Classified Woman (16 page)
Authors: Sibel Edmonds
Colapinto approached as I was getting ready to leave. “Now we’re going to the next recording,” he said. “John Roberts is here and is going on camera in a few minutes.”
I asked if I could stop by and see him, to talk with him for a few seconds. Colapinto thought a moment. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. He may end up becoming one of our witnesses in your case. He may be subpoenaed by Congress on your case or interviewed by DOJ-IG. We don’t want anyone to claim that you had talked to each other or synchronized your statements.”
I understood; his points made sense. I was exhausted anyway. The anxiety and level of focus it took to answer each question accurately without unintentionally divulging classified information—on top of that neurotic cough, like a panic attack—had utterly worn me out. I wanted to sleep forever, or at least until this nightmare was over. And I still had my family to face. They did not yet know about “60 Minutes” and the path I had just set us on.
The reaction from my mother and sisters on telling them the news was milder than expected, or so I first thought. Instead of the usual hurt and anger, my mother merely nodded, exchanging a look with my middle sister. She talked in a reasonable tone. “In fact, we wanted to talk with you, too. Your sister and I have been discussing this for a while. I guess this is the right time to share our plans with you.”
Alarmed, I looked to my sisters and then to my mom. “What plans?”
“Look,” she said, “you’re thirty-two years old and in charge of your own life. You have all the right to make your own decisions, based on what you believe. We need to think about our life and make decisions for ourselves. We believe now that Lena and your younger sister are working part-time, we can manage to live in our own place. This way we won’t burden you with our constant presence; you guys need your privacy too. We’ve checked out a few places,” she continued, “and found a small flat with reasonable rent. Last week we paid the required deposit. We’ll move by the end of this month.”
I couldn’t believe, despite all of us living under the same roof, they had chosen not to tell me until now. “Wow,” I said, “you should get a job with the Secret Service. You sure kept this classified.”
“Considering all the hardship you’ve been going through and your hectic schedule, we didn’t want to bother you with this. Don’t try to make it anything more than that.” Then she added, “Do you want us to be exposed to some camera crew that may camp out in front of your house? Do you want our pictures to appear in Turkish papers, TV? You may not care for your face, your picture, being pasted all over the world; we do! For the time being, the further we stay from you the less in danger we’ll be. Look, your ‘baby sister’ is in college, where many other Turkish students happen to attend. She is a much easier target than you, don’t you agree?”
“All I want is honesty from you,” I replied. “Just be straightforward with me. I understand completely your decision to have a place where you’ll have more privacy. I also get your point that the further you are from me the safer you’ll be. Then why not let me in on your ‘plan’? What kind of a family have we become?” I faced my sisters. “I’ve been doing my utter best to protect you; maybe unsuccessfully, but I have done my best. What I’m doing today is
not
for some personal selfish reasons, for me. Neither have I chosen this path. I ended up on it before I knew what was happening. Do you understand?”
My younger sister nodded. Lena showed no reaction. I sighed. “I’ll help you out with the move and furnishings. You can take anything you want; furniture, kitchenware, et cetera.”
I did just that. By October 2, they had moved out.
Gone.
I
n early October 2002, Matthew surprised me with an unexpected tenth year wedding anniversary gift: three full days in London. We were scheduled to leave on Wednesday, October 16, and return on Sunday the 20th. At Matthew’s insistence we made a pact: I was not to check my e-mails more than once a day during our trip, and we were not to talk about the case. I accepted his proposal and agreed to live up to my end of it.
Our flight arrived in London at seven in the morning. Despite our inability to sleep during the flight, we decided to start our exploration of London anyway: Covent Garden, a leisurely late breakfast, and afterwards, the entire day on foot, where we checked out exhibits at the National Gallery and Tate Museum, sat by the fireplace in a historic pub and dined at a fantastic Indian restaurant on Oxford Street. That night I slept—more like collapsed—uninterrupted by the usual anxieties. We made it through our first twenty-four hours without a single mention of my case, a major success.
The following day, our anniversary, we explored sites and returned to our hotel late in the afternoon to change for dinner and the theater. We loved the play (Shaw, whom I adore). The evening so far was magical; I couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful. We had made it to a decade.
Upon our return to the hotel, as agreed, I went to their 24-hour business center to check e-mails. I logged on and immediately spotted one from my attorney, with a subject line reading
Very Urgent, call me
. I dreaded the news. The anxiety and tightness in my chest returned. I turned to check on Matthew; he was outside, waiting in the lobby. I turned back to the monitor again, grabbed the mouse tightly and clicked:
Sibel, today Attorney General Ashcroft publicly announced that he was invoking State Secrets Privilege in your case. It will be all over the news by tomorrow a.m. This is unbelievable. We are still shocked. This is a very rare and unknown privilege, worse than the President’s Executive Privilege. I’ll go to the library and do research on it; mind-boggling. Here is the release from his office:
STATEMENT OF BARBARA COMSTOCK, DIRECTOR OF PUBLIC AFFAIRS, REGARDING TODAY’S FILING IN SIBEL EDMONDS V. DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE:
“To prevent disclosure of certain classified and sensitive national security information, Attorney General Ashcroft today asserted the state secrets privilege in
Sibel Edmonds v. Department of Justice
. This assertion was made at the request of FBI Director Robert Mueller in papers filed today in the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia. The Department of Justice also filed a motion to dismiss the case, because the litigation creates substantial risks of disclosing classified and sensitive national security information that could cause serious damage to our country’s security.
“The state secrets privilege is well-established in federal law. It has been recognized by U.S. courts as far back as the 19th century, and allows the Executive Branch to safeguard vital information regarding the nation’s security or diplomatic relations. In the past, this privilege has been applied many times to protect our nation’s secrets from disclosure, and to require dismissal of cases when other litigation mechanisms would be inadequate. It is an absolute privilege that renders the information unavailable in litigation.”
I sat and stared at what was before me. I kept reading and rereading the e-mail. What in the name of God was
State Secrets Privilege
? What did they mean by “to protect national security”? From what I knew, what these agencies were covering up was
endangering
national security. Why had the Justice Department, the attorney general, decided to go this far to cover up my case, my report? I could see the State Department or Pentagon attempting such an outrageous move, but DOJ? How would this affect my IG investigation and their report, expected this month? The IG investigators’ boss was Ashcroft—who kept them employed and paid their salaries. How could they issue a real report? My mind was racing, my heart was pounding, and my body had started sweating again.
There were so many questions, and so many possible answers. I knew a lot. What caused this move by Ashcroft? Was it congressional corruption that involved one of the most powerful men in Congress and a few others there? Was it government officials within the State Department and Pentagon, on the payroll of foreign entities who sold our secrets, intelligence and technology? Did this have anything to do with narcotics trafficking, with some of those involved connected to the higher-ups at the State Department, Pentagon, NATO, as well as certain lobbyists? Was it the cover-up related to 9/11—those issues we’d all been warned to keep quiet about?
The more I thought, the more questions arose, and with them, possible answers. Matthew’s voice startled me.
“What’s wrong? What is it?”
I asked him to come and read it for himself.
Matthew shook his head. “Sibel, what is it that you know that they’re after so badly? It must be more than just some FBI incompetence or the Dickersons. It must be something highly explosive. Otherwise, they wouldn’t go this far, and we don’t know what they may do next. I worry about your safety.”
“Not yours?”
“No; I really fear for your safety. We may want to consider moving out of the country for a while. This keeps escalating. Who knows what they may do next?”
“If someone really wanted to do something like that, they could do it easily,” I replied. “There really would be no safe place to hide. No bodyguard would be able to protect us.”
As soon as we returned home, I Googled
State Secrets Privilege
. The search produced only seven hits. The little I was able to obtain indicated that the privilege was invoked only rarely; it could not be found in the U.S. Code (the code of federal regulations) or the Constitution; it allowed the government to tell a judge that a civil case may expose information detrimental to national security and to ask that testimony or documents be hidden or a lawsuit dismissed.
The privilege, when used, was to prevent plaintiffs from getting hold of very specific, sensitive evidence in an ongoing lawsuit; it was seldom invoked to dismiss entire cases. Yet this is precisely what the attorney general was asking the courts to do. I hoped that my attorneys would be able to shed more light on the privilege and our position to counter it.
When I arrived at Colapinto’s office, Kolesnik and Steve Kohn were already waiting. Kolesnik tried to break the ice by joking, “I surely don’t want to know what you know; oh man, it must be something!”
It didn’t help to break the solemn mood. The question was, now what? What could we do?
On the positive side, Kohn said, the government might be shooting itself in the foot by using this “nuclear option” of all legal maneuvers—that it might end up backfiring. It might get Congress outraged and add media frenzy. On the negative side, if they can use 9/11 to justify this unprecedented level of secrecy to persuade the courts, then we’ll have little chance to succeed.
“Sibel,” he continued, “when we took your case we thought it was going to be a straightforward whistleblower case…. But here we are, facing a completely different case, one characterized by an unseen level of secrecy, espionage, and high-level corruption and criminal acts.”
“You’re telling me! I didn’t even decide to become a whistleblower. I tried to tell you the magnitude of wrongdoing involved … The Dickersons are only a fraction of what lies beneath. When the facts come to light, there will be high-level elected and appointed officials standing trial and criminal prosecution. Of course, there are also certain aspects that directly relate to nine eleven.”
Kolesnik whistled. “Oh man!”
Kohn shook his head and mumbled, “We didn’t sign up for this. Let’s see what we can do … I’m not optimistic.”
I asked about the stalled IG investigation and their report.
Alluding to the requested FBI documents and audio files, Colapinto responded, “We don’t know the facts. Maybe they decided not to have you verify them. Either way, that will give us ammunition to hold them liable and responsible if the final report ends up being a half-ass job and a whitewash. Since everything is on record, we’ll hold their feet to the fire. I’ll call the IG and Senator Grassley’s office to check the status of the report.” He then continued, “As far as our primary court case goes, the government has asked for an extension due to the latest developments. As soon as they file their response, we’ll find out what their argument and strategy is. Then, it will take a tremendous amount of time to research and file our response.”
“Guys,” Kolesnik reminded them, “don’t forget “60 Minutes.” It’ll be aired in less than a week, and we have to let them know about the privilege. They should mention it in the segment. If it’s all right with you, I’ll call them and let them know.” Everyone agreed. Now, we would buckle up and wait for the segment to air.
Only three days before “60 Minutes” was to air, while we were seated around the dinner table, the phone rang. To my surprise it was Behrooz Sarshar.
He sounded unusually unsure of himself and hesitant to speak. He talked of his battle with FBI management; they had placed him on administrative leave and were ready to fire him soon. He couldn’t discuss details and would rather discuss it in person. He mentioned the
Post
article and upcoming CBS program; he said there were other issues he wanted to tell me about related to certain aspects of my case, and wanted to know whether I could meet with him as soon as possible.
I paused. Was he now a plant, sent to milk me for information and trip me up? I didn’t want to think that way, so negatively; after all, he had always been kind to me. Yet, I found his timing curious, only days before the piece would air. I could tell from his voice he was distressed and nervous.
“Fine,” I said, trusting this wouldn’t be a mistake. “Let’s meet tomorrow, early afternoon, lunch. Suggest a place.” We decided to meet at an Italian café in the mall in Tysons Corner.
After I told Matthew about the meeting and my suspicions, he offered to observe us and our surroundings from a distant table. I thought it was a good idea.
The next day, when I saw Sarshar, he looked sickly and worn out; the spark in his eye was gone. He insisted on treating me to lunch. I accepted and went to grab a table while he waited for our order. I looked around for Matthew. I couldn’t find him. Then I looked to see if I could spot the FBI; before I was able to complete my scan, Sarshar showed up with our food.
He began to tell his story. After he had reported to FBI HQ the 9/11-related case involving the Iranian informant and two other cases I hadn’t previously known about, management’s attitude toward him drastically changed. First, they pulled him off his two most important assignments. Then they called him into a meeting where he was confronted with vague allegations of misconduct. Later, in February (while I was still working there), the bureau interrogated him, charging that he had disclosed classified information about an ongoing FBI investigation under court review. They followed that up with a coerced polygraph test and withheld the results. This was beginning to sound familiar! He was open and sincere. If he were lying, then he sure had me fooled.
Sarshar expected he would be fired in a matter of days. He said he needed legal advice, attorneys.
I told him about my attorney and his law firm. Then he said, “When I reported my case to Mueller and HQ, I also told them about issues that involved your case: about the blueprints case; that on two occasions I had seen Dickerson filling up her large duffel bag with FBI classified documents; that I had seen her removing documents from others’ desks, including the Hebrew guy; and that I was aware of indecent relationships between her and Feghali in his office after hours.”
I was surprised. I had not expected that much courage from him. Before I was able to ask him anything further, I saw his face turn white, eyes fixed on a spot behind me. He leaned forward and whispered, “I can’t believe this. They’re here, following us. I recognize one of the guys from HQ, a young agent named Steve. There are two of them standing right behind you, the other one holding a recording device.”
I turned around. They were there, all right—they hadn’t even taken off their sunglasses, here indoors. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m used to this. They only want to intimidate you. Just ignore them.”
At that moment my cell phone rang; it was Matthew. “Hey, I’m sitting on the left side furthest from your table. First I noticed a group of four very FBI-looking guys walk in from outside. Two split off, came to stand right behind you less than ten feet away with something that looks like a recorder. As to the other two, one is standing right outside the entrance door to the mall, and I lost the fourth one.”
“Okay, I am aware of the two behind me. We’ll leave in a few minutes. Meet us at the exit door on the second floor of Neiman Marcus. Bye.”
I told Sarshar about Matthew conducting surveillance. Having four of them tagging us was unusual.
“I also wanted to let you know that the bureau has tapped your phone,” Sarshar told me in low tones. “They’ve been listening to your calls since May; when you speak in Turkish or Farsi, they record it and then have translators go to the second floor and translate it there.”
I knew of that possibility, but to have it confirmed was something else. I was outraged.
“Listen,” I told him. “I have an idea. I’m going to call my attorneys right now and have them meet with you right away; an hour from now, max. I want you to tell them everything—everything unclassified. I want you to tell them about Dickerson, blueprints, Feghali and, of course, the phone tap and how you got that information. In return, I’m going to ask them—beg them, if necessary—to take your case. What do you say?”
He nodded yes. I called and got Steve Kohn. I brought him up to speed and urged him to meet with Sarshar. Kohn asked us to be there ASAP.
We headed toward Neiman Marcus with two FBI agents shadowing us.
When we met Matthew outside the parking lot, I quickly filled him in. Since he had to work and the attorneys’ office was on the way, we decided to have him follow us to Georgetown, with me riding shotgun with Sarshar. Once we were on the highway, my cell phone rang. It was Matthew, calling to let us know that we were being tailed by a white van.
We arrived at the law office and parked a block away. Kolesnik and Kohn were waiting. I told them about the tail and the team in the mall. Kolesnik went outside to look, then came back in. “Guys, come out and look.” He motioned to us. “The white van is right in front of our building, illegally parked in the space reserved for loading.”
We all stepped outside and looked. The van’s passenger door swung open and a clean-shaven white guy in his early thirties, dressed in a crisp white shirt, tie and khakis stepped out. He shut the door, leaned with his back against the vehicle and stared at us. Then he pulled out sunglasses, put them on and smirked.
Kohn asked us back in. They were clearly rattled. They told me that as a caution against tainting a possible future witness I couldn’t be present during their meeting with Sarshar.
Sarshar’s session with my attorneys lasted more than an hour. He would report his case to the IG and FBI-OPR. Until he was fired, Sarshar couldn’t bring any case in court. I asked Kohn whether they’d gotten his statements regarding my case and Dickerson. He smiled. “But of course, with Kolesnik present as a witness.” I was relieved; we had our first official witness.
When we left, the white van was still there.
My segment on “60 Minutes” was due to air on October 27, 2002, a Sunday. That morning I went out to buy a blank tape, and by the time I returned there was a message from Colapinto asking me to call him at home.
Hmm
, I wondered.
Have they canceled the segment?
He answered the phone with, “You won’t believe these FBI clowns, they are f—ing out of their mind!”
“Now what?” I asked wearily.
“Last night, knowing that it was Saturday, knowing that it was evening, they faxed us this ridiculous letter saying that they had found out about “60 Minutes” and that you had no right to appear on that show and make comments not approved or reviewed by them! Can you believe these jerks? Basically, at the eleventh hour they are asking you to back out; they’re threatening you with criminal prosecution—as if your attorneys were born yesterday!”
“Well, can they come and arrest me? Can they prosecute me criminally? I didn’t divulge anything classified!”
“They’re stupid enough to try. They won’t get anywhere with it. This is another intimidation tactic by them; just the usual.”
“What will I do if they show up to arrest me?”
“… Write down Steve’s home number and you have mine. Anything happens you call us; do not answer any questions without us present. Understood?” He gave me Steve’s home number and we hung up.
That night, as Matthew and I watched the segment, I was holding a page with the list of numbers to call and persons to contact in case they came knocking on our door. I had also instructed Matthew to call my attorneys, Kolesnik, “60 Minutes” investigators and all the major newspapers in the country. I thought,
This must be how people under Fascist regimes feel, not only for one night, but for years, for their entire lifetime.
The knock didn’t come that night. Nor did it come the following morning. Yet all my tension, fear and violent emotions would stay with me—not as intimidation, a deterrent, but rather as a catalyst to fight back, to resist, and to pursue what our country had cherished for centuries: the freedom to speak out.
