Little Brother

sticks, as well as the subversive material we'd no doubt find if we raided your house and took your computer. It's enough to put you away until you're an old man. Do you understand that?"
    I didn't believe it for a second. There's no way a judge would say that all this stuff constituted any kind of real crime. It was free speech, it was technological tinkering. It wasn't a crime.
    But who said that these people would ever put me in front of a judge.
    "We know where you live, we know who your friends are. We know how you operate and how you think."
    It dawned on me then. They were about to let me go. The room seemed to brighten. I heard myself breathing, short little breaths.
    "We just want to know one thing: what was the delivery mechanism for the bombs on the bridge?"
    I stopped breathing. The room darkened again.
    "What?"
    "There were ten charges on the bridge, all along its length. They weren't in car-trunks. They'd been placed there. Who placed them there, and how did they get there?"
    "What?" I said it again.
    "This is your last chance, Marcus," she said. She looked sad. "You were doing so well until now. Tell us this and you can go home. You can get a lawyer and defend yourself in a court of law. There are doubtless extenuating circumstances that you can use to explain your actions. Just tell us this thing, and you're gone."
    "I don't know what you're talking about!" I was crying and I didn't even care. Sobbing, blubbering. "I have no idea what you're talking about !"
    She shook her head. "Marcus, please. Let us help you. By now you know that we always get what we're after."
    There was a gibbering sound in the back of my mind. They were insane . I pulled myself together, working hard to stop the tears. "Listen, lady, this is nuts. You've been into my stuff, you've seen it all. I'm a seventeen year old high school student, not a terrorist! You can't seriously think —"
    "Marcus, haven't you figured out that we're serious yet?" She shook her head. "You get pretty good grades. I thought you'd be smarter than that." She made a flicking gesture and the guards picked me up by the armpits.
    Back in my cell, a hundred little speeches occurred to me. The French call this "esprit d'escalier" — the spirit of the staircase, the snappy rebuttals that come to you after you leave the room and slink down the stairs. In my mind, I stood and delivered, telling her that I was a citizen who loved my freedom, which made me the patriot and made her the traitor. In my mind, I shamed her for turning my country into an armed camp. In my mind, I was eloquent and brilliant and reduced her to tears.
    But you know what? None of those fine words came back to me when they pulled me out the next day. All I could think of was freedom. My parents.
    "Hello, Marcus," she said. "How are you feeling?"
    I looked down at the table. She had a neat pile of documents in front of her, and her ubiquitous go-cup of Starbucks beside her. I found it comforting somehow, a reminder that there was a real world out there somewhere, beyond the walls.
    "We're through investigating you, for now." She let that hang there. Maybe it meant that she was letting me go. Maybe it meant that she was going to throw me in a pit and forget that I existed.
    "And?" I said finally.
    "And I want you to impress on you again that we are very serious about this. Our country has experienced the worst attack ever committed on its soil. How many 9/11s do you want us to suffer before you're willing to cooperate? The details of our investigation are secret. We won't stop at anything in our efforts to bring the perpetrators of these heinous crimes to justice. Do you understand that?"
    "Yes," I mumbled.
    "We are going to send you home today, but you are a marked man. You have not been found to be above suspicion — we're only releasing you because we're done questioning you for now. But from now on, you belong to us. We will be watching you. We'll be waiting for you to make a misstep. Do you understand that we can watch you closely, all the time?"
    "Yes," I mumbled.
    "Good. You will never speak of what happened here to anyone, ever. This is a matter of national security. Do you know that the death penalty still holds for treason in time of war?"
    "Yes," I mumbled.
    "Good boy," she purred. "We have some papers here for you to sign." She pushed the stack of papers across the table to me. Little post-its with SIGN HERE printed on them had been stuck throughout them. A guard undid my