than that, there was no way to tell who or what might be behind them.
The interrogation room was modern, with fluorescent lights, ergonomic chairs — not for me, though, I got a folding plastic garden-chair — and a big wooden board-room table. A mirror lined one wall, just like in the cop shows, and I figured someone or other must be watching from behind it. Severe haircut lady and her friends helped themselves to coffees from an urn on a side-table (I could have torn her throat out with my teeth and taken her coffee just then), and then set a styrofoam cup of water down next to me — without unlocking my wrists from behind my back, so I couldn’t reach it. Hardy har har.
“Hello, Marcus,” Severe Haircut woman said. “How’s your ‘tude doing today?”
I didn’t say anything.
“This isn’t as bad as it gets you know,” she said. “This is as
It’s pathetic, but all my brain could think about was that phrase, “convince us that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.” This was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. I had never, ever felt this bad or this scared before. Those words, “wrong place at the wrong time,” those six words, they were like a lifeline dangling before me as I thrashed to stay on the surface.
“Hello, Marcus?” she snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Over here, Marcus.” There was a little smile on her face and I hated myself for letting her see my fear. “Marcus, it can be a lot worse than this. This isn’t the worst place we can put you, not by a damned sight.” She reached down below the table and came out with a briefcase, which she snapped open. From it, she withdrew my phone, my arphid sniper/cloner, my wifinder, and my memory keys. She set them down on the table one after the other.
“Here’s what we want from you. You unlock the phone for us today. If you do that, you’ll get outdoor and bathing privileges. You’ll get a shower and you’ll be allowed to walk around in the exercise yard. Tomorrow, we’ll bring you back and ask you to decrypt the data on these memory sticks. Do that, and you’ll get to eat in the mess hall. The day after, we’re going to want your email passwords, and that will get you library privileges.”
The word “no” was on my lips, like a burp trying to come up, but it wouldn’t come. “Why?” is what came out instead.
“We want to be sure that you’re what you seem to be. This is about your security, Marcus. Say you’re innocent. You might be, though why an innocent man would act like he’s got so much to hide is beyond me. But say you are: you could have been on that bridge when it blew. Your parents could have been. Your friends. Don’t you want us to catch the people who attacked your home?”
It’s funny, but when she was talking about my getting “privileges” it scared me into submission. I felt like I’d done
But as soon as she switched to this BS about “safety” and “security,” my spine came back. “Lady,” I said, “you’re talking about attacking my home, but as far as I can tell, you’re the only one who’s attacked me lately. I thought I lived in a country with a constitution. I thought I lived in a country where I had
A flicker of annoyance passed over her face, then went away. “So melodramatic, Marcus. No one’s attacked you. You’ve been detained by your country’s government while we seek details on the worst terrorist attack ever perpetrated on our nation’s soil. You have it within your power to help us fight this war on our nation’s enemies. You want to preserve the Bill of Rights? Help us stop bad people from blowing up your city. Now, you have exactly thirty seconds to unlock that phone before I send you back to your cell. We have lots of other people to interview today.”
She looked at her watch. I rattled my wrists, rattled the chains that kept me from reaching around and unlocking the phone. Yes, I was going to do it. She’d told me what my path was to freedom — to the world, to my parents — and that had given me hope. Now she’d threatened to send me away, to take me off that path, and my hope had crashed and all I could think of was how to get back on it.
So I rattled my wrists, wanting to get to my phone and unlock it for her, and she just looked at me coldly, checking her watch.
“The password,” I said, finally understanding what she wanted of me. She wanted me to say it out loud, here, where she could record it, where her pals could hear it. She didn’t want me to just unlock the phone. She wanted me to submit to her. To put her in charge of me. To give up every secret, all my privacy. “The password,” I said again, and then I told her the password. God help me, I submitted to her will.
She smiled a little prim smile, which had to be her ice-queen equivalent of a touchdown dance, and the guards led me away. As the door closed, I saw her bend down over the phone and key the password in.
I wish I could say that I’d anticipated this possibility in advance and created a fake password that unlocked a completely innocuous partition on my phone, but I wasn’t nearly that paranoid/clever.
You might be wondering at this point what dark secrets I had locked away on my phone and memory sticks and email. I’m just a kid, after all.
The truth is that I had everything to hide, and nothing. Between my phone and my memory sticks, you could get a pretty good idea of who my friends were, what I thought of them, all the goofy things we’d done. You could read the transcripts of the electronic arguments we’d carried out and the electronic reconciliations we’d arrived at.
You see, I don’t delete stuff. Why would I? Storage is cheap, and you never know when you’re going to want to go back to that stuff. Especially the stupid stuff. You know that feeling you get sometimes where you’re sitting on the subway and there’s no one to talk to and you suddenly remember some bitter fight you had, some terrible thing you said? Well, it’s usually never as bad as you remember. Being able to go back and see it again is a great way to remind yourself that you’re not as horrible a person as you think you are. Darryl and I have gotten over more fights that way than I can count.
And even that’s not it. I know my phone is private. I know my memory sticks are private. That’s because of cryptography — message scrambling. The math behind crypto is good and solid, and you and me get access to the same crypto that banks and the National Security Agency use. There’s only one kind of crypto that anyone uses: crypto that’s public, open and can be deployed by anyone. That’s how you know it works.
There’s something really liberating about having some corner of your life that’s
