Russell Andrews - Midas

Justin didn’t answer. He had no response that could remotely be seen as satisfying.

“How long have I been here?” he said instead, and was surprised to hear his own voice-harsh and dry and cracked. It hurt his throat to expel the words and he didn’t know if the man would even understand the words.

“Not long enough,” the man answered. “You should try answering the questions that I ask.”

Justin tried licking his lips before speaking this time. It didn’t do much good. He couldn’t conjure up any moisture.

“How much longer?”

“Tell me what you know about the Harper’s bombing.”

“How much longer. . will I be here?”

“You’ll be here until you tell us what you know.”

“And then?”

“It depends on what you tell us.”

“Where?”

“Are you asking where you are?” And when Justin nodded, because he was almost out of energy and that was the best he could do, the man in fatigues said, “You’re in hell, pal.”

Justin knew he’d lost the guy, that he was going to turn and leave the tiny cell, so he quickly spit out the word, “Why?” And when the officer hesitated, didn’t leave, just stared at Justin, a look of disbelief on his face, Justin said it again quickly, as loud as he could: “Why?”

“You’re being held as an enemy combatant.”

Justin raised his head. He hoped his eyes were registering the disbelief he felt. “You think I’m a terrorist?”

“We know you have knowledge of terrorist activities. And that you may be aiding and abetting the enemy.”

“Fucking crazy.”

“I couldn’t understand that. You’re not speaking clearly.”

Justin coughed out some of the hurt in his throat and forced the words out: “You’re fucking crazy.”

The man didn’t answer. This time he just turned and headed for the door.

“Wait,” Justin said. And when the man turned back, Justin, doing his best to be understood, added, “Want to call a lawyer.”

The man actually smiled. A thin, cruel, delighted smile. “You don’t have the right,” he said.

“Bullshit.” It was the clearest word Justin had yet uttered.

The man took two steps forward now, leaned down to get closer to him. Justin could see the man recoil slightly at the smell. The proximity to this kind of filth seemed to finally anger him. The grin was gone, as was the calm civility. Both were replaced only by cruelty. “Listen, you little fuck. You don’t have the right to an attorney, you don’t have the right to remain silent, you don’t have the right to shit. Not anymore. Guys like me, we can finally do our fucking jobs. I can keep you here for the rest of your natural fucking life and no one can do a fucking thing about it, do you understand that?”

When Justin didn’t answer, the man kicked him. Hard. Justin didn’t feel any real pain but he realized he must have blacked out, because suddenly his eyes were open and he’d missed some time, and the man was standing over him.

“What do you want to know?” Justin said.

“Right now, all I want to know is if you understand what the fuck I just told you. ’Cause the stink in here is making me sick and I don’t want to have to spend one second more than I have to talking to scum like you.”

“I understand what you told me.”

“Good. Now you think about it until I come back. That might be tomorrow, it might be a few months from now, it might be never. You think about that, too.”

Justin felt the panic rising up again. The idea of going back into the endless isolation, no conversation, no communication, more beatings, it was the feeling he imagined would come with being buried alive. The feeling he had when he dreamed about Alicia and Lili. The fear was suffocating but he refused to show it, did his best to keep his breath smooth and steady. The man turned and left.

Justin Westwood curled up on the floor. He didn’t know if he could stay awake, exhaustion had consumed his entire body. But he didn’t think he could fall asleep, so deep was his dread of being beaten and humiliated, his usual punishment for drifting away from consciousness. So he lay there, doing his best to keep his thoughts coherent and his fear too deeply embedded to emerge.

They didn’t have his strength. They hadn’t taken it away. That’s what he told himself over and over and over again.

And then he began to weep.

The beatings and sleep deprivation resumed soon afterward. Justin estimated they went on for three more days, although he knew his sense of time had little proportion to it. That was as close as he could get and it was preferable to no guideline at all.

On what he thought was the fourth day, the man-the only one who had thus far spoken to him-returned. He offered a small paper cup full of water, which Justin grabbed and downed in one gulp. The cold liquid hurt his throat; the coldness was jarring enough that it made him drop the cup on the floor. He watched sadly as a tiny stream of water dropped onto the dirt and formed a moist bubble of a puddle.

“Tell me about the bombing at Harper’s,” the man asked. No lead-in, no attempt at banter or good cop tactics. Just, “Tell me about the bombing at Harper’s.”

Justin nodded slowly. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about the bombing at La Cucina.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

The man’s voice didn’t change. “Tell me about the McDonald’s bombing.”

“I’ll tell you anything I know. Ask me questions I can answer.”

“Tell me about Midas.”

“Midas?” Justin was surprised. “I don’t know anything about Midas. All I know is they paid Hutchinson Cooke to work for them.”

“Tell me what you know about Midas.”

Speaking was still difficult and his throat was so raw it felt as if it had been scraped to the bone with a sharp blade. “It’s a company.”

“What kind of a company?”

“I don’t know. The kind you should be fucking investigating instead of talking to me, you fucking asshole.”

Justin had no memory of the blow. He also had no idea how long he was out. All he knew is that when he came to, the man was gone and he was, as usual, all alone in his cell.

The next time the man came, Justin estimated it was two days later.

“Tell me about the bombings,” the man said.

“I need some real food,” Justin said. “And my gums won’t stop bleeding.”

“The bombings. Start with Harper’s.”

“Just tell me what you want to know. I swear to God, I’ll tell you.”

“What happened at Harper’s?”

“I don’t know.”

“You were there.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Afterwards,” the man in fatigues said. “An FBI agent brought you there.”

“Right,” Justin nodded. “He showed me what happened.”

“Why?”

“I asked him to.”

“Why?”

“I know someone who was killed there. In the explosion. I wanted to see.”

“What was the agent’s name?”

“Billings. Chuck Billings.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No.”

“But you think someone did.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What about Hutchinson Cooke?”

“He’s dead, too.”

“Who killed him ?”

“I don’t know.” Justin’s voice was just about gone now. His throat felt like it was going to close up.

“Why are you looking into his death?”

“I’m a fucking policeman, you fucking moron.”

When Justin woke up, he decided he must have been hit in the mouth this time. One of his front teeth was loose.

Justin saw no one, after that, for what he estimated to be two full days. Sometime during the third day, the door to his cell opened. Justin didn’t respond because he’d learned that response was meaningless. He got no points for being passive, nor was there an advantage to any resistance. So he just lay still. He’d taken to estimating the time of day and he decided it was the middle of the night.