The Night Crew (15 page)

I asked, “Classified by who?”

“By whom.”

“You’re starting to piss me off, Mary.”

“The command in Baghdad, Sean. Captain Willborn is not authorized to disclose sensitive or compartmentalized information, and you will refrain from asking any questions that might compromise or jeopardize ongoing operations in the war zone.”

“This is a joke, right?”

“Do I look like I’m laughing?”

I studied her face a moment. No—not on the outside, though she couldn’t suppress how much she was enjoying herself on the inside. Note to self: it’s always a mistake to sleep with opposing council.

I asked Mary a reasonable question. “How will we know when we’re asking a question that will lose the war?”

“I’ll be sure to let you know.”

This was a good time to give her the bird, but I had a better idea. I turned my attention back to Captain Willborn. “I’m not very familiar with how you people work. Could you please explain the tactical nature of your efforts with Palchaci?”

This was a white lie, of course. In my Special Forces days, I had once received a full month of training on interrogation techniques, but I thought it might make the captain more comfortable not knowing that.

“Well . . . he wasn’t what we call a cooperative witness. Officially speaking, he fell under the classification we call hostile and antagonistic, though . . . I . . . uh, I suppose that misstates things a bit.”

“Why would that be a misstatement?”

“He wasn’t exactly antagonistic. In fact, he could be very congenial. Charming, actually . . . or, I suppose paternal is the right word.”

“
Paternal?
”

“He’d been a senior general and I was only a captain, for God’s sake. He certainly didn’t feel inferior or intimidated by my rank and position. From our opening session he seemed, I don’t know, fatalistic, or, resigned . . . yes . . . resigned.” He amplified on that thought and suggested, “You know, I think he almost expected it to end that way, with him in a prison camp.”

“I would think a fatalistic mindset would make a prisoner more likely to talk, Captain. A spirit that is crushed and demoralized is like an open doorway to a skillful interrogator. But he wasn’t cooperative?”

“No, he refused to give anything up. Actually, he would lecture me about the stupidity of the invasion, about how arrogant and naive America was, about how the insurgency would inevitably win. It didn’t matter what I asked, or how. He always found a way to twist it to what he wanted to talk about.”

Katherine asked a very good and leading question. “And did this frustrate you? Make you angry?”

He looked at her like a parent would a misbehaving child. “I am a trained professional, Ms. Carlson.”

“Please explain what that has to do with my question.”

“Effective interrogators don’t get emotionally involved. We don’t get angry or abusive or frustrated. We go into a session
expecting
to get nothing and we remain perfectly sanguine when that’s the result.”

We made eye contact and it was hard to tell what he was thinking—like whether he was telling the truth or throwing enough bullshit to paint the walls brown. After five minutes with Captain Willborn I had the uncomfortable impression that he was, indeed, a formidable interrogator. His voice was steady, steely, and modulated, conveying no emotion or animosity; he sounded, in fact, like a spokesman for Dramamine. He had shrewd blue eyes, thin, tight lips, immobile eyebrows, and aside from that disparaging look directed at Katherine, his expressions so far had ranged from nothing to nowhere. The man looked like he had ten tons of Botox pumped into his face, and maybe his brain. In general appearance he looked, I thought, like a choirboy: he was slender and fit, and his uniform and accoutrements were meticulous. He looked like he was ready to jam toothpicks under somebody’s fingernails or teach Bible study without the slightest change in demeanor or moral ambivalence.

Thinking back to his too-aloof carriage when he described the untimely deaths of Chief Ashad and Sergeant Waylon what I had first mistaken for an attempt to hide his true emotions, now struck me for what it was—his innate emotional default of detached indifference.

I also had the unnerving sense that this interrogation was going exactly how he wanted it to go, versus how we wanted, or, more accurately, how we
needed
, it to go.

It was time to take the game up a notch, so I asked Captain Willborn, “Were all your team’s sources incarcerated in Cellblock One?”

He glanced at Mary and her response was telling. She looked at first mildly befuddled by this question, then she nodded, but hesitantly, like it was breaking her neck.

Actually, it wasn’t safe. Not at all. Of course, neither of them knew that yet.

“No, not all of them,” he answered.

“How many, Captain Willborn? A lot, or a few?”

“I really don’t know. Probably no more than a few.”

“Be more specific, Captain. Would you say half your cases were in Cellblock One, or more than half?”

“I don’t really know.”

“So it could’ve been more than half?”

“I doubt it.”

“According to Sergeant Elton’s testimony, his cellblock was reserved for hard cases and malcontents. Yet you just informed us that General Palchaci was, in your own estimation, not antagonistic . . . he was congenial . . . almost paternal.” I allowed him a moment to absorb his own contradiction, then asked, “Do you see the paradox here? How do you explain his incarceration in Elton’s wing?”

“You know, I have no idea who assigned him there, or why. Those decisions fell under the prison commandant’s purview and authority.”

That was patent bullshit, of course, but I decided not to challenge it, at least not here, and not now—and instead asked, “Were you aware of the cellblock’s reputation?”

“No, not really.” He could see we weren’t buying that easily disprovable lie, and quickly amended that statement. “I mean, sure . . . I guess I heard some rumors about Cellblock One. But Al Basari was a factory for bullshit. Eat a meal in the unit mess and you were kneedeep in braggarts and war stories. You know how men in a war zone are, right, Colonel? All the cellblock guards liked to think they were the roughest.”

Katherine saw where I was going with this and quickly asked, “Did you know Sergeant Danny Elton?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How well did you know him?”

“There was daily interaction between the interrogators and the guards. We saw them when they delivered the prisoners to us, and when they picked them up for return to their cells. And, right out of the manual, we often traded insights and observations about various prisoners.”

“Was he working for you?”

“No . . . absolutely not.”

Katherine asked, “Did he
think
he was working for you?”

“I don’t see how he could get that impression.”

“You’re a captain and he’s a buck sergeant. I’ve never been in the army but I’ve been told that officers can tell enlisted soldiers what to do. Was I misled?”

In response to Katherine’s rare burst of sarcasm he awarded her a slight smile. “If you’ve met Sergeant Elton, you’ll understand that he does not have particular regard for anybody with a higher rank.” In a rare moment of truth, he added, “He’s got a huge chip on his shoulder.”

“Did you ever tell him how to treat the prisoners?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

Katherine played with her pencil a moment—I thought she was going to snap it in half—but she wisely chose instead to rephrase her query. “Sergeant Elton and the other members of his crew have testified that you employed their services to soften up various prisoners. They claim you told them to give certain prisoners special treatment, to ‘prep them’ for interrogation in your own lexicon, that you thanked them when it made the prisoner talk, and you encouraged them to turn up the heat when it didn’t. They claimed you gave them a camera to record these activities so you and Chief Ashad could review the effects.”

“That’s a lie.”

I allowed that revelation to sit for a moment then inquired of the captain, “Which one is a lie?”

If this question irritated him—it was certainly intended to—he didn’t let it show. “I had no idea what they were doing in there. I was as shocked as anybody when I learned about it.”

“Shocked? Really?”

“Yes, that’s the right word. And let me add disgusted as well.”

“Why would they lie about it?”

“Isn’t it your job to find that out?”

“Well, somebody is lying. My job is to discover if it’s you or them.” I asked, “Why would you lie, Captain Willborn?”

Mary, in a harsh tone, interrupted, “That’s enough, Sean. You’ll stop this line of questioning right now.”

“Give it a break, Mary. I didn’t ask if him if he killed Palchaci.” Now that I thought about it, though, that seemed like a terrific idea. I looked at Willborn. “Did you?”

Mary did not like this question either, and quickly informed me, “This is not a cross-examination, Colonel Drummond. You will refrain from making hostile comments or insinuating suggestions.”

“Is that another of your arbitrary rules?”

“Yes, a big one. And if you break it again, I will break this off. I remind you that Captain Willborn is here as a courtesy.”

I was getting tired of Mary and her endlessly expandable rules and her belligerent interjections and her interrogatory roadblocks and answered accordingly, “He’s here, Mary, because my client and four other soldiers are facing life imprisonment for a crime they may not have committed. Captain Willborn is here because any judge will rule that since Miss Carlson and I have been brought into this case late, after the Article 32 hearings, we have the right to question him before the court martial.” I then suggested, “But if you continue to be a pain in the ass, I can go find a judge and I can get a court order.”

“That won’t . . .” She reached up and adjusted her hair, and her expression. “Just rephrase your question.”

I looked at Captain Willborn. “Regarding the reason the accused are all pointing their fingers at you, certainly you must have a suspicion, or at least a theory about what’s behind it?”

He seemed to ponder this, then said, “Of course I’ve thought about it. They’re trying to use my team as an alibi. They have to justify their nauseating activities and hide their real motive. That’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Katherine snapped, “It’s not obvious to me.”

Willborn leaned far forward, nearly in Katherine’s face. “Then I’ll make it clearer. Those people are sick. You’ve seen those pictures. They’re perverts, plain and simple.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Especially your client. A real sicko.”

The way he treated Katherine pissed me off and I decided it was time to draw a little blood. I asked, “You disapprove of what they were doing?”

With an air of haughty righteousness, he replied, “Yes, I absolutely do.”

“Had you known of their activities prior to the outbreak of the scandal would you have reported them to higher authorities?”

“That would be my duty as an officer and I . . . yes, I certainly would have. Gladly.”

“Were they molesting any of
your
prisoners, Captain?”

Willborn was apparently unprepared for this somewhat predictable question, and in a rare lapse of self-control, he threw another curious look at Mary, who also seemed to have been caught off-guard. When a long moment passed without any helpful visual cues from Mary, Captain Willborn replied, “I think I did see several of my cases in the pictures . . . so, yes.”

I informed him, “By my count, a total of forty-three different Iraqi men were included in the 406 pictures in my files. How many of those men were your cases?”

“I have no idea.”

“You seem to be a bright guy. Approximate, Captain Willborn—was it closer to three, more like ten, or upward of twenty?”

“I told you I had no idea.”

“Yes, you did say that. It’s just not convincing.”

Mary started to interrupt again, and I ignored her and pushed through with my next line of inquiry. “Was it your practice during interrogation sessions to observe the physical and psychological condition of your subjects?”

This was another question he seemed to have trouble answering. I decided to offer him a little assistance, so I glanced at my notes and read to him, verbatim, “The interrogator must be constantly aware of the shifting attitudes which normally characterize a source’s reaction to interrogation. He notes the source’s every word, gesture, and voice inflection. He determines why a source is in a certain mood, or why his mood suddenly changed.” I looked up and asked Captain Willborn, “Do you recognize those words?”

“I suppose they do sound . . . vaguely familiar.”

“I would hope they sound more than familiar, Captain. That excerpt was from Chapter One of Field Manual 34-52, the US Army bible on interrogation. I’m sure you’re aware that the manual stresses repeatedly that the interrogator must be acutely observant and vigilant about any changes in the mood or attitude or mental state of his cases.”

He looked pained, like he knew what was coming. “I’m familiar with the doctrine, Colonel.”

“Good, Captain. The sessions in Cellblock One always occurred late at night. The prisoners were dragged out of their cells and forced to participate until the early morning hours. Over a month-long period, not only were they physically abused and mentally and physically raped, they were severely deprived of sleep. Didn’t you ever notice any mood changes or swings? Maybe they appeared unusually exhausted?”

He pretended to think about this and remained perfectly expressionless and impassive; I’ve seen ice sculptures exude more vitality, more interest. Eventually, having exhausted the thoughtful routine, he said, “Not that I recall. I mean, sure, there were days when certain prisoners seemed worn out.” He smiled like this was a big joke. “Hell, there were days when Ashad and I had to use toothpicks to pry our eyes open. We lived on caffeine over there.”

I did not smile back. “Did you ever see any bruises or abrasions?”

“No, none.”

“Signs of depression?”

“Remember these men were in prison. Their usual mental state was depressed and dispirited.”