The Curious Case of Zubair Ghias

A Sneak Preview of the Upcoming Book - Confessions to the FBI: True Crime Stories from Michael de la Pena and Jamie Banko

Zubair Ghias was a 27-year-old investment banker, employed at J.P. Morgan Chase in Chicago, Illinois, having earned an economics degree from the prestigious University of Chicago. He was married for six years and his wife Ameen was six months pregnant. On Valentine’s Day, 2004, he picked up Ameen from Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, as she was returning from a trip. After dropping her off at their North Side Condominium, he told Ameen that he had to go to the office. He did not come home that night. Or the next. Or the next.

Three days later, on February 17th, his Range Rover was found abandoned in Chicago’s south side, in an area known for its high crime rate. The city of Chicago was perplexed. How does a prominent member of the community just vanish?

*******

On Thursday, February 19, 2004, the skies were clear over the north Atlantic, as Royal Air Maroc flight 201 departed Boston for Morocco. The Boeing 787 carried 90 passengers and two hours into the trip the passengers were getting comfortable, perhaps hoping they could get some sleep on the overnight flight. Just as they were settling in, and the cabin lights were dimmed, a passenger in the middle of the plane rang the overhead flight attendant buzzer. The flight attendant recalled the nervous look on the passenger’s face as she approached.

“May I help you?” She asked.

The man hesitated. He looked around at the other passengers nervously. She waited, wondering what was up.

“I’ve been kidnapped by some Arabs.” He whispered.

“Kidnapped?” She replied with incredulity.

“Yes, I’m being forced to travel to Morocco, can you get a message to my wife?”

The stunned flight attendant rushed to the cockpit, where the pilot made the decision to return to the United States.

When Europe or North African flights from Boston are forced to divert, they typically return to Bangor, Maine, to save time and fuel costs. That was the case here. More than three hours after taking off from Beantown, flight 201 safely landed in Bangor, Maine.

********

Friday, February 20th, 2004, I awoke to a typical New England day, dry and cold. The only difference was instead of being awakened by my alarm clock; it was my cellphone which buzzed on my dresser. I could see that it was the FBI office from the caller ID. I had graduated from the federal polygraph school at Ft. Jackson in South Carolina two months earlier, and upon returning to the Boston office, I was placed on administrative squad C-8. The Supervisor, Pamela Swanson, had a reputation as a straight shooter. She had recently transferred from the Los Angeles office to Boston. I had liked her instantly.

“Hello?” I answered wearily.

“Mike, it’s Pam. Sorry to get you up so early.” I looked at my clock with tired eyes. It blinked 6:00am. I recalled that Swanson was an early riser.

“No worries, what’s up?”

“I need you to get up to Bangor. An international flight was diverted over the Atlantic. One of the passengers claimed he was kidnapped and placed on the flight.” She sounded deadly serious.

“Yeah, well that sounds odd.” I answered.

“Exactly, that’s why the agents up there want to polygraph the guy.”

“Got it, I’m on my way.”

“You’ll need to fly there; they want you right away.”

She understood that Bangor, Maine was a 4-hour drive from Boston.

I quickly got dressed and drove straight to Boston’s Logan airport. My first two months as Boston’s polygraph examiner had been uneventful. I had been conducting pre-employment exams on FBI applicant candidates. I had been waiting for a criminal case to dive into. I was hopeful this was just the case I was looking for as I waited for my small plane to depart. As I peered out to Boston’s skyline from the tarmac, I was determined to bring my A game.

********

Prior to that day, my experience with Maine was limited to its coastal communities, which are postcard beautiful. Few people know that Maine has the fourth largest coastline in the U.S., slightly more than California. Portland, Bar Harbor and the beach towns of Ogunquit and Kittery were places I knew well. Maine’s license plates famously promote the state as “Vacationland.” Those picturesque towns are the kind of places you go to have dinner on the water or enjoy a family vacation. The city of Bangor, Maine, is not such a place. Bangor is two hours from the ocean and has no apparent reason to exist. The buildings are dreary and bland, resembling an old Soviet style city. It is not known for anything. This I observed as Agent John Weld drove me to the FBI office in the city’s federal building. It was a small office, as it was staffed by only two agents. It had an interview room, a conference room and a separate work area for the agents. Waiting patiently in the interview room was Zubair Ghias.

Weld escorted me into the office and introduced be to his partner, Jim Scarpino, who quickly extended his hand.

“Thanks for coming up here,” he offered.

“Right, so before I go in there, do you have a room where I can conduct the polygraph?”

“We have a conference room, follow me,” Weld answered.

I followed him closely, as I wheeled my carry-on bag containing my polygraph equipment. I looked around and decided the room was perfect. There was a chair with no wheels, essential for polygraph. The last thing a polygraph examiner wants is the subject moving around in his chair during the test. I looked over at Weld,

“Okay, why don’t you brief me while I set up my stuff.” I reached into my bag and started setting up my polygraph components.

“Alright,” Scarpino started, “According to Ghias, he was snatched by an African man outside of his home on Valentine’s Day. He was forced at gunpoint to drive to someplace on the Southside of Chicago where they dumped his car. He was then forced onto a bus bound for New York. The whole time this African tells him that if he resists, his wife would be killed. So he says he complied.”

“Go on,”

Scarpino flipped a page on his notebook, and continued, “Once they were in New York, the African turned him over to a group of Arabs. They put him in a hotel room, with strict instructions not to use the phone.”

“Wait, so he was in a room by himself and he didn’t try and use the hotel phone?” I asked, incredulous.

“Right, because he was threatened,”

“And then?”

“Yesterday, they drove him to Logan airport from New York and ordered him to fly to Morocco.”

“Why?”

“Well, he’s a bit sketchy on that,” Scarpino paused, “He said that they told him they would be waiting for him once he landed. They mentioned some mission they had planned for him, but no details.”

“Wow,” I snickered.

“You think he’s lying?” Weld asked.

“Of course, one hundred percent.”

“After 9/11, headquarters makes us run down any allegation like this.” Weld replied.

“I understand.” I stated, keeping my true feelings to myself. I could not believe that two FBI agents would even entertain the story Ghias was floating.

“I have my doubts about this story,” Scarpino said dryly, “but how can you be so certain?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re probably right. Just so you are aware, he is a prominent business guy in Chicago, so this has gotten media attention. He has no prior record.” Weld said.

“Alright,” I said, smacking my hands together, “let’s get started.”

Scarpino looked over at the polygraph equipment, arching an eyebrow.

“I’ll get him for you.”

Moments later, Scarpino brought Ghias into the room.

“This is Agent de la Pena,” Scarpino said, “He will be conducting your polygraph exam.”

I was immediately taken with how young the 27-year-old appeared. He was slender, with dark features. He had an affable demeanor and a meek smile. He was oozing nervousness.

“Alright Mr. Ghias,” I started, “before we begin, I need to have you sign some consent forms.”

“Alright,” He said shyly, complying.

Among the forms he signed was a Miranda waiver, indicating that he understood his rights and was willing to talk without a lawyer.

“OK, Mr. Ghias, tell me what happened. Why are you here today?”

“You can call me Zubair.” He said with a friendly manner.

“Alright, Zubair, let’s start from the beginning.” I leaned forward, listening intently, as he told essentially the same story that Agent Scarpino had outlined. I tried to contain my skepticism as I wanted to encourage his cooperation.

Once he finished, I asked him a series of personal background questions, regarding everything from his education to his family. The purpose of gathering this information is to use it in a subsequent interrogation, as well as to develop rapport.

After this was done, I turned to him in a serious tone.

“Zubair, I came here from Boston just for you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that.” He answered,

“No, Zubair, that’s okay. That’s my job. I just want you to know that we’re going to get the truth today.”

“Alright,” he said quietly. As he continued sitting in front of me, I noticed that he started perspiring heavily. I knew from my training that this was a sure sign of deception. I could see a bead of sweat steadily develop on his forehead. He would occasionally wipe his forehead with his hand.

“Zubair, based on what you’ve told me, I have three relevant questions I’m going to ask you on this exam. I will also ask you a series of baseline questions.”

“Okay,” he said quietly.

“First, I’m going to ask you, ‘regarding the story you told me, do you intend to lie on this exam?’. Then I’ll ask you ‘Did you make up that story about being kidnapped?’” I paused to make sure he was following along. He nodded in agreement.

“Okay, finally I’ll ask you ‘Did you make up that story about being kidnapped by terrorists?’”

Again, he nodded in agreement.

“Great, now I’m going to place the polygraph sensors on you.”

I proceeded to attach the blood pressure cuff on his arm, the galvanic skin sensors on his fingertips and the breathing tubes across his chest and stomach. I noticed that his hands were now sweating noticeably.

I started the exam, running through all the questions three times, with a one-minute break between sessions. Per polygraph protocol, I rotated the order of the questions each time. I could see that he was failing the exam as badly as I ever thought possible. I walked over to him from behind my laptop and now I could see that two large puddles of sweat had emerged under each of his arms. He was drenched. His shirt was soaked through. He looked up at me with sad eyes.

“I’m sorry about this, I don’t know why I’m sweating so much.”

“Don’t worry about that, I’m going to take the components off and we’ll talk.”

There are three essential elements to a successful interrogation, with success defined as obtaining a full confession. The most critical skill is treating the subject professionally and developing rapport. Nobody wants to confess to someone they don’t like. Further, it is important to remain non-judgmental and offer the subject a face-saving way to tell the truth. Often this is achieved by weaving a theme or story that helps convince the subject that confessing is the best option. I had one such story in mind for Zubair.

“How did I do?” Zubair finally asked me as I sat across from him.

“You know how you did Zubair.” I said, moving my chair closer to him.

“Did I fail?” he asked softly, more a statement than a question.

“Yeah, Zubair. But don’t worry, I know this is just a mistake, you’re not a bad guy.”

“I’m really not,” He nodded.

“I know.” I put a hand on his shoulder.

“You know, I think I understand completely what happened.”

“You do?”

“Yes, Zubair. You love your wife very much, don’t you?”

“Yes, very much.”

“And you left on Valentine’s day, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” He whispered.

“This tells me everything. You’re overwhelmed because she’s pregnant with your first child.”

I could see him nodding in agreement. I was getting somewhere.

“You know, I actually envy you.”

His eyes brightened.

“Why?”

“Do you know how many times, when I’m driving into the setting sun after a long day at work, I’ve dreamed of just not getting off at my exit.”

“Are you married?” He asked.

“Yes, and three children. You think one is stressful. You have no idea.” I leaned in closer.

“You’ve taken off on them?”

“No, Zubair. I’ve just dreamed of driving until I hit the west coast. But I’ve never had the balls to just do it. But you did.”

He smiled.

“You have a classic case of Amore Dementia.” I gave him a serious look, such as when a Doctor is giving his patient a grave diagnosis.

“I do? What’s that?”

“It’s Latin for love sickness,”

“How do you know?”

“Look at the signs. First, you’re a newlywed. Then you are expecting a child. Once you throw in Valentine’s day, it’s clear as day Zubair. This Amore Dementia made you act in a crazy way. It made you do something you wouldn’t ordinarily do. It’s really not your fault.”

He started nodding in agreement.

“So you don’t believe I was kidnapped?” He offered one final point of resistance.

“Absolutely not. You know why I know you made the story up?” I asked gently, not judgmentally.

“Why?”

“Because you said you were taken in front of your house, right?”

“Yes.”

“Which means that if this person existed, he would know where you lived, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And he would therefore know where your pregnant wife lives, right?” I was going in for the kill.

“Definitely,”

“So, if that was actually the case Zubair, you would have been determined at all costs to call your wife and warn her. Since you love her so much, right?”

He looked up at me, speechless.

“And since I know you’re a good person, you would have used the phone when you were alone to call your wife. Otherwise, you would be a bad husband, right? Which of course you aren’t.”

I stared at him for almost a full minute while he processed what I had just told him.

“Yeah, I made up the whole story. I must have that love sickness you mentioned.” He finally answered, defeated.

“Okay,” I patted him on the shoulder, “now we can put this behind us.”

“Will I get in trouble?” He inquired.

“I think you just made a mistake. I’m sure that will go along way towards explaining all of this. It’s up to other people as to the consequences.”

“Oh, so now what?”

“Well, what we have to do is explain all of this in writing. You will write out an explanation regarding why you made up the story,” I explained as I produced a pad of paper and a pen.

I knew from my training, that documenting the confession was critically important, second only to a verbal confession. By memorializing the confession in writing, it offered evidence which can be used in court and it validates the result of the polygraph. The worst scenario for an interrogator is an unsubstantiated confession, especially since the suspect often changes his mind after the session is over. The written confession is the proof of the matter.

The FBI at that time never video or audio taped interrogations or confessions. As of this writing, this is still the case for people who have not been arrested yet, as was the case with Zubair. FBI policy was recently amended to require the taping of interrogations and confessions when it occurs after an arrest. In Zubair’s case, there would be no arrest without a confession. This policy has been a source of controversy over the decades and will be discussed in more detail in a subsequent case study.

“Am I going to jail? Zubair asked, looking at the pad of paper apprehensively.

“That’s not for me to decide Zubair, but you have no criminal record. Further, nobody got hurt, right?”

“Right.” He answered.

“Let’s put this in writing so we can put this behind us.”

The truth of the matter is that Zubair had lied to the FBI (which is a crime) and faked a kidnapping, forcing an international flight to deviate course. He was in legal trouble. He seemed like a good kid, so I felt badly for him. I didn’t think he should go to jail for a mistake, but that decision wasn’t part of my job.

For the next fifteen minutes, Zubair wrote out a handwritten confession, explaining that he was stressed about his marriage and made a horrible mistake, making up the kidnapping story. After he finished, I told him that it was a good policy to apologize to the authorities for the trouble he caused, and to promise never to do it again, which he agreed to do in writing.

I have always insisted suspects end their written confessions with similar language. The reason is simple. The confessions are always subject to legal wrangling after the fact. However, it’s difficult for a suspect to explain away an apology. If you did nothing wrong, why apologize? It’s very strong meat for a judge or jury assessing the suspect’s blame.

After I had his signed admission of guilt, I excused myself and stepped out of the room, looking for Weld and Scarpino, the confession in my left hand.

“Well?” Weld asked.

“Signed, sealed, delivered,” I waved the confession at them.

“Get out!” Scarpino raised his voice.

I placed the statement on the desk in front of them, which they read quickly, smiling.

“Holy crap.” One of them said.

I shrugged wryly.

“The prosecutor is going to love this,” Weld said, “They aren’t happy about wasting time on nonsense.”

“My job is done gentlemen, can one of you take me to the airport?” I smiled, glad to be heading home.

Scarpino looked at his watch.

“It’s 5:00pm” He said flatly.

“So?” I asked, puzzled.

“The last flight to Boston is taking off right now.”

My smart-ass smile vaporized from my face.

********

Scarpino dropped me off at Bangor’s DAYS INN lodge, with a handshake. He was a satisfied customer and I could ask for nothing else as I was starting off my polygraph career with the FBI. My hope was that word got out among the other Agents in the office, and they would come to me with other cases. That aspiration proved to be accurate. Over the next 16 years, I would have dozens of cases brought to me in a wide variety of criminal cases.

At that moment however, as I watched Scarpino drive off in his old FBI car, I realized I had no change of clothes or toiletries. I hadn’t expected to spend the night. The only thing I had was my polygraph equipment and a reservation for the first flight to Boston the next morning.

After checking in to my room, I decided to visit the motel lounge. There was a lone bartender. I ordered a beer. In short order, another person entered the bar, followed by several others. Suddenly, small groups of people started entering and taking their place at the bar. Within minutes, the bar was packed with people. Music started blaring from a makeshift speaker and people started dancing. I waved the bartender over.

“Is there a convention in town?” I asked.

“Convention?” He smiled, “Hell no, these are locals. This is the hangout in town.”

I shook my head and grinned. I had completely misjudged Bangor based on my big city biases. The people of Bangor had everything they could want right there. No fancy night club needed.

*******

The next morning, I drove straight to the office from the Airport, wearing the same suit I wore the day before. In time, I would learn to keep an extra set of clothes at the office and a small bag of toiletries in my polygraph bag. I was eager to complete my polygraph report detailing what I had accomplished in Bangor. I was also required to send my polygraph charts to FBI Headquarters in Washington D.C., for review. In this case, the report would be accompanied by a signed confession, so I knew they would be pleased. I had already updated my direct Supervisor Pam Swanson and she was over the moon. Her rookie polygraph examiner had gotten the job done.

Before I could complete my report, my desk phone rang.

“Polygraph Unit,” I answered,

“Delapena?”

“Yeah it’s me.”

“It’s Scarpino,” He answered, “You aren’t going to believe this.”

“What?” I wondered, concerned.

“After you left, we arrested Ghias as you know. This morning, we arraigned him before a magistrate in Bangor….”

“And…” I interrupted.

“…And this morning, the media was waiting for him outside the courtroom when he came out with his parents.”

“What did he say?”

“He said the FBI told him he had a love dementia.” Scarpino chuckled.

“That’s funny,”

“Yeah, the newspaper is going to run with that, by the way.”

“Can you send me the article when you get it?”

“Will do, and thanks again.”

The next morning, The Bangor Daily News ran a story titled Chicago man released on bond, with the secondary title, Zubair Ghias suggested his actions might have stemmed from love dementia, his FBI interviewer said.

Fortunately for me, love dementia is not a legal defense, so he could not use that to excuse his actions in court. There is no such a thing as a love dementia. In addition, it Is perfectly legal for law enforcement to lie to suspects to elicit a confession.

I have typically made it a habit not to involve myself in a case once I’ve done my part to obtain a confession, especially if I don’t have to testify in court. I just move on to the next case. It’s up to other people to judge punishment. Usually, the suspect will reach a plea arrangement with the government, avoiding a trial, as happened in this case. In researching this story, I discovered that Zubair was sentenced to two years of probation and fined $13,000. Looking back this seems fair, given his lack of criminal history. I’m sure that explaining his actions to his wife, parents and employer was the harshest punishment.