In the Name of the Son
But the media had proved useful over some unfinished business Michael had with his government. He wanted to know who authorized Nick’s detention by the Iraqis for 13 days (see “What Really Happened to Nick Berg?”, page TK). When a proposed meeting with the FBI and the State Department in the office of his congressman, James Gerlach, seemed to be getting postponed into not happening, Michael blew up: “I’m going to be at your office anyhow. I’ll be on the front steps of that building with a big sign that says, I WANT ANSWERS ABOUT NICK BERG NOW. I’ll bring with me all the media I know.”
Instead, on August 13th, Michael found himself sitting across a table from Lieutenant Colonel William Kern, a military big shot in Mosul, and grilling him on the fine points of Nick’s detention.
“Did you advise the Iraqi police that as an American citizen, he had the right of due process?”
“No.”
“Well, why not?”
“I don’t know.”
Michael bent forward toward Kern, looked him right in his eyes: “Do you realize that your advice cost my son his life?”
Lieutenant Colonel Kern glared back, and his neck — the only part of his body that he seemed to lose control over — turtled his head toward Michael, who thought, Wow, if I weren’t in my congressman’s office with 10 witnesses, I’d be cooked. But he got what he wanted: to look into the stony faces of the men he deemed responsible for his son’s murder. To know, at any rate, that what he’d been telling the world about his country was right, how we’ve sold our humanity and lost our way. It is that clear, and that blunt, to Michael Berg.
The election in November was a problem for Michael in two ways: in the result, obviously, but also, would he still have any way to get his word out?
On a cold, miserable December evening in downtown Philadelphia, his face shrouded in a green slicker, Michael wears a sandwich board: on the front, UNCONDITIONAL WITHDRAWAL NOW, with a peace sign; on the back, MOURN THE DEAD/END THE WAR. First stop was PGW. Now he is pushing a two-wheel shopping cart, trying to make a left on Market at 12th to SEPTA headquarters. It’s rush hour. The cart wheels get caught in potholes and old trolley tracks. In looming, waiting headlights, rain flickers like sparks. Michael pays no attention. He pushes his cart. It’s carrying a battery attached to speakers; someone chants into the microphone:
PGW SEPTA CITY HALL
STOP THE WAR AND FUND THEM ALL!
