood up, walked around the booth to my side, firmly grabbed my arm and whispered frantically.
“Please, James. I knew you’d react this way. Sit down. Finish your drink. Please. That’s why I texted you to cancel our meeting. This is my problem, not yours.”
“No, it’s our problem now.”
“Please James. Sit back down. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“As your Dom, my first responsibility is to keep you safe and I’ve failed you in that. But I’ll take of it. Believe me. He’ll never hurt you again.”
“Please James. Think about it. If you hurt a police officer, you’ll be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. You’ll never get away with it. You’ll be arrested and I’ll never see you again. Don’t do anything crazy. Please, sit back down James and let’s talk about this.”
I saw tears slip out under the black rim of her sunglasses and drip down her cheeks.
“I have to go now Grace. Let go of my arm.”
“Not until you promise me that you won’t harm my husband in any way. No matter what he did to me, he doesn’t deserve to be hurt by you.”
“Grace -”
“Promise me as my Dom…”
“OK… I promise you, as your Dom, I will not touch a hair on your husband’s head.”
“James... I don’t want anything to happen to you. Please…”
“I give you my word. I won’t hurt him.”
Grace slowly released her grip on my sleeve.
“When will I see you again?” she asked.
I kissed her cheek and left the bar. I heard her call out my name as I walked through the restaurant.
“James!”
I didn’t turn back.
I drove back to Obsessions and locked myself away inside my office. Firing up my computer, I did a Google search for “The A Team” and “Wardak Province”. I immediately found a disturbing article that investigated alleged war crimes by a group of 12 US Green Beret soldiers stationed at Command Post Nerkh in Wardak Province, Afghanistan. The bodies of 10 local Afghan men from Nerkh were found buried within 50 yards of the base, one in a green US Army issued body bag. The area had been the center of guerilla resistance for 30 years. First the Russians waged a war in the 80’s to stabilize the region, and then Taliban retook firm control of the area after defeating the Russians. During the decade long engagement with the US, the area was one of the main battlegrounds of the war. Due to its proximity to the capital, Nerkh was an important staging ground for suicide attacks against the Kabul government. US counterinsurgency units engaged in hard fought battles in Nerkh for years, reclaiming the land back with the blood of US soldiers. The US promised the locals, through interpreters, that economic development would come to Nerkh through security and stability. When the US troops moved on, leaving Nerkh in the hands of the Afghan Local Police, the Taliban reclaimed the area, planting bombs on the dangerous road entering the district and threatening to execute any of the tenant farmers suspected of having cooperated with the US military. Without the American presence, the Afghan Police had to coexist with the Taliban militia to survive.
As the 2014 deadline approached to end the longest war in US history, troops were reduced and the security of Nerkh was transferred to elite Special Forces. The A Team arrived, handing out radios to build trust again with the villagers. After one of the A Team leaders was injured in a sniper attack, their methods of counterinsurgency became harsh. Male locals would be rounded up for no other reason than they looked suspicious, taken to the Command Outpost and interrogated with the help of an Afghan interpreter who was known to be a violent. In February of 2013, ten local men never returned from their interrogation. The reporter of the article was able to find Facebook photos of a few of the A Team members, along with other random pictures of soldiers. He showed the images to family members of the disappeared and the A Team soldiers were positively identified as the soldiers who took the men away. The families protested and President Karzai ordered all US Special Forces out of Wardak Province. In April of 2013, after the A Team abandoned the outpost, a shepherd reported seeing a feral dog digging up bones on the grounds of the base. The remains of the ten bodies of the men who disappeared were dug up and found, a short distance from the guard tower.
Separate investigations by the UN and Red Cross determined that the A Team was responsible for rounding up the villagers and taking them to the base for questioning. The US Military officials investigating the incident blamed the killings on the A Team’s Afghan interpreter, who had been caught on film at the Nerkh Command Outpost abusing a suspect during an interrogation, and was subsequently arrested. The interpreter denied killing and burying anyone and claims he was acting upon the instructions of the military officers.
None of the A Team members were ever prosecuted for their involvement in the killings. In early 2013, the A Team was transferred back to Fort Bragg, North Carolina. I remember Charles Anderson told me Grace’s boyfriend was flying in to Chicago from that army particular army base. The whole shameful episode has apparently been forgotten by now. Only the bones remain.
I turned the computer off, covered my face in my hands and rubbed my eyes. The story disgusted me and had the ring of truth. But how deeply was he involved in the killings? Did he actually kill the civilians? Bury them near the guard post? Or did he just keep his mouth shut about the whole thing? What did they say his name was? Patrick Johnson? The A Team was such a small unit. Could Johnson have been unaware of what was going on a Combat Outpost Nerkh? Probably not. Johnson knew. I’m sure he knew.
Even if Johnson didn’t participate in the war crimes, he was there and must have witnessed what was going on. Why didn’t he step forward to tell his Commanding Officer? How could he keep quiet about the abuse and killing of suspects? Grace said that before Johnson left for Afghanistan, he was a simple shy boy. Perhaps he was just an innocent soldier, following commands. In the end there was no way of knowing with absolute certainty of Johnson’s involvement in the atrocity. What was absolutely clear is that Johnson gave Grace a terrible black eye; he was a wife-beater, a despicable person in my judgment. He violently assaulted Charles Anderson and physically attacked me at his own precinct. That pattern of criminality cannot go unaccounted for.
Patrick Johnson had to be punished for hurting Grace, but how and to what extent? Every time I pictured Grace’s horribly swollen eye, I felt sick inside. I could report him to the police and there would be an internal investigation, which would undoubtedly lead nowhere. The only result would be a further escalation of abuse against Grace. They could go the marriage counseling, which may or may not help. Grace would still be living in a dangerous environment in all the above scenarios.
A couple of hours passed while I had sat in front of the computer. I was still angry and upset, but I had calmed down somewhat and began to think more rationally about my options. I decided I must do something, but I had no idea exactly what I should do. Though I thought he certainly deserved it, I took the idea of physically harming Johnson off the table. I wanted nothing more than to give Johnson the beating of his life, but I had promised Grace I wouldn’t hurt him. I intended to keep my promise.
After another hour of thinking it over, I decided to change my approach to solving the problem. Rather than punishing Johnson for his actions, what if I tried to change Grace’s attitude toward her husband? She was forgiving enough to give her husband a second chance after hitting her, but what if I was able to document his physical abuse toward others? I had the feeling that this would be something that she would not be able to forgive.
My first thought was to hire a private investigator to follow Johnson on his job and attempt to document the abuse of a suspect. But this seemed impractical, could take a long time and may never happen. I wanted definitive proof of Johnson’s anger issues within the next 24 hours, before the swelling of Grace’s cheek went down. After a moment, I came up with my plan.
After sending a text to let my security team and bartender know I would be gone for the next two nights, I drove back to my condo. I pulled out from a bag in my closet the old soiled clothes I used to change the oil of my car and tune up my motorcycle. I dumped two bottles of alcohol on the clothes and rubbed dirt over them from a bag of potting soil. I ate dinner, set my alarm on my I-Phone and tried to get a few hours of sleep.
At 4 in the morning, I packed food, water, coffee, my binoculars and a hand held video. I changed into the dirty smelly clothes and left the house. The weather had turned cold and I could see my breath in the car. I drove to my old precinct and parked on a dark corner that had a clear view of the entrance. I was able to secure the video camera in an upright position on my dashboard with tape. I pressed record and tested the camera to make sure it worked. Then I sipped my coffee and waited.
Around 6AM the sun had risen, but it was still cold and a layer of frost coated my windows. I scraped the ice off the front windshield and turned the heat on in the car to warm up. The smell of alcohol and dirt in my car was stifling. I cracked a window to breath fresh air, despite the cold.
As cars began to arrive, I sat down low in the seat and looked over the dashboard through the binoculars at each face behind the wheel. After about 30 minutes, I recognized Johnson pull into the precinct. About an hour later he and his partner came out of the station and I followed them in my vehicle.
After driving for a few minutes the officers pulled over to a donut shop, parked and got out. I couldn’t believe my luck. There was a liquor store in the same strip mall with an available parking space right in front. By angling the camera slightly to the right, I was afforded an unobstructed view of the store’s entrance. Then I
called 911 from a disposable cell phone and reported a drunken man at the corner of 32cd and Main who refused to move from the entrance of Tip Top Liquors. When the operator requested additional information I hung up and snapped my cell phone in half. I pressed record on the video camera, got out of my car holding an empty bottle of liquor, pulled down on the string of my hood to partially cover my scar and lodged myself in the doorway of the liquor store so no one could get in or out. It didn’t take long for a commotion to be created. The owner of the store started banging on the door and shouting at me to move. After a moment I heard the two officers approach me. Thankfully the officers dispersed the crowd so no one was blocking the camera. I recognized the first voice as Johnson’s partner.
“Can you fucking believe this? I haven’t even had a sip of my coffee yet.”
“Yep,” I heard Johnson reply.
“Okay, fella. Let’s go. You’re blocking traffic here. There’s a nice bench right across the street to sit on. Come on. Get up.” the partner said.
I felt the partner tap me with his baton on the side to get me to move.
“Come on. You’re blocking the entrance here. People got to get in and out. Get up,” the partner said.
I dug into my little corner, wedging my feet and shoulders between the door and the brick wall.
“Christ, he’s not moving. Can you believe this guy?” the partner asked.
I looked sideways up at Officer Johnson, who stood a few paces back and seemed bored by the call, content to let his partner handle it.
“Johnson, help me move this guy,” the partner said.
I made my body stiff and flexed my muscles, but the two men managed to pull me a few feet away from the door. I hoped I we were still within the range of the camera.
“God, he stinks,” Johnson said.
“Johnson, pull the squad over here. It’ll be easier to load him in, so we don’t have to drag him all the way across the parking lot.”
“OK,” Johnson said.
As soon as Johnson turned in the direction of the squad car, I spoke up.
“He did it,” I said.
Johnson turned back to me.
