Darkroom

by Joshua Graham

  “A wise woman.” I offer him a cigarette, which he declines.

  “Beyond her years.”

  “Listen, Peter. Right now, I daresay we share similar goals. If Colson’s willing to kill me, and anyone who could possibly expose him, there’s nothing to stop him from going after Nicole and Bobby. He’s already after your daughter. No matter what happens to you and me, we must protect them.”

  “Agreed. But how do you stop the most powerful man in the world?”

  “There is a way. But it’s going to cost us.”

  84

  CNN.com

  AP Press Release

  The nation witnessed a landmark event in American history yesterday as Independent candidate Richard Colson won the election for president of the United States. History will mark him as the first Independent Party candidate elected since George Washington.

  Coast to coast, victory parties ran straight through the morning, hailing the man everyone believes will lead the nation out of these troubled times of economic, military, and cultural decline.

  President Bush called President-elect Colson this morning to congratulate him and offer the cooperation of his office for a smooth transition until his swearing-in on January 20, next year.

  The mood around the country is one of excitement. Young and old, people of diverse cultures all have expressed great expectations for Colson, who has been called “the California Maverick,” and still remembered by Vietnam veterans as “Thundering Rick.”

  85

  GRACE TH’AM AI LE

  Del Mar, California: November 5, 2007

  My doctor has found a massive tumor in my brain. It is malignant and inoperable. They are amazed at my strength, considering the pain.

  All I can say is “His grace is sufficient for me.” But I know my time draws near. I have already exceeded my predicted survival period. I believe this is because I have unsettled business to attend to.

  I have come to realize that the spiritual gifts that were given me were for one reason: to help others. For some time, I believed they were mostly for personal benefit—wisdom, comfort, direction, reassurance. Until now, what I failed to see was that these gifts were also there to reveal truth to me.

  One of the greatest truths I have come to understand is that I must forgive Peter. Even now, he has not told me what he holds in his heart—or perhaps what in his heart holds him.

  I suppose I rationalized, thinking, How can I forgive him for something he doesn’t admit? It is not just the classified business meetings, but the choices he made. The distancing from his family. For this, I must forgive him.

  And I do.

  If there is one thing I can impart to my beloved husband and daughter it is this: Seek the truth. It will set you free.

  I have.

  I have requested that a letter I wrote to Xandi several years ago be sealed and given to her only after my death, along with this journal. Perhaps when the time is right, my exhortation will shed more light for both her and Peter.

  I pray they will find both truth and freedom.

  I had one last vision, lying here in my bed, while my husband finally fell asleep in the chair by my bed. It was a glorious vision, too beautiful for words. It’s Peter’s Pacific sunset, the open window to the eternal.

  No longer afraid.

  I am coming home.

  86

  AP Press Release

  COLSON ADMINISTRATION’S PLAN FOR

  GITMO CLOSURE

  An unofficial leak from the Colson team indicates that the closing of the Guantanamo Bay Detention Camp will be high on the list of executive orders under his new administration.

  In his proposed plan, some of the suspected terrorist detainees will be released, while the majority of those remaining will be tried in United States criminal courts.

  Denouncing the idea of creating a new court to handle the cases most entangled in highly classified information, the Colson administration will provide added information-security measures and safeguards for detainees, to prevent any abuse endemic to closed and anonymous military tribunals.

  At the same time, the plan is said to ensure the security of classified information pertaining to national security. Advisers directly involved with this plan spoke on condition of anonymity because it has not yet been finalized.

  This plan rides on the heels of the recent arrest of domestic terror suspect Xandra Carrick. Daughter of famed photojournalist Peter Carrick, Ms. Carrick has been charged with conspiracy and an assassination attempt on President-elect Colson. In addition, she has been charged with the murders of at least two veterans who served with Colson during the Vietnam War.

  Carrick is also accused of murdering her father. Details have yet to be released, but a spokesperson for the prosecution speculates that the murder charges will be accompanied by terrorism charges.

  Colson’s plan to transition away from military tribunals will not take effect until the order is signed after his inauguration in January.

  87

  XANDRA COLSON

  Naval Consolidated Brig

  Marine Corps Air Station, San Diego, California

  It’s been about a week since I was transferred to the Marine Corps Air Station’s Brig. I’ve heard people here refer to this place as NAVCONBRIG. According to the staff, it’s home to the Department of Defense Women’s Correctional Facility, the only one in the military that is designated for female offenders.

  I’m dazed, uncertain of what to do. Everything’s happening so fast. I can only imagine that Dad is gone. God only knows what kind of evidence Colson has manufactured to pin his death, and the deaths of the other vets, on me.

  Colson’s managed to keep his atrocities hidden for thirty-five years, and with all his political power, virtually limitless personal resources, and an unprecedented approval rating as a senator that’s sure to transfer over to his presidency, there’s no way I’m going to beat the charges.

  I’ve been here overnight in a six-by-twelve cell with a tiny window in the door and another on the outer wall. I wasn’t permitted a phone call. I was told it is a privilege, not a right. Who would I call, anyway? Even if I knew lawyers on the West Coast, I’m broke. I’ve declined counsel by a military defense lawyer, but I shudder to think what kind I’ll get from the list of civilian criminal defense attorneys.

  The cell door opens, causing my heart to climb into my throat. A pair of armed guards stands at the door as the female uniformed staff steps in. “You have a visitor.”

  The chains on my feet scrape the ground as we walk through the hall and arrive at the door to a conference room. I’ve never had my hands cuffed before, and when I see the young man seated at the desk, I make a pathetic attempt to hide them. These chains make me feel like an animal.

  He stands, nearly trips in his haste to meet me at the door. “Ah, Ms. Carrick! John Morgenstern.” He extends his hand to shake, but because of the manacles, all I can offer are my fingertips.

  Which he actually takes and wiggles. “Pleased to meet you. I’m your appointed counsel for the tribunal next week.”

  “Next week? How’s that possible?”

  “Yeah, I tried to get a continuance, due to the ridiculously short discovery period. But look who we’re up against. Doesn’t work that way.”

  “Figures.” I’m led to a table where I sit, with my chains fastened to an eye screw in the floor.

  John Morgenstern rubs the bristles on his unshaved face and rolls his eyes. “I’m going to let you know this up front. I’m a first-year associate at my firm, and my boss, a senior partner, threw me into the lions’ den because no one else would touch this case. And I—being at the portion of the totem pole where the sun don’t shine—was handed the short straw in this month’s pro bono lot.”

  “I would think they’d be happy to sink their teeth into a high profile case like this.”

  “You would think. But the fact is, Lawrence S. Goldman, president of the National Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers,
has advised its eleven thousand members not to act as civilian counsel for tribunals like this.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, there’s no way I can guarantee attorney-client privilege. Everything you and I discuss is monitored by the government for intelligence purposes. On top of that, I can’t say a word to the press without permission from the DOD. Not exactly a gag order, but it covers more than just classified information that might be involved in the trial.”

  “And yet, here you are.”

  “While my hands are tied—and most would argue that I can’t provide a zealous or ethical defense under tribunal rules—with me, you have one thing going for you.”

  “Your charm? Don’t tell me. You could sell the Brooklyn Bridge to the pope, and he’d buy the extended warranty with it.”

  “You’re something.” He chuckles and wags a finger at me. “I was going to say that the advantage of having me as your attorney is that I hate to lose.”

  “As opposed to being represented by someone who loves to?”

  “I’ve never lost a criminal case yet.”

  “How many have you won?”

  “Did I mention that I graduated with honors, top of my class at Cornell Law?”

  “John, please tell me you’ve won all your cases.”

  “Okay, look. I second chaired for Jody Bauer of Bauer & Associates for all but one of them. So in a way, they weren’t all my losses. And our clients got significantly reduced sentences because they pled out.”

  “Somehow, you’re not inspiring a great deal of confidence.”

  “But I won my first case just last month. It was a capital, and I got my client a full acquittal. Made one heck of a closing argument. I can do this.”

  Sitting silent, staring into his sea-green eyes, I’m at a total loss. I don’t know if asking for a more experienced attorney will do much good, even if I were allowed. But he’s representing me for free, and that’s all I can afford. It’s John Morgenstern or an appointed military attorney.

  88

  I’m going crazy in here. For the past three days, I haven’t spoken to anyone but interrogators about the most insane charges imaginable. “When did you first make contact with al-Qaeda?” “Who was your cell leader in Iraq?” “Where did you get the materials for the dirty bomb you intended for the presidential inauguration?”

  These are the charges.

  The imagination behind the elaborate fabrication of evidence is worthy of a Tom Clancy thriller. Nothing I’ve said seems to help. What good is it for a suspected terrorist to explain that the president-elect is a mass murderer? The truth is doing anything but setting me free.

  My first hearing is today. I’m frustrated to no end that I’ve been able to speak with John Morgenstern only twice. He says he’s trying to limit our communication due to the monitoring. I’ve told him my side of the story, even the visions I’ve had. But I can’t tell if he believes me or not. He just takes notes and once in a while says, “Hmmm …”

  I’ve just finished breakfast. Eggs and a biscuit served on a plastic tray. So far, life as a detainee isn’t as bad as one might imagine. By far the worst part is the anxiety, the isolation. Plenty of time for my thoughts and feelings and imagination to get well acquainted. That isn’t a good thing.

  I miss Dad. Did we ever reconcile? Everything happened so quickly, and now he’s gone. I never got to tell him how much I really do love him, despite the troubles we had. But now that I understand why he had to distance himself, all those years of resentment seem to wash away, leaving regret in their wake. How awful it must have been for him to carry around that kind of guilt all those years. And with his photographic memory, it’s no wonder he couldn’t sleep. All those horrific memories from Bình Sơn, alive in his head. He never got to redeem himself.

  And what about Kyle? We came so close to a true connection. Only to have it ripped away. I’m sure they’ll spin up some kind of bunk about him as a rogue agent helping the infamous terrorist who almost murdered the president and a million onlookers at his inauguration. Every day, anger competes with grief. Today, grief has the upper hand.

  The door locks click open, the highlight of my day. It’s Corporal Davis. She flashes a brief smile. “You have a visitor.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  Sure enough, when I arrive at the conference room, there with my attorney is Pastor Jake, dressed in a charcoal suit and a red tie. “Hello, Xandra.”

  “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  “Mr. Morgenstern told me you wanted to see me. I’m here in a clerical capacity.”

  “Don’t perform my last rites just yet, I just …” I slump into my chair at the table. The guard secures my chains as they clatter. My cheeks burn, and tears fill my eyes as I behold my closest approximation to a friend. “John, could we have a moment?”

  He looks at the guard, who nods. “Don’t talk about the case,” John says and points to his ear. All but Jake leave the room, though armed guards stand outside.

  Jake takes a seat opposite me. “Are you all right?”

  “No.” I sniff and wipe my nose on the sleeve of my orange prison uniform. “I’m sorry. You would not believe what I’ve been through.”

  “I can only imagine. But you’re being held in a military prison as an enemy combatant. Have they—?”

  “No. No, it’s not like Abu Ghraib. I saw some brigs while on assignment in Iraq. This one isn’t so bad.”

  He takes my hands in his. A pained expression comes over him. “Your courage is inspiring.” Jake’s the first ray of sunlight, breaking through the dark clouds. I glance into his eyes for a moment, then look down at the table for fear I might start crying.

  “Have you had any more visions?”

  “The Graflex is gone. I don’t think I’ll have any more visions. Maybe it’s for the best.” I tell him about everything else that’s transpired since I left the colony. And then about that last vision, the one that uncovered Dad’s past.

  A knowing look comes upon him. “They’re saying you killed your father.”

  “Oh, sure. I’m sure Colson’s already scripted my motive, means, and opportunity. Does no one in this entire nation know what a danger their new president is? It’s hopeless.”

  “It’s never hopeless, Xandra.”

  “Wish I had your faith.”

  Jake leans forward, holds my gaze intently. “It’s been said that you only need faith the size of a mustard seed. And with it, you can speak to a mountain, tell it to be cast into the sea. And it will.”

  “I’m facing Everest. And it shows no sign of budging.”

  His eyes brighten. Like he’s got a secret but wants me to figure it out. “What would your mother have done at a time like this?”

  “Well, I guess she’d pray. I don’t know, I always thought it was just kind of superstitious, you know? Like a rabbit’s foot, a placebo to get you through the tough times.”

  “Maybe it’s more than that. Want to give it a try?”

  He’s right. Mom would have done just that. Pray, when things were looking their worst. It couldn’t hurt. “All right. I could use all the help I can get.”

  Jake begins, “Father God, I thank You and praise You that You alone are sovereign, and You alone have established all authority in heaven and earth …”

  My head is bowed, eyes shut. I’m actually hoping that another vision will come and reveal what is to come. But the words flowing from Jake’s lips grow quiet. Now speaking in a strange language. I know I shouldn’t, but I open my eyes—I can just hear Mom scolding me for doing that—and gaze, fascinated. He’s deep in prayer, and it evokes a memory that I’d long forgotten until now.

  I’m about three or four years old. At the time I don’t know that I’ve got a high fever that isn’t responding to medications. Mom is by my bed, praying just like Jake is. She has called her pastor over to lay hands on me and pray for healing. He, too, is speaking the same strange prayer language.

  “You shal
l not die, but live, and declare the works of the LORD.”

  And at the same moment as this heretofore-forgotten memory comes to me, Jakes declares, “Xandra Phuong Carrick, you shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the LORD.” His hand is on my head now. A warm tingle flows through me down to my feet like an anointing of light.

  When he finishes, he looks up. “Another word. The Lord wants you to know. You’re not alone.”

  89

  AP Press Release

  CARRICK’S REMAINS FOUND

  FBI officials announced last night that the charred remains of Pulitzer Prize–winning photojournalist Peter Carrick were found in a remote wooded area three miles from the California Interstate-8 freeway. Forensics experts identified the body by dental records. Carrick’s body was found in a car that had been set on fire, but the cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head.

  Carrick’s daughter, Xandra Carrick, a former photojournalist for the New York Times, has been charged with his murder. Ms. Carrick, who is best known for her work on the plight of female suicide bombers, spent six months on assignment in Iraq. She has been named by the Department of Homeland Security as an enemy combatant and charged with multiple counts of murder, domestic terrorism, and the attempted assassination of President-elect Richard Colson. Carrick is currently being detained at the Naval Consolidated Brig in San Diego, awaiting a military tribunal.

  Staff members for Colson, who, shortly after the election, had announced his intention to resign as the chairman of the Investigative Branch of the Senate Oversight Committee on Homeland Security by December, spoke on the condition of anonymity. The Department of Defense has approved a request to expedite the tribunal so that sentencing and security matters can be resolved well before Colson’s inauguration in January.