Consequence (16 page)

Dent is telling stories about mortar attacks. She says, “Fucking hajjis can't shoot worth shit.” Ferdinand is looking at the maps on the wall. Dent says, “That's fucking Haditha. Fucking Haditha. You'll learn all about that shit hole.” Ferdinand picks up a small plywood chair. He says, “What's this?”

The small plywood chair sits on top of a canvas Army cot. It is two feet tall, six inches wide. The legs of the chair are made of two-by-fours. There are plastic zip ties connected to each one. Someone has used a black marker to write an Arabic word on the chair. Jim says the word means “chair.” It doesn't. It means “wait.”

Captain Dent tells Ferdinand to ask Staff Sergeant Tyner about the chair. Tyner is one of two U.S. Army interrogators from the 82nd Airborne stationed at the facility. The other is Sergeant Hoagie. Tyner and Hoagie laugh when asked about the chair. They call it the Palestinian chair. They say the Israelis taught them how to build it during a joint training exercise. I assume it's called the Palestinian chair because that's who was forced to sit in it. Tyner and Hoagie tell Ferdinand to try and sit in it. Ferdinand crouches down and squeezes his large frame onto the tiny chair. It forces him to lean forward and support his weight with his legs. We laugh. He says, “Hey, man, what the hell?”

Tyner and Hoagie help Ferdinand stand up and then take a few minutes to show us how to use the chair. Captain Dent looks on as they explain to us how the Palestinian chair works. It takes only a few minutes. The chair forces you to support all of your weight with your thighs. Once they give out, you basically start to suffocate. They say everyone breaks in the chair.

Tyner has an interrogation scheduled. He leaves the office and says he'll meet us at dinner. Brent pulls me aside and says, “Stick around, watch this.” We don't see the interrogation. We hear it. Tyner is screaming. There is no translator with him. Tyner doesn't speak Arabic. He just berates the detainee with volume and profanity. Then we hear what I come to understand is the crashing of plastic chairs against the walls, followed by the noise of the plywood desk being torn apart. Brent says, “They've already rebuilt it three times in two days.” Then there is the sound of skin slapping skin. Then there is crying. There is Arabic, but I can't understand it. The voice sounds sad and scared. After less than ten minutes, Tyner returns. He says, “That'll get him warmed up.”

At dinner, we sit with our military counterparts and talk about how we are meant to work together. Hoagie and Tyner will spend much of their time traveling off base to provide interrogation services to front-line units. Brent and I will be expected to do the same, but only when Hoagie and Tyner aren't available. In the meantime, we can expect to do the bulk of our work on base. There are enough detainees to keep us busy. Jim has volunteered to do interrogations as well. He is an analyst, but he insists he received interrogation training during his four years in the Army. I ask Jim about DLI and he can't tell me what it is. I tell him most Army interrogators are required to graduate from DLI. I tell him the ones who flunk out become analysts. Jim says, “They made an exception for me.”

I suspect Jim isn't telling the truth about his interrogation training. I've never heard of an analyst being cross-trained as an interrogator. But Jim has already managed to take his four years in the Army and turn them into a supervisory role with CACI. None of us think of him as a supervisor. None of us listen to him. But the Army officers we work with accept his title. Now he's acting as an interrogator. None of us think of him as one, but the Army accepts this, too. The more positions he assumes, the higher he can climb, and all of it seems to go unchallenged. Jim is an entry-level employee, he barely appears qualified to be an analyst. In Fallujah he serves as second in command. As the war in Iraq drags on, he'll rise even higher.

The camp at Fallujah has an extensive Internet café, far better than the dusty computer room at Abu Ghraib. I check email and find a note from Karin indicating that CACI has failed to deposit my latest paycheck. There have been problems with CACI's payroll services since I left for Fort Bliss in December. Some paychecks have been for too little, others arrived late, and some not at all. Most CACI employees are having similar problems. I haven't spoken to Karin on the phone since I hung up on her at Abu Ghraib. I call her and jump straight into questions about the paycheck. I tell her it's too difficult for me to contact the CACI offices in Virginia. I tell her she needs to call them.

Karin says she is happy to keep the records, and she'll let me know when the paycheck comes in, but she'd rather not take sides in an argument with CACI. I don't have the courage to admit that coming to Iraq has been a mistake, that my actions here are mine alone, so I blame Karin for failing to support me in an argument with CACI. I should be listening to Karin. I should be asking her about life in Bethlehem. I should be valuing her concerns. Instead, I accuse of her of failing to support my needs.

In what remains of that phone call, Karin tries to steer the conversation away from CACI. She asks about Ferdinand and how things are going and what she can send. She tells me it's okay to come home and to not worry about the money. We'll be fine just the way we are. When she says it's nice to hear my voice, I hang up. This is the second time I speak to Karin on the phone from Iraq. It is also the last.

After hanging up on Karin, I return an hour later to check email. I sit at the computer screen and hit the send/receive button. I write an apology and then delete it. I hit send/receive again but nothing appears. Ferdinand comes by and asks if I'm ready to go. I hit send/receive one last time. I convince myself to last another six days.

The next morning I conduct my first interrogation in Fallujah. The young detainee is one of five brothers who were picked up during the same operation. Unlike the prisoners at Abu Ghraib, who were often held for weeks or months before we spoke to them, these men have been in U.S. custody for only a few days. The translator is a naturalized U.S. citizen who grew up in Egypt. His English is solid, but his Egyptian dialect is thick and unpolished. I struggle to understand the Arabic he speaks. The detainee, a farmer from the outskirts of Fallujah, seems to understand even less.

The capture report contains information from an anonymous source working for U.S. troops. It says the brothers were seen leaving the scene of an explosion. This is typical for capture reports. In Iraq, we joke that the best way not to get arrested is to be seen running toward the scene of an explosion.

I interrogate all five brothers on that first day. I recommend all of them for release. I tell them they should be home in a few days. Captain Dent meets me in the office and tells me the brothers won't be going home anytime soon. She says they manufacture IEDs. I tell her there was nothing in the capture report. She says, “Just trust that someone knows more than you do.” She assigns Sergeant Hoagie to work with me.

Sergeant Hoagie is an Arabic linguist. He is the only other Arabic-speaking interrogator I have met in Iraq. When I meet him he says, “Don't trust the interpreters. You'll get so much more on your own.” Hoagie and I interrogate all five brothers again. We start with the oldest and move to the youngest. When the youngest comes into the room Hoagie attacks him. He grabs him by the shirt and pins him up against the wall. Hoagie's Arabic is much better than mine. He's saying something about dogs and liars and brothers and Guantánamo Bay. In February 2004, most Iraqis don't know what's going on inside Abu Ghraib, so they're not afraid to go there. Instead, they fear Guantánamo Bay, so interrogators threaten them with a trip to Cuba.

Hoagie slaps the young brother: one solid open-handed strike to the face. It is loud and violent. In Iraq, I've grabbed detainees, pushed them, shoved them, and tugged at their shirts. But I've never landed a blow on a prisoner of war. I've never punched, kicked, or slapped a detainee. I've never seen anyone else do so, either. But now I have. Now I'm as responsible for it as anyone else.

The young brother is crying. Hoagie sets him down and kneels in front of him. He pats the young man on the arm and uses phrases I don't understand. Hoagie is a better linguist than me. The young brother provides information about the men who store bomb-making materials out in their fields. The brothers monitor the stashes and make deliveries when called upon. They don't set off the devices, but they are often told when and where an attack will take place. Sometimes they go to watch. Americans caught them fleeing from an attack that killed two members of the 82nd. Hoagie writes the report. I just keep thinking about being home in six days.

6.2

In Fallujah, living quarters are cramped. We are housed in an Iraqi military compound that was used by Saddam's most trusted military officers for retreats and conventions. There are pools, fountains, and auditoriums. There is an empty zoo. Soldiers exchange rumors about a striped tiger seen wandering around the compound.

Ferdinand, Jim, and I are shoehorned into a single room. Ferdinand and I do not like Jim. We don't trust him. So we isolate him in the corner. We place our two cots side by side and sleep head to toe. Ferdinand snores. It is a terrible snore. Ferdinand apologizes and explains he has sleep apnea. By the end of the first week, I am seriously sleep deprived.

I conduct at least two interrogations each day. I read through poorly written capture reports that offer little information beyond the detainee's suspected involvement in “anti Coalition activity.” Most of the detainees have been turned in by their neighbors, or swept up during search-and-seizure operations. Some simply had too many weapons in their house. But others were caught with mortar tubes in their fields or explosives in their garage.

I search the capture reports for groups of relatives. I learn to use leverage here. I gather the group and interview them all at once. I tell the translators to hold conversations with the detainees. I tell the translators to say something that is funny. Then I laugh. When they realize I speak Arabic, one of the family members will ignore the translator and speak directly to me. He'll say something like “Why have we been arrested?” Or “We support the U.S. troops; we can help you.” Or “What right do you have to do this?”

The detainee who speaks up first is the strongest link in the family. I won't waste any time on him. Eventually, others in the group will take their turn to say similar things. Occasionally, one member of the group will be told to keep quiet. They'll interrupt him, or hush him, or put their hands up when he speaks.

I separate the detainees again. I isolate the individual the group tried to keep quiet. I send the rest back to the holding cell. I do paperwork. I play Minesweeper. I return to the isolated detainee. I bring in stacks of paper and manila folders. I tell him the rest of the group has told me about how they fight the Shia. I talk about how they occasionally attack U.S. forces by mistake. I tell him we are not worried about this. We simply want to identify groups that we can work with against the Shia. We just need to know they won't attack U.S. troops anymore.

I want the isolated detainee to admit his family has attacked U.S. forces in the past. I want him to agree to say this with a blindfold on. I want him blindfolded and sitting in front of his other family members when he says this. When it works, there is anger and crying. I pretend not to be bothered by this.

Detainees who have been captured as individuals are more difficult to approach. I learn to estimate their level of influence in Fallujah by the kind of clothes they wear, the way they speak, or the way the other detainees treat them, but in lieu of detailed capture reports it is difficult to know what type of information a detainee may possess. I work to identify detainees who are willing to hold a conversation. Under Saddam Hussein, almost all Iraqis were required to serve in the military. I ask about their experiences and their training. I compare their service with mine. I talk about physical training in the morning and the terrible food served by poorly trained cooks. I talk about annoying leaders or incompetent subordinates. I talk about terrible pay, shoddy equipment, and endless training exercises. I talk about standing outside in the rain, sleeping in the mud, or wearing heavy equipment in the hot afternoon sun. All soldiers have opinions about these things.

The detainees who are willing to talk often reveal a great deal about themselves. They tell me their rank. They talk about the unit they served with and the training exercises they endured. They talk about how much they got paid, about the weapons they learned to fire, the techniques they learned to employ, and the strategies they came to endorse.

As we talk, Tyner, Brent, and Hoagie often conduct interrogations next door. When Tyner is working, there are screams and the sound of plywood chairs and desks being destroyed. I tell my detainees not to worry about these things. I ask them more about the weapons they trained with during their time in service. I ask them if they know anything about explosives or mortar tubes. This makes them nervous. They grow silent. I allow the sounds of Tyner's interrogations to fill the space. I stand behind them, grab their heads with both hands and shove their face away from me. Their hair is slick and greasy. There is more noise from Tyner. The detainees get nervous. I grab the chair and rip it out from underneath them. From the floor, they plead ignorance. I call for Tyner. I leave the room. When I come back, Tyner will say, “Your boy has something to tell you about mortar rounds.”

6.3

In mid-February, Captain Dent calls a meeting, at which she tells us that the Army is going to check our credentials. In the meantime, all civilian contractors are prohibited from conducting interrogations. There are rumors about something having gone wrong at Abu Ghraib.

For the next few days, we have nothing to do. I struggle during the downtime. There is time to think about what has been done. A new repeated nightmare arrives. I stand in an empty space with no light. Occasionally someone unseen strikes me. They're gone again. Then someone else from a different angle does the same. The dream seems to last for hours. I wake up expecting someone to strike me. I call this the dark room dream.