Justin Westwood curled up on the floor. He didn’t know if he could stay awake, exhaustion had consumed his entire body. But he didn’t think he could fall asleep, so deep was his dread of being beaten and humiliated, his usual punishment for drifting away from consciousness. So he lay there, doing his best to keep his thoughts coherent and his fear too deeply embedded to emerge.
They didn’t have his strength. They hadn’t taken it away. That’s what he told himself over and over and over again.
And then he began to weep.
28
The beatings and sleep deprivation resumed soon afterward. Justin estimated they went on for three more days, although he knew his sense of time had little proportion to it. That was as close as he could get and it was preferable to no guideline at all.
On what he thought was the fourth day, the man—the only one who had thus far spoken to him—returned. He offered a small paper cup full of water, which Justin grabbed and downed in one gulp. The cold liquid hurt his throat; the coldness was jarring enough that it made him drop the cup on the floor. He watched sadly as a tiny stream of water dropped onto the dirt and formed a moist bubble of a puddle.
“Tell me about the bombing at Harper’s,” the man asked. No lead-in, no attempt at banter or good cop tactics. Just, “Tell me about the bombing at Harper’s.”
Justin nodded slowly. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about the bombing at La Cucina.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
The man’s voice didn’t change. “Tell me about the McDonald’s bombing.”
“I’ll tell you anything I know. Ask me questions I can answer.”
“Tell me about Midas.”
“Midas?” Justin was surprised. “I don’t know anything about Midas. All I know is they paid Hutchinson Cooke to work for them.”
“Tell me what you know about Midas.”
Speaking was still difficult and his throat was so raw it felt as if it had been scraped to the bone with a sharp blade. “It’s a company.”
“What kind of a company?”
“I don’t know. The kind you should be fucking investigating instead of talking to me, you fucking asshole.”
Justin had no memory of the blow. He also had no idea how long he was out. All he knew is that when he came to, the man was gone and he was, as usual, all alone in his cell.
The next time the man came, Justin estimated it was two days later.
“Tell me about the bombings,” the man said.
“I need some real food,” Justin said. “And my gums won’t stop bleeding.”
“The bombings. Start with Harper’s.”
“Just tell me what you want to know. I swear to God, I’ll tell you.”
“What happened at Harper’s?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were there.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Afterwards,” the man in fatigues said. “An FBI agent brought you there.”
“Right,” Justin nodded. “He showed me what happened.”
“Why?”
“I asked him to.”
“Why?”
“I know someone who was killed there. In the explosion. I wanted to see.”
“What was the agent’s name?”
“Billings. Chuck Billings.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“But you think someone did.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“What about Hutchinson Cooke?”
“He’s dead, too.”
“Who killed him?”
“I don’t know.” Justin’s voice was just about gone now. His throat felt like it was going to close up.
“Why are you looking into his death?”
“I’m a fucking policeman, you fucking moron.”
When Justin woke up, he decided he must have been hit in the mouth this time. One of his front teeth was loose.
Justin saw no one, after that, for what he estimated to be two full days. Sometime during the third day, the door to his cell opened. Justin didn’t respond because he’d learned that response was meaningless. He got no points for being passive, nor was there an advantage to any resistance. So he just lay still. He’d taken to estimating the time of day and he decided it was the middle of the night.
When the door opened, only one man stepped through. Through his half-closed eyes, Justin saw that the man looked Middle Eastern. He had dark skin and deep-set, equally dark eyes. His hair was black and, though cut very short, was very straight. He walked slowly over to Justin’s prone body. When Justin stirred, the man jumped back, startled. He looked frightened. More frightened than Justin.
“It smells terrible in here,” the man said in a whisper. When Justin didn’t respond, he raised his voice just slightly to say, “Can you hear me?”
Justin tried speaking but no words came out. So he nodded.
“I am not going to hurt you,” the man said, and Justin could definitely hear the Middle Eastern accent. “I’m just here to tell you something.”
Justin nodded again.
“I am not a guard, I am not a soldier. I am a prisoner here, like you.”
Justin held up his hand for the man to stop. He tried to speak, but only a cough-like croak came out. He hoped the words sounded like what they were supposed to be: “Why . . . here?”
The Middle Eastern man patted him gently on the arm, a sign that Justin didn’t have to speak.
“I’m here because a guard was bribed,” he said. And when Justin’s eyes narrowed questioningly, the man continued, “No, not by me. I am just the messenger.”
“Who . . . ?” Justin’s voice was still raspy. But it definitely sounded like a word this time.
“The message is from someone named Pecozzi.”
Justin’s eyes widened. “Bruno . . .”
“Yes. Bruno Pecozzi. Please, let me speak. I don’t know how much time we will have.”
Justin nodded. The man’s whisper continued.
“The message is, ‘We know where you are. They know that we know. So they won’t kill you.’ Does that make sense?”
“More?” Justin breathed.
“The woman is okay. I was told to say that, also.”
“Which woman?”
“The one who was with you.”
Justin closed his eyes, a moment of thanks. The weight that had been pressing down his chest, suffocating him whenever he thought of Reggie, shot, lying on the bed, disappeared. No word about Wanda, though, and the weight was replaced with another sensation, a tightening around his heart. “Whole . . . message?” he rasped again.
“Yes. It is very hard to communicate, so that is all. But it makes sense?”
Justin closed his eyes. Bruno had let him know that Reggie was alive. That was to provide comfort and satisfaction. But Bruno was also telling him that whatever they did to him down here, however brutal it got, he didn’t have to be afraid. They wouldn’t kill him. Justin wasn’t sure how Bruno could know that, but this was an area in which he trusted the big man completely. So all he had to do was tolerate the pain. Torture only worked when there was the thought of no end in sight—or an end that no one would ever want. That was not going to be the case. So Justin opened his eyes and nodded. It made sense.
“How?” he now asked the man crouching down next to him. “How . . .”
“I will tell you everything I know. I don’t know who this man Pecozzi is, or how he was able to do this, but I have a lawyer. I believe she once represented him.”
“Lawyer . . . ?” Justin managed to say.
“A very good woman. Shirley Greene.”
“Read . . . about . . . her. Terrorists.”
“She represents Arabs. And people think all Arabs are terrorists.”
“You . . . ?”
“I am not a terrorist. And my brothers are not terrorists. But we are being treated as such. And I believe we will be deported as suc
h. If we live to be deported.” He hesitated and shook his head sadly. “We are not being treated as terribly as you. We are not in isolations. This is very bad.”
“Where . . . am I?”
“You don’t know?”
Justin shook his head.
“Guantanamo Bay,” the man said.
Justin managed a long exhale. “You . . . ,” he said, “. . . how long . . . ?”
“My brothers and I have been here for several weeks. Many weeks. I don’t know exactly. Some men have been here for two, three years.”
The slit in the cell’s door slid open and a quick, quiet whistle came from the other side.
“I would have brought you water if I had known. I’m sorry.”
Another whistle.
“I’ve got to go,” the man said. “If I can, I will come again.”
“Thank you,” Justin whispered.
“Go with God,” the man answered.
And as he left, Justin closed his eyes. Better to go with the devil, he thought. Much more useful when you’re in hell.
29
No one showed up in the cell after that for some time. Justin had several hours of relative peace. During that time, he made a decision. Bruno’s message had had its desired effect. All they could do was hurt him, and he could survive that. There was no way to fight back, not in these circumstances, not in the condition he was in. There was only one thing he could do that would help him survive, or at least help keep him from going crazy.
He could use his brain. He could spend every moment sifting through information and putting the pieces together. He remembered Billy DiPezio, his onetime mentor in Providence, talking about the power brokers up there, saying, “You can only take what they give you.” Well, they were only giving him one thing: time.
So Justin decided he’d take it. And use it to try to figure out the puzzle.
He began by placing his finger in the dirt he was sitting on and slowly scratching out a series of names. To the left he put the dead men: Collins, Cooke, Heffernan, Billings, and Lockhardt. Below them, he dug out the name Theresa Cooke and under that wrote “Reysa” and “Hannah.” Hannah was still alive, but she more than counted as a victim. He moved his finger slowly, somehow drawing some importance from the texture of the visual in the dirt. To the right, he began tracing the names of the people he believed were connected to the deaths. Stuller and Dandridge.
To their right he put a new column. Justin listed every name he could think of in conjunction with the case. First, he tried to remember every person he’d spoken to: Martha Peck, Colonel Zanesworth, Hubbell Schrader, the son of a bitch. He hoped that someday he’d get a chance to get his hands on Schrader. Justin forced himself to stop thinking of revenge, then he calmly drew all those last names in the dirt. Then he added one more column. He tried to visualize all the names he’d come across in Roger Mallone’s reports and lawsuits, some of which he’d read, some of which Reggie had encapsulated for him. He did better than he thought: writing down the last names of the Yale attendees: President Thomas Anderson; the head of the EPA, Stephanie Ingles; Stuller and Dandridge again. He added Elliot Brown, the New York City comptroller. And he tried to think of the name of the Saudi, the one who was so connected to EGenco, but he could only recall the first name: Mishari. He remembered that it was followed by “al” something . . . but he couldn’t come up with it. He knew he had all the time in the world, let himself relax, trying to visualize the name on Mallone’s report, but it wouldn’t come. So he just scratched out “Mishari” in the dirt. He was reasonably sure that Arabs didn’t go by their last names anyway, it was the first name that mattered, so he decided that was good enough.
And then he added one more word. They seemed so concerned with Midas. It was definitely worth adding. He gave it its own separate column.
He looked at the hastily drawn names as he’d laid them out:
Collins Peck Stuller Anderson Brown MIDAS
Cooke Zanesworth Dandridge Ingles Mishari
Heffernan Schrader Stuller
Billings Dandridge
Lockhardt
T. Cooke
Reysa
Hannah
He stared at them, not trying to make sense of anything, not trying to form any patterns, just memorizing them. Putting them into groupings inside his head so he could call them up at will. In his current state, it had taken him over an hour just to put the list together. He wanted to be able to do it in seconds, without having to think. So he burned them into his memory, until he felt himself falling asleep again, and before he conked out, he ran his hands through all the names, erasing them, leaving no trace, and then he fell asleep. Immediately the door burst open, two men came rushing in, and the torture began again.
Justin thought it was three days later, but it could have been two. Or four. Or even five. But to keep himself sane, he called it as three and decided that’s what it was, no matter what. Three days later—absolutely, three days, final, done deal.
That’s when he began to figure it out.
He started going meticulously, step by step, as he’d done many times by now, and each step focused him, kept his mind off the pain and the fear. Each step, each piece, bringing him closer to the puzzle’s solution. He turned every angle over in his mind. There was no limit to the amount of time he spent on any one aspect of the puzzle. Time was what he had. The longer the better. Every minute he spent thinking about the case was every minute he wasn’t going to go crazy.
Each exhaustive thought process began with an event. Then he tried to explain to himself the reality behind the event: exactly why it had occurred. Then he listed questions raised by each event and tried to formulate a coherent and structured line of reasoning to propel himself toward the most logical answers. With each answer, he felt as if he’d reached a level plateau after having climbed one small segment of a mountain. He viewed each plateau as a rest stop at which he then catalogued and isolated each one of the answers, keeping them separate in his mind, making them part of the next process, which would take him further up the mountain to the next plateau. At some point, the goal was to reach the peak. There at the top would be all the facts, neatly laid out, and all the names he needed to put the entire puzzle together. To that end, for every question he answered to his own satisfaction—at each new plateau—he tried to link a name to it, using the list of names he’d originally drawn with his fingers on the dirt floor. Every day, while he was thinking, he would redraw the list, sometimes in the original configuration, sometimes in different columns and rows. Whenever he moved the names around, he could find new ways to connect certain people to other people, and connect the right names to the right facts.
He understood that there was a chance it was all gibberish, that his mind was not functioning properly after his weeks of imprisonment. But he also understood that his only choice was to keep going. He often thought of the words uttered by Theresa Cooke: Everything’s muddy.
More than muddy, he decided quite a few times during the days and nights. Muddy, dirty, smelly, and painful.
Right. And on that note he had decided to begin.
Step One: An Iraqi walks into Harper’s Restaurant and detonates—or is used to detonate—a bomb, killing dozens of people, including himself.
Theory: The dozens of innocent people were decoys. The purpose of the explosion was to kill one person: Bradford Collins, CEO of EGenco. Maybe two. Elliot Brown, New York City comptroller, might have been a primary target, might have just been gravy. Or even an innocent lure to get Collins into the restaurant.
Theory: It was not a suicide bombing, as the FBI claimed. The Iraqi was a dupe. He did not expect to die (proof: he was moving away from the intended target when the bomb went off). The bomb was activated by someone outside the restaurant. Cell phone-activated.
Question: Why kill Collins?
Thought Process: Because he was going to talk. About what? About EGenco’s illegal business practices. And that’s worth killing over
? At this level, yes. What would he talk about? The lawsuit brought against EGenco by the City of New York. He’d reveal the shell game and the dummy companies used so they could do business with terrorist-supporting nations. And? And he’d talk about the illegal deals EGenco has made with members of the administration. Why would he talk? To make a deal with the federal prosecutors and either cut or eliminate jail time. Okay. Makes sense. Definitely makes sense. But who would want to keep him quiet? Who would want to kill him? Anyone he implicated in the upcoming scandals. Anyone who had something big to lose.
Question: Why make the murder so elaborate? Why the devastation to kill one person?
Thought Process: Everything has a reason. We know the entire process, so work backwards . . . What was the result of the Harper’s bombing? There were so many deaths that they hid the real purpose, which was to kill Collins. What else? Mass hysteria. General fear. Was that just an unplanned-for side effect or was that part of the intention? I don’t know. I just don’t know. Well, let’s say it was deliberate. Who did it benefit? Terrorists. It planted the seed that they were winning the war. Who else? To be cynical about it, certain politicians. The administration. The people in power. Why? Because the explosions created nationwide fear. And people don’t like change when they’re afraid. Who benefits from lack of change? The president. The vice president. The attorney general. Why?
That was a hell of a question. Justin figured the Triumph of Freedom Act had passed in Congress while he’d been incarcerated. It was on the verge of passing, and if it had, it made sense that he hadn’t been allowed to contact a lawyer or be in touch with the outside world. He had no rights whatsoever now—that’s what the T.O.F. Act was meant to accomplish. It was like the RICO laws put in place to stop the mob. There was no recourse.
Midas Page 28
