Brown shut the door. Brent stood up and looked at the smoke detector with the lens pointed at his side of the table, and spoke directly to it. "Nobody told me that our time would be limited. I need more than fifteen minutes with my client to prepare our case! And, for the record, we do not agree to a surveillance of this conversation. It is a privileged attorney-client communication."

He turned his attention back to the shackled man at the table. Ahmed looked tired, worn down and emaciated, like he hadn't eaten or slept for days. But, even so, he had a pleasant and friendly look. He didn't fit Brent's preconceived image of what a terrorist would look like. He looked simply like one of the many Muslim immigrants Brent had seen: doctors, taxi drivers, lawyers and accountants; his experience with them had never been negative.

"Ahmed, my name is Brent Marks. Your wife hired me to be your attorney."

"Hello Mr. Marks," said Ahmed. "I would shake your hand but, as you can see, my hands are handcuffed to this table." Ahmed gestured with his hands within the limitations of their restraints. "And they don't allow any personal contact."

"Yes, I've noticed there are many differences here than prisons in the United States."

"Oh, but Mr. Marks, this is not a prison."

"So I heard. Now, I'm not allowed to ask you about any of your jihadist activities."

"I don't have any jihadist activities!" Ahmed's forehead wrinkled in frustration and he looked defeated. All he could think about was how he had just met this lawyer, and the lawyer had preconceived notions that he was some kind of a terrorist.

"I know. But there are certain things I'm not allowed to speak to you about and to represent you, I had to be clear on your status. Now I am."

"I'm not a terrorist, Mr. Marks. I'm just a U.S. citizen who was born in Iraq. I love my life in America and my new country."

"Why did you go to Baghdad?"

"I got a call from my brother. He said he needed my help."

"With what?"

"He couldn't say. But I could tell he was in trouble."

"So you went to Iraq, knowing that your brother was in some kind of trouble, but you didn't ask what?"

"He's my brother! He asks for help, I go. It's that simple."

"And what happened after your arrival?"

"That's just it. Nothing happened! My brother picked me up at the airport, drove me to his place, and I spent a few days there. Before he had a chance to tell me what was wrong and how I could help, there was a raid."

"A raid?"

"Yes. One of my brother's friends got a call, and they all left: they went out the window. A few minutes later, the MP's were breaking down his door."

"What happened to your brother?"

"I don't know. They separated us. I think they killed him." Ahmed hung his head in despair.

"Ahmed, I don't know how much time we really have."

"He said fifteen minutes..."

"Yes, so let's use all of the time we have wisely."

Brent jotted down everything that Ahmed could remember, about his brother, the names of his friends, and every detail about his time in Iraq.

"So your brother runs a store. That's why they suspected him of being a money launderer."

"Yes, but that little store couldn't possibly take in that much cash."

"Ahmed, I'm going to file a procedure called a habeas corpus in Federal Court in the States. If the application is granted, you can be moved to the States and get a trial there."

"I don't even know what they're charging me with. They won't say."

"You leave that to me."

Ahmed recounted a tale of torture and abuse that rivaled that of Nazi Germany or the Spanish Inquisition. He described the isolation of the concrete holding cells with no windows and steel doors instead of bars, to prevent contact among inmates. He told of fellow inmates' suicides and the famous force-feeding chair, for those who attempted hunger strikes. In short, his story violated every parameter that Brent was given for the interview, but the explosive facts made a habeas corpus petition a virtual shoe-in.

There was a pounding on the door and Brown entered. "Time's up," he declared.

Brent handed Ahmed the letter from his wife.

"From your wife."

Ahmed took the letter with his shackled hands and looked at it in awe as if it was a bar of gold. His eyes, filled with gratitude, met Brent's. He smiled as opened it and read, My dearest love, It has been so long since I wrote a letter to you. Pressures and responsibilities of life can make some things seem routine, but it's always a happiness to be by your side, sharing everything together. I feel so lost without you; like I'm drifting aimlessly in the darkness of space. There is always quiet peace at the end of the day, after the children have gone to bed and we spend time together just being with each other. It's always been my favorite time. But now it's just a quiet time; quiet and empty and the peace is gone. I miss your warm touch, your gentle strength; that security I feel in your presence. I miss waking up with you by my side and falling to sleep at night on your shoulder. It seems I can't sleep without it.

I can't imagine the terrible ordeal that you are going through, and I feel selfish when I wallow here in my own misery. But I know that we will be together soon, so that gives me hope. I pray every day that this will be the day you come home. Know always that my heart is always full of love for you. Karen and Cameron are sending you their hugs and kisses. I haven't told them what's going on yet. They still think you're in Iraq...

Brown tore the letter from Ahmed's handcuffed hand and bagged his head. "The interview is over," he declared.

It was William Penn who said, "Right is right, even if everyone is against it, and wrong is wrong, even if everyone is for it." Brent knew that there was nothing right about this place and the way the prisoners were treated, and he was determined to do whatever he could to change that.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Brent's mind was working non-stop like a locomotive on the flight back to Los Angeles. When the plane landed in Miami, his first stop, everyone had to go through customs and immigration control. Brent knew that, but what was unusual was that the Captain had announced that every passenger should have passports out and ready to show them to officers as they deplaned.

It took unusually long for the plane to empty, and, when Brent reached the end of the jetway, there were two armed border patrol officers there checking passports. Brent showed his passport to them.

"Just the gentleman we've been looking for. Please come with us, sir."

One of the officers, a young man, took Brent by the arm, and the three men moved in tandem.

"What's this about?" asked Brent.

"We don't know. You'll have to discuss it with the interrogating officer," said the unattached officer.

"Am I being arrested?"

"Not at this time, sir," said the officer.

"Well then, why the armed escort?"

"Do you have an outstanding warrant for your arrest in any state?"

"No."

"Then, it's probably just routine."

Brent imagined a routine where long-term American citizens like him were treated like criminals every time they came back from a trip abroad. The walk to the screening section seemed like it would take forever. Brent had never been detained or placed in custody before. Sure, he had been in plenty of prisons, but never as the prisoner, only as a visitor.

The subsequent two-hour wait in the screening section, a locked area, with officers standing behind a glass wall like bank tellers, seemed like a lifetime.

"Excuse me, can you tell me how long this will take? I'm going to miss my connecting flight," he said to one teller.

"Wait for your name to be called," was the only response he was given.

They had retrieved Brent's name in-flight from the passenger list, which was automatically transmitted to the Department of Homeland Security in Miami. Someone had put an alert out for Brent's passport.

"Brent Marks," called one of the tellers.

Brent was shown into a private screening room, where an armed Border Patrol Officer sat in front of a computer.

"Mr. Marks, was this your first visit to Cuba?"

"Yes, but I didn't go to Cuba, technically it was Guantanamo Bay. That's considered U.S. territory."

"Are you trying to argue with a United States Border Patrol Officer, Sir?"

"No, I'm not, I just..."

"What was the purpose of your visit to Cuba?"

"I'm a lawyer. I was visiting a client."

"Can you prove that you're a lawyer?"

"Of course. Here's my bar card," Brent said, as he opened his wallet at took out his California State bar membership card.

"What is your final destination in the United States, sir?"

"Los Angeles."

After taking Brent's address, the name of his client, and examining the papers that proved he had been granted permission to visit Gitmo, the Officer said, "You're free to go, Mr. Marks. Welcome home."

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"What is this all about?"

"I'm afraid I cannot discuss that with you, Sir. If you have any questions or grievances, you can visit our website."

Welcome home. Brent had left the United States a free man. Why did he not feel free when he came back?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

The long ride to Santa Barbara gave Brent pause to reflect on everything that had happened at Gitmo and his return. Now the surreal images of hooded and shackled prisoners in orange jumpsuits kneeling on the ground among armed guards that he had seen in news reports were a sobering reality. Something had to be done, and he was in a position to do it.

When he finally reached Coast Village Road, he exited the freeway and took the long way home by the beach. Brent had seen enough concrete on his trip to Gitmo, and he wanted to enjoy the fresh air and the lovely beach vista on the final few miles of the drive home.

Brent rolled down the windows and smelled the misty, salty air as he gazed across the palm studded grassy knolls of Chase Palm Park and its late afternoon joggers along Cabrillo Blvd. Once again, he was reminded why he chose Santa Barbara. L.A. had some nice spots, and it was great to be in the action, but it was a concrete jungle compared to Santa Barbara, which was calm and beautiful 365 days a year. Passing State Street, he saw people strolling along the beach among the bicycle riders and roller skaters on the bike path, and the tourists taking their walks down State Street to Stearns Wharf, perhaps to select a restaurant for the evening. Brent headed toward the Mesa via Shoreline Drive. The picture postcard view of the Santa Barbara harbor loomed above the houses as he descended toward his Harbor Hills Lane home.

When he walked in, he received a homecoming from his orange and white cat, Calico. Her cheerful face was always synonymous with home. Calico's purr motor was idling, and she rubbed her body against his legs, first with her face, and continuing along the length of her slinky body until the tip of her snaky tail. Then she repeated the process on the other leg, all the while idling at 700 rpm.

Before Brent had a chance to set down his suitcases to feed the cat, the phone rang. Brent set down his bags, negotiated what little space was left between them and the cat in the entry, and raced the cat to the kitchen to pick up the phone.

"Brent, it's Debbie, are you okay?"

"Hi, Deb, yes, I'm fine."

"I was just worried, haven't heard from you since I got your text that you landed. How did it go at Gitmo?"

"We should talk about it over dinner."

"Sounds good."

"Let me just jump in the shower and I'll pick you up in about an hour?"

"Okay."

"Oh Deb?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for taking care of the cat."

Calico's mewing, before a steady drone in the background of the phone call, had turned into wailing. Brent scooped out a generous gourmet feast for her and she quickly changed from wailing back to purring.