Arnesto said nothing.
“That was the prevailing theory, by the way, until I told them, ‘No, this guy loves saving lives. He was just a rookie, still learning.’ I was right, wasn’t I? Still not talking?”
Whiteside pointed at the guard to give Arnesto another dose, then waited for the chemicals to take effect. Arnesto had never felt so relaxed in his life, but he tried his best not to show it.
“Look, Arnesto. I don’t blame you for L.A. One man working alone? Why should anyone listen to you? But here’s the thing. You clearly knew it was going to happen.” He stopped pacing to lean on the back of his chair. “Why didn’t you stop the beating in the first place? You could have given King a ride the night he was pulled over. I’m sure there are a hundred ways you could have handled it. But you didn’t, why?”
He resumed pacing as Arnesto was given a third dose. It was more than he could handle, and he passed out, falling forward onto the table. Two agents caught him before he slid onto the floor.
“Sir?” one of the agents asked.
“Fine,” Whiteside said. “Give him the flumazenil, take him back to his cell, and keep a close eye on him.”
Sometime later, Arnesto woke up in his cell without the foggiest clue how he got there. He wasn’t even sure how much time had passed since they drugged him — a few minutes? Days? There was no way to tell.
Once again, they came to collect him. He stood up, felt the world around him begin to spin, and sat right back down. An agent offered him a small bottle of water from which Arnesto took a few sips before standing up again. This time, he didn’t get dizzy and started to walk, but the agent stopped him, took back the water bottle, then motioned for him to keep moving.
“I thought we could skip ahead to the al-Qaeda Nineteen,” Whiteside said as Arnesto sat down. “First of all, let me be the first to thank you for tipping us off. This was back in September of 2001. A little reminder in case you can’t remember the past as well as you can see the future. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that you saved a great number of lives that day. Our analysts conclude that one or even two of those flights could have indeed been hijacked and flown into those buildings, killing dozens, possibly hundreds of people. Kudos. I mean that.
“Still, the way you informed the authorities could have been better. You emailed more than two dozen people. I get it, you wanted to get the word out. But you’ve heard of things being on a need-to-know basis, right? Well, a lot of those people didn’t need to know. You created a small panic, causing several agencies to trip over each other before a plan of attack could be decided upon, and that wasted precious time. Speaking of, you gave them a little more than a day to stop what could have been the greatest terrorist attack on U.S. soil in history? Come on, Arnesto. Your email was not crafted last-minute. How far in advance did you know about the attack? And also, do you ever check your email?
“People had questions, Arnesto. I’m sure you felt you told them everything in the email, but maybe someone would have asked something that would have caused you to recollect one more little piece of information that could have helped. At the very least, you would have seen that they wanted to reward you. Jeez, you could have had the key to the city if you wanted. Or maybe guaranteed anonymity and a medal would have suited you better. You could have had some fun with it, but instead, you went and hid and made yourself look suspicious. Do you understand that, Arnesto?”
Whiteside leaned back in his chair, giving Arnesto plenty of time to respond, but Arnesto remained silent. “You can hear me, right?” Arnesto looked up in confirmation for a moment before returning his gaze to the floor.
“Right.” Whiteside sat up straight and put his hands on the table. “I’m going to grab a coffee. Do you want one or can I get you something else? No? Be right back.” He left and returned holding a coffee. He was also smiling.
Whiteside sat down, sipped his coffee, and resumed his questioning. “Staying on the subject of airplanes, let’s talk about flight fifteen-forty-nine. I have to hand this one to you, I don’t know how you did it. Miracle on the Hudson? You were the miracle, weren’t you. Again, it was brought up, what if you were the cause? I shut that down in a hurry, Arnesto. It didn’t fit, not at all. A guy like you with your power doesn’t try to crash a plane while he’s on it. No, you were clearly the hero. Which leads me to two questions.
“First, why did you bring your then girlfriend? You knew what was going to happen to the plane. You must have hated her.”
Arnesto looked up, but quickly corrected himself. He couldn’t let Whiteside know he had touched a nerve.
“You know what,” Whiteside continued, I don’t even care. Let me get to question number two: how did you do it, how did you save that plane?” He took a couple sips of coffee while he waited for an answer. “Come on, give me this one, I really want to know. You answer this one question, I’ll get you out of that cell and into someplace real comfortable: all the amenities, all the video games you want. Are you going to let Sully hog all the credit?”
Not getting a response, Whiteside put down his coffee, stood up, and began pacing the room. “Damn, I was hoping you would give me that one. Here’s the issue, Arnesto. There’s not one shred of evidence you contributed to the events of that day. It was the geese, we know this. The problem is there’s also not one shred of evidence you did anything to save those people. How many of them would be mighty unhappy to find out that they didn’t need to have gone through that harrowing experience? How do you think US Airways would react if they found out you could have saved their expensive aircraft plus all those payouts after the crash? Where was the email this time?”
He sat down again. “What I don’t like is that you’re becoming reckless. Case in point, the Boston Marathon.”
Right on cue, an agent entered the room carrying a laptop which she handed to Whiteside before stepping back out. It was ajar but Whiteside opened it all the way. He tapped the touchpad and Arnesto heard a crowd sound. Whiteside tapped the touchpad a second time then dragged his finger along it before tapping it a third and final time. Arnesto surmised that Whiteside had started, paused, then restarted a video. Whiteside put the laptop in front of Arnesto. “Play it.”
Arnesto played the video. He saw and heard the crowd react to the first explosion, then saw himself pick up and throw the backpack containing the second bomb moments before it, too, exploded. There was nothing pleasurable about seeing how close he had come to death nor seeing how hard he and the rest of the crowd had been knocked to the ground. It was especially painful knowing this was how they had caught him.
“Your tip helped us apprehend the terrorists. That is, your second tip with the picture that you sent after the explosions. Your first tip, the phone call before the explosions, was ineffective.”
Arnesto found himself replaying the video over and over and stopped.
“You really cut it close that time. Not just with the bomb, but with the investigation. Without your text, they were going to start taking a very close look at you. Instead, they arrested the brothers in record time and the FBI’s investigation closed. Our investigation, however, had just caught a major break.
“Do you have any idea the resources we’ve spent trying to find you? It’s a little embarrassing, to tell you the truth. But finally, we almost have you and then you go and flee the country. Did you — did you blow up a factory in Bangladesh? That’s not like you. No, I get it, the building was going to collapse and kill everyone inside. Probably within the next day or two, right? How many, hundreds? More than a thousand? Right on, Arnesto. Sadly, the powers that be, and I can’t argue with them, have a growing concern that left unchecked, you, with your newfound love of adrenaline rushes and possible addiction to explosions, may create an international incident, if you haven’t already.