Consequence (20 page)

The old man sits down with me and says something about Abu Ghraib. I struggle with the Arabic, with his accent. I continue to hear the name “Abu Ghraib.” I make out other words, too. He is speaking in the second person. He is speaking about me. He says I interrogated him at Abu Ghraib.

I return to the main gate and spend the better part of the afternoon helping American soldiers inspect Iraqi vehicles entering the base. I translate for the drivers and check worker identification cards. The platoon sergeant arrives, and I tell him about meeting the old man from Abu Ghraib. He says, “Former detainees can't get on base. We need to take him out of the line.”

I ride back outside the gate with the platoon sergeant and track down the old Christian man and his sons. I wave him over to the vehicle. He thinks I've orchestrated a job for him, so he thanks me. We drive the old man onto Camp Victory and place him in a small room. When I enter the room, he smiles. I tell him he's permanently banned from working on Camp Victory.

7.3

A few days later, I see Ferdinand again. He, Brent, and Henson have made the trip from Fallujah in order to deliver Michael Bagdasarov to Camp Victory. Bagdasarov was my replacement in Fallujah. He arrived a few days after I left. Abu Ghraib was difficult for him. Fallujah was worse. Ferdinand tells me Bagdasarov's morale deteriorated quickly. He argued with Captain Dent about release forms, he argued with Brent about working on the night shift, and he argued with Tyner about the legality of the Palestinian chair.

After a particularly difficult day in Fallujah, Bagdasarov had a confrontation with a Marine officer at the dining facility. Bagdasarov was wearing a baseball cap. The officer approached him and told him to remove it. Bagdasarov refused. An argument ensued. Bagdasarov lost his temper, stood up, and pointed his finger in the Marine officer's face. Bagdasarov was detained and taken to a holding cell. It took Brent all day to retrieve him. When he did, the Marines told Brent to take him back to Baghdad.

I spend the afternoon with Ferdinand, helping him resupply for his return to Fallujah. We visit the post exchange and the duty-free shop at the airport. I tell him he should stay in Baghdad. He tells me to come back to Fallujah. We both agree we won't be with CACI much longer. I tell Ferdinand I'm still having trouble with the sleep-deprivation thing. He tells me Brent is using the technique more and more. Ferdinand says, “Hey, man, maybe it's time to say something.” I tell Ferdinand I'm behind him. He says, “No, not me, you. You're the one who needs to say something. You're the priest.”

In late April 2004,
60 Minutes
broadcasts the photographs of detainees at Abu Ghraib. Some of the activities in the photographs are familiar to me. Others are not. But I am not shocked. Neither is anyone else who served at Abu Ghraib. Instead, we are shocked by the performance of the men who stand behind microphones and say things like “bad apples” and “Animal House on night shift.”

Ferdinand and I stop talking about Abu Ghraib, Fallujah, and sleep deprivation. We don't want to be identified as the bad apples or the guys in the Animal House. We don't want to be hung out to dry. We are guilty, but we don't want to go to jail. Instead, we talk about going home, finding new jobs, and coming back to Iraq. We tell each other we'll get it right next time. We'll put our lives on the line. We'll do it the honorable way. I don't know how, but we still believe one exists.

7.4

The next morning, I bring Bagdasarov with me to the front gate. Bill is happy to have an experienced interrogator on the team and allows us to work together. I show Bagdasarov the lines of Iraqi workers and walk him out into the crowd. As we turn and head back toward the base, I see the Christian man from Abu Ghraib with his sons. They're standing in line again, desperate to get back on base for the higher wage. I greet them and let them through.

Bagdasarov and I spend the week sorting through Iraqi workers at the front gate. I wander through the crowds and pretend to understand what the Iraqis are saying to me. The older men keep their distance. The teenagers approach me and say, “New York Yankees.” A middle-aged man hands me a piece of paper. I can't read the handwriting. I return to the front gate and wait for the man to be processed through. When he enters, I have soldiers separate him as though he is being detained. I meet with him in a holding room, where I'm joined by a translator. The Iraqi man asks for help. He heard about what I did for Joseph, the old Chaldean Christian from Abu Ghraib. He heard I let him back on base. Joseph told the man to come to me for help.

The man's brother has been arrested by Iraqi police in Baghdad. He says Iraqi police are arresting Christians. He says his brother needs medicine but the Iraqi police will not allow him to deliver it. He asks me to have his brother transferred to U.S. authorities, who will treat him better. I tell him I can't do this. The man cries. I tell him I'll do my best.

I spend the rest of the day and evening buried in my Arabic dictionary. I use paper with an official letterhead from the military intelligence unit. I dig through my old language resources and cut and paste from a variety of formal letters and edicts. I identify myself as an employee of the U.S. government and mention that I work in intelligence. For “intelligence,” I use the word
mukhabarat
. In Arabic, this is a powerful word, something akin to Stasi, Gestapo, or KGB. I work hard to produce a professional-looking letter written in Arabic. The next day I deliver the letter to the Iraqi man and tell him this is the best I can do.

The next day he shouts to me as I wander through the crowds at the front gate. His brother is with him. Many other family members are there as well. They surround me and dance. I am hugged and kissed. The letter was delivered to the Iraqi police. The supervising officer arrived within minutes. The brother was released immediately. The police apologized to the family. They offered the family a payment as compensation. I never fully understand how or if the letter made a difference. I don't understand why the Iraqi police would have acted so quickly. I don't understand how I could have played any role in an Iraqi legal issue. I know only that Iraqis thanked me for releasing a man from prison.

7.5

Bagdasarov and I return from work one evening to find John Blee waiting for us in our room. He has quit his job with CACI. He's the first among our original five to do so. He is back in Baghdad to catch a flight home. We take him to the hamburger bar at the dining facility. Blee was the most optimistic member of our group, but Mosul changed that. He doesn't seem young anymore. He is angry and unpleasant. He says, “I don't fucking care.” He says this a lot. He says it when we ask him about losing the salary, or about his résumé, or his professional reputation. He says it when we ask him what he'll do next. He says it when we ask him about his wife.

Blee tells terrible stories about Mosul. The stories are about people doing things that are unprofessional, immoral, and illegal. He says some of the guys are doing something with water. I tell Blee about sleep deprivation in Fallujah. Blee looks at me in a pathetic way. He shrugs, laughs, and says, “That's it? That's all? Are you fucking serious?” Later, in Washington, D.C., when I cooperate with the Department of Justice, I'll be asked to identify other CACI personnel with information about what went on in Iraq. I'll tell them to talk to John Blee. After Iraq, Blee and I exchange emails. But after my interview with the Department of Justice, I never hear from John Blee again. I don't know if he ever told anyone else about Mosul.

Bagdasarov says we should all quit. Blee agrees and encourages me to join them on the flight to Kuwait. But I tell both of them to reconsider. I tell them about my six-day plan. Just last another six days. Then another. I figure out how much money we make in six days. I tell them not to underestimate the value of that money. This opportunity won't come again. Blee only repeats, “I don't fucking care.” We drive Blee to the airfield the next morning and help him sign up for a flight out of Iraq. After we say good-bye, I think it will be hard to last another six days. Bagdasarov and I report to the front gate for work.

7.6

A few days later, I conduct my final interrogation as a CACI employee. A U.S. soldier witnessed a fight between two groups of Iraqis waiting to enter the base. One man was seen giving orders and directing others in one of the groups. When questioned, he denied involvement. He and the other participants in the fight are waiting for me in holding rooms.

Bagdasarov and I know the man well. We call him the fat man. While he is never the first to arrive in the morning, he is always first in line. None of the other Iraqis ever confront him when he jumps the line. He is funny, talkative, and bald. He knows enough English to be friendly. He organizes the other workers and keeps them in line. He makes fun of the Iraqis who kneel down to pray. He calls them terrorists. He is well dressed. He offers to bring us food and alcohol from Baghdad. He shows us pictures of his family and talks about his two young sons. He shows us pornography. He salutes me and calls me captain. He helps me with my Arabic. I like him.

The participants in the fight are scratched and bruised. Their clothes are disheveled and dirty from wrestling on the ground. The fat man is uninjured. His collared shirt remains clean and tucked in. In Arabic he says “Captain, Captain, it is the terrorists, we fight the terrorists for you.”

I spend the day questioning everyone in the group. There are no stress positions. There is no yelling. I do not repeat my questions, or ask them in different ways. I do not pretend to know everything. I do not blindfold the men or secure them to the floor. I do not ask them to repeat answers. I do not attempt to poke holes in their stories. I do not attempt to confuse, intimidate, or mislead. I make no effort to confront the lies. I make no effort to scare anyone.

I write a detailed report of the incident. I write that the fat man is a former high-ranking member of the Baath party. I write that he controls the line of Iraqi workers outside the gate. He ensures that Sunnis are hired first. Some of his former subordinates in the army serve as his bodyguards. They still take orders from the fat man. He was probably a captain. Possibly a major or colonel. His bodyguards intimidate the workers who question his authority. They instigated the physical assault when a group of Shias attempted to move up in the line. All of them should be banned from working on U.S. bases. I confiscate their Coalition identification cards and usher them off Camp Victory.

This is the interrogator I should have been. I could have left Iraq with my soul intact. It is too late for that.

7.7

In the late mornings, after having made my rounds outside the gate, I return to Camp Victory and climb the watchtower that overlooks the vehicle inspection area. The perch affords me a good view. I watch as the remaining workers, mostly Shia, wait in hopes of landing one of the last jobs on base for the day. Many give up and wander in groups back toward the cluster of taxis that will return them to Baghdad. I stare out at the minarets of a nearby mosque where loudspeakers play the call to prayer and spotters call in insurgent mortar fire.

Today there is a rocket attack. The rockets disturb me most. They growl and scream. Just before impact, there is silence. Then flame and noise. One lands nearby. We watch the mushroom cloud rise. I descend the tower and check in with Bill. We report no casualties at the front gate.

The next day I arrive at the front gate by seven a.m. I drink coffee and eat the miniature boxes of cereal I've stolen from the dining facility. I like the Apple Jacks best. I have time to relax before the majority of workers begin to line up. I sit on the ground and rest against the HESCO barriers. Sometimes I think about praying, but I don't.

The sergeant in charge of the morning shift approaches and says there is a disturbance at the gate. I save the Apple Jacks for later. I ride in his vehicle past the heavily armed control points and out to the final barriers where I usually start my rounds. There are two men waiting for us. There are women behind them. These are the first women I have seen at the front gate of Camp Victory.

There are no translators this morning: they have been sent out on another mission. I am the only linguist. The men hold up pictures of their sons. I recognize them: Thaer and Walid, two boys who secured full-time positions on Camp Victory with the help of the fat man. They don't stand in line like the others. They are picked up every morning by a U.S. Navy unit that employs them as general contractors. Thaer and Walid failed to come home last night. They are missing.

I assume the two boys were picked up by one of the security units on Camp Victory. Iraqi workers are often detained for a variety of reasons, questioned, held overnight, and then released the next morning. I leave the families outside the gate and make the necessary phone calls but there are no reports of Iraqis being detained within the last forty-eight hours. A lieutenant on the other end of the line mentions yesterday's rocket attack. There were casualties. Some of them were Iraqi. Check with the morgue.

The morgue is located next to the health clinic where soldiers are treated for sickness and non-combat-related injuries. There is a body waiting for me there. I don't know whether it is Thaer or Walid. The body is stored in a military ambulance. The heat of the day is beginning to envelop Iraq. The ambulance isn't running, so there's been no air-conditioning in the vehicle. Everything inside the ambulance is beginning to bake. When I ask for assistance, I'm told to stand in line like all the others. When I mention the body in the ambulance, I'm told to stand in line like all the others. When I tell them the family of the body is waiting at the front gate, I'm told to wait in line like all the others. All the others are soldiers and U.S. civilians standing in line waiting to see the doctor. They have sore throats, runny noses, and diarrhea.