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“We can do whatever we need to do in a terrorist investigation.” Stu gives the briefest predator smile. A glacier flows suddenly into my lower legs.
“Terrorist?” They’ve said that magic word. I’ve read enough of our own reporting to be irrationally afraid, as if they have thrown me into a fairy tale where one word can bring destruction.
Stu leans toward me, fists on the table. “How long did you know Ryan Meyers?”
I tell the truth. They demand to know why we went to his apartment, how we discovered the body. I tell the truth again. This goes on for an hour as they try to catch me in any discrepancy. Neither one makes notes. They don’t mention Hardesty, their previous obsession. This is not about a hedge fund. It is about eleven/eleven. Stu wanders, opening cabinets, tossing books off their shelves. He has a heavy, wide-legged walk. He sits at my desk, opens my laptop, dumps a pile of files on the floor. Next he goes into the bedroom and I hear the closet doors slide. He’s out of my view for a moment, then I see him again, digging his hands into the pockets of my pants, suits, and coat. Drawers come out of the dresser and their contents are dumped on the floor. He looks underneath the drawers, as if expecting to find something hidden there. He lingers at my bed, pulling back the comforter, looking at the sheets that still smell of sex and young woman. The safe retreat of my Seattle loft feels forever violated.
Slowly, my body recovers from the shock. I watch Stu nervously play with his tie, his collar. He doesn’t like the suit. They are really lousy interviewers, doing nothing to build rapport. The other one reaches into his coat and retrieves an envelope. He slides it across the table. I open it and see the letterhead: U.S. Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Stamped above that is the word “SECRET.” I scan it: Below my name, address and a salutation (“Dear…”—how quaint), are dense paragraphs that look as if they were produced on a typewriter. “Under the authority of executive order 12333…” I am ordered to produce all my notes, tapes, e-mails, and research, for all dates, on Troy Hardesty and his hedge fund. I am ordered to produce the same for Ryan Meyers and Megan Nyberg. And there’s a new name: Heather Brady, no one I know.
“This is a national security letter, friend.” I barely can get through the legalese when the agent reaches across and pulls it back. I can’t even see who signed it. “That means you are prohibited from discussing this request with anyone, on penalty of law.”
“Nice how that works.” I reach back to rub my sore neck and they both tense. I slowly put my hands back on the table. “You’re assuming there’s a connection between Troy and this missing girl…”
“Don’t play games,” Stu says. So there is a connection. These two aren’t so smart. I am about to tease them into discussing 11/11, then I think better of it. I try to take the letter but the other agent keeps his hand on it.
“I can’t keep it?”
“It’s a classified document.”
“What judge approved this?”
“You read the papers,” Stu says. “We don’t need a judge.”
“Just like the way you could seal the death reports,” I say.
“What a genius. No wonder you write a newspaper column.” He studies my face. “You have quite the nervous tick, columnist.” My eyelid is pinching madly.
“We’re going to want all your notes. And the names of your sources.”
“That’s not going to happen, but I’ll be happy to pass your request along to the newspaper’s lawyers.”
The preacher pulls out a hardpack of Camels, unwraps the plastic and tosses it on the floor. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, blowing a long plume into my direction. It seems out of character with his clean-living face.
Stu says, “He doesn’t get it, Bill.”
“No, he doesn’t.” Another long, almost lewd drag on the cigarette. The end burns brightly. I have another new friend: Bill is his name. Preacher Bill. He laughs, his hands on his hips. “No, he sure doesn’t.”
I just keep staring at the table. I don’t want my face to give anything away. I need them to get out of here so I can get some help.
Suddenly Stu has his hands locked around my wrists. I try to pull back but it’s no use. He holds them tightly to the tabletop. I can’t help the testosterone rush of humiliation, that I am weaker than this guy.
“Look asshole,” he says, “we own you and nobody will help you. You will produce this material by tomorrow.” He keeps my wrists tightly in his grip, pulling my hands forward, palms down.
Bill speaks softly, dropping ash on the floor. “We have so many ways we can hurt you. Who knows what terrorist correspondence might be found on your computer? We know where you go online. We know who you call. You might disappear.”
“Snatch and grab,” Stu says.
Bill’s voice drops. “And you know what? You have no rights.” I make sullen eye contact with him. He has dark flecks in the whites of his eyes. “People like you,” he says, “people in the media. You hate America. You’re traitors.”
Before I can argue, my right hand convulses with pain. His cigarette hovers a millimeter above the seared skin. A whiff of burned flesh hits my nostrils. He lowers the cigarette again. I know what’s going to happen now, but can’t stop it. I twist and pull my body, dig my feet into the floor and push back, but still he holds my hands tightly to the table. The burning tip disappears into the same wound. I surprise myself by letting out a scream.
“We have so many ways to hurt you. Remember that.”
They leave me at the table with a blank business card, a handwritten phone number on it. That, and a second-degree burn on the top of my hand.
Chapter Fourteen
The managing editor is rubbing his beard. His long, painterly face seems even longer. He has tragic eyes, tilted slightly as if to keep the tears from flowing down his long, patrician nose. He used to have a great laugh, a fat man’s laugh, even though he’s a triathlete. I haven’t heard that laugh much since he took this job. Even so, he’s good at what he does, good at managing the egos and feuds endemic to any newsroom, even one with relatively little political knife work or hidden agendas such as ours. Often he sits back in meetings like a Zen master, saying nothing, letting the good people he’s hired work things out. Now I’ve told him everything but the eleven/eleven connection. I wish I could call Rachel. I wish the top of my hand didn’t feel like it was still on fire.
