The Detainees
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What is seen in war does not haunt a man as much as what he does in war. War brings out the best in men, sure, but it also brings out the evil bits as well. Man carries out actions in war he did not know he was capable of. It is those things a man must spend his life coming to terms with. A man thinks himself honorable until he is not. Society lifts him up as a brave hero while the evil he has committed eats him up.
This story is my way of dealing with my inner demons. It is my way to process the evil I have done. This story is not meant to dishonor the brave men which have served - and there are many. This story is meant to shine a light on the darkness people don't like to expose. War is a complex beast. History will lift up certain men and heroes, and others as villains. In reality they are both.
This is a story of me as the villain.
"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey", the boy whispered, straddling the sleeping Iraqi on the ground before softly kicking him in the ribs with the side of his boot.
It was a hot September night, and Weapons platoon had been tasked with a night raid to capture or kill an individual responsible for providing money and information to enemy forces. Like a childhood game of telephone, the order would be passed down from someone at the battalion level to someone at the company level to someone at the platoon level to the individual squad leaders and then finally to the boy's ears. Hearing was believing, and faith came from hearing. Romans 10 said so, and just like the Good Book itself, the words of those above him were not to be questioned.
The raid was to take place shortly after midnight in hopes that the target would be at home quietly sleeping - unaware of what would come through the door at such an hour. Marines with guns and grenades. Men with hate and discontent. College kids with fear. All capable of killing any living thing in the house.
The target house was a part of a small compound. Acres of farmland surrounding it. A nice place for Iraq. It reminded the boy that he was standing in the cradle of civilization.
The hours leading up to the raid, Weapons platoon prepared themselves and their equipment. Ammo was resupplied, grenades and other explosives grabbed from the armory, water topped off, anything that could click or clank in the middle of the night taped down, anything reflective covered, night vision goggles tested, heavy metal listened too, pride inflated, fear hidden, and false courage puffed up. By the time the platoon was ready to step off they were pumped up and ready to go.
The platoon was transported to the target site on trucks. A change from the long foot patrols they were accustomed to. Once there, the Machine Gun squad created the "outer cordon", blocking all roads going in and out of the area to prevent anyone from entering. As the outer cordon was being set up the Mortar squad and Assault squad moved up the compound. The mortarmen set up an "inner cordon", preventing anyone from leaving the compound. As the inner cordon was being completed the assaultmen entered the compound as quietly as possible in hopes to surprise whoever might be inside.
The gate to the compound had been opened by the time the boy had reached it. Whether it had already been open or breached silently, the boy did not know. What the boy did know however is that the squad had entered quietly enough as not to wake the family sleeping in the yard.
As if choreographed, the squad adapted their plan and continued on. Hammond, Wushu, and the boy would wake up the family and round them up in the yard while the rest of the squad entered the house.
"Hey, motherfucker! I said wake up!", the boy grunted as he heeled the sleeping man a little harder.
The Iraqi awoke, his hands reactively covering his face as he realized he was staring down the barrel of a weapon held by a tall, looming figure. Silhouetted against the moonlit sky, the boy looked like a giant.
"There you go", the boy continued, talking freely now, as the man shakingly raised himself into a seated position. "It's all just a bad dream. We will have you out of here before you know it".
Not far away doors could be heard opening behind the force of a well-placed kick. Women and children could be heard muffling their cries and asking questions in Arabic which would not be understood by the Marines. Hammond could be heard telling the family to move to one of the corners of the compound in an authoritative, yet emotionless voice. Wushu mockingly comforted the family, telling them everything would be ok. As he zip-tied the hands of the man he had been straddling behind the man's back, the boy could hear Marines in the house yelling, "Clear! Clear! Room all clear!", as they methodically moved room to room clearing any possible threat that might be hiding around every corner.
It took less than a minute for the assultmen to enter the compound, clear the buildings, capture the target, round the family up, and awaken the night
The raid had been uneventful but flawlessly executed. Another nameless face had been detained. Another terrorist was off the streets. A family would lose their father. Or so the boy was told. Hearing was believing.
* * * * * * *
Within the first month of taking over their area of operation in Iraq, rightly named "The Triangle of Death", the boy's unit, 2nd Battalion, 24th Marine Division, earned the nickname from the locals of "The Mad Ghosts". Raids, like the one on that September night, would give the Boogeyman a name and a face. Parents would tell their children of the monsters that quietly came into homes in the middle of the night to take fathers, and eat them if the kids had not been good. The monsters would have hard domed heads, with their chest and back plated like a turtle. They would carry mean looking metal sticks that could turn a human's head inside out with the press of a button. If the kids were not good these monsters would enter as quiet as a ghost in the middle of the night and awaken them with their screaming and yelling and the upturning of furniture. In the end, their father would be seen no more.
During their time in the Triangle of Death, 2/24 would capture over 1000 individuals, found to have come from Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Chechnya, and of course Iraq. All had been Arab. All were guilty - or maybe they weren't - but all were definitely fucked. Every detainee would go through a process in which a Human Intelligence Team, HIT, would question (and as rumor had it, beat) them until they would sing like songbirds.
The base had two tents that would house all who were brought in on suspicion of aiding the enemy or harming coalition forces. Blindfolded and with hands tied, they would wait for their fate to be determined. They would sit for hours, or days, until someone with enough authority would determine if they were guilty and stamp their ticket to the now infamous Abu Ghraib prison.
* * * * * * *
On this September night weapons platoon had returned to base with one more body than they left with. The Iraqi and any evidence found during the raid would be unloaded and taken to the detainee tents. Pictures would be taken of the man with his possessions. A mugshot proving his guilt - or maybe not.
During the next few hours the boy, along with a few others in the platoon, would go from being an occupational force, to a police force. Paperwork would be done to give justification as to why the man was being detained. Stories would be swapped as to what was found in the house, what the man said, and if it fit the crime he was guilty of prior to the raid. The judge had already ruled and it was the boy's job as the jury to carry out a preordained verdict.
There were times the boy knew the judge had been correct in his verdict. Detainees would be found with weapons, literature, or other paraphernalia proving their guilt. Some would be captured in the act, or with wounds as a result of their acts. Other times, however, the person's name was incriminating enough. During the raid, nothing of value would be found except a person with a matching name and description. Paperwork would be written, stories would be swapped, and a man’s life would be fucked. Hearing was believing after all.
* * * * * * *
The HIT team wasn't the only people detainees had to worry about. They also had to worry about the faceless Marines that would guard them. Waiting in the darkness behind their blindfolds, the Marines could be known by voice only. Mockery and insults would be hurled at each detainee. Human dignity stripped away wherever possible.
It wasn't uncommon for Marines to be guarding detainees while being serenaded by the screams of men behind the tent. The choirmaster questioning with authority, echoed by a song of painful submission. Sometimes the choirmaster would present the singers to the Marines in the tent to give one of them a rest or signal the end of their performance. Other times they would go back out for an encore. It was the Marine's job to watch the other singers. To give them practice.
Certain times HIT would tell the Marines the crimes of the detainees. A subtle way of saying who was bad and who was really, really bad. A way of telling the Marines who to play with and who to fuck with.
On this occasion, the boy walked into the detainee tent with Hammond and Wushu. All of them were exhausted from the multiple foot patrols and the many hours of guard duty. As junior Marines, they would also have detainee watch while the rest of Assault squad would sleep, eat, jack off, or call home. They were tired and disgruntled.
The Marines being relieved of duty were walking out the front of the tent as a detainee being led by HIT was coming through the back. The detainee, blindfolded and limping, was pushed down on to one of the wooden benches.
"This one is special", sneered the scruffy HIT team member in Marine cammies - although it had always been suspected that they were spooks. "He was detained during a firefight with Marines", he offered up freely. As if giving the Marines a motive. Giving them justification to do what they needed to do. To do what they wanted to do.
All the Marines knew that if a detainee left their watch with any sort of cut, bruise, or other indicators of harm that was new since their initial processing, the Marines on watch would be held responsible and tried in accordance with the UCMJ. The military version of the legal system. The boy had almost witnessed this before.
* * * * * * *
One cold and boring night the boy had been sitting on detainee watch with Reagan and Logan. As the boring and chilly hours dragged on the three of them went from poking fun at each other, to making fun of other Marines, to joking with the detainees. It wasn't uncommon for Marines to joke at the detainee's expense. They would give the detainees a false sense of comfort by joking with them and gradually it would turn into the Marines finding ways to take away whatever human dignity they could. Detainees would be forced to repeat embarrassing phrases in their language. Their religion would be made fun of and used against them. If hungry, they would be given pork MREs (Meals Ready to Eat). They would be forced to their knees - a signal in that area that they were about to be executed. Once they would begin to cry and sob the Marine would sit them back down on the bench and mockingly tell them everything would be alright. They might also put an arm around their shoulder or give them a hug. On this night, however, Reagan found an innocent way to have fun at their expense.
As the Marines continued to jest with each other and the detainees, a twisted grin cut across Reagan’s face. The type of grin which Logan and the boy knew to mean that an idea had struck him. A new type of idea. A new joke.
Reagan laughed to himself as he reached into his right cargo pocket. As he pulled his hand back out, a permanent marker was in his grasp. Laughing a little louder, he uncapped the marker and turned toward the detainee he had been joking with that night. After a minute he turned back towards Logan and the boy. Laughing even louder he replaced the cap to the marker and revealed his masterpiece. Logan and the boy's eyes were drawn to the black lines which cut across the back of the detainee's hand. The bold black lines forming a cartoon rendition of a giant penis and testicles. All three of them laughed as they realized the Marines relieving them would be entertained, as would the Marines relieving them. Reagan was able to bring a sense of twisted happiness to an otherwise boring night. This joke, however, would not have the humorous impact that Reagan hoped for.
Hours later, as the three were being relieved of their post, the detainee with a dick on his hand was sleeping in an upright fetal position. Sitting on the wooden bench he was curled forward over his legs, elbows propped on knees, bound hands creating a rest for his blindfolded head. The black lined genitalia hidden. They laughed as they walked out of the tent knowing that Reagan's artwork would be unveiled by the detainee when he awoke. Laughter would be had by the Marines on watch. Their mood lightened.
Within the hour, as Reagan, Logan, and the boy were preparing to bed down for the night, they were summoned by the Mortar squad section leader, Sergeant Rivera. As the acting Sergeant of the Guard, Sergeant Rivera had been in charge of all the guard posts that night. Once dressed the three entered the mortar squad's tent and were called to attention. With the mortarmen as witnesses, Sergeant Rivera began to lay into the three Marines as a parent would their disobedient children.
"Which one of you comedians thought that was a good idea to do to a detainee on your watch?", he said, pausing for an answer.
Silence filled the mortarmen's tent. The eyes of the three Marines were the only thing that moved in their stone-like faces. Darting slightly from left to right to see if the others would break their silence.
"So that's how you want to play this?", Sergeant Rivera continued. "You three fucknuts can play dumb all you want, but the Battalion Commander has knowledge of a certain detainee, who was about to be shipped off to Abu Ghraib with a cock and balls drawn on his hand and face."
Fearful and surprised eyes stared out of granite faces. Some of the mortarmen tried to muffle laughter as this last piece of evidence was revealed. “His face?”, the boy questioned in his mind and spoke the words with his eyes.
"Oh, you fuckers didn't know about his face, huh?", mocked Sergeant Rivera, reading their eyes. "Let me break this down for you Barney style as to what happened, and what will happen now.
"Before you three took over your post, dickhand detainee was being prepared for a little trip to prison to play dressed up and have his nut sack shocked. HIT had done one final inspection of him and punched his ticket. Enters Picasso - one of you three fucksticks - bored and with a marker. Sometime during your post, one of you thought it would be funny to draw a dick on the back of his hand. You probably thought it was even more funny that as you left post the guy was sleeping and your artwork hidden.
"Not long after you left he was awakened for his little trip when a temporary dick tattoo was found on his face. That's right, the drawing transferred from his nasty little hand to his shitty little haji face while he was sleeping", he continued, seeing the surprise return to their eyes.
"Obviously the Marines that relieved you weren't in the mood to get their asses chewed in the middle of the night for something they didn't do, and it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that the 'case of the cartoon cock' was one of you three.
"So here is what is going to happen, one of you is going to fess up to this or all of you will pay."
Silence answered his threat.
"Ok. All three of you follow me. We are going to...", Sergeant Rivera started before being interrupted.
"It was me, Sergeant", Reagan said, breaking the unspoken pact the three Marines had made. "I drew the dick on him."
After receiving a small ass chewing about "policing your own" and "keeping each other from skylining yourself" (or making yourself noticeable), Logan and the boy were released to hit the rack.
The next day as Reagan awoke he looked at Logan and the boy with the same twisted grin on his face as the previous night and said, "That, was fuckin' worth it". There was no need to ask questions. Logan and the boy knew Reagan had been "smoked", or forced to do some sort of physical training for hours on end in the middle of the night. In Iraq, this most likely meant he spent his time filling countless numbers of sandbags to replace broken ones.
Although this was one of the most comical abuses of detainees the boy had seen, he had heard countless other stories from the absurd, to the downright foolish. Like an underground network of knowledge, Marines would tell each other the different things they had seen or done. They taught each other how to inflict pain without leaving a mark. More sinister stories were told about Marines who had taken things too far. Marines who would get drunk and smash in the noses of detainees. Folklore was created.
* * * * * * *
On this night Hammond, Wushu , and the boy were not in the mood to just play around with detainees. They were tired from a long patrol cycle with very little sleep. Their base had been rocketed and mortared multiple times a day, interrupting any precious little sleep they could get. Friends had been killed.
"I'm hitting the rack", said one of the HIT member. "The paperwork said he resisted capture”, he said gesturing at a detainee without looking at him, “and got a little fucked up in the process". Which was translated that to mean, "I'm not going to be around for a while and if he is a little roughed up when I get back then no skin off my back". The three nodded in understanding. The corners of their mouths up turning slightly to form tired grins.
"Oh ya. These three are also on Santa's 'naughty list'", he said turning back. Pointing to three of the detainees in the tent. "You gents have a fun night", he called over his shoulder as he turned to exit the tent.
Tiredness seemed to melt away as the three Marines began to make plans. Armed with knowledge from the underground network, they debated what things they could get away with. In the midst of their planning, one of the detainees called out.
"Mista, mista!", he said, tilting his head back as if trying to see past the darkness of his blindfold. Like a student getting the teacher's attention, he was trying to raise his right hand as the left hand, which was bound to it, weighed it down.
"Shut the fuck up!", said Hammond, turning his head to address him with his booming voice.
Turning back to plan out their night, a cry rang out from the same detainee a second time. This time somewhat shaking with fear.
"Mista, whata. Whata, mista. Drink."
"I said to shut the fuck up!", barked Hammond again, this time standing and taking a step toward the man.
Grabbing Hammond by the wrist Wushu calmly said, "I'll take care of it".
As Hammond sat back down Wushu stood and walked over to where the bottles of water were kept. Finding a bottle half emptied he began to unscrew the cap. Hammond and the boy rolled their eyes at each other as they saw what they thought was Wushu giving into his compassionate side. Once uncapped, Wushu turned and set the bottle on a table behind him. He then began to unbutton the front of his trousers with both hands. Pulling his penis through the open fly of his trousers, Hammond and the boy realized the joke that was taking shape before them. Maintaining a grasp on his penis with his right hand Wushu picked up the half-full bottle on the table with his free hand. As the tip of his penis entered the mouth of the bottle the cry rang out again, somewhat bolder this time.
"Whata, mista! Drink!", the detainee whined again.
As the yellow stream entered the bottle and ran down the inside wall to mix with the water, Wushu responded in the same calm voice he had when stopping Hammond moments before. "I'm finding you one right now. Everything will be ok".
Hammond and the boy laughed quietly under their breath as Wushu tucked his penis back into his trousers and made his way over to the detainee. Lowering himself on to the wooden bench to the right of the detainee, Wushu draped his left arm over the shoulders of the thirsty man. "Here you go", he said, holding the bottle in front of the detainee.
The bound hands of the detainee found Wushu's wrist. His fingers walking their way down to Wushu's hands and then up both sides of the bottle, grasping it. Raising the bottle to his lips the man began to drink. After a few large swallows the man tilted the bottle away from his mouth to take a breath he quickly said, "Thank you mista", before chugging the piss water once more.
"Anytime", Wushu replied as he stood and buttoned the fly of his trousers and with a grin on his face. Turning to Hammond and the boy he bowed like a Shakespearean actor to their applause and laughter. His performance emboldening them.
"My turn", the boy said, his laughter ceasing. A fire began to burn behind his vibrant blue eyes.
Reaching into his left cargo pocket he removed his digital camera. "I want to remember this", he said handing the camera to Hammond. "When I tell you, start filming".
The boy stood and grabbed the paperback book he brought with him to read on post. Taking a few steps forward he turned to face the camera, standing next to the detainee that had been led in by HIT not long before. The boy couldn't help but realize what this scene resembled.
Throughout their training Marines were shown many videos of terrorist sawing the heads off of their captured victims. A jihadi sacrifice which was meant to spread fear and terror. In the videos, the scene would begin with the camera focused on a man who would usually be kneeling with his hands bound behind his back. His tired eyes would stare into the camera telling a story of physical and mental torment. Typically the captive would be flanked by masked men in the background holding different soviet style weapons. Ammunition strapped and draped on their bodies. Directly to the side of the captive would stand a masked man armed with nothing but a knife. Sometimes the captive would be forced to spew propaganda, usually saying he was in this situation because the West had invaded such and such a land for their resources on their crusade to rid the world of Islam. Every time the masked man with the knife would speak. He would make some sort of demand from the West and conclude by saying Allah would bless them. The men to the flanks would begin their chant of "Allahu akbar!" as the masked man with the knife would step behind the sacrifice to begin the bloodletting. The fingers of his free hand would intertwine and grasp the hair of the bound man and his head would be tilted back. At the same time, the hand with the knife would be placed above the adam's apple, where the captive's beard line would be, and a sawing motion would begin. Depending on the training and speed of the masked man, the captive might get one last gargled scream out before his vocal cords were separated from his mouth. Blood would spill down the front of the captive and splatter onto the floor as he would be lowered to his chest, his head continually being torqued back. Sometimes the body would twist as if trying to rid itself from its head. The masked man would continue sawing to the chorus of cries to his god until the head was completely detached from the body. Standing, the head would be held toward the camera like a macabre trophy. The cries of "Allahu akbar" intensifying before the camera would fade to black.
Curtain call.
Show over.
With these videos replaying themselves in the boy's mind, the hate for this man grew in his gut. He imagined in his mind's eye a knife to his own throat. The man to his right grasping his head while the knife's edge began to slice into his neck. The hate warmed the boy. Empowered him.
The boy pictured this man dropping mortar rounds down a tube aimed at him. He imagined this man squeezing the trigger of the weapon that killed his friend Gino. He saw the man in a crowd as he dialed a cell phone - concealed in plain sight - as an Improvised Explosive Device (IED) detonated, killing and injuring Marines.
On this night it could have been any man, but this one was guilty. The boy was told so, and hearing was believing.
"Start it", the boy said in an icy tone, nodding his head towards Hammond.
Hammond aimed the camera at the detainee and the boy and pressed the start button on top. With the nod of his head, he signaled to the boy that he could begin his performance.
The boy began a diatribe against the bound and blindfolded man to his side. He spoke of rockets and mortars, long patrols in which he was always fearful of the earth exploding around him. The hate in his gut fueled the tone in his voice as he began to orate a tribute to the Marines that had already been killed. "This is in your honor", he would say as he ended his speech. A self-serving prayer to the dead Marines.
Unmasked and with no cries to a deity, his heart began to race and beat triumphantly in his throat as he turned toward the man. This was not a religious act. Nor was it meant to strike fear into a government. Unlike the men who would strike the heads from bound men in honor of their god, the boy would carry out this act selfishly. In honor of dead Marines, sure, but this was more to serve the boy's own purpose. This was vengeance. This was the boy's way to deal with homesickness and tiredness and fear and hate. It was his way to deal with emotions he didn't understand.
Holding the paperback book in his left hand, he placed it an inch away from the man's cheek. Nervousness flashed in the boy as his right arm cocked back and his hand formed into a fist. Hate flared up inside of him. Empowered by hate and fear his fist flew forward. It made contact with the book which in turn transferred his emotion physically into the side of the man's head. A trick learned from the underground to prevent boney knuckles from splitting someone's skin.
Blinded by his blindfold, the detainee was surprised by the blow. Letting out a deep scream mix with a groan, his body fell hard to the right. Shaking, he righted himself and raised his head to speak in a fearful tongue the boy could not understand. Like a street beggar, his cupped hands were shaking. Begging for someone - anyone - to donate mercy.
The boy quickly moved to the man's right and sat next to him. Placing his arm around the man, half hugging him, he counseled him as if giving comfort to a saddened child. He whispered into his ear that is was alright, it was over. The boy patted and rubbed the side of the man's head that had been struck.
As the man calmed slightly the boy stood back up quickly, placed the book on the other side of his head, and struck again. The man's body crumpled to the left momentarily before he tried to tuck his head between his knees and cover it with his bound hands. Clearly dazed and hurt the man began to sob and shake more intensely this time.
The boy quickly grasped the man's head, his fingers intertwining in his wiry black hair, and yanked back to separate the man's head from the trembling hands that covered them. With the man's head now exposed the boy struck again. The book in front of the boy's fist hit the man in the back of his head. As the man trembled and sobbed with more fear, the boy took more shots at the man's ribs and hands that were shielding his head.
Slightly out of breath and with his heart still elevated, the boy stood in front of the man who was now fighting off unconsciousness. "That was for Gino and every other Marine who you fucking killed, you fucking sand nigger!", the boy growled before spitting on the detainee.
"I'm done", he said quickly as he turned back to face Hammond. The detainee's sobs echoed behind him.
The camera was stopped.
Curtain call.
Show over.
The boy returned to his seat as Hammond hopped out of his seat like a dog who's owner returned home after a long absence.
"My turn!", Hammond said in an overly playful voice. "Do you mind filming me as well?", he asked the boy.
Giving Hammond a thumbs up, the boy readied the camera as Hammond grabbed the paperback book the boy had used. Hammond stood next to a different detainee and faced the boy, a playful grin on his face. The boy pressed the camera's button and nodded to Hammond, keeping his eyes on the display on the back of the camera.
Hammond began his own playful diatribe before initiating his abuse of the detainee he stood by. The boy followed Hammond’s every move with the camera, but his mind was a million miles away. As if the camera had been turned to his own soul, the boy began to analyze what he had just done.
Was this an honorable way to avenge a fallen brother? Beating an unarmed and bound man? If he was truly guilty and caught in the act of shooting at Marines why didn't he get a round to the middle of his face on the field of battle?
SLAP!
The sound of the book contacting the detainee's cheek brought the boy out of his thoughts for a second. Long enough to see Hammond bounce off like a playful puppy to a different man, laughing as he began to slap him with the broad side of the book.
How was he any different than the man he just beat, the boy continuing on his line of thought. Had this man just been protecting his country as the boy would have done if the roles were reversed? Maybe his family had been threatened with death by some masked man in the middle of the night unless he attacked the Marines at a given time. His own death worth the price to save his family.
"Look at this guy," Wushu said as he stood and walked towards a detainee in front of him, bringing the boy back to the present. "I think he fell as I was bringing him back in from the shitters and fucked up his shins." A story fabricated to justify the injuries he was about to inflict. A story the three of them could agree on. Wushu stood like a child at home plate in a kickball game. The man's shins were the ball. Swinging his right foot forward the hard rubber of his boots made contact with the tight shiny skin stretched across the man's hard shin bone. The man's leg leaped as if a fire was lit under his feet. Quickly Wushu kicked the other shin causing the other leg to leap as if burning. Wushu quickly kicked at the man's legs half a dozen to a dozen times causing the man to continue his fiery dance as he cried out in a foreign tongue for grace. Blood began to run down the man's shins.
Hammond bounded off towards another detainee, playful and laughing. This was not revengeful vengeance for Hammond. This was a game. This was fun.
The boy melted back into his thoughts. What if the man truly wasn't guilty? What if he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and now his family would be weeping in their beds tonight as they wondered where their father was - not knowing if he was dead or captured. Fatherless children created by unfortunate happenstance.
But would this man - any of these men - be sitting before the boy this night if they would have been willing to pay a price long ago? Would the boy even be here, he thought, if these men crying out before him would have put their lives on the line to stand up to Saddam in an attempt to create a free and sovereign country? Would Gino be dead if these cowards would have grown a pair and fought for their families long ago? Would Marines have been killed over the past few months if these men would have been willing to pay the price for freedom? In a way, they were all guilty. Guilty of not acting. Guilty of ignorance and fear.
"You missed that guy", the boy said nodding towards a detainee in the corner who had somehow slept through the commotion. One of the three detainees HIT had pointed out before he had left.
Hammond skipped over to the sleeping man to wake him from his sleep with an onslaught of hits from the book. The boy grinned at Hammond's playfulness. The man was guilty after all. Not just in the boy's mind. He had been told he was guilty. And hearing was believing.