The second soldier looped the noose around Justin’s neck and led him up the ladder. The noose pulled taut-and then the first soldier kicked the ladder out from under Justin’s feet. He felt the rope tighten and he thought he was dead, really dead, but the rope broke and Justin tumbled to the ground, more or less unhurt, the noose still tight around his neck. Still, his captors said nothing. When the two men left the room, Justin removed the noose, felt the rope at the point where it had fallen apart, and realized it had been cut. Their intention had not been to hang him. It had been to terrify him.
It had worked.
Justin cared deeply about staying alive now. He didn’t know if he could but he suddenly had a deep and desperate thirst for life. He wanted-no, needed-to find out who was doing this to him. Find out who it was, find out where they were, and stay alive until he could kill them.
Holding the rope strands, he smiled through cracked lips. Life suddenly seemed good again. He had a reason to live.
They hadn’t taken his strength yet.
Some time after the mock hanging-Justin had no idea when; it could have been hours, it could have been days-another man in fatigues came through the door and into Justin’s cell. It was the first time someone had come in alone. Justin waited for the backup but no one else came. Just this one guy. His light brown hair was slightly longer than the others, not a buzz cut. His skin wasn’t as tan as most of the other men who’d come in. His clothes seemed crisper, as if they were newer or had been recently starched.
Justin was sprawled on the floor and made no attempt to stand. The man had his back to the wall with the door and he leaned casually against it. Watching him, Justin realized he was going to hear the first words he’d heard since he’d been there. This soldier wasn’t just a thug. Justin made a silent bet with himself that this was an officer. And that this was his interrogator.
“The explosion at Harper’s Restaurant,” the soldier said. His voice was calm. Whatever anger lurked behind them wasn’t detectable. Nor was it visible in his eyes, which were slate gray and as blank as eyes could be. “Tell me what happened.”
Justin didn’t answer. He had no response that could remotely be seen as satisfying.
“How long have I been here?” he said instead, and was surprised to hear his own voice-harsh and dry and cracked. It hurt his throat to expel the words and he didn’t know if the man would even understand the words.
“Not long enough,” the man answered. “You should try answering the questions that I ask.”
Justin tried licking his lips before speaking this time. It didn’t do much good. He couldn’t conjure up any moisture.
“How much longer?”
“Tell me what you know about the Harper’s bombing.”
“How much longer. . will I be here?”
“You’ll be here until you tell us what you know.”
“And then?”
“It depends on what you tell us.”
“Where?”
“Are you asking where you are?” And when Justin nodded, because he was almost out of energy and that was the best he could do, the man in fatigues said, “You’re in hell, pal.”
Justin knew he’d lost the guy, that he was going to turn and leave the tiny cell, so he quickly spit out the word, “Why?” And when the officer hesitated, didn’t leave, just stared at Justin, a look of disbelief on his face, Justin said it again quickly, as loud as he could: “Why?”
“You’re being held as an enemy combatant.”
Justin raised his head. He hoped his eyes were registering the disbelief he felt. “You think I’m a terrorist?”
“We know you have knowledge of terrorist activities. And that you may be aiding and abetting the enemy.”
“Fucking crazy.”
“I couldn’t understand that. You’re not speaking clearly.”
Justin coughed out some of the hurt in his throat and forced the words out: “You’re fucking crazy.”
The man didn’t answer. This time he just turned and headed for the door.
“Wait,” Justin said. And when the man turned back, Justin, doing his best to be understood, added, “Want to call a lawyer.”
The man actually smiled. A thin, cruel, delighted smile. “You don’t have the right,” he said.
“Bullshit.” It was the clearest word Justin had yet uttered.
The man took two steps forward now, leaned down to get closer to him. Justin could see the man recoil slightly at the smell. The proximity to this kind of filth seemed to finally anger him. The grin was gone, as was the calm civility. Both were replaced only by cruelty. “Listen, you little fuck. You don’t have the right to an attorney, you don’t have the right to remain silent, you don’t have the right to shit. Not anymore. Guys like me, we can finally do our fucking jobs. I can keep you here for the rest of your natural fucking life and no one can do a fucking thing about it, do you understand that?”
When Justin didn’t answer, the man kicked him. Hard. Justin didn’t feel any real pain but he realized he must have blacked out, because suddenly his eyes were open and he’d missed some time, and the man was standing over him.
“What do you want to know?” Justin said.
“Right now, all I want to know is if you understand what the fuck I just told you. ’Cause the stink in here is making me sick and I don’t want to have to spend one second more than I have to talking to scum like you.”
“I understand what you told me.”
“Good. Now you think about it until I come back. That might be tomorrow, it might be a few months from now, it might be never. You think about that, too.”
Justin felt the panic rising up again. The idea of going back into the endless isolation, no conversation, no communication, more beatings, it was the feeling he imagined would come with being buried alive. The feeling he had when he dreamed about Alicia and Lili. The fear was suffocating but he refused to show it, did his best to keep his breath smooth and steady. The man turned and left.
Justin Westwood curled up on the floor. He didn’t know if he could stay awake, exhaustion had consumed his entire body. But he didn’t think he could fall asleep, so deep was his dread of being beaten and humiliated, his usual punishment for drifting away from consciousness. So he lay there, doing his best to keep his thoughts coherent and his fear too deeply embedded to emerge.
They didn’t have his strength. They hadn’t taken it away. That’s what he told himself over and over and over again.
And then he began to weep.
28
The beatings and sleep deprivation resumed soon afterward. Justin estimated they went on for three more days, although he knew his sense of time had little proportion to it. That was as close as he could get and it was preferable to no guideline at all.
On what he thought was the fourth day, the man-the only one who had thus far spoken to him-returned. He offered a small paper cup full of water, which Justin grabbed and downed in one gulp. The cold liquid hurt his throat; the coldness was jarring enough that it made him drop the cup on the floor. He watched sadly as a tiny stream of water dropped onto the dirt and formed a moist bubble of a puddle.
“Tell me about the bombing at Harper’s,” the man asked. No lead-in, no attempt at banter or good cop tactics. Just, “Tell me about the bombing at Harper’s.”
Justin nodded slowly. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about the bombing at La Cucina.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
The man’s voice didn’t change. “Tell me about the McDonald’s bombing.”
“I’ll tell you anything I know. Ask me questions I can answer.”