“The court-martial will come to order,” Williams said. “You may be seated.”
Sutherland remained standing and repeated the opening statements, again from memory, never looking at Blasedale’s scripted guide which was still open in front of him. But to keep Williams happy, he turned the page at exactly the right moment. “This court-martial is convened by general court-martial convening order AB Thirty-eight…” This time, he focused on Jefferson, trying to get a sense of the man he was attempting to send to Leavenworth for the rest of his life. “The accused and the following persons named in the convening orders are present.” He listed all the names of the panel, careful to pronounce each one correctly. Then: “The prosecution is ready to proceed with the trial in the case of United States versus Capt. Bradley A. Jefferson, United States Air Force, who is present.”
“The members will now be sworn,” Williams said.
“All persons rise,” the bailiff intoned, now at the right volume.
Sutherland turned to the panel. “Do each of you swear that you will answer truthfully the questions concerning whether you should serve as a member of this court-martial…” His eyes darted over the twelve officers in the jury box as he recited the oath. Three of the members were women, a captain, major, and lieutenant colonel. The youngest of them had a man’s name, Michael. There were two African-Americans, both males, a major and Col. Perkins. The name triggered an association and, for a brief moment, Sutherland was back in the hospital room with Gus Perkins in Sacramento.
The members chorused “I do” when he finished reciting the oath. Sutherland silently took his own, very personal, oath.
I will not screw up and justice will be done here
.
“Please be seated,” Williams said, “the court-martial is now assembled.” He cleared his throat and started to speak, giving the members preliminary instructions. Sutherland relaxed in his chair, using the time to study the panel and take their measure. He had plenty of time because Williams was detailing their duties with precision. Blasedale scribbled a note and passed it to Sutherland.
Williams sees a future
.
Sutherland nodded. It was true. Reputations and careers were going to be made and broken over the next few days. If Col. William W. Williams played it right, his judicial career would go far beyond the military. Sutherland focused on the panel, matching faces to the questionnaires they had filled out. Judging by the way the colonel was glaring at Jefferson, he was in a hanging mood. On cue, Sutherland was back on his feet, outlining the general nature of the charges against Jefferson. He sat down.
“I will ask you some general questions before we proceed,” Williams said. Voir dire had started. “Do any of you know the accused?” Nine of the members admitted they either knew of Jefferson or had come in contact with him in the course of their duties. But none claimed a friendship or special relationship. Williams made a few notes before continuing his questioning. Satisfied, he said, “Trial counsel may ask questions.”
Now it was Blasedale’s turn. She stood and stepped around the prosecution table, a legal pad in her left hand. She glanced at the pad. Not for the first time, Sutherland was impressed by her poise. Her uniform was brand new, tailored to her figure, and her hair carefully arranged. Williams wasn’t the only person with a future resting on the outcome of the court-martial. Then it hit him. Catherine Blasedale was a woman in her prime and, in her own way, extremely attractive.
She chooses her moments
, he thought, listening to her voice. Like Williams, her questions were directed at the group but were much more specific in nature.
Cooper lumbered to his feet when she was finished. “No questions at this time.”
“The panel will now withdraw,” Williams said. “Some of you may be recalled to answer specific questions. Please do not discuss the questions you have been asked, or your answers, with other members of the panel.”
“All rise,” the bailiff called as the panel stood and filed out of the courtroom.
“Does trial counsel or defense counsel wish to recall any members for questioning?” Williams asked.
Blasedale gave Sutherland a tight smile as she stood. “Trial counsel has no further questions at this time.”
Cooper came to his feet. “Defense wishes to examine each of the members individually.” He sat down. Williams’s face was impassive as Col. Perkins, the senior member, was recalled. R. Garrison Cooper remained standing as the colonel entered and took a seat in the jury box. “Col. Perkins, I have little experience with court-martials or the military so I hope you’ll forgive a gruff old lawyer if I say the wrong thing. Have you experienced racism of any kind, institutional or individual, during your career?”
4:16
P.M.
, Thursday, July 15,
Sacramento, Calif.
The computer beeped and the editor of the
Sacramento Union
scanned the late-breaking story, expecting an update on the first day of the court-martial at Whiteman Air Force Base. He grunted. It was much better. A peaceful demonstration in Los Angeles protesting Jefferson’s court-martial was turning violent. So far, three police cars had been overturned and burned and tear gas had been used. He didn’t hesitate and phoned Marcy Bangor at her home.
“We’ve got a hot one brewing,” he said as he sent the story to her computer. He waited for her to read it. “The country has been sitting on a powder keg for months and this may be the fuse.”
“You might want to turn on CNC-TV News,” she told him.
The editor did as she asked and Meredith’s face filled one of the three monitors in his office. The sound of thunderous applause blasted him when Meredith shouted, “We will protect our families and homes from the mindless violence sweeping our country!” On another screen, the President called for the country to remain calm. The editor cycled through the TV coverage coming from the different channels. Meredith’s coverage beat the President’s three to two. On the center screen, a CNN helicopter was airborne over the riot area as South Central Los Angeles erupted in one of its periodic spasms of violence, burning, and looting.
“I’m sending a team down there to cover it. You want to go?”
“I’m already packing.”
6:37
P.M.
, Thursday, July 15,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
“Have you seen the TV?” Blasedale asked when she came into Sutherland’s VOQ suite. She was carrying a large pizza fresh from her oven and a six-pack of beer for a rehash of the first day in court.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “L.A. is going crazy again. I hope we don’t get any backwash here.”
“The nice thing about small towns,” she told him, “is that everybody knows everybody and that keeps people on track. The loonies need anonymity to come out of the woodwork.” She cut the pizza and handed him a beer. “Eat.”
He reached for a piece of pizza. “What’s your take so far?”
“Coop is halfway through the panel so he should finish tomorrow. I figure he wants to get Perkins excused so one of the white lieutenant colonels will be the presiding officer. That way, he can play the race card later on with the press.”
Sutherland shook his head. “They can’t be that stupid.” She cocked a questioning eyebrow at him. “Yeah, they can,” he admitted. “I got to give Cooper high marks, he knows how to work a jury.” She agreed and opened a beer. For the next hour, they nitpicked the panel’s reaction to Cooper’s questioning. It was the self-flagellation trial lawyers had perfected to a high art in a futile attempt to get inside a jury’s mind. She waited until he was on his second beer and a bit mellow before discussing her strategy.
“I want to kick Capt. Knight off the panel.”
It was his turn to cock an eyebrow. He decided she did it better when she laughed at him. “The pudgy captain in the back row,” he said, identifying the officer.
“That’s him. He’s a social actions officer, and I think he’s the one most likely to see this in racial terms. Social Actions officers tend to be the bleeding hearts of the Air Force. I suppose it goes with their job, dealing with minorities and discrimination and all. You see the same thing in social workers who end up being advocates for their people.”
“So you think he’ll vote for acquittal simply because Jefferson is black?” She nodded. “It’s your voir dire. Go for it. Let Coop ask all the questions and use our peremptory so it won’t be too obvious why he got kicked off.”
He reached for another piece of pizza. “I wish I could get a handle on Jefferson,” Sutherland said. “He’s an unknown quantity, a cipher. I was concentrating mostly on Col. Perkins, but I caught Jefferson smiling when Perkins got testy in response to Coop’s questioning.”
Before Blasedale could answer, the phone rang. It was Toni and he put her on the speaker phone. “The FBI found Diana Habib,” Toni told them.
“Where?” they both said in unison.
“New Orleans. She’s booked on a flight to Brazil tomorrow afternoon.”
“Can you get down there and interview her?” Sutherland asked.
“We’re halfway there.”
“Where are you?” Sutherland asked.
“Adams Field at Little Rock. We should be in New Orleans in about three hours. Brent’s refueling while I file the flight plan.” Sutherland stifled his reaction to the mention of Brent Mather. “I rented a Cessna out of Skyhaven at Warrensburg,” Toni explained. “Nice airplane.”
Now the pieces came together and Sutherland made a croaking sound. He had a well-developed dislike for light aircraft. “I didn’t know you were a pilot.”
“It’s something I do,” she answered. “I love flying and it comes in handy. I hope you’re going to sign the voucher and not make me pay for it.”
11:45
A.M.
, Friday, July 16,
El Obeid, The Sudan
Kamigami pushed his way through the mass of humanity swirling around the mosque. Friday always brought out a large number since it was the Islamic sabbath, but this crowd was different, more tense and edgy. He made his way along the wall, searching for the beggar who was his contact. But he was not there. Rather than linger and draw attention, Kamigami passed out coins to a few of the more pathetic specimens hunkered down with their hands out and headed back for his Range Rover.
The call to prayer sounded from a minaret. As usual, the
muezzin
’s chant was tape-recorded and amplified through loudspeakers. A sixth sense warned him that he was being watched. Hard experience in combat had taught him not to ignore it, and he joined the men streaming into the mosque. He wasn’t worried because he knew the routine and, although he was the only Asian, the Islamic religion tended to be very cosmopolitan. He stopped at the fountain and washed his hands and feet as ritual prescribed before going inside. He joined a long row of men that faced the
mihrab
, the niche in the wall that indicated the direction of Mecca.
He could feel the electricity in the crowd as the time approached for the sermon. Kamigami tensed when he saw Jamil bin Assam mount the pulpit. Instead of the general’s uniform Assam preferred, he was barefoot and wearing a two-tone gold robe. Because there is no clergy in Islam and all worshipers have the same relationship with God, anyone can give the sermon. But by tradition, it is reserved for
imams
, or spiritual, leaders. Jamil bin Assam was not an
imam
nor spiritual, and his presence meant trouble. It wasn’t long in coming.
Although Kamigami’s Arabic was very limited, he caught enough of the words to understand that Assam was raising the call against foreigners. He kept repeating the word
jihad
until it rang like a bell over the mosque. The hard looks turned in Kamigami’s direction confirmed that Assam’s message had found a receptive audience. The crowd was on its feet, surging toward the entrance, and taking everyone with it. Resistance was futile and the last thing Kamigami wanted was to seem different.
Outside, he was pushed and shoved as the shouting grew louder. He tried to force his way through the crowd, chanting “God is great, God is merciful,” in Arabic. It didn’t work and the mob pushed back, forcing him into the main square. Now blows were raining down on him. “Death to Americans!” a man shouted in English.
“I’m from Malaysia,” he shouted in Malay, then French, then Cantonese, anything but English. The men around him jeered and continued to pound him. Kamigami was a big man and weighed over 250 pounds. He had spent most of his adult life as a professional soldier and knew how to fight. He also knew he was going down. He roared in anger. It was a war cry, the rage of a samurai, and, for a moment, the mob froze and backed off. He was alone in a small circle.
A man stepped out of the mob holding a short sword. Kamigami and his executioner stared at each other. The man held the sword in front of him with both hands and pointed it at Kamigami while he chanted the
shahada
. “God is great. God is great. I testify that there is no god but God.” Kamigami crouched on one knee as the man repeated the litany, sensing he would charge when the chant was finished. The man raised the sword above his head.
A horn blared and a truck barreled into the crowd, diverting the executioner’s attention. Four soldiers piled out of the truck, all carrying AK-47s. The crowd screamed for Kamigami’s head. The men raised their weapons and drew down on him and Kamigami knew he was dead. A white Range Rover sped up behind the soldiers and slammed to a stop. A tall figure wearing the silver tans of an officer stepped out into the swirling dust. It was Capt. Davig al Gimlas. He walked past his soldiers and headed straight for Kamigami. “You Americans do cause me trouble.”
“It’s pretty bad when a man can’t even pray in peace,” Kamigami said.