My alarm rang at 4:30 a.m. on the day of the trial, but I was awake already. All night I’d been thinking, praying, trying to imagine what the day would bring. Would I end up in prison? Was this my last night of freedom? Or would it be my last night in Turkey? So many different possibilities had flooded my mind, and I had no idea what to expect.
Others seemed more certain, but their opinions were divided. There was plenty of discussion about how best to get me out of the country in the event I was released. I could remain in police custody and be deported from Istanbul, or even accompanied all the way to the US by Turkish police. Or, they could release me to the embassy, but there were no quick options as there would be no flights available until the next day. Cem, on the other hand, had been trying to convince me that there was no way the case would be wrapped up by the end of the day. “They’re not going to find you guilty right away and they won’t put you back in prison right away either. The sequence of things does not work that way. They present their evidence, you present yours. We’re still a long ways off.”
Even so, when the police came for me at 5:15 a.m., the one bag I picked up was the bag I had packed for prison.
One of the officers paused and looked at it. “What’s in it?”
“My Bible, some clothes. Things I’ll need for prison.”
He shook his head. “You can’t take that—just your court papers.”
I was unhappy, but before I could say anything Norine quietly reassured me, “It’s okay, my love, I’ll get it to you somehow if you need it.”
THE MORNING SESSION began with the recall of one of the prosecutor’s main witnesses against us. Levent had been a member of our church, and on the third trial day he had accused me of hiding FETO fugitives in our house of prayer after the coup and of working with a Kurdish bomb maker—information that he said he had been told by two different people. Cem had protested and now the prosecutor had brought in both witnesses who he said would back up Levent’s claims.
I recognized both of them. The first witness lived next door to the house of prayer, and when it came time for the prosecutor to ask him to confirm that he had been the one who told Levent about my support of the FETO members, the man shook his head. “No,” he said. “I never told him that. He’s the one who told me.”
I was amazed. But there was more to come.
When the prosecutor asked the second witness whether he was the source of the information about my being friends with a Kurdish bomb maker, he denied it completely. “Levent is the one who told me. I don’t know anything about it—I’m just a simple cook minding my own business.”
I was happy that Levent was being exposed as a liar. But there was still more to come.
The jumbotron screens flickered and another witness appeared. After he was sworn in and was asked a question, he laid out the truth. “No, you’ve got it wrong. This is what really happened . . .” He completely undermined one of the main secret witnesses.
I tried to get a read on any of the three judges but they were looking just as stone-faced as ever. The prosecutor, however, was looking disconcerted. He told the court that he was abandoning his final two witnesses—one of whom had accused me of running boatloads of cash to Israel to be channeled to the PKK. The judge announced we were taking an early break for lunch.
I sat alone, too nervous to eat.
ONCE WE RESUMED, things turned bad for me almost immediately. The prosecutor asked for permission to speak, and leaned dramatically into his microphone. “I demand that Andrew Brunson be returned to prison right now for the remainder of his trial.”
I looked over at Cem. He looked as surprised as I felt. I had known being sent back to prison was an option, but this was so sudden, and I had hoped they were going to look for a face-saving way to let me go. Things were going in a very bad direction now. In spite of all the threats, all the damage to the Turkish economy, all the chaos this case had unleashed, could it be that they would still hold on to me?
After consulting with his two colleagues, the main judge denied the prosecutor’s request.
“Well, in that case,” said the prosecutor, “I am ready to make a recommendation to the court and ask for sentencing.”
I turned to Cem. He wasn’t just surprised anymore, he looked resigned to the fact that the court was going to do what it was going to do. I felt sick with dread. The bile was building in my throat. The prosecutor was resting his case and pushing the judges to rule. It felt like the mouth of hell was opening all over again.
The prosecutor had pulled out a thick document and was reading it out loud to the court—it must have been prepared before the day’s session. He was talking so fast that I found it difficult to keep up with him. The clerk gave me a copy and handed one to Cem, and we both started reading, trying to figure out where the prosecutor was heading. Finally I tuned out from his droning and skipped to the last page.
His statement listed all the reasons why he considered me guilty. There were summaries of all the witnesses who had appeared at the previous trials, including those whom Cem had discredited and even the ones who had just been discredited that very morning. It was as if all our objections, responses, and explanations had fallen on deaf ears. Worse, he was demanding that I be convicted. Any hope that I’d experienced earlier on vanished. Pharaoh had hardened his heart again.
I glanced at Cem. He wasn’t listening to the prosecutor either. He had pulled out a reference book and was looking up the specific penal codes listed on the last page and the sentencing guidelines, adding up the years.
It took almost thirty minutes for the prosecutor to read through his statement in full, and when he finished the court was silent. I wanted to shout out that this wasn’t how things were supposed to be done, but I just sat there, stunned.
The judge started his own summing up, announcing that the court would not hear any of my witnesses nor accept any of the material we wanted to submit as exculpating evidence.
My heart was numb.A single thought echoed in my mind: They’re going to convict me. I was sure that I was going to prison again. The only question was for how long.
“Do you want to make a final defense?”
I looked back at the judge. Present a defense? How could I present a defense? We had our own witnesses who were eager to testify. In addition to the audio and video clips, there were affidavits, text messages, and emails that would help expose the lies that the prosecutor had spread about me. But the judge was not allowing any of it. Since I’d been under house arrest I’d been able to work so much more effectively on my defense, and had prepared answers to all the false witnesses from the previous sessions. But what would be the point? None of it mattered now. The judge clearly was not interested. It was as good as over.
The judge was losing patience with me. “I said, do you wish to make a final defense?”
I looked over at Cem and back toward Norine. “Your Honor, I’d like to have some time to talk with my lawyer and also with my wife.”
“Very well,” he said. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
“NORINE,” I SAID, my voice choking up, “they want to send me back to prison. They are going to convict me. I know it.”
“Wait,” said Cem, still flicking through his court handbook. “Look, they’ve lowered the charges and the things he’s asking for carry a sentence of up to fifteen years.”
“Fifteen years? I’ll be sixty-five. I can’t do that! Cem, you hear me?”
“I do, but we cannot really present a defense here. And I don’t think they want us to make a defense either. I think something is happening, some decision has been taken already. Let me go back and talk to the judge.”
Cem left Norine and me standing on either side of the low barrier that separated me from the rest of the court. I remembered what Sam Brownback had said to Norine—that the case against me wouldn’t last five minutes in a US court.
I couldn’t read Cem’s face when he returned, but his voice sounded calm. “The judge says that the prosecutor is calling for a mild sentence and that they would lower it for good behavior and your demeanor in court. I don’t know what they’re going to give you, but it’s clear they’ve made a decision already. There’s no point in prolonging this as they aren’t going to accept anything we say. They don’t want you to make a defense, so I say let’s not present one. Just say a few sentences. I’ll make a couple of points and we’ll just see what they do.”
I opened my mouth but no words came. I could just nod my head. Norine hugged me. I returned to my seat and started writing as the judges began to file in. I had so little time, but if I was going to say something before they sentenced me, what should I say?
All too soon the judge started to speak. “We’re ready to proceed,” he announced. “What is your defense?”
My legs felt weak as I stepped out to the microphone in front of the dais. The judges seemed to tower above me even higher than usual. My mouth was dry. I could hear no sound from the scores of people sitting in the back behind me.
“I am an innocent man,” I said, glad that my voice was sounding a lot calmer than I feared it would. “I love Jesus. I love Turkey.”
The judge didn’t react, but turned to Cem. After listening to a few further comments from him, the three judges stood up and left the dais to decide my fate.
I stayed seated and picked up my pen again. I wanted to write down what I was thinking, to capture this moment and be ready to say something when the final verdict came. I felt so desperate, so alone, so shattered. After wondering if I was on the brink of being set free, after my government had taken unprecedented steps to secure my release, I was about to be convicted and sent to prison. For life? It might as well be. In fifteen years my kids would be grown up, there would be grandchildren I’d never held. And my wife—how difficult this would be for her. How could I possibly survive so long in such terrible isolation?
“I am innocent,” I wrote. “I am a missionary. I’m a prisoner for the sake of Jesus. Please do not forget me, my wife, my children. I ask Christians, pray for me. This is a weight I do not know how to bear. May Jesus give me the courage to endure to the end. I love Turkey. I love Jesus.”
I put the pen down. There was nothing else to write.
I turned and looked for Norine. They had allowed me to talk with her before, so I motioned her over. We leaned into each other over the barrier, forehead to forehead. Norine prayed, “Lord, we really need you here. We need you here now. We are calling on your name.”
When she was done I whispered my fear. “Norine, they’re going to send me to prison. They’re going to send me to prison.”
“Wait, my love. Just wait. Cem says something is going on here.”
“No. They’re sending me to prison, Norine. That’s what is happening.”
I heard movement at the front of the court and knew the judges were back. I didn’t want to let go of my wife. I didn’t know when I would be able to hold her like this again.
I STOOD when the judge told me to stand and listened to him deliver his verdict. “This court finds you guilty, of willingly and knowingly supporting a terrorist group, without being a member. You are sentenced to five years . . .”
His words blurred. My head was spinning. He was still talking, saying something about the political nature of the crime and how that affected my sentencing, but all I heard was “guilty” and “five years.”
I looked down at the piece of paper I’d been writing on. It was still true: I was still innocent, even though they’d found me guilty. And I still loved Jesus.
The judge was still talking.
I wondered what would happen next. Would they send me back to Buca? Would I be able to have my old cell back with Nejat?
There was silence in the court.
I looked up to see the judge staring at me.
“Well,” he said, waving his hand at me. “That’s it.”
I didn’t understand. Was I supposed to go over and find the military police who were going to take me back to prison? I looked over at Cem. He was walking toward me, smiling. “You’re free,” he said.
“What?”
“They lowered it to three years, one month, fifteen days, then took off the time served. The prosector removed his demands to send you to prison and so you’re released pending appeal.”
“So, what, I’m under house arrest?”
“No. Your travel ban has been lifted. You’re free. You can go home. To the US.”
While Cem went to tell Norine I turned to the judges and thanked them. I even thanked the prosecutor. Then Norine was running toward me and we knelt down on the floor. “Thank you, God,” we prayed. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, God.”
I WAS TAKEN BACK to Izmir in a police car that was following a military armored vehicle. It was like the parting of the Red Sea. I tried not to think about Pharaoh chasing the Israelites once he’d agreed to let them go.
While Norine and the others battled through the Friday rush-hour traffic, I waited in the apartment with the handful of police officers who had accompanied me. They removed the ankle bracelet, took down the transmitter and gave me some forms to sign. While doing this I received a call from the US consul to tell me a plane was on its way from Germany. I was very relieved to hear this, and grateful to President Trump. Apparently Tony Perkins had gotten in touch with the White House the day before and communicated that if I were released speed would be critical in getting us out of the country.
One of the officers walked over to me. “There’s another call for you,” he said. “The chief prosecutor of Izmir.”
My head spun. I remembered the wolf. The man who glared at me in Karakaya’s office in Izmir with nothing but hatred in his eyes. “Okan Batu?”
The officer shook his head. Okan Batu was no longer chief prosecutor, and his replacement had been appointed by Ankara. He handed me the phone. I knew that any prosecutor had the power to protest any decision the court made. If they wanted me back in prison, they could send me there instantly. So the embassy’s first priority was to get me out of the country as soon as possible before anything—a tweet, a statement by a government official, a dumb comment from me—might give the Turkish government reason to send me back. Until I left Turkish airspace I would not be safe.
The prosecutor was direct. “Do you have plans to leave?”
“Yes. Right now the embassy is making plans. There’s a plane coming from Germany to take us away.”
“How long will it take?”
“I—I don’t know. It’s on the way and should be here very soon. They’re planning on us leaving tonight.”
I looked up. One of the embassy staff had arrived, and I handed him the phone. I did not want to talk to the prosecutor for one second longer than I had to.
I SPENT A COUPLE OF HOURS with our closest friends who had come to say goodbye while Norine packed some of her things. It was strange leaving like this, for things to be so rushed after more than two years of waiting. But we were eager to get out of the country. We had to get away from the apartment, away from the crowds and the media, and from the risk that something could so easily go wrong.
The chargé d’affaires drove us to the airport in his armored SUV. I was aware of the chaos all around us, but it was like it was happening to someone else. The crush as we pushed our way through the media to the private terminal at the airport, the calm as we had our passports checked inside, even the moment we walked up the steps and pulled down the blinds inside the Air Force plane, it was all happening to someone else, not me.
I watched the map as we took off, willing the pilot to head west out to sea and into Greek airspace. But we hugged the Turkish coast heading northwest. When the captain finally announced that we had left Turkish airspace, all I could think was that the nightmare was finally over.
It was 1:30 a.m. when we arrived at the US base at Ramstein. We could not believe that the ambassador to Germany was waiting in the cold air to greet us, holding a folded US flag. “Welcome home,” he said, handing me the flag. I buried my face in it and wholeheartedly said, “I love my country.”
AS WE LANDED at Andrews Air Force Base later that day, I could see our children lined up on the tarmac. We had requested that there be no media so we could freely focus on them, hug, and cry.
And then, just one day after I’d walked out of court, we were driven to the White House. Our kids were taken off to wait while Norine and I were escorted to the Map Room.
WITHIN MINUTES President Trump walked in. He was taller than I imagined, an imposing figure, but with a smile so big and so genuine. “It’s good to have you here,” he said, shaking my hand. “Do you want a Tic Tac?”
That threw me. I was going to say no, but how often does the president offer you a Tic Tac? “Sure!” I said, holding out my hand and watching three of them drop onto my palm. I threw two in my mouth and slipped the last in my pocket. We thanked him and talked for a few minutes, then we all walked outside, down the colonnade, and into the Oval Office.
It was the chair that got me. As soon as I walked in the room, I recognized it—the chair that President Erdogan had sat in when he had visited the US for the summit. The chair he’d sat in when I’d been watching from my prison cell. The chair he’d sat in and let his heart be hardened as my president asked for my release. Erdogan kept me in prison for seventeen more months after he’d sat there.
It was the same chair that President Trump motioned for me to sit in.
Just the day before, the judge had declared me guilty of terrorism. Now I was sitting in the Oval Office next to the president of the United States. On one side sat my reunited family. On the other were Secretary Pompeo, Senator Tillis, Senator Lankford, and others who had worked so diligently to free me. But behind them, unseen, were hundreds of thousands of people across the world who had carried me out on a huge wave of prayer.
After several minutes, I spoke up. There was something Norine and I wanted to do, and we were ready.
“Mr. President, we would like to pray for you. We pray for you often as a family. My wife and I pray for you.”
“Well, I probably need it more than anybody in this room so that would be very nice, thank you.”
“Can we pray for you now?”
“Yes. Thank you very much.”
As I knelt down beside him, he bowed his head. The room went still.
“Lord God, I ask that you pour out your Holy Spirit on President Trump, that you give him supernatural wisdom to accomplish all the plans you have for this country . . .”