told me this.
A little after noon, Peter was flown from Cuba to Ronald Reagan National Airport in Washington, D.C. escorted by two military guards. He was met by Baron Fairchild, his Washington criminal defense attorney, Stanley Kirk, and an FBI agent. As they were exiting the airport, Peter asked to use the restroom. The three men waited outside for ten minutes. When Peter didn’t come out, they became concerned and went in to find him. A dozen men were using the facilities. The lawyers shouted Peter’s name. When he didn’t answer, they checked every stall.
Peter had disappeared.
#
“How could they lose him?” I demanded of my father. “Where did he go? I don’t understand. Why didn’t they go into the bathroom with him?”
“As soon as Peter stepped into Ronald Reagan Airport, he was no longer in custody,” my father said. “It probably never occurred to them he’d take off.”
“Why did he disappear?”
“Maybe he didn’t believe he was being released. Maybe he thought they were lying to him and were moving him to another prison. The FBI hasn’t ruled out kidnapping.”
“Kidnapping! Who would kidnap him?”
“I don’t know. Some terrorist group or maybe anti-Muslim fanatics.”
“Can we file a missing person’s report?”
“Yes. But Peter is over eighteen, and with his history, nobody is going to look too hard.”
“His history! What about innocent until proven guilty?”
“Calm down, honey.”
“So they’re not going to try to find him?”
My father straightened the seam of his khakis, eyes hazily focused on his knee. “I’ll tell you what Baron Fairchild told me. If the FBI finds him, they will put him under surveillance. Informing us where Peter is would not be in their best interest.”
“Do they think he’ll lead them to a terrorist cell or something? Is that why they let him go?”
“The FBI takes his running as a sign of guilt.”
“Has he called his parents?”
“No, he hasn’t.”
“Where would he go?”
“I don’t know. Where do you think he would go?”
#
I was furious. I could hardly breathe. I stomped into my room and slammed the door. I collapsed on my bed and pounded the mattress with my fists, then flung myself on the floor, legs kicking, arms flailing. A full throttled tantrum like I hadn’t had since I was eleven. I was furious with my father, at the lawyers, at the FBI, but most of all I was furious with Peter.
I kicked and convulsed until I was depleted. Despair pressed down on me, squeezing me, immobilizing me. How could he disappear without letting me know?
In the depths of my self pity, a tiny sane part of me understood this was how Peter must have felt in Guantánamo , powerless and abandoned, although it would’ve been worse for him. Much worse. I suddenly ached for him.
I closed my eyes and imagined I was Peter. It took me a few moments to feel myself slip into his body.
There I was in Guantánamo on his cot, looking up at the corrugated roof, rain clattering down on the tin. At first he is not allowed to talk to anyone except a Muslim cleric who visits him once a week. Peter doesn’t bother to tell the cleric he is not Muslim, but listens to him talk about Islam for something to do. In the afternoons when his anger has exhausted him, he picks up the Quran and reads. At first it seems flowery and pompous and repetitious, and he can’t believe anyone could be inspired to jihad based on this prose. Bored he puts it aside.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
In the beginning he thinks he will be released soon, but then he recalls that some of the prisoners at Guantánamo have been there for nine or ten years. A small percentage have been granted trials. The others received only abbreviated hearings before the Combatant Status Review Tribunal, where they were not allowed to have an attorney
A little after noon, Peter was flown from Cuba to Ronald Reagan National Airport in Washington, D.C. escorted by two military guards. He was met by Baron Fairchild, his Washington criminal defense attorney, Stanley Kirk, and an FBI agent. As they were exiting the airport, Peter asked to use the restroom. The three men waited outside for ten minutes. When Peter didn’t come out, they became concerned and went in to find him. A dozen men were using the facilities. The lawyers shouted Peter’s name. When he didn’t answer, they checked every stall.
Peter had disappeared.
#
“How could they lose him?” I demanded of my father. “Where did he go? I don’t understand. Why didn’t they go into the bathroom with him?”
“As soon as Peter stepped into Ronald Reagan Airport, he was no longer in custody,” my father said. “It probably never occurred to them he’d take off.”
“Why did he disappear?”
“Maybe he didn’t believe he was being released. Maybe he thought they were lying to him and were moving him to another prison. The FBI hasn’t ruled out kidnapping.”
“Kidnapping! Who would kidnap him?”
“I don’t know. Some terrorist group or maybe anti-Muslim fanatics.”
“Can we file a missing person’s report?”
“Yes. But Peter is over eighteen, and with his history, nobody is going to look too hard.”
“His history! What about innocent until proven guilty?”
“Calm down, honey.”
“So they’re not going to try to find him?”
My father straightened the seam of his khakis, eyes hazily focused on his knee. “I’ll tell you what Baron Fairchild told me. If the FBI finds him, they will put him under surveillance. Informing us where Peter is would not be in their best interest.”
“Do they think he’ll lead them to a terrorist cell or something? Is that why they let him go?”
“The FBI takes his running as a sign of guilt.”
“Has he called his parents?”
“No, he hasn’t.”
“Where would he go?”
“I don’t know. Where do you think he would go?”
#
I was furious. I could hardly breathe. I stomped into my room and slammed the door. I collapsed on my bed and pounded the mattress with my fists, then flung myself on the floor, legs kicking, arms flailing. A full throttled tantrum like I hadn’t had since I was eleven. I was furious with my father, at the lawyers, at the FBI, but most of all I was furious with Peter.
I kicked and convulsed until I was depleted. Despair pressed down on me, squeezing me, immobilizing me. How could he disappear without letting me know?
In the depths of my self pity, a tiny sane part of me understood this was how Peter must have felt in Guantánamo , powerless and abandoned, although it would’ve been worse for him. Much worse. I suddenly ached for him.
I closed my eyes and imagined I was Peter. It took me a few moments to feel myself slip into his body.
There I was in Guantánamo on his cot, looking up at the corrugated roof, rain clattering down on the tin. At first he is not allowed to talk to anyone except a Muslim cleric who visits him once a week. Peter doesn’t bother to tell the cleric he is not Muslim, but listens to him talk about Islam for something to do. In the afternoons when his anger has exhausted him, he picks up the Quran and reads. At first it seems flowery and pompous and repetitious, and he can’t believe anyone could be inspired to jihad based on this prose. Bored he puts it aside.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
In the beginning he thinks he will be released soon, but then he recalls that some of the prisoners at Guantánamo have been there for nine or ten years. A small percentage have been granted trials. The others received only abbreviated hearings before the Combatant Status Review Tribunal, where they were not allowed to have an attorney
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