chapter 38
WASHINGTON, D.C.
RAPP had to laugh at the irony of the situation. Here he was in an orange prison jumpsuit shackled to a metal table in a room that reeked of urine. The cinder-block walls of the ten-by-ten-foot interrogation room were covered with a variety of body fluids that Rapp did not want to attempt to identify. The fact that America treated terrorists better than its own citizens was just another example of how upside down things were. He was in the Central Detention Facility, or D.C. jail, as it is more commonly known. A place located in one of the most run-down, crime-ridden neighborhoods in America. Every year for the last thirty, Southeast D.C. helped the capital city finish in the top five for most murders - usually number one. The jail was filled with gangbangers and crackheads and every other kind of reprobate that roamed the not-so-safe streets of the nation's capital.
It was obvious that the political forces behind his arrest thought they could somehow unravel him by sticking him in this place, which was proof that they were either very stupid or very petty or probably both. When they'd finished fingerprinting and photographing him, they took away all his clothes and gave him the orange jumpsuit and the paper slippers and stuck him in general holding. No lawyer, no phone call, just Ridley standing there, doling out threats like a kindergarten teacher on a field trip. Ridley warned them it was a mistake. Told them over and over not to dump him in general holding, but the jailers stuck with their official line that everyone gets the same treatment.
Rapp lasted less than five minutes in the big thirty-by-ten-foot cell. A wiry black perp, all strung out on drugs, got in his face almost the second he walked in the door. Rather than engage the man in conversation, Rapp hit him with a quick jab to the solar plexus and sent him to the floor, where he lay gasping for air like a fish out of water. Two slightly larger and younger black men took umbrage at this and strolled across the cell hooting and hollering about all the hurt they were going to put on their new bitch. In five seconds Rapp sized them up, drew them in, and dismantled them. The man on the left got a half a step ahead of the other guy and threw the first punch. Rapp moved his head a mere six inches and let the fist sail past. With a slight pivot he brought up his right leg and then sent his foot crashing down on the outside of the man's right knee. Having thrown his punch and missed, the man was left for a second with ninety-five percent of his weight resting on that front foot. When Rapp's foot made contact and pushed through the target, the man buckled as if he'd been walking on a pair of flimsy stilts.
The second guy was on him almost immediately and actually got ahold of Rapp's jumpsuit for a second, before Rapp broke free with a series of quick rabbit punches to several vital organs. He then took the man by the wrist, twisted the hand 180 degrees, and straightened his arm so that his elbow was in a locked position pointing directly up at the ceiling. One quick kick to the stomach sent the man to the floor. There was a moment where the entire room was still. Rapp looked across the cell at the other gangbangers and tried to gauge their mood. They were all paying rapt attention, and a few looked like they might join in. Rapp decided that the easiest way to stop the violence was to make an example. With the perp's arm still in a straight and locked position, Rapp dropped to his right knee, brought his left arm up above his head, and brought his elbow smashing down. When the blow struck, the other man's elbow socket exploded, sounding like a two-by-four snapping from too much weight.
When the guards showed up, the first perp was just regaining his ability to breathe, but the other two were rolling around on the ground screaming in pain with limbs pointed at very unnatural angles. The guards had a quick conference and decided to move Rapp to one of the interrogation rooms. That was where he had been sitting from roughly one in the morning until now. He was shackled around his wrists and ankles and chained to the metal table. The cinder-block walls were blank. With nothing to look at and nothing to do but wait, Rapp rested his head on the table and tried to sleep. He lost track of time but it felt like he'd been in the room for close to ten hours, which meant it was probably closer to five. Alone with nothing but his thoughts, he wondered how Kennedy was taking things. There was a good chance that she was raising holy hell, but one never really knew in this town.
When the door finally opened, Rapp looked up and saw a man roughly his age, wearing a blue suit and a mint green and blue striped tie. He was handsome, but not in a masculine way. He was too perfect, too deliberate. Like he put a lot of effort into his grooming and appearance. He entered the room holding a cup of coffee, a scone, and a leather briefing folder under one arm. He kicked the door closed and sat down across from Rapp.
After straightening his tie and taking a sip of coffee he said, "You have managed to get yourself into a lot of trouble."
Rapp stared back at him with his brown eyes that were so dark they were almost black and said nothing.
"Striking an officer of the United States Air Force is a very serious crime." He glanced at Rapp with his most serious expression and flipped open the briefing folder. "Not to mention this part about you donning the uniform of colonel and sneaking around a United States military installation without authorized access. I would say you've finally run out of luck, Mr. Rapp."
Rapp said nothing. He stared back at the man and wondered if he really thought he was going to somehow scare him.
"You're looking at ten years... maybe more."
Rapp chuckled.
"You find this funny?"
"I find your theatrical bravado funny."
The man took a sip of coffee and in a morose tone said, "I don't think you're going to be laughing when you're sitting in a federal prison getting buttf*cked by a bunch of hard cons."
Rapp's eyes narrowed, the creases in his forehead deepening. He sensed something in the man across the table. Something he should be leery of. "Who are you?"
The man straightened his tie and said, "I'm Wade Kline... Department of Justice Chief Privacy and Civil Liberties Officer, and I'm your worst nightmare, Mr. Rapp."
"Really?" Rapp asked in a not-impressed tone.
"Yes. I'm incorruptible, and I don't like people who think they don't have to play by the rules."
Rapp nodded. "Speaking of the rules," Rapp glanced up at the camera in the corner, "would you mind telling me why I haven't seen my attorney?"
Kline grinned at Rapp and with an arched brow said, "Sometimes it's hard to track down a lawyer in the middle of the night. I'm sure he'll be along in time for your arraignment."
"Well, it is very considerate of you to come in here and talk to me without my lawyer present, but I think I'll pass."
Kline plucked a chunk of the scone from the wax paper and popped it into his mouth. "What if I were to tell you I could make this all go away?"
"How?"
"You cooperate with my investigation. You talk to me about your superiors at Langley. You fill me on your illegal domestic spying operations. It's your only chance."
"You're joking, right?"
"Mr. Rapp, do I look like the type of person who jokes around?"
Rapp thought to himself that it was a valid point. This guy took himself far too seriously to screw around. "You know what I think, Kline? I think there's a real shit storm brewing outside this room right now. I think there's a lot of pissed-off people at the Pentagon and the White House."
"Really?"
"Yep... I think you got wind of this little misunderstanding between Captain Leland and myself and you decided to run with it before checking in with your superiors. I think the attorney general has had his ass reamed by the president, which means the AG has now turned around and reamed your ass, and since you're a desperate type of fellow and you hate to lose, you've now decided the only way you can save face on this deal is to try this lame-ass Hail Mary attempt... promising you'll go light on me in return for me telling you about all the nasty shit I've seen the CIA do over the last eighteen years."
"I can promise you, Mr. Rapp, I don't make empty threats," Wade said seriously. "I've spent too many hours in a courtroom to say something I can't follow through on."
"Then help me understand your situation, because you don't have a case against me. This little scuffle between Captain Leland and myself... there's two sides to how that went down and even if you believe everything he's telling you, which would be a mistake, all you've got is a misdemeanor assault. You and I both know I'll never see the inside of a jail, let alone have to endure all these boyfriends you're talking about. And as far as me putting on the uniform of a colonel" - Rapp shrugged - "that's what we do in the Clandestine Service. So unless you've got something you're not telling me, you're wasting my time."
"Well," started Kline with a big smile, "there is this other matter."
"And what would that be?"
"The part about you beating and torturing a bound prisoner."
A small grin spread across Rapp's lips. He was waiting for this card to be played. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you do. Captain Leland and General Garrison have already filed their official reports." Kline consulted his notes. "The prisoner's name is Abu Haggani. We have photos of his cut and bruised face attached to the report."
"Didn't happen."
"I have a security tape that says different." Kline stared unflinchingly at Rapp. "You'd better make this deal with me or you're going to get caught up in a media firestorm that is going to make Abu Ghraib look like a twenty-four-hour scandal."
If Rapp hadn't already spoken to Marcus Dumond, who had assured him that all recordings had been destroyed, he might have been slightly anxious, but even if Kline did have the tape he would never flip. Rapp glanced down at Kline's notes and said, "Show it to me."
"What?"
"The tape."
"The FBI," he said calmly, "is analyzing it for evidence."
"Sure they are." Rapp smiled and gave Kline a look as if they were both on the inside of a joke. "You don't have shit, Kline."
"I do, and you're going down... and you're going to bring the rest of that den of rats down with you."
"You're a big talker, Kline," Rapp said in a confident voice. "I've seen your type come and go every few years. You've got your righteous gung-ho attitude. You talk tough about cleaning up crime and defending Lady Liberty, but we both know why you do it."
Kline looked amused. "I can't wait to hear this. A knuckle-dragger from the CIA is going to impart a pearl of wisdom."
"It's your ego. It's not a sense of duty. You want to make a name for yourself. You want to climb the ladder of success. Maybe run for office someday or open your own law practice. You're nothing but a big p-ssy in a suit. You wouldn't last a day out there doing what we do."
"I would never stoop so low as to do your work."
"You mean killing terrorists and saving lives. Of course you wouldn't, because you're a selfish little prick."
"You know what I think?" said Kline hotly. "I think you're a sick man. I think you get off on beating defenseless men." Kline circled around and whispered in Rapp's ear, "I think it's a real thrill for you." He placed his hand on the back of Rapp's neck and began to squeeze.
"I'm only going to say this once," Rapp said in a firm voice. "Take your hand off me, right now."
"What?" Kline laughed loudly. "You can dish it out, but you can't take it."
In an almost disembodied voice, Rapp said, "You have no idea who you are dealing with."
"I'm dealing with a guy who gets his jollies slapping around men who are handcuffed." Kline playfully smacked Rapp across the back of the head with an open hand.
"Is that all you've got?" Rapp asked, his anger building.
Kline slapped him harder and then grabbed a handful of Rapp's thick black hair and yanked his head back. "Why should I play by the rules when you don't? Huh, Mr. Tough Guy?"
"Because I got out of my handcuffs, you idiot."
Kline's eyes froze for a moment and then moved from Rapp's face down to his lap, where he saw the handcuffs and chains lying in his lap.
Before Kline could move, Rapp's right hand shot up and grabbed him by the tie. Spinning out of the chair, Rapp stood and drove the Department of Justice employee back into the corner and delivered a quick knee strike to the groin. Then, grabbing Kline's tie with both hands, Rapp began to cinch the knot tighter and tighter.
As Kline's face began to turn purple, Rapp asked, "Who's the tough guy now?"