FRATE PETI
1. Scola · 2. Esplode · 3. Aresta · 4. Prison · 5. Paranoia · 6. Rede X · 7. Spleno-Porco · 8. Paradox · 9. Furgon · 10. Claves · 11. Slogan
12. Conserta · 13. Jornales · 14. Bitnic · 15. Enrolada · 16. Reportor · 17. Tuneli · 18. Juas · 19. Vampires · 20. Tortura · 21. Judi · Epiloga

3. Aresta

Nos ia pasa multe persones sur la via en dirije a la metro de Strada Powell. Los ia core o pasea, con fas pal e silente o criante e panicada. Persones sin casa ia acrupi en portes, regardante tota de lo, e un prostituida alta, negra e transvestida ia cria sur alga tema a du omes joven con mustaxes.

We passed a lot of people in the road on the way to the Powell Street BART. They were running or walking, white-faced and silent or shouting and panicked. Homeless people cowered in doorways and watched it all, while a tall black trans hooker shouted at two mustached young men about something.

Plu prosima nos ia veni a la metro, plu mal la presa de corpos ia deveni. Cuando nos ia ateni la scalera desendente a la stasion, la sena ia es ja caososa, un manada vasta de persones atentante forsa se en fola longo un scalera streta. Me ia ave mea fas craseda contra la dorso de algun, e un otra person ia es presada contra mea dorso.

The closer we got to the BART, the worse the press of bodies became. By the time we reached the stairway down into the station, it was a mob-scene, a huge brawl of people trying to crowd their way down a narrow staircase. I had my face crushed up against someone’s back, and someone else was pressed into my back.

Darryl ia es ancora a mea lado – sua grandia ia es tan ce el ia es difisil per puxa, e Jolu ia es direta pos el, plu o min teninte sua taie. Me ia vide Vanessa a distantia de alga metres, trapida par plu persones.

Darryl was still beside me – he was big enough that he was hard to shove, and Jolu was right behind him, kind of hanging on to his waist. I spied Vanessa a few yards away, trapped by more people.

“Buco de culo!” – me ia oia Van criante pos me. – “Pervertida! Manos a via de me!”

“Screw you!” I heard Van yell behind me. “Pervert! Get your hands off of me!”

Me ia turna me contra la tensa de la fola, e ia vide Van ci regarda repulsada un om plu vea en un bon veston ci surie a el en manera cuasi vil. Van ia foraje en sua bolsa e me ia sabe cua el xerca.

I strained around against the crowd and saw Van looking with disgust at an older guy in a nice suit who was kind of smirking at her. She was digging in her purse and I knew what she was digging for.

“No peperi el!” – me ia cria tra la ruido. – “Tu va colpa ance nos.”

“Don’t mace him!” I shouted over the din. “You’ll get us all too.”

A la usa de la parola “peperi”, la om ia aspeta asustada e ia fonde alga a via, an si la fola ia continua avansa el. Ante me, me ia vide algun, un fem de eda media en un roba de hipi, bambolante e cadente. El ia xilia en cade, e me ia vide el lutante per sta denova, ma el no ia pote – la presa de la fola ia es tro forte. Cuando me ia prosimi a el, me ia inclina per aida el a sta, e ia deveni cuasi malversada sur el. Me ia fa final un paso sur sua ventre cuando la fola ia puia me a ultra el, ma me crede ce alora el ia es ja nonsensante.

At the mention of the word mace, the guy looked scared and kind of melted back, though the crowd kept him moving forward. Up ahead, I saw someone, a middle-aged lady in a hippie dress, falter and fall. She screamed as she went down, and I saw her thrashing to get up, but she couldn’t, the crowd’s pressure was too strong. As I neared her, I bent to help her up, and was nearly knocked over her. I ended up stepping on her stomach as the crowd pushed me past her, but by then I don’t think she was feeling anything.

Me ia es tan asustada como nunca pasada. On ia ave aora crias de tota dirijes, e plu corpos sur la solo, e la presa de pos ia es tan nonsedente como un buldozer. Me ia pote fa no plu ca resta sur mea pedes.

I was as scared as I’d ever been. There was screaming everywhere now, and more bodies on the floor, and the press from behind was as relentless as a bulldozer. It was all I could do to keep on my feet.

Nos ia es en la atrio larga do la molinetas es. Asi lo ia es apena plu bon – la spasio encluida ia muta la voses sirca nos a un resona rujinte cual ia fa ecos tra mea testa, e la odor e sensa de tota acel corpos ia fa ce me senti un claustrofobia sur cual me ia sabe ja nunca ce me es propensada a lo.

We were in the open concourse where the turnstiles were. It was hardly any better here – the enclosed space sent the voices around us echoing back in a roar that made my head ring, and the smell and feeling of all those bodies made me feel a claustrophobia I’d never known I was prone to.

Persones desendente ia pleni ancora la scalera, e plu ia es presante se tra la molinetas e longo la scaleras rolante asta la plataformas, ma lo ia es clar a me ce esta no va ave un bon fini.

People were still cramming down the stairs, and more were squeezing past the turnstiles and down the escalators onto the platforms, but it was clear to me that this wasn’t going to have a happy ending.

“Ta ce nos risca la acaso a estra?” – me ia dise a Darryl.

“Want to take our chances up top?” I said to Darryl.

“Si, vera si.” – el ia dise. “Esta es vil.”

“Yes, hell yes,” he said. “This is vicious.”

Me ia regarda Vanessa – en no modo el va pote oia me. Me ia susede estrae mea telefon e ia envia un mesajeta a el.

I looked to Vanessa – there was no way she’d hear me. I managed to get my phone out and I texted her.

> Nos sorti de asi

> We’re getting out of here

Me ia vide ce el sensa la vibra de sua telefon, basi alora sua oios a lo e regarda alora me, enerjiosa acordante con sua testa. Entretempo, Darryl ia informa Jolu.

I saw her feel the vibe from her phone, then look down at it and then back at me and nod vigorously. Darryl, meanwhile, had clued Jolu in.

“Cua nos intende?” – Darryl ia cria en mea orea.

“What’s the plan? Darryl shouted in my ear.

“Nos va debe revade!” – me ia cria en responde, indicante la compresa nonrepentinte de corpos.

“We’re going to have to go back!” I shouted back, pointing at the remorseless crush of bodies.

“Lo es nonposible!” – el ia dise.

“It’s impossible!” he said.

“Lo va deveni an plu nonposible si nos esita!”

“It’s just going to get more impossible the longer we wait!”

El ia leva sua spalas. Van ia luta tra la fola, trovante un via a me, e ia saisi mea polso. Me ia prende Darryl e Darryl ia prende Jolu con sua otra mano e nos ia comensa puia.

He shrugged. Van worked her way over to me and grabbed hold of my wrist. I took Darryl and Darryl took Jolu by the other hand and we pushed out.

Lo no ia es fasil. Nos ia move prima a sirca des sentimetres per minuto, e ia lenti an plu pos ateni la scalera. En ajunta, la persones ci nos ia pasa ia es vera noncontente ce nos puxa los a lado. Du o tre persones ia blasfema a nos, e un om ia aspeta como si el ta colpa me con punio si el ta pote libri sua brasos. Nos ia pasa tre plu persones craseda su nos, ma en no modo me ia ta pote aida los. A esta fase, me no ia pensa an a aida cualcun. La sola cosa a cual me ia pote pensa ia es la trova de spasios ante nos per ocupa, la tira forte par Darryl a mea polso, e mea abrasa desperante a la mano de Van pos me.

It wasn’t easy. We moved about three inches a minute at first, then slowed down even more when we reached the stairway. The people we passed were none too happy about us shoving them out of the way, either. A couple people swore at us and there was a guy who looked like he’d have punched me if he’d been able to get his arms loose. We passed three more crushed people beneath us, but there was no way I could have helped them. By that point, I wasn’t even thinking of helping anyone. All I could think of was finding the spaces in front of us to move into, of Darryl’s mighty straining on my wrist, of my death-grip on Van behind me.

Pos un tempo eterna, nos ia dardi a libria como tapos de xampania, palpebrinte en la lus gris e fumosa. La alarmas de ataca airal ia ruidi ancora, e an plu forte ia es la sona de alarmas de veculos de crise en corsa longo Strada Mercato. Cuasi nun ia resta aora sur la stradas – mera la persones futil atentante vade su tera. Multe de los ia plora. Me ia vide un colie de bancas vacua – usual abitada par enebriadas nonijienosa – e ia indica los.

We popped free like Champagne corks an eternity later, blinking in the grey smoky light. The air raid sirens were still blaring, and the sound of emergency vehicles’ sirens as they tore down Market Street was even louder. There was almost no one on the streets anymore – just the people trying hopelessly to get underground. A lot of them were crying. I spotted a bunch of empty benches – usually staked out by skanky winos – and pointed toward them.

Nos ia dirije nos a los, acrupinte e basinte nosa spalas par causa de la alarmas e la fuma. Nos ia ateni la bancas e alora Darryl ia cade sur sua fronte.

We moved for them, the sirens and the smoke making us duck and hunch our shoulders. We got as far as the benches before Darryl fell forward.

Tota nos ia esclama, e Vanessa ia saisi el per turna el. La lado de sua camisa ia es roja manxada, e la manxa ia es estendente. Vanessa ia aranca la camisa a supra e ia revela un talia longa e profonda en sua lado nonmagra.

We all yelled and Vanessa grabbed him and turned him over. The side of his shirt was stained red, and the stain was spreading. She tugged his shirt up and revealed a long, deep cut in his pudgy side.

“Txa, algun ia coteli el en la fola.” – Jolu ia dise, tensante sua manos a punios. “Dio, acel es vil.”

“Someone freaking stabbed him in the crowd,” Jolu said, his hands clenching into fists. “Christ, that’s vicious.”

Darryl ia jemi e ia regarda nos, e sua lado a su, e alora el ia jemi e sua testa ia cade denova a retro.

Darryl groaned and looked at us, then down at his side, then he groaned and his head went back again.

Vanessa ia desapone sua jaca de denim, e ia tira a via la sueteron de coton cual el ia porta su lo. El ia enrola lo e ia presa lo a la lado de Darryl. “Prende sua testa.” – el ia dise a me. “Manteni levada lo.” A Jolu el ia dise – “Leva sua pedes – enrola tua jaca o simil.” Jolu ia move rapida. La madre de Vanessa es un ospitalor, e on ia instrui Van sur aida prima en cada estate de campa. El ia ama regarda persones en filmas ci malfa sua aida prima, e burla los. Me ia es tan felis ce nos ave el con nos.

Vanessa took off her jean jacket and then pulled off the cotton hoodie she was wearing underneath it. She wadded it up and pressed it to Darryl’s side. “Take his head,” she said to me. “Keep it elevated.” To Jolu she said, “Get his feet up – roll up your coat or something.” Jolu moved quickly. Vanessa’s mother is a nurse and she’d had first aid training every summer at camp. She loved to watch people in movies get their first aid wrong and make fun of them. I was so glad to have her with us.

Nos ia senta ala tra tempo longa, teninte la sueteron a la lado de Darryl. El ia insiste frecuente ce el vade bon e ce nos debe permete ce el sta, e Van ia dise frecuente ce Darryl debe silenti e sesa move o reseta un pedi de el.

We sat there for a long time, holding the hoodie to Darryl’s side. He kept insisting that he was fine and that we should let him up, and Van kept telling him to shut up and lie still before she kicked his ass.

“Nos ta clama un ambulansia?” – Jolu ia dise.

“What about calling 911?” Jolu said.

Me ia senti como un fol. Me ia estrae lampin mea telefon e ia tape 911. La sona cual me ia oia ia es an no un sinial de linia ocupada – lo ia sembla un ploreta de dole de la sistem de telefon. On no oia tal sonas estra cuando cadun de tre milion persones clama simultan la mesma numero. Perce on ta ave botnetes cuando on ave teroristes?

I felt like an idiot. I whipped my phone out and punched 911. The sound I got wasn’t even a busy signal – it was like a whimper of pain from the phone system. You don’t get sounds like that unless there’s three million people all dialing the same number at once. Who needs botnets when you’ve got terrorists?

“Cisa Vicipedia?” – Jolu ia dise.

“What about Wikipedia?” Jolu said.

“No telefon, no datos.” – me ia dise.

“No phone, no data,” I said.

“Cisa aceles?” – Darryl ia dise, indicante la strada. Me ia regarda do el indica, pensante ce me va vide un polisior o un paramediciste, ma nun ia es ala.

“What about them?” Darryl said, and pointed at the street. I looked where he was pointing, thinking I’d see a cop or an paramedic, but there was no one there.

“Bon, mea ami, ta ce tu reposa.” – me ia dise.

“It’s OK buddy, you just rest,” I said.

“No, bobo, cisa aceles, la polisiores en la autos? Ala!”

“No, you idiot, what about them, the cops in the cars? There!”

El no ia era. A cada secondo sinco, un auto de polisia, un ambulansia o un camion de pompores ia zumbi rapida pasante. Los ta pote clama la aida. Me ia es tan stupida.

He was right. Every five seconds, a cop car, an ambulance or a firetruck zoomed past. They could get us some help. I was such an idiot.

“Donce veni.” – me ia dise. “Ta ce nos pone tu do los va vide tu, e para un de los.”

“Come on, then,” I said, “let’s get you where they can see you and flag one down.”

Vanessa no ia gusta la idea, ma me ia suposa ce no polisior va para per un xice brandinte sua xapeta sur la strada, no oji. Ma cisa los ta para si los ta vide Darryl ala sanguinte, an tal. Me ia disputa corta con Van, e Darryl ia deside la cosa par puxa subita se a sur sua pedes e tira se en dirije a Strada Mercato.

Vanessa didn’t like it, but I figured a cop wasn’t going to stop for a kid waving his hat in the street, not that day. They just might stop if they saw Darryl bleeding there, though. I argued briefly with her and Darryl settled it by lurching to his feet and dragging himself down toward Market Street.

La veculo prima cual ia ruidi pasante – un ambulansia – no ia lenti an. Ance no la auto de polisia cual ia pasa, e no la camion de pompores, e no la tre autos de polisia cual ia segue. Darryl no ia es en bon state – sua fas ia es pal e el ia respira rapida. La sueter de Van ia es saturada par sangue.

The first vehicle that screamed past – an ambulance – didn’t even slow down. Neither did the cop car that went past, nor the firetruck, nor the next three cop-cars. Darryl wasn’t in good shape – he was white-faced and panting. Van’s sweater was soaked in blood.

Me ia es frustrada par la autos iniorante me. A la apare seguente de un auto longo Strada Mercato, me ia emerje plen a sur la strada, brandinte mea brasos supra mea testa, criante “PARA!” La auto ia para, liscante, e sola alora me ia persepi ce lo no es un auto de polisia, ambulansia o camion de pompores.

I was sick of cars driving right past me. The next time a car appeared down Market Street, I stepped right out into the road, waving my arms over my head, shouting “STOP.” The car slewed to a stop and only then did I notice that it wasn’t a cop car, ambulance or fire-engine.

Lo ia es un jip de aspeta militar, simil a un Hummer blindada, ma lo ia porta no insinias militar. La auto ia patini per para direta ante me, e me ia salta a retro, desecuilibrante e fininte sur la strada. Me ia sensa ce la portes abri prosima a me, e ia vide alora un confusa de pedes en botas cual move sirca me. Me ia regarda a supra e ia vide un colie de xices de aspeta militar en covretotas, teninte fusiles grande e masosa, e usante mascas antigasal con capetas e visieras oscur.

It was a military-looking Jeep, like an armored Hummer, only it didn’t have any military insignia on it. The car skidded to a stop just in front of me, and I jumped back and lost my balance and ended up on the road. I felt the doors open near me, and then saw a confusion of booted feet moving close by. I looked up and saw a bunch of military-looking guys in coveralls, holding big, bulky rifles and wearing hooded gas masks with tinted face-plates.

Me ia ave apena la tempo per nota los cuando acel fusiles ia es puntada a me. Me ia regarda nunca a ante longo la cano de un fusil, ma tota cual on ia oia sur la esperia es vera. On deveni fisada do on sta, la tempo sesa, e on oia sua cor tonante en sua oreas. Me ia abri mea boca, ia clui lo a pos, e alora, multe lenta, me ia leva mea manos ante me.

I barely had time to register them before those rifles were pointed at me. I’d never looked down the barrel of a gun before, but everything you’ve heard about the experience is true. You freeze where you are, time stops, and your heart thunders in your ears. I opened my mouth, then shut it, then, very slowly, I held my hands up in front of me.

La om armada supra me, sin fas e sin oios, ia manteni stable sua fusil. Me no ia respira an. Van ia es xiliante alga cosa, e Jolu ia es criante, e me ia regarda los tra un secondo, e a acel momento algun ia pone un saco ru supra mea testa e ia streti tensada lo sirca mea tracea, tan rapida e tan ferose ce me ia ave apena la tempo per enspira ante cuando on ia securi lo a me. Me ia es bruta ma nonpasionosa puxada a sur mea ventre, e alga cosa ia ensirca duple mea polsos e ia deveni ance tensada, impresante como un filo de faxi feno, e cruel mordente. Me ia esclama e mea propre vose ia es amortida par la saco.

The faceless, eyeless armed man above me kept his gun very level. I didn’t even breathe. Van was screaming something and Jolu was shouting and I looked at them for a second and that was when someone put a coarse sack over my head and cinched it tight around my windpipe, so quick and so fiercely I barely had time to gasp before it was locked on me. I was pushed roughly but dispassionately onto my stomach and something went twice around my wrists and then tightened up as well, feeling like baling wire and biting cruelly. I cried out and my own voice was muffled by the hood.

Me ia es aora en oscuria completa e me ia supralabora mea oreas per oia cua aveni a mea amis. Me ia oia los criante tra la lona amortinte de la saco, e alora me ia es nonpersonal tirada a sur mea pedes par mea polsos, con mea brasos arancada pos mea dorso e mea spalas xiliante.

I was in total darkness now and I strained my ears to hear what was going on with my friends. I heard them shouting through the muffling canvas of the bag, and then I was being impersonally hauled to my feet by my wrists, my arms wrenched up behind my back, my shoulders screaming.

Me ia tropeza alga, e alora un mano ia puia mea testa a su, e me ia es en la jip. Plu corpos ia es bruta puxada a interna, a lado de me.

I stumbled some, then a hand pushed my head down and I was inside the Hummer. More bodies were roughly shoved in beside me.

“Amis?” – me ia cria, e ia gania un colpa forte a mea testa como la resulta. Me ia oia un responde de Jolu, e ia sensa alora la colpa cual ance el ia reseta. Mea testa ia resona como un gongo.

“Guys?” I shouted, and earned a hard thump on my head for my trouble. I heard Jolu respond, then felt the thump he was dealt, too. My head rang like a gong.

“He,” – me ia dise a la soldatos – “he, escuta! Nos es mera studiantes de liseo. Me ia vole atrae vosa atende car mea ami ia es sanguinte. Algun ia coteli el.” Me ia ave no idea sur cuanto de esta es oiable tra la saco amortinte. Me ia continua parla. “Escuta – esta es un malcomprende de alga spesie. Nos debe prende nosa ami a un ospital —”

“Hey,” I said to the soldiers. “Hey, listen! We’re just high school students. I wanted to flag you down because my friend was bleeding. Someone stabbed him.” I had no idea how much of this was making it through the muffling bag. I kept talking. “Listen – this is some kind of misunderstanding. We’ve got to get my friend to a hospital –”

Algun ia pumi denova mea testa. Lo ia pare como si on ia usa un baston o simil – la colpa ia es plu forte ca cualce colpa de testa cual me ia reseta a ante. Mea oios ia marea e larma, e la dole ia preveni ce me respira, leteral. Pos un momento, me ia regania mea respira, ma me ia dise no cosa. Me ia aprende ja mea leson.

Someone went upside my head again. It felt like they used a baton or something – it was harder than anyone had ever hit me in the head before. My eyes swam and watered and I literally couldn’t breathe through the pain. A moment later, I caught my breath, but I didn’t say anything. I’d learned my lesson.

Ci es esta bufones? Los no porta insinias. Cisa los es teroristes! Me ia crede vera a teroristes nunca a ante – per dise: me ia sabe astrata ce teroristes esiste a alga loca en la mundo, ma los ia representa no risca vera per me. La mundo ia pote mata me en miliones de modos – per esemplo prima, me ta pote es craseda par un enebriada ci viaja tro rapida longo Strada Valencia – cual ia es infinita plu probable e prosima ca teroristes. Teroristes mata multe min persones ca cades en salas de banios e eletrocutas asidente. La ansia contra los ia pare sempre a me apena plu usosa como la ansia contra deveni colpada par un lampo.

Who were these clowns? They weren’t wearing insignia. Maybe they were terrorists! I’d never really believed in terrorists before – I mean, I knew that in the abstract there were terrorists somewhere in the world, but they didn’t really represent any risk to me. There were millions of ways that the world could kill me – starting with getting run down by a drunk burning his way down Valencia – that were infinitely more likely and immediate than terrorists. Terrorists killed a lot fewer people than bathroom falls and accidental electrocutions. Worrying about them always struck me as about as useful as worrying about getting hit by lightning.

A me sentante en la retro de acel jip, con mea testa en saco, mea manos liada pos mea dorso, secutente de lado a lado con contusas inflante sur mea testa, terorisme ia pare subita multe plu riscosa.

Sitting in the back of that Hummer, my head in a hood, my hands lashed behind my back, lurching back and forth while the bruises swelled up on my head, terrorism suddenly felt a lot riskier.

La auto ia balansi de asi a ala e ia inclina a supra. Me ia dedui ce nos traversa Colina Nob, e, par la angulo, lo ia pare ce nos usa un de la vias plu presipe – Strada Powell, me ia divina.

The car rocked back and forth and tipped uphill. I gathered we were headed over Nob Hill, and from the angle, it seemed we were taking one of the steeper routes – I guessed Powell Street.

Aora nos ia vade egal tan presipe a su. Si mea mapa mental ia es coreta, nos ia es desendente en dirije a Molo Pexor. On ta pote entra a un barco ala, e fuji. Esta ia cabe a la ipotese de terorisme. Perce de enferno teroristes ta saisi un grupo de studiantes de liseo?

Now we were descending just as steeply. If my mental map was right, we were heading down to Fisherman’s Wharf. You could get on a boat there, get away. That fit with the terrorism hypothesis. Why the hell would terrorists kidnap a bunch of high school students?

Nos ia para, balansinte, ancora inclinada a su. La motor ia mori e alora la portes ia es abrida. Algun ia tira mea brasos per estrae me a la strada, ante puxa me, bambolante, longo un via paveda. Pos alga secondos, me ia tropeza contra un scalera de aser, batente mea tibias. La manos pos me ia dona a me un plu puxa. Me ia asende cauta la scalera, noncapas de usa mea manos. Me ia ateni la grado tre e ia estende per la seguente, ma lo ia manca. Denova me ia cade cuasi, ma manos nova ia saisi me de ante e ia tira me longo un solo de aser, ante forsa me a sur mea jenos e fisa mea manos a alga cosa pos me.

We rocked to a stop still on a downslope. The engine died and then the doors swung open. Someone dragged me by my arms out onto the road, then shoved me, stumbling, down a paved road. A few seconds later, I tripped over a steel staircase, bashing my shins. The hands behind me gave me another shove. I went up the stairs cautiously, not able to use my hands. I got up the third step and reached for the fourth, but it wasn’t there. I nearly fell again, but new hands grabbed me from in front and dragged me down a steel floor and then forced me to my knees and locked my hands to something behind me.

Plu moves, e la sensa de corpos deveninte cadenida a lado de me. Jemis e sonas amortida. Ries. Alora un eterna longa e sin tempo en la oscuria amortida, respirante mea propre respira, oiante mea propre respira en mea oreas.

More movement, and the sense of bodies being shackled in alongside of me. Groans and muffled sounds. Laughter. Then a long, timeless eternity in the muffled gloom, breathing my own breath, hearing my own breath in my ears.

Me ia susede an dormi ala a alga grado, ajenante con poca sirculi de sangue en mea gamas e mea testa en la duilus de lona. Mea corpo ia injeta un cuota anial de adrenalina a mea sangue en un periodo de 30 minutos, e an si acel ormon pote dona la fortia per leva autos de sur sua amadas e salta supra construidas alta, la repaia es sempre fea.

I actually managed a kind of sleep there, kneeling with the circulation cut off to my legs, my head in canvas twilight. My body had squirted a year’s supply of adrenalin into my bloodstream in the space of 30 minutes, and while that stuff can give you the strength to lift cars off your loved ones and leap over tall buildings, the payback’s always a bitch.

Me ia velia cuando algun ia tira la saco de sur mea testa. El ia es no bruta e no curante – mera… nonpersonal. Como algun a McDonald’s ci asembla amburgeres.

I woke up to someone pulling the hood off my head. They were neither rough nor careful – just…impersonal. Like someone at McDonald’s putting together burgers.

La lus en la sala ia es tan briliante ce me ia debe clui forte mea oios, ma lenta me ia pote abri los asta fesures, alora ranures, alora intera, e regarda a sirca.

The light in the room was so bright I had to squeeze my eyes shut, but slowly I was able to open them to slits, then cracks, then all the way and look around.

Tota nos ia es en la retro de un camion, un grande de 18 rotas. Me ia pote vide la alcovas de rota a intervales repetente longo la lados. Ma on ia converti la retro de esta camion a alga spesie de comanderia-prison. Tables de aser ia fore la mures, con grupos de scermos plata e lusosa asendente supra los sur brasos articulada cual ia permete ce on posa los como areolas sirca la operores. Cada table ia ave ante se un seja encantante de ofisia, garlandida con utiles de interfas per ajusta cada milimetre de la surfas de senta, como ance la altia, apoia e angulo.

We were all in the back of a truck, a big 18-wheeler. I could see the wheel-wells at regular intervals down the length. But the back of this truck had been turned into some kind of mobile command-post/jail. Steel desks lined the walls with banks of slick flat-panel displays climbing above them on articulated arms that let them be repositioned in a halo around the operators. Each desk had a gorgeous office-chair in front of it, festooned with user-interface knobs for adjusting every millimeter of the sitting surface, as well as height, pitch and yaw.

Plu, on ia ave la parte prisonin – a fronte de la camion, la plu distante de la portes, reles de aser ia es bulonida a la lados de la veculo, e liada a esta reles de aser ia es la prisonidas.

Then there was the jail part – at the front of the truck, furthest away from the doors, there were steel rails bolted into the sides of the vehicle, and attached to these steel rails were the prisoners.

Me ia vide instante Van e Jolu. Darryl ia es cisa entre la otra desduple asi cadenida, ma sertia ia es nonposible – multe de los ia malapoia a ante e ia bloci mea vide. Lo ia apesta como suo e teme, ala profonda.

I spotted Van and Jolu right away. Darryl might have been in the remaining dozen shackled up back here, but it was impossible to say – many of them were slumped over and blocking my view. It stank of sweat and fear back there.

Vanessa ia regarda me e ia morde sua labio. El ia es asustada. Ance me. Ance Jolu, de ci sua oios ia rola demente en sua cavetas, con blancas vidable. Me ia es asustada. E plu, me ia nesesa pisi como un cavalo de corsa.

Vanessa looked at me and bit her lip. She was scared. So was I. So was Jolu, his eyes rolling crazily in their sockets, the whites showing. I was scared. What’s more, I had to piss like a race-horse.

Me ia regarda a sirca per trova nosa caturores. Me ia evita regarda los asta aora, tal como on no regarda en la oscuria de un saleta en cual la mente ia sonia un monstro. On no vole sabe esce la sonia es vera.

I looked around for our captors. I’d avoided looking at them up until now, the same way you don’t look into the dark of a closet where your mind has conjured up a boogey-man. You don’t want to know if you’re right.

Ma me ia debe regarda plu bon esta pixetas ci ia saisi nos. Si los ia es teroristes, me ia vole sabe lo. Me no ia sabe como teroristes aspeta, an si televisadas ia fa tota posible per convinse me ce los es arabis brun con barbas grande e xapetas tricotada e robas laxe de coton cual pende asta sua talos.

But I had to get a better look at these jerks who’d kidnapped us. If they were terrorists, I wanted to know. I didn’t know what a terrorist looked like, though TV shows had done their best to convince me that they were brown Arabs with big beards and knit caps and loose cotton dresses that hung down to their ankles.

Nosa caturores no ia es tal. Los ia ta pote es animores en la spetaculo a mediajua de Super Bowl. Los ia aspeta esuan en un modo cual me no ia pote defini esata. Bon profiles de mandibula, capeles corta e ordinada cual es cuasi ma no intera militar. Los ia es blanca e brun, mas e fema, e los ia surie libre a lunlotra, sentante ala a la otra fini de la camion, bromante e bevinte cafes en copas dejetable. Estas no ia es “arabis” de Afganistan: los ia aspeta como turistes de Nebraska.

Not so our captors. They could have been half-time-show cheerleaders on the Super Bowl. They looked American in a way I couldn’t exactly define. Good jaw-lines, short, neat haircuts that weren’t quite military. They came in white and brown, male and female, and smiled freely at one another as they sat down at the other end of the truck, joking and drinking coffees out of go-cups. These weren’t Ay-rabs from Afghanistan: they looked like tourists from Nebraska.

Me ia fisa mea regarda a un, un fem blanca joven con capeles brun ci ia aspeta apena plu vea ca me, cuasi dulse en la manera asustante de un veston de ofisia. Si on fisa sufisinte longa sua regarda a algun, el va turna final sua regarda a on. El ia fa esta, e sua fas ia adota subita un disposa completa diferente, nonpasionosa, an robotin. La surie ia desapare instante.

I stared at one, a young white woman with brown hair who barely looked older than me, kind of cute in a scary office-power-suit way. If you stare at someone long enough, they’ll eventually look back at you. She did, and her face slammed into a totally different configuration, dispassionate, even robotic. The smile vanished in an instant.

“He,” – me ia dise – “vide, me no comprende cua aveni asi, ma me nesesa vera visita la vason, sabe?”

“Hey,” I said. “Look, I don’t understand what’s going on here, but I really need to take a leak, you know?”

El ia regarda direta tra me como si el no ia oia.

She looked right through me as if she hadn’t heard.

“Me es seria. Si me no vade pronto a un piseria, un asidente fea va aveni a me. Lo va deveni alga malodorosa asi, sabe?”

“I’m serious, if I don’t get to a can soon, I’m going to have an ugly accident. It’s going to get pretty smelly back here, you know?”

El ia turna a sua colaborores, un fola peti de tre de los, e los ia fa un conversa cuieta cual me no ia pote oia tra la ventis de la computadores.

She turned to her colleagues, a little huddle of three of them, and they held a low conversation I couldn’t hear over the fans from the computers.

El ia turna denova a me. “Reteni lo per des plu minutos, alora on va clama cadun per pisi.”

She turned back to me. “Hold it for another ten minutes, then you’ll each get a piss-call.”

“Me no pensa ce me ave ancora des minutos.” – me ia dise, permetente la apare en mea vose de un pico de urjentia plu ca me ia senti vera. “Seria, seniora, lo es un caso de aora o nunca.”

“I don’t think I’ve got another ten minutes in me,” I said, letting a little more urgency than I was really feeling creep into my voice. “Seriously, lady, it’s now or never.”

El ia secute sua testa e ia regarda me como si me ta es un perdor misera de alga spesie. El e sua amis ia confere plu, e pos acel un otra de los ia avansa. Esta om ia es plu vea, en la temprana de sua desenio cuatro, e con spalas alga larga, como algun ci leva pesas. El ia aspeta como si el es xines o corean – an Van no pote distingui los a veses – ma con acel disposa fisical cual ia dise esuan en un modo cual me no ia pote identifia.

She shook her head and looked at me like I was some kind of pathetic loser. She and her friends conferred some more, then another one came forward. He was older, in his early thirties, and pretty big across the shoulders, like he worked out. He looked like he was Chinese or Korean – even Van can’t tell the difference sometimes – but with that bearing that said American in a way I couldn’t put my finger on.

El ia tira sua jaca de sporte a lado per mostra a me la aparatos ala sinturida: me ia reconose un pistol, un aturdador eletrical e un bote de o gas lacrimojen o airosol de peper, ante cuando el ia recade lo.

He pulled his sports-coat aside to let me see the hardware strapped there: I recognized a pistol, a tazer and a can of either mace or pepper-spray before he let it fall again.

“No es turbosa.” – el ia dise.

“No trouble,” he said.

“Sin turba.” – me ia acorda.

“None,” I agreed.

El ia toca alga cosa a sua sintur e la cadenas pos me ia relasa, cadente subita mea brasos pos me. Lo ia es como si el ta porta la sintur de aparatos de Batman – un telecomandador per cadenas! Me ia suposa ce lo es lojical, an tal: on no ta desira apoia supra sua prisonida con tota acel aparatos matante a nivel de oio – cisa la prisonida ta saisi la pistol con sua dentes e ta tira la gatilio con sua lingua o simil.

He touched something at his belt and the shackles behind me let go, my arms dropping suddenly behind me. It was like he was wearing Batman’s utility belt – wireless remotes for shackles! I guessed it made sense, though: you wouldn’t want to lean over your prisoners with all that deadly hardware at their eye-level – they might grab your gun with their teeth and pull the trigger with their tongues or something.

Mea manos ia es ancora liada en junta pos me par la banda plastica, e aora, no plu suportada par la cadenas, me ia trova ce mea gamas ia deveni masas de suber cuando me ia es fisada en un sola posa. Cortinte la raconta, esensal me ia cade sur mea fas e ia brandi debil mea gamas car los ia deveni formicosa, atentante pone los su me per pote balansi me per sta.

My hands were still lashed together behind me by the plastic strapping, and now that I wasn’t supported by the shackles, I found that my legs had turned into lumps of cork while I was stuck in one position. Long story short, I basically fell onto my face and kicked my legs weakly as they went pins-and-needles, trying to get them under me so I could rock up to my feet.

La om ia aranca me a sur mea pedes, e me ia pasea bobo asta la retro la plu profonda de la camion, a un saleta privata ala en un ciosco peti portable. Me ia atenta deteta Darryl en cuando me ia vade ala, ma el ia ta pote es cualcun de la sinco o ses persones malapoiante. O nun de los.

The guy jerked me to my feet and I clown-walked to the very back of the truck, to a little boxed-in porta-john there. I tried to spot Darryl on the way back, but he could have been any of the five or six slumped people. Or none of them.

“A en.” – la om ia dise.

“In you go,” the guy said.

Me ia contorse mea polsos. “Desapone esta, per favore?” Mea ditos ia pare como salsixes purpur pos la oras de nonlibria en la securipolso plastica.

I jerked my wrists. “Take these off, please?” My fingers felt like purple sausages from the hours of bondage in the plastic cuffs.

La om no ia move.

The guy didn’t move.

“Vide.” – me ia dise, atentante no sona sarcasmosa o coler (esta no ia es fasil). “Vide. O tu va talia lo a via de mea polsos, o tu va debe punta per me. Un visita a la vason no es posible sin manos.” Algun en la camion ia rie furtiva. La om no ia gusta me: me ia sabe lo par la modo en cual sua musculos de mandibula ia molini. Txa, esta persones ia es alta tensada.

“Look,” I said, trying not to sound sarcastic or angry (it wasn’t easy). “Look. You either cut my wrists free or you’re going to have to aim for me. A toilet visit is not a hands-free experience.” Someone in the truck sniggered. The guy didn’t like me, I could tell from the way his jaw muscles ground around. Man, these people were wired tight.

El ia estende sua mano a sua sintur e ia reveni con un util bela de multe funsionas. El ia ejeta un cotel de aspeta vil e ia talia la securipolsos plastica, e mea manos ia parteni denova a me.

He reached down to his belt and came up with a very nice set of multi-pliers. He flicked out a wicked-looking knife and sliced through the plastic cuffs and my hands were my own again.

“Grasias.” – me ia dise.

“Thanks,” I said.

El ia puxa me a en la saleta. Mea manos ia es nonusable, como masas de arjila a fini de mea polsos. En cuando me ia serpe flasida mea ditos, los ia esperia un titila, e pos acel la titila ia deveni un sensa ardente cual ia fa cuasi ce me esclama. Me ia basi la seja, ia cade mea pantalon e ia senta me. Me no ia fida ce me ta resta sur mea pedes.

He shoved me into the bathroom. My hands were useless, like lumps of clay on the ends of my wrists. As I wiggled my fingers limply, they tingled, then the tingling turned to a burning feeling that almost made me cry out. I put the seat down, dropped my pants and sat down. I didn’t trust myself to stay on my feet.

Cuando mea vesica ia relasa, mea oios ia fa la mesma. Me ia larma, silente plorante e balansinte de asi a ala con larmas e muco fluente sur mea fas. Me ia susede apena preveni ce me sanglota – me ia covre mea buco e ia teni la sona a en. Me no ia desira dona acel sasia a los.

As my bladder cut loose, so did my eyes. I wept, crying silently and rocking back and forth while the tears and snot ran down my face. It was all I could do to keep from sobbing – I covered my mouth and held the sounds in. I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.

Final, me no ia pote plu pisi o plora, e la om ia es batente la porte. Me ia limpi mea fas en modo tan bon como posible con faxos de paper de vason, ia pone tota en la bol e ia descarga lo, ante xerca sirca me un lavabo, ma me ia trova sola un botela pompable de ijieninte forte per manos, covreda con listas en leteras pico de la patojenes militar contra cual lo es eficas. Me ia frota alga a en mea manos e ia emerje de la saleta.

Finally, I was peed out and cried out and the guy was pounding on the door. I cleaned my face as best as I could with wads of toilet paper, stuck it all down the john and flushed, then looked around for a sink but only found a pump-bottle of heavy-duty hand-sanitizer covered in small-print lists of the bio-agents it worked on. I rubbed some into my hands and stepped out of the john.

“Cua tu ia fa ala?” la om ia dise.

“What were you doing in there?” the guy said.

“Ia usa la instalada.” – me ia dise. El ia turna me, saisinte mea manos, e me ia sensa ce un securipolso plastica nova ensirca los. Mea polsos ia deveni ja inflada pos la sutrae de la presedente, e la nova ia morde cruel mea pel dolosa, ma me ia refusa dona a el la sasia de un esclama.

“Using the facilities,” I said. He turned me around and grabbed my hands and I felt a new pair of plastic cuffs go around them. My wrists had swollen since the last pair had come off and the new ones bit cruelly into my tender skin, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of crying out.

El ia recadeni me a mea loca e ia saisi la person seguente en la linia, ci, me ia vide aora, es Jolu, con fas inflada e un contusa fea a sua jena.

He shackled me back to my spot and grabbed the next person down, who, I saw now, was Jolu, his face puffy and an ugly bruise on his cheek.

“Tu es oce?” – me ia demanda a el, e mea ami con la zona de aparatos ia pone subita sua mano a mea fronte e ia puxa forte, rebondinte la retro de mea testa contra la mur de metal de la camion, con la sona de un orolojo a la ora un. “No parla.” – el ia dise en cuando me ia luta per refoca mea oios.

“Are you OK?” I asked him, and my friend with the utility belt abruptly put his hand on my forehead and shoved hard, bouncing the back of my head off the truck’s metal wall with a sound like a clock striking one. “No talking,” he said as I struggled to refocus my eyes.

Me no ia gusta esta persones. Me ia deside a acel momento ce los va repaia per tota esta.

I didn’t like these people. I decided right then that they would pay a price for all this.

Pos lunlotra, tota la prisonidas ia vade a la saleta, e ia reveni, e cuando tota ia es fada, mea gardor ia revade a sua amis e ia prende un plu copa de cafe – los ia bevi de un vaso grande de carton de Starbucks, me ia vide – e los ia fa un conversa nonoiable cual ia inclui un bon cuantia de ries.

One by one, all the prisoners went to the can, and came back, and when they were done, my guard went back to his friends and had another cup of coffee – they were drinking out of a big cardboard urn of Starbucks, I saw – and they had an indistinct conversation that involved a fair bit of laughter.

Alora la porte a retro de la camion ia abri e on ia ave aira fresca, no fumosa como lo ia es a ante, ma con tinje de ozon. De la talia de la esterna cual me ia vide ante la clui de la porte, me ia descovre ce esterna lo es oscur e lo pluve, en un de acel pluvetas de San Francisco cual es partal un nebleta.

Then the door at the back of the truck opened and there was fresh air, not smoky the way it had been before, but tinged with ozone. In the slice of outdoors I saw before the door closed, I caught that it was dark out, and raining, with one of those San Francisco drizzles that’s part mist.

La om ci ia entra ia porta un uniforma militar. Un uniforma militar de la SUA. El ia saluta la persones en la camion e los ia resiproci la saluta, e acel ia es cuando me ia sabe ce me no es un prisonida de alga teroristes – me es un prisonida de la Statos Unida de America.

The man who came in was wearing a military uniform. A US military uniform. He saluted the people in the truck and they saluted him back and that’s when I knew that I wasn’t a prisoner of some terrorists – I was a prisoner of the United States of America.

On ia prepara un paravide peti a la fini de la camion e ia veni alora per nos, la un pos la otra, descadeninte nos e gidante nos a la retro de la camion. Tan esata como me ia pote calcula – contante secondos en mea testa: un-ipopotamo, du-ipopotamo, … – cada intervisa ia dura tra sirca sete minutos. Mea testa ia pulsa par causa de desidrata e manca de cafina.

They set up a little screen at the end of the truck and then came for us one at a time, unshackling us and leading us to the back of the truck. As close as I could work it – counting seconds off in my head, one hippopotami, two hippopotami – the interviews lasted about seven minutes each. My head throbbed with dehydration and caffeine withdrawal.

Me ia es la numero tre, gidada par la fem con la capeles sever. De prosima, el ia aspeta fatigada, con curvas oscur su sua oios e linias sombre a la angulos de sua boca.

I was third, brought back by the woman with the severe haircut. Up close, she looked tired, with bags under her eyes and grim lines at the corners of her mouth.

“Grasias.” – me ia dise, automata, cuando el ia descadeni me par telecomanda e ia tira me alora a sur mea pedes. Me ia odia me per la cortesia automata, ma lo ia es per me un abitua instruida.

“Thanks,” I said, automatically, as she unlocked me with a remote and then dragged me to my feet. I hated myself for the automatic politeness, but it had been drilled into me.

El ia move an no un musculo en reata. Me ia presede el asta la retro de la camion e pos la paravide. On ia ave un sola seja pliable e me ia senta sur lo. Du de los – Fem con Capeles Sever e Om con Sintur de Aparatos – ia regarda me de sua suprasejas ergonomial.

She didn’t twitch a muscle. I went ahead of her to the back of the truck and behind the screen. There was a single folding chair and I sat in it. Two of them – Severe Haircut woman and utility belt man – looked at me from their ergonomic super-chairs.

Los ia ave un table peti entre se, con la contenidas de mea portamone e bolson estendeda sur lo.

They had a little table between them with the contents of my wallet and backpack spread out on it.

“Alo, Marcus.” – Fem con Capeles Sever ia dise. “Nos ave alga demandas per tu.”

“Hello, Marcus,” Severe Haircut woman said. “We have some questions for you.”

“Esce me es arestada?” me ia demanda. Esta no ia es un demanda futil. Si on no es arestada, limitas esiste en lo cual polisiores pote e no pote fa a on. Per comensa, los no pote teni on per sempre, sin aresta on e sin permete ce on telefoni e parla con un avocato. E txa de txa, me ia ave serta la intende de parla con un avocato.

“Am I under arrest?” I asked. This wasn’t an idle question. If you’re not under arrest, there are limits on what the cops can and can’t do to you. For starters, they can’t hold you forever without arresting you, giving you a phone call, and letting you talk to a lawyer. And hoo-boy, was I ever going to talk to a lawyer.

“Cua es la intende de esta?” el ia dise, levante mea telefon. La scermo ia mostra la mesaje de era cual on vide si on continua atenta asede la datos sin dona la clave coreta. Lo ia es un mesaje alga noncortes – un mano animada cual fa un jesti de tipo universal reconoseda – car me ia gusta personali mea cosas.

“What’s this for?” she said, holding up my phone. The screen was showing the error message you got if you kept trying to get into its data without giving the right password. It was a bit of a rude message – an animated hand giving a certain universally recognized gesture – because I liked to customize my gear.

“Esce me es arestada?” me ia repete. Los no pote obliga ce on responde a demandas si on no es arestada, e cuando on demanda esce on es arestada, los debe responde. Tal es la regulas.

“Am I under arrest?” I repeated. They can’t make you answer any questions if you’re not under arrest, and when you ask if you’re under arrest, they have to answer you. It’s the rules.

“Tu es detenida par la Departe de Securia Interna.” – la fem ia replica.

“You’re being detained by the Department of Homeland Security,” the woman snapped.

“Esce me es arestada?”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Tu va deveni plu cooperante, Marcus, comensante de esta momento.” El no ia dise “car si no…”, ma lo ia es implicada.

“You’re going to be more cooperative, Marcus, starting right now.” She didn’t say, “or else,” but it was implied.

“Me desira contata un avocato.” – me ia dise. “Me desira sabe sur cua on acusa me. Me desira vide alga forma de identifia de ambos de vos.”

“I would like to contact an attorney,” I said. “I would like to know what I’ve been charged with. I would like to see some form of identification from both of you.”

La du ajentes ia intercambia regardas.

The two agents exchanged looks.

“Me pensa ce tu debe vera reconsidera tua disposa a esta situa.” – Fem de Capeles Sever ia dise. “Me pensa ce tu debe fa lo sin pausa. Nos ia trova alga aparatos suspetable entre tua portadas. Nos ia trova tu e tua aidores prosima a la loca de la ataca teroriste la plu grave de cualce ves en esta pais. Pos junta esta du fatos, la situa no aspeta multe bon per tu, Marcus. Tu pote coopera, o tu pote regrete vera multe. Bon, cua es la intende de esta?”

“I think you should really reconsider your approach to this situation,” Severe Haircut woman said. “I think you should do that right now. We found a number of suspicious devices on your person. We found you and your confederates near the site of the worst terrorist attack this country has ever seen. Put those two facts together and things don’t look very good for you, Marcus. You can cooperate, or you can be very, very sorry. Now, what is this for?”

“Vos crede ce me es un teroriste? Me ave des-sete anios!”

“You think I’m a terrorist? I’m seventeen years old!”

“Esata la eda perfeta – al-Qaida ama enscrive jovenes idealiste e impresable. Nos ia gugli tu, sabe. Tu ia posta multe cosas vera fea a la interede publica.”

“Just the right age – Al Qaeda loves recruiting impressionable, idealistic kids. We googled you, you know. You’ve posted a lot of very ugly stuff on the public Internet.”

“Me desira parla con un avocato.” – me ia dise.

“I would like to speak to an attorney,” I said.

Fem de Capeles Sever ia regarda me como si me ta es un xinxe. “Tu ave la idea erante ce tu es prendeda par la polisia pos un crimin. Tu nesesa abandona acel. Tu es detenida como un combator enemin potensial par la governa de la Statos Unida. Si me ta es en tua loca, me ta pensa multe forte sur modos de convinse nos ce tu no es un combator enemin. Multe forte. Car on ave bucos oscur en cual combatores enemin pote cade, bucos multe oscur e profonda, bucos do on pote simple desapare. Per sempre. Esce tu escuta me, joven? Me vole ce tu desclavi esta telefon e desifri alora la fixes en sua memoria. Me vole ce tu esplica tu: Perce tu ia es a estra sur la strada? Cua tu sabe sur la ataca contra esta site?”

Severe haircut lady looked at me like I was a bug. “You’re under the mistaken impression that you’ve been picked up by the police for a crime. You need to get past that. You are being detained as a potential enemy combatant by the government of the United States. If I were you, I’d be thinking very hard about how to convince us that you are not an enemy combatant. Very hard. Because there are dark holes that enemy combatants can disappear into, very dark deep holes, holes where you can just vanish. Forever. Are you listening to me young man? I want you to unlock this phone and then decrypt the files in its memory. I want you to account for yourself: why were you out on the street? What do you know about the attack on this city?”

“Me no va desclavi mea telefon per vos.” – me ia dise, iritada. La memoria de mea telefon ia conteni cosas privata de tota spesies: fotos, epostas, trucos e alteras peti cual me ia instala. “Acel es privata.”

“I’m not going to unlock my phone for you,” I said, indignant. My phone’s memory had all kinds of private stuff on it: photos, emails, little hacks and mods I’d installed. “That’s private stuff.”

“Cual secretas tu asconde?”

“What have you got to hide?”

“Me ave la direto de mea privatia.” – me ia dise. “E me vole parla a un avocato.”

“I’ve got the right to my privacy,” I said. “And I want to speak to an attorney.”

“Esta es tua ves ultima, xic’. Persones onesta no ave secretas.”

“This is your last chance, kid. Honest people don’t have anything to hide.”

“Me vole parla con un avocato.” Mea jenitores ta paia la custa. Tota la Demandas Comun sur arestas ia es clar sur esta punto – on debe mera continua demanda per vide un avocato, an entre tota cual es diseda o fada. No vantajes resulta si on parla a la polisia sin la presentia de sua avocato. Esta du ia dise ce los no es polisiores, ma si esta no es un aresta, lo es cua?

“I want to speak to an attorney.” My parents would pay for it. All the FAQs on getting arrested were clear on this point. Just keep asking to see an attorney, no matter what they say or do. There’s no good that comes of talking to the cops without your lawyer present. These two said they weren’t cops, but if this wasn’t an arrest, what was it?

En retrospeta, cisa me ia ta debe desclavi mea telefon per los.

In hindsight, maybe I should have unlocked my phone for them.