500 Days (73 page)

Mora decided that he needed to read the document through again more thoroughly. There was no reason to force Morello to sit there and watch him do it. He asked to borrow the memo; sure, came the reply.

“Thanks for sharing this with me,” Mora said as he headed for the door.

•  •  •  

This is absurd!

Mora was at his desk, reading a legal analysis about detainee treatment that had been sent from Guantanamo months before.
This
mess—written by the chief legal advisor at the detention center, Diane Beaver—was what the Pentagon had relied upon in approving harsh interrogation tactics? Everything in it—its logic, its interpretations, its conclusions—was not only wrong, it was laughably wrong. In a mere six and a half pages, Beaver had single-handedly managed to annul hundreds of years of jurisprudence.

International law didn’t apply.
Mora could only shake his head at the
colossal misjudgment. The president makes a declaration and suddenly the United States is not bound by the rules that govern every nation? What if the Russians tried that ploy, or the Chinese? How could Beaver not realize that this wild idea would drain the meaning out of every international human rights agreement ever written?

The rest of the memo only amplified the folly of her reasoning. Cruel, inhuman, and degrading treatment could be inflicted on Guantanamo detainees with near impunity because, at that location, no law prohibited it. No court would have jurisdiction to rule on an abuse allegation, so no interrogator could be subject to criminal prosecution. The military had created a toxic stew at Guantanamo: poorly trained interrogators, told to mistreat prisoners, with no limitations and no exposure to the law. This was a disaster. The potential damage to America’s security, prestige, and moral bearing was incalculable.

This travesty of justice rested on a precarious tower of policy misjudgments and legal error. He had to knock it down, Mora decided. Rumsfeld’s decision had to be rescinded—and quickly.

•  •  •  

December 20, 11:15
A.M
.
Into the eleventh straight hour.

“Bark!” an interrogator yelled.

Al-Qahtani struggled, closing his eyes tightly.

“Dogs are held in higher esteem than you. At least they know right from wrong, and know that they have to protect innocent people from bad people. So do some dog tricks. Then we can elevate you to the social status of a dog.”

No reply. Al-Qahtani grew more agitated.

“Bark!” the interrogator repeated.

Then “stay.” Then “come.”

“You’re going to learn your dog tricks,” the interrogator said.

•  •  •  

1:00
P.M
.

“Bark!”

“Stop this! I should be treated like a man!”

“You have to be trained,” the interrogator replied. “You have to learn who to defend and who to attack.”

An assortment of pictures was brought out. One of the interrogators showed the first set to al-Qahtani. They were photographs of victims from 9/11.

“Bark happy for these people.”

Al-Qahtani said nothing.

“Bark happy for these people!”

A pause. Then al-Qahtani barked.

The interrogator brought out a second set of photographs. They were images of the 9/11 hijackers.

“Growl at these people!”

Al-Qahtani growled.

The dog tricks ended, and it was on to the next indignity. One of the interrogators wrapped a towel around al-Qahtani’s head.

“Time for your dance lessons,” an interrogator said.

The two sergeants began to instruct al-Qahtani on how to dance. He reared back and tried to kick one of the guards. No one reacted, and the dance lessons resumed.

•  •  •  

Later that day, Mora was waiting outside Haynes’s office when his boss appeared in the doorway.

“Alberto, how are you?” he said. “Come on in.”

Mora had told Haynes only that they needed to discuss some issues involving Guantanamo, and he knew he would get a respectful hearing. That was Haynes’s way with subordinates. Though he rarely spoke or even reacted in one-on-one meetings, he always listened closely to their concerns and never cut them off until they had said their piece. Mora felt certain that his distress would be resolved before he left Haynes’s office.

The two men took seats at a small conference table. Haynes leaned forward, a finger on his temple.

“What’s this about?” he asked.

Mora told him of the reports from NCIS agents about abuse at Guantanamo. He mentioned that he had obtained a copy of the Rumsfeld memo and attached documents.

“I’m surprised that the secretary was allowed to sign it,” he said. “I know this wasn’t the intent, but in my view, some of these authorized techniques could rise to the level of torture.”

“They don’t,” Haynes replied.

“Jim, think this through a little more carefully,” Mora said.

Consider how vague the language is, he said. What, for example, did “deprivation of light and auditory stimuli” mean?

“Could a detainee be locked in a completely dark cell? And for how long? A month? Longer?”

Then there was the approval for using the detainees’ fears against them. “What precisely did that permit?” Mora asked. “Could a detainee be held in a coffin? Could phobias be applied until madness set in?”

Nor could the rightness or wrongness of an interrogation tactic be measured in isolation from the others, Mora said. Ordeal could be piled on ordeal, strung together in a sensory overload that would cross the line into torture.

“There are no limitations spelled out,” he said. “There is no boundary for prohibited treatment. And that boundary has to be at the point where cruel and unusual punishment or treatment begins.”

Haynes said nothing, but his eyes were fixed on Mora as he drank in every word. He was in his “downloading information” mode, Mora thought.

“And you shouldn’t rely on the Beaver legal brief,” he continued. “It’s an incompetent piece of legal analysis.”

Its chief flaw was to set torture as the start and end point of the analysis. But that was not the boundary for permissible behavior; the treatment of a detainee did not have to rise to the level of torture to be illegal. Beaver’s memo was an astonishing repudiation of historic laws and jurisprudence that prohibited cruel, inhumane, and degrading treatment—actions that fell short of torture.

Take a step back and look at the conclusions, Mora said—international law didn’t apply, because the president says it doesn’t; domestic law doesn’t apply, because the detainees were being held at Guantanamo; and even if the laws were deemed worthy of consideration, only the most horrendous violations would be reviewed.

Then there was the approval signed by Rumsfeld, and the potential for political fallout from the secretary’s flippant remark about how many hours each day he spent on his feet.

“I’m confident that the secretary was meaning to be jocular,” Mora said. “But the defense attorneys for the detainees are sure to view it differently. If the memo isn’t withdrawn quickly, it’s going to be discovered and used at the military commissions. And, since his signature is on it, the secretary is certain to be called as a witness.”

Any competent defense lawyer would portray Rumsfeld’s note as a signal to interrogators that they shouldn’t worry about the limits spelled out in the authorization and instead should feel free to do whatever was necessary to obtain the information they needed.

The stakes were enormous, Mora said. “These memos and the practices they authorized threaten the entire military commission process.”

That was all Mora had to say. Haynes nodded.

“Thank you for bringing this to me, Alberto,” he said. “I’ll pay attention to what you said and think about it.”

Mora left the office in a flush of relief. Haynes had listened to everything he had said. Problem solved, and just in time. He and his family were about to jet off to Florida for the holidays. Now Mora could enjoy his vacation.

•  •  •  

December 21, 10:23
P
.
M
.
Into the tenth hour of interrogation.

An army sergeant shoved al-Qahtani into a sitting position on the floor and stood over him.

“You don’t deserve to be seated in a chair like a civilized human being,” one of the interrogators said. “You’re beneath me. You should be at my feet.”

Al-Qahtani looked down.

“You’re a weak-minded coward,” the interrogator said. “You kill innocent women and children who are created by God.”

Nothing.

The interrogator launched into a monologue about Saudi Arabia, al-Qahtani’s homeland. The Saudi government had been making big changes, she said. It was cracking down on the terrorists, locking them up. As she spoke, she moved closer to al-Qahtani.

“Get away from me!” he snapped.

He pressed his hands and feet against the floor to thrust his body backward, but the guards lunged at him and flattened him on his back. The interrogator straddled him without putting any weight on him. As she continued speaking, al-Qahtani tried to knock her off by bending his legs; the guards grabbed his shins and held him down.

He turned his head and started praying loudly. The interrogator ignored him.

Al-Qaeda was on the run, she said. Qaed Salim Sinan al-Harethi, one of bin Laden’s top associates and a suspect in the
Cole
bombing, had recently been killed by the CIA.

“He was in a car in Yemen,” she said. “He probably thought he was safe, didn’t think we could find him. We hit him with a missile. Blew him up where he sat. Al-Qaeda can’t hide from us. It’s done.”

The linguist leaned in toward al-Qahtani as she translated the interrogator’s words.

“Get out of my face!” he spat.

She didn’t move and continued interpreting.

•  •  •  

December 23, 12:30
A.M
. Thirty minutes.

The lead interrogator walked into a booth where al-Qahtani was being held. A recording of white noise was playing and pictures of swimsuit models dangled from his neck. He looked distraught.

“How are you doing, Mo?” the interrogator asked.

“I have problems.”

“What are the problems?”

Al-Qahtani glared. “They are between me and God.”

“Tell me your problems. They can’t be solved unless you say what they are.”

Al-Qahtani wept.

The pictures of the swimsuit models he was forced to wear, the incessant questioning he was forced to endure, the stiff metal chair he was forced to sit on, all the other indignities he was forced to endure—those were his problems.

“I cannot handle this treatment much longer,” he said.

“Is there anything else that’s a problem for you? Are you in pain?”

No, al-Qahtani said.

For several minutes, the interrogator explained to al-Qahtani why he was being treated so roughly. The soldiers knew that he found all of these things unpleasant. That was the point. They wanted al-Qahtani to understand that they were in charge, that his situation was futile, that no matter how hard he resisted, they would never relent.

“You chose this lifestyle,” the interrogator said.

Al-Qahtani said nothing.

After a moment, the interrogator removed the pictures of the scantily clad women from around al-Qahtani’s neck.

“The test of your ability to answer questions is going to begin now.”

Al-Qahtani fell into a sullen silence. Then he looked up at the interrogator.

“I will answer your questions after you pour water over my head, and tell me you will do that to me day after day,” he said.

Al-Qahtani seemed to be looking for a way out. Perhaps he thought he could rationalize cooperation with the enemy if he himself set the rules for his mistreatment. But the interrogators couldn’t allow him to take control, even by agreeing to his request to mistreat him.

“Think about your decision to answer questions,” the interrogator said. “I’ll only ask questions if you fully cooperate.”

•  •  •  

January 1, 11:00
P
.
M
.
Fourth hour.

Al-Qahtani was struggling to stay awake. An interrogator was discussing the Koran and the obligations it imposes on Muslims to observe justice for orphans. Al-Qaeda had left many children orphaned, the interrogator said. They deserved justice. Al-Qahtani could bring them justice by telling the truth.

“What made nineteen Saudi Arabian men want to kill themselves?” the interrogator asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe they were tricked.”

“How could one man, bin Laden, convince nineteen young men to kill themselves?”

Al-Qahtani’s head rocked and his eyes closed. He was drifting in and out of sleep.

The interrogator loudly repeated the question. Al-Qahtani opened his eyes.

“They were tricked,” he said. “He distorted the picture in front of them.”

“Does that make you mad?”

“Yes.”

“Are you mad that your friends were tricked?”

“Yes.”

The interrogator felt pleased. Al-Qahtani did not realize he had just been lumped in with the hijackers.

“Did your friends know about the plan?”

“No.” Al-Qahtani’s head lolled.

“Did you know about the plan?”

“No.”

“Did Mohammed Atta know about the plan?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does it make you mad that he killed your friends?”

“Yes.”

“Are you glad you didn’t die on the plane?”

“Yes.”

“Are your parents glad you didn’t die?”

“Yes.”

“Did you call your parents after you didn’t get on the plane?”

“No.”

“You knew getting on the plane was wrong, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But you still wanted to fight?”

“Yes.”

Al-Qahtani’s head drooped and his words slurred. He said nothing more.

•  •  •  

The weary eyes of John Leso, the army psychologist, filled with tears.

He had been stationed at Guantanamo Bay for six months, and had been deeply shaken by what he had seen. When given the assignment, he thought he would be treating psychologically distressed soldiers but was soon ordered to join the Behavioral Science Consultation Team, with responsibility for serving as a psychological advisor for interrogations. He had sat through a meeting that fall where members of the military and the CIA nonchalantly bandied about theories on how best to conduct abusive questioning—and how to make sure the Red Cross never found out. Now, in January, he was being rotated out and replaced as chief psychologist by an associate, Colonel Larry James. He was ready to leave Guantanamo, but feared that it would never leave him.