The Trial of Fallen Angels (12 page)

14

K
aren Busfield’s criminal case came back to me in Luas’s office as if I were seeing a portion of my own life being replayed by Haissem in the Courtroom.

It’s late at night; Bo and I have put Sarah to bed and fallen asleep ourselves. The telephone rings, startling me awake. My heart pounds as I fumble for the receiver, trying to comprehend what’s happening, and fearing the worst because of the late hour.

“Yes? Hello?” I say groggily.

“Brek? Hi, it’s me, Karen.”

“Karen?” I say, trying to regain my bearings. I can’t see the clock. “My God, what time is it? Are you okay?”

“It’s two a.m.,” she says. “I’m really sorry for calling you so late, but I’m in trouble. I need a lawyer.”

The familiar sounds of a jail echo in the background, rough voices, the slamming of heavy steel doors.

“Where are you?”

“Fort Leavenworth,” Karen replies.

“Leavenworth? What are you doing there, counseling inmates?”

“No,” she says. “I am an inmate.”

I can tell she isn’t joking.

Bo rolls over. “What’s going on?” he asks.

I cover the phone. “It’s Karen,” I whisper. “I think she’s been arrested.”

“What?”

“You’re a military chaplain,” I say to Karen. “What could you have possibly done?”

“I can’t talk about that right now,” she says.

“Okay,” I say, understanding that the call is being monitored. “Can you at least tell me what they’re charging you with?”

“Assault, criminal trespass, and . . .”

“And what?”

“Treason and espionage.”

“
Treason and espionage?
Are you serious?” Bo’s eyes widen.

“Yes, I’m serious.”

I sit on the bed, dumbfounded.

“Brek, are you there?” Karen asks.

“Are you sure they said treason?” I ask.

“Yes,” Karen replies.

“Okay, I’m coming,” I say. “And I’m bringing Bill Gwynne with me.”

“No, just you,” Karen says.

“Treason is a big deal, Karen,” I warn her. “I don’t want to scare you, but it carries the death penalty. I’m bringing Bill with me—and maybe twenty other lawyers. Let me call the airlines. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

“Just you, Brek, okay?” she pleads. I can tell she’s on the verge of breaking down. “Please?”

“Okay, honey,” I say. “Okay, I’ll do whatever you want. For now. We can talk about it when I get there.”

“Thanks,” she says. “Don’t rush. Take care of Sarah first. I’ll be fine. I’m really sorry about this. How’s she doing?”

“Sarah’s okay,” I say. “It’s you who I’m worried about.”

“I’m really sorry—”

“It’s not a problem,” I say. “This is what I do. Let me pack a bag. Do you need anything?”

“Just you,” Karen says. She starts crying. I can hear a woman’s voice giving her orders in the background. “They’re saying I’ve got to hang up now,” she sniffles.

“Everything will be all right,” I assure her. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stay strong. And, Karen, no matter what you do,
don’t answer any questions
, okay? Tell them you’re invoking your right to remain silent until you’ve spoken with your attorney.”

“Okay. Thanks, Brek,” she says. “I’ve got to go now. Bye.”

I hang up the phone.

Bo is fully awake and sitting up. “They’re charging an Air Force chaplain with treason and espionage?” he says. “You’ve got to be kidding. I hope you realize this is going to be front-page national news.”

“I know,” I say bleakly. “But you can’t be the one to break the story. Karen called me as her lawyer. My conversation with her was confidential attorney-client communication. The fact that you happened to be sleeping beside me doesn’t change that.”

“But—”

“Promise me, Bo,” I say. “This is serious. I understand why you’d want to be the first on a story like this, but there’s no way you can report it or tip anybody else about it. I can’t be Karen’s lawyer if I have to worry that everything I say in my own home might wind up on the wires the next day.”

“Okay,” he says, disappointed. “But get ready. You’re going to be facing a lot of other reporters—guys who won’t be as nice as me. You’ll be on television every day—maybe even more than I am.”

“Great,” I say. “Maybe I’ll replace the weather girl.”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

“Can you take care of Sarah while I’m gone?”

“Sure, we’ll manage. I’ll call in a few favors.”

I kiss him on the cheek. “Thanks,” I say. “I’m going to need your help to get through this.”

“You’ve got it, whatever you need.” He kisses me on the forehead, then looks me in the eyes and grins. “Kick some U.S. attorney’s butt and make us proud.”

I hug him and head for the shower.

—

LATER THAT MORNING,
I fly to Kansas City, rent a car, and drive the rest of the way to Fort Leavenworth, arriving late in the afternoon. Two female guards escort Karen, dressed in orange prison coveralls and wearing handcuffs, into the small room with a table and two chairs reserved for attorney visits. Karen looks terrible—pale and gaunt with dark circles under puffy, red eyes, as though she hasn’t slept or eaten in days. She takes the chair across from me and flashes me a weak smile. The guards leave the room and close and lock the door behind them so our conversation will be confidential, but they continue monitoring us through a window.

“Oh, sweetie,” I say, fighting back tears and reaching out to touch her hand. One of the guards raps on the window and gestures toward a sign in the room that reads “No Physical Contact Permitted.” Karen scowls at the guard, but I obey, putting my hand in my lap. We look at each other silently.

“I’m really sorry I dragged you all the way here,” she says. “How was your flight?”

“Fine,” I say, “no problems. How are you holding up? Are they treating you okay?”

She looks down and tugs on her coveralls. “They took my clerical collar.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, “we’ll get it back. I’m meeting with the U.S. attorney later this afternoon to see if I can get this cleared up, or at least negotiate a low bail. You’re a priest with no criminal history; you’re obviously not much of a threat or a flight risk.” I glance at my watch. “We only have forty-five minutes. Tell me what happened.”

Karen yawns and rubs her eyes. “They’ve been questioning me for two days. I haven’t gotten any sleep.”

“What?” I say, alarmed. “Questioning you for two days? Didn’t they tell you that you had the right to a lawyer?”

“Yes,” she says, “but I told them I didn’t think I needed one.”

“You didn’t think you needed one!” I snap, more than a little cranky myself from having been awakened in the middle of the night to travel from Pennsylvania to Kansas. “They’re charging you with treason and espionage and you didn’t think you needed a lawyer? Why did you bother calling me, then?”

“Please don’t yell at me,” Karen says.

I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just that it makes it so much harder to defend you if you’ve been talking to them for two days already. Did you confess to anything?”

“Of course not . . . at least not that I’m aware of.”

“That’s exactly my point,” I say. “Two days with no sleep, who knows what they had you saying. No more talking, okay?”

Karen nods obediently. “Okay, no more talking.”

“Good, now tell me what happened.”

She looks at me and then, fidgeting with her fingers, looks away.

“I can’t help you unless you talk to me, Karen.”

“I know.”

I sit quietly, waiting, but she won’t speak. I can tell she’s completely humiliated. “Okay,” I say, finally, “I’ll tell you what. Let me tell you something I’ve never told anybody before, something
I
did wrong once.”

“You’ve never done anything wrong,” Karen says.

“Yes, I have,” I say. I tug on the empty right sleeve of my suit—the same black silk suit I was wearing when I arrived in Shemaya; I wore it that day because I knew I would need all the confidence I could get to meet the U.S. attorney. “Do you see this?” I say, showing her the empty sleeve. Then I proceed to tell her everything about how I had lost my arm, including my perjured testimony during the trial. When I finish, Karen smiles gratefully and compassionately—like a priest.

“You were only a child,” she says, softly. “You’ve already been forgiven. Do you know that?”

“Yes,” I say, “I know. And
you’ve
already been forgiven for whatever you’ve done too. Do you know that?”

She smiles again and wipes her eyes. “Yes, I guess I do.”

“Now tell me what happened.”

“Okay,” she says, summoning her strength. “Well, since you’re my lawyer, I guess I can tell you . . . I’m a chaplain to the missileers.”

“The who?”

“The missileers—the airmen who man the nuclear missile silos. You know, the ones with their fingers on the buttons, ready to launch ICBMs to end the world when the president gives the command?”

“Really?” I’m impressed. “I thought you were just an ordinary base chaplain ministering to enlisted men and their families or something.”

“I was. Do you remember about a year ago when I told you they were transferring me to Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Minot is one of the bases that has Minuteman intercontinental nuclear ballistic missiles on alert. Because of the sensitivity of what they do there and the special security clearances I had to receive, I wasn’t allowed to tell anybody that part of my duties included serving as a chaplain to the missileers and their families on base. They don’t want the Russians or North Koreans turning clergy into spies.”

“Interesting,” I say. “Okay, so what happened?”

“I’m against nuclear weapons,” Karen says.

“That might be a problem,” I reply. “But it’s not treason.”

“Well,” Karen says, “I guess I told some of the missileers that launching nuclear missiles is wrong and they should refuse to do it if they’re ever ordered to.”

I stop her. “Wait a minute. When you say ‘wrong,’ you mean wrong as in wrong unless we’re attacked first, right?”

“No,” Karen says, “even in retaliation.”

“So if the Russians or North Koreans launch nuclear missiles at the United States, we’re not supposed to respond?”

“We’re supposed to forgive, Brek. We’re not supposed to resist violence with violence.”

“But that’s what the military does, Karen,” I say, incredulous. “They resist violence with violence. That’s their line of work; it’s their entire reason for being. Why did you become a military chaplain if you don’t agree with what they do?”

Karen looks puzzled. “Would you ask why a doctor works in a hospital when she doesn’t agree with sickness and disease? We go where we’re needed most, Brek. Doctors go to hospitals because that’s where the sick people are—and lawyers go to prisons to help people charged with crimes. Nobody needs more help in practicing nonviolence and forgiveness than the military—and nobody in the military needs to learn about it more than the people who can destroy the world in a fit of revenge-seeking.”

I’m stunned—it’s the crayfish trials all over again. “That’s all very nice in theory,” I say, “but the best way of deterring a nuclear attack is to make sure our enemies understand they’ll suffer the same fate if they ever try it.”

“But if we’re attacked,” Karen replies, “then, by definition, nuclear deterrence will have failed, so why bother to retaliate?”

“I don’t follow you,” I say.

“Let’s say we’re attacked by nuclear weapons this afternoon,” Karen explains. “If that happens, it will be despite our threat of retaliation and mutually assured destruction. In other words, our threat of retaliation didn’t work—it didn’t deter the attack.”

“I guess so . . .”

“So if it didn’t deter the attack, then retaliating would be risking the destruction of the world to carry out an already failed strategy. It would be both illogical and immoral.”

I scratch my head, trying to follow her logic. “Look,” I say, annoyed, “I’m not here to debate national nuclear strategy. I’m here to defend you against a charge of treason and espionage. There’s a right to free speech in this country—a right we protect, by the way, with nuclear missiles—and it means that you can say anything you want regardless of whether others agree, so I still don’t understand what you did wrong and why you’re here. Telling missileers not to launch their missiles might be a breach of your duties as an Air Force officer and get you a dishonorable discharge, but it’s not treason. You didn’t levy war against the United States or give aid and comfort to our enemies.”

Karen glances at the guards and lowers her voice. “There’s more to it than that,” she says. “I went down into one of the missile silos.”

“What? Did you break in?”

“No, one of the officers in my congregation, Sam—I mean Captain Thompson, one of the missileers—let me go with him and Brian, Captain Kurtz, during their shift in the MAF.”

“What does that mean, MAF?”

“Missile Alert Facility, that’s what they call the underground launch-control capsules. Each MAF controls ten Minuteman missiles.”

“Was he allowed to take you there?”

“He got special permission. See, they’re normally two-person crews and they stay underground for twenty-four hours, but the Air Force has been studying whether three-person crews spelling each other over longer shifts would work better, so having me along wasn’t entirely unusual. And I already had a high security clearance because I counsel them. I wanted to see what it’s like down there so I could understand better. You have no idea how much stress they’re under, sitting for hours on end with their fingers on the button. They’ve got questions and need somebody to talk to.”

“I can imagine,” I say, “but going into a MAF isn’t treason either.”

Karen holds her eyes on me. “They went on alert while we were down there. A satellite supposedly picked up what appeared to be the launch of two North Korean ICBMs. The protocol required Sam and Brian to have their missiles ready to launch within five minutes.”

“Wow, did they ask you to leave?”

“Yes.”

“And did you?”

“Not exactly, not right away. It’s surreal down there, Brek. The MAF capsules are suspended on these huge shock absorbers, like egg yolks inside eggs, to help them withstand a nuclear blast. They rattle around a lot, so the first thing Sam and Brian are required to do is buckle themselves into their chairs. The entire place started rumbling and shaking when the huge steel blast doors over the missiles slid open. We could see them on the closed-circuit monitors. Within seconds, the tips of the missiles were pointing toward the sky.”