my next question, and I asked, “Was there any alcohol involved? Drugs?”
“Oh no, sir. Drinkin’ ain’t allowed inside the war zone,” she replied, sounding very righteous about that, oblivious to the fact that neither is the torture or sexual humiliation of prisoners. “We wuz all upright soldiers. No boozers, no dopers.”
“Did you ever think it was a little weird?”
“What . . . What was weird?”
I swallowed another urge to strangle her and specified, “The ST, the special treatments, prepping the prisoners for interrogation that way. Danny employing you all to break down the prisoners.” Could I be any clearer?
“I . . . well . . . maybe.” She hesitated a moment, then elaborated, “ ‘Specially at first. But Danny, he said them intel guys tole ’em the best way to break an Arab was through sexual stuff. Said them Arabs had real strict . . .” She paused, searching for the right phrase: her search appeared to have no end.
“Taboos,” I eventually suggested.
Blank stare.
“The Moslem faith,” I explained, “enforces very strict rules about physical modesty and separation of the sexes.”
Still blank.
Katherine broke the code, saying, “Arabic men are easily shocked and humiliated by nudity and sex.”
“Yeah . . . guess that’s so. Purty much, that’s how Danny said it.” Looking at me, she blushed slightly, which was interesting. “Way Danny put it wuz, flash ’em a naked pussy or make ’em pull down their drawers, and they jus’ turn into crybabies. Course, them’s his words, not mine.”
“Of course,” I dutifully replied.
“Took a while to git used to. But orders is orders.”
“Who exactly was giving these . . . orders?”
“Like I said, Danny.”
“I meant, who was giving Danny his orders?”
She looked a little resentful. “Then you should’a put it like that.”
I resisted the urge to kick her under the table. “Yes, I probably should have.”
“That captain and that warrant officer.”
“What captain? What warrant officer?”
“They wuz part of that intel unit stationed at the FOB. They had a bunch’a office trailers, all surrounded by barbed wire and guards. Real standoffish folks. Usually, they only came inside for their sessions . . . you know, when they wuz interrogatin’ prisoners.” She thought about it, then said, “Daylight.”
“What about daylight?”
“That wuz when they did most of their work. They took to callin’ us the night crew.”
“Do you recall their names?”
“That captain, he was named Willborn. The warrant officer was Ashad, maybe Assad . . . something like that. He was an Arab, I guess,” she said, as some southern people will, overelongating their A s. “Spoke real good Iraqi.”
“Were Willborn and Ashad present during these . . . these prep sessions?”
“No, sir.”
It was important to establish how many witnesses had direct observations of these sessions and I stressed, “We need to be clear on this, Lydia. Who was? Precision is important.”
“Sometimes Andrea and June, they couldn’t come. Then, it was Danny, Mike’n me, jus’ the three of us. Usually it was all five, though.” She paused briefly to emphasize this next point. “But I always liked it better when the other girls wuz around.” She diverted her eyes toward Katherine again. “Know what I’m sayin’?”
Katherine awarded her a half-nod.
Lydia continued, “But Danny . . . well, he’d always tell us how happy them intel folks wuz. Said we wuz all big heroes.”
I checked my watch and observed that our one hour was nearly up.
I asked, “Do you regret your actions in Al Basari?”
She gave me another of those chronic, disconnected stares. I was pretty sure nobody had yet asked her this, despite its obvious relevance to her present mental state, not to mention how we would approach her courtroom defense.
She eventually replied, “Nope . . . don’t guess I do.”
“Not mistreating the
“Oh no, sir. Drinkin’ ain’t allowed inside the war zone,” she replied, sounding very righteous about that, oblivious to the fact that neither is the torture or sexual humiliation of prisoners. “We wuz all upright soldiers. No boozers, no dopers.”
“Did you ever think it was a little weird?”
“What . . . What was weird?”
I swallowed another urge to strangle her and specified, “The ST, the special treatments, prepping the prisoners for interrogation that way. Danny employing you all to break down the prisoners.” Could I be any clearer?
“I . . . well . . . maybe.” She hesitated a moment, then elaborated, “ ‘Specially at first. But Danny, he said them intel guys tole ’em the best way to break an Arab was through sexual stuff. Said them Arabs had real strict . . .” She paused, searching for the right phrase: her search appeared to have no end.
“Taboos,” I eventually suggested.
Blank stare.
“The Moslem faith,” I explained, “enforces very strict rules about physical modesty and separation of the sexes.”
Still blank.
Katherine broke the code, saying, “Arabic men are easily shocked and humiliated by nudity and sex.”
“Yeah . . . guess that’s so. Purty much, that’s how Danny said it.” Looking at me, she blushed slightly, which was interesting. “Way Danny put it wuz, flash ’em a naked pussy or make ’em pull down their drawers, and they jus’ turn into crybabies. Course, them’s his words, not mine.”
“Of course,” I dutifully replied.
“Took a while to git used to. But orders is orders.”
“Who exactly was giving these . . . orders?”
“Like I said, Danny.”
“I meant, who was giving Danny his orders?”
She looked a little resentful. “Then you should’a put it like that.”
I resisted the urge to kick her under the table. “Yes, I probably should have.”
“That captain and that warrant officer.”
“What captain? What warrant officer?”
“They wuz part of that intel unit stationed at the FOB. They had a bunch’a office trailers, all surrounded by barbed wire and guards. Real standoffish folks. Usually, they only came inside for their sessions . . . you know, when they wuz interrogatin’ prisoners.” She thought about it, then said, “Daylight.”
“What about daylight?”
“That wuz when they did most of their work. They took to callin’ us the night crew.”
“Do you recall their names?”
“That captain, he was named Willborn. The warrant officer was Ashad, maybe Assad . . . something like that. He was an Arab, I guess,” she said, as some southern people will, overelongating their A s. “Spoke real good Iraqi.”
“Were Willborn and Ashad present during these . . . these prep sessions?”
“No, sir.”
It was important to establish how many witnesses had direct observations of these sessions and I stressed, “We need to be clear on this, Lydia. Who was? Precision is important.”
“Sometimes Andrea and June, they couldn’t come. Then, it was Danny, Mike’n me, jus’ the three of us. Usually it was all five, though.” She paused briefly to emphasize this next point. “But I always liked it better when the other girls wuz around.” She diverted her eyes toward Katherine again. “Know what I’m sayin’?”
Katherine awarded her a half-nod.
Lydia continued, “But Danny . . . well, he’d always tell us how happy them intel folks wuz. Said we wuz all big heroes.”
I checked my watch and observed that our one hour was nearly up.
I asked, “Do you regret your actions in Al Basari?”
She gave me another of those chronic, disconnected stares. I was pretty sure nobody had yet asked her this, despite its obvious relevance to her present mental state, not to mention how we would approach her courtroom defense.
She eventually replied, “Nope . . . don’t guess I do.”
“Not mistreating the
Similar Books
