Close up to US soldier who raped and murdered in Iraq
Friday, March 2, 2007
THE crime captured world headlines, but the courtroom was tiny. I could have reached out and touched the US soldier who raped a 14-year-old Iraqi girl and helped murder her and her family.
Everyone in the room could hear him sniffle when he cried.
He did not weep loudly, but there were only about two dozen of us in the tiny room and the confession of Sgt Paul Cortez, 24, was so raw and graphic that his strangled intake of breath was often the only sound in the windowless space.
I have been a Reuters reporter for 12 years but I rarely write about crime, and the court-martial on this military base in rural Kentucky was nothing like the trials I've seen on television.
The four lawyers said little. A military judge in black robes asked the questions and Cortez, in a dress green uniform and the black boots of the 101st Airborne Division, spoke not from a witness stand but seated by his lawyers.
His voice broke as he recalled how he pulled up the girl's skirt while another soldier pinned her to the floor.
Cortez lowered his eyes as the judge asked painstaking questions about how much the five accused soldiers had had to drink — six small bottles of Iraqi whiskey and two of gin, mixed with an energy drink called Rip It — and how long Cortez spent raping Abeer Qassim al-Janabi on the afternoon of March 12, 2006.
"About a minute, sir," Cortez replied. A box of tissues and tube of lip balm sat in front of him on the defense table.
When the lawyers did talk, they were quiet and collegial; at one point, Cortez's civilian attorney leaned across the aisle to ask the military prosecutor for advice.
"Am I doing this correctly?" he stage-whispered, while the judge shuffled papers up above on his bench.
The prosecutor nodded reassuringly.
No friends or relatives of the victims had travelled from Iraq to sob or shout in their grief, there was no jury to murmur in shock, and there were only four reporters in the room to record the details of a crime that had occurred half a world away in a war zone.
We reporters were accompanied by a military escort at all times and forbidden to talk to the lawyers, judge, witnesses or the accused, who wandered in and out of the courtroom with the rest of us during breaks.
The courthouse stood off by itself on a patch of red Kentucky mud far from the fields where troops trained and prepared for deployment to Iraq and Afghanistan, too distant even to shout a question had I been so inclined.
Outside the gates, the town of Oak Grove proclaimed its patriotism and support for the troops at every turn. Eagles and American flags lined the strip of pawn shops and liquor stores near the base, and signs welcomed troops home or wished them well in their wars.
The court-martial made the front page of the local newspaper, along with news that five local soldiers had been killed in Afghanistan.
While journalists were not the cause of the bad news, I have never felt so unwelcome in a community. The appearance of my notebook and pen stopped conversation in Mugsy's coffee shop just outside the base.
"I don't really follow the news," the woman behind the counter said as she prepared the shop's signature drink for a soldier of the 101st Airborne. Made with three shots of espresso, it is called a Screaming Eagle after the division's nickname. When I tried to talk to a customer, the manager moved in. "We don't talk to reporters in this coffee shop," he told me, gesturing to the door. It didn't really matter. The court-martial was about to resume, and my escort was awaiting.
Reuters
Everyone in the room could hear him sniffle when he cried.
He did not weep loudly, but there were only about two dozen of us in the tiny room and the confession of Sgt Paul Cortez, 24, was so raw and graphic that his strangled intake of breath was often the only sound in the windowless space.
I have been a Reuters reporter for 12 years but I rarely write about crime, and the court-martial on this military base in rural Kentucky was nothing like the trials I've seen on television.
The four lawyers said little. A military judge in black robes asked the questions and Cortez, in a dress green uniform and the black boots of the 101st Airborne Division, spoke not from a witness stand but seated by his lawyers.
His voice broke as he recalled how he pulled up the girl's skirt while another soldier pinned her to the floor.
Cortez lowered his eyes as the judge asked painstaking questions about how much the five accused soldiers had had to drink — six small bottles of Iraqi whiskey and two of gin, mixed with an energy drink called Rip It — and how long Cortez spent raping Abeer Qassim al-Janabi on the afternoon of March 12, 2006.
"About a minute, sir," Cortez replied. A box of tissues and tube of lip balm sat in front of him on the defense table.
When the lawyers did talk, they were quiet and collegial; at one point, Cortez's civilian attorney leaned across the aisle to ask the military prosecutor for advice.
"Am I doing this correctly?" he stage-whispered, while the judge shuffled papers up above on his bench.
The prosecutor nodded reassuringly.
No friends or relatives of the victims had travelled from Iraq to sob or shout in their grief, there was no jury to murmur in shock, and there were only four reporters in the room to record the details of a crime that had occurred half a world away in a war zone.
We reporters were accompanied by a military escort at all times and forbidden to talk to the lawyers, judge, witnesses or the accused, who wandered in and out of the courtroom with the rest of us during breaks.
The courthouse stood off by itself on a patch of red Kentucky mud far from the fields where troops trained and prepared for deployment to Iraq and Afghanistan, too distant even to shout a question had I been so inclined.
Outside the gates, the town of Oak Grove proclaimed its patriotism and support for the troops at every turn. Eagles and American flags lined the strip of pawn shops and liquor stores near the base, and signs welcomed troops home or wished them well in their wars.
The court-martial made the front page of the local newspaper, along with news that five local soldiers had been killed in Afghanistan.
While journalists were not the cause of the bad news, I have never felt so unwelcome in a community. The appearance of my notebook and pen stopped conversation in Mugsy's coffee shop just outside the base.
"I don't really follow the news," the woman behind the counter said as she prepared the shop's signature drink for a soldier of the 101st Airborne. Made with three shots of espresso, it is called a Screaming Eagle after the division's nickname. When I tried to talk to a customer, the manager moved in. "We don't talk to reporters in this coffee shop," he told me, gesturing to the door. It didn't really matter. The court-martial was about to resume, and my escort was awaiting.
Reuters
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