“However, this fiasco not withstanding, I do have doubts about Taylor’s guilt. Unless you uncovered anything with this session today?”
Bill shook his head. “Nope, just more of the same denials.”
“Either Taylor is the world’s toughest guy or he’s not connected to any terrorists.” The implication that Taylor was innocent, and had been caught up in a post 9/11 witch hunt wasn’t something that he wanted to think about. There were too many people involved. Something like that wouldn’t happen. The designation of enemy combatant needed approval from the highest authorities. It wasn’t Jim’s job to question it.
“It doesn’t matter anyway, we can’t just let him go. Who knows, maybe the guy is tough. Maybe he’s just stupid or a martyr.” Bill stood and waved his hand. “Besides, there’s still the confession by his friend and his trip to Afghanistan to consider.”
“That’s all bullshit, and you know it. His ‘friend’ named half of his address book. From what I read, that guy was a bit player. A wanna be terrorist. His confessions have yielded a big fat zero as far as actionable intelligence. In fact, the last memo stated that he’s already been released back to his home country.”
Bill shot a Jim a look of surprise. “Oh. I missed that one, I guess.” He sank back onto his chair and drummed his fingers on the table.
Jim nodded. “I’ll find it and forward it to you.”
“But Taylor was still in Afghanistan…”
“So? Lots of journalists and photographers were in that country in the last several years. Should we go round them all up?” Why was he defending the guy? Jim shook off the thought. He wasn’t defending, he was simply playing the devil’s advocate.
Bill sighed, and rubbed circles on his temples. “What other evidence do we have? The calls? Is that it?”
“Exactly. The evidence we do have, the calls warning of the attacks.” Jim began ticking off the list on his fingers. “His association with someone who has contacts within al-Qaeda, and his trip to Afghanistan, hasn’t been built upon since his detainment began. We’re still at square one.”
“You think he’s innocent.” It was a statement.
Jim flipped the envelope against one hand, tapping it as he paced in front of the table. Innocent? It was hard to contemplate. Difficult to accept. “I don’t know, but I’m not comfortable with what we have so far. If we don’t get more soon, we’re going to have to make some serious decisions.”
Shaking his head, Bill said, “Even if the guy is innocent, how can we let him go? You know he’d go running off and telling the press.”
“That’s a possibility, but not a reason to keep him prisoner. It shouldn’t even be a factor in our decision. We’re not some communist country who locks up dissidents. If he wants to speak, it’s his right.”
“Well…shit.” Bill propped his elbows on the table, his hands on either side of his head. After a moment, he dropped his hands. “What about a non-disclosure contract?”
“You mean an agreement to keep quiet?” The idea put a sour taste in Jim’s mouth.
“You have a better idea?” Bill spread his hands. “Look, Jim, I’m not so sure the guy is innocent, however, like you said, we haven’t been able to get any hard evidence. I concede that. None of the teams have, so we’re not alone.”
Jim halted his pacing, tucked the envelope in his inside breast pocket, tugged on the lapels. “I think we dig in deeper. Try some new techniques. If those don’t work, then, I don’t think we have any choice but to recommend release.”
Mark paced his cell. It had been weeks since the last interrogation and he hadn’t heard anything about what he had written. This whole time, from the beginning of this nightmare, despite the accusations and the interrogations, hope had burned in him. He’d tried to quash it-had tried to go numb, but it flickered anyway. Then the dreams came again, and as terrifying as they’d been, they gave him a reason to hope, a way to prove his innocence.
Now, even after his predictions came true, nothing had changed. He’d seen the envelope in Jim’s hand before they took him to the infirmary, he was sure he remembered that. Had they thrown it away? Had he gone through hell for nothing?
Hope. He hated hope. It was insane to cling to it. He was insane. This whole goddamn place was insane.
He balled his fists, his body tensing as rage raced through every cell of his being. The bastards! The confines of the cell, with no way to vent the anger, served as a pressure cooker. He yanked the thin pad off his bed, slamming it against the wall. Why didn’t they let him go?
The dark bubble over the camera up in the corner caught his eye. There they were. Watching him. They were always watching him. The lights shone all the damn time. Everything he did was caught on tape. He couldn’t even take a piss without an audience. Shame combined with the anger, and Mark’s gaze dropped to the half-eaten bowl of grits on his tray. Grabbing it, he whipped handfuls of the congealed substance at the bubble. Let them just try to see through that mess.
When the grits were gone, he gave a hard flick of his wrist, sending the bowl bouncing against the wall. His chest heaved while he watched it spin and wobble in a circle before coming to rest in the corner. The sticky grits plopped from the bubble onto the floor. Damn it. Even the grits wouldn’t cooperate. Mark stared at the splotches of food on the floor and burst out laughing. What an idiot he was for thinking anything would make a difference. A stupid, naive idiot. They had probably snickered over the note in the envelope.
He staggered back, bumping into the wall, and slid down to a sitting position. Hysterical, mirthless laughter bubbled up in his throat, choking him before it dissolved into a sob. Pain squeezed his chest. Why had he allowed himself to feel anything? Hope hurt.
“Shit!” He crossed his arms over his knees and buried his face, wrapping his hands over the back of his head.
The mattress was gone, taken as punishment. Even his blanket was confiscated. The temperature in the cell dropped precipitously. It had to be deliberate.
To keep warm, he did jumping jacks, push-ups, and any other exercise that he could do in a nine by six cell. That worked, until he tired. His muscles quivered as he paced to and fro. Less than four steps from end to end, and he’d about face and repeat the march. For hours, he continued, his pace slowing until he was stumbling and lurching across the cell. They would turn the heat on soon. They wouldn’t let him freeze to death.
He hadn’t seen anyone in days. Maybe they had gone off and left him. But someone delivered the meals. They still came at regular intervals. Not the usual fare. Instead, he received cold meals ready-to-eat. He ate them, if only to keep from getting a feeding tube, but the cold sapped his energy, and he got up only to use the toilet or push the meals out. After awhile, he didn’t need to get up as often. His fingers were clumsy and stiff, and the meals too hard to open. He gave up, and sent them back out untouched. Nobody seemed to care.
Mark curled on the metal shelf and shivered. His teeth chattered until he was sure a few had chipped. He clenched jaw to stop the chattering. How many meals had come since the cold hit? Six? Eight? He lost count. He slept in short spurts, getting up to move around, but finally, he sank onto the floor, with a sigh. He had to rest.
Arms pulled into his shirt, he hunched over his drawn up knees. At least one more meal arrived, but he was so stiff, he couldn’t get up to retrieve it. He moved onto his side, the cement no colder than the metal shelf. Why bother trying to move? His eyes grew heavy. How cold did someone have to get before they died? Would they let him get to that point?
After awhile, the cold didn’t bother him so much. He must be getting used to it. Growing up in Wisconsin, and then living in Chicago, he was accustomed to cold weather.
Once, he’d gone hunting with his dad when he was a kid, and had broken through some ice, falling into a shallow pond. He recalled pushing against the ice, breaking it with his hands as he waded out, but remembered his father’s warnings to keep moving until they got back to the campsite. There, he’d been stripped of his wet clothes, and wrapped in warm blankets. His dad wouldn’t let him sleep for awhile. The next day, he’d asked why, and was
