Classified Woman (11 page)
Authors: Sibel Edmonds
I tried to digest this new information. Now what was I going to do? After some thought, I decided to go ahead with the meeting. If it ended up disastrous, like my meeting with Frields, I’d insist on seeing Watson, or if necessary, Director Mueller himself.
“I’ve been thinking,” Amin said. “… You may want to report the case to OPR.”
“What’s OPR?”
“FBI’s Office of Professional Responsibility; it was established to receive reports of wrongdoing, criminal conduct, harassment, et cetera. Basically it’s supposed to be the first stop, the first place to go, for FBI whistleblowers. The next place is DOJ-IG, Department of Justice Office of Inspector General. Of course, they are not independent; how could they be? They get their paychecks from where all of us get ours. Also, they report back to the director and the deputies—the gang itself! I heard this guy, the new OPR director, John Roberts, is supposed to be a decent guy. It seems true, since I also hear that Mueller and the rest of the SES don’t like him.”
Here, now, was another entity, another person, another possible channel—an internal one. Just in case my meeting with Frields’ buddy didn’t work out.
I had only a few days to prepare for Caruso. So far I’d heard nothing from the bureau about my computer. Neither was I told anything about the so-called investigation of me instigated by my own unit and unknown individuals at HQ.
When I came to work, I felt like someone with bubonic plague. I was radioactive. Nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of Feghali or Bryan. Behrooz was gone, and I sorely felt his absence, his usual fatherly warmth toward me. Surprisingly, too, I missed Kevin’s pathetic neediness. Even Amin, my only genuine friendly coworker, was noticeably cautious.
Another major problem around this time was management tampering with my work projects. Whenever I booted my computer and clicked on a pending task,
access denied
would pop up on my screen. I notified Bryan and Feghali in several formal e-mails but never received a response in writing. Sometimes it took days before problems were corrected; sometimes they weren’t corrected at all.
These “denied” tasks included extremely important investigative files: cases involving counterterrorism investigations across the country. Some of them, marked
urgent
, were on short deadlines. The management in the Language unit was not only messing with me, they were messing with agents all over the country who depended on prompt translations; they were messing with detainees whose fate rested on my translation of their files and interrogations. What goes on in the Language unit impacts our national security; these games—at taxpayers’ no small expense while I sat there twiddling my thumbs—were unconscionable.
Documents and files also went missing from my “locked” drawer. Again, each incident would be thoroughly reported, in writing, with a full description of the files and contents. I knew Feghali and Bryan possessed master keys to all drawers, yet how could I reasonably accuse supervisors of removing and stealing FBI files? Maybe there was a darker motive. Perhaps they wanted me to report missing top secret files to accuse me of mishandling or even stealing them. Maybe they were setting a trap, which could be used a number of ways against me depending on how I reacted. Perhaps, by tampering with my code, they could more easily establish a poor work record for me? Whatever the reasons, their retaliatory actions created real victims and caused much suffering for others who were not me. Where was the oversight?
That same week, on February 28, I drove to Dulles airport to pick up my sister. Now my entire immediate family that included both my sisters and my mother was in the States, living with me. They were here because I believed this place, the United States, was the safest place for them to be under the circumstances. How long would this situation last? Would they ever feel safe enough to return to their lives back home? Would I ever feel safe enough to go back to visit them and the rest of the family I had there? I had no answers to these questions, questions that didn’t leave me day or night.
O
ne evening, a few days after agents had arrived at my house to take away my computer, I was about to leave work when Bryan stopped me. She asked me to follow her into a small printer room to talk. I found that peculiar; her office was only a few feet away. I followed her in.
“Listen,” she told me, “the bureau has scheduled you to take a polygraph on Friday, March eighth, at ten in the morning.” She handed me a piece of torn paper. “Here is the location of your polygraph session.”
I read the address: a building in the middle of Chinatown. That was peculiar too. Headquarters and the Washington field office were within four or five blocks of each other, and both had polygraph units.
Calmly, I asked, “Why am I being forced to take a poly? The bureau gave me a poly before I started working here. I passed it.”
“Oh no,” she responded. “We’re not forcing you to submit to this polygraph. We can’t do that. We’re giving you three options: one, you can refuse to take it. You have the right to refuse, but then we’ll fire you for refusing. Two, you can take it, and if you fail the test, we’ll fire you based on that. And finally, you can take it, and if you pass it … hmm … well, we’ll see about that.”
I was impressed. No, they weren’t forcing me; rather, they were presenting me with this Kafkaesque menu of options so that I was doomed no matter what. “Okay, here’s the deal,” I said. “You give me this request in writing. In your letter, your request for this poly, you will provide me with the reasons I’m being asked to submit to this polygraph. OK?”
“Oh no,” she quickly replied, shaking her head. “We never do anything like that. These types of requests are never given in writing. All you have to do is say no. Of course, we’ll be forced to fire you, but you still have the right to refuse to take this polygraph.”
The level of retaliation was being kicked up a notch. I offered her the fakest smile I could muster and in a calm voice replied, “Okay Stephanie, here is what we are going to do. I’m going to put this request and notes of this conversation in writing. Then, I’m going to send you and the rest of the FBI-WFO management a formal letter stating that I’m being asked to take a polygraph, and that once you guys provide me with reasons for this request—in writing, of course—I’ll be willing to take it. You’ll get my letter in two or three days.”
Bryan curled her lips then shrieked, “You will never get any response from us in writing! Go ahead and send your letter to anyone you wish—but don’t expect anything in writing … I told you to expect this, didn’t I? It was your decision, now face the consequences.” She spun on her heels and marched out.
That night I barely touched my dinner, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Matthew. He had a right to know. After all, he’d been dragged into this. I asked him to follow me to a place where we could have some privacy. I closed the door and told him about the polygraph request.
“You realize this is pure retaliation, right? It looks like they’ve decided to shoot the messenger. Do you still want to press on?”
I thought for a moment. “What? What am I going to do? Turn around and run as if nothing happened? Do you think that’s what I should do?”
He shook his head. “It’s your decision, Sibel. I want to make sure you understand that this is retaliation, and that from this point on, things will get worse, that’s all.”
I started to think about how much worse things could get.
“I think your idea to write them a letter, to go on record and ask for reasons … excellent thinking. Let’s do that. You should sit and write this thing tonight. After all, you have less than three weeks until this scheduled polygraph. Meanwhile,” he continued, “I’ll do some research on employment laws and laws associated with whistleblowers—”
“Whistleblowers?” I interrupted. “I’m not a whistleblower. I’m not blowing any whistle. I reported these issues internally. Saccher already decided that this is an espionage case and reported it himself. I brought this to FBI management’s attention. That’s not whistleblowing.”
“Nonetheless … I’ll see what I can dig up.”
The final letter—citing whistleblower laws to remind them that their actions could only be interpreted as retaliation for my having reported agency-related wrongdoing—was sent two days later. I went on record stating that I would only be willing to take the polygraph
after
I was provided with reasons in writing. Copies went to Bryan, Frields, Stuckenbroker (in personnel security) and Tilton via certified mail and fax.
I waited for several days, but received no response from FBI management. Did I need an attorney? Could now be the time to take this to Congress and DOJ-IG? I hadn’t planned on it, although I had already begun to research whistleblowers and disclosure laws.
My frustration grew as the date for the scheduled polygraph drew closer. One morning, I decided to have a chat with my neighbor, who worked for Senator Daschle at the time. Although we had been neighbors for almost two years, we hadn’t had much contact and she didn’t know that I worked for the FBI as a language specialist. When I knocked, it was very early. Surprised to see me and still in her robes, she nevertheless graciously asked me in.
I didn’t want to take up her time and came straight to the point, outlining my predicament. She listened attentively, and when I finished, appeared to be thinking. “Have you taken it to upper management?” she asked. I told her I’d begun to do just that when things turned quickly against me: a retaliation full force, mounting in intensity.
She sounded concerned. “The appropriate committees in the Senate are the Judiciary and the Intelligence Committees. I’ll talk with a few people in the next few days and let you know what I come up with. I’ll try to find the best person for you to talk to on the Judiciary Committee.”
I thanked her several times, and as I was leaving, she brought up my family. It must have appeared strange, seeing them all move in with us at once. I told her they were safe, as long as they stayed here in United States. I said good-bye and left.
About two days later, she called in the evening and gave me the name of the legal counsel for Senator Leahy, Beryl Howell, who would be available to talk with me whenever I was ready. She also said that Leahy had a good reputation as ranking minority member of the Senate Judiciary Committee. I thanked her again. Here, at least, was one potential contact outside the bureau. Already I began to feel better.
We decided to contact attorneys experienced in the area of federal government employment laws. We’d been given two referrals and made appointments with each in one day, and Matthew accompanied me to both meetings.
The first didn’t last more than fifteen minutes. As soon as he heard the summary, the middle-aged, distinguished-looking attorney stood up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We cannot help you with this case. We don’t want to get involved with the FBI…. They have a way of making people’s lives miserable, and this includes their attorneys. These agencies—CIA, FBI, et cetera—can be very scary; especially now, after nine eleven.”
I was dumbfounded. Was he saying that the FBI is above the law? What did he mean by “scary”? This sounded eerily like what I grew up with in Third World countries, where the police and intelligence agencies rule with one hundred percent impunity; where the people have no due process and the government or monarchy have unchecked powers. This “reputable” and experienced attorney, who happens to be an American, is telling me that it is hopeless to pursue justice when it comes to our law enforcement and intelligence agencies? This goes against everything I believed to be true about this country, everything I thought I’d learned in the fourteen years I’d lived here.
The second attorney’s office was more modest. This one was a bit younger and didn’t seem as flashy. He had the mien of someone who dealt with labor unions and underdogs. He was sympathetic and gave me his full attention while I talked about my situation and the upcoming polygraph session. Based partly on what happened with the other lawyer, I emphasized I was
not
planning to bring a claim against the government, that I was there solely to get advice on this recent order (to submit to a polygraph test, etc.) and what my rights were under the circumstances.
“May I ask you why you haven’t resigned under these excruciating circumstances?” His voice was gentle.
“My reports are all documented,” I told him. “I did what any conscientious bureau employee should do. I did what I was supposed to do. I’m not the one engaged in any wrongdoing…. Now, with all the harassments and threats I’ve been dealing with in the past two months, why the hell would
I
resign?”
He smiled a little sadly. “Because this is not a fair and rational world you are dealing with. Because those who choose to fight government wrongdoings, especially those in the law enforcement and intelligence-related agencies, swim against the current. Because no matter how right you are or how wrong they are, no matter how the nation may suffer the consequences of these issues, they—the bureau—will wear you down if you choose to fight them. They have all the power and all the money. You have no power and no money to stand up to these giants, no matter how right you are.”
“Are you saying I should just turn around and walk away?”
“I’m giving you my expert advice…. The decision is yours. I know what the agency is capable of doing to you, to your loved ones; to your life…. The best thing you can do, the wisest decision you can make, is to send them your resignation letter and continue with your life.”
“That sounds familiar, but I’m not at that point yet. I haven’t taken this up far enough. As far as the polygraph goes, what rights do I have?”
He paused to consider. “They cannot force you to take it, but they can fire you if you don’t take it—which is, in a way, forcing you to take it. Also, the bureau has a bad reputation as far as their polygraph ethics are concerned … don’t risk a pseudo investigation by taking a tampered polygraph. If you pass, they will never mention it. If you fail, they’ll use it to investigate you, fire you.”
“I think I’ll take my chances. I have zero to hide.”
“Ms. Edmonds, the bureau seems to have skeletons to hide. The further you push with your attempts to expose these skeletons, the harder they will fight against you and your reports…. I know you’ll find it a hard pill to swallow—to run away from a fight against what you believe to be serious issues with national security implications. However, for your own good, for your husband’s and family’s good, the best option is to resign and put this behind you; to go on with your life.”
Our one-hour appointment had come to an end. I looked at Matthew and tried to read what he was thinking. I knew the decision was all mine.
“I know this is not what you wanted to hear,” he said, shaking my hand.
“I understand and appreciate your candor,” I said. “I’m doing only what I know I’m supposed to be doing; doing the right thing. I may lose in the short run, but as my father always said, in the long run the truth will prevail. I have one last question: Can I call you with questions if anything happens before or during the polygraph?”
“Of course.” He jotted down his number on the back of his business card. Then he wished us luck.
My meeting with Deputy Executive Administrative Director (DEAD) Tim Caruso was for noon on Thursday, March 7, in his office at FBI Headquarters. When I arrived fifteen minutes early, I looked for something—anything—to help me pass the anxious waiting time. There wasn’t a single thing to read, so I tried a meditative breathing exercise for the thousandth time and failed, again.
DEAD Caruso entered the waiting area a few minutes before the hour. Tall, erect, slim, and with a pair of razor-sharp blue eyes so bright it hurt to look into them. His suit was impeccable: not a single crease. When he moved in to shake my hand, his spicy aftershave tingled in my nose. I followed him into his office.
He hadn’t a notepad, paper or pen. I looked around: nothing on the coffee table either. “Ms. Edmonds,” he stated curtly, “thank you for coming to see me. We received your letter. You asked to meet with us to report serious issues. This is the meeting you requested. Please begin.”
I was startled but gathered myself quickly and started right in, from the beginning: order to slow down translations to increase the backlog; intentional blocking of some counterterrorism investigations of 9/11; blueprints case; Saccher’s discovery; Dickerson; the memo … Caruso listened with a blank face. He took no notes. This was even more disturbing than the attacks I had come to expect. I was unnerved. I paused. “Are you going to take any notes?”
He shook his head and waved me off. “Please go on.”
Without knowing what else to do, I continued.
Forty-five minutes later, Caruso still hadn’t moved so much as a finger or toe, not even an eyelash. I don’t think he blinked once.
He asked, “Are you done?”
“Yes … do you have any questions?”
“No, none at all.”
“Are you planning to look into these issues? Investigate this?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, exasperated. “You took no notes. You asked no questions. You’re saying you won’t look into this. What’s this about?”
He responded slowly and precisely, articulating every word. “Ms. Edmonds, your letter asked for a meeting. We provided you with one. In your letter you asked to brief us. I just did that: let you brief us. In your letter you did not ask us to take any notes or ask questions. Also in your letter you did not ask us to take any action on your briefing. We did exactly what you asked for; nothing more, nothing less. This meeting is over.”
He stood and politely walked me out. I was shocked. This was worse than I expected—it was passively vicious. I turned to leave when he called my name. I turned back. “You are a very brave lady,” he said, “very brave indeed to pursue this. Have a good day and good luck; you will need plenty of that.” Then he went back into his office.
I was dumbstruck. What was that supposed to mean? Was it a coded message? What the hell did he mean?
In time, I would find out.
When I phoned Matthew and he asked how it went, I mumbled something about Kafka. Though I wasn’t in the least bit hungry, he thought a nice lunch at the Capitol Grill might cheer me up. He dropped me off in front of the restaurant and went to look for a parking spot. I went in to find a table.
It was past one and the lunch crowd was thinning. The bar area was almost empty. I chose a table tucked in the corner for privacy and waited for Matthew. A few minutes later he joined me, and while the two of us were looking over the menu, a heavyset man in his fifties walked in and surveyed the bar. He wore light gray slacks, a navy blazer and a blue-striped white shirt. By now most of the tables were cleared and set up. He asked the waiter over and requested that the table next to ours be cleared. He stood in the corner and waited while the table was bused, then he took a chair, positioned it to face us and sat. This was certainly odd, but we continued our conversation.
Within a few minutes, another man, who looked familiar, joined the older one. He too was clad in a blue blazer and gray slacks. He pulled up a chair as the other had done, took out his cell phone, flipped the cover open and placed it on the table.
The two men sat and stared. I well knew that FBI cell phones were often used as transmitters; voice recorders. Matthew was getting annoyed. He turned his chair and glared at them. They didn’t care; the older one even smiled, half crookedly.
I gave his arm a nudge. “Just ignore them. This is not surveillance. This is just an intimidation tactic by the bureau—they want us to know they are ‘watching’ us. Let them watch and listen … Hey, stop looking at them!”
Matthew turned back. By now our food had arrived. The men ordered coffee only. The situation kept up until we left, whereupon we were followed.
So this was the bureau’s new tactic: 24/7 surveillance! What would be next?
I dialed the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility (OPR) as soon as I got home and asked for John Roberts, the agent in charge recommended by Amin. After I gave him a summary of my case, he said he’d have one of his investigators call to set up an interview. I told him about the polygraph session scheduled the following day.
He laughed sadly. “Welcome to the club. That’s one of the first things they do to any whistleblower in this agency. It’s part of their game. They’ll try everything to trip you up. Don’t give them the opportunity.”
“You mean I shouldn’t take it?”
“No, go ahead and take it if you want, but don’t let them get under your skin—either before or during the polygraph session. They’ll try their best.”
He asked me to fax a summary and chronology of my report (unclassified, of course) and the name of the investigator who was to set up an interview time; then he hung up.
That night, unable to fall asleep, I went over all that had come to pass since Saccher’s discovery of Dickerson. For the past eight weeks my life had been a roller-coaster ride of threats, retaliation and intimidation by the best known, most powerful law enforcement agency in the world.
If I were to tell the story of what this agency is doing, I wondered, would anyone even believe me? What if I went to Congress, to the appropriate committee? Would they believe me? I didn’t think so; I knew then I had to have documents, as many as possible. So far, I’d kept my promise to myself to put everything in writing: I had e-mails, memos and letters—but were they enough? From now on, I had to think and act strategically. It could not simply be my word against theirs—the all-powerful FBI—whose ruthless management was resolved to make me disappear.