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Authors: Cory Doctorow
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didn't twitch a muscle. I went ahead of her to the back of the truck and behind the screen. There was a single folding chair and I sat in it. Two of them — Severe Haircut woman and utility belt man — looked at me from their ergonomic super-chairs.
They had a little table between them with the contents of my wallet and backpack spread out on it.
"Hello, Marcus," Severe Haircut woman said. "We have some questions for you."
"Am I under arrest?" I asked. This wasn't an idle question. If you're not under arrest, there are limits on what the cops can and can't do to you. For starters, they can't hold you forever without arresting you, giving you a phone call, and letting you talk to a lawyer. And hoo-boy, was I ever going to talk to a lawyer.
"What's this for?" she said, holding up my phone. The screen was showing the error message you got if you kept trying to get into its data without giving the right password. It was a bit of a rude message — an animated hand giving a certain universally recognized gesture — because I liked to customize my gear.
"Am I under arrest?" I repeated. They can't make you answer any questions if you're not under arrest, and when you ask if you're under arrest, they have to answer you. It's the rules.
"You're being detained by the Department of Homeland Security," the woman snapped.
"Am I under arrest?"
"You're going to be more cooperative, Marcus, starting right now." She didn't say, "or else," but it was implied.
"I would like to contact an attorney," I said. "I would like to know what I've been charged with. I would like to see some form of identification from both of you."
The two agents exchanged looks.
"I think you should really reconsider your approach to this situation," Severe Haircut woman said. "I think you should do that right now. We found a number of suspicious devices on your person. We found you and your confederates near the site of the worst terrorist attack this country has ever seen. Put those two facts together and things don't look very good for you, Marcus. You can cooperate, or you can be very, very sorry. Now, what is this for?"
"You think I'm a terrorist? I'm seventeen years old!"
"Just the right age — Al Qaeda loves recruiting impressionable, idealistic kids. We googled you, you know. You've posted a lot of very ugly stuff on the public Internet."
"I would like to speak to an attorney," I said.
Severe haircut lady looked at me like I was a bug. "You're under the mistaken impression that you've been picked up by the police for a crime. You need to get past that. You are being detained as a potential enemy combatant by the government of the United States. If I were you, I'd be thinking very hard about how to convince us that you are not an enemy combatant. Very hard. Because there are dark holes that enemy combatants can disappear into, very dark deep holes, holes where you can just vanish. Forever. Are you listening to me young man? I want you to unlock this phone and then decrypt the files in its memory. I want you to account for yourself: why were you out on the street? What do you know about the attack on this city?"
"I'm not going to unlock my phone for you," I said, indignant. My phone's memory had all kinds of private stuff on it: photos, emails, little hacks and mods I'd installed. "That's private stuff."
"What have you got to hide?"
"I've got the right to my privacy," I said. "And I want to speak to an attorney."
"This is your last chance, kid. Honest people don't have anything to hide."
"I want to speak to an attorney." My parents would pay for it. All the FAQs on getting arrested were clear on this point. Just keep asking to see an attorney, no matter what they say or do. There's no good that comes of talking to the cops without your lawyer present. These two said they weren't cops, but if this wasn't an arrest, what was it?
In hindsight, maybe I should have unlocked my phone for them.
Chapter
4
This chapter is dedicated to Barnes and
They had a little table between them with the contents of my wallet and backpack spread out on it.
"Hello, Marcus," Severe Haircut woman said. "We have some questions for you."
"Am I under arrest?" I asked. This wasn't an idle question. If you're not under arrest, there are limits on what the cops can and can't do to you. For starters, they can't hold you forever without arresting you, giving you a phone call, and letting you talk to a lawyer. And hoo-boy, was I ever going to talk to a lawyer.
"What's this for?" she said, holding up my phone. The screen was showing the error message you got if you kept trying to get into its data without giving the right password. It was a bit of a rude message — an animated hand giving a certain universally recognized gesture — because I liked to customize my gear.
"Am I under arrest?" I repeated. They can't make you answer any questions if you're not under arrest, and when you ask if you're under arrest, they have to answer you. It's the rules.
"You're being detained by the Department of Homeland Security," the woman snapped.
"Am I under arrest?"
"You're going to be more cooperative, Marcus, starting right now." She didn't say, "or else," but it was implied.
"I would like to contact an attorney," I said. "I would like to know what I've been charged with. I would like to see some form of identification from both of you."
The two agents exchanged looks.
"I think you should really reconsider your approach to this situation," Severe Haircut woman said. "I think you should do that right now. We found a number of suspicious devices on your person. We found you and your confederates near the site of the worst terrorist attack this country has ever seen. Put those two facts together and things don't look very good for you, Marcus. You can cooperate, or you can be very, very sorry. Now, what is this for?"
"You think I'm a terrorist? I'm seventeen years old!"
"Just the right age — Al Qaeda loves recruiting impressionable, idealistic kids. We googled you, you know. You've posted a lot of very ugly stuff on the public Internet."
"I would like to speak to an attorney," I said.
Severe haircut lady looked at me like I was a bug. "You're under the mistaken impression that you've been picked up by the police for a crime. You need to get past that. You are being detained as a potential enemy combatant by the government of the United States. If I were you, I'd be thinking very hard about how to convince us that you are not an enemy combatant. Very hard. Because there are dark holes that enemy combatants can disappear into, very dark deep holes, holes where you can just vanish. Forever. Are you listening to me young man? I want you to unlock this phone and then decrypt the files in its memory. I want you to account for yourself: why were you out on the street? What do you know about the attack on this city?"
"I'm not going to unlock my phone for you," I said, indignant. My phone's memory had all kinds of private stuff on it: photos, emails, little hacks and mods I'd installed. "That's private stuff."
"What have you got to hide?"
"I've got the right to my privacy," I said. "And I want to speak to an attorney."
"This is your last chance, kid. Honest people don't have anything to hide."
"I want to speak to an attorney." My parents would pay for it. All the FAQs on getting arrested were clear on this point. Just keep asking to see an attorney, no matter what they say or do. There's no good that comes of talking to the cops without your lawyer present. These two said they weren't cops, but if this wasn't an arrest, what was it?
In hindsight, maybe I should have unlocked my phone for them.
Chapter
4
This chapter is dedicated to Barnes and
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