The Night Crew (28 page)

Holy shit. To their credit, Bernhardt and Margaret withheld further comment and allowed me to form my own opinions about what I had witnessed. Why explain it, anyway? Everything that needed to be said was on that nauseating video.

Clearly, it was the end for Lydia—I pictured myself in the prosecutor’s shoes, and was confident I could get at least twenty years—a life sentence wasn’t out of reach. There was no explaining away, or excusing, or diminishing, what that video showed. Clearly, my client was the prime instigator in the most depraved activities of the night crew.

For sure, Danny Elton was the ringleader and the director. He was the senior ranking soldier, the dominant male, and he kicked things into motion. And maybe he knew that by pitting Lydia against June, he was unleashing Lydia’s most resentful furies. But I don’t think Elton was smart enough to comprehend that Lydia was the vehicle through which he could get into June’s pants. Danny Elton wasn’t the type to employ Machiavellian artifices, or anything that might be described as subtle methods for wooing the opposite sex. For a man like Danny, bluff, menace, and straightforward force were his preferred methods.

He only knew he wanted to fuck June—he didn’t care how it came about.

As for June Johnston, I recalled Katherine’s unflattering portrait of her—and this video was a reminder to never underestimate the acuity of feminine intuition. Katherine had indeed been emotionally astute; for whatever reasons, memories of a parental predator, circumstance, crossed circuits in her brain, or all of the above, June
needed
to dominate. The moment Lydia disrobed, and began dancing, June perceived it as a challenge and she knew exactly how to rise to the occasion—or, more accurately, how to get others to rise. And knowing of Lydia’s romantic fixation on Danny Elton, she had chosen the most brutal, and the most public, way to show how easily she could take her man away.

As for my client, Lydia Eddelston, this was, I thought, a very troubled young mind. She should have known that she wasn’t equipped—not by bodily architecture, not by sexual artistry, certainly not by her ill-formed libido—to compete in a sexual rivalry with June. But she chose to try anyway, and June chose to bury Danny Elton’s groin in her own crotch.

Instead of Lydia licking her own wounds, or directing her anger at those who perpetrated her humiliation, as any sensible woman would do, she instead turned her anger, her frustration, and her shame on the prisoners.

Apropos of that insight, Margaret interrupted my ruminations. “Several of our Agency psychiatrists reviewed this DVD and arrived at some very chilling opinions regarding your client. Would you care to hear them?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

She nodded as though pleased to confirm my suspicion. “The technical term is transference—projecting her jealousy, her rage, and her vexation with Sergeant Elton against the prisoners. Further, they classified her specific behaviors as a classic example of penis envy.”

The pictures of Lydia dragging that prisoner around by his willy suddenly acquired an interpretation I did not want to even think about, much less talk about, so I changed topics and asked Margaret, “What are you going to do with this DVD?”

“Right now?” She allowed that conditional question to linger, before she explained, “Its existence is known only by a tiny handful of people. We’d prefer to keep it that way.” She paused again, resisting the urge to explicitly ask me,
Wouldn’t you
, and more tactfully inquired, “Don’t you think the world has already seen enough of your client?”

I answered, literally, “
I’ve
seen enough of her.”

Bernhardt, a bit smugly, stated, “We thought you would feel that way.”

Good guess, pal.

He added, “Now, just imagine, if you will, what would happen if that video ever got out to the public. The Arab world that already went into a paroxysm of violence over the photographs would go completely berserk. Burning embassies and murdered diplomats would be the least of our problems. The entire Middle East . . . the entire Moslem world, in fact, would become totally unhinged.”

Margaret apparently thought further elaboration would be helpful and stated, “The war in Iraq will almost certainly be lost. No Moslem in the world will want to align with the United States. Our coalition in Iraq will collapse. All our allies will try to get their distance from us. We might lose all our current basing arrangements in the region. Strategically speaking, this video is the equivalent of a nuclear bomb.”

I’m not an expert in international relations, but I certainly knew enough about hair-trigger Arab sensitivities to suspect the truth in these assessments. I mean, these people get all worked up at the sight of a brassiere strap or a cartoon making fun of Mohammad. I couldn’t imagine the response to a video of Lydia riding a braying Arab prisoner with her riding crop stuffed up his rectum.

I looked at Margaret first, then at the National Security Advisor to the President. “Once again, what do you expect from me?”

It occurred to me that the video in Margaret’s hand might be poison for my client, but it was infinitely worse for them—as Margaret herself had just suggested, it was a nuclear bomb, and even that might be an understatement. Said otherwise, I had their balls in my hand, which always is the best time to make a deal.

Then again, if the situation were reversed, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.

Bernhardt exchanged a quick look with Margaret before he turned to me. “Forget Amal Ashad. Forget the pictures, and I’m talking about the ones you sent to the lab for enhancement, and the ones you took of Ashad with his kids. As far as you’re concerned, as far as anybody is concerned, Amal Ashad died on that street in Iraq.”

“This is a joke, right?”

“No, this is the answer to your question.” He rubbed a hand across his chin, like a rug merchant. “The bigger question is what you expect in return. What will it take for a deal, Sean?”

“My client may be guilty, but I can’t walk away from the only chance to alleviate her guilt in the eyes of the court.” I looked him in the eye. “Lydia Eddelston may have done some very despicable things, but Amal Ashad’s hand was on her ass every step of the way.”

“I already know the difficulties you feel in making this decision, Colonel. Once again, what do you want in return for losing your witness?”

This sounded like an invitation to discuss either my place on the next promotion list, or three years of light duty in Hawaii, or both. But that isn’t how I, or the army, or the law, work. I think he knew this. But dealmaking is part of law, and in that vein, I responded, “How I answer that question depends on how much influence you have with the prosecutors and the judges.”

He turned to Margaret, who appeared undecided about how to answer this implied question, but then he realized the question was addressed to him. As much as he did not want to get his hands dirty, he admitted, “The prosecution team has not been briefed about Amal Ashad, nor can we ever inform them.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“In this case, my problems
are
your problems, Colonel Drummond. Ordinarily, we could sway the sentences they’re requesting from the courts. This time, it’s different.”

“How is it different?”

“There is a charge of murder that needs to be considered.”

“I’m aware of that. I’m also aware how easy it is to change the charge of murder to manslaughter in the third degree, and to let the conspiracy charges disappear, and to negotiate mild sentences in advance of a trial. I’ve done this hundreds of times before, and I damn well know how much flexibility the prosecution has in cases like this.”

“Then I hope you’re also aware that your client is one of the prime suspects,” Bernhardt commented, as if I hadn’t said anything. “In some minds, she is
the
prime suspect.”

“Then somebody has been drinking too much Kool-Aid. The list of Palchaci’s injuries is so severe, only an idiot would conclude he was murdered by a female, particularly one who is only five foot two and maybe one hundred thirty pounds. While she may be sexually aggressive, she has neither the physical strength nor the psychological inclination to commit such extreme violence.”

“Really? She struck that man with her riding crop.”

“Have you seen Palchaci’s autopsy results? A speeding truck would have done less damage.” I noted, “Anyway, it isn’t Lydia’s style.”

“You mean,” Bernhardt summarized, “she’d rather fuck them to death then beat them to death.”

I made no response. But, yes.

“That’s a unique defense, Colonel.”

I shook my head. “She didn’t kill him.”

“You’re arguing before the wrong jury. The murder and conspiracy charges are handcuffs, legally speaking. It’s in the public realm and I cannot wish them away. Be reasonable, Sean. I’m sure you understand this.”

In fact, I did understand what Bernhardt was saying. For as long as Lydia was regarded as a suspect in Palchaci’s slaying or, at the very least, as a willful coconspirator in protecting the identity of his killer, the prosecutors weren’t going to show any leniency or leeway. Danny Elton, as I mentioned, had once been my number one suspect in the murder of Palchaci—and I suspected, he remained theirs as well. Lydia was pregnant with his baby and she still had strong romantic feelings for him, albeit feelings that had apparently grown more complicated since learning that she didn’t have a monopoly on producing his heir, all of which represented demonstrably strong motives to cover up his crimes.

I asked the president’s national security advisor, “What if I can prove that she wasn’t involved in the murder or the cover-up?”

“That’s a mighty big if.”

“I do this for a living, sir.”

“As do the large number of investigators who have been exhaustively looking into Palchaci’s murder for the past two months.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Then you’re also aware they have found not one fucking iota of evidence as to who killed that man.”

I did not mention that those same investigators had also spent two months assuming that Amal Ashad was a red spot on the pavement back in Iraq, while, in fact, he was resting comfortably at home less than twenty miles from CID headquarters in Quantico.

I suggested, “Maybe what this case needs is fresh eyes.”

“And what if your fresh eyes don’t solve the case?” he asked, without mentioning what he was really thinking, which was that I was on a fucking goose chase. “We’re on a tight timeline here, Colonel. The president is waiting on you—the deployment order for an additional sixty thousand soldiers is sitting on his desk, conditional, as I mentioned, on Ashad’s lists. The airplanes and ships to get them over there are on standby. Every day we delay means more of our troops are getting killed.”

“Give me three days.”

He looked at me, but did not commit.

I upped the ante and said, “If I can’t prove her innocence by then, I’ll resign from the case, and nobody will ever know Amal Ashad is still sleeping with his wife.”

I thought I saw the hint of a smile when I mentioned the word
resign
. He said, in a nonnegotiable tone, “One day, no more.”

“And I want the assistance of the CIA.”

“I think I can arrange that. They want the killer found.” He turned to Margaret. “Will that be a problem?”

“Not at all.”

Time to drop the bombshell. “Also, I want to talk with Amal Ashad.”

“No, absolutely n—” He paused midsentence and asked me, “Why?”

I did not want to tip him off to where I was going with this, and replied, somewhat ambiguously, “He’s the one person who has not been interrogated about the circumstances that led to Palchaci’s death. Who knows? He may have insights that will help break the case.”

He awarded this statement the skeptical rise of his eyebrows it deserved. He then asked a very good question. “Do you regard him as a suspect?”

“Everybody who was present at that prison on the night of the murder is a suspect, Mr. Bernhardt.”

“Is that a yes, or a no?”

“There is nothing to suggest that Amal Ashad is any more or any less suspicious than any one of the other ten thousand people at Al Basari on the day Palchaci died.”

He and Margaret Martin exchanged looks. They should not believe this, and they obviously did not believe it. Of course Ashad was a key suspect. Certainly he had stronger motives for killing Palchaci than any other suspect—he possessed a deep hatred against the Sunnis who oppressed his people, perhaps a maniacal animosity, and nobody held a greater claim to that bitter loathing than General Palchaci, whose crimes against the Shiites were as monstrous as they were legendary. Further, if you applied the same incriminating logic that had been assumed against the members of the night crew—to wit, they had already crossed a moral divide by beating and sexually torturing the prisoners, so what was to keep them from escalating to murder—well, that same line of reasoning applied to Ashad. The only reason he wasn’t the lead suspect on anybody’s list was because everybody assumed he was dead.

To my surprise, Margaret, however, did not appear overly concerned by this request. She nodded at Bernhardt. “That’s acceptable to me.”

He turned back to me. “We’ll have him here at five o’clock. You’ll have one hour with Ashad. Not one minute more. Is that satisfactory to you?”

I nodded.

He paused a moment, then asked, “Now, is there anything else the President of the United States, or his national security advisor, can do for you, Colonel?”

I detected a new tone of annoyance, bordering on snippiness, and I didn’t want to press my luck. When you tug on the king’s cape, be careful your hand doesn’t slip and end up on his ass.

“Margaret will call you to arrange the meeting with Ashad.” He handed me his personal business card. “Call me directly in twenty-four hours. Good luck, Colonel.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I had turned off my cellphone for the meeting, and when I turned it back on, I found three messages from my cocounsel who, possibly, was wondering where I had disappeared to, and what I was doing during my absence, which I really did not want her to know.

I punched in her number and, when she answered, I informed her, “I’m on the post.”

“Doing
what
on the post?”

“This sounds like the fifth degree, Katherine. Change your tone.”

There was a pause before Katherine asked, only moderately less coldly, “Where were you yesterday, and what have you been doing?”

She sounded very stiff and unfriendly. It may have been the situation or it may have been that she had thought about our future, and I wasn’t in it.

Love and war have much in common; in war, however, at least you know when you’re a casualty.

I said to her, “So what are
you
doing?”

“I’m on my way to a meeting with the other defense attorneys. At noon, on post. I tried to tell you . . . unfortunately you were out-of-pocket and your phone was turned off.” She added, “Don’t ever turn off your fucking phone on me again.”

Katherine does not swear much, so I think she was pissed.

“I’m sorry, Katherine,” I answered, trying to sound appropriately chastised.

She said, “Imelda told me you were in DC.”

I distinctly remembered telling Imelda not to inform Katherine about my whereabouts. There was a time when Imelda would take a bullet for me, and I for her. I suppose, though, that asking a woman to keep a secret from another woman is a male fantasy.

But had Imelda also clued in Katherine about the images in my cellphone, the shit was about to really hit the paddles.

I asked Katherine, “Didn’t Imelda also tell you what I was doing in DC?”

“She said she had no idea why you were down there. Neither do I.” She asked again, “So . . . ?

I nearly exhaled with relief. “I was visiting the army personnel center.”

“Were you trying to arrange a quick transfer?”

“That’s not fair, Katherine. I thought a little more background on some of the prosecution witnesses might be helpful in court.”

“And I thought the materials Captain Howser left us included their personnel files.”

“Their official files, yes. The army keeps more extensive files at the center. Sometimes there is a classified file. You never know unless you ask.”

“Okay. And did you find anything of significance to the case?”

Absolutely. “Nope.”

“All right. Are you coming to the defense meeting at noon?”

“I can’t make it. My day is already mapped out. Besides, I have confidence in you, Katherine.”

There was another long pause, then, “Look, Sean, I realize that I may have complicated our relationship and our work on this case. It was a mistake, a bad one. My timing was lousy.”

Right
. “Nonsense.”

“I need your head in this case, and I need my own head clear. I hope you’re not moping around, trying to avoid me.”

It sounded like Imelda had also had a word with Katherine about our romantic silliness. I informed her, “I have a noon appointment with Lydia.”

“About what?”

“Just a few details I want clarified. Maybe start rehearsing her a bit. If she repeats on the stand some of the outlandish things she said to us, she won’t need a lawyer, she’ll need a straightjacket.”

“Go careful on her, Sean. She’s brittle.”

“I’ll wear my best velvet gloves,” I lied.

“When can we meet?”

“Not until tonight. I’ll call you.” And with that, I pushed disconnect.