What I Can Do For My Country

March 3, 1999

Today started out differently. I wasn't forced onto government aircraft controlled by the United States marshals, I wasn't stuck in cold holding cells for days, and my wrists and ankles weren't chained to a lock box at my waist. No one had died today, and no one was trying to kill me. I was put in an unmarked car and I could see out the windows; I hadn't seen outside in eight months. I was in the custody of IRS Agent Clara Mancini and FBI Special Agent Joe Callahan; they were driving me to the Federal Greenbelt Courthouse in Maryland. I had to go to the bathroom.

When we arrived I asked permission to relieve myself.

"Absolutely not," spat Mancini contemptuously.

"I'll take him," Callahan said. He led me down the hall, and aggressively pushed me through the door of the men's room. "Stand still." In the privacy of the facility his demeanor changed; he spoke to me like I was a human being and unlocked my steel bracelets. "Your files are stacked two feet tall on my desk. Why didn't you just come in?"

I rubbed my wrists; I was confused about his breach in protocol. Since my arrest, this was the first conversation with a government official that felt genuine, but I needed to know if he was trying to help me, or hurt me.

Callahan lowered his voice and spoke with more intensity. "The attorney general is going to bury you. I know about your letter to the president; can you save yourself?"

"I don't think ..."

A loud knock broke my response and Mancini's aggravated voice came through the door. "Hurry up."

Agent Callahan quickly snapped the cuffs back on my wrists and walked me out of the bathroom. I never got to go.

Both agents led me through a security door and down a hallway. Callahan turned to Mancini. "You know we have to wrap this up before the Bush election."

Mancini gave him a distasteful look. "Yup." She spoke abruptly to cut him off

As we arrived at the end of a long corridor, my lawyer, Stephen N. Salvin, stood waiting outside another secure door. Agent Mancini punched a code in the keypad and walked through. Agent Callahan left, and I remained in the custody of a federal marshal standing beside me.

Salvin had a strained look on his face. "I can't go in with you," he said, "it's a closed interrogation. You've waived your constitutional rights, but it's the deal we had to make."

Deal was an interesting word to describe it.

"Don't hold anything back," Salvin instructed, "the government wants answers. At this stage they don't care whether you're a terrorist, if you've killed a thousand people, or if you've dealt with atomic weapons; it's all covered under your blanket immunity, in exchange for your cooperation."

My eyes locked on his. "You know I've never done anything like that."

He nodded. "Just remember, your family won't be touched now."

My family ... I started to collapse within myself. I couldn't stay focused on what Salvin was saying; this was all too surreal. I knew I didn't fully trust him, but I was forced to take his direction under threat of even more terrible consequence: I had no choice.

"You're facing fifty years," Salvin said. "The Department of Justice's recommendation will mean everything. Just try to forget how you feel." He scrutinized me.

I knew how I looked: sallow, sleep deprived, nauseated, a shell of my former self ... and this was a good day.

He advised me to put the misery aside and answer their questions directly and calmly. "Everything will be taken down for the record. It'll be classified, so we won't have access to it. Just try to remember as much as you can and write it down as soon as you get a chance. I know it's nearly impossible get anything to write with in the hellhole they're keeping you in — that place is designed to break people — but it's important you try." He looked at his watch. "It's time."

Too much was riding on this; my life was riding on this. I had to swallow my anxiety, my fear, but the question kept screaming in my brain: What the hell am I doing here? I took a deep breath and tried to appear composed, as the marshal escorted me through the door.

I was delivered into a small courtroom with a marble floor. The great seal of the United States hung above the proceeding. I walked through the center of the room to a podium. A federal judge and stenographer sat on my right, and a group of officials sat on the opposite side of the room. Their eyes followed me, emotionless. My cuffs were removed and Assistant District Attorney Stewart Barman ordered me to sit.

Barman addressed the room: "This is a proffer session debrief for Mr. Christopher Fulton. He has agreed to this session of his own free will. He will answer all questions put to him under penalty of perjury. He has agreed to plead guilty to the charges against him and is facing up to fifty years of imprisonment. The Department of Justice will recommend a reduced sentence based on his cooperation. The government has granted Mr. Fulton and his immediate family blanket immunity for anything that is said here today, or any other information or actions that are known, or become known, that occurred prior to this proffer. The United States Government will not bring any...