“He has brashly admitted as much, proclaiming his ‘mission’ as one of no less than exterminating the American way of life. Though Akadi and his ilk cloak their acts in the guise of religion and call themselves anointed fighters, the truth is that he and other international criminals like him have been responsible for the slaughter of thousands of innocents around the globe, a rampage that must and will be stopped.” Samson’s tone grew strident and he made no attempt to mask his contempt.
“One lesson we have learned in the War on Terror is that Asad Akadi and his kind have an insatiable blood lust. Terrorists like Akadi are consumed by hatred of others who are different and driven by jealousy of what they do not possess. All they know is murder and vengeance against some wrong, real or imagined. So it is no surprise that he was captured attempting to inflict similar desolation and destruction upon innocent civilians in the Sears Tower in Chicago.”
“Unlike the thousands of men, women and children he and his organization have massacred, Akadi was given the full benefit of the law,” he continued. “He has been in our country for almost ten years now and has even become a US citizen. But rather than embrace our freedoms, he had lain in wait all this time, plotting with his fellow criminals to destroy our way of life. In spite of all this, as an American citizen, Akadi has been provided expert legal representation, tried in an open court and found guilty by a jury of his peers. Over the past five years, he has had the opportunity to avail himself of all legal appeals, a process he has now exhausted.” He stopped and took a moment to stare into the camera lenses before continuing, his fingers feathering the edge of his bow tie.
“With his conviction, Asad Akadi and other terrorists like him have learned that they can no longer run and hide from the law. He has been sentenced to die, and he will be executed by lethal injection at six p.m. on October 30th. I take no pleasure in the death of any man.” He stopped and took a breath. “But in all my years in law enforcement, I have never seen a man more deserving of death. With his death, other international criminals and members of his terrorist organization will get the message that America and all freedom-loving nations will not tolerate this cold-blooded massacre of innocent men, women and children. Unless the terrorists cease their murderous ways, we will hunt them down, capture them, and bring them to justice.”
He indicated the end of his statement by stepping aside and allowing Cromer to share the microphone. Before they were in position, hands shot up around the room and reporters began shouting. The questions, when they came, were predictable. Who will be allowed to be present at the execution? Were the protesters disrupting the business of the prison? Is there any chance a last-ditch effort to put off the execution will succeed? Is it true the President is considering offering a pardon in exchange for information on Osama bin Ladin? Yeah, right. Both men took turns answering the reporters’ questions, Samson tossing some to Cromer to allow him to share the spotlight.
As the high-profile journalists cast their queries, I noted that Tess was dutifully recording their exchanges. I’m not sure what I expected when I arrived, but as the press conference progressed, a distinct feeling of unease gripped me. The little tingle at the back of my neck began to spread when I heard what turned out to be the last exchange.
“Director Samson, are you concerned about the threat that has been made by Al Quaida that they will free Akadi?” This question was posed by none other than Geraldo Rivera, who, after being fired years before, had managed to get hooked up with a new foreign cable outlet, Star News. The reporter’s right hand went to his mustache and he fingered a few black strands.
“I’m glad you asked that, Mr. Rivera,” answered Samson, showing just the smallest of smiles. “Terrorists threaten a lot of things. That’s where they get their perceived power, in threats that try to terrorize people. One reason for my visit here was to personally inspect the security arrangements here at HBE. And I can tell you this: I am very impressed. The safety and security features they have built into this prison are truly state-of-the art.” The Homeland Security Czar let his smile blossom a bit further. “In a way, I hope that some of Akadi’s friends come here because they are going to receive a very rude reception. If they make such a foolish attempt, I can assure you that all that will happen is that the United States of America will kill or capture a few more of these murdering lunatics.”
Chapter 8
I can still recall that fateful day in October when I received another new student in one of my Junior English classes. There’s nothing noteworthy about that; with the crumbling economy in nearly every town around, I gain or lose students just about every week. The class lists in my grade book look like a baseball manager’s lineup card in a losing game. But this student was different. His name is Rashid Hermani and he said he was a foreign exchange student from, of all places, Pakistan. I did what I could to get the other students to accept him, but all they saw was his olive skin and his Arabic features. Besides, he was probably the first student from the Middle East that these students had ever met.
When I asked Rashid to share a little about where he’s from, he didn’t help himself. Mainly he was withdrawn and cryptic, which looking back makes sense. At first he volunteered nothing, responding with the monosyllabic utterances so typical of all teenagers, but then I put on my most encouraging smile and finally got him to share a few things. When I got him to speak more than a few words, his command of English surprised me; it was quite good. He said only that his family was from the Baluchistan region of Pakistan and that his parents were killed in the fighting with the Taliban and that he recently emigrated to the US with his uncle.
You probably think I should have been tipped off by the fact that he had even read a number of American classics. I wasn’t. When he joined us, we were studying excerpts from Thoreau’s Walden Pond and Rashid surprised me by telling he had already read much of it in class in Pakistan. Of course, this did nothing to endear him to my other students who think Thoreau is too outdated to be relevant and just plain “bo-o-oring.”
But at the end of the class, I thought I’d made a little dent in their adolescent armor when I overheard Dante, one of the African-American students in the class, say, “At least, this guy had the decency to learn our language.”
But even these small hopes were dashed when Ted, his buddy, smarted back. Just as they were headed out the door he said, loud enough for me to hear, but not so loud that he couldn’t deny it, “My dad says you can’t trust any raghead. Said we’ve pumped all kinda money into the Mideast and got nothing but grief for our efforts. He says we oughta nuke the whole region.”
Glancing back into the classroom, I saw that Rashid was still there, and then realized Ted’s comment was intended more for his benefit than for mine. Rashid gathered up his books and headed out the door. I apologized to him, made some feeble argument that it was just teenagers shooting off their mouths and promised I would take care of them tomorrow. He just gave me an indifferent shrug of his shoulders and muttered, “It is just what I had been told to expect.”
But, the truth be told, with all that’s gone on in America and Hammerville in particular, I could hardly blame my students. They were merely aping their parent values, as much as they might rankle at the suggestion. And most of their parents, the fine citizens of this town, were educated right here in the school system. And “the elders” had been acting like ignorant, racist fools. This bigotry of Americans against Arabs feeds the Arabs’ own distrust and hatred of the West. And so the cycle goes on.
Of course, Rashid wasn’t the only new male from the Mideast to arrive in town. I’ve never been one to believe in coincidence, but I have to admit I didn’t give this one much thought, not at the time anyway. I know I should’ve seen the connection from the get-go, but then hindsight is usually 20/20. A few weeks before Rashid became a student at James Thurber High, the government moved Asad Akadi, ”the number one terrorist in the country,” to Hammerville. It was immediately apparent that Jerod had been dead o
n about the security surrounding the special convict. When he arrived at the HBE prison, he was delivered by what appeared to be the complement of a full army division. There were jeeps, troop carriers, humvees and even a tank or two that took up permanent residence around the prison. They turned the south side of town into a veritable parade ground of khaki and camouflage, enraging both the capital punishment protesters and pro-Arab demonstrators, although I think that was the idea.
What accompanied this security contingent into Hammerville was the swarming evidence of our nation’s freedom of the press. I had heard the term “media circus” before, but had never fully understood the implications until our big event. Every conceivable news outlet known to man, and woman--CNN, ABC, MSNBC, CBS, FOX and a dozen local channels--planted satellite news trucks on the streets leading to “Justice Drive,” as HBE dubbed the entrance to the prison. Packed tightly one after the other on the pavement with bodies frantically scurrying about, this procession of vehicles gave the impression of an uncoordinated circus train.
Of course, most of us poor Hammerville townsfolk never actually saw the terrorist, at least not in person. Like the rest of the nation, we watched him on the six o’clock news. Captured in vivid detail and color on the news broadcast--and repeated endlessly on the web-- the heavily fortified motorcade, more than a half-mile of police, guards, and dignitaries surrounding the prisoner, sped down the long winding drive to the prison. Lights flashing and sirens bleating, the bulletproofed Highway Patrol cruiser with ”the specially reinforced wire mesh separating the front seat from the prisoner,” screeched to a halt in front of the receiving door of the prison, flanked by two army jeeps complete with mounted automatic weapons. As the world watched, Asad Akadi emerged from the rear seat, wearing a bright orange jumpsuit with “HBE Prison” stenciled across the back. The prisoner was manacled hand and foot and forced, by the silver chain connecting the two sets of cuffs, to bend over in a perpetually stooped position. Hunched over, he was forced to march up the sidewalk like a limping hunchback and stepped bowl-legged across the concrete.
In the few steps between vehicle and door, a reporter with more nerve than sense--though that doesn’t narrow it down much--tried to jump into the cordoned off area and shove a microphone at our celebrity prisoner. Before he was even able to finish his query, he was efficiently manhandled by two guards in full army dress and hustled out of the camera’s eye. In spite of the quick military maneuver, all the TV cameras were able to capture for the nation’s viewing pleasure was the now-famous, insolent grin of Asad Akadi.
Mesmerized by the commotion and national news attention, my journalism students were in heaven, even Tyler and Charity--you know, the two who never care about anything. The journalism students peppered me with questions, speculations, and arguments about the exciting lives of tele-journalists.
In fact, there looked to be so many news journalists scurrying around town like forest animals foraging for food, they would interview just about anyone who stopped for a “Don’t Walk” light. Most of what ended up on video was hardly the highest thoughts of our midwestern town. Comments of the townspeople, captured for all the world by the magic of digital video, satellite and the internet, included such wonderful tidbits as “I’m just glad they’re going to fry his ass. Maybe teach a lesson to all those other Arabs who might have ideas about the old US of A” and “When they throw the switch, I’m planning to grab a front row seat. But the death penalty is just too good for him. I think maybe we oughta drop the bomb on his home town and see how they like it.”
After all this country has been through in the past several years, their sentiments were certainly understandable. It was clear that our public school effort to teach the values of tolerance was no match for the nation’s thirst for justice…or revenge, depending on your perspective. My students--and their parents and neighbors--had real trouble distinguishing between Akadi, the Arab terrorist caught in this despicable act, and all Arabs. I have to admit, after the past several weeks, I’m having trouble keeping this line from blurring myself.
I remember, in the middle of this national pageantry of justice and celebrity, sitting in my classroom after one of those incredibly exhausting days watching, or should I say staring at, the latest commentary on CNN. When my weary eyes glanced up to the open door, I caught a glimpse of Jose Cordons sauntering into my room. Jose was one of our day custodians and his slim, six-foot-four, 198-pound figure has been a familiar sight around Thurber for longer than I’ve been here. A head of long, stringy black hair, perpetually in need of a trim, framed an angular face and he sported a drooping mustache in a limp imitation of Pancho Villa. Some of the other custodians had a thing about keeping their appearance orderly, but Jose didn’t do neat. His clothes always looked like he slept in them.
Even though he usually wore a wry smile complete with crooked teeth and was ever ready with the smart remark, his deep sockets carried two coal-black eyes that seemed perpetually sad. Jose had migrated from Mexico to the US almost twenty years ago, but he had never lost his accent. When he spoke, he often sounded like he had just washed up on our shores. “You know, it’s all about zee money?” he said when he entered.
“What?” I responded, trying to rouse myself from my exhaustion.
Grabbing the garbage can with his left, he gestured at the TV with his right, “Zee execution. It brings boatload of money to Hammerville.”
I watched as he deftly dumped the contents into his trash bag and then my eyes went back to the TV. The reporter was standing in front of the prison and recapping for the nth time the last ditch efforts Akadi’s lawyers would make. Looking back at Jose, I didn’t say anything, but he must have seen the question in my expression, because he tried to explain.
“This make the town famous. And for restaurants and stores, business is good, real good with army and reporters. “ He shook his stringy hair.
Finally grasping his logic, I said, “Jose, I don’t think it’s quite that simple. This is about a lot more than money.”
“Sure it ees, Ms. Dee Dee, money and fame!” He flashed me his crooked smile.
“Well, Jose, I can’t even get into a restaurant without waiting. And don’t you think this is about right and wrong…and the American system of justice?”
“I like you Ms. Dee Dee, but sometimes you are silly.” Dropping that piece of wisdom, he was gone.
I gazed numbly at the now vacant doorframe for a while and went back to planning a lesson that would somehow use great American literature to teach universal human values to both my Arab Rashid and my redneck Ted. Back then I believed in miracles; after all, I’m a teacher.
Chapter 9
Yassim reached over and pushed the button again to change the radio station. Try as he might, he just couldn’t get accustomed to what came out of the small speakers of the American car. Either the stations whined on with the sounds of shrill Western music with godless words or feeble-minded women screeched that their men were not “sensitive enough.” It was little wonder that these Americans would fail. He hated opening his ears to such foolishness, but he had his orders.
He had been told to monitor the radio whenever he was traveling. Americans, he had learned in the Al Kim training camp, were so stupid that they announced all their security notices publicly on the radio and TV, so monitoring different stations was the best way to know if the team’s mission had been compromised. So he listened and didn’t like it. But he liked what he did not hear.
As he switched from one station to the other, he had heard no announcement, nothing about any “terrorist threat,” as Americans liked to characterize the celebrated acts of martyrdom for the Great Jihad. There had been an occasional news story about the coming execution of Akadi, but even these seemed to be just the same repeated reports. And newsmen had routinely announced that the readiness level for the country was moderate, the “yellow level,” but then nothing, no warning about any specific threat. It was exactly as the Sheik had predicted. They would strik
e and Americans would never suspect--until it was once again too late. He half-closed his eyes and visualized the smoking debris of the World Trade Center, the scene replayed thousands of times on TV screens across the world.
Idly, he thought about the “yellow level” designation and pondered the Western preoccupation to label everything with a letter or number or color. Do these unbelievers feel that nothing could stand by itself, and every act, that every idea needed to be cataloged and ordered? He was pleased to have been chosen as Allah’s instrument to disrupt their precious order and to avenge his family.
Yawning loudly, he stared in the rearview mirror to assure himself the others were still there. His eyes were tired and he had to squint to be sure. The sky was almost dark and there was just enough light to make out the colors of the cars behind him. He noted that the black Chevy Blazer carrying Mohammed, Hassan and Patti, the American volunteer to their cause, was almost a quarter-mile back and separated by two cars.
He caught a glimpse of his own face in the rearview mirror. In the fading light, the black stubble on his chin, so different from the salt and pepper beard that had adorned his chin just a few weeks earlier, gave his face a dark, brooding look. In the brief flash of light from a passing car’s high beams, he had just enough time to make out a long, sloping nose and the strong set of his jaw. The next car’s headlights illuminated his eyes, once a deep olive green, now only two dark, haunted sockets, overhung by the black lines of dense eyebrows.
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