just throw the dice and see if this opens him up.”
David, our senior interrogator, joins our group. “Matthew,” he says to me, “Why don’t you join me this afternoon in the monitor room to watch the other interrogations. You’ll be doing that a lot in the weeks ahead, so you might as well get used to it.”
I look at Bobby.
“Go ahead,” he says. “You can watch my handsome mug from that Hollywood room.”
“You sure?” I ask.
“Damn sure,” Bobby says.
“Come on, I’ll show you how to work the controls,” David says.
I look Bobby over before I follow David. Bobby looks exhausted. His eyes have dark circles and his shoulders areslightly slumped. All week we’ve stayed long after our shifts have ended to write our reports. Bobby’s a stickler for details and always triple-checks to make sure the reports are in the proper format. I haven’t gotten back to my hooch before 3 A.M. all week.
“Hey, have you gotten any sleep?” I ask. He picks up a Coke can and raises it as if he’s going to offer a toast. “Forty-eight hours straight!”
David leads me into the Hollywood room and explains how it works. On one wall are three rows of state-of-the-art flat-screen TVs. Below the flat-screens is a long desk with several electronic switchboxes that control the cameras and audio in each of the booths. On the back wall are four customized roof-high glass cases with stacks of electronic components. The whole room is a hack-job of wires and buttons, and it nearly requires a masters degree to operate. Big Brother is watching. It’s a great way for the senior ’gator to keep tabs on what techniques the other ’gators are using.
“Have a seat,” David offers. As elsewhere, the chairs here are worn and broken.
Bobby appears on one of the flat-screen displays. Abu Ali follows a few minutes later. I grab a set of headphones, flip a switch, and tune in. As I watch, I’m really taken by Bobby’s physical appearance. The vibrant Nebraskan I’ve gotten to know this week is gone. Instead, I see a young man who has pushed himself too far, worked too hard. It is a lesson we all learn. Back when I was a shiny 2nd Lieutenant, I didn’t know how to pace myself either. Now, in my mid-thirties, I’ve learned that this sort of deployment is not a sprint; it’s a marathon. You’ve got to apportion your energy for the entire race; otherwise you’ll crash and burn early.
Bobby’s on the brink. As he starts working with Abu Ali, he sounds testy and impatient.
“Abu Ali, we need to know who you work for,” Bobby begins.
Our detainee doesn’t answer. Bobby repeats the question only to get the same result.
“I thought you agreed to work with us?” Bobby asks angrily.
Abu Ali replies, “You Americans have lied from the beginning.”
He’s retrenched, retreated back into his shell of bitterness. Coaxing him out at this point is going to be tough, if not impossible.
Bobby works hard to get him talking, but Abu Ali barely responds to his questions. In some cases, he doesn’t answer at all.
“Abu Ali, help us save lives. You said you’d join us.”
Silence.
“We’re trying to help you.”
No response.
Bobby slams his hand down on his notebook and in a fit of frustration shouts, “Is that all you’re going to do? Fuckin’ sit there? You’re not going to say anything? How’s that going to help Iraq? How’s that going to help your son ?”
“I gave you the houses.”
“Yes, and I thought that you would join us.”
“I can’t.”
Bobby looks ready to blow his stack. Instead, he says, “You know what, Abu Ali? I’m gonna show you a video.”
Abu Ali has been staring at the floor through most of this. Now he glances up. I see he’s curious.
“Yeah. That’s right. It’ll show you what the future of Iraq holds if we can’t work together.”
Bobby flips open his laptop and places it on the single table in the room. He puts in a CD, and the image appears on the large flat-screen TV on
David, our senior interrogator, joins our group. “Matthew,” he says to me, “Why don’t you join me this afternoon in the monitor room to watch the other interrogations. You’ll be doing that a lot in the weeks ahead, so you might as well get used to it.”
I look at Bobby.
“Go ahead,” he says. “You can watch my handsome mug from that Hollywood room.”
“You sure?” I ask.
“Damn sure,” Bobby says.
“Come on, I’ll show you how to work the controls,” David says.
I look Bobby over before I follow David. Bobby looks exhausted. His eyes have dark circles and his shoulders areslightly slumped. All week we’ve stayed long after our shifts have ended to write our reports. Bobby’s a stickler for details and always triple-checks to make sure the reports are in the proper format. I haven’t gotten back to my hooch before 3 A.M. all week.
“Hey, have you gotten any sleep?” I ask. He picks up a Coke can and raises it as if he’s going to offer a toast. “Forty-eight hours straight!”
David leads me into the Hollywood room and explains how it works. On one wall are three rows of state-of-the-art flat-screen TVs. Below the flat-screens is a long desk with several electronic switchboxes that control the cameras and audio in each of the booths. On the back wall are four customized roof-high glass cases with stacks of electronic components. The whole room is a hack-job of wires and buttons, and it nearly requires a masters degree to operate. Big Brother is watching. It’s a great way for the senior ’gator to keep tabs on what techniques the other ’gators are using.
“Have a seat,” David offers. As elsewhere, the chairs here are worn and broken.
Bobby appears on one of the flat-screen displays. Abu Ali follows a few minutes later. I grab a set of headphones, flip a switch, and tune in. As I watch, I’m really taken by Bobby’s physical appearance. The vibrant Nebraskan I’ve gotten to know this week is gone. Instead, I see a young man who has pushed himself too far, worked too hard. It is a lesson we all learn. Back when I was a shiny 2nd Lieutenant, I didn’t know how to pace myself either. Now, in my mid-thirties, I’ve learned that this sort of deployment is not a sprint; it’s a marathon. You’ve got to apportion your energy for the entire race; otherwise you’ll crash and burn early.
Bobby’s on the brink. As he starts working with Abu Ali, he sounds testy and impatient.
“Abu Ali, we need to know who you work for,” Bobby begins.
Our detainee doesn’t answer. Bobby repeats the question only to get the same result.
“I thought you agreed to work with us?” Bobby asks angrily.
Abu Ali replies, “You Americans have lied from the beginning.”
He’s retrenched, retreated back into his shell of bitterness. Coaxing him out at this point is going to be tough, if not impossible.
Bobby works hard to get him talking, but Abu Ali barely responds to his questions. In some cases, he doesn’t answer at all.
“Abu Ali, help us save lives. You said you’d join us.”
Silence.
“We’re trying to help you.”
No response.
Bobby slams his hand down on his notebook and in a fit of frustration shouts, “Is that all you’re going to do? Fuckin’ sit there? You’re not going to say anything? How’s that going to help Iraq? How’s that going to help your son ?”
“I gave you the houses.”
“Yes, and I thought that you would join us.”
“I can’t.”
Bobby looks ready to blow his stack. Instead, he says, “You know what, Abu Ali? I’m gonna show you a video.”
Abu Ali has been staring at the floor through most of this. Now he glances up. I see he’s curious.
“Yeah. That’s right. It’ll show you what the future of Iraq holds if we can’t work together.”
Bobby flips open his laptop and places it on the single table in the room. He puts in a CD, and the image appears on the large flat-screen TV on
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