High Crimes (27 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The weekend
, at last. Some much-needed time off. She tried to sleep late but couldn’t. She awoke before seven and realized the phone hadn’t rung in the middle of the night. Progress. Or maybe they took weekends off. She ran a very hot bath in the big old white porcelain tub in the master-suite bathroom, whose floor was tiled in tiny black-and-white octagons as in a grand hotel of old, and took a long soak. She was tempted to bring some work into the tub with her, maybe a transcript, but then forced herself not to. She needed a break. She needed to let her fevered brain rest a bit. She needed perspective on the case. So she closed her eyes and soaked away the bruises and the aches. She thought about Tom, wanted to visit him at the brig, but knew that Annie needed her even more right now.

Then she got into jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, and took Annie out to breakfast in Georgetown, just the two of them. They left without notifying Devereaux, who was probably still sleeping.

“When can we go home?” Annie asked. She was making designs on her pancakes with the squeeze bottle of syrup.

“You mean Boston?”

“Yeah. I want to see my friends. I want to see Katie.”

“Soon, honey.”

“What’s ‘soon’?”

“A couple of weeks. Maybe sooner.”

“With Daddy?”

She didn’t know what to say now. No, she wanted to say. Not with Daddy. Daddy’s kangaroo court will probably find him guilty and sentence him to life in Leavenworth, where you’ll be able to visit him once in a while. It will tear your life apart. And that’s if Mommy’s able to get the sentence reduced from death. All the while, Mommy will be fighting uphill battles, writing and filing briefs like one of these half-crazed prison legal scholars, taking the case to the Army Court of Criminal Appeals, and higher and higher, all the way up to the Supreme Court. While the family’s resources dwindled away, because Harvard would have fired her, which she was sure would happen any day now. Probably at some point, once they were out of the military system, the verdict would be overturned; it surely couldn’t stand up, the government’s case was a joke. But Daddy would certainly not survive prison, because too many people wanted him dead.

“Of course with Daddy,” she said, and tousled Annie’s miraculously soft, glossy brown hair. “Now, when you’re done with your pancakes, we’ll go to the zoo, okay?”

Annie shrugged as if the idea didn’t appeal to her.

“You don’t like the zoo?” Claire said.

Annie shook her head.

“You’re still upset with me.”

“No, Mommy. I’m
angry
with you.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t, Mommy. You always
say
you know, but you don’t.” Her eyes shone. “You said you were going to be home more, but you’re still always gone.”

“You wanted me to play with you last night, but I had to work with Mr. Grimes and Mr. Embry and Uncle Ray. I know.”

“How come you’re always working?”

“Because Daddy’s on trial,” she said. “They want to lock him up in the jail for a long, long time, and it’s up to me and my friends to make sure they don’t do that.”

“But why does it take so long?”

A tough one. “Because the people who want to put him away are bad guys, and sometimes they lie.”

“Why?”

Claire thought about that one for a long time. Finally she said, honestly, “I don’t really know.”

*   *   *

“So you have nothing on the general?” Claire asked, when they’d gathered that evening. Embry and Grimes sat in their usual chairs. Devereaux stood and paced, because he liked to loom over people. She sat behind the beautiful library table-cum-desk, leaning back in the high leather-upholstered executive chair, and exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke. “No wife-beating, no adultery, no child molestation, nothing?”

“He’s clean as a whistle,” Devereaux said. “Fastest-promoted general ever to serve in the army. Eagle Scout, kind to animals, good to his neighbors. Gives generously to charity, serves on the board of the United Way and the American Cancer Society. He doesn’t even rent dirty videos.”

“‘Even’?” Claire said. “Like everyone does?”

“Well,
you
don’t,” Devereaux said. “That I know.”

“Thanks. Nice to know you respect my privacy.”

“What about Robert Lentini?” Grimes asked. “Still can’t turn that guy up?”

“Even assuming he wasn’t behind that setup in the Catoctin mountains, and that they just used his name because they knew Claire would bite—no. The guy’s disappeared without a trace. Either that, or he never existed.”

“Well, we know he existed, from his service records,” Embry said.

“Maybe,” Devereaux said.

“And what about my CIA guy, Dennis?” Claire asked.

Devereaux broke out in a grin. “You gotta love this. These cloak-and-dagger boys can’t even pick up on a tail if it’s six-four and three hundred pounds. I followed baldy home to Chevy Chase, right to his suburban manse. His name is Dennis T. Mackie. ’Course, I don’t know what good that’ll do you. Unless you have a CIA personnel directory. Now, you guys mind if I take my leave? I gotta get my beauty sleep.”

*   *   *

“I wanted to say something,” Embry ventured bashfully. “That was a really great cross you did of the ballistics guy.”

“Thanks,” she said. “But this was definitely a case of I-couldn’t-have-done-it-without-you.” Embry shrugged. “No, I really couldn’t have,” she insisted. “I’d never have thought of the barrels. What the hell do I know about guns?”

“
You
prepped her on that?” Grimes said.

Embry looked at Grimes uneasily.

“You’re a smart dude,” Grimes said.

Embry smiled in amazement. “Thanks.”

“Even Coultas didn’t remember about the barrels,” Grimes said.

“I don’t believe that,” Claire said. “Not someone like Coultas. He’s a national ballistics authority, and he doesn’t overlook something obvious like that.”

“It wasn’t
that
obvious,” Embry protested.

“It is to a guy like Coultas,” she said. “I’m sure he was hoping he wouldn’t be asked.”

“Naw,” Grimes said, “he’s a neutral expert. He doesn’t take sides. He was probably instructed, by Waldron, not to bring it up unless asked, not to point to it in any way.”

“Is there anything else?” Embry asked after a while. “Because I want to get to work on the General Marks stuff, see if I can come up with any angles. Actually, I’d kind of like to go home and get some shut-eye.”

“Go ahead, Terry,” she said. “Thanks for coming over.”

When Embry had left, Grimes said, “You want a drink?”

“I don’t think so, no. Thanks anyway.”

“You look tired.”

“I’m always tired these days.”

“Then I’ll head home myself.” He stood up, collected his papers, and put them in his briefcase. Standing near her desk, he said, “Can I tell you something kind of personal?”

“Yeah?” she said warily.

“I just—what I mean is, you’re this big hotshot lawyer, and I’ve been, like, a fan of yours for a hell of a long time, and I thought it was kind of cool you wanted to hire me.”

She nodded, smiled. “You came highly recommended.”

“Forget that shit. I’m saying, even though I was, like, totally intimidated when you came into my office that first time, I still couldn’t help think it was a joke, you wanting to try this case, a totally high-pressure military court-martial, and not knowing shit about military law. But you know what?”

“What?”

“Now I get it. Now I see why you’re the hotshot you are. You’re just fucking
good
at whatever you do.”

Tears came into her eyes. It was late, she was exhausted, and she was emotionally a wreck. She smiled and shrugged and shook her head. She stood up and came around to where he was standing. “Grimes—Charlie—Charles—oh, fuck it.” And she hugged him long and hard.

*   *   *

The phone rang again, at two-thirty Monday morning.

She fumbled for it, picked up the handset.

“Ask yourself who really wants him locked away,” the electronically altered voice said.

“Thanks,” Claire said. “We’ve almost got you, asshole.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

“
They’re putting
the general on the stand today?” Devereaux asked. Claire sat in the front seat of Devereaux’s rented car, a Lincoln Town Car even larger and more luxurious than the one he drove back in Boston. Corinthian leather was everywhere.

“Apparently.” Distracted, she sipped from a takeout cup of coffee.

“So he’s going to sit there in his general’s costume with the four stars and the fruit salad on the front and say Sergeant Ronald Kubik did it? And that’s going to sway the jury because he’s a four-star general? Even though he wasn’t even on the scene?”

“That’s Waldron’s theory, and it’s not a bad one.”

“And you’re going to do what?” He pulled into the back gate of Quantico and waved at the sentry, who by now recognized them.

“I’m going to look for the soft spots,” she said, “and plunge in the knife.”

Devereaux looked at her for a moment and turned back to the road. He gave a crooked smile. “Why do I get a feeling you’re gonna plunge in the knife even if there isn’t a soft spot? You get a call this morning, around two-thirty?”

She nodded. “The FBI boys got something?”

“Nope. Me. See, there’s only two entrances to the Pentagon that’re open twenty-four hours a day. There’s the Mall entrance, and there’s the River entrance. I gambled, and staked out the Mall entrance. At around twenty after two in the morning—ten minutes before you received a call—guess who’s striding into the Pentagon, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?”

“I can’t guess,” she said.

“The good soldier. Colonel James Hernandez. He’s your caller. And probably behind that car ‘accident’ in Maryland. Nice guy, huh?”

*   *   *

Waldron’s direct examination of the general was crisp, professional, and respectful. It lasted most of the morning, and the court recessed for an early lunch.

When Claire, Grimes, and Embry returned from lunch they noticed that the prosecution table was empty, which was unusual. Waldron and Hogan were punctual men who liked to confer at their table with plenty of time to spare before Judge Farrell returned.

The two men returned with just seconds to spare, talking in low voices with evident excitement. Waldron was accompanied by a CID investigator Claire had seen from time to time, whose name she’d forgotten.

“What’s going on?” Tom whispered, grasping her shoulder.

She shook her head.

“Something’s up,” Grimes muttered under his breath. “Waldron looks like the cat that ate the canary.”

*   *   *

Claire introduced herself to the general with extravagant graciousness, emphasizing for the jury something she might, at another time, be inclined to downplay: General William Marks’s august rank.

Another attorney might well have chosen to treat the general as just another witness, silently communicating to the panel members,
This witness is really no different from any others, and don’t you forget it.
And that wouldn’t have been an incorrect strategy.

But she noticed that the jurors seemed on their best behavior while the general was in the courtroom. They sat up straight, they refrained from chewing pencils or cradling their chins on their hands or any of the little gestures of inattention or boredom. Even Judge Farrell, she noticed, hadn’t brought a can of Pepsi to the stand. So she slathered on the deference, knowing that in a matter of seconds she’d be treating him with all the disrespect he actually deserved.

“General Marks,” she said once the dull preliminaries were out of the way, “you have been granted immunity in exchange for your testimony here today, is that correct?”

“Yes, it is.” His response was frank and confident. With his silver hair and his aquiline nose, he looked resplendent in his dress uniform.

“There are two types of immunity, General. One covers just your testimony here in the courtroom. Another kind covers the events you’ve been testifying about—specifically, the events in El Salvador in June of 1985. Which kind of immunity have you been given, sir?”

“The latter. Transactional immunity,” he said with a nod.

“And why is that, sir?”

“War is sloppy, counselor. Mistakes are inevitably made, and often the commander is held responsible for them.”

“Oh? And were we at war with El Salvador in 1985, General?”

Judge Farrell interrupted. “Madame Defense Counsel, I’m not going to countenance your taking that tone with the general. I don’t like that disrespect.”

Claire dipped her head agreeably, not inclined to quarrel just yet. “Certainly, Your Honor. General, when you use the word ‘war,’ do you mean to say that we were at war in 1985? I wasn’t under the impression that Congress had declared war against El Salvador at the time.”

General Marks gave a wry smile. “Any time a unit of the army, including the Special Forces, conducts operations downrange against a potentially hostile force, we operate under the conditions of war.”

“Ah,” she said. “Now I see. That certainly makes sense. And do you agree with the notion that the commander is responsible for the actions of the men under him?”

“It’s not just a notion, counselor. It’s the way the army operates.”

“So you have no quibble with it?”

He gave a small snort of amusement. “No, I have no ‘quibble,’ as you say, with the way the army operates.”

“So, as the commanding officer of Detachment 27, you were ultimately responsible for all of the actions of your men?”

“Yes, indeed,” he said, nodding his head vigorously. “Even actions over which I had no control—”

“Thank you, General—”

“—which is why I’ve been granted immunity to explore the tragic actions of your client.”

“Thank you, General. Now, sir, Detachment 27 was sent down to El Salvador to take reprisals for the Zona Rosa bombing, isn’t that correct?”

A rueful smile. “No, counselor, that’s not correct. We were sent to locate the murderers, the so-called urban guerrillas who murdered four marines. Not to take revenge.”

“Thank you for that distinction, General. And would it be correct to point out, sir, that you had a personal stake in that mission?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Really? You weren’t a close friend of one of the marines killed in the Zona Rosa bombing on 19 June 1985, a Marine Force Recon, Lieutenant Colonel Arlen Ross?”

“Well, there’s another important distinction to make,” he said, quite reasonably. “I was indeed an acquaintance of Arlen Ross—”

“No, sir,” she interrupted. “Not an ‘acquaintance.’ A friend.”

The general shrugged. “If you wish. A friend. I have no quarrel with that. Lieutenant Colonel Ross was, sadly, among those killed in the Zona Rosa. But make no mistake, counselor. I was there at the direction of the President of the United States. I most certainly did not use the might of the United States Army Special Forces to carry out my own personal vendetta.”

“I certainly never implied such a thing, General,” Claire said, feigning astonishment. “Merely that you might have had a personal stake in the mission, as anyone might have who’d had a close friend killed a few days before by antigovernment rebels.”

But the general was too shrewd for that. Not for nothing had he advanced as high as he had, and as quickly. “That’s very generous of you, counselor,” he said brusquely, “but I operate at the behest of my commander-in-chief. Not as some Mafioso out for blood.”

Never lose control of the witness
, Claire reminded herself, and here she was doing just that. This line of cross-examination was clearly a mistake.

“General,” she said, “when we met for a pretrial interview at your office in the Pentagon, did you warn me not to pursue this matter because it might be damaging to my career?”

General Marks regarded her for a few seconds with an indecipherable stare. He had been briefed. He knew about the secret tape recording of Henry Abbott. “Yes, I did,” he replied at length. “I was quite frankly concerned that you were on some sort of self-destructive kamikaze mission, counselor, because the client is your husband.”

There, it was finally out. She had no doubt that all of the panel members already knew that Tom was her husband. But now the fact, in all its complexity and ambiguity, lay out there on official display.

“I was concerned,” he went on, “that if you continued to pursue this case without knowing all the facts, you’d end up looking foolish in the extreme. You are, after all, married to a man who may be a murderer. You’re not exactly objective.” He smiled sadly. “You are the same age as my daughter. I can’t help but take a fatherly concern.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you, General,” she said without irony. “I certainly appreciate your concern and your solicitude.” And she decided to move right in for the kill. “General Marks, when my client allegedly fired upon the civilians, how far away were you standing?”

“I wasn’t there,” he said. “The unit was being led by my XO, Major James Hernandez. I was issuing commands over the radio.”

“Major James Hernandez, who is still your XO, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Now, General, it is alleged that my client killed eighty-seven people, and it occurs to me that killing eighty-seven people must take some time, isn’t that right?”

“Alas, no,” the general replied. “It can be done in a surprisingly short time, counselor, I am sorry to say.”

“Really?”

“It would surprise you,” he said, and gave another sad smile. “Sergeant Kubik fired two hundred rounds. The M-60 machine gun fires at a rate of five hundred fifty rounds per minute. So firing two hundred rounds takes not much more than twenty seconds, counselor.”

Ordinarily, the general’s reply would have been devastating. But Claire knew where this was going. “Twenty seconds,” she mused.

“A little bit more.”

“But I thought there are only one hundred rounds in a belt,” she said, playing the ingenue.

“That’s true,” the general replied, “but he had apparently linked two belts together, using a technique he said he’d learned from a squad leader in Vietnam. That way, the second belt pulls evenly.”

“If the ammo belt gets twisted, what happens?”

“The weapon will jam.”

Claire nodded, and began to pace in front of the witness rail, thinking. “So, if one of your men had grabbed Sergeant Kubik’s ammo belt and twisted it, his weapon would have jammed, and he’d have been unable to fire.”

“Only if someone could get close enough to grab the belt.”

“And no one could?”

“Seriously? A man firing a machine gun?”

“None of your men could have bounded up to him in a few steps and grabbed the weapon out of his hands? Or twisted the ammo belt so that the gun jammed?”

“The man had an M-60 in his hands, counselor. I was told that his head was pivoting all around, looking, and he would most certainly have sensed anyone moving toward him.”

“But your men must have had weapons, too, General.”

“Indeed.”

“What weapons did they have?”

“They had .45s. And I certainly wasn’t going to have them go up against an M-60 machine gun with a .45. He could have hit them much more easily than they could have hit him.”

“Did you order him to stop?”

“Yes, I did. Through Major Hernandez.”

“And?”

“Hernandez said, ‘He’s wacko, we can’t stop him.’”

She fell silent for a moment. He was good, and well briefed. And she knew this was going nowhere. He would continue to insist that he couldn’t have stopped Kubik, and he would be unshakable in his certainty. “General, in your opinion, would you have been within your rights as an officer to order your men to shoot Sergeant Kubik dead, if, as you claim, he was in fact massacring those eighty-seven civilians?”

“In fact, yes,” Marks said. “The Uniform Code of Military Justice permits the use of lethal force to save your life or the life of another.”

Claire winced inwardly. That was the right answer. He had just foreclosed the line of cross-examination she’d prepared designed to show that he’d been negligent as an officer and a commander—which could at least have damaged his credibility. So she tried again, coming back to the question of whether he could have killed Kubik. As she questioned the witness about this fictitious Sergeant Kubik that the prosecution was creating, she didn’t think of him as Tom. “General, isn’t it true that any of your men could have waited for the instant that Sergeant Kubik’s eyes were trained on his civilian targets, and simply aimed a Colt .45 and fired?”

The general exhaled noisily. “Counselor, I don’t know whether you’ve ever fired a gun—whether you’ve ever even
picked up
a gun—and I
know
you’ve never served in a war—”

“Move to strike as nonresponsive, Your Honor,” Claire interrupted.

“I’m afraid you opened the door to that with your theoretical question,” Judge Farrell said. “Continue, sir.”

“Thank you,” General Marks said. “Counselor, sitting in your comfy office at Harvard thirteen years after the fact, I suppose you could make that argument. But when you’re commanding a ten-man unit in conditions of war, it’s a different matter. There are chances you have to take, so there are chances you
will not
take. Perhaps you would have exercised superior judgment. I used the best I had.” He bowed his head. “We lost a number of Americans in El Salvador, counselor, for what the President of the United States, my commander-in-chief, deemed our strategic interests. Covert operations aren’t always pretty. But there’s a difference between the price of covert ops and what that evil man did. It sickens me what happened in that village—sickens me as an army man and as a human being.”