The Night Crew (17 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Lydia looked up at us and smiled, and for some reason she looked inexplicably happy and remarkably healthy, with cheeks that were surprisingly ruddy for one who had been locked up indoors for the better part of two months. She reminded me of somebody else, but I couldn’t seem to put my finger on who.

Katherine moved around the conference table and hugged Lydia, then they did the cheek brush thing, while I remained stiffly on my side of the table. Colonels don’t hug and kiss privates unless they are courting a sexual harassment charge. And in a similar vein, a lawyer and client are expected to keep a certain distance, both physical and emotional. I was not sure what was going on between Katherine and Lydia, but whatever it was smelled like trouble.

Then we all sat and Katherine asked Lydia, “How are you feeling?”

“Okay. Still real bored, though.”

“How did your meeting with the psychiatrist go?”

“Okay, I guess.” She seemed to have second thoughts, though, and her lips got all scrunched up. “He sure asked lottsa funny questions.”

“That’s part of the routine, Lydia. Anything in particular that bothered you?”

She looked at me and seemed uncomfortable discussing such intimate matters in my presence. In my most comforting tone, I assured her, “It’s okay, Lydia. I’m not judgmental and anything you say is strictly confidential.” Actually, I’m very judgmental, but Lydia had exposed enough of herself in the pictures that I couldn’t imagine what verbal disclosure or intimacy could possibly bother either of us at this point.

After a moment Lydia confided, “Sure asked a lotta questions about sex. The guy was weird.”

Katherine asked, “What kind of questions?”

“He asked how old I was when I got my cherry popped, and he asked me to talk about near ever’ time I got laid.” She studied the tabletop, then corrected herself. “ ‘Course he didn’t put it like that. He used all kind of classy words, like coitus and cunnylingus and such.”

Classy
? I bit back a smile as I pictured the doctor having to explain the definitions of those more formal sexual terms to such an uninformed mind. When you put A into B that’s coitus; and when A goes into C that’s cunnilingus. This was assuming that Lydia knew the alphabet as well as she understood anatomy; probably not a good assumption.

Katherine also seemed to have difficulty controlling her expression but had enough presence to ask, “Did he focus on anything in particular?”

Lydia produced a clueless shrug. “Seemed mighty interested in my family, too.”

“I think that’s natural, as well. Some psychiatrists believe all mental issues are rooted in early familial relations.”

If this Freudian revelation meant anything to Lydia she chose not to show it. “Ask me, he’s the one who needs help. He’s a real nutjob.”

Goes without saying, Lydia—he was a shrink after all—but I did not really care about this, so I changed the subject. “Lydia, Katherine and I have interviewed the prison chain of command, and the military intelligence folks. They claim that nobody told Sergeant Elton to torture or abuse the prisoners.”

She stared at me, in her slow way apparently trying to catch up to the shift in topic, then replied, in a very aggrieved tone, “Never said they did.”

“Yes, you . . .” Her obtuseness was already getting on my nerves, and I took a few breaths, backed off and asked her, “Remind me. What did they tell you to do?”

Unfortunately, her mind was still stuck on what I had just said. “Wusn’t nobody torturin’ nobody,” she insisted, sounding now whiny and petulant.

I ignored the triple negative and asked, “Then what would you call it?”

“Havin’ fun is all.”

“
Fun
?”

“Nobody got hurt or nuthin’. We was jus’ playin’ games. Wasn’t harmin’ nobody.”

Actually somebody did get hurt. Palchaci was dead. “Just games?”

“That’s what I said. Lotta them prisoners, they had as good a time as us.”

I glanced at Katherine who was pretending she wasn’t disturbed by the twisted nature of Lydia’s logic. I held the stare.

Eventually moved by my look, Katherine did inquire of her client, almost hesitantly, “Why would you say that, Lydia?”

“Cuz it’s true, Katherine.” Lydia had slipped into full pout mode now—she had crossed her arms like a huffy little girl signaling the onset of a full-blown tantrum. “Guys pay dang good money to see strippers. Them Iraqis, they got all the looks and peeks they wanted. All fer free, too. Didn’t cost ’em nuthin’.”

When Katherine made no response to that bizarre rationalization, Lydia continued. “I mean, they wuz stuck in prison, bored outta their wits. And let me tell you, they got off on it.”

“Got off?” I asked. “You mean they were enjoying themselves?”

“I mean they got big boners and jizzed all over the place.”

“Oh.”

“So ask me . . . yeah, damn sure they enjoyed it,” Lydia insisted.

It was no use debating the point—Lydia was obviously the type who made up her own mind, presumably not a difficult task, as small as it was. I did warn her, however, “That may be your opinion but you will not express it in court.”

“Why not? When men get a big woody and git their rocks off, don’t it mean they’re havin’ a real swell time?”

I really wanted Katherine to straighten out this circuitous sexual logic, woman to woman, so to speak, and I looked at her but she was too busy enjoying the expression on my face.

Well, somebody had to, so I said to our client, “You induced these men to aroused states, Lydia. They were not participating on their own volition, and their expressions in the pictures suggest that fun was the last thing on their mind. Many were terrified.”

Lydia still looked confused, so hoping to clear this up I informed her, “Technically, what you did to those men was rape. And perhaps, in a legal sense, as well, it was rape. If you raise the specious argument that it was as enjoyable for them as for you, you invite the prosecutor to delve into this issue and you will definitely antagonize the jury.” Then, hoping against hope to get off this topic I asked her, “Did you ever actually meet, or see, Captain Willborn or Chief Ashad in person?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Well . . . Ashad, I guess I saw ’im once or twice.”

“All right, where?”

“In the prison.”

Getting a direct unequivocal answer from this girl was like debating with a herd of politicians. “Be specific, please. I’m asking
where
in the prison?”

“The cellblock. He paid us a visit a coupla times.”

“At nighttime, or during the day?”

“I already tole you I wasn’t there during the day.”

“Right. So it was night?”

She gave me a look like I was one who was dense. “Well, yeah.” She hesitated, then added, “I remember, cuz he came once when we was havin’ one of our ST sessions. He didn’t say or do nuthin’, though. Just stood there . . . in a corner. Sorta watched for a while.”

I glanced at Katherine. “And do you remember what you were doing that night?”

“Oh . . . well, I recall that real good.”

Now we were getting somewhere. “Why do you recall it so clearly?”

“See, one of the Hadjis, he didn’t seem to be gittin’ with the program. And one of them other Hadjis, he spoke real passable English and he tole us this guy was pretty educated’n all. A college professor, a real uppity sort. So Danny, he tole us we hadda break this guy.”

“Because he was educated?”

“No . . . well, not exactly. See, this fella, the others all looked up to him . . . I guess on account of his education’n all. And he’d mumble a bunch of stuff at ’em in Iraqi and break the mood. We couldn’t never understand squat he wuz sayin’, but it sure looked like he wuz tellin’ ’em to stand up to us.”

“So Danny wanted you to break him. Get him to knock it off, right?”

A quick nod. “Anyways, that night we tied ’im to a chair and ole June climbed aboard, and she give ’im a lapdance liable to make a rooster faint. Danny, he was playin’ some music, and I mean, that June, she ground away ’bout ten minutes and . . . well, nuthin’. It was weird. The Iraqi guy, he just sat there with this funny expression—y’know, like he was bored, or it was all a big joke or somethin’.” Lydia was shaking her head now, as she recalled that night. “When June got off she tole us the guy didn’t even pop a boner.”

“Some men have more self-restraint than others.”

“Nah, wasn’t like that. Let me tell you, when June’s naked and grindin’ away, any reasonable pecker in the world’s gonna get harder’n a chainsaw.” She looked at me to see if I comprehended what she was saying.

“I understand.” A chainsaw?

“So Danny, he called Chief Ashad and he asked ’im what he wanted us to do ’bout that. That Ashad, he wuz a real clever fella. He tole Danny that maybe we wuz lookin’ at the problem backassword.”

“And what came next?”

“Well, ’bout five minutes after that, Ashad showed up. And Danny, by then, he had another prisoner all lined up and he made this guy git naked and then git on this professor’s lap and start twistin’ and grindin’ and wouldn’t you know . . . that professor . . . well, he wasn’t smiling no more. He ’bout burst outta his pants.”

“So he was gay?”

A big nod and a bigger smile. “A real faggot.” She then came full circle and informed me with a knowing smile, “Now, I got nuthin’ agin faggots, but no wonder June didn’t git no rise outta him.”

“Yes, no wonder. And what happened after that?”

“That was pretty much the end of that ST session, so Danny, he tole us to put ever’body back in their cells. But, well, turns out them Iraqis got somethin’ fierce agin fags, cuz the next night when we got this guy outta his cell, he was beat up somethin’ awful. I mean, them other Hadjis . . . well, they jus’ lumped his ass real good.” She added, sounding very satisfied, “Didn’t give us a lick of trouble after that.”

“And Ashad witnessed this?”

“I tole you he did. He didn’t say nuthin’, it was jus’ like he was sorta checkin’ to see we was handlin’ it okay. Good officer.”

“And this was the only time?”

“Well, there wuz this other time . . . I wuz purty sure it wuz him, tho’ I couldn’t swear to it or nuthin’.”

“When was this?”

“Purty near the end, and the lights would get real dim in there. I was real concentrated on what I was doin’, but I seen this figure . . . sort of standin’ in the shadows, y’know, like watchin’ us real close.”

As I recalled from the pictures, “near the end” would mean Ashad was a witness to some of the worst depredations. “Did you see his face?”

“Not exactly . . . but I wuz pretty certain it wuz him . . . Ashad, I mean. The guy I saw was real skinny’n all, with big shoulders, like Ashad”

“Any other reasons to believe it was him?”

“I guess so. Cuz Danny, he kept glancin’ over there, like it was somebody he wanted to make a big impression on. Danny really looked up to that Arab officer.”

Katherine asked her, “But it could have been somebody else?”

She contemplated this with a funny expression. “Katherine, I tole you I couldn’t swear to it or nuthin’.”

To avoid the onset of another petulant tantrum, I said, “Yes, so you did. Did any other members of the team see him?”

“Guess you oughtta ask them.”

Then I quickly changed the subject to another topic. “Did you ever give the Special Treatment to General Palchaci?”

Sometimes with clients, a sudden, unexpected shift in topic like this will unveil a welcome response—like truth—but Lydia’s mental circuits were so lethargic, I wasn’t optimistic. I studied her face, and her eyes, as she considered this question and, as expected, it took a long moment for the question to ooze through the ear canal, to rumble past the mental lint and litter, and sink into the deep recesses of her brain. And, during that moment, her expression shifted quickly from surprise, to something resembling alarm, before it matured to her usual countenance of dulled awareness. “Nope. He didn’t never get no ST,” she replied, sounding absolute about that.

“You’re sure?”

“Said I wuz, didn’t I?”

“Did you have any dealings with him? In any form whatsoever?”

“I dunno. Coulda happened, I guess. We never really knew their names, y’know.” She added in an unfortunate aside I hope she didn’t repeat in court, “They wuz all jus’ meat to us.”

“Well, Palchaci was older, in his sixties. Do you recall any dealings with an elderly gentleman?”

“Most of them guys wuz older than me.”

Good point. I withdrew Palchaci’s photo from my briefcase and held it up for Lydia to observe. “This is General Palchaci. Take your time, study his face, and tell me if you remember him.”

She got another of those funny expressions and she rubbed her temples. “Don’t guess I do, nope.” After another painfully long moment, she added, “But I ain’t fer sure.”

“This is important, Lydia. Did you enter his cell after his death?”

“Oh . . . no, fer sure I didn’t. No way.”

“You’re certain?”

“Why you askin’?”

To annoy you. “Because you’re likely to be asked the same questions on the stand, and Katherine and I need to be certain there’s nothing that ties you to the General, or implicates you in his death.”

“Well, I had nuthin’ to do with any of that.”

Katherine asked a few more questions about Palchaci, about whether Lydia heard any of the others discuss his murder, and so forth, then a few more queries regarding the statement Lydia gave the MPs when she was arrested. Lydia finished up by saying, “Y’know, they had all them pictures’n all, so it seemed real stupid to try’n deny all the stuff we did. I wouldn’t, anyways . . . no siree. I’m proud of it. I mean, a lot of them Hadjis, they tole the intel folks all kinds of stuff. We wuz savin’ lives. Helpin’ win the war.”

The odd thing was, she appeared to really believe it. I had this weird thought, a foreshadowing of Lydia, in fifty years hence, seated in her rocker with a large passel of her grandkiddies gathered at her feet, looking up at her, and curious little Billy-Jo asks, “What’d you do to win the war, Granny?” Well, boy, plug your ears because your ole granny really went above and beyond.