mind, I stood and delivered, telling her that I was a citizen who loved my freedom, which made me the patriot and made her the traitor. In my mind, I shamed her for turning my country into an armed camp. In my mind, I was eloquent and brilliant and reduced her to tears.
But you know what? None of those fine words came back to me when they pulled me out the next day. All I could think of was freedom. My parents.
“Hello, Marcus,” she said. “How are you feeling?”
I looked down at the table. She had a neat pile of documents in front of her, and her ubiquitous go-cup of Starbucks beside her. I found it comforting somehow, a reminder that there was a real world out there somewhere, beyond the walls.
“We’re through investigating you, for now.” She let that hang there. Maybe it meant that she was letting me go. Maybe it meant that she was going to throw me in a pit and forget that I existed.
“And?” I said finally.
“And I want you to impress on you again that we are very serious about this. Our country has experienced the worst attack ever committed on its soil. How many 9/11s do you want us to suffer before you’re willing to cooperate? The details of our investigation are secret. We won’t stop at anything in our efforts to bring the perpetrators of these heinous crimes to justice. Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” I mumbled.
“We are going to send you home today, but you are a marked man. You have not been found to be above suspicion — we’re only releasing you because we’re done questioning you for now. But from now on, you
“Yes,” I mumbled.
“Good. You will never speak of what happened here to anyone, ever. This is a matter of national security. Do you know that the death penalty still holds for treason in time of war?”
“Yes,” I mumbled.
“Good boy,” she purred. “We have some papers here for you to sign.” She pushed the stack of papers across the table to me. Little post-its with SIGN HERE printed on them had been stuck throughout them. A guard undid my cuffs.
I paged through the papers and my eyes watered and my head swam. I couldn’t make sense of them. I tried to decipher the legalese. It seemed that I was signing a declaration that I had been voluntarily held and submitted to voluntary questioning, of my own free will.
“What happens if I don’t sign this?” I said.
She snatched the papers back and made that flicking gesture again. The guards jerked me to my feet.
“Wait!” I cried. “Please! I’ll sign them!” They dragged me to the door. All I could see was that door, all I could think of was it closing behind me.
I lost it. I wept. I begged to be allowed to sign the papers. To be so close to freedom and have it snatched away, it made me ready to do anything. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard someone say, “Oh, I’d rather die than do something-or-other” — I’ve said it myself now and again. But that was the first time I understood what it really meant. I would have rather died than go back to my cell.
I begged as they took me out into the corridor. I told them I’d sign anything.
She called out to the guards and they stopped. They brought me back. They sat me down. One of them put the pen in my hand.
Of course, I signed, and signed and signed.
My jeans and t-shirt were back in my cell, laundered and folded. They smelled of detergent. I put them on and washed my face and sat on my cot and stared at the wall. They’d taken everything from me. First my privacy, then my dignity. I’d been ready to sign anything. I would have signed a confession that said I’d assassinated Abraham Lincoln.
I tried to cry, but it was like my eyes were dry, out of tears.
They got me again. A guard approached me with a hood, like the hood I’d been put in when they picked us up, whenever that was, days ago, weeks ago.
The hood went over my head and cinched tight at my neck. I was in total darkness and the air was stifling and stale. I was raised to my feet and walked down corridors, up stairs, on gravel. Up a gangplank. On a ship’s steel deck. My hands were chained behind me, to a railing. I knelt on the deck and listened to the thrum of the diesel engines.
The ship moved. A hint of salt air made its way into the hood. It was drizzling and my clothes were heavy with water. I was outside, even if my head was in a bag. I was outside, in the world, moments from my freedom.
They came for me and led me off the boat and over uneven ground. Up three metal stairs. My wrists were unshackled. My hood was removed.
I was back in the truck. Severe haircut woman was there, at the little desk she’d sat at before. She had a ziploc bag with her, and inside it were my phone and other little devices, my wallet and the change from my pockets. She handed them to me wordlessly.
I filled my pockets. It felt so weird to have everything back in its familiar place, to be wearing my familiar clothes. Outside the truck’s back door, I heard the familiar sounds of my familiar city.
A guard passed me my backpack. The woman extended her hand to me. I just looked at it. She put it down and gave me a wry smile. Then she mimed zipping up her lips and pointed to me, and opened the door.
It was daylight outside, gray and drizzling. I was looking down an alley toward cars and trucks and bikes zipping down the road. I stood transfixed on the truck’s top step, staring at freedom.
My knees shook. I knew now that they were playing with me again. In a moment, the guards would grab me
