High Crimes (22 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

In the
middle of the night, the phone rang again. Claire awoke with a hammering heart and pounding temples.

She let it ring. The answering machine would get it.

After five rings, the machine switched on, played her outgoing message, beeped. There was silence, then a click. She reached over, fumbled with the phone, and finally managed to turn off the ringer.

Her heartbeat slowing, she finally fell back asleep.

It didn’t ring again for three hours.

At five-fifty-six Monday morning, she awoke, glanced at the digital alarm clock, and knew she should get up and start preparing for court. Then she realized that the phone had been ringing, somewhere distant, somewhere in another room in the house. She remembered she’d turned off the ringer. She lay there in bed, her heart thumping again, and waited for the machine to get it.

This time a male voice came on over the answering machine. It was a youngish-sounding voice, crisp and authoritative. “Claire Heller,” he said.

She waited.

“Pick up the phone, it’s important.”

She reached over and picked it up. “Yes?”

“I have information for you,” the voice said.

“What kind of information?” She sat up slowly.

“For your trial.”

“Who’s this?”

“Information on Marks.”

“Who
is
this?”

Silence. Had he hung up?

“Lentini. You recognize the name?”

“Yes.”

“I need complete secrecy, and let me tell you right now, I won’t testify. I’m not testifying against him.”

“Can we meet?”

“Not at your house.”

“Where?”

“And with you only. Not with either of the other attorneys. Not your private eye either. I see anyone else, I take off.”

“How do you know I’m working with two attorneys?”

“I know people.”

“Is that how you got my number?”

“I can only meet at night. I have a job, and it’s not easy for me to get out of town.”

“I’ll meet you wherever it’s convenient for you.”

“Not near me. I won’t take that chance. Write this down.”

He gave her precise directions.

“Just you alone,” he said.

*   *   *

Annie was already at the breakfast table, wearing her feet pajamas and eating Cocoa Puffs. Claire, dressed in a handsome olive twill suit, kissed her and gave her a quick squeeze. “How’s my baby?”

“Goob,” Annie said through an immense mouthful.

“You going to paint with Jackie today?”

Annie nodded enthusiastically, eyes sparkling, and kept chewing. Claire made a large pot of coffee.

“Are you going to get Daddy out today?” Annie asked when she’d finally swallowed.

“I’m working on it. Might not be today, sweetie.”

“Can you and I play today?”

Claire hesitated. “I’m going to do my very, very best.” Then she said, “Yes, honey, we are, when I get home from work. We’ll play together. You, me, and Jackie—or just you and me, if you want.”

“Who’s taking my name in vain?” rasped Jackie as she dragged herself, dazed, into the kitchen. She leaned against the doorframe and massaged her forehead. “Morning, snookums.”

Claire took in Jackie’s long black Grateful Dead T-shirt and black sweatpants. She raised both hands and snapped her fingers in beatnik applause. “Dig those crazy threads, man.”

“It’s too early, Claire,” Jackie groaned, watching the coffee gurgle and hiss into the glass pot. “I need to mainline some of that caffeine.”

The phone rang.

“Not again,” Claire said. “Can you get it?”

“No,” Jackie said. “I can barely talk.”

It rang again. “Oh, God,” Claire said, and picked up the wall phone.

“Claire, it’s Winthrop.”

Winthrop Englander, the dean of Harvard Law School. Three guesses, she thought, what’s on his mind.

“Win, good morning,” she said.

“Claire, this is not a call I ever wanted to make,” he said.

“Win—”

“Is the report true?”

“Largely, yes.”

“This puts me in an extremely difficult position.”

“I understand. I’ll make only one excuse, which is to say that it happened a long time ago, and it was very bad judgment made at a time when my mother had just died.”

“I understand.”

“That doesn’t excuse it, Win, but—”

“It’s still going to be very difficult, Claire. You’ve been a valuable member of the faculty, an outstanding teacher, a real asset to the Law School.” She heard the verb tense; this was his version of the gold-watch retirement speech.

She wanted to ask him: If I told you about the incident, and no one else knew, would you still stick by your lofty principles? Or is it the
Washington Post
—and probably by now
The New York Times
and, by wire service, every other newspaper and broadcast medium in the country—that’s stiffening your sense of morality?

But she said, “I understand.”

“There will be all sorts of meetings and consultations. I’ll be in touch.”

*   *   *

She arrived at Quantico just in time to see the white van from the brig pull up to the building that housed the secure facility. From a distance she saw Tom step out, in full chains. He seemed small. She made a quick calculation: Did she want to catch his eye? To give him a hug? Increasingly she found it painful to make human contact with him before and after trial. Easier to treat him as just another client, one she rarely saw.

But he saw her first. “Claire,” he called out hoarsely.

She smiled, though smiling was the last thing she felt like doing this morning. Why burden him with her two hundred worries?

“Claire,” he said again, putting both cuffed arms out to her as if displaying them. An odd gesture.

She approached. His eyes glistened with tears. Puzzled, she hugged him. He couldn’t hug back, and it stabbed her heart. “It’s showtime,” she said with false good humor.

“Those bastards.” His voice was muffled.

She pulled away to see his face. He was crying now.

“Tom?”

“God
damn
them. I saw CNN this morning. They actually let me watch.”

“Oh,” she said.

“They want to go after me, that’s one thing. Now they’re trying to destroy you.” The guards stood by, eyeing them with hostility, though they knew enough by now not to interrupt.

“It’s true, Tom. I did it.”

“I don’t give a damn. It’s the past, it’s your private business.…” Now he clenched both his hands into fists, and punched the air like a hobbled pugilist. His chains jingled. “God
damn
them, Claire. Come here, please. Will you hug me? These damned handcuffs.”

She hugged him, felt his face warm against hers.

“I want you to know something,” he said very quietly. “I know what you’ve been going through for me. What they’re trying to do to you. And I’m here for you, the way you’ve been here for me. I’m in these fucking chains, I’m locked up all day, but I’m your rock, too, okay? I think about you all the time. You’re suffering as much as me, maybe more. You don’t have time to be with Annie, you’re cut off from all your friends, you can’t tell anyone what you’re going through, except maybe Jackie, right? And now this. We’re going to get through all this shit. I promise you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“
The government
calls Frank La Pierre,” Waldron announced.

The prosecution was beginning its case with the Criminal Investigation Division agent who was in charge of the case against Ronald Kubik. Frank La Pierre was escorted by the bailiff into the courtroom. He walked with a slow shuffle, as if he’d been injured long ago. He wore a cheap-looking dark suit that flapped open; he’d clearly been unable to button it over his potbelly. He had owlish horn-rimmed glasses, a pinched nose, and a small downturned mouth. His receding hairline came down in a widow’s peak.

Waldron stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “Mr. La Pierre, is it correct that you are a special agent for the CID?”

“That is correct,” La Pierre boomed in a sonorous, assured baritone.

“You are in fact the CID agent in charge of this investigation, is that correct?” As if there might be another reason he was here.

“That is correct.”

“Now, Mr. La Pierre, how long have you been a CID agent?”

“Eight years.”

“And what office are you attached to?”

“CID headquarters at Fort Belvoir.”

“Do you have a specialty as a CID agent?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And what is that specialty?”

“Personal crimes, particularly homicide.”

“I see. Mr. La Pierre, how many murder cases would you say you’ve worked in your career?”

“I don’t know, maybe forty.”

“Forty? Well, that’s quite a few.” He took La Pierre through his credentials and his involvement in the Kubik case. It was all matter-of-fact, often quite dry, but thorough.

After lunch, Claire stood to cross-examine the witness. She looked momentarily lost. “Mr. La Pierre, you say eighty-seven civilians were killed at La Colina, El Salvador, on 22 June 1985, is that right?”

“That’s correct.” La Pierre’s certitude was almost defiant.

“Well, can you identify, please, for the investigating officer, the individuals who are dead?”

La Pierre hesitated. “Identify how?”

“Well, how many, say, were male?” Claire gave a sudden little open-palmed shrug, as if the thought had just occurred to her.

He paused again, furtively glanced at Waldron, then looked down. “I don’t know that.”

“How many were female?”

With annoyance: “There’s no way of knowing—”

“Well, what were the
ages
of the eighty-seven victims?”

“Look, this was thirteen years—”

“Answer the question, please. What were the ages of the victims?”

Firmly: “I don’t know.”

“Well, where are they buried?”

“I’m sure I can get that for you—”

“Who buried them?”

“Your Honor,” Waldron burst in angrily, “counsel is engaging in a completely specious line of questioning, completely improper, inadmissible—”

“Sustained,” Judge Farrell replied blandly. “Let’s move this along, counsel.”

“Thank you. Mr. La Pierre, do you have any photographs of the dead bodies?”

“No,” he said testily.

“No? What about death certificates? Surely you have those?”

“No.”

“
No?
Autopsy reports, no doubt. You must have those.”

“No, but—”

“Mr. La Pierre, can you tell me the name of
one individual
that my client is accused of killing?”

La Pierre stared at her venomously. “No, I cannot.”

“Not even one?”

“No.”

“If you can’t tell me one, I know you can’t tell me two. Let alone twenty-two. Yet you’re accusing Sergeant Kubik of murdering
eighty-seven
people, is that your testimony here today, sir?”

But Frank La Pierre had had his fill of badgering. He came back at her with high moral indignation: “Ronald Kubik murdered eighty-seven innocent people in—”

“Yet you can’t testify that you’ve seen even a single one of the bodies of the eighty-seven people that my client is alleged to have killed. You can’t, can you?”

“But—”

“And you haven’t seen an autopsy report for a single person that my client is alleged to have killed?”

“No, I have not,” he said, this time almost proudly.

“And you haven’t seen a death certificate for a single person that my client is alleged to have killed?”

“No, I have not.”

“In point of fact, sir, you don’t have a single document, except for the”—she paused for emphasis, lifted her eyebrows—“‘sworn’ statements that the government has introduced, to prove that eighty-seven people were killed at La Colina on 22 June 1985. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Or who these eighty-seven people were.”

“Yes.”

“So we’re to take this on your word?”

“Based on seven identical sworn statements,” La Pierre managed to get in.

“Oh,
I
see. The seven”—she held up two fingers on each hand and flicked them in the universal quotation-mark sign—“‘
sworn
’ statements. Which are, as you correctly point out,
identical
. Yet you have no autopsy reports. You have no death certificates. In fact, you have no hard evidence whatsoever, do you?”

A long pause. “Besides the statements, no.”

“Now, Mr. La Pierre, we’ve had an opportunity to examine the service records of each of the members of Detachment 27 who made a statement to you. And, you know, it’s funny, but we didn’t discover any entry in those service records that would indicate temporary duty in El Salvador. Did we miss something?”

Now they were back on his turf. “No. Often top-secret missions aren’t recorded in service records.”

“So we didn’t miss anything.”

“I believe not.”

“Good. There was no mention in
any
of those service records of the incursion into El Salvador in June 1985, right?”

“I believe that’s correct.”

“Mr. La Pierre, did you see my discovery request?”

“No, trial counsel didn’t show it to me.”

“Well, Mr. La Pierre, the defense made a discovery request for the
order
assigning these individuals to El Salvador. And the strange thing was, we never got any. And I’m thinking, you know, bureaucracies and everything, the way things fall between the cracks … Did you happen to see any order assigning the members of Detachment 27 to El Salvador in June 1985?”

“No, I did not.”

“No record of any order?”

“That’s correct.”

“None at all.”

Warily, he said, “Uh, that’s right.”

“That’s a relief,” Claire said, “because I didn’t either.” Scattered laughter in the courtroom. “It’s good to hear I’m not the only one who hasn’t had an easy time dealing with the Pentagon’s paper-shufflers. And presumably you went to the supervisory headquarters for this particular Special Forces detachment.”

“I believe we did, yes.”

“Yet you got no records of any order assigning them to El Salvador?”

“Right.”

She turned suddenly to the witness as if another thought had just occurred to her. “Did you attempt to locate in archived records copies of the temporary duty orders that every single military unit has to get before they’re sent anywhere?”

“Uh, no.”

“You didn’t? What about travel claims? Did you attempt to locate in archived records the travel claims for Detachment 27’s alleged incursion into El Salvador in June 1985?”

“Well, no, but—”

“You know, Mr. La Pierre, I’m not a member of the military—”

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” he said flatly.

Hearty laughter broke out among the spectators. Claire laughed along, sharing the joke at her own expense. “And, well, you know, I really don’t know much about your world here, but it’s my understanding—and correct me if I’m wrong—that any time any U.S. soldier goes
anywhere
where there’s travel involved, there’s got to be a travel claim submitted. Am I right?”

“I believe so,” La Pierre said, seemingly bored.

“You believe so. Hmm. Yet you didn’t find any travel claim for this alleged operation in El Salvador in June 1985.”

“Well, no, but—”

“So there’s really no corroboration these individuals went anywhere.”

La Pierre worked his open mouth a few times, and at last began, “I—”

“Presumably you’ve made some efforts,” Claire interrupted, “to corroborate whether or not this operation ever actually occurred.”

With narrowed eyes, La Pierre shot back, “You’re not denying this operation took place, are you?”

“Let me ask the questions, Mr. La Pierre. You’ve made some efforts to determine whether or not this operation actually occurred, haven’t you?”

“It’s obvious it occurred—”

“It’s obvious? To whom? To you and Major Waldron over there? Or to me and Mr. Grimes and Ronald Kubik over here? Who is it obvious to?”

“
The operation occurred,
” La Pierre hissed.

“But you have no records of any orders to corroborate that, do you?” She didn’t wait for his reply. “Now, Mr. La Pierre, it’s my understanding—and again, correct me if I’m wrong—that before the U.S. government, including the military, engages in a covert operation, there must be a presidential finding authorizing that covert operation. A classified order signed personally by the President of the United States. Is that right?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“A presidential finding authorizing covert action is called an NSDD—a National Security Decision Directive—is that right?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Which may be classified, right?”

“It can be.”

“Sometimes an NSDD can have a classified and an unclassified version, correct?”

“I think so.”

“And this operation was a covert operation, isn’t that true?”

“Yes, it was.”

“So there must exist an NSDD, presumably a classified one, authorizing Detachment 27’s mission to El Salvador in June 1985. Right?”

He attempted to sidestep the jaw trap. “I wouldn’t know.”

“But you just said that every covert action must be authorized by an NSDD. And this was a covert action, you said yourself. So there must be an NSDD, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Yet you didn’t obtain the presidential finding authorizing the June 1985 covert operation and signed by the President of the United States?”

“No, I did not.”

“Well, gosh, Mr. La Pierre, as the chief investigator in this case, don’t you think it’s important to know whether this operation was authorized by the president?”

“In my job,” he said ringingly, “I don’t get into foreign affairs. I do personal crimes, including homicides.”

“You don’t get into foreign affairs,” she repeated.

“No, I do not.”

“Mr. La Pierre, if a full-bird colonel in the Special Forces, who’s now the chief of staff of the army, ran an operation in El Salvador in June 1985 that was illegal—because it wasn’t authorized by a presidential finding—don’t you think you’d want to advise him of his rights?”

Frank La Pierre looked over at the judge. “I don’t know how to answer that,” he said.

“Just answer the question,” Farrell said with annoyance. “Did you read General Marks his rights?”

“No, I most certainly did not.”

“Why not?” Claire asked.

“I had no reason to believe this was an illegal operation.”

“Because you don’t ‘get into’ foreign affairs. Well, sir, don’t you think that, as the lead investigator in a mass-murder case that allegedly took place in a foreign country during a covert operation, you might want to educate yourself about foreign policy and the rules governing covert action?”

“I don’t see why I need to.”

“Really?” Claire said, amazed. “So it’s not important to educate yourself as to whether a U.S. operation violated the laws of the United States in its inception?”

“That’s not my job.”

“So let me get all this straight. You can’t identify a single person who was killed. In fact, you don’t know who was killed, or, indeed, if
anyone
was killed. So much for element one of the charge—that is, that a ‘certain named or described person is dead.’ We don’t know.

“And, secondly, we don’t even know whether or not this operation took place. And if it
did
take place, we don’t even know if the operation was authorized. So, heck, we don’t even know whether any of these alleged killings—of which we have no proof—were unlawful. Because we don’t know what was lawful in this case. We have no idea what the President of the United States ordered—assuming this mission even happened at all! So much for element two of the charge—that is, was the killing unlawful.” She shook her head in disgust. “I have nothing further, Your Honor.”