Justice Returns (Ben Kincaid series Book 19)

by William Bernhardt

  “I remember.”

  “Did you ever do anything about—”

  “No.”

  “Your sister—”

  “No.”

  “I hear she married. Several times.”

  “What brings you to my office today?” I asked, hoping he would take the hint and change the subject.

  He did. “Like I said, the government thinks I’m a terrorist.”

  “I can’t help you with that. The Patriot Act gives the intelligence community the power to investigate pretty much anyone they want, at home or abroad. And I only have a little time before I need to be back in court.” I paused. “How did Oscar become Omar? And what should I call you?”

  “Call me Oz, like you always did. It’s a long story. And not all that interesting, at least not to others. Believe me, I’ve tried it out in singles bars, and I’ve seen the eyelids droop. I don’t know if you followed this, but after Julia and I split, I left Oklahoma. I was having some issues.”

  He was kind enough not to mention that they were probably all my fault.

  “Had a hard time adjusting, you know, going from high school sports star to, basically, nobody. Tried a semester of college, but it wasn’t for me. Tried some low-level management positions, but turned out I wasn’t good at working for the man. Ended up in the military.”

  “Really.” The kid I knew in high school was the last person on earth I would’ve expected to end up in camo.

  “Tell you the truth, Ben, I got myself into a bit of trouble. More than a bit. Of the available options, joining the army looked best. After basic I got posted overseas. Ended up in Iraq.”

  “But you came back okay.”

  “More than okay. Multiple decorations. Even got the Silver Star. I was wounded once, during my second tour of duty. More shell-shocked than anything. I got over it. Did a year of PTSD therapy. Not all that many doors opened for returning vets, especially ones with a history of mental issues. Yeah, I got to board planes first, got ten percent off at the movies. But did anyone offer me a job? No. With no degree and the economy in the dumper, I had serious problems.”

  “All too common, unfortunately.”

  “And then, somewhere along the way, I discovered Allah.”

  “You converted to Islam?”

  “I’m not sure that’s the right word, since I’d never been much of a Christian. But I adopted the Muslim faith, and that led to changing my name.”

  Over the years, I’ve learned to watch people carefully. As a trial lawyer, that’s essential. If you want to know how a trial is going, you don’t ask someone in the gallery, and you don’t ask the judge. You watch the jurors. Unlike the litigants, they aren’t told to maintain a poker face, and they usually don’t. Someone shifting their weight, or raising their hand to their chin, can speak volumes.

  I tried to read Oz, but it wasn’t easy. I got the distinct impression he held it all inside. Masking, to use a litigator term of art. And why would he do that?

  “I eventually bumped into someone I’d been in service with. At a VA meeting. Abdullah Ali. He’s Muslim, too, except he was born to it. Still an American, mind you. Born and raised in Iowa. But he had troubles after 9/11. The feds suspected him of complicity with terrorist cells. Completely baseless, but they monitored him to such an extent that he couldn’t work. Eventually he started a nonprofit organization to protest the Patriot Act. He calls it PACT—Patriot Act Challenge Tribunal. They educate people on the facts and pursue legal and political avenues to overturning the Patriot Act.”

  “Part of it has expired.”

  “The parts pertaining to NSA bulk collection of US phone records. Not the parts pertaining to rendition, detention, or interrogation. The USA Freedom Act left almost all of that intact. And the NSA is still collecting millions of US citizens’ phone metadata without warrants.”

  I’d heard of PACT. So far as I knew, they were a legitimate lobbying group. I worked in Washington for a time and played a role in preventing the passage of a significant expansion of the Patriot Act.

  “I believed in the cause, and I needed work,” Oz continued. “Abdullah provided it. And if that weren’t perk enough, I started dating his sister, Mina. Till the CIA grabbed me.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was detained and interrogated. On American soil. Arrested me at the airport, put a bag over my head, dragged me to an undisclosed location. Despite the fact that I’m an American. Despite the fact that I’m a vet.”

  “They do have that power. It may seem unconstitutional, but Congress thought the need for domestic security justified it.”

  “Ben, they held me three weeks.”

  “Three weeks?”

  “I was strip-searched. Three times a day. Cavity searches. Even assuming they could justify it the first time, what did they expect to find afterward? They took my clothes and left me naked in a dirty cell. I demanded to be released. They ignored me. In fact, they laughed at me.”

  “Did they . . . hurt you?”

  “Define hurt.” His lips tightened.

  “Did they torture you?”

  “Damn straight.” I couldn’t help but notice that his hands shook. “They didn’t wound me, if that’s what you mean. They didn’t penetrate my skin. But they tied me to a chair, or handcuffed me, and left me like that for hours, grilling me, accusing me, telling me they knew I was a terrorist and I was going to get the needle for it. They waterboarded me. Do you know what that means?”

  “I think I—”

  “It’s not like what you see in the movies. They came up with a cute name to minimize what it was. Waterboarding. Sounds like a sport, doesn’t it? Like surfboarding. Loads of fun. What they’re talking about is drowning someone. Not just threatening to drown you, but actually drowning you. Not so much that you die. But they completely block off your airflow so long everything goes black and your brain goes dead and all you can feel is panic, the gasping, helpless panic that comes when your lungs can’t get anything and your whole body starts to self-destruct—”

  He turned his head away. Probably because his eyes were watering, and he didn’t want me to see. “They did it over and over again. Chained me to the wall. Bombarded me with painfully loud music. Disgusting food. Filth and squalor. People think all that ended after bin Laden was executed, but they’re wrong. My primary interrogator was a man named Nazir. I’d known him a little back in Iraq, before he conveniently switched sides and joined the CIA. He’s got a serious bad-on against me. It’s personal, and this gave him the perfect opportunity to act on it. That bastard would lean into my face with a sick grin, and he’d say, ‘We’re never letting you out of here. We’re going to play with you and hurt you over and over again for the rest of your life. And there’s nothing you can do about it.’”

  He covered his face with his hand. “And I believed him, Ben. I believed every word. I would’ve done anything to get out of there. And I did.”

  6

  Witness Affidavit

  Case No. CJ-49-1886

  I had been watching al-Jabbar for hours, even before he entered the lawyer’s office.

  The surveillance had been uneventful. Nonetheless, my handler assured me it was important and my vigilance was critical to our mission, so I stayed at full alert, ready to strike, retaliate, or defend myself. Some might question these actions, especially given all that occurred afterward. I did not. Not then and not now.

  Once they left the central lobby, with its large street-side window, I was unable to maintain visual contact. Using my infrared and heat sensors, I could establish that there were three persons in Kincaid’s office, and two were gathered in a smaller room in what appeared to be a posture of conversation.

  Since I could not hear what they said, I was unable to determine whether critical secrets were revealed. At this time, all I could tell was that two people—in all likelihood Kincaid and al-Jabbar—were engaged in a protracted discussion. At various times, the smaller of the two figures, most likely Kincai
d, reached out to the other in a gesture of comfort or support. Beyond that, I could not assess what was said or its threat potential.

  My handler broke radio silence, a quaint antiquated term, given that our means of communication had nothing to do with radio waves.

  “Target acquired?”

  “Yes.”

  “In sights?”

  “Yes.”

  “Within range?”

  “Not within visual or strike range.”

  “Threat assessment?”

  “Impossible. I cannot discern what is being said. I cannot hear them, and the lack of visuals makes lipreading impossible. Recommend planting listening devices in the office at the earliest possible opportunity. Perhaps tonight.”

  “Recommendation accepted.”

  “Don’t you need—”

  “No. Recommendation accepted.”

  “It shall be done.”

  The chain of command is complex and often convoluted. The smart soldier obeys orders and avoids power struggles. Commanders come and go. Soldiers are forever.

  I descended from the roof into an alley, crossed the street, then moved to the rear of the building. I found a fire escape, which, coupled with some gymnastics and a grip honed by years of strength training, allowed me to gain access to the roof without taking any actions that would leave overt traces of surveillance. Once on the roof, I measured my distances carefully, then withdrew the nylon cord from my backpack. I tied one end to a stationary pipe jutting from the center of the roof, then tied the other end around my waist. I checked for tautness and to ensure that my measurements were accurate.

  That done, I stepped off the edge of the roof.

  The rope held me tightly enough that I could defy gravity. I took six steps down the side of the building, checking the cord at each step. It held, and more importantly, it held me. When the cord was at its full length, I hovered just above the window I calculated to be Kincaid’s interior conference room.

  Slowly, carefully, I lowered myself to my knees. The Oklahoma wind fought me for control. Strength training comes of value in the most unexpected circumstances. When I was certain I was secure, I laid down flat against the building, my head poised just below the top of the window. I knew I could not maintain this position forever. Eventually the blood rushing to my head would impair cognitive functioning.

  From this position, I was able to employ the MKX-Audio 9, essentially a high-tech stethoscope. I placed the reception disc against the window and listened.

  “Did they . . . hurt you?”

  “Define hurt.”

  “Did they torture you?”

  “Damn straight.”

  I knew I would not be able to listen to the conversation as long as it was likely to proceed, so after a few minutes, I contacted my handler for further instructions.

  “I have obtained limited access to the conversation. Al-Jabbar is providing details of his incarceration and questioning.”

  “And beyond that?”

  “So far, he has not progressed beyond that.”

  “Any discussion of his affiliation with other organizations?”

  “Only PACT.”

  “Any discussions of concern to our operations?”

  “Not at this time.”

  “Monitor the situation as long as you can safely.”

  “I will.”

  “You must not be detected.”

  “Then I will not be.”

  There was a pause in the flow of my instructions. “You understand . . . if the threat assessment should turn negative, you will be required to take action.”

  “Of course.”

  “We cannot allow anything to threaten or compromise our long-range plans.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “A situation could well arise in which you would be required to take extreme sanctions against the target.”

  “But which target?”

  “Either of the targets. Or quite possibly both.”

  7

  I didn’t feel I knew Oz well enough to comfort him. I hated encouraging him to continue talking when he was in pain, but I couldn’t help him if I didn’t know the whole story.

  And I had only about ten minutes before I had to rush back to the courthouse. Typically, clients weren’t appreciative when you made them bare their souls on a deadline.

  “You were released. Eventually.”

  “Yes.” His eyes remained cold. “Eventually.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I told them everything I knew the first day. Sorry if that sounds weak. See how long you can hold out, being drowned, shivering naked in your filthy cell, no support, nothing for comfort. I didn’t feel I’d done anything wrong. Why shouldn’t I talk? Problem was I knew very little. Almost nothing they wanted.”

  “What did they think you knew?”

  “Nazir repeatedly asked, ‘Does it work?’ I have no idea what that meant.”

  “They must have been looking for information about something.”

  “I think they were after Abdullah, because his political activities were causing them problems.”

  “They can’t use the Patriot Act or the Freedom Act to go after lobbyists.”

  “They can do anything they want with a person of interest.”

  I tried a different approach. “Do you think Abdullah was a legitimate person of interest?”

  “No. They never brought charges against Abdullah. I don’t think they ever planned to. They may have been trying to scare him, because his nonprofit got in their way. But he’s no terrorist, and they damn well know it.”

  “Why go after you? If they wanted to scare Abdullah, surely the best course would be to detain Abdullah.”

  “Not necessarily. He might be willing to sacrifice himself, but less willing to sacrifice a friend.”

  “They could detain you to secure your testimony, or to prevent you from fleeing, but they couldn’t hold you on suspicion of being a terrorist unless they had at least a glimmer of evidence.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So you believe you were held in violation of the law.”

  “And I want to sue the bastards. For what they did to me.”

  “A civil suit for wrongful imprisonment. If what you say checks out, you’ve got a prima facie case. At least enough to get past the sniff test.”

  “Meaning we win?”

  “Meaning we go to trial. Assuming the judge agrees with my assessment.”

  “Then you’ll take my case?”

  I held up my hands, startled. I’d been considering the facts and issues from a purely intellectual and legal standpoint, something I tend to do (too much) in the early stages of a case. For the clients, of course, it’s never an intellectual exercise. They want justice. Or perhaps revenge. “I don’t know, Oz. I’ll have to give this more thought.”

  “What’s to think about? You’re a civil rights attorney, aren’t you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Then why the hesitation?”

  Truth was, filing a civil suit sounded like Oz was asking for trouble with little chance of material gain. And it was always possible he was exaggerating. Melodramatizing.

  Then again, Hickman wasn’t trying to scare me off just because he was afraid of a civil suit or bad publicity. Something more was going on here. Much more. “Life has taught me to think carefully before committing to anything.”

  “Are civil rights cases your most important work?”

  I thought a moment before answering. “Every case is important to the client.”

  “And civil rights cases are important to everyone. And this is a civil rights case. A huge violation of personal liberty.”

  “Potentially.”

  “And we go way back, right?”

  Was he trying to guilt me? “I need to do more investigation. A case like this will be long and frankly expensive.”

  “I think I can get Abdullah to foot the bill.”

  “Bad idea. You need to completely
distance yourself from him, especially financially. Don’t give them any ammunition.”

  “Then I’ll find the money somewhere else.”

  “Let me check this out first. Talk to people. Talk to my wife.”

  “She makes your decisions for you?”

  Ah. So now he was going to play the “pussy-whipped” card. Fortunately, the older I got, the less I felt I had to prove my manhood and the less I cared what other people thought. “I need to give this some serious deliberation. I don’t want to waste your time or mine.” I glanced at my cell phone. “And right now, I just don’t have time to think it through.”

  “Are you scared?”

  That surprised me, but I supposed it shouldn’t have. “If you think I run from controversial cases, then you don’t know anything about me.”

  “Truth is, Ben, I know almost everything about you. I did my research before I came here. I picked you for a reason. Your record screams courage. I know taking on the government is dangerous. There’s no limit to how much they can screw with you, or how much they can take away from you. They could seize your assets, freeze your bank accounts. They could circulate false information. They could arrest and waterboard you on some pretense, just like they did me. If it’s too much for you to handle, I get it.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Then what are you saying? Ben, this should not have happened to me. I’m not some flaming liberal. I’m a veteran and a Republican. I come from a good family. I’m a card-carrying NRA member. I supported the Patriot Act when it passed. But what they did to me—and what they’re doing to others like me—is wrong. And I don’t think it has anything to do with national security. I think the government is abusing its power for a completely different reason. Why won’t you help me do what’s right? Why won’t you stand up for freedom?”

  Somehow, he’d managed to get me on the defensive. “I said I need time to think. And I don’t have time right now. Leave your contact information with Tanya. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “All right.” He pushed himself out of his chair. He didn’t say anything, but his disappointment—along with the accompanying approbation—was apparent. “I’ll wait for your call. Just remember Ben—if they can do this to me, they can do this to anyone. We accuse other nations of civil rights violations, but who watches the watcher?” He paused. “And I don’t know what it means to be a civil rights lawyer if you don’t have the balls to tackle the greatest civil rights violation in the history of the nation.”