The Night Crew (3 page)

Phyllis does not suffer fools gladly, which I approve of, and she often encourages her subordinates to “be bold, to think outside the box,” to exercise “initiative” and other new wave management aphorisms—which I might push a little too far.

So we’re not exactly salt and pepper: more like vinegar and SweeTARTS, to continue the bad food metaphors.

That aside, I actually like Phyllis, and at times, I think she likes me, too, so I was a little surprised that she released me so readily.

Anyway, an uncomfortable silence had settled over our table, which Katherine broke, stating, “I’m sorry. I should probably have told you about this at the beginning.”

“Yes, you probably should have.”

“I had a good reason for my little charade.”

“You always do, Katherine. That’s your problem. You play games. You
withhold
.”

“I just wanted to—”

“I really don’t care why—”

“Would you shut up, Sean? Let me finish . . . please.”

Just like old times.

She gazed into her beer, collecting her thoughts, or constructing her alibi. “I wanted to . . . to gauge your reaction before you knew she was your client. You’re a lawyer, but you’re an army officer, first, last, and always. I needed to see how someone like you reacted to that picture.”

I leaned across the table until our noses nearly touched. “No, you wanted to prove you’re smarter and more clever than I am. Okay, you’ve proven it. Great. Whoopee, Katherine. And now you have a head start on this case, and I’m coming into it blind, which gives you a big advantage. And though I’m your cocounsel you intend to keep your knee on my chest and keep me second fiddle. So you need me for credibility with the jury, but maybe I know more about war than you do, and maybe I can cut through the roadblocks and red tape the army will construct, and maybe my Top Secret clearance will allow me to see things you can’t, and maybe I’ll understand a few things you don’t. So our client will be better served if we use our ammunition on the prosecutor instead of each other, so save the empty apologies and cut the bullshit, Katherine.”

I’ll mention again here that Katherine was first in her class at Georgetown Law—and Sean Drummond, by an almost infinitesimal margin, was number two. Given her bohemian breeding, disposition, and outlook, I don’t think she bought into the whole law review, dog-eat-dog, be-number-one-at-any-cost thing that seems to permeate every law school in the country.

I seem to bring out something in Katherine that only Freud could explain.

And now, here she was unexpectedly reappearing in my life again. And no, I did not for a minute believe she was seeking my legal talents, my military credentials, or my charming company.

I’m not that charming, for one thing.

Anyway, she was laughing, as though this was a big joke. I said, “It’s not funny.”

“Well . . . I’m sorry if . . . if I maybe mishandled you.”

“No ifs about it, sister.”

“I really do want to work with you.” She stuck out her hand. “Come on, shake.”

We sat for a moment staring at each other.

With her hand still out, Katherine glanced at the watch on her other wrist. “Our client’s waiting, so let’s get this over with. Come on, shake.”

We shook, and she stood up and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. Instead she headed straight for the stairs and stuck me with the bar bill.

Chapter Three

We walked out of the officers’ club main entrance and in the direction of the military police station at Fort Myer, which, conveniently, is only a five-minute walk from the officers’ club, via a short connecting sidewalk.

The night was cold and dark, but army posts tend to be overorganized and anal about everything, including lighting. To our right was a fenced-in, outdoor tennis court and just beyond that, the stately quarters of the military’s most senior officers, the army Chief of Staff, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and to our rear, homes for enough two- and three-star generals to lead another invasion of Europe.

Quartered in one of those houses was Major General Fister, the JAG chief who assigned me this gig. I made a mental note to myself to leave a sack of burning dog poop on his doorstep.

I should grow up and rise above such puerile gestures; then again, he started it.

In case you’re interested, Fort Myer is one of the older army bases, established in the early years of the Civil War on a hill with a commanding view of the capital across the river, from which large batteries of artillery could rain death and destruction on any rebels attempting to snatch the northern capital. That war is long over, its dead and survivors alike long since buried, and the once imposing rows of batteries have dwindled to a few lonely cannons, rusted evidence of the noble mission this post once served. None of our recent wars have required defenses for our national capital, though September 11th came pretty close.

So, these days, Fort Myer’s purpose is mostly pomp and ceremonies; it has a spit-and-polish parade-ground unit appropriate to that mission, a large parade ground for them to march around, a lovely chapel, and is adjoined to the military’s most hallowed ground, Arlington National Cemetery.

Though I’ve been stationed in Washington for years, I don’t come here often, and when I do, it always brings back memories, some warm, some otherwise. As a kid, when Pop was stationed at the Pentagon, like most military families in DC, we rented a small bungalow on the economy—a term that betrays everything about how military people view the civilian world. During Washington’s long, torrid summers, Mom used to pack big brother Johnny and little Sean into our Country Squire wagon, and we’d race here, frolic in the o-club pool, get our weekly army butch cuts, load up the back of the wagon with inexpensive commissary groceries, top off with cheap gas, and then return to the land of the taxpayers who made all this largesse possible.

The Vietnam War was in its final throes then, and Pop already had orders for his second and ultimately, his final tour in Vietnam, and, as it turned out, in the army. While we frolicked and eyed the good-looking general’s daughters in their skimpy bikinis, in the distance you could hear the frequent drone of the bugle and rifle pops from funeral details rendering the final salute to another fallen soldier—somebody’s dad, son, or husband. When your own dad is a month from deployment, every little pop puts a lump in your throat.

Unfortunately, with two wars raging, those echoes are again rampant—and for the senior generals who live here, the sounds of death are omnipresent, inescapable, sobering. This might not be exactly what the army intended when it placed its premier cemetery next to this base, but neither is it a bad idea.

Katherine and I walked in silence for a while before I inquired of her, “How long has Lydia Eddelston been your client?”

“A little over two weeks.”

“But it’s been, what, three months since her arrest. Right?”

“Two, to be precise. She had a military attorney, initially. Captain Bradley Howser. Do you know him?”

I shook my head.

“A good lawyer from what I gather. He was pressuring her to plead out. He told her he had arranged a good deal.”

“Charges?” I asked.

“Conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to obstruct, multiple counts of making a false statement, multiple counts of assault and indecent acts, maltreating detainees, dereliction of duty, conduct unbecoming . . .” She paused, then confessed, “Without the full written script, I’m afraid I can’t recall all of it.”

I stared at her a moment.

“I know.” She gave me a knowing glance. “They’re throwing the book at her.”

This was a fairly common practice, especially whenever conspiracy is involved or suspected. To get one of the coconspirators to turn evidence on their colleagues, you pile up a smorgasbord of charges, from the profoundly serious to the drolly inconsequential, from those where the evidence is flimsy and guilt nearly impossible to prove, to those—such as dereliction of duty and/or conduct unbecoming—that are so broad and encompassing that a fart in a public place virtually assures a guilty verdict. The prosecutor then has a high-probability conviction, along with an arsenal of charges he or she can barter for a deal; the defense attorney has a mountain of shit piled on his lap.

As a prosecutor, I’ve done this myself, and, as a defense attorney, I’ve been on the receiving end; I’d rather play Russian roulette with five and a half rounds in the chamber. I asked Katherine, “How good a deal?”

“Five years in Leavenworth. Reduction to Private, E-1. Bad conduct discharge.”

“Depending on which charges are waived, that doesn’t sound like a bad bargain.”

“Maybe not. She would have to admit guilt, cooperate, and give testimony against the others, of course. This wasn’t what she wanted.”

“I don’t see the problem, Katherine. Even military lawyers don’t overrule their client’s wishes.”

“She understood that, Sean. As did he. She didn’t fire him . . . unfortunately, Captain Howser had . . . well, he experienced an unfortunate accident. About three weeks ago.”

“How unfortunate?”

“He died.”

“I see. What was the nature of this . . . accident?”

“Automobile. Driving in the mountains of Colorado along a narrow twisted road, he got sideswiped, and went off a cliff.”

I remained silent.

“The police classified it a hit and run,” she felt it necessary to explain.

“And they’re
sure
it was an accident?”

She stared at me. “You know, I asked the same question.”

“And . . . ?”

“Okay, so here’s what I was told. Captain Howser owned a Porsche—a not particularly well-maintained old one that he bought used—was a bachelor, and for extracurricular fun he did high-altitude, black slope skiing, and paragliding off mountain tops.” She concluded, “A life in search of an accident.”

“Don’t generalize, Katherine. Those who live fast, sometimes die of old age in their beds.”

She rolled her eyes at this questionable wisdom, and clarified, “From the skid marks the police estimated he was doing sixty on a bend marked for thirty.”

“Got it.”

She nodded.

“The normal practice, Katherine, is for the army to appoint a replacement attorney and, if necessary, to reschedule the trial date. So, why you?”

“In fact, the army was in the process of assigning a new JAG officer. Lydia met with him a few times, he didn’t seem to particularly believe in her innocence, and she didn’t particularly believe in his passion for her case. You know how it goes—no client is comfortable when their own lawyer doubts their innocence.”

“If they
are
innocent,” I stipulated.

She evaded that implied question and continued, “So, for various reasons, my employer became interested in her case. I was asked to make a stab at representing her. I did, the army candidate went away, and here we are.”

“Were you given Captain Howser’s files?”

She nodded. “The local JAG carted it all up, packed it in boxes, and delivered them.”

“And . . . ?”

“And, here’s the good news. Howser had already received the discovery materials, and there is a detailed transcription from the Article 32 hearings.”

Discovery is the required legal process whereby the prosecutor must turn over to the defense all the evidence he intends to employ in court against the accused, both that which could be incriminating, and that which might prove exculpatory, which on occasion, prosecutors forget to include. And an Article 32 is the military version of a grand jury process, the first step in building the scaffold. I asked Katherine, “And had the good captain done his homework?”

“It’s the usual mixture—some solid investigation, some misdirected bullshit. Although he lived risky, as I said, he was a good lawyer. Very detail-oriented. His files are well-organized.” She looked away for a moment. “But he either hadn’t wound up his investigation or a few critical files are missing. There are some gaps I found surprising.”

Apropos of that thought, I replied, “I don’t always trust the work of other lawyers.”

She knew whom I was referring to, but refused to rise to the bait. “I recommend we approach this like a fresh case. Use his files as background.”

“Good idea. And who is your mysterious employer?”

“Vietnam Veterans Who Oppose the War in Iraq.”

“Who?”

“They’re new, and not very large. Don’t underestimate them, though. They’re very serious, and very, very seriously funded.”

Echoing her theme, I pointed out, “And they’re very, very, very seriously confusing their wars.”

She watched the sidewalk awhile, then asked, “Have you heard of Nelson Arnold?”

“The billionaire?” She gave me a half-nod, and I continued, “Big hedge fund guy, right? New Yorker, collects beautiful women, big yachts, and oversize mansions.”

“He also collects causes he believes in. He’s a Vietnam vet with no fond memories of his war. For various reasons, he’s opened up his checkbook.”

“What are those reasons?” I looked at Katherine and specified, “More to the point, what’s his, or what’s their interest in Private First Class Lydia Eddelston?”

“Not her, necessarily. They have a larger interest.”

“Which would be what?”

“She and the other accused are being made into scapegoats. Meaning the lower ranks are getting railroaded and screwed, and the people who are ultimately responsible get a free pass.” She added, “They saw this happen in Vietnam. They are intent on doing something about it this time.”

“They should mind their own business and allow the army to do its job.”

“You’re so predictable.”

“This is a legal case, Katherine, not a political inquisition.”

“You don’t know enough about this case to draw that conclusion.”

“I know the army.”

“So do I, Sean.”

“Give it a break, Katherine. Really.”

“There are different kinds of patriotism, Drummond. Hard as it might be for you to get through your thick, Orwellian mindset, dissent and criticism can be the highest form of loyalty.”

I wasn’t really interested in hearing her quote scripture and verse from the gospel according to Saint Henry David Thoreau, so I changed the subject. “Where will the court martial be convened?”

“West Point, New York. It has a large population of officers who have seen combat from which to create a fair board, and a secure facility for the proceedings. Lydia is being held there.”

“Then what’s she doing here?”

“She was flown down for a deposition concerning one of the other defendants.”

I nodded again. Five soldiers had been charged with whatever happened at Al Basari, so it sounded like two or more of their defense attorneys had cooked up a cooperative witness arrangement of some sort. By inference, Private Eddelston and her attorney had agreed to testify on behalf of one or more of her codefendants, and probably that meant a quo quid pro; and, probably, prior to his untimely demise, that deal had been worked out by Captain Howser. Obviously, Katherine was going with it.

I hate walking into cases where somebody else has already decided on the trial strategy. I prefer to make my own mistakes; usually they’re smart mistakes, because they’re mine.

But also, if you read between the lines of what Katherine was saying, she and her financial backers intended to use this case to prosecute the army and the administration for their lenient rules on torture and interrogation, if not for the overall flawed execution of the war. This had been Katherine’s modus operandi in gay cases where it was a foregone conclusion that most of her clients would lose, but she exploited the court martials to show the public the cruelty and farcicality of the laws banning openly gay soldiers from serving.

Her gay clients were sacrificial lambs to get the laws overturned, and consequently, Katherine’s legal tactics and strategies were more offensive than defensive, directed less toward disproving the case against her clients and more toward proving the government’s guilt. But, I thought, what worked for the gay cause would not work in this case where the court martial board would be composed of seven professional soldiers who might not take kindly to an attorney attempting to convict their own service of ineptitude and, as combat veterans, might not share Katherine’s squeamishness about torture and interrogation techniques that were intended to save soldier’s lives and win battles.

I could see another battle brewing between her and me over how to approach Eddelston’s defense.

In that light, I asked, “And what’s your impression of Private Lydia Eddelston? Guilty or innocent?”

“We’ll trade opinions
after
you’ve met her.”

Which was a good note to end on because we were standing on the stoop of the military police station.