Read Afraid of the Dark Online
Authors: James Grippando
A
t noon the following day Jack was having lunch near the federal courthouse at a Japanese restaurant called Sue-Him, Sue-Her, Su-shi—truly the kind of place that could whet the appetite of Washington lawyers, as long as the waiters avoided the obvious jokes about sharks eating raw fish.
The case of
Khaled al-Jawar v. The President of the United States of America
was heard in the same courthouse opposite the National Gallery of Art where, in that other world before 9/11, a grand jury had heard the sordid details of the Monica Lewinsky affair and Judge John Sirica had sorted out the Watergate scandal. Jack had elected not to have his client testify via secure video feed from Guantánamo, arguing that it was the government’s burden to justify the detention. By eleven thirty, the hearing had ended and the judge had issued her ruling from the bench.
Neil Goderich was on his third cup of sake, furiously drafting a press release.
“How’s this?” asked Neil, trying to make sense of his own scribble on the yellow legal pad. “ ‘Today, yet another Guantánamo detainee—Khaled al-Jawar from Somalia—was ordered released by a federal judge in Washington on the ground that there was insufficient evidence to justify his detention. While this is not the first detainee proceeding in which release has been ordered, the case of al-Jawar is particularly striking. He was just a teenager when he was shipped to Guantánamo three years ago, unquestionably tortured, never accused of being a member of either al-Qaeda or the Taliban, barely saved after a suicide attempt upon his arrival at Gitmo, and then locked in a cage indefinitely with no charges against him. The case completely unraveled after al-Jawar’s lawyer—Jack Swyteck, son of former Florida governor Harry Swyteck—presented long-concealed evidence that his client ‘confessed’ to sheltering al-Qaeda operatives in East Africa only after Ethiopian troops threatened and drugged him into submission. So unpersuasive was the government’s evidence against him that the judge excoriated the Justice Department in an unusually strident and hostile tone for attempting to continue his detention.’ ”
He paused, looked up, and frowned at Jack’s reaction. “What’s wrong?”
“Too much,” said Jack.
Neil took another hit of sake. “All right, I’ll leave your father out of it.”
“It’s not that. I just don’t like it.”
“But it’s all true.”
Jack put his chopsticks aside and leaned forward, his expression very serious. “What if he blows up a building tomorrow?”
“Then the government should have built a stronger case to keep him locked up. That’s their job.”
Suddenly, it was like old times. Most people thought Jack had left the Freedom Institute because he was nothing like the other lawyers: Eve, the only woman Jack had ever known to smoke a pipe; Brian, the gay surfer dude; and Neil, the ponytailed genius who had survived Woodstock. In truth, Jack considered all of them friends. They’d even shown up for his surprise fortieth birthday party. What had made Jack feel like such a misfit was the way they celebrated their victories. Forcing the government to prove its case was enough for Jack. Getting another guilty man released didn’t make him want to throw a party. Or issue a press release.
“Al-Jawar should never have been locked up,” said Neil.
“How do you know that?” asked Jack. “For that matter, how do you even know his name is al-Jawar?”
“Because he told us.”
“Yeah, in English. A language no one even knew he spoke until yesterday.”
“Whatever his name is, he’s not guilty of anything but wearing a Casio watch,” said Neil.
It was a reference to the fact that more than a dozen Gitmo detainees were cited for owning cheap digital watches, particularly the infamous Casio F914 watch, the type used by al-Qaeda members for bomb detonators.
Jack selected a pod of edamame from the bowl and brushed away the excess sea salt. “It bothers me that it never came out in court that he speaks English.”
“That wasn’t relevant. The confession they forced him to sign wasn’t written in English—or in any other language that he speaks.”
“I don’t believe his story about being from Somalia. I think he’s American.”
“So what?
“He’s hiding something.”
Neil shrugged and turned his attention back to his press release. “Al-Jawar is actually one of the lucky ones,” he said, speaking his edits aloud. “According to a report issued by
Human Rights First
, at least one hundred detainees in U.S. custody have died since 2002, many suffering gruesome deaths.”
Jack was about to reel in the polemic, but a woman seated on the other side of the restaurant caught his attention. It was Sylvia Gonzalez, the Justice Department lawyer who had argued the government’s case against his client.
“Don’t look now,” Jack started to say, but of course Neil did. He recognized Gonzalez instantly, as well as the man she was with.
“How fitting,” Neil said, as if spitting out the bad taste in his mouth. “She’s with Sid Littleton.”
“Who’s he?”
“Founder and CEO of Black Ice, the go-to private military firm for the Department of Defense. Surely you’ve heard of them. They’re the independent contractors that the military hires to do things the military can’t do, like shooting unarmed Iraqi civilians.”
It was the editorial spin of a former hippie, but just as Jack was about to goad him into saying something really entertaining, the prosecutor spotted them.
“Woops, here she comes,” said Jack. “Be nice.”
“Congratulations,” Gonzalez said as she offered her hand. Jack shook it. “You did a heck of a job,” she added.
The conciliatory tone and gesture put him off balance. It was extremely professional of her.
All the more reason not to issue that stinging press release.
“Thank you,” said Jack.
He quickly introduced Neil, who remained in his chair, acknowledging her only with a weak wave of the hand. For Neil, anyone who lunched with the likes of Sid Littleton and Black Ice was the enemy, and there was never any fraternizing with the enemy.
“I was just putting the finishing touches on our press release,” said Neil.
Jack sighed, wishing he hadn’t mentioned it.
“You may want to hear what I have to say first,” said Gonzalez.
Neil chuckled, but Jack wasn’t sure why.
Gonzalez said, “I apologize for interrupting your lunch, but I’d rather not put this in an e-mail, and I think it’s only fair to give you a heads-up on some last-minute developments in the al-Jawar matter. Your client is on a flight to Miami as we speak.”
Jack bristled.
I knew he was American.
“Why?”
“Custody is being transferred to the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.”
Neil popped from his chair, unable to contain himself. “What do you mean
transferred
? The judge ordered his release.”
“He is being referred to the Miami-Dade state attorney for prosecution on criminal charges unrelated to terrorism.”
“What—jaywalking?” said Neil, his neck swelling. “This is ridiculous.”
“Easy, Neil,” said Jack.
“No, this infuriates me,” said Neil. “Every time a judge rules for a detainee, the DOJ tries to save face with vague references to some new evidence collected by the task force on detention that may lead to a criminal indictment. It’s sleazy. This is another example of the administration’s defiance of a court order and its refusal to admit that there was never any legal basis to detain these prisoners.”
“This morning a grand jury indicted your client on one count of first degree murder and one count of attempted murder,” said Gonzalez.
Neil fell silent.
Jack did a double take. “And you say this is unrelated to terrorism?”
“It’s purely a local law enforcement matter,” she said. “Your client is from Miami. His real name is Jamal Wakefield. And three years ago he killed a girl named McKenna Mays. Stabbed her to death.”
Jack gave it a moment to sink in. Then he looked at his old boss and said, “Let’s hold off on the press release, Neil.”
J
ack was back in Miami by nightfall. He was wandering around lost in the airport’s Flamingo Garage when he finally remembered that his car was in the Dolphin Garage. To a Floridian, parking garages named Dolphin and Flamingo were like identical twins named Frick and Frack. All that was missing was cousin Royal Palm. A ridiculously long moving sidewalk connected the two garages, and Jack’s cell rang as he stepped onto it. The display read
SUNNY GARDENS OF DORAL
. It was his grandfather’s nursing home.
“He’s being combative again,” the nurse said.
Jack got these calls about once a week. The usual scenario was that Grandpa was sleeping peacefully when the night nurse barged into the room, overpowered him with the health-care equivalent of waterboarding, and forced an unwanted and probably unnecessary medication down his throat fast enough to land her in the
Guinness Book of World Records, Nursing Edition
.
Who wouldn’t be combative?
Jack was tired of the arguments, and the sound of his grandfather ranting senselessly against the post office in the background was breaking his heart.
“P.O., no, no,” the old man shouted. “P.O., no, no!”
“Put him on the phone,” said Jack.
“I can’t. We’re restraining him.”
“
What?
I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
He hung up and ran to his car. He was speeding down the ramps from the roof of the garage when his phone rang again. This time, however, the word
PRIVATE
appeared on the caller-ID display, and the timing brought a much needed sense of calm.
“Andie?” he said, answering.
“Hi, babe,” she said.
Andie Henning was Jack’s fiancée. He’d popped the question at the surprise birthday party she’d thrown for him last month. Andie had accepted on the spot—and disappeared eight days later. When people asked him what it felt like to be engaged, Jack honestly couldn’t tell them. He didn’t know where Andie was, didn’t know when she was coming back, and had no idea when she would call next. She made him promise not to come looking for her, refused to share her new cell number, and wouldn’t tell him who she was living with. He didn’t know what she looked like anymore, though he was certain that the gorgeous long hair that had once splayed across his pillow had changed entirely. Jack didn’t even know her new name.
Andie was unlike any woman Jack had ever known—and not just because she was an FBI agent who worked undercover. Jack loved that she wasn’t afraid to cave dive in Florida’s aquifers, that in her training at the FBI Academy she’d nailed a perfect score on one of the toughest shooting ranges in the world, that as a teenager she’d been a Junior Olympic mogul skier—something Jack didn’t even know about her until she rolled him out of bed one hot August morning and said, “Let’s go skiing in Argentina.” He loved the green eyes she’d gotten from her Anglo father and the raven-black hair from her Native American mother, a mix that made for such exotic beauty.
He hated being away from her.
“When are you coming back?” he asked.
“You know I can’t answer that,” she said.
He knew. But on days like today, he couldn’t help but ask. Funny, he’d been divorced for years, perfectly fine with living alone. But Andie’s enthusiastic “yes” had been like the flip of an emotional light switch. The thought of being away from her tonight was almost too painful.
“I can’t talk long,” she said. “Just wanted to check in, say I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
“And Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not at liberty to say much about this, especially over the phone. But . . .”
He waited, then prodded. “But what?”
“Do yourself a favor,” she said. “Stay away from the Jamal Wakefield murder case.”
Jack gripped the phone. It had been one of their express understandings—a solemn pact to ensure a happy marriage between a criminal defense lawyer and an FBI agent. He didn’t tell her how to do her job—whether to take this undercover assignment or that one—and she didn’t tell him what cases to handle. He knew it wasn’t a rule she would have broken lightly.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “I’ll call again when I can.”
One more “I love you,” and she hung up.
Jack tucked the phone away and stopped the car to pay the teller at the exit to the Flipper-flamingo, string-bikini, piña-colada—
whatever
—garage. He tried to take Andie’s advice in the spirit in which it had been given. It was eating at him so badly, however, that he almost missed his exit for the Dolphin—what else?—Expressway. A cabdriver gave him the horn and the finger as Jack cut across two lanes. His train of thought switched to his grandfather shouting out random letters while trying to break out of the Alzheimer’s bed restraints, but he was also thinking about Andie’s advice. Warning. Whatever it was.
“Stay away from the Jamal Wakefield murder case.”
He knew her concern had nothing to do with the fact that the accused was a former Gitmo detainee, or that the victim was a sixteen-year-old girl. It wasn’t even the fact that the attempted murder charge involved the blinding of a cop named Vincent Paulo. It was the fact that Jack
knew
Vince. Not only knew him, but owed him. He and Theo both were indebted to Sergeant Paulo, big time. And now Jack represented Jamal Wakefield of Miami, Florida, aka Khaled al-Jawar of Somalia.
Sorry, Andie. Sorry, Vince.
P.O., no no.
Coming, Grandpa.
Why is nothing ever simple?
I
should have held at sixteen,” said Vince.
He was back at home in the comfort of his bed. Sam lay quietly on the rug beside the dresser. His wife was at his side, still awake.
“What did you say, honey?” asked Alicia.
“In Dr. Feldman’s office today,” he said. “I was sitting on a king and the six of clubs, and like an idiot, I say,
Hit me.
Of course I busted. He dealt me a seven.”
Vince felt the gentle caress of her hand at his chin, then the warmth of her kiss at the side of his mouth.
“I’m so happy for you,” she whispered.
Vince smiled as she rolled back to her side of the mattress. It was late and he needed rest after such a full day, but he was too excited to sleep.
The Brainport session had lasted two hours. The first hurdle was to understand that it wasn’t like seeing with your eyes. “It’s more akin to a language in that you develop a skill,” Dr. Feldman had told him. After five minutes he was able to operate the device. Within an hour he was recognizing sensations on his tongue and reaching out for a ball as it rolled in front of him. By the end of the session he was playing blackjack—not with Braille cards, but with regular ones. The next goal was to get him through an obstacle course, and from there the sky was the limit. Unfortunately, he couldn’t take it home. Brainport was experimental. But it gave him hope. Today had been a great day, and nothing was going to spoil it.
Not even Jamal Wakefield.
“Vince?” asked Alicia. “Do you think . . . Will you have to testify at the trial?”
Jamal Wakefield, the three-year-old unsolved murder of McKenna Mays, and “the horrible price Miami police officer Vincent Paulo paid trying to bring the alleged killer to justice,” had been the lead story on the local evening news. Vince had received a heads-up that morning from the assistant state attorney. He and Alicia had skirted the topic all night long, talking nonstop about Brainport. It had become the elephant in the room.
“I’m meeting with the assistant state attorney tomorrow. It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”
Vince peeled back the bedsheet to feel the night air on his chest. All of Florida was basking in glorious January weather, perfect for sleeping with the window open. Then, slowly but surely, Vince could almost feel a 101-degree cloud coming over him—a cloud so noxious that it probably violated several articles of the Geneva Conventions. Sam was a terror when there was fallen fruit in the backyard.
“Damn, Sammy,” he said as he pulled the sheet up over his head. “Can you lay off the avocados?”
The cloud evaporated, cool air rustled the window sheers—and Vince could all but hear the wheels still turning in Alicia’s head.
“Vince?” she asked in a tentative voice. “What do you think the prosecutor will tell you tomorrow?”
He lowered the bedsheet and sighed. Even after three years, it wasn’t easy to talk about it. “I’m sure I’ll have to testify.”
“But they didn’t call you before the grand jury.”
“They used the written affidavit I signed three years ago. Not that they even needed it. All they had to do was play the recording of McKenna naming her boyfriend as the killer. The trial will be a different story. I was the only one there when McKenna died. I was holding the cell phone to her mouth when she identified her killer.”
Vince could feel his wife rise up on her elbow, her concern palpable. “I’m scared,” she said.
Those words hit him hard; Alicia didn’t scare easily. They’d met on the force, when Alicia’s father had been Miami’s mayor, and she’d risen to become one of the top young cops in the department. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” said Vince.
“I mean I’m afraid for us,” she said. “I don’t want this to take us back to the bad old days.”
She was talking about a stretch of time before they were married, a few weeks after he became a hero, soon after the doctors removed the bandages—when Vince came to the frightening realization that he would never again see her smile, never look into those eyes as her heart pounded against his chest, never see the expression on her face when she was happy or sad or just plain bored. That was the same day he’d told her it would be best to stop seeing each other, and the unintended pun had made them both cry.
Vince held her tight. “That’s not going to happen.”
She unwound from his embrace and pressed her forehead against his, as if willing him to look her in the eye.
“Do you promise?”
It gave him goose bumps, this latest confirmation of how foolish he had been to push Alicia away, assuming as he had that it was only a matter of time before a beautiful young woman fell out of love with a blind man.
“Yes,” he said. “I promise.”
A strange noise reverberated near the dresser. They froze, each one processing it in a separate darkness, and then shared a laugh as they dove beneath the sheets.
“Sam!”