Consequence (18 page)

Ferdinand, Henson, and I have the rest of the day to prepare for night shift. Ferdinand and I talk about finding new jobs. He has friends who work for DynCorp, a security contractor in Iraq tasked with guarding dignitaries working at the embassy. Ferdinand knows the hiring manager. He says hiring is done by word of mouth. I won't even have to submit a résumé.

6.6

I ask Ferdinand whether he'd consider working for the NSA. We could both move to Maryland. Our wives could meet. He says he doesn't have that type of experience. I tell him it's all about how you write your résumé. At night, instead of conducting interrogations, we sit in the office next to the holding cell and work on his résumé. I write the Iraq section for him:

•
Served as subject matter expert for a wide range of security issues in Iraq

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Presented briefings and written assessments to General Officers and high-ranking members of U.S. government

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Responsible for producing accurate and timely assessments of emerging trends in Iraq and acquiring extensive amounts of supporting evidence

•
Worked extensively with liaison services from a variety of intelligence and law enforcement agencies

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Conducted interviews of Iraqi security detainees in order to gather information on emerging security threats in the Middle East

Ferdinand says, “You lie like a champ. No wonder you got rejected by seminary.”

Ferdinand and I stop conducting interrogations at night. Instead, we sit and talk and make plans for our next job. Ferdinand and I are convinced there is a more honorable way to do war. We'll work a security detail on the streets of Iraq. We'll leave the ugly world of interrogation and return in a more honorable position. We consider starting our own contracting company. Ferdinand has contacts. I do, too. We'd run the company the right way, spend money on the right equipment, provide the right kind of services. It would be an honorable company. It would do impressive things. But we still can't bring ourselves to quit. We still don't want to be seen as the type of people who aren't cut out for doing their part. And so we hang on a little longer.

I send an email to my old hiring manager at the NSA and tell him I'm considering coming home. I pull out old paperwork with names and phone numbers and email addresses. There's a copy of my application to the Princeton Theological Seminary. Ferdinand asks to see it. He reads through the essay about how God doesn't cause suffering and is always working to move us forward. He says I should reapply. The Palestinian chair is sitting in the corner. I say, “I'm pretty sure that ship has sailed.”

The next night, there is a note from Captain Dent. She says our lack of work is unacceptable and she expects us to conduct at least five interrogations in order to make up for lost time. I'm concerned about the tone of the note, but Ferdinand tells me to blow it off. He says, “What's she going to do? Fire us?” We spend another night ignoring interrogations. We get another nasty note from Dent. I begin to feel better.

Eventually, we get back in the booth. We bring detainees into the room and ask them questions about the PIRs. None of the detainees answer the questions. We recommend everyone for release. During the day, Dent tracks us down, wakes us up, and demands that we return to work and question detainees until they provide valuable information.

In the booth, Ferdinand pulls out a small flashlight attached to his keychain. It is a small LED set into the shell casing of a .40-caliber bullet. Ferdinand tells me to shine the light in the eyes of the detainee and pretend to scan his brain. Ferdinand stands behind him and makes buzzing noises. The detainee laughs. We laugh, too. We recommend him for release.

On one Saturday night Ferdinand and I talk about church. He is Catholic, but he admits he hasn't been to Mass since coming to Iraq. He doesn't want his family to know this. I tell him I went to chapel at Abu Ghraib a few times, but not since coming to Fallujah. He asks me to hear his confession. I remind him I'm not Catholic. I remind him I was rejected by seminary. He says I'm more than qualified. I remind him I'm Presbyterian. He says, “It's not like I'm ever going to say this shit to a priest.”

As I conduct more and more interrogations in Fallujah, my Arabic begins to improve. The dialect becomes more familiar and I find myself better able to communicate with a variety of Iraqi detainees. One evening, however, a detainee arrives who speaks the very formal Modern Standard Arabic. It is the Arabic of DLI. He is well educated and well spoken. He says he is Salafi. He requests permission to lead his fellow detainees in prayer. I allow this. He requests a washbasin filled with clean water. I allow this as well. He asks for his Koran. I deliver it to him.

I identify the men he prays with. I inspect their capture reports. One of the capture reports contains photos of the building from which all the men were taken. It is a small cinder-block building with bars on the windows and doors. The photos from inside depict a collection of sharp knives and blunt instruments. There are tables and chairs with chains and bindings. I've seen buildings like this before. I know a great deal about the Sunni-Shia divide in Iraq. I know the history, the myths, and all the right terms. But the buildings and tables with sharp knives and bars on the windows make all that knowledge meaningless.

In the buildings, one type of Iraqi tortures another type of Iraqi to death. I don't pretend to understand why anymore. Maybe some Iraqis felt called to protect their own type of people. Maybe, at some point, life fell apart for them. Maybe there was a closed door. Maybe they blame this on other types of Iraqis. Maybe they struggle with their own convictions. What remains of one type of Iraqi is deposited on the streets in order to incite fear and encourage compliance in other types of Iraqis.

There are two photographs from outside the cinder-block building. There are three arms and two legs in a pile of damp sand. One photograph shows a dog, lying under a tree, gnawing on the third leg. These detainees belong to one of the barbaric death squads that will bloody Iraq in the years to come.

I wait for the men to finish praying. I return the detainee to the interrogation room and show him the pictures. In Arabic I ask, “Is this what God loves?” He says, “We worship the same God. You are Christian. I am Muslim. It is the same God.” I point to the arms and legs. I point to the sharp tools. He says a word I don't understand. I page through my Arabic dictionary. The word means “strange” or “weird.” He repeats it. He says more about us worshiping the same God. I leave to find the translator.

The translator says, “He's talking about fairies.” I look confused. The translator says, “Faggots, he's talking about faggots. He knows we hate faggots as much as he does. He's saying they only kill faggots.” In English, the detainee says, “Yes, yes, same God, same God.” I return him to the holding cell and assign the entire group to Tyner.

In the days to come, I make a concerted effort to select low-priority detainees. Most of them have not been interrogated because no one suspects them of anything. Some detainees are simply rounded up in sweeps and mistakenly sent to the interrogation facility. We get to them when we can and process them for release. I do my best to make sure none of these detainees get assigned to Tyner. The capture reports often say, “Detainee was seen running from the scene of an explosion.” I conduct these interrogations on my own. I ask basic background questions while I prepare the paperwork for release. Most of these detainees seem happy to be going home, but after one interrogation, when I get up to leave, one of these detainees cries. He says he does not want to go to Abu Ghraib. In English he says, “Give me food. I have information.”

I return with grape juice and a piece of birthday cake from the common room. He devours them and asks for more. I return with more cake and a linguist. He asks for Coca-Cola. I spend the next six hours delivering food while struggling to record all of the information he provides. It is my most productive interrogation in Iraq. When it's over, I have answered a large number of PIRs. I have discovered weapons caches, located a mechanic's shop that builds car bombs, and obtained information on the downing of an American helicopter over Fallujah. The pilot was Kimberly Hampton. She is the first female military pilot to be shot down and killed. I Google her and find she went to school at Presbyterian College.

Ferdinand and I return to the office and process the paperwork. The day shift arrives before we have finished. Jim isn't conducting interrogations anymore. He works only as an analyst, but he offers to complete our remaining paperwork from the night before and turn it in to Captain Dent. We thank him, and walk home talking about how sometimes Jim can be a good guy.

A day later, we find out that Jim signed his name on our interrogation paperwork. Dent receives a congratulatory note from the commander of the 82nd Airborne. It thanks Jim for his outstanding work. Ferdinand says, “Hey, man, let it go.”

As Ferdinand and I recommend more detainees for release, the numbers in the holding cell begin to decline. At night we continue to work on Ferdinand's résumé and talk about finding time to go to chapel. We stand outside the interrogation facility and eat Girl Scout cookies sent by a sixth-grade class from Lexington, Massachusetts. Milk is hard to come by, so we drink boxed Hi-C orange drink we smuggled out of the dining facility. There is a furious growl as a rocket descends from behind. Ferdinand and I buckle at the knees as the rocket overshoots the detention facility and detonates nearby. Its payload lights up the sky. Ferdinand says, “Only a matter of time.”

6.7

The detention facility is guarded by a group of military policemen from the Massachusetts National Guard. They make frequent trips to Abu Ghraib and Baghdad in order to transfer the detainees recommended for further interrogation. When we can, we accompany them on these convoys in order to coordinate with the interrogators who will continue the interviews. We also take the opportunity to deliver supplies to CACI personnel who are still stationed at Abu Ghraib.

In March 2004, the 1st Marine Division is deployed to Fallujah in order to relieve the 82nd Airborne Division. The two units spend a month running joint patrols and handing over responsibility for the area. The Marines and soldiers run a joint patrol to Abu Ghraib in order to deliver a group of detainees. There is no room for interrogators. We stay behind and conduct interrogations. The patrol is struck by an IED, injuring two Marines.

A soldier is killed by an IED in Baghdad. Two soldiers are killed by an explosion just outside of Baghdad. A soldier is killed in a convoy in Baqubah. Two National Guard soldiers are killed by an IED in Fallujah. Another soldier is killed by an IED in Fallujah. A National Guard soldier dies when he drives over a land mine. A soldier dies in a bomb blast. Two soldiers die in an attack on their convoy. A soldier is blown up in Tikrit. A soldier dies in a vehicle accident. A soldier drowns in a canal. A National Guard soldier dies in a mortar attack. A soldier is electrocuted in Baqubah. A Marine is killed by an IED. A soldier is killed when his weapon explodes. Another soldier dies in a traffic accident in Fallujah. A soldier is killed in Baghdad. Two soldiers are killed by rocket fire in Fallujah. A soldier is shot and killed in Ramadi. A military policeman is killed in Fallujah. A Marine is killed in Fallujah. A soldier is killed by an explosive device in Baghdad. A Marine is killed west of Baghdad. A soldier is killed by an IED in Ramadi. A Marine is killed in Baghdad. An Army Special Forces soldier is killed. In Habbaniyah, a bomb explodes under a vehicle and kills all five soldiers inside. In San Antonio, at the Alamo Dome, Duke, Oklahoma State, Georgia Tech, and Connecticut qualify for the NCAA Final Four tournament.

April will be worse. Much worse. I no longer feel as though I've missed my war.

6.8

One day in March, a group of detainees arrive at the interrogation facility. Most of them are wounded. We sort them into groups and shove them to the ground when they speak. We clean the blood from the back of the truck and load another group of prisoners who are headed to Abu Ghraib. I head back inside and spend the rest of the night conducting interrogations.

Among the prisoners are a young boy and an old man. They don't know each other, but they both live near an intersection in Fallujah where American troops are frequently ambushed. I bring them both into the room. I stand the old man up in the corner. I sit the young boy down in a chair, but he doesn't understand my directions and keeps trying to stand back up. The boy says he has never seen anyone fire a weapon at American troops. He says no one in his neighborhood knows anything about this. He says he does not know the intersection. He says he has never heard any shooting in Fallujah. He says it must be the Salafis.

As Ferdinand and I have slowed our pace in the interrogation booth, other members of the team like Dent, Brent, and Tyner have taken notice. We've been critiqued for poor performance, and told to work harder. I've grown weary of interrogations, but I'm also embarrassed to be seen as someone who isn't doing his job. Ferdinand tells me to ignore it, but I lack his confidence.

I can find legitimate excuses for letting most prisoners go, and I can make a case to Dent to support most of these decisions. But the young boy's lies are flagrant and glaring. I'm afraid that if someone else interrogates him after I recommend him for release, I'll appear incompetent.

The boy's lies mean nothing. If anything, they demonstrate good character. He isn't afraid of an interrogator. He will not betray his neighborhood. He is someone to trust. I should let him go. The war will not change. None of this will make me a police officer again. But instead of seeing a courageous young boy caught in an impossible situation, I see a threat to my image and my integrity. I've ruined those things on my own, but, like the bad training officers from the Bethlehem Police Department, I assign blame and avoid compassion. I respond in anger.