High Crimes (11 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

On the
way from the airport, Claire stopped first at Arthur Iselin’s law firm, just off Dupont Circle, to pick up the keys. Annie and Jackie waited in the rented Olds. The house was on Thirty-fourth Street, near Massachusetts Avenue, a very short walk to the Naval Observatory. It was a Federal-style town house, cream-painted brick front with black shutters, quite handsome. It belonged to one of the senior partners in Iselin’s firm, who had recently retired and moved to Tuscany for six months. He was asking a lot for the short-term rental, but Claire decided, as she walked up the front steps, that it was worth it.

“Do I get my own room?” Annie asked.

“I’m sure you do,” Claire replied.

“How ’bout me?” Jackie asked.

“Hey, you get your own
wing
,” Claire said.

As soon as Claire had the door unlocked, Annie bolted ahead into the house. She squealed as she ran, “Mommy, this is
so cool!
”

Claire took in the spacious and elegant foyer, the beautiful old Persian rugs, the antique furnishings, the linen-white wainscoted walls. “We’re in trouble,” she said to Jackie. “She’s going to destroy this.” The air was musty—the house smelled as if it had been empty for months—yet laced with furniture polish. Someone came in and cleaned once a week or so, she decided.

Jackie set her duffel bag down and looked around, eyeing the graceful staircase that wound around upward from the left of the foyer in a fan of white balusters. “Cool,” she said. “You did good.”

*   *   *

She’d taught her last class and instructed Connie to turn away all requests from potential clients. There would be final exams, but she’d have the completed exams FedExed down to her here. She told her students she was available by telephone and gave her number in Washington. Two of her pending cases she turned over to a friend at a downtown Boston firm. That left her with one appeal before the Supreme Judicial Court, which would involve a quick flight to Boston and back. Their house would stand empty, but Rosa—who had kids of her own and certainly couldn’t come down to Washington to work—would stop in every couple of days to make sure everything was all right. Jackie, who paid the rent doing what she called “boring fucking technical writing,” could do her work down here and was willing, saint that she was, to take care of Annie.

She placed a couple of calls to friends in Boston, told them she’d be in Washington for a while, perhaps even several months, working on a case she wasn’t supposed to talk about. A few hours later, while Claire and Jackie were still unpacking and settling in and Annie was discovering new rooms and new hiding places, the doorbell rang.

An army courier, a young black man wearing a nametag that said “Lee,” was carrying a large carton. “I need your signature on some forms, ma’am, but first I’m going to need to see a driver’s license.”

She signed with a sense of anticipation and anxiety far different from her customary feelings about documents provided to her during litigation. These were documents about Tom and his life before he met her, his concealed life.

They were copies of his enlisted-evaluation reports—DA Form 2166-6, photocopies of what she imagined were old, yellowed pieces of paper from deep in files somewhere in North Carolina (Special Forces trained at Fort Bragg). They were stamped F
OR
O
FFICIAL
U
SE
O
NLY
and included A
DMINISTRATIVE
D
ATA
and P
ERFORMANCE
E
VALUATION—
P
ROFESSIONALISM
and P
ERFORMANCE AND
P
OTENTIAL
E
VALUATION
. She settled down in the room that she’d chosen as her office—a comfortable library on the first floor, far removed from the living quarters—and examined copies of Tom’s service-records books. Most of them were boring and anodyne, but she forced herself to read closely. She discovered his file photo, attached to a copy of his personnel file, taken when he was sent to Vietnam. He was almost thirty years younger. A kid of nineteen. Younger, yes, but also a very different face—a different nose, more bulbous; hollow cheeks; a receding chin. If she hadn’t known it was Tom, she wouldn’t have recognized the photo. It surprised her that the plastic surgery that had altered his appearance so dramatically had also improved his looks considerably.

Then she read something that made her blood run cold.

*   *   *

Charles Grimes met her at the entrance to the Quantico brig. This time he was wearing an ill-fitting jacket and tie. In addition to his briefcase, he was carrying a large portable radio.

“What’s that for?” Claire asked.

“Tunes,” Grimes said and didn’t elaborate. “Bad news.”

“What,” she said vaguely. Nothing surprised her anymore. They stopped at the sentry and opened their briefcases.

“The battalion commander’s ordered the Article 32 investigation and hearing,” Grimes said. “Docketed for a week from now. They normally take thirty days between preferring charges and the Article 32 hearing, but they’re really moving this one along.”

“English, please.”

“It’s the pretrial investigation. Required by Article 32 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. To weigh all the facts, the issues raised in the charges. And decide whether to go ahead with the court-martial.”

“Sort of like the grand-jury investigation in the real world.”

“But better. We get to be there. Question witnesses, impeach stuff. No jury, and it’s run by an investigating officer, not a judge. It’s a good discovery opportunity—see what evidence they got, what kind of case they got.”

“But they’re not going to really drop the charges, are they? They’re going ahead with the court-martial.”

“Look, we got the right to waive the hearing. But we want it. We want to scope out their case.”

“The hearing’s in a week?”

He nodded as they walked along the echoey corridor, accompanied by an escort. “Not much time for us. They’ve had years to put this together. You get the documents?”

“I read them.”

They talked briefly. Grimes told Claire about his brief meeting with Tom in the brig yesterday. Tom had approved of hiring Grimes.

They stopped at the long conference room before the entrance to Cell Block B. “We’re going to meet here,” Grimes said to the escort. “Can you get the prisoner now?” He turned back to her, told her he’d spent hours going over Tom’s case file. “Your husband’s had quite a life. Interesting experiences.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say. Instead, she talked about the Article 32 hearing. Concentrate on the legal proceedings, she told herself. This you can do. “You want to try to get the court-martial knocked out?” she asked.

“Do I want to?” He put the radio down outside the conference-room door and switched it on to some rap station. “Notorious B.I.G.,” he said. “
Life After Death.
I hate this shit. Yeah, sure I want to. Ain’t gonna happen, but I’m willing to try. Long as you’re paying me.”

“You were serious about tunes, weren’t you?”

He smiled. He had an endearing smile, perfect white teeth. “No, it’s to keep ’em from listening in. Old Quantico brig trick.” He entered, set down his briefcase, took a seat at the head of the long Formica-topped table. She looked around the long, narrow room, noticed there was no camera in here. “See,” Grimes said, “I told you they’d give you clearance. I’m surprised you accepted the conditions, though.”

“Why?”

“Famous civil-liberties lawyer like you, I woulda thought you’d refuse. They investigate you, you had to sign that gag order, now you can’t speak out about the classified evidence in the case. Kinda like selling your soul.”

He was right. “I didn’t have a choice,” she said. “Not if I wanted to defend Tom.” She sat down next to him.

“True, but still. You call him Tom, huh? His assumed name?”

“That’s how I know him. I don’t know him as Ron.”

“You still think he’s innocent, huh? After what we both read?”

She turned to him angrily, but before she could reply, the door opened. Tom, in his blue jumpsuit, stood there in his restraints, flanked by guards. She noticed he was wearing black boots.

“All right, I want these off,” Grimes told the guards, waving at Tom. “All of ’em. And not just one cuff either. You tell your CO we want all these off or we’re going to file complaints with every single goddamned member of the Senate Armed Services Committee plus the senators from Massachusetts
and
Virginia, and then we’re going to initiate a CONGRINT and your CO’s going to go blind with paperwork.” Tom remained standing at attention, looking at Grimes curiously.

“Yes, sir,” one of the guards said. They turned and escorted Tom off.

Grimes laughed, almost a cackle. “I love threatening these guys,” he said. “I mean, Christ’s sakes, where the hell is this guy going to go anyway? They think he’s going to escape from a conference room
inside
the fucking brig, with steel bars everywhere?”

They brought Tom back a few minutes later with all his restraints gone. Claire kissed and hugged him, and for the first time he could hug her back. He looked gaunt and haggard. “Charlie Grimes,” she said. “Your new lawyer. You’ve already met.”

“Charles,” Grimes corrected, and shook Tom’s hand.

“Where’s the kid?” Tom asked as he and Claire sat down. “What’s his name, Embryo?”

“We’re meeting without him this morning,” Grimes said.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Mostly bored,” he said. His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn’t spoken in a long time. “New-prisoner indoctrination. They bring around a library cart with a shitty selection of paperbacks. TV call for an hour three times a week, but there’s nothing I want to watch. I get ‘sunshine call’ an hour a day, outside in this awful little cement courtyard. In full restraints. By myself.”

“They didn’t give you the tour of the health club?” Grimes asked. “Sauna, steam, Nautilus, pretty girls giving massages? No?”

“Missed it,” Tom said. “Yeah, I can’t complain, I guess.” To Claire he added, “But I miss you.”

“I miss you. We all do. You can call us, you know.”

“I just figured that out. They bring the phone around on this wooden cart and plug it in. Collect calls, thirty minutes max.”

“Yeah,” Grimes said, “and they monitor the calls, so be discreet.”

“I’m representing you, too, Tom,” she said. “I’ve signed on. Did an appearance letter. It’s official.”

“Thank God,” Tom said.

“Thank her,” Grimes said. “Bet she figures she’ll save you guys money that way.”

“You know this is a death-penalty case,” she said, ignoring him. “And I haven’t done a full-blown criminal trial in years. I’m rusty on trial law. That doesn’t make you nervous?”

“You?” Tom said. “No way. Thank you, honey.”

“Can I smoke?” she asked Grimes.

“Nonsmoking facility,” Grimes said with a firm shake of the head.

“How politically correct,” she said. “Tom, we’re going to have to know everything. No more holding back—
anything.
You understand that?”

He nodded.

Grimes spoke up. “It may not be pleasant for you. But if you start holding back, we’re going to get tripped up. They’re coming at you with all the ammo they got, and if you leave out a detail,
especially
something that’s unflattering to you, we’re all screwed, dig?”

“I dig,” Tom said.

“All right, cool,” Grimes said.

“Tom,” Claire said, “you didn’t tell us about your tour in Vietnam.”

“I told you I went to—”

“That’s not what I’m referring to. You know damned well what I’m referring to. You never told me you were part of the Turncoat Elimination Program.”

“What are you talking about?” Tom said.

“What are we talking about?” Grimes said angrily. “U.S.-government hit squads, that’s what we’re talking about. Special hunter-killer operations, teams of U.S. Army and Marine snipers sent deep into enemy territory to assassinate
Americans
. To eliminate American ‘traitors,’ deserters. Officially sanctioned assassination of American soldiers. You were on one of those recon-combat patrols. You were a hired killer for the U.S. government, Tom. A little something you forgot to mention.”

“That’s
bullshit
!” Tom exploded. “They’re making that up!”

“It’s in your file,” Claire said, desperately hoping he was telling the truth. “Says you volunteered for this mission. That you were one of their top snipers, with deadly accuracy. That’s why you were accepted into the program, even though you were so young.”