The Night Crew by Brian Haig Page A

quickly stipulated, “E-5,” meaning a buck sergeant, the lowest of the noncommissioned officer ranks. Typically a buck sergeant is in charge of the smallest-size unit in the army, a fire team, two to three other soldiers. As the army likes to say, buck sergeants float somewhere between whale shit and octopus shit, and typically, as I knew from my own recurring visits to army prisons, a shift leader is usually at least an E-6, staff sergeant, or more often, an E-7, sergeant first class.
    So I asked, “Were his officers or senior noncommissioned officers aware of your presence in Cellblock One?”
    “Cain’t really say.”
    “Try.”
    “Hardly ever saw any of ’em.”
    “Then would it be equally safe to say they never saw you?”
    “Guess so.”
    “Don’t guess. Yes, or no?”
    “I don’t know . . . Don’t think they never did.”
    Ignoring that troublesome double negative, I asked her, “And did you spend the night each time?”
    “Not always.”
    “How often?”
    “Often enough. Why?”
    “Was there a sign-in procedure?”
    “Yes, sir. At the gate. I always did sign in.”
    I have been in and out of more military prisons and holding facilities than I care to remember, and getting in is always a hassle, even when, as was my case, you have a tangible legal justification for visitation, supported by the appropriate official documentation. The army thrives on order and control, and a penal environment is like a free-fire zone for its most anal impulses. It did not sound like Al Basari resembled the army I know and love. I asked, “Were you sleeping with Sergeant Elton?”
    Blank stare.
    “Having sexual relations?” She still looked confused. “Were you doin’ him?” I clarified. As I was picking up, with this young client you had to connect on her level.
    “Yes, sir. Sure was.” In response to my raised eyebrows, she added, without any visible embarrassment, “Ain’t nothing wrong ’bout that. We wuz in different units and not married. I’m divorced. So’s he.”
    Given her youth this surprised me, and I asked, “You’ve been married?”
    “Jus’ once,” she said, sounding quite proud about that. “Guy I went to high school with. Didn’t last longer’n jus’ a few months.”
    “Okay.” I cleared my throat. “Let’s move to the night the pictures were taken.”
    Private Eddelston again turned her eyes toward Katherine, a sort of doesn’t-this-guy-know-anything glance.
    “Did I say something wrong?” I asked her.
    “Well . . .” After another long pause, she informed me, “Them pictures wusn’t taken in no one night, sir.”
    It was now my turn to stare at Katherine, whose attention had become curiously riveted to a spot on the wall.
    I cleared my throat again. “Maybe you should tell me what happened. Start from the beginning.”
    “Ain’t much to tell. Danny was tole by them intel people that we should . . . uh, they said we should soften up the prisoners.”
    “Soften up? Were those their exact words?”
    “Uh . . . no, sir.” Another of those weird, long pauses, then, “Prep ’em for interrogation. That wuz how they put it.”
    “So this was like . . . an every night thing?”
    “Ever’ night? Oh no, sir. Jus’ some nights. Certain prisoners.”
    “How many nights?”
    She got that empty, faraway look again, and I specified, “An estimate will suffice.”
    She eventually said, “Maybe fifteen. Maybe twenty. Could’a been more . . . probably not less, though. Them days in Iraq, they sorta all melt together.”
    “So would it be accurate to state that the pictures reflect frequent behavior?”
    “Well . . . some nights went longer’n others. Purty much depended on who the prisoners wuz, how tough, how bad the intel guys needed ’em to squeal.”
    “I see. Well, who selected which prisoners needed to be . . . prepped?”
    “Them . . . the intel folks. But Danny and Mike wuz round them prisoners ever’ day and ever’ night. They knew