High Crimes (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

After dinner
Jackie told Claire, “You got a call from a reporter at the
Washington Post
. Style section, I think. They heard you’ve rented a house in D.C. and want to know why. Like it’s their fucking business.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I said I had no idea. They wanted to know if you’re doing some big-deal case here, or if you’re teaching here, or what.”

“No comment,” Claire said.

“I figured.”

“How about we go get a drink,” Grimes said.

“We’ve got booze here,” Claire said.

“I got a place I want to show you. In Southeast.”

“Can you wait till I tuck my little girl in?”

“I’ll wait in the library. File a motion or something.”

Later, Grimes drove them in his beat-up old silver Mercedes. He circled the block where the bar was three times, but no parking space opened up. Finally he saw a large open space right in front of the bar, but before he got there a Volkswagen Jetta zipped into it. Grimes pulled the Mercedes up alongside the Jetta, beeped the horn, and electrically lowered his window. “Uh, excuse me,” he shouted. “Excuse me.”

“Come on, Grimes,” Claire said. “She got there first.”

“Excuse me,” Grimes shouted again.

The woman driver leaned over, cranked down her passenger-side window, and said warily, “What do you want?”

“Hey, none of my business, but you don’t want to park there. That’s valet parking, and believe me, they tow, night and day.”

“Valet parking?” the woman said, confused. “But there’s no sign!”

“The sign’s down, but that’s not going to stop ’em. Ten minutes after you park there, your car’s going to be towed to some part of the city you ain’t never been to before and you don’t
ever
wanna go to again.”

“Jeez, thank you!” the woman said. She cranked the window back up and pulled out of the space and into traffic.

“Hey, Grimes,” Claire said, “forgive me. That was mighty nice of you.”

He laughed, ha-
ha
, as he backed into the space. “Always works,” he said.

She shook her head in disgust but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Valet parking,” she said, disapprovingly. “I like that.”

The bar was a dive, dark and dingy and reeking of spilled beer. The creaky wooden floor was sticky. The music—an old song by Parliament/Funkadelic on the jukebox—blasted. “This is it?” she said.

“Authentic, huh?”

“Funky,” she said without much enthusiasm.

Once a plastic pitcher of sudsy beer from the tap had been placed in front of them, along with two large plastic tumblers and a dish of pretzels, Grimes said, “Now, one thing I have to tell you. In the interests of honesty and full disclosure.”

“Yes?”

“You want me to be second chair, fine. But you want me to stand up and cross-examine a witness while you’re sitting there—one of the best in the biz? I don’t
think
so.”

She laughed. “My cross-examination skills are rusty. Anyway, what do you know about me?”

He took a long swig of beer. “After you graduated from Yale Law School, you did a pair of clerkships. Two years for Arthur Iselin in the D.C. Circuit Court, Court of Appeals. There you worked on opinions, did speeches. You did an insanity case, some bussing, some ineffective-assistance-of-counsel cases. Then you clerked for one year for Justice Marshall at the Supreme Court, where you read applications for certiorari.”

“Very impressive,” she said. “Did you do some sort of Nexis search for interviews with me?”

He took another swig. “Truth is, I read every article, every interview with you. Even before we met. I think you’re pretty cool.” He smiled, embarrassed, and hastily added, “What was Justice Marshall like? Cool guy?”

“Very,” she said. “Extremely funny. And a really nice guy, definitely the nicest guy on the court. He was the only one there who actually hung out with the clerks. One of his favorite TV shows was
People’s Court
, you know, that one with Judge Wapner.”

Grimes exploded with laughter. “No way.”

“True story. Now, let me ask
you
something. Why’d you leave the army?”

He studied his beer, took a sip. “Retired, like I said.”

“Voluntarily.”

“Hell, yeah,” he said, annoyed.

“No offense intended. I thought you were sort of forced out.”

“What did Iselin tell you?”

“Just that there was some sort of, I don’t know, scandal.”

“Oh, yeah? Scandal, is that what he said?”

“Something like that.”

He shook his head, drank again. A long silence passed.

“So, what was it, Grimes?”

“You do your twenty years as a lawyer in the army, it makes sense to take retirement. You run the numbers.”

“You weren’t forced out?”

“You don’t stop, do you?” Grimes looked up at her with a hostility that seemed tinged with desperation.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “But I need to know your background.”

He set his beer down, tented his fingers. “Look. I joined the Army as an enlisted man, went to Vietnam, and lived. Okay? I came back, did night school for years, got my bachelor’s and my law degree, got my commission. I’m a lawyer by the time I’m thirty-one. Army’s always telling you they’re the only real equal-opportunity employer, blacks get treated same as whites, and for a while I begin to believe that. I never get beyond major, but that’s ’cause I started late. Fine.” Grimes hunched forward. “Okay, so there’s this brother down in South Carolina. Fort Jackson. Black guy, PFC—that’s private first class—accused of armed robbery on a white guy at the base. I get the case probably for no other reason than I’m black. I fly down there, talk to the kid. Kid never done anything wrong in his life, okay? I mean, National Honor Society in high school, athlete, never been in trouble, army’s gonna send him to college, which is why he enlisted, ’cause his family’s poor. Okay, so what does the prosecution have? This totally weak ID—the victim couldn’t tell one black from another. Meanwhile, I’ve got this case sewed up. So happens that, at the time the robbery went down, this kid’s at home, two hundred miles away, on a weekend pass. Not only that, but I got every fucking
second
of his time that weekend accounted for. Seven different alibi witnesses, none of them with criminal records or anything. I had neighbors testifying to his good character. When I say ‘altar boy,’ I’m not bullshitting. But the prosecution brings the kid into the courtroom in manacles, which you’re not supposed to do, and they didn’t even need to do that, ’cause the all-white military jury was in and out in five minutes. They didn’t even have time to do a secret written ballot. Gave him ten years in Leavenworth.” Grimes finally looked up. His eyes, blazing, glistened with tears. His expression was fierce. “They gave this fucking altar boy, who joined the army so he could go to college, ten years in Leavenworth for armed robbery. Well, I knew this couldn’t stand up, but I’m a lawyer, see? I was gonna fight this thing up to the Supreme Court. Meanwhile, his whole unit knows he’s innocent, and after the sentencing, they give him fifteen days deferment of confinement so he can go home and say goodbye to his mamma and his brothers and sisters.” Grimes clenched a fist and gently pounded it on the table. “I wish to hell they’d put him in the brig.” He shook his head.

Claire, moved to tears, said, “Why?”

“They put you in the brig, they take away your gun, put you on suicide watch. He never could have done it. This kid killed himself. Blew his brains out with his pistol. And the next day, I put in my letter.”

“Jesus, Grimes.”

Very quietly he said: “So you see, kid, you don’t need to convince me what shit a military jury’s capable of, okay?” There was a long, uncomfortable silence, and then Grimes’s voice became louder, his tone belligerent. “So let me ask you a personal question. Do you really think your husband is innocent? Not that it matters to our case, of course.”

“Of course I do,” she said. “I wouldn’t take this on if I didn’t.”

“Well, you
are
married to him.”

“Grimes, if I thought he was guilty, I’d hire someone else. I wouldn’t do it myself, not if I thought he was really the sort of monster they’re trying to make him out to be.”

He gazed at her levelly. His eyes were bloodshot. “’Course, you represented Gary Lambert, didn’t you?”

“This is different, Grimes,” she said, exasperated. “He’s my husband.”

“You think this whole thing is a frame-up.”

“Of course it is. Colonel Bill Marks comes back to the States after the massacre that he ordered, and realizes he’d better cover his ass, and so he blames it on the one guy in the unit who refused to lie, to cover up. The one who could destroy his career. Here he is, thirteen years later, chief of staff of the army, soon to be chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and he figures he got away with it. Well, the fucker’s wrong. He didn’t count on me.”

“What am I, chopped liver?” Grimes said.

“Nah, you’re pâté. Hey,” she exclaimed suddenly, “why not polygraph him? And introduce the results at the 32 hearing? That’ll get the court-martial thrown out faster than anything.”

“No way. Don’t go there. Get that nasty idea out your head. Anyway, polygraphs aren’t admissible.”

“Oh, they’re admissible, all right. You don’t keep up on this?”

“Rule 707 of the Military Rules of Evidence says no. In the annotated cases. Based on a 1989 decision of the Army Court of Criminal Appeals. Flat-out no.”

“Grimes, it didn’t used to be admissible, but now it can be. It’s up to the judge.
U.S.
v.
Scheffer
, 1996, decided by the Court of Appeals for the Armed Forces. If it’s exculpatory and the accused’s counsel can lay foundation for it, it may be admissible.”

“And what if you’re wrong? What if he really is guilty?”

“He’s not.”

“You’re gonna take that chance? Plus, he could be innocent and fail because he’s nervous. Then we’re screwed, because people talk, you know. Word gets around. The jurors at the court-martial hear the water-cooler gossip. Everyone’ll know he failed. These guys, these examiners, are Chatty Cathys.”

“Not if he’s hired by us. That makes him an adviser to defense counsel. Falls under attorney work product, brings him within lawyer-client privilege. I’ll see what Tom thinks, but you know a good examiner?”

He sighed with resignation. “I know one. Does a lot of work for the military. You want another pitcher?”

“I couldn’t. Not a third. You shouldn’t either, if you’re driving.”

*   *   *

As they left, Grimes wove his way unsteadily between the bar and the tables. Claire made a mental note to insist upon driving him home. She could pick him up in the morning, but she wouldn’t let him drive now. They passed a large round table near the entrance where they heard a sudden burst of laughter. She reflexively turned to look and saw Embry surrounded by a bunch of other short-haired men, some in civilian togs, some in army fatigues.

“Grimes,” she said.

He turned with a beer-addled grin, saw where she was looking, who was sitting next to Embry. “Well, how do you do. Our own Captain Terry Embryo. Hoisting a few with our very own trial counsel, Major Lucas Waldron. Well, hell-o.”

PART THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Not even
four in the morning, and the sky was indigo-black with just a trace of pink on the horizon. Dew was on the grass on the forlorn little hillock in front of the “defense shop,” the low white temporary-looking structure that served as Judge Advocate General defense offices at Quantico. It looked like a dressed-up Quonset hut.

Grimes had arrived first, in jeans, a sweatshirt, a black leather jacket out of
Shaft
. Claire wore jeans and a green Shetland sweater and a suede jacket. They stood in silence. A pair of guys in identical gray sweats and army T-shirts jogged by, huffing in rhythm. A car pulled up, a dark-gray Honda Civic. Captain Terry Embry’s car. Grimes and Claire looked at each other. They hadn’t seen him since that night at the bar; they hadn’t said anything to him either.

Embry got out and sprinted over. “Sorry,” he said.

“No problem,” Claire said. “No one else’s here yet.”

“Morning,” he said with a nod to Grimes. He was wearing his uniform, neatly pressed as always. His complexion was clear with a ruddy flush. She could smell his mouthwash when he talked. “Claire, ma’am, bad news on the general. His office finally got back to me on our request and said the general won’t be able to testify or even give a deposition. There’s been a change in his schedule. He has to fly to CINCPAC, Camp Smith, Hawaii. So he’s going to be totally out of reach from now through the 32 hearing.”

“Ask for a continuance until he gets back.”

“Yeah,” Grimes said, “but you won’t get it.” He grunted. “Asshole.”

“The good news is, I reached Hernandez for you, and he’s all set for an interview with us.”

“Thanks, Terry,” Claire said.

“But…” Embry faltered. “You remember he works in the Pentagon?”

“Yeah?”

Embry unlocked the front door and switched on the lights.

“Well, he’s the senior administrative officer to General Marks.”

“What?” Claire said.

“Yeah. Turns out Hernandez is, like, the general’s aide de camp. His XO, his executive officer. Handles personal business, scheduling, all that. He’s followed General Marks around everywhere since ’85. Totally loyal.”

“I’m sure
he’s
gonna tell the truth,” Grimes said sardonically. “
He
won’t cover for the general, oh no, not
Hernandez
.”

They followed Embry to a conference room, where he also switched on the lights there. “Want me to stay for this, or no?” Embry asked.

“Best if you don’t,” Claire said.

“Okay, then, if you guys don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my office at Fort Belvoir.”

“That’s fine,” Claire said. “Thanks.”

*   *   *

The polygrapher arrived fifteen minutes later, a stout, squat, bearded man in his late fifties wearing aviator horn-rimmed glasses. He carried a silvery metal briefcase. While he set up the instruments, he chatted. His name was Richard Givens. He had a deep, soothing voice. He spoke slowly, carefully, as if to a child, and in a soft-edged Southern accent. He was from Raleigh, North Carolina. He had attended polygraph school during his service with the Naval Investigative Service and had been an examiner with the navy at Newport, Rhode Island, and San Diego.

“Do you think there might be some more comfortable chairs anywhere around?” he asked. “Comfortable chairs would be a very good idea, if you have them.”

Grimes went out into the hallway and returned a minute later with a chair under each arm. “These okay?”

“Those would be great,” Givens said. He bustled around for a while. “I use a five-channel instrument,” he explained. “That means five pens moving on this spool of paper here. There’s three parameters—the pneumo, the cardio, and the galvanic. The pulse rate, the breathing pattern, and the galvanic skin response.”

“Can we stay in the room?” Grimes asked.

“If you want to,” he said. “But you’ll have to stand behind the prisoner. Out of his line of sight.”

“Fine,” Grimes said.

“The test I give,” Givens said, now stopped before Grimes, his short arms swaying awkwardly at his side, “is highly structured, very pure. Very dogmatic. First I will meet with the prisoner and talk until we feel comfortable with each other. I’ll go over the questions with him in advance, several times. He will know every question in advance. There will be no surprises. When I feel the test is complete, I will send both you and the prisoner out. Then I’ll go over the charts. Then I will call you back in first.”

Claire nodded. She sat in one of the comfortable chairs.

“If I find that deception is indicated—if he’s lying, in my opinion—I will tell you that. Please understand that my product remains confidential.

“Then I will call the prisoner in and give him a report as well. If he has failed the test, what I’ll tell him is that the test is not going to help him in any way. Then, if you want, I’ll begin the interrogation process. To elicit a confession.”

“We’ll let you know what we want when the time comes,” Claire said.

Givens looked at his watch. “The prisoner isn’t arriving for half an hour, is that right? Not till oh-five?”

“Right.”

“Good. Now I need to find out from you the exact parameters you’re interested in finding out about.”

*   *   *

Claire and Grimes watched Tom—he was still Tom to her, whatever his official name—arrive in a white panel van. Wearing a khaki uniform and full restraints, he was escorted out of the van by several armed brig guards. They took him, jingling loudly, down the hall. One guard stationed himself outside the window of the conference room. Another stood in the hallway outside the door. Still another removed Tom’s restraints and then joined the one standing outside the door.

“Tom, this is Richard Givens,” Claire said, introducing the two as if at a cocktail party. “Richard, this is—Ronald Kubik.” They were about to go through a truth-telling examination. She would use his true name. It had the unintended side effect, however, of making him seem a different person.

“How do you do, Ronald,” Givens said as they shook hands. He sat down in one of the comfortable chairs and gestured for Tom to do the same. They conversed for a long while. Givens had suddenly become warm and convivial, no longer didactic. The shift was startling. Tom had begun their talk wary, but after a while his reserve had melted and he was his usual amiable self.

“Ronald, have you ever been polygraphed before?” Givens asked.

“Yes, I have,” Tom said.

“When was that?”

“At several points before and during my service with Detachment 27.”

“Then you were given the test the army uses. It’s called the Zone of Comparison Test. It’s a very simple test, a very good test. That’s the test I’m going to give you this morning. I don’t know how the examiner who gave you the test worked, but when I give the polygraph, there are no surprises. No surprise questions. In fact, you and I are going to draw up a list of questions, and then we’re going to go over it, okay?”

“Okay.”

“No surprises. No ambushes. All very friendly, okay?”

“Okay. Sounds good to me.”

*   *   *

“Now, Professor Heller, Mr. Grimes, could you come around here? I need you to stand out of Ronald’s sight. No distractions, please.”

They both moved around to where Givens was standing. Claire’s pulse quickened—a sympathetic reaction to what her husband was experiencing?

“Is your name Ronald Kubik?” Givens asked. His voice had become once again slow and deliberate and monotonous.

“Yes.” Tom’s voice was clear and strong.

There was a long silence. Claire counted at least fifteen seconds. Had Givens forgotten what came next?

“Regarding your presence at the incident at La Colina on 22 June 1985, will you answer my questions truthfully?”

“Yes.”

Another long pause. Grimes looked at Claire.

“Are you convinced I will not ask a surprise question on this test?” Givens asked.

“Yes.”

Claire counted fifteen seconds again. The long silence was intentional.

“Before your enlistment in the army, did you ever deliberately injure anyone?”

“No.”

“Did you actively participate in the death of anyone during the 22 June 1985 shootings?” Claire held her breath. She felt everything inside freeze. Even her heart seemed to stop beating.

“No.” Tom’s reply was loud and clear and strong. She exhaled silently. She squinted, trying to make sense of the pen-scratchings on the unspooling paper, but couldn’t.

“Following your desertion from the army in 1985, did you ever deliberately commit bodily harm to anyone?”

“No.”

Eighteen seconds this time.

“Did you take part in the shootings on 22 June 1985 in the village of La Colina, El Salvador?”

Tom’s reply came more quickly this time. “No.”

Sixteen seconds. Claire found herself following the jerky little movement of the second hand on her watch.

“Is there something else you’re afraid I’ll ask you a question about, even though I told you I would not?”

“No.”

Fifteen seconds precisely.

“Have you ever threatened a loved one with bodily harm?”

“No.” Seventeen seconds of silence.

“Did you see any civilians die on 22 June 1985 in the village of La Colina?”

“No.”

Fifteen seconds, then twenty. The longest pause yet. “Thank you, Ronald,” Givens said. “We’re done now.”

Grimes knocked on the door. It was opened, and the two guards came in. They put the restraints back on Tom. They took him out into the hallway, and Claire and Grimes followed. Grimes and Claire sat in front of the stenographers’ office. Tom stood with his guards on either side. They all waited in silence, five minutes, which seemed forever.

Givens opened the door. “Professor Heller, Mr. Grimes, could I talk to you, please?”

They entered the room. Her heart thudded. She felt prickly perspiration under her ears.

He waited until they had both sat down. He didn’t seem to be interested in generating suspense; he seemed to be following some script, moving through it with plodding deliberateness.

“Well,” Grimes said, “is he a lying motherfucker?”

Claire wanted to throttle him.

Givens did not smile.

“In my opinion, he is telling the truth. My report will state NDI. No deception indicated.”

“Aha,” Claire said, calm and professional on the surface. Inside she was elated. Not since Annie’s birth had she actually experienced such a physical, biological sensation of elation: a great swelling inside her rib cage, the feeling that her organs, her heart and lungs, had lifted several inches. At the same time she felt an immediate easing of tension. “Thank you,” she said. “When can we expect your report?”