Three weeks after I first sat in the basketball court, I stood near the entrance to Buca Prison and got ready to run. I was heading back for my second trial day, and security was tighter than before. I’d already been strip-searched, cuffed, and strapped into a bulletproof vest, but there was more to come. I was surrounded by several armed military police, and as soon as one of their radios told them to go, they ran me out across a parking lot into the prisoner transport bus. I couldn’t see through the blacked-out window, and I sat quietly in the secure cubicle in the bus. The engine was already running, but for almost a minute we just sat there, me and my blank-faced soldiers with their machine guns at the ready.
Another message came through the radio. One of the men jumped up and pulled me out of the bus and onto an identical one which had just arrived in the courtyard. The decoy bus drove off without me, and we waited for our turn to leave, escorted by several police cars.
When we arrived at Sakran, the short walk from the transport bus to the court’s prisoner entrance was flanked by twenty or more commandos. The soldiers guarding me crowded around in a tight cluster and jogged me through the tunnel that the commandos formed, their arms tight on mine.
None of this was for show. The trial had made me a target, a hate figure even. I don’t think they were especially concerned that US forces might fly in by helicopter and rescue me. They were guarding me from their own people.
I KNEW that it was going to be a difficult day. Three witnesses had testified against me on the first day, but there were seven lined up for this second trial day, two of them in secret. As the judges arrived and took up their position on the dais, I braced myself for the lies to begin.
I glanced back and was touched to see the pastor from our family’s church in North Carolina standing next to Norine. It was a reminder that fastings and prayer vigils were going on in countless places.
The first witness was secret, but I knew who he was although I had never met him. For a few months, he’d attended a church we started in another city, but the leadership there had asked him to leave when he caused serious problems. He claimed that I gave coordinates to the US military to drop weapons to the PKK, that I was bringing PKK fighters to Izmir for medical treatment and that I was a leader in FETO. After him another secret witness told how she’d seen a message on someone’s phone warning to prepare for an earthquake—evidence, the prosecutor said, of my involvement in the coup. But she said she didn’t know me, and that the message wasn’t from me, so I was puzzled what the connection was. After her there were no more secret witnesses, but they were all just as ridiculous.
A convict, who appeared to be mentally ill, took the stand and declared that I was the leader of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, and together with them had helped plan the Gezi Park protests that had swept the country back in 2013. Erdogan was now calling these an attempt to overthrow his government. And after him there came another convict who was obviously hoping to see his sentence cut by spreading more lies about me.
“Andrew Brunson worked for the Fethullah Gulen organization, his church was funded by them, and he knew a bunch of the main leaders. I also saw him meeting with members of the PKK terrorist group in the Hilton Hotel in Gaziantep.”
“Really?” said the judge, leaning in. “And did you ever see Andrew Brunson with Murat Safa?”
“You did!” said the judge, clapping his hands and smiling. “And did you ever see him with Bekir Baz?”
“Yes.”
Another clap and a smile. “And Enver Muslim? Did you see Andrew Brunson with him?”
“Oh yes. I definitely saw him with all of these people.”
Before Cem asked the witness some questions I stood up to make my statement. “Your Honor, I never met with any of the people he mentioned. I’ve never even been to that hotel. And you have my phone records that prove I didn’t visit Gaziantep that year.” I added with exasperation, “And you’re feeding him all these names and he’s saying yes to every one of them. If you give him ten more names he’ll say yes to those as well.”
The judge just stared at me.
When Cem stood he looked directly at the witness. “Have you ever been to prison before this?”
The man froze for a second, then scratched his chin and stared up at the ceiling. “Well, I was in prison once before. Or maybe twice. Or . . . let me think . . . maybe three times?”
Cem turned to the judge. “I want to present to the court evidence that this man has been convicted fourteen times for fraud and there are twenty-four other outstanding warrants for his arrest.”
I wanted to jump up and shout for joy, but the judge stared at the piece of paper that Cem had just handed him. “How is this relevant?”
I was flabbergasted, and so was Cem. “He’s a fraud, Your Honor. How can it not be relevant?”
The judge wasn’t listening. Everyone was following orders from Ankara, but many of them had their own attitudes as well. He was showing his true colors.
THE NEXT WITNESS claimed to have been a friend of mine for years, though I’d never met him in my life. He described concerts we hosted where we sang songs about the PKK, waved terrorist flags, and gave speeches about the PKK.
Years earlier, after I had been attacked by the gunman in the street, I’d been assigned a couple of bodyguards by the Counter-Terror Police. I stopped using the bodyguards after a couple of weeks, but they told me something that didn’t surprise me at all at the time: “We have a thick file on you. The government has been monitoring you for years.” Cem had somehow also been able to get a report from MIT (the National Intelligence Agency) acknowledging that they keep track of all foreigners they think may be missionaries.
Armed with these facts, I stood up and addressed the court.
“I have been accused of so many things, from running PKK rallies and concerts to military spying and coordinating the transfer of weapons, and yet it is clear that for years I have been followed by MIT and Counter-Terror. So how could I have carried out all these crimes while your own government agencies have had me under close watch? If I had done any of these things wouldn’t there be some concrete, physical proof? And yet you’ve found no texts, or emails. There are no phone records linking me to anybody. There are no sound clips of me preaching these messages, no video or pictures of the church supposedly full of propaganda and PKK flags. Our church is on a busy street, the windows and doors are always open. How could terrorist activity go on in the open for years and no one ever report it? The reason is because none of it ever happened. Why don’t your witnesses provide any supporting evidence? How can you listen to them when they have no proof?”
The judge leaned back in his chair. “They don’t have to provide any evidence to support what they’re saying. Their testimony is evidence.”
I was dumbfounded. “How can this be? How can I defend myself when all they have to do is assert something and you accept it? This doesn’t make sense.”
The judge answered sharply, “I’m not going to argue with you.”
THE DAY WAS LONG, and by the time it drew to a close I was exhausted. I still had a faint hope as the judge looked down at me and asked me what I wanted to happen next, but I knew it was a hollow formality, a routine question that he had to ask at the end of every day of trial.
Even so, I told him exactly what I wanted. “I just want to go home, Your Honor.”
If he listened to me at all, it didn’t make any difference. With his final words he told me that I would remain in custody and that my next hearing was scheduled for July 18, two and a half months away.
On the way back to Buca I cried tears of anger and frustration.