:08

I spend the next twenty minutes doing research on black sites. A black site is a clandestine facility operated by the CIA outside US jurisdiction to detain alleged unlawful enemy combatants.

Otherwise known as a secret prison.

In 2006, President Bush acknowledged the existence of these secret prisons, more than twenty in both Iraq and Afghanistan, plus others in Poland, Romania, and several other countries. In the years following, many reports came out about the treatment and abuse of these prisoners, or what many people refer to as the t-word.

Torture.

I was all for a little waterboarding if it prevented another 9/11, but I couldn’t support anything beyond that. Lines need to be drawn.

After all of these allegations, reports, and investigations were launched into what the United States calls its Extraordinary Rendition Program — which I admit, sounds better than underground torture facility — the shit hit the fan.

On October 7, 2007, the CIA admitted to destroying videotape recordings of CIA interrogations of terrorist suspects. These tapes were alleged to document harsh interrogation techniques, including waterboarding, hypothermia, electrocution, and even instances of dogs used to scare the sand out of these guys. But one can only assume far worse acts were performed on these men.

In 2009, President Obama gave an executive order to shut down all black sites and have the prisoners moved to Guantanamo Bay.

After beating out Obama for the presidency in 2012, Conner Sullivan continued this crusade against the unlawful treatment of detainees.

But according to an article written just this February, more than twenty of the detainees held at these secret prisons were still missing. From what my mother sent me—the four terrorists who were allegedly killed but their bodies never recovered—I now guessed these men were four of the missing. Or were of a different assortment of prisoners who were presumed dead. And the limitations of abuse on a dead man are far less than those on a man whom someone might come looking for.

That my mother was executed could mean only one thing.

These prisons still existed.

And my mother knew of their locations.

I read the review one last time, then hobble out of the bed and into the kitchen.

I pull the card from the drawer and dial.

It is 3:46 a.m.

I’m doubtful he’s awake, but he answers on the third ring.

“I’m calling in my favor,” I tell the President.

::::

Twenty-three hours and twenty-nine minutes later, I flip up the hood of my sweatshirt and hunker behind a large tree at the edge of the parking lot. Summer Park is asleep, the tennis and basketball courts dark and silent. I wonder how many people have hit tennis balls or shot hoops since the last time I was here? How many aces had scorched past their opponent? How many three-pointers had rattled the chain nets?