Chapter 22
Thomas
I’m shaking when I wake up. The last round of torture was so intense I passed out after about thirty seconds. I glance up at the clock and see it’s almost 4 p.m. So far, I’ve managed to resist giving up the names of anyone I know—at least I think I have. The way he reads off the names, looks at his screen, and makes notes, makes it hard to say. I understand why this combination torture and lie-detector test is so effective. I’m exhausted, the threat of more torture is real, and absolutely something I want to avoid, and my emotions run high whenever Veritas’ legal first name is mentioned.
I caught a break when he read off three potential leaders’ names in the freedom movement, and I could honestly answer that I didn’t know a single one. We spent the next few minutes going through each name, one by one. I’m sure he was trying to catch my physical response deviating when he mentioned one of the names, but if it did, it had nothing to do with any knowledge I possess about them. It was a welcome reprieve from several previous questions that I resisted answering or lied about. So far, I’ve experienced the feeling of spiders crawling all over my body, including in and out of my mouth and ears, the sensation of an ice pick being driven through my right eye, and one of my fingernails being pulled off in addition to various parts of my body being burned—which seems to be one of his favorites.
He’s about to ask the next question when the door buzzes, and a guard rushes in. Doctor Cheros turns on him in a rage.
“I’ve told you I’m not to be disturbed during interrogation!”
The guard quickly extends a folded piece of paper toward him, which he snatches away and opens up, reading with obvious irritation.
“It seems I have more pressing business to attend to elsewhere,” he says without looking in my direction. “Send the prisoner through post-op and take him back to his cell.”
I can’t believe what I’ve just heard, and for a moment, I wonder if it isn’t just another psychological trick to get me to lower my defenses before he rushes back in with another question, followed by more torture. But he leaves the room quickly, and minutes later, a nurse comes in who talks me through the after-session process, which basically involves putting me to sleep for the second time while they extract the nanobots. I’m so relieved it’s over I start to cry. I’m not sure, but I think I see a hint of compassion on the nurse’s avatar.
* * * * *
When I wake up, I’m in my cell and wearing a fresh change of clothes. The next thing I notice is a bottle of water sitting on the small shelf beside my bed. My body aches everywhere, and I have a throbbing headache. I see a pill in a small paper cup beside the water with a hand-written note on it that says, ‘for the headache.’
I pick up the cup and throw it back like a shot-glass, popping the pill into my mouth. My hands are shaking so badly that I almost miss. It takes me the better part of a minute to get the top off of the bottle of water, and I manage to douse my shirt pretty good as I drink, even when using both hands to try and keep it steady.
I notice the foot and leg that were subjected to the burning sensations are tingling. I can feel it all the way up to my knee. It’s the bad kind of tingle you get after part of your body falls asleep, and you begin moving it around like someone is sticking you with dozens of sharp objects all at once. I move my ankle around and flex my calf, hoping it will help, but the feeling persists.
A short time later, a guard comes into my cell, followed by someone in a lab coat, which I’m relieved to find out isn’t Doctor Cheros. They ask me a few questions, followed by a brief physical, during which I discover that I’m having trouble focusing on objects farther away than a few feet, that I can’t walk in a straight line, and that standing on my right leg is impossible to do without falling. Thankfully, the person in the lab coat catches me and prevents me from bashing my head against the wall as I discover this last fact.
They explain that these symptoms should pass within two to seven days and that if they don’t, I should report it to the guard, who will schedule a follow-up visit with a prison doctor for further evaluation.
A few minutes later, I’m being pushed down the hall in a wheelchair.
“Where am I going now?” I ask the guard who’s pushing me.
“Visitation room.”
I smile so big my face begins to hurt. I’m looking forward to seeing Mom and/or Dad—anyone I know outside of this place, to be honest. But when the door slides open, and I’m wheeled into the room, it’s neither of my parents that I see, but instead someone named ‘Janye,’ sitting across the table with a tablet in front of them. They smile when they see me, but it quickly turns to a frown.
“Why is he in a wheelchair?” she asks sternly.
“Doc’s orders, ma’am.”
The guard says nothing else as they push me up close to the table and engage the manual brake on the wheelchair, then turn and leave the room.
“Tam, I’m Janye, your lawyer. I’ve been hired by your family to represent you and get you out of here.”
“When can I see my mom and dad?”
“That will probably be later today, but I don’t know for sure. The judge is working with the prosecutor’s office to arrange a hearing as we speak. Right now, I need some information from you. Why are you in the wheelchair? What happened?”
“After the interrogation, I can’t exactly walk right yet.”
Her brows furrow, and she frowns.
“What? You’ve already been interrogated? Tell me exactly what happened,” she says as she looks down at her tablet and begins to tap away.
Over the next few minutes, I give her every detail I can recall about the whole experience. As I’m talking, I think I see a tear pass down her avatar’s cheek. When I’m done, she continues typing for a minute, then stops and looks up at me.
“I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through, Tam. That was not only illegal; it is unconscionable. I’m certain with what you’ve just told me that we have a great case. But I need you to be completely honest with me when I ask you this next question. No one can hear us, but you and I, and none of this is being recorded. This room blocks any wireless transmissions in our helmets or suits.
“They’ve accused you of having knowledge of a potential terrorist attack, a bombing, in fact, that is to take place in the next few days at your school.”
“What? I don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Now, Tam, what you tell me stays just between you and me. I’m your lawyer, and I can’t be forced and won’t divulge this information, but I need you to be completely honest with me here. Maybe you overheard some friends talking about a planned bombing; maybe you saw something on a computer screen or parts of a bomb in someone’s dorm room—“
“I don’t have kno… kno… knowledge of anything li… li… like that!” I’m angry and upset, but I’ve never stuttered before. I’m thinking it’s another gift, courtesy of Doctor Cheros’ interrogation.
“It’s okay, Tam. I’m not accusing you of anything, but I need to know the truth if I’m to adequately defend you against these charges. So, you’re telling me you have no knowledge of any planned bombing?”
“No, I don’t,” I say, thankful I didn’t stutter this time.
We wrap up our conversation in short order, with Janye promising that my parents will be allowed to see me soon and that she’ll be back in touch once she finds out when the hearing is scheduled.
As it turns out, I don’t have long to wait. Barely an hour later, I’m being wheeled out to a van and shuttled over to what looks like the courthouse. The van drives into an underground garage behind the building, and I’m wheeled into an elevator. Soon, I’m entering a courtroom where I see my mom and dad seated with Janye. Mom tears up and starts to cry when she sees me, mouthing the words, I love you. Dad manages a weak smile, making an attempt to appear confident while giving me a thumbs-up. I wave back as tears begin to well up in my eyes.
The guard deposits me behind a clear plastic barrier before taking up a position close by.
“All rise, the Honorable Judge Clinton Kertujan presiding.”
Momentarily forgetting that my left wrist is still handcuffed to the wheelchair, I attempt to stand up, but the guard puts a firm hand on my shoulder, pushing me back down.
You may be seated,” the judge begins.
“We can make this quick. Mr. and Mrs. Usarian, after thoroughly reviewing the case against your son and in light of newly presented evidence, I can come to no other conclusion but that a grave travesty of justice has occurred here. It appears likely that I was knowingly presented false information regarding your son, not the least of which was the claim that he was an adult of eighteen, which, I now understand, he is not. It also now seems the assertion that he may have been aware of a planned terrorist act is highly questionable. Furthermore—and to my great regret—I have learned that enhanced interrogation, or phase two interrogation as it is often called, was carried out earlier today—the fact of which your lawyer has already, no doubt, made you aware.”
The judge turns and looks at me, his dour countenance softening a little as he begins to speak directly to me.
“Tamika, I want to personally apologize to you for the failure of the justice system to adequately protect your rights in this case, especially for the failures that led to your interrogation, which I can assure you will be thoroughly examined, and the negligent party or parties will be facing their own charges from this bench.”
He picks up his gavel and turns his gaze back to the table where my parents and lawyer are seated as he continues.
“In light of all of these facts, and pending a more detailed internal investigation, I see no reason why Tamika Usarian should remain in custody at this time. I am hereby releasing him, effective immediately. Court adjourned.”
The judge brings down the gavel, and it’s one of the sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard.
