A PATRIOT DIRGE: Roy's Holiday

A Time to Write
A Comfortable Incarceration
Room with a View

After twenty-four hours, Roy was free to answer all questions openly and candidly. It was standard procedure for the organization that Roy served alongside Amy to provide safe refuge to international dissidents. When the organization was founded it was inconceivable that they would be called to serve American citizens – or for that matter residents of the European Union. Everything changed the day the towers fell.

Caught and detained in a security sweep, Roy was prepared to provide names, identities, locations, timelines and events but his inquisitors did not seem interested. The intake interview was cursory:

"Are you who we think you are?" Yes, I am.

"Where is Amy Goodall?" Somewhere in the Seattle area.

"Are you an associate in an organization known as the Independent Movement?" Yes.

After twenty-four hours he confirmed what they already knew: that the Inner Circle of the Independent Movement consisted of six individuals, including himself, Amy, John Sinclair, Sara Kent, Representative Maggie Thomas and its founder Roman Mason. He told them that they were a political organization committed to change through the electoral process. He told them they were dedicated to the principles of nonviolence, including civil disobedience and mass protest.

Sitting across a dark wood desk in an expansive library, his interviewer dutifully took notes and read them back to confirm their contents. He identified himself as Agent Black and he maintained a decorum of polite but guarded respect. It was as if he knew it was all just a scam, that Roy was little more than a dupe and he himself was being used by opportunistic politicians for nefarious purposes.

Roy had the feeling that if Agent Black could speak freely he would say he deplored the individual who gave the order for this operation. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was an abuse of power but he was not in a position to question it.

For the record he made a point of opening every session with a request for an attorney. Agent Blake took note and moved on.

It did not feel like interrogation. It did not feel like imprisonment. They were in a large hotel-like structure in a remote forested location. His room was spacious, carpeted and finely furnished with rows of books and a writing desk. The windows were barred but he could see Mount Rainier in the distance.

It was more like a writer’s retreat than an unlawful detention. He was allowed paper and pen. He could listen to music, watch television, even access the internet with a monitor at his side. The food was good, the wine more than decent. He could eat alone in his room or join the agents downstairs.

He soon discarded any notion of escape and got down to serious writing: Political articles chronicling the abuses of the current White House, the failure of the political process, betrayals of civil liberties and the separation of powers. Having long neglected his creative impulse, he began to write fiction as well, including a long short story about a political purge not unlike what had befallen the Independent Movement. Agent Black read his work on a semi-regular basis. Their sessions were evolving into literary reviews.

"Is that what happened?" the agent asked.

"You know the facts," responded Roy. "You tell me."

They were so accommodating that Roy began to wonder who was pulling the strings. These were serious people, sincere and dedicated. They did not enjoy wasting their time on a political junket. They were being used and they knew it. They were biding their time, waiting for an opportunity to blow it wide open.

He broached the subject with Agent Black who made a note and did not respond. Roy pressed him, reversing the roles of interviewer and interviewee.

"When you signed up for this job, is this what you thought you’d be doing?"

"It doesn’t matter what I think. I serve at the pleasure of the president."

"You’re quoting Colin Powell."

Agent Black nodded and let it settle in his gut. He was an older man, mid fifties, clean-shaven, his dark eyes and skin betraying an Indian, Asian or Middle Eastern descent. He reached under the desk and pressed a switch.

"Colin Powell resigned," he said.

Yes, Powell resigned but not before delivering what will be recorded as one of the most deceptive presentations in United Nations history. In laying the groundwork for war with Iraq, replete with charts, photographs and satellite images, the former Secretary of State delivered a package of lies under the label of undeniable fact. Yes, he resigned but not before enabling the little man with an ego the size of Texas to be "reelected" president of the United States.

"A little late, don’t you think?" Roy inquired.

"You and I," said Agent Black, "are not as different as one might think. We both love our country. We both believe in freedom and justice. We both want peace."

Roy studied him until he was certain – as certain as circumstances allowed – that he was not being played.

"We’re both waiting for a time to act."

Agent Black cocked his head and nodded in a noncommittal gesture. Pointedly, he did not disagree.

The days rolled by and the interviews became shorter and then halted. Agent Black more frequently joined Roy and the others in the community room. They played chess, talked baseball and politics. He found the agent’s opinions interesting and informed though they often argued over the role of government. It seemed he was a libertarian and Roy always respected libertarians for their consistency.

Roy noticed that his access to the evening news and political programming was being censored and wondered why. Agent Black fell silent when he inquired.

"You’re a prisoner," he said finally. "You haven’t forgotten, have you?"

No, he had not. He was mystified at how pleasant his confinement was but he had no illusions. Every minute of every day he resented the sights he could not see, Pike Place Market, the Space Needle, Monks Tavern and the waves rolling down the Straits of Juan de Fuca, the busy sounds of the city, the scent of eucalyptus trees lining their street, the taste of Amy’s breath, the intoxication of her touch.

No, he had not forgotten. In some ways he resented their casual politeness. They had lifted him from his life, stolen his purpose for living, denied him the company of friends and loved ones and taken his freedom. Should he be grateful that they made his imprisonment comfortable? If he was an enemy of state, they should treat him as one. If he was not, they should let him go.

"Every night I wake up in the early hours and reach out to the other side of the bed. Every night there is a moment when I’m startled and wonder where she is. Do you know what that’s like, Agent Black?"

The agent said nothing. He breathed deeply and retreated to his office.

"No," said Roy to the agent’s back, "I haven’t forgotten."

A little later Agent Black returned with copies of the Seattle Times and the Washington Post. He laid them on the table where Roy was sitting.

"It’s broken," he said. "It’s out in the open."

Roy pick up the Times and read the headline top left above the fold:

"Writer Roy Jones Held by Homeland Security."