***
Wine glass in hand, I retreat to my office study and boot up the computer. I type in the web address and as always carefully transcribe the complicated code. Though I know what I will see, I have this sense of festiveness as there appears a dark screen, white letters ominously posted.
Interrogation, Roger Clearfield, broken, day two.
Even Douglas resisted until day three, is my immediate reaction.
I click on an inviting link and there begins to roll the expected video tape, a duplicate of that seen in the recording of Douglas’s interrogation, Roger’s nostrils stuffed with the rubber tube, the sizable water basin, the large controlling feminine hand, the firm but polite Slavonically accented voice, an invitation to partake in a gruesome spoonful of excrement, the refusal, the dunk,
