The Global War on Morris (26 page)

or
!!! Talk about
shondas
! I told them what I knew about
,
, and even
. But they seem to think there's more to it. Is there anything you haven't told me? Now would be a good time to mention it. I hope they're feeding you well. Are there any Chinese restaurants where you are? Where are you?

Miss you!

Love, Rona.

In his second year, there were no more pages to mark in the Gutterman's Calendar, and no one had thought to send him a new edition for 2005/2006 (or 5765 depending on one's orientation). Still, he felt optimistic, because it had been a year, and he figured his incarceration couldn't possibly go on much longer. He'd developed a kind of rapport with his two regular guards—one from Minnesota and one from Texas—and didn't feel so alone. They debated important issues like baseball's designated hitter rule and the various strengths and weaknesses of the National versus the American League. For approximately twenty minutes each afternoon, if he craned his neck
at just the right angle, he could see out of his cell to the end of the hallway to where a wan sliver of sunlight shone onto the wall. This light was a great relief for reasons that Morris didn't question.
This same sun is on Great Neck
, he thought. Warming Rona and the kids.
They don't seem so far away and it can't be much longer before we are together
. Plus, he found himself developing a taste for pita and rice.

In year three, his spirits sank again, smothered by an isolation that now seemed infinite. His guards had been replaced several times, and the new detachment seemed to enjoy sneering at him. When they led him outside they held his skeletal arms tight, strategically digging their fingers into pressure points that triggered sharp pains but left no marks. They giggled when Morris stumbled, which happened more as he ate less. The Gutterman's calendar from his first year was still on the wall, every day marked in red, the scenes from Jewish history fading. But Morris's eyes now focused on what was printed on the bottom of each curling page:
COMPLIMENTS OF GUTTERMAN'S FUNERAL HOME
. A reminder to Morris that he might as well be dead.

And, now, in year four, Morris's emotional state was best described as numb.

O
ne day, a military officer entered Morris's cell and sat with him. He had a blond crew cut and a tanned face and his uniform was so stiff it crackled when he sat. He wore aftershave strong enough to saturate the small cell. BRUT, Morris guessed.

“I'm Lieutenant Colonel Myers,” he said. “I'm here to be your advocate.”

“You're my lawyer?” asked Morris.

“Well, not exactly. You're not entitled to a lawyer. You do, however, get me. A United States Army officer with the appropriate security clearances, appointed by the military to make sure your rights are protected. Even though you don't have any rights. As a native enemy noncombatant, I mean.”

Morris blinked. He was going to ask what the point was of having
someone protect his rights if he didn't have any, but he didn't want to make waves with his advocate. And he felt now more than ever before that he really needed an advocate.

“So here's the drill,” Myers announced. “At some point—I'm not permitted to say when, or even if—you may go before a Special Native Enemy Noncombatant Military Tribunal. It consists of three military judges chosen by the President. Of course, you won't know who they are nor will you ever see them. They sit in another room. Or another country. I'm not supposed to say. For national security reasons. You will have an opportunity to present your defense. However, you will not be able to see any evidence against you. I will see it. Or whatever my level of security clearance allows me to see. The whole thing should take about a day. Then the sentencing. Or the acquittal. Though an acquittal, well, that would be a first!” He snorted through a laugh.

Morris didn't laugh. “I should be acquitted. I mean all I did was cheat on my expense account, take one unauthorized sick day, and have attempted extra-marital relations while married. That's all.”

“Mr. Feldsmith, may I give you some advice?”

“Feldstein. My name is Feldstein.”

“Feldstein! You sure? Guess it doesn't matter. Look, take some advice from your advocate. The judges spend all day listening to ‘all I did': ‘All I did was make a wrong turn on my way to the in-laws in Kabul, and the next thing I know I'm on a mountain near the Pakistani border firing an AK-47.' ‘All I did was deliver a package of brownies to the Ministry of whatever, and the next thing I know, there was a crater where the Ministry used to be.' Get my drift?”

“But all I did—”

“I don't think you're listening here. I'm trying to help you. As your advocate.”

“Sorry,” Morris mumbled.

“Look, here's what I know. There is some scuttlebutt about your case; that maybe the government's evidence is . . . on the thin side,
that maybe the higher-ups in Washington wouldn't mind this case going away at some point. So you have a choice, Feldstein.”

“What is it?” Prior to now, Morris would've cringed at the thought of choices, of having to decide on one thing over another, for fear of offending someone, anyone.

“You can insist on your innocence. Fight the government. Go into your hearing and make a scene. You know what that'll do?”

“Prove my case.”

Myers laughed. He laughed so hard his crisp uniform shook. “It will prove you're an idiot. You'll piss off the government even more than you've already managed to and get yourself sentenced to life in prison in some foreign country with more syllables than vowels. Or rot here for the rest of your life. Not that we do such things to American citizens,” he said. “Or don't do them. I'm neither confirming nor denying. I am just saying.”

Morris's throat tightened. “What's my other choice?”

“I might be able to work out an . . . arrangement. Maybe you go to a federal penitentiary somewhere, at some point in the near or far future. It's not a bad place if you can stand the politicians. Then, when things calm down, they let you go home.”

“Home, to Rona? How is she?”

“I'm not permitted to say.”

“What would I have to do?”

“You tell the tribunal everything. How you were recruited by terrorists. How they got to you during a moment of weakness. How remorseful you are. Give 'em what they want. Juicy stuff that validates their existence. Proves the government right about the threats we face. Tell 'em how the Abu al-Zarqawi Martyrs of Militancy Brigade operated in Great Neck. How it's creeping across the nation, from suburb to suburb, infiltrating our schools and our country clubs, taking over our malls and our bowling allies, destroying our town halls and village greens.”

“But none of that is true. I'd be lying.”

“Would you?”

“Yes.”

Myers blew an exasperated “Okay” and stood up. “Look. It's up to you. Give them what they want, and I think you get some of your life back. Stick with the ‘all I did' stuff, and you'll be living in solitary confinement for, let's see . . . forever. Totally your decision. It's your life. Decide what you want to do with it.”

The door closed with a thud.

Morris fell onto a paper-thin mattress that stank of urine. He curled both hands at his sides and slumped his head into his chest. He was alone again, except for a video camera poking from a corner ceiling, watching his every move.

Gottenyu
.

He thought about the Colonel's proposition. “Such a deal!” Rona would say. All he had to do was admit to terrorist conspiracy against the government of the United States of America and he could go home, to his Mets and his movies, to Rona and his RoyaLounger. He could almost taste the Kung Pao chicken.

And then it turned sour. The reality of the life he bargained for, leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

What a homecoming it would be! Maybe a large banner stretched over Soundview Avenue:
WELCOME HOME, TRAITOR!
Probable impeachment as second vice president of the Men's Club. Not to mention a lifetime ban from the Beth Torah fantasy football league. Plus, Celfex would take away his sales awards. Along with his sales territory. And his sales job.

And the neighbors! Standing in sanctimonious judgment in front of his house or when he passed on the street. Clucking their tongues and proclaiming: “Such a
shonda
!”

He thought about the shame his presence would bring his family. For them, worse than guilt—guilt by association. Rona's expulsion from the mahjong club. Revocation of credit at Bloomingdale's. The gossip and the snickering; the glares contorted by fear and anger, by
pity and paranoia.

They're better off without me. They should sit shiva, as if I were dead. They should live happily ever after like one of my classic movies.

Meanwhile, I'll go to one of those foreign prisons, maybe Siberia.

He shook his head and his body trembled. His jaw throbbed angrily, forcing his teeth to grind. He stared angrily at the camera and felt an overwhelming urge to scream at it. To say, “Fuck you” to the President or whatever government official sat on the other side, staring at a monitor. Watching.