She signed papers in the warden’s office, putting her name to agreements that had been worked up by the Justice Department and the Bureau of Prisons regarding what she could and couldn’t say to the prisoner, what he could and couldn’t say to her. As far as she was concerned it was all bullshit, but she signed it so she could get started on the man’s defense.
She’d worry about it later, and she’d violate her agreement if it was in the best interest of her client. Hell, she’d sued the Bureau of Prisons many times before. She was not going to let them tell her how she would represent her client.
Together she and the unit commander left the administration building, walked under a covered walkway to another wing of the prison. She was ushered through more locked doors, and on the other side she walked through an X-ray scanner just like those at airport security. On the other side of the scanner a set of doors opened, and here she was met by two men in black body armor and black ski masks, with rifles.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “Is all this really necessary?”
The unit commander stopped at the door. He said, “I have my responsibilities, and they end right here at the threshold of Range 13. You are now in the care of the FBI, who are operating the annex that houses your prisoner.” The unit commander extended a polite hand, and she shook it without really looking at him. Then she turned away, ready to follow the federal officers.
The FBI escorted her inside, and here they put her purse in a locker on the wall of the stark white room, then walked her through a full-body scanner. On the other side of this she was handed a legal pad and a single soft-tip marking pen, and then led through two sets of security doors that were monitored by closed-circuit cameras. Once through these, she found herself in an anteroom outside the recently modified cell. In front of her were four more armed HRT men.
The lead FBI SWAT officer spoke with a thick Brooklyn accent: “You understand the rules, Ms. Cochrane. You sit in the chair at the desk and talk on the phone to your client. Your conversations will be private. We will be right outside that door, and we can watch you on CCTV, but there is no microphone in this room or in the prisoner’s cell.” He handed her a small button that looked like her garage door opener. “Panic button,” he explained. “The prisoner couldn’t get through that glass with a Gatling gun, so there’s nothing to worry about, but if he does something that makes you feel uneasy, just press that button.”
Cochrane nodded. She hated these smug men with their dehumanizing rules, their heinous weapons of hate, and their cowardly masks. Still, she was professional enough to feign kindness. “Wonderful. Thank you for your help. I’m sure I’ll be just fine.”
She turned away from the guard and looked around the room. She saw the window that looked into the cell, and she saw a wheeled desk had been put there, on this side, for her benefit. A telephone was on it. But she was not satisfied. “Officers, there should be a pass-through slot in the Plexiglas in case I need him to look at documents or sign something.”
The HRT officer in charge shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am. There is a hatch for us to send his food and clothing through, but it is locked up for your visit. You’ll have to talk to the warden about that for next time.” And with that, the HRT men, all four of them, backed through the door and shut it with a loud clang.
Judith Cochrane stepped to the little table by the glass and sat down, placed her pad in her lap with her pen, and only then did she look into the cell.
Saif Rahman Yasin sat on his concrete bed, facing the portal. He’d been reading from a Koran that he gently placed on the desk at the foot of the bed. When Cochrane looked to him, he took off his prison-issued eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes, and Judith immediately thought of a younger Omar Sharif. He stood and crossed the small cell toward her, sat down on a three-legged stool that had been placed next to a telephone on the floor. Judith noticed the red phone had no buttons or dials; it would connect him only with the receiver in her hand. Yasin lifted the telephone off the cradle and held it to his ear tentatively. He kept his face impassive, looked the woman in the eye, as if waiting for her to speak.
“Good morning, Mr. Yasin. My name is Judith Cochrane. I am told you speak excellent English, is my information correct?”
The prisoner said nothing, but Cochrane could tell he understood her. She’d worked almost exclusively with those whose native language was other than her own, and she had no trouble discerning either recognition or befuddlement. She continued, “I am an attorney for the Progressive Constitution Initiative. U.S. Attorney General Michael Brannigan has decided that your case will be handled in U.S. District Court for the Western District of Virginia. The AG’s office will be preparing the prosecution against you, and my organization has been retained to provide you with your defense. Do you understand me so far?”
She waited a moment for a response, but the man known as Prisoner 09341-000 just stared back at her.
“We can expect this to be a lengthy process, certainly over a year in duration, likely closer to two years. Before that can even begin, there are several preliminary steps we need to—”
“I would like to speak with someone from Amnesty International about my illegal imprisonment.”
Cochrane nodded sympathetically but said, “I am afraid I am not in a position to make that happen. I assure you that I am working in your interests, and the first order of business will be to assess the conditions of your confinement so that you are afforded proper care and treatment.”
The Emir just repeated himself. “I would like to speak with someone from Amnesty International about my illegal imprisonment.”
“Sir, you are lucky that you are speaking to anyone at all.”
“I would like to speak to someone from Amnesty International about my care”
Cochrane sighed. “Mr. Yasin. I know your playbook. One of your manuals was picked up by American Special Forces soldiers in Kandahar a few years ago. It laid out, in minute detail, instructions for dealing with capture and captivity.
“I knew you would ask for a representative of Amnesty International. I am not with Amnesty International, true, but I am with an organization that will be much more beneficial to you in the long run.”
Yasin stared at her for a long moment, holding the receiver to his ear. Then he spoke again, altering the script. “You have given that speech before.”
“Indeed. I have represented many men and one or two women that the United States has labeled enemy combatants. Every last one of you has read that manual. You may be the first person I’ve spoken to who likely wrote some of the manual.” She smiled when she said this.
Yasin did not respond.
Cochrane continued, “I understand how you must feel. Don’t talk for now. Just listen to what I have to say. The President of the United States and the attorney general have personally spoken with the director of the Bureau of Prisons to stress how important it is that you have confidential conversations with your legal team.”
“My … my what?”
“Your legal team. Myself, and other attorneys from PCI, that is the Progressive Constitution Initiative, who you will meet in the coming months.”
The Emir did not speak.
“I’m sorry. Are you having trouble understanding me? Should I arrange for a translator?”
The Emir understood the woman perfectly. It wasn’t the English language that was slowing down his portion of the conversation, it was, rather, his astonishment that the Americans were, after all this time, going to put him on trial. He stared at the fat woman with the short gray hair. She looked to him like a man, a very ugly man who dressed in women’s clothing.