Detained, page 13
“But, Miss Gardner, isn’t that a tenuous position? I mean, shouldn’t a judge or jury decide that the enlistment was fraudulent?”
The gorgeous lady smiled, brushing back her hair. “No. If Makari were being prosecuted for fraud, then I suppose I could see that point. But since he is not, we feel that we can make that determination administratively.”
“What is the Navy’s position on all this?”
McNamara stepped back up to the podium. “I’ll take that. Thank you, Emily.” The woman stepped back to her place. “All federal agencies, including the Navy, have been cooperative. Now, if you’ll excuse me, that’s all the time we have for questions, as we have a lot of work to do in follow-up.”
McNamara, Gardner, and Nolan turned, all waving, and stepped away to a howling chorus of questions being yelled at them. The screen shot back to the studio. Secretary Strayhorn punched the Mute button to end the idle chitchat from the talking heads.
He picked up the telephone and buzzed his secretary.
“Yes, sir?”
“Carol. Get Barry Samuels on the phone for me, please.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Strayhorn leaned back in his chair and tapped an ink pen against his large mahogany desk. He needed a smoke. The pack of Marlboro Menthol Blend No. 54, just purchased on the way to the office that morning by his driver, sat in the front pocket of his short-sleeved white shirt.
He popped a cigarette in his mouth and caressed the filter with the tip of his tongue. He fished in his pocket for the lighter, and within seconds, a satisfying, warm nicotine cloud filled his windpipe and lungs.
Sweet relief!
Carol Gibson had had to put up with his smoking all these years. So what?
Strayhorn ignored the widespread antismoking campaign waged by the surgeon general, for he believed that in the halls of power, powerful men could smoke, and the smell of cigarettes was a powerful aphrodisiac.
His desk phone buzzed.
“Yes, Carol.”
“Mr. Porter is on the line, sir.”
Strayhorn took another drag and set the cigarette in an ashtray. His reliable right-hand man, Barry Samuels, on whom he had bestowed the title of “special assistant to the secretary—Department of Homeland Security,” could wait another second or two.
In Washington the party with the ability to force another party to wait demonstrated a subtle but clear show of power in a city where the chain of power took a backseat to nothing.
Never be too anxious—nor too quick—to answer the call of a subordinate on hold. But a modicum of common courtesy mandated that a subordinate not be placed on hold so long as to waste excessive time—just long enough to remind the subordinate, ever so subtly, that your time was more valuable than his.
He picked up the phone. “Morning, Barry.”
“Good morning, sir. How may I be of service to you today?”
“Did you see McNamara’s presser?”
“Yes, sir. I think everybody in the department did. Big day for the department, sir.”
“What did you think?”
“From my standpoint, it went well.”
“This new lawyer that Billy had with him . . . what’s her name?” As if he didn’t know.
“Gardner, sir. I believe her name is Emily Gardner.”
“Yes, that seems right. Anyway, what do you know about her?”
“I understand she’s new to the legal staff down there at TSA. She’s supposed to be a rising legal star at TSA. I’ve never met her.”
“She handled herself superbly when she got put on the spot by Anne Brown.”
“Yes, sir,” Samuels said. “Anne Brown can put anybody on the spot. I agree. Gardner responded superbly.”
“Yes.” Strayhorn toyed with his chin. “Anyway, I want you to run a full background on this new legal beagle, Emily Gardner. Include everything in the TSA file and more. I want that report on my desk by the end of the day.”
“Certainly, Mr. Secretary.”
“And, Barry?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Listen. This is between us. Don’t let anybody know I’ve ordered this background. And don’t let Billy McNamara know that his boss is snooping around on his new legal star. No point in bursting the boy’s bubble.”
“Acknowledged, sir. All intel on this Emily Gardner stays between us, Mr. Secretary.”
“Excellent.” Strayhorn smiled and leaned back in his chair. He took one last drag from his cigarette and then crushed out the glowing end. He rubbed the butt to a pulp and dropped it in the ashtray. “Now get to work.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER 3
NAVY LEGAL SERVICE OFFICE
WINDWARD SIDE
UNITED STATES NAVAL STATION
GUANTÁNAMO BAY, CUBA
“Welcome to the Windward Side, Lieutenant.” Lieutenant JG David Rusotto pulled the jeep into the sunny gravel parking lot of the Navy Legal Service Office. “And welcome to the RLSO. This is where you’ll set up operations.
“I’ll take you to your offices, let you get settled in. Then Lieutenant Commander Bob Petronio, the senior defense counsel, will stop by and talk to you about getting in to see your client.” Rusotto brought the jeep to a stop.
“Where’s Commander Petronio now?”
“Department meeting. All the JAGs are tied up for the next thirty minutes. I got lucky I got drafted to go pick you up. I hate those meetings.”
“So I’ve got to wait thirty minutes before I can even start finding out how to get to my clients?”
Rusotto looked at him, and Matt noticed, for the first time, that his bushy eyebrows ran together. Sort of a unibrow look. “Sorry, Lieutenant, I don’t make the rules. I do what I’m told.”
“No problem, Rusotto.”
“Anyway, want to go see your office?”
“Sure. Why not? I can go to my new office and hurry up and wait. Like I’ve been doing all morning. It’s the Navy way.”
They got out of the jeep and walked toward the Navy Legal Service Office building, a one-story yellowish stucco structure nestled in a grove of palm trees, sitting about a hundred yards off the road in an area of lush green grass. A dozen cars, all with silver-and-black US government plates, sat in the parking lot.
Two flags were mounted on the exterior wall flanking the entrance, the flag of the United States of America and the flag of the US Navy.
As they approached the entrance of the RLSO, something ran across his foot. He jumped back, his heart in hyper mode.
“What the—” Then three more large, yellowish rats scampered across in front of them. “What the heck?”
“Sorry, sir. Forgot to warn you.” Rusotto reached down, picked up a rock, and threw it at the rats. “Get out of here!”
The squealing rats raced across the parking lot and disappeared behind the hedges of shrubbery up against the building.
“Banana rats,” Rusotto said. “They’re everywhere down here. They’re scarce elsewhere in Cuba, but we have an overabundance of them at GITMO because the animal rights wackos back in the States won’t let us clear ’em out, even though they’re a royal pain.
“They’re mostly harmless. But they get big and brazen. The Cubans eat them, so they’re scarce outside the base. But this base is infested with thousands of them, hanging in trees, crawling all over the place. They aren’t deterred by humans.”
“Looks like I should have brought my sidearm.”
“Shooting one of the suckers might be the quickest way to get you an audience with your clients,” Rusotto quipped. “I’m not so sure which is a tougher terrorist group to deal with—al-Qaida or PETA.”
“If it takes shooting one of those yellow rats to get to see my clients, I’m all in,” Matt said.
“Hopefully it won’t come to that.” Rusotto pushed open the front door for Matt to step inside.
“Master Chief, Lieutenant Ernie James, this is Lieutenant Matt Davis,” Rusotto said to the command duty officer and the chief of the watch, who wore working khakis and sat at two separate desks in an open-door office to the left.
“Welcome, Lieutenant,” James, a lanky, mustached officer, said.
“I’m taking Lieutenant Davis back to his office,” Rusotto said. “If you see Lieutenant Commander Petronio, please let him know Lieutenant Davis is here.”
“Roger that, Rusotto.” James looked up from his computer screen, making eye contact with Matt. “Welcome aboard and good luck, Lieutenant Davis.”
“Appreciate it, Lieutenant,” Matt said.
“Down this passageway, sir,” Rusotto said.
“After you, Rusotto.”
They headed down a long hallway that ran from the quarterdeck like a spoke extending from a wheel. The floor tiles were a dark green, perhaps black, giving the hallway a bit of a dim, shadowy appearance. The closed doors to the left and right bore the names of the Navy defense counsel who occupied the offices.
The third door on the right displayed the nameplate of LCDR Bob Petronio, JAGC, USN—Senior Defense Counsel.
“So nobody’s in these offices at the moment because of the defense meeting?” Matt asked.
“Right, sir. You’ll have the wing all to yourself for a while. Your office is the last on the right. Here we are, sir.”
The closed door bore the nameplate “LT Matt Davis, JAGC, USNR—Special Detailed Defense Counsel, US Military Commissions Court.”
“How nice,” Matt said. “My own nameplate already.”
“Commander Petronio doesn’t miss much, sir.” Rusotto opened the door. The darkness from the hallway faded in the bright morning light streaming through the three large windows in the office. “What do you think, sir?”
“Not a bad view,” Matt said.
“Not if you like grass, palm trees, and a road full of military vehicles going back and forth,” Rusotto said.
“I’ve seen worse,” Matt said.
“Yes, sir. Anyway, this is it. If you’re looking for the head, it’s down the passageway, port side.”
“I saw it when we walked by.”
“Also, the coffee mess is down by the quarterdeck. Chief Richards makes a mean brew. Lots of battery acid and caffeine.”
“Great to know,” Matt said.
“Make yourself at home. I have to attend to some other business, but I’m sure Commander Petronio will be by soon.”
“That’s great, Rusotto. Thanks for everything.”
“My pleasure, sir.” The unibrowed junior grade lieutenant stepped into the hall and disappeared.
Matt turned his back to the door, crossed his arms, and looked outside. Something felt strange, but he could not tell what. Something odd, sort of like the old Jim Carrey movie, The Truman Show. What was that fictional, surrealistic town where Truman lived? He walked to the window, craned his neck, looking to the left and the right. Then it hit him.
Seahaven.
From a natural-setting standpoint, GITMO’s beauty featured swaying palm trees, luscious green grass, flowers in pink, yellow, and white, and aqua-blue water.
Yet GITMO also had a plastic, Seahavenish, superficial veneer about it. The plastic feeling reeked in the air despite the undisputable beauty of the place’s natural setting. The strange aura had something to do with the GITMO detention center and the Military Commissions Tribunal. From the publicized treatment of defense counsel practicing before the commission, to the strange death of Andy Hart, to Rusotto warning him to watch his back, something didn’t feel right.
Oh well.
As a defense attorney and a naval officer, Matt had sworn oaths to the Constitution in both capacities, and he had pledged to perform his duty to the best of his ability in the case of each.
Whatever his gut was screaming, he would not allow the weird feeling to interfere with the performance of his duty.
Time to get to work, at least to the extent that he could get anything done before he met Hasan Makari or his son, Petty Officer Najib Makari.
Matt turned his back to the window and pulled out the leather chair from behind his desk and sat down, happy to get off his feet.
A to-do list. That’s where he needed to start.
He spun his chair to the left and pulled open the metal file cabinet.
“Okay. Legal pads. Check. But where are the doggone pens?”
He spun the chair back around. “Maybe they’re in here.” He pulled open the center desk drawer. A single white envelope, standard business size, lay in the drawer, addressed to “LT Matt Davis, JAGC, USNR.”
Matt picked up the envelope, opened it, and read the undated handwritten message.
Welcome to GITMO, Lieutenant Davis.
Check your e-mail.
All the best,
Andy Hart
“Andy Hart? What the—” Cold chills cascaded down his back, the instant effect of receiving a letter from a dead man. Was this the very office where Hart had worked?
He punched the power button on the desktop computer.
The computer fired up.
Instantaneous Internet connection.
With his heart pounding, he typed in the URL for his e-mail.
No delays. Instant access.
The first e-mail in his inbox flashed the sender’s address as andyhart@springgrovecemetery.com.
“Dear Jesus.” Matt clicked on the e-mail.
Dear Lieutenant Davis,
Welcome to GITMO!
You join a long line of dutiful defense counsels representing the world’s most unique criminal clients, making you part of a small, unique fraternity of attorneys whose place will be assured in history.
I hope you will find your stay here comfortable and that, unlike mine, your life following your service here will be long and fruitful.
You are occupying the office that I once occupied. You are sitting in the chair that I once sat in.
The issue is whether you will now meet the same fate that I met.
For here you have a glorious opportunity for permanent fame and an elevated respect within the legal community, provided you do not blow it, like I did.
You have been selected for this post by the same governmental organization that is prosecuting the terrorists you are defending. I represented many of these. Now you have been preordained to represent two more.
Let the press see that you are going through the motions. But understand that there is a limit beyond which you should not ask questions. There is a point that you should not press further.
There is a preordained verdict already destined that you should not disturb nor refuse to accept.
Do these things and you will be handsomely rewarded.
Refuse, and you will meet the fate that I met and join me where I am.
Andy P. Hart, Esq.
Spring Grove Cemetery
4521 Spring Grove Avenue
Cincinnati, Ohio
Counsel for the Defense
January 19, 1975–April 25, 2013
Annuit Coeptis
Novus Ordo Seclorum
“What? What kind of a sick joker is behind this bull? And what’s with this Latin Novus Ordo Seclorum stuff?” The e-mail sent his heart racing. But the accelerated heart rate came more from anger and adrenaline than fear. “Bunch of classless bull. Draft a classless letter from a dead man. You want to play ball like this?” He was speaking to an empty office. “Fine. Go for it.”
Matt hit the Control button, followed by the Print button, and hoped the message would finish printing before Commander Petronio showed.
He snatched the message off the printer, folded it, and stashed it in his briefcase.
He could do nothing but wait.
• • •
GUANTÁNAMO BAY DETENTION CENTER
CAMP DELTA
UNITED STATES NAVAL BASE
GUANTÁNAMO BAY, CUBA
The darkness.
It proved overwhelming. When Hasan opened his eyes after sleep, he would stare into the blackness, straining to detect even a particle of light. He felt like a thirsty man in the desert, salivating at the mirage of a watery pool.
Sensory deprivation, whether deprivation of water or of light or of sound, could within a short time drive a man mad.
Hasan had learned that the best mode of defense against the madness was to keep his eyes closed, which fooled the body into believing that it was time for bed, making the unbearable shroud of darkness a tad more bearable.
He opened his eyes, facing the darkness with Scripture. “I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
Thank God Eugene had encouraged him to begin memorizing Scriptures all those years ago. The Word of God gave him light in the darkness.
He spoke again, from memory: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning.
“Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made.
“In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind.
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
What? Was he seeing a change in color in the cell?
The blackness morphed to a dim purplish glow.
He looked above and squinted his eyes.
No.
Yes.
They were tampering, somehow, with the lighting in the cell. Perhaps with black light. Or dim fluorescents. Something.
“Hasan Makari. Hasan Makari.” A woman’s voice. Low in pitch. Almost sultry.
The purple light came up a bit more. They started mixing a dim reddish hue in with the purple.
“Do you hear us, Hasan Makari?”
“I hear you. What do you want?”
“All we want is for you to tell the truth.”
More red light. More purple light. He could see the outlines of his hands and arms.
“I always tell the truth.”
A high-pitched squeak from across the floor. Not so loud, just high-pitched. Then another squeak. And then another.
