Authors: Sibel Edmonds
Classified Woman (14 page)
So much for what I believed!
My first formal interview session with the Department of Justice Office of the Inspector General was scheduled for mid-April. Kohn, Kohn & Colapinto would accompany me. I didn’t know what to expect: Would it be similar to what I went through with the FBI-OPR, or would it be antagonistic and accusatory, like the meetings I had with FBI management at the Washington field office? Either way, I felt more secure and empowered to have a savvy attorney present as a witness and supporter who knew the government’s limitations.
The day of the interview arrived. I met Colapinto in front of the Justice Department fifteen minutes early. After passing through security, we were escorted upstairs, where we were met by Kris Kolesnik, the law firm’s senior investigator. From the DOJ-IG were the lead investigator, in her mid-to-late thirties, and her assistant investigator, a former Secret Service man in his early fifties.
The meeting started with a cursory interview covering the general issues in my case. The lead investigator asked open-ended questions and allowed me time to answer them; in this way, we established a chronology of events. My attorney refereed the questions and took very detailed notes.
I was asked about Feghali and the work slowdowns. How had he handled my first reports and memo on Dickerson? and so on. Then they asked how translators were hired, about nepotism and cronyism, and about incompetence.
Next they asked about my background, education and previous employment. What was I planning to do now that I had lost my contract with the bureau?
Once we’d gotten over preliminaries, the lead investigator said she needed details. “We need to know about the targets of investigations, the specific Turkish operations, the methods … the Dickersons and who they were connected to … basically, all classified information pertinent to this investigation. I understand you [indicating my attorney and Kolesnik] don’t have Top Secret Clearance, thus you cannot be present for this segment of our interview with Sibel. We need to take her inside a SCIF—that is, a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—where she can freely disclose sensitive and top-secret information.”
My attorney asked if they would be recording the session.
“No, we do not record our interviews,” she answered. “… After all, this is only our initial interview. We will have follow-up interviews, some of which may require additional SCIF sessions.”
I left my attorneys and was escorted by a guard into a windowless vault-like room with a heavy metal door that looked like a safe. Furnishings consisted of a medium-sized conference table and six chairs.
The session lasted about forty-five minutes, during which I answered questions regarding the nature of some of the counterintelligence operations I had translated, the file names and numbers, locations, the priority targets—particularly those related to or associated with the Dickersons; and the Chicago files dating back to 1996. I told them about the five main criminal activities the primary targets were involved in: narcotics, money laundering, illegal arms sales, the nuclear black market, and obtaining U.S. intelligence and military secrets and selling them to the highest bidders. I gave them specifics on extortion and bribery cases involving representatives in the U.S. Congress as well as general information about U.S. persons and officials involved—both elected and within the Pentagon and State Department. I was asked to provide further information on the forged signature incidents related to counterterrorism investigations on 9/11.
I easily could have spent dozens of hours providing every last detail. Yet, considering their position, that wouldn’t be necessary: all they had to do was ask the FBI to turn over those case files; they could also subpoena them.
“Listen,” I told them, “you don’t really need my words, my account and allegations. All you have to do is get those files. We—that includes the FBI—already know the two foreign organizations Dickerson worked for prior to joining the bureau. It’s already been established that she and her husband continued to closely associate with two primary target individuals within these organizations, and that they were active members and employees of others. The recorded communication of these individuals and entities will tell you all about the criminal activities they were engaged in here in the States and, more importantly, the high-level U.S. persons involved …”
“Right. We will do that. That’s a good idea. We’ll have you come back and check those records, audios and documents, to make sure we have all the right ones. Afterwards, if it’s necessary, we’ll have follow-up sessions in a SCIF. Of course,” she continued, “we will have to find competent and independent translators of our own and get them the necessary clearance in order to retranslate the audio and documents relevant to your case.”
“The interesting thing,” I told her, “is that some don’t even need to be translated, since some of these conversations, those involving U.S. persons on their payroll, are mainly in English.”
She paused. “Have you provided the same information to Congress—to the Senate Judiciary Committee?”
I had been advised by my attorneys not to respond to any question they might ask on either the scope of my activities or the information requested by and provided to the Senate investigators.
“I cannot discuss with you what I’ve discussed with the appropriate Senate staff. You can contact my attorneys if you have any problem with this.”
“No,” she replied, “not at all.”
I followed them back to where my attorney and Kolesnik were waiting. The lead investigator told my attorney, “Well, I think we have enough, more than enough, for our initial meeting. As I told your client, Ms. Edmonds, we’ll get all the case files she dealt with at the bureau. Then, we’ll have you come back, and have Ms. Edmonds verify every single file, audio and document just to make sure that the bureau turns over everything pertinent to this case. Considering their reputation, we won’t take a chance. Afterwards, we may have independent translators go over those considered pertinent by Ms. Edmonds and retranslate them. I believe your client believes this to be the best course of action too.”
I agreed. “Everything you need is documented, recorded. With the information you have already, all you need is to have these audiotapes and documents. You won’t need my words.”
All agreed.
We left that long, exhausting meeting with the understanding that the IG would request and receive all the relevant case files then have us come back to verify. This was expected to take no more than a few weeks.
One sunny, cool morning in mid-May, I was in-between exams on campus when my cell phone rang. I nearly choked when I heard the voice: SAC George Stuckenbroker. I never thought I would hear that voice again.
“Hello, Sibel. Sorry to bother you, but we needed to reach you urgently.”
“What do you want?”
“Well … I guess you’ve gotten what you pushed for … an investigation. We need to schedule you to come over here to WFO, ASAP. We need to question—uh,
interview
you regarding the issues, the case. We need that for our investigations, including the investigations under our counterespionage unit.”
“Investigations? Who or what is it that you are now investigating?”
He paused. “I cannot discuss the details of this over the phone. Let’s confirm the day and the time for now. Once you get here, you’ll understand.”
Here we go again.
In a cool voice, I said, “George, as you know, I no longer work for your bureau; I received your formal letter of termination. You want something, then go ahead and contact my attorney.” I gave him the number and hung up.
My palms were sweaty. I was breathing as though I had run a mile. Hearing his voice triggered all the rage and anxiety I’d felt the day I was fired. I dialed my attorney, told him about Stuckenbroker’s request and asked what he thought of it. Colapinto was pleased with the way I’d handled the call, said he’d take care of it, and that in no way was I to go back there without his being present. First, they had to provide him with more information regarding the so-called investigation and its targets; second, WFO would only see or question me with my lawyers by my side.
I was relieved. I now had an attorney and advisor, someone they couldn’t walk over—and more important, someone who wouldn’t allow them to walk over
me
.
The following day I met Colapinto at his office and we strategized about upcoming meetings with Congress and the IG.
Colapinto planned to file a formal request under the Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) to obtain from the FBI what legally belonged to me. Materials and documents requested, to which I had a right, included all my personal belongings (including photographs); copies of my commendation letters and performance evaluation; all my memos and letters; all letters and memos related to me; my original application and subsequent information provided by me to the bureau; the polygraph result; and the formal order for confiscation of my home computer and the result of their examination of it.
Some of these documents were needed as well for our future lawsuit dealing with my wrongful termination. The FBI clearly had violated my First Amendment rights and the right to due process. In my attorney’s view, based on positive performance evaluations and numerous commendation letters, a no-glitch polygraph result, and their inability to establish any security violation, the bureau had zero grounds for firing me. My bosses at the FBI had me fired for one reason: retaliation, against a whistleblower.
I understood all that, yet what bothered me most was still left unaddressed: the
cause
of this whole mess. Yes, I had wrongfully been fired and suffered humiliation and threats; but I knew that our lawsuit was not going to the heart of the issue: espionage, political corruption and cover-ups that included spectacular intelligence failures both before and after 9/11, and more. My family too was paying a terrible price, a direct result of the bureau’s incompetence, inaction, and fearsome retaliation. What could fix the damage done to
their
lives?
I did my best to articulate these profound concerns without revealing to my lawyer details that were classified. Colapinto assured me that I would be given the opportunity to bring these issues to light during the discovery and depositions, and that the court process alone would expose the truth. I had to concede his point and stay positive. I was placing my faith and trust in the American justice system.
We discussed the progress of my case. Colapinto had received a copy of the IG letter to the bureau regarding my personal property—yet
nothing
on the IG’s request for the FBI investigation files dealing with my translations. He’d also faxed them the interrogation warrant issued to my sister by Turkish Intelligence but hadn’t received any acknowledgment or response.
I asked Colapinto about Stuckenbroker. He told me they had a short but strange conversation. My attorney had pressed for more information, specifically on whether or not I was a target for their alleged investigation. Stuckenbroker evidently refused to provide a clear answer to any question touching the subject of an investigation, yet after persistent grilling, admitted I was not their “target.” He was to call back with possible dates for the interview, and that’s where the conversation ended. He never called back.
Next we discussed the status of congressional activities with respect to my case. I had met with the staffs of Senators Grassley (R-IO) and Leahy (D-VT) several times and provided them with general information. I was told by my attorney to expect another SCIF session, this time with congressional staff. Investigators from both Senate offices apparently planned to have a session dealing with more detailed and sensitive information. Colapinto assured me both offices were working diligently on the case and that their initial investigation was moving forward: they’d contacted the IG’s office and were expecting a thorough and expedited report.
Colapinto then handed me a sheet of paper with a big smile. It was a letter from Senator Grassley to the Immigration Department requesting that they process my sister’s application for political asylum. This was a very kind gesture but I felt no joy; rather, the feeling was bittersweet. Here was yet more evidence of the price being paid by my family. My mother’s words echoed in my heart. This was the best I could do to protect my sister. I knew she wouldn’t have perceived it as such.
A
t seven in the evening of June 7, I got a call from Colapinto. The first words out of the box were, “Are you sitting? Because if you’re not, you better do so before I tell you what I called to tell you …” What was
this
about? As far as I knew, things were going well; we had filed our FOIA request, Congress was pursuing the case diligently, and an IG investigation was under way.
Dave cleared his throat. “Sibel, we got a call from John Solomon, a reporter with AP. He called to ask for our comment regarding your case. Obviously, certain people within the bureau and the Justice Department decided to leak your case to the press. He put the story on the wire; it’s already picked up. It will be all over the place by tomorrow morning. They have fed him a bunch of lies, saying that you were the one under investigation. I am so sorry, Sibel. I guess they, the bureau, have decided to get nasty. Usually they follow these types of leaks with a name-smearing campaign. Get ready, the attacks have begun.”
Now I had to sit. My blood pressure dropped and my fingers, gripping the phone, turned ice cold. This would be a disaster—for me, for my family—damaging everything I could think of, starting with the ongoing IG and Senate investigations. Weren’t they the ones who told me that my case and everything touching it was Top Secret Classified and ultrasensitive? How could they leak the case and jeopardize my family’s safety? Was there anything we could do?
Dave tried hard to calm and reassure me. He didn’t succeed. “At least we gave Solomon the true version,” he said, “of course, in a very general and cryptic way, but still. They will regret this, Sibel. Now, in addition to violating your First Amendment rights and wrongfully terminating you, they’ve violated your right to privacy. This will come back to haunt them, Sibel. I promise we won’t let them get away with this; neither will the courts.”
“Dave … what are we going to do meanwhile? I don’t even know if I can keep my mother here any longer; she’s getting so restless, she wants to go back to her life, career and family. Do you know what the Turkish government—or worse, the criminal thugs and operatives—can do to them over there? Even here!”
After an agony of silence, Dave finally spoke. “I am so sorry, Sibel. What they did here is not unusual. In almost every whistleblower case they do similar things … it is part of their intimidation tactics. It’s to send a strong message to any potential whistleblower. This is what they call ‘shooting the messenger.’ However … with your case, the implications apply to your family; there are international concerns involved…. We’ll contact the Senate offices … I know they’re going to be pissed, very angry. Hang in there, okay?”
I hung up and sank deeper in the chair. I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. I couldn’t do that. I had to stay strong, force myself to think clearly and fast. I had to do some damage control; but how? This was so beyond me. This was already a congressional case, Inspector General’s case, and now, of course, a public and media case. With each day that passed, I further lost my grip. It had a momentum all its own, dragging me and my family through the mud and sludge in its horrific wake.
I went to find Matthew, closed the door, and quietly told him about the latest development, afraid of being overheard. “Are you going to tell them?” he asked. I knew he meant my family.
“No, let’s wait and see how wide it spreads. I don’t want any newspapers here at home. Grab them and toss them out first thing … I’ll also monitor Turkish news on the Web. This may die down …” I knew it was wishful thinking.
The AP story was picked up by a few news outlets but not by TV news. It merely mentioned the case as possibly involving espionage, claiming I was fired as a result of a security breach. I checked all the Turkish papers online and didn’t find anything. The story hadn’t hit—but it did manage to snag the attention of a few major newspaper reporters, who called my attorneys to request interviews, to go on record. We had gotten onto their radar. It was only a matter of time before the inevitable storm.
From the moment I was fired, with few exceptions I had not been in touch with my FBI coworkers. Most had begun to keep a cool distance during my last two months at the bureau. They were afraid. Associating with me had become dangerous.
Those with whom I kept in touch, mainly through e-mail, were Shahla, a female Farsi translator, and Zuzanna, a female Russian linguist. Behrooz Sarshar thus far had not returned my calls. I knew Taskesen was still in Guantanamo and would be very unlikely to contact me.
Toward the end of May, Shahla asked me to lunch near the FBI-WFO. At first, I cringed at the idea of being anywhere near that place, but on second thought decided to go ahead and meet. I missed the friendly office interaction and was curious what might be happening there. We chose Andale, a chic contemporary restaurant only four or five blocks from the FBI-WFO. I cautioned her not to mention our lunch date to anyone and was given careful reassurance before we hung up.
Shahla arrived on time. After ordering, we began to chat. I casually asked about the climate in the Language unit. She spoke of being warned in subtle ways about the danger of associating with me; she said she didn’t care, didn’t take the warnings seriously. She knew next to nothing about what took place during my last two months there, having been gone during most of that period on various travel assignments. She did tell me, however, that “one late afternoon, after you were fired, before I was getting ready to leave, Stephanie and Feghali came to my desk and asked me if I had anything that belonged to you. I pointed at your drawer and told them everything you had was right there.” According to Shahla, Stephanie and Feghali then went to the drawer, emptied all its contents—including my photographs, other personal items and leather organizer—into a large cardboard box and went back into Stephanie’s office. I asked her the date; she paused and gave it to me. I took out my notepad and wrote it down, also recording the time and place of our lunch and Shahla’s full name. I told her that even though more than two months had passed, I had yet to recover my things. I specifically asked whether she was sure she saw the photographs. Yes, she was sure.
At that precise moment, three young men in nondescript suits approached our table. One stood right behind me, at the entrance to the restroom, while the other two stood next to Shahla’s chair less than ten feet away. Then one of them flipped his cell phone open. Shahla’s face went white. She asked with trembling lips, “What the hell?! My God, are they going to arrest us? I know one of them, I’ve seen him before—he’s with the CI unit at HQ.”
I leaned over and said in a low voice, “Shahla, did you tell anyone about this lunch? Think hard.”
She shook her head several times; then paused. “Well … only Stephanie.”
“What?” I shrieked. “Why?”
“It was strange,” she said, “because right after we spoke on the phone, she called me to her office and asked me whether or not I was still in touch with you. I told her
but of course, yes; why?
Stephanie said,
oh, nothing, just was wondering how she was doing, that’s all
. Then, today, as I was getting ready to leave, she stopped me right in the hall and asked me where I was going. I told her to lunch. Then she asked me,
who with?
I didn’t see any harm in telling her, so I told her with you.”
“Did you tell her where?”
Shahla didn’t remember. I’d suspected my phones were tapped. I don’t believe in coincidences.
The three men remained where they were—at their posts. I knew they were there not to conduct surveillance but to intimidate Shahla. They didn’t want anyone from the bureau to associate with me. Were they afraid that we would subpoena them as witnesses? Were they nervous about me collecting information from my former colleagues and collating further data? I bet they were.
I tried to calm Shahla down; I didn’t succeed. She quickly asked for the check and looked like she was ready to take off—to sprint right out of the restaurant. As soon as we paid, she got up nervously. “I’m
so sorry
for this situation you’re in, Sibel. I have to go—I’ve got a lot of work waiting for me. Best of luck, and please watch out for yourself.” Then she hurried off without so much as a good-bye air kiss.
That was the last time I ever heard from Shahla.
The day after the AP article came out I received a call from Zuzanna, a veteran translator at the FBI’s Russian CI division. I was surprised to hear from her. After what happened with Shahla, I figured that was that.
Zuzanna first said hi and immediately began, “Sibel, today Feghali asked every translator in the unit to gather around him for an important announcement. We all gathered around him in a circle. He actually climbed and stood up on one of the translators’ desk, and while waving a sheet of paper in his hand said, ‘Dear translators, today this article came out in all the major papers; it is from the Associated Press. This article makes it clear that your former colleague, Sibel Edmonds, is under FBI investigation and surveillance due to possible espionage activities and security breaches. I understand she is under twenty-four seven surveillance by the bureau. This is a huge scandal and embarrassment for the bureau; for all of us. She has betrayed our trust and good will. Why am I telling you this? Because I want to warn you: this is exactly what happens to those who choose to betray the bureau. We are a family in here. Sibel chose to go against this family; against all of us. Now, I want to warn you, you’ll be jeopardizing yourself and your career if you choose to associate with her or simply talk to her. My job is to protect this unit, to protect you. As I said, we are a family here. Of course the decision is all yours; we cannot force you to do anything, but you don’t want to be found guilty simply for associating with or talking with that woman.’”
I knew Zuzanna was straightforward, not the type to embellish or exaggerate. It sounded exactly like something Feghali would do: outrageous lies, deception and a vicious smear campaign. I felt sorry too for Zuzanna and other former colleagues who had to put up with that—to feel intimidated by the bureau. I thanked her and took careful notes while she talked.
Zuzanna, though, wasn’t yet finished. “Sibel,” she explained, “I like you very much. I don’t think you made the right choice here … the bureau is like a beast and too big to challenge. What the hell did you think you were going to get when you reported those cases? How could you even think for a second that you had any chance against these people? Man, was that naïve or
what
?” She paused to catch her breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I’m just so angry and disgusted with this entire situation; with what they are doing to you. I called you, this one last time, to tell you that I won’t be in touch with you any longer, at least for a while. Don’t expect any e-mail or phone calls from me. I’m only three years from my retirement; at least until then. OK? I’m so sorry, but I cannot risk it. Do you understand?”
“Of course I do, Zuzanna.” I smiled, even though she couldn’t see. “You guys are one big family; remember what Feghali said? You have given this agency twenty plus years, and I do not expect to hear from you again. I understand, Zuzanna.”
“Thank you; thank you for understanding my position. One last thing: your phone is ‘dirty.’ Watch out, Sibel, watch out for the monsters. Bye.”
After I hung up I felt numb. No feelings anymore. Was this to last forever?
I went up to my office and made an entry into my log of events, dates, names. Stripped of nearly everything else, I was damned if I would let them strip me of my integrity and determination. I knew the price I had paid, was paying, and would pay; but what choice did I have?
A few days after the leak, I received a call from Kris Kolesnik, who wanted to get together to go over a few issues that dealt with Congress. During our conversation, he mentioned a tentative meeting set up by Senator Grassley’s office for the following day to discuss some questions. Though short notice, I told him I would make myself available.
I now had three channels to pursue and Congress was one of them. During my congressional interview, I’d told them essentially what I’d told the IG: subpoena the relevant documents and audios from the FBI and let that material tell the whole story. Why waste valuable time questioning me when you can get everything you need straight from the source? I didn’t know if they ever made the request.
That evening I met Kolesnik at a pub only a few blocks from where I lived. According to Kris, the Senate staff had already met with and questioned several FBI officials regarding my case. They wanted to meet with me again and have me provide answers to their follow-up questions right away, the next day. He didn’t have any further details, and nothing about what questions were asked during that meeting or the bureau officials’ responses. I asked him about the request for documents by Senate investigators: Had they obtained those files and materials? Kolesnik didn’t know but expected that if they hadn’t already, they surely would after having met with the FBI officials.
We also discussed my FOIA case. The bureau had three weeks to respond and release to us the requested documents under FOIA regulations, and they had already gone beyond that time. KKC sent a follow-up letter. If their stonewalling continued, we would file a court case against them—my first court claim against the FBI.
This was more than darkly troubling, it was Theater of the Absurd. If government agencies can so easily refuse to abide by it, what is the point of having such a law? Refusal to comply—in fact, a violation—means it is now
our
burden to pay legal fees and spend time and energy fighting in court. What kind of justice system is this? Then again, what are my choices? In the time that followed, this simple FOIA request would take years and tens of thousands of dollars battling in court.
On the afternoon of the day I met with Senate investigators to answer their follow-up questions, my home phone rang while I was cooking. I answered it, cradling the receiver in the crook of my neck while I rinsed my garlicky hands in the sink. It was the lead investigator from the Inspector General’s office.
“Today we received a report from the FBI regarding your visit to certain Senate offices,” she informed me.
“Since when do they report to you regarding my whereabouts?”
“According to the FBI,” she went on, ignoring me, “two agents were in that same Senate building when they noticed you in the hall walking toward one of the offices. According to their report, you had with you a folder filled with top-secret classified and extremely sensitive FBI-related documents.”
That did it. Time to set aside cordiality. “You listen to me,” I lit into her, “how stupid can you be to even question me about something so ridiculous and outrageous! One, I did go to the Senate; I have the right and freedom to do so. Two, two FBI agents just happened to be there in the same building, on the same floor, and in the same hallway by this cosmic coincidence, huh? Three, they happen to know what I look like and recognized me—wow! Four, and here I was, stupid and mentally challenged, to carry with me a folder filled with top secret and sensitive documents. Five, I was either psychotic or crazy enough to label my file ‘Top Secret and Sensitive FBI Documents,’ which supposedly I carried openly, or these bastards have X-ray vision like the Six Million Dollar Man and can see inside my file and what it contains! Are you guys playing mind games here? You go ahead and call my attorney; I have nothing further to say.” I hung up on her, sank to the kitchen floor, bent over and laughed—an angry, hysterical laugh.
Later I called my attorney and reported the conversation. Now it was his turn to laugh. He was disgusted, and by then both of us knew that this most likely would be a kangaroo investigation. He said he would call the Senate offices then call me back. (He did.) We were to meet in the Senate the following day, and from there, accompanied by Senator Grassley’s staff, would march to the IG office to straighten out this pathetic new twist.
I showed up at the Senate Dirksen Building on time. My attorney and Kolesnik were already there, in a small conference room in the Judiciary Committee’s office. It took me several minutes to go over the phone conversation I’d had earlier with the IG lead investigator. The Senate investigators shook their heads in disgust. One phone call from my attorney later, we all headed out. I asked what they were planning.
“We’ll go there,” Kolesnik replied, “and the Senate staff will meet with the IG investigators and demand an explanation for this ludicrous intimidation tactic—geared to making whistleblowers wary of contacting or visiting the Congress. They may have questions for you, so you’re going with us.”
After going through the usual excruciating security procedures to enter the Department of Justice building, we were escorted to the IG unit. The Senate investigators went in first and met with two IG investigators behind closed doors while Kolesnik, Colapinto and I stood outside and waited. They were in there for a good thirty minutes. Theirs must have been a heated exchange; at certain points we could hear yelling. Then they came out. The Senate staff told Kolesnik and my attorney that the IG investigators had further questions for me. They had to leave, they said, and asked Kolesnik to keep them informed of how things went.
The lead female IG investigator stepped forward. “We need to ask Sibel a few questions. However, we have to do this inside the SCIF. You guys can either wait outside or leave.”
Here we were again: another claustrophobic SCIF session. The windowless, heavy atmosphere had begun to cause shortness of breath, agitation and anxiety in me. I dreaded another session. I hoped my attorneys would refuse. No such luck! Kolesnik and Colapinto opted to leave. They asked me to come to their office afterwards for a short meeting. Then they left.
I followed the investigator into the almost airless, dimly lit chamber and sat in the exact same chair. She opened her book and noted the date and time. “We talked with the FBI again regarding their report on your divulging classified data to the Senate staff. They said they were wrong and the incident was different than what they had claimed previously. They now say you have divulged classified and sensitive FBI information to your family members.”
I gave her the look and then shook my head. “And how is that?”
“According to them, you, your mother and one of your sisters went to a restaurant for lunch. Two FBI agents were having lunch there, and happened to sit right next to your table. During lunch they overheard you telling your mother and sister about ongoing FBI investigations, targets, and highly sensitive and classified intelligence regarding Turkey. So, they came back to FBI HQ and reported it.”
I let out a scornful laugh. “Okay, so two FBI agents just happened to be there, and happened to be seated right next to us, just like that. Now, considering the fact that my mother doesn’t speak English, that I only speak Turkish with my immediate family, did these assholes happen to be fluent in Turkish to understand all the top secret stories I was divulging in Turkish? Huh?”
She hadn’t expected this. She leaned over to her colleague and whispered something; then they excused themselves and exited. A few minutes later they returned. “We called the FBI and asked for clarification,” the lead investigator began. “No, they didn’t speak any Turkish and could not understand what you were talking about. So, they taped the conversation you were having with your family and took it back to the bureau for translation.”
“Yeah right!” I shot back. “Two agents happened to be there, coincidentally; they happened to be seated right next to us, what Karma; then, they happened to recognize me and guessed what I was talking about in Turkish without understanding Turkish; oh—and they happened to have a tape recorder with them! Just listen to yourself. Are you telling me you bought into this outrageous and ludicrous story fed to you by the bureau?”
“Ms. Edmonds,” she responded, “I am only telling you what’s reported to us. You only need to confirm or deny, okay? Did this incident take place a week ago?”
“No.”
“Okay then,” she continued, “let’s move to our next topic. You and Dennis Saccher worked closely, right?”
“I only worked twenty to twenty-five hours a week. Sometimes I didn’t even see Saccher, since I was busy working on other priority counterterrorism cases; sometimes I did. Of course, I told you about them removing him from FBI-WFO during my last month with the bureau.”
“I understand, but generally speaking, you regularly met and discussed the ongoing counterintelligence operations assigned to you. He consulted with you frequently regarding certain targets; you served as an analyst for the primary Turkish CI case … so on and so forth. Right?”
“Yes.”
“You also went out for coffee breaks. Is that correct?”
“Yes; we grabbed coffee from a coffee shop located two blocks from FBI-WFO.”
“We were told you had lunch dates frequently?”
I could see where they were going: an improper relationship, maybe an affair between Saccher and me. I remembered what my attorney had warned me about. “No, we only had two lunch sessions. Kevin Taskesen, the other Turkish translator, was present during one of them.”
“But they were not all during your work, during weekdays,” she continued to suggest. “You also met with him on weekends; to dine and spend personal time.”
I was near the end of my patience. “Only once, with my husband, Saccher’s mother, his wife and two baby daughters present—and no, we did not engage in group sex!”
She ignored my gibe. “Some people describe your relationship with Saccher as intimate. They believe it went beyond a simple working relationship. He has been known to be fond of you. Do you deny that?”
I stood up, ready to leave. “Why don’t you ask Saccher? He’ll sue your ass for even implying such nonsense. He loves and adores his family; that’s what he lives for. I have a successful marriage. I am not going to sit here and take shit from either of you. I am done here.” I paused and added, “By the way, why did you make this ridiculous session a
SCIF
session? Does the government consider questions regarding my relationship with Saccher classified? You told my attorneys that your questions could not be asked in their presence … obviously, another dirty trick!”
They walked me into the hall. Familiar with the building by now, I left them behind as fast as I could.
Outside, I started smoking.
When is the next attack coming?
I asked myself.
Are they going to accuse me of having an affair, and leak it to the press? Oh my God—how will Matthew deal with this? Our neighbors, my family, Matthew’s clients—how are we going to explain this to them? How can anyone deal with this kind of situation?
I spent nearly thirty minutes there, smoking and worrying.
Later, meeting with my attorneys, I told them what went on inside the SCIF, making it clear that I would never again talk to any of those investigators without my attorneys present, and that never again would I step inside that secret airless room. Fair enough, they nodded. They would go on record about this incident with a letter to the IG, with copies to Congress. Now I had to go home and prepare my family for what promised to be a disaster.
The only good news I received that day was that the Senate Judiciary Committee had made a formal request to IG to expedite its investigation and report on my case. I was told to expect this report no later than October 2002. If the IG did what it was supposed to do—an independent and thorough investigation—my case and I would be fully vindicated. Yet after what happened with their lead investigator inside the SCIF, what were the chances of that? I began to count the days to October.
As promised, my attorneys reported the AP leak to the Senate Judiciary Committee, already deep into its investigation of my case. What may be inferred from such a leak and all that it implies is serious, and, as had been expected by Colapinto, the investigative staff was duly outraged by this callous move by the bureau. This breach to the media was added to the list of claims we planned to file with the court. What the government had done was a clear violation of the Privacy Act.
During June and early July, the Senate Judiciary staff summoned those FBI officials in charge of the FBI-WFO Language unit and personnel security to several meetings. The meetings were not classified. (The Senate staff was not cleared for top secret briefings, nor did FBI officials ask that all staff members present be cleared.) All we were told by the Senate investigative staff was that during these meetings they thoroughly questioned the FBI officials and had gotten all they needed to establish my full credibility and the validity of my allegations and reports. I still didn’t know precisely who these FBI officials were; neither did I know what specific questions were asked or answers provided.
The dreaded media storm hit one week later on Wednesday, June 19, 2002, beginning with a national story in the
Washington Post
. The fairly long and detailed article gave a brief summary of the Dickerson case and characterized it as a “possible case of espionage.” It also stated that “Under pressure, FBI officials have investigated and verified the veracity of parts of Edmonds’ story, according to documents and people familiar with an FBI briefing of congressional staff. Leahy and Grassley summoned the FBI to Capitol Hill on Monday for a private explanation, people familiar with the briefing said.”
Amazingly enough, based on the congressional letters obtained by the
Washington Post
, “The FBI confirmed that Edmonds’ coworker had been part of an organization that was a target of top-secret surveillance and that the same coworker had ‘unreported contacts’ with a foreign government official subject to the surveillance, according to a letter from the two senators to the Justice Department’s Office of the Inspector General. In addition, the linguist failed to translate two communications from the targeted foreign government official, the letter said.”
Senator Charles Grassley was quoted as saying, “This whistleblower raised serious questions about potential security problems and the integrity of important translations made by the FBI. She made these allegations in good faith and even though the deck was stacked against her. The FBI even admits to a number of her allegations, and on other allegations, the bureau’s explanation leaves me skeptical.”
Considering the fact that this story broke in the wake of the highly publicized whistleblower case of FBI Agent Coleen Rowley, who complained about systemic problems before the September 11 attacks, the
Post
coverage was fairly comprehensive and damning of the FBI.
At once, I was struck by the implications of what was about to happen. First, I was relieved to be vindicated in the mainstream press after the false and derogatory leak: this article had established my legitimacy. Yet I knew that this story could no longer be contained. Very soon my name, my case, and the classified nature of the sensitive issues involved were going to reach other places, including the Turkish press. No longer could I tell my family that this dangerous situation was only temporary and that I would have it resolved; now there was no turning back.
That night at dinner, Matthew and I delivered the news to my family and showed them a copy of the
Post
article. No response from my younger sister; my middle sister started to cry, unable to speak. As to my mother and our fraught relationship, it now had reached the point of no return. Their lives had changed
forever
; I would never be forgiven. With my sisters, only time would tell.
Within days we started to receive calls from Turkey. My uncles, aunt, cousins, friends and neighbors all called to let us know that every newspaper, TV and radio channel had given extensive coverage to my case—and every one pejorative. According to their reports, I was now considered an enemy of the state, a traitor, a U.S. spy undercover against Turkey and its reputation, and on and on. Some accounts even named me as a CIA operative who worked against Turkish interests. All depicted the case as something that would expose the Turkish government and its activities. How could they not? The major facts and exonerating details were still unknown and classified; they had no idea which players or what targets were working against the national security and interests of Turkey. Turkish media and journalists remained very much in the dark about who was using their power and influence to obtain and sell sensitive U.S. intelligence and nuclear and military technology.
My sister’s fiancé (soon to be ex) called to report on a segment aired on a popular radio show. They attacked me as an agent for Armenians, that I was spying on Turks, divulging their national secrets and intelligence in order to damage Turkey’s reputation for her enemies. Apparently there were calls for my hanging, that I should be burned to death, that the Turkish government needed to “take me out.”
Then a unanimous decision was made by my extended family members in Turkey never to contact me by phone or e-mail. Each had to protect her-or himself from being blacklisted by the Turkish government and quite possibly becoming a target. All had come to pass, as promised: I was now endangering and threatening their safety and well-being. The result, as far as I could tell, was to be cut off from my extended family—permanently. With my mother, it was only a matter of time.