Harold Barr Enterprises was a company that in the late ‘90s had read the tea leaves and predicted that the country would need more space for housing the growing number of criminals, especially those in federal facilities. They had even guessed the conservatives would tighten their grip on Washington politics and would press their agenda for privatizing more government services, including prisons. As businessmen, they had done their homework carefully and chosen the town well. On a cold day in December, the HBE people paraded into the cash-starved town of Hammerville, Ohio, and approached the city fathers with a proposal to build a huge, federal maximum-security prison on the outskirts of town. It was a proposal the city officials couldn’t refuse.
Of course, it’s usually not easy to find a home for a prison, especially a maximum-security prison. According to Al Smith, editor of the weekly Gazette, “Just about everyone believes that it’s important to put the bad guys behind bars, but they also believe that someone else’s town should house them.” Hammerville, Ohio could hardly afford to be choosy. The HBE reps who made the presentation to the Town Council were good, professional and--had I been there, I would have said--slick. They sold their vision for “the renaissance of Hammerville” with a lure of jobs. The prospectus for the proposed prison promised fairly well-paying jobs for about half the town. Of course, these new jobs wouldn’t pay as well as the old UAW auto plant jobs, the reps apologized; the economy wouldn’t allow it and the market was just too competitive. What they didn’t have to say was that those old jobs were long gone and Hammerville stood little chance of attracting other new industry.
To sweeten the deal, they offered to build a state-of-the-art, comprehensive high school using the same construction firm, arguing that it made financial sense to strengthen the infrastructure of the town to support our new “business.” (Of course, this was part of the proposal they had already pitched to their influential friends in Washington; they had even received matching funds from the feds for the school as well as the prison, but we didn’t learn that until later.) Town Council members practically ran over each other to be the first in line to accept HBE’s “generous offer.” It was a regular political lovefest. Al Smith even ran an editorial endorsing the proposal, writing that “the prison project signals the dawning of a new day for Hammerville and it will put our small town on the map.” He didn’t know how prophetic his words were.
So, in three short years, on an extensive platte of land several miles outside of town--bought for pennies on the dollar, by the way--Harold Barr Enterprises built “the finest state-of-the-art maximum security prison in the world,” according to their brochures, complete with a massive, man-made lake flanking one side. Directly across this two thousand acre lake sat the new James Thurber High, looking remarkably like an inferior metal and glass cousin to the imposing security facility. Of course, we had no bars or electrified razor wires, but the similarities in the modern architectural design are striking.
I don’t believe for a moment that Harold Barr had a crystal ball. How could he possibly have foreseen just how much that the country would need highly secure prisons in remote locations to hold those convicted of the most vicious crimes? How could they have predicted that the federal government would desperately need a place to house the Guantanamo prisoners? Perhaps HBE was just at the right place at the right time. And perhaps there really is a tooth fairy. At any rate, HBE’s friends inside the Beltway did pay handsomely for this “private” government service of incarcerating the especially incorrigible.
And thus Asad Akadi, the first terrorist to be executed on American soil, became the most famous resident of Hammerville.
Chapter 4
Barcelona, Spain
The cigarette smoke was so thick in the cramped room that Yassim had a difficult time discerning the features of the three other men sitting across the room. A haze hung like a charcoal gray Burqa, the traditional female Muslim garment, designed to obscure more than it reveals. Having met with these men before, Yassim knew what to expect and was confident he would be able to lead these “soldiers” when it was time. They were known only as the Baqir cell, a loose band of ruthless fighters blindly devoted to the Sheik. Yassim had to respect them for their unfettered devotion, though he gave that respect grudgingly.
He scratched his bare chin, which no longer held his black and gray beard, and studied the men in the cramped hotel room. He knew them and their lives and was repulsed by their sinful ways. In his conversion he had learned anew that true followers of Allah did not smoke, imbibe alcohol or cavort with unclean women. It was true that he too was once like these men, before the Imam had shown him the errors of his old ways. Critics labeled him and others like him “born-again Muslims.” It was intended as a slight, an effort to ridicule believers who had rediscovered the true meaning of the Koran and had taken a dramatic U-turn with their lives. But Yassim believed this title was exactly right. Since that day last year in the mosque in Frankfurt, the Imam’s words had made him feel like a new person. He saw things differently, with such increased clarity. This newly discovered lucidity had given him a filter to see and judge all those around him. He now recognized the truth perfectly. He finally understood that his destiny was to bring down Allah’s enemies.
But he realized that these men, precisely because they were skilled warriors, felt they were above the edicts of the Koran, and this sickened him. However, he had learned not to question the Sheik’s orders and the Sheik had assigned these men to him. In the end he satisfied himself that it must be Allah’s will that these would serve the great cause in their own ways.
He waved his hands in front of him in a vain attempt to disperse the darkening smoke. His slicing gesture caught the men’s attention. “How many of you are up-to-date with the situation of our brother Akadi?” he asked in English, testing their knowledge of the language. The Sheik’s rules for these meetings stated that all conversations were to be held in English--complete with idioms--to ascertain the soldiers’ ability to use the foreign tongue. Watching their brows crease with the effort, Yassim could almost see their brains wrestling with the translation, like worn engines struggling against their gears.
Mohammed was the first to respond. He was the tallest of the three, at 6’3, filling a thin, almost lanky frame. A crease of pink skin crawled down the right side of his face, like some elongated insect, the scar attesting to a long-ago knife fight. His angular nose was badly broken in two places, testimony of earlier humiliations. He did not smile. “Asad was sentenced by the woman judge to death. After that he was transported ... to new prison in O-hi-o to wait for execution.” The English words came out in a deep, guttural voice as he puffed heavily on the Turkish cigarette he favored, any expression lost in the dark smoke.
Finally catching on to the meaning, the other two men jumped in quickly, trying to impress the cell leader. “How could only a mere woman show such, such...,uh, pride? Is that right word?” asked Hassan, the shortest of the group with an almost squeaky voice. At only 5’ 6 he was built like a fireplug and, Yassim knew, was the fiercest fighter among them. With eyes the color of mahogany, he was an expert marksman, well trained in explosives and killed easily. Even though Hassan possessed many weaknesses including having sex with any willing--and many not so willing--females, Yassim knew him as the most dangerous in the cell. None dared ridicule his voice, which too was a reward from a knife fight. On the few occasions when the squat soldier smiled, his broken, decaying teeth also bore witness to earlier battles. When the cell leader gave a slight nod, Hassan continued somewhat haltingly. “Does this feeble-mind woman not know the Koran sets place for woman? She crosses over the stripe--?” he stopped and paused briefly, brow wrinkled again, then caught the idea and continued. “This fake woman judge crossed over d’line and should be ... should be … er, taught a lesson.”
“We know that Allah will punish the infidels, but we can be Allah’s hands,” added Fadi, brandishing two huge, calloused hands and strangling an imaginary neck. St
anding an even six foot tall, the third soldier had shoulders as broad as a refrigerator and sprouted a menacing face, even when partially hidden behind an elongated gray beard. “Her death be example for nonbelievers, it .... it, will send”--he paused obviously searching for the right word and then found it--”send a message to others.”
Unsmiling, Yassim stared at them. The satisfied glances the three men exchanged made them look like cocky adolescents, with the false bravado of those that think they know far more than they do. The cell leader’s curt reply in Arabic wiped away the smirks instantly. You have much yet to learn in their language and not much time.” Yassim took a deep breath and continued more slowly in English, his fingers scratching the black stubble on his chin. “It is true the female judge deserves to be taught a lesson, but it appears Allah may choose others to perform that assignment. Allah has other designs for us and the Leader has informed us it is nearing the time to act.”
As one, the three cell members responded automatically in Arabic, creating a momentary cacophony in the room. With a harsh look, Yassim stopped them mid-sentence. Mohammed was the first to recover in English. “What honored responsibility has the Sheik given us?”
Yassim stared intently at all three men as they sat transfixed, their hard eyes appearing like colored slits in the gray fog. “It is Allah’s will that we free our brother Asad from the American prison...or join him in Paradise trying.”
The three soldiers yelled, “ Allah be praised!”
“As always, the Leader has coordinated all preparations for us. We are to travel first to Canada, and arrangements have been made for our entry into North America. Mohammed and Hassan, you are to fly into Toronto Airport next Friday. Here are your documents.” The cell leader handed each man a bulging manila envelope with a name typed in black on a label across the top and continued. “Mohammed, you will be traveling as an oil executive from Saudi Arabia, negotiating sales with contacts from U.S. and Canadian companies. Hassan, you will be traveling as his bodyguard and personal assistant, so it will be easy for d’ two of you to travel together. Do you understand?”
Both Mohammed and Hassan were engrossed in reviewing the papers in their packets and gave a cursory nod. The cell leader then turned to Fadi and handed him a third envelope.
“Fadi, you will enter the continent as a rich Arab tourist, interested in viewing Niagara Falls. So as not to alert the authorities, your flight will originate from Turkey and you will also fly into Toronto four days later. Then you will drive to meet us in Montreal.”
“Details of each of your identities have been carefully laid out in the packages, including Canadian and American money. Spend it wisely. Everything you will need is there. Review all the papers, then destroy them. There has been much work done by your brothers to make your role in Allah’s plan possible. Act responsibly and do not call attention to yourselves.” He paused and looked into the eyes of each man so they could read the resolve in his face, even in the murky haze.
Satisfied, he continued, “One advantage for each of us is that we believe we have been able to stay below the Western radar’’--he noticed the puzzlement on their faces, so he searched mentally for a translation without idioms. “The Sheik’s sources believe we are not well known to the Americans so can travel under our own names. It should make the holy task one step easier. After today, we will not see or talk to each other, until we meet in Canada. Are there any questions?”
The three exchanged glances and then looked back at Yassim, saying nothing. Finally, Fadi asked Yassim, “And you? What identity will you use to travel to the land of the Great Satan?” The three heads turned expectantly toward the cell leader. For the first time in the meeting, Yassim broke into a broad grin.
“In my case, the Sheik has outdone himself. He has decided that I am to visit Canada as a member of the Nigerian delegation to the World Peace Conference in Toronto. Truly poetic justice for a soldier in Allah’s great army!” He allowed himself a laugh.
The other cell members joined him and shouted again through their laughter, “Allah, be praised!”
Chapter 5
The fate of Asad Akadi was never in much doubt to me or anyone else. Five years earlier he had attempted to blow up the top ten stories of the Sears Tower in Chicago. His bomb, concealed inside a large bachelor party cake, did detonate but only a tiny portion of the C-4 ignited. The resulting explosion blew out four windows on the 82nd floor and killed two, including the stripper hiding inside the cake. But these few deaths were more than enough to earn him a death sentence.
When CNN carried Federal Judge Cynthia Hopkins’ sentencing of the first terrorist caught in the act on American soil and broadcast her words of “Hammerville, Ohio,” I could feel the electricity ripple through the town. My fellow townspeople were so excited that they were dancing, if not in the streets, then at least in Slim’s Bar and Grill with the jukebox playing “Proud to be an American.” For a while, it even looked like Harold Barr Enterprises had delivered on their yellow-brick road promise. During those days, many of my colleagues like Mark “the Music Man” Bender and social studies teacher Robert Holden took pleasure in chiding me for my long-standing skepticism. Much to my amazement, it appeared then that the emperor did in fact have new clothes.
After the judge’s pronouncement of Akadi’s sentence, Al Smith, always one to twist a phrase, cited the mood of the town in his editorial as one of “delightful derision at the fate of the convicted terrorist and triumphant pride that Hammerville had been selected to carry out this just sentence.” Eerily, it seemed to me that HBE had foreseen this precise set of consequences. The national spotlight focused suddenly on Hammerville and almost everyone in the town started strutting. Even I had to admit that it made a real difference.
Local merchants and shopkeepers were positively ecstatic about the additional business the entourage of newsmen, the gawking tourists and the extra security were bringing to town. The town fathers strutted around local hot spots like Linda’s and The Corner Restaurant, proclaiming their excitement at the chance to showcase the new prison, along with their town of course. They even hired a PR firm to advise them on how best to market the town and, almost immediately, began a campaign to beautify common areas of the town, concentrating on those locations most likely to be filmed by the networks. The square in front of the courthouse went through such a transformation that it looked like it had been attacked by the “Extreme Makeover” team. Rather than being threatened by the possible danger this crazed terrorist zealot could bring to town, most Hammerville residents were seduced by the celebrity and hypnotized by the thinly veiled promise of a better future for the town.
As if on patriotic cue, the FBI arrived in force on the Fourth of July and began the preparations for Akadi’s arrival in town. With their company-issue navy suits and crisp military haircuts, the special agents descended upon the town like a coordinated flock of sparrows. Usually they announced their presence and their intentions, patiently explaining the need for heightened security and vigilance, but they still ruffled feathers with the local constabulary and some town officials.
But something didn’t sit right with me. I never quite shared the enthusiasm for our notoriety and the town’s sudden transformation. It felt like an elaborate dress rehearsal for a major production, but I could never be sure if there was anything behind the sets and the props. Back then I felt alone, staring incredulously at the entire spectacle like Alice through the Looking Glass, my neighbors now characters in Wonderland.
What did I know that they did not? I possessed no special clairvoyance. But my own skeptical perspective did have one unique advantage. It was skewed by a new factor; his name was Jerod Thomas.
During that summer Harold Barr Enterprises launched a new corporate campaign to heighten the involvement of their employees in “various community endeavors,” according to the HBE press release. And Jerod Thomas was one of those civic-minded HBE employees. In actuality, he was a third-shift correctional officer who
volunteered as a mentor at the school and, by what I thought at the time was a giant cosmic misalignment, was assigned to a few young men in my third and seventh period classes. I sometimes have this vision of God as a great prankster, just looking for ways to have fun at our expense down here on earth. Perhaps that’s why, at the start of the school year, Officer Thomas entered my classroom to play the antagonist in my little drama.
That didn’t come out like I wanted. Now, even I’d have to admit Jerod was pleasant to look at, as several female students never tired of commenting. In fact, he was handsome in a hard-bitten, “James Dean” way, with his short brown hair and deep-set green eyes perched over a squat nose with nostrils that flared slightly when he was angry. As a prison guard, he could have walked out of central casting; he was a well-kept 30ish, with delightfully broad shoulders, long, well-developed arms and a body of six feet one that seemed to exude hardness. All attributes that served him well in his chosen profession, no doubt. To the delight of my students, he was cocky, with an irreverent sense of humor that managed to stay just this side of antiauthoritarian.
When he strolled into my classroom for the first time, the details of the celebrity prisoner were all over the news. In fact, the plight of the condemned terrorist was one of the only adult topics the teens wanted to discuss. Because of the newfound notoriety of the prison, my students were in awe of the ”kickin” job of correctional officer. For his part Jerod--he insisted he and I be on a first name basis, though it was strictly Officer Thomas to the kids--did what he could to downplay this celebrity to the students. “When Akadi arrives, I’ll treat ‘im like any other prisoner. No more or less,” he said in his slow, Southern drawl in answer to their persistent questions. Head cocked slightly to one side, he went on. “He’ll be just another con on death row. One of fourteen awaitin’ execution here at Hammerville.” His demeanor was one of calm confidence. “You realize, when you make a big deal about this guy, you give him just what he wants--fame and recognition.”
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