Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [41]
“Then you’re dreaming,” said Haber. “The CIA doesn’t care why you want the information. You want to prove that secret detention sites existed in Eastern Europe—something the United States and every Eastern European country has denied for years. Even the Red Cross had to push for five years to get access to the detainees, and they still didn’t get information about all the black sites.”
“Are you saying you can’t help us?” asked Neil.
Haber emptied his beer bottle into a tall glass. “When you represent a detainee from a black site, you’re fighting every step of the way for information that the CIA does not want to be made public. My client is a good example. Mohammed was thrown into the back of a van by a group of strongmen who wore black outfits, masks that covered their faces, and dark visors over their eyes—probably commandos attached to the CIA’s paramilitary Special Activities Division. He was hog-tied, stripped naked, photographed, hooded, sedated with anal suppositories, placed in diapers, and transported by plane to a secret location. It’s the beginning of a process designed to strip the detainee of any dignity.”
“Sounds like what Jamal described,” said Jack.
“Disorientation is also a big part of it. For my client it was twenty days in a pitch-black cell with Eminem’s ‘Slim Shady’ and Dr. Dre blaring nonstop. Then it was day after day of ghoulish Halloween sounds, always in total darkness, always in solitary confinement. They’d chain him to the ceiling hanging by his wrists so that his toes could barely touch the ground, then they’d bring him down for waterboarding. He spent hours in something called a dog box, which, as the name, implies isn’t big enough for a human being. These are all tactics that were used effectively by the KGB, but you have to remember that the KGB was interested in securing false confessions to crimes against the state, not the gathering of reliable intelligence. It got to the point where my client tried to kill himself by running his head into the wall. Didn’t work. He just knocked himself unconscious.”
“He’s probably much better at flying airplanes into buildings,” said Jack—and he’d shocked himself, the words having come like a reflex.
“Whoa,” said Neil.
Jack’s mouth opened, but the explanation was on a slight delay, as if his brain needed extra time to process what was going on. “It’s not that I make light of torture,” he said, still trying to comprehend. “I just . . . I think I had an Andie moment.”
“A what?”
“My fiancée,” said Jack. “She’s an FBI agent. You kept going on and on about the treatment at these black sites, and suddenly I could almost hear Andie whispering into my ear: ‘Before you get all ACLU on me, remember what most of these guys would do if given the chance.’ ”
The other men exchanged glances, and Neil tried to lighten things up. “These things happen with Jack. Not many guys spend four years at the Freedom Institute before jumping ship to be a federal prosecutor.”
“Ah, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, are you?” said Haber.
“A sheep in wolf’s clothing, if you ask my fiancée. I lasted only two years at the U.S. attorney’s office.”
Haber drank from his beer and nodded. “I guess none of us is easy to figure out. Look at Neil and me: a couple of Jews defending Islamic extremists.”
“Funny, Grandpa Swyteck said the same thing about me.”
Haber looked confused again, so Jack explained. “Since getting Alzheimer’s, my grandfather thinks that he’s Jewish.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Chicago. Both of his parents were born in Bohemia. Somewhere around Prague.”
“Are there any Czech Jews named Swyteck?” asked Haber.
“I don’t know,” said Jack. “The name is another one of those Ellis Island disasters.”
“For your grandfather to be Jewish, it really matters what his mother was.”
“Her maiden name was Petrak,