“The nearest hospital.”
“It’s on fire.”
Marcy forced herself to think. “UCLA Med Center.” Jason gunned the van and they raced for Westwood, six miles to the west. Smoke drifted down the streets and twice they had to divert around packs of looters blocking their route. The moment they reached La Cienega Boulevard they hit a roadblock. Jason slammed the van to a halt and four young whites, all wearing new fatigues and carrying sidearms transferred the two girls and Richard into an ambulance.
“Are you National Guard?” Marcy asked.
“No ma’am,” one answered. He pointed to the distinctive red-and-black arm bands they were wearing. “First Brigade.”
6:03
P.M.
, Saturday, July 17,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
The live coverage from Los Angeles drew Sutherland to the TV set in his rooms. He watched as Marcy Bangor dominated the TV cameras during an interview at UCLA Med Center, and he stayed up late watching the commentators pontificate on what was driving her back into the “zone.” The label “courageous reporter” seemed to be part of her name. “It can truly be said,” one commentator observed from the safety of studios in New York, “that Marcy Bangor is redefining journalistic standards, lifting the bar to new highs of attainment and bravery.”
One woman commentator asked, “Why are the gangs allowing her access and not others?” She was roundly condemned for even speculating that Marcy had special access.
“A good question,” Sutherland muttered to himself. He went back to work but kept one ear tuned to the set. He almost called Toni for an update but thought better of it. She’d call as soon as anything broke. He simply hated the waiting and wanted to get on with the court-martial, to drive it to a conclusion, successful or not.
What’s the matter?
he thought. He shook his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs of doubt.
He turned on his laptop computer and, for the first time in months, called up the manuscript for his book. Time had made the title,
None Call It Justice
, fresh and appealing. At first, his thoughts were a jumble of impressions as he started a section on military justice. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he brought order out of chaos. The phone rang and stopped him with a jolt. He glanced at his watch: one o’clock Sunday morning. He picked up the phone. “Sutherland.”
It was the law enforcement desk. “There’s a woman at the visitors center who claims to be your ex-wife,” the NCO said. “Can you come and sign her in?”
“Since when are visitors required to sign in?”
“The base has been sealed since the shooting this morning,” the NCO told him. “No unauthorized person gets on without an escort.”
“Tell Beth I’ll be right there.” He hung up. “Why now?” he groused to himself.
He was surprised by the number of heavily armed guards wearing flack vests and helmets patrolling the streets as he drove to the visitor’s center. Beth was waiting for him inside where the two airmen on duty were fluttering around her, eager to please. As Sutherland expected, she looked gorgeous and the light linen pants-suit she was wearing was casual but elegant. “Hank, I’ve got to leave my car here and can’t drive on base.” The fatigue in her voice surprised him.
“They’ve sealed the base, Beth. Come on, my car is outside.” He transferred her bags to his car and drove slowly back to the VOQ. “Someone’s taking potshots at people,” he told her. But she was asleep. He carried two suitcases inside as she collapsed on the couch. He returned to the car to get her big duffel bag. When he came back, a trail of clothes led to the bedroom. Nothing had changed.
He dumped the duffel bag in the bedroom where Beth was sprawled on the bed. He looked at her. How many times had he seen her naked like this? But this time, there was no tingling in his groin, no slowly building lust, no eagerness to shed his clothes and feel her hands explore his body. He turned out the light and walked back to the living room.
Out of long habit, he picked up after her, neatly folding and hanging up her clothes. A ticket envelope fell out of her linen jacket. Automatically, he picked it up. The word
Kandersteg
with a seven-digit phone number was scrawled across the top in her big open handwriting. No one wrote quite like Beth. He glanced at the baggage stubs: JFK. Curious, he pulled out the ticket receipt. As expected, first class round trip. She had returned to New York less than six hours ago on a flight from Geneva, Switzerland. But there was no ticket from New York to Kansas City. That was Beth, totally disorganized. He placed the envelope with her passport in her handbag and finished tidying up the room.
With everything in order, he went back to his computer, eager to continue writing.
At first, it was a dream. Someone was beating on a wall in his prison cell. A primal fear stirred deep in his psyche as a dark threat loomed close by. The pounding grew louder as a voice called his name. “Hank!” He was awake. Blasedale was knocking at his door. “Come on, Hank. Wake up.” He rolled off the couch and staggered to the door, vaguely aware it was still dark outside. He managed to get it unlocked and Blasedale burst into the room. “Toni’s on the phone in my room.” She glanced around the room and saw Beth’s expensive luggage before she ran out. Sutherland followed her, not bothering to close the door.
Blasedale hurried back to her rooms and handed him the phone. He took it, trying to read the expression on her face. “Yeah, Toni,” he mumbled, surprised that he sounded even half awake. “What’cha got?”
“We just got back to the hotel,” Toni said. “I couldn’t get to you any sooner. Diana was drinking and started to cry. She said she was worried about Mikey. I pushed a little and she said Mikey was a kid with spina bifida she helped care for.”
2:15
A.M.
, Sunday, July 18,
The Farm, Western Virginia
Art Rios sat in front of the monitor and listened to Agnes recap the situation in Los Angeles. He had relatives in nearby Whittier, but that suburb was a universe away from the chaos in Central Los Angeles. Still, worry held him captive. “I also have an update from the Sudan,” Agnes said. “Maj. Terrant and Capt. Holloway are in transit between El Obeid and Khartoum.”
“Thanks, Agnes.”
“Are you going to tell Mr. Durant?”
“I’ll tell him when he wakes.”
“Shouldn’t he know now?”
“Why?” Rios replied. “You may have the Sudanese wired for sound, but we can’t do a damn thing about it.”
Agnes looked at him. “He doesn’t even tell you everything, does he?”
Rios shook his head.
10:30
A.M.
, Sunday, July 18,
Over The Sudan
Kamigami sat beside the blindfolded and shackled pilots near the rear of the C-130. The drone of the turboprops made any conversation difficult, not that he wanted to be seen talking to either Maj. Terrant or Capt. Holloway. Twice he had caught Assam looking at them, his brown eyes unblinking and cold. Once, just to prove he was alive and had survived the riot Assam had incited, Kamigami nodded at him. Assam blinked and looked away.
Murray, the flight engineer, climbed down from the flight deck and walked back to use the lavatory. Kamigami closed his eyes and waited. It seemed an eternity before the wiry Englishman came out. Murray stopped at the buffet to help himself to some food and ignored the protests of the steward that the food was for Assam and his party. “Try flying on an empty stomach, mate.” He munched a pear and climbed up the ladder to the flight deck. Kamigami got up and went into the lavatory. He bolted the door and checked the mirror for the telltale check mark. Nothing. The dead letter drop was empty. To be sure, he searched the back of the storage cabinets for a pack of cigarettes. Nothing.
Don’t panic
, he told himself as he came out.
It will be there
. A steward told him to strap in for landing at Khartoum, and he permitted himself a brief mental flight of profanity. He forced a calmness he didn’t feel as the big plane landed and taxied into parking. One of the stewards came past and raised the rear door. The hydraulics whined as the door opened, clunking into place under the tail. Kamigami stood and looked out. A mass of humanity extended as far back as he could see. This time, there was no al Gimlas to save him.
4:00
A.M.
, Sunday, July 18,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Sutherland stood in Blasedale’s kitchenette cooking omelets as the coffee perked. “That smells good,” Blasedale said. “I didn’t know you were a cook.”
“I’m not,” he replied. “I just like omelets. Besides, it’s gonna be a long day.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“As sure as I can be at four o’clock in the morning.”
“You do know where this is going, don’t you?”
He nodded. “Right to Lt. Col. Daniella McGraw.” He slipped an omelet onto a plate and sat it down in front of her. “It never occurred to me to look.”
“The OSI checked her out and she came up clean.”
“How much coincidence do you believe in?” Sutherland asked. He didn’t expect an answer. “Diana’s holding the key. We’ve got to build a fire under DOJ and grant her immunity. Without her testimony, we haven’t got a thing.”
Blasedale walked into her kitchenette and made coffee. “Your ex is here, isn’t she?” She turned to face him. “How much coincidence do
you
believe in?” He shook his head, missing her point. “It’s her timing, Hank. Look when she shows up.”
“She’s a part-time reporter and is doing background on the court-martial. She’s got a nose for news.”
“And you’ve got a thing for reporters,” she said.
Sutherland heard the irony in her voice. “I was married to Beth for eleven years.”
“Do me a favor, don’t tell her anything.”
“I never do,” he protested.
“If you were married for eleven years, she knows how to read between the lines.” She fixed him with a steady look. “Trust me on this, especially if you’re still sleeping with her. Call it woman’s intuition.” She handed him a cup of coffee. “We need to get to the office and work this.”
He sipped the coffee. “Nice pajamas,” he said.
She blushed. In the excitement of Toni’s phone call, she had forgotten to put on a robe. The short chemise and matching panties she wore for sleeping barely qualified as modest. “You bastard.” Then she relented. “But it is a good omelet.”
The phone call came after lunch. It was Toni. DOJ had finally come through. Brent Mather and the FBI had delivered the immunity agreement, and Diana was going over it with a lawyer. “It looks good,” Toni said. “There’s even a provision for her to enter the witness protection program if needed. The lawyer is urging her to sign and we’ve got a legal stenographer standing by so we can take a sworn statement.”
“Has she said anything else?” Sutherland asked.
“No. Hold on.” There was a long pause. “That was Brent. She’s signed and we’re ready to start. I’ll call you back.”
Sutherland punched off the telephone and leaned back in his chair. “Finally,” he muttered to Blasedale. “I figure it will take a couple more hours, if we’re lucky.” The phone rang. This time it was Beth and she wanted a ride back to her car. “Be right there,” he promised.
“Hank, don’t say anything.”
He nodded. “Don’t worry, I won’t. Call Cooper and I’ll be right back.”
Beth was ready to go when he returned to his rooms. “Where have you been?” she asked.
The lie came easy. “Ah, the JAG got the shakes last night about the court-martial and we had to explain it to him.”
“Are there problems?”
“Not on our side.” He changed the subject. “You never said last night, but why the visit? Missouri is not high on your list of places to be.”
“I’m still doing background and follow-up for a sidebar.”
“In Kansas City?” She didn’t answer as he pulled up to her car. He quickly transferred her bags and she gave him a peck on the cheek.
“I missed you this morning,” she murmured.
“Me too,” he lied.
“Is it too late?”
“Come on, it’s time to sign you out.”
R. Garrison Cooper and Capt. Jordan, the ADC, were waiting when he returned from the visitors’ center. Blasedale joined them as Sutherland related the latest developments in New Orleans. He was careful not to mention the possible link to McGraw. When he was finished, Cooper rose ponderously to his feet. “Why do I suspect you have been less than forthcoming? What haven’t you told me? I have always sensed a conspiracy.”
Sutherland grudgingly gave Cooper high marks for sensing what he had left out. “There’s no conspiracy here, Coop. We simply followed the evidence. That’s what we’re doing now. We need to hear what Mrs. Habib has to say and see how the follow-up investigation spins out. She may be lying to save her own neck. That’s why I’m going to request a continuance tomorrow morning.”
“Jefferson must be released.”
“There is a question about his safety,” Sutherland replied. “What with snipers off base.”
Cooper stood in the doorway. “I am certain this island of tranquility in a sea of chaos and the bedrock of military justice can provide for his well-being.”
Sutherland grinned. “I’ll be damned. You
can
read.”
“I want to see everything on this Habib woman, including her statement.”
“We’ll forward everything we have, including her statement, as soon as we get it.”
“Do that,” Cooper said. “Now, I must inform Capt. and Mrs. Jefferson of the good news.”
“Coop,” Sutherland said, “don’t get their hopes up. Mrs. Habib’s testimony could be the smoking gun that convicts him.”
Cooper swelled up in righteousness. “There is no smoking gun. Capt. Jefferson is innocent.” He marched out of the office with the ADC in tow. Then he spun around and marched right back in. “I was with that poor man and his wife before I came here. Do you know what they were doing? They were sitting in front of a TV holding hands and watching the riot. How do you tell an innocent man that he is not responsible for that?” He glared at Sutherland. “Tell me!”
“Save it for the lawsuit,” Sutherland said. Cooper stormed out, making a theatrical exit stage right.
Blasedale closed the door and sat down. “Are you going to tell him about McGraw?”
“I will if we continue against Jefferson, but not now. Cooper would leak it to the media in a heartbeat. I met McGraw’s kid, Mikey. He doesn’t need to get dragged into this. Besides, it may just be coincidence, and she’s got enough on her plate.”
“You’ve got to give Cooper credit,” Blasedale said. “His instincts were right on.”
“Even a stopped clock is right once a day.”
Blasedale gave a little humph. “I liked him better hung over and in jail.”
Sutherland laughed. “Hey, don’t blame me.”
“Why not? You were the one who bailed him out.”
9:47
P.M.
, Sunday, July 18,
Los Angeles
Marcy stood in the shadows across the street from the church watching a group of Bloods and Crips mill around as they screwed up their courage. When she saw a Molotov cocktail, she lifted her camera and snapped a picture, hoping the light was good enough to record the scene. She dialed the
Union
on her cellular phone and quickly filed her story.
“It’s Sunday night, July eighteenth, and the riot is entering its fourth day. Thanks to the timely reinforcement of the Los Angeles police and sheriff’s departments by the First Brigade, the riot has been contained. But the governor still refuses to call out the National Guard, claiming the local authorities are on top of the situation. However, only my escort’s skills of survival and negotiation have kept me alive in this hell.
“I’m at the virtual epicenter of the chaos sweeping South Central Los Angeles, watching rioters gather in front of a Korean Baptist church near Olympic and Vermont. Until now, an unspoken agreement has kept the churches inviolable. But I can see at least one Molotov cocktail.” Hard experience had taught her that Molotov cocktails were like rats in the woodwork: see one and you knew more were around.
Her editor in Sacramento interrupted. “Do you have any more photos?”
“What about the story?” she muttered.
“Right now the photos are the story. You’re the only reporter still in the zone.”
“When’s the governor calling out the National Guard?” she asked.
“I doubt if he will. We’re getting reports of units refusing to leave their hometowns. He’s afraid if he orders them into Los Angeles, they’ll mutiny rather than leave their own communities undefended.”
She interrupted him. “Oh my God, they’re throwing Molotov cocktails at the church. There’re people inside.”
“Get more photos,” her editor ordered.
She broke the connection and dialed the discrete number of the command center she had been given. “They’re firebombing a church,” she said, reporting her location. “There’re people inside.” The controller promised her he’d try to get a fire truck through. Jason pulled her back into the shadows.
Most of the Crips wandered away looking for another target, but about fifteen Bloods stayed behind, laughing and drinking as the people inside the church tried to extinguish the flames. In the distance, the distinctive wail of a fire truck grew louder. “I don’t like this,” Jason said. “The fire department is high on their hate list, right after the police and schools.”
The efforts of the congregation were paying off and the fire was dying away. Suddenly, one of the Bloods stepped clear of his buddies and sprayed the Koreans with gunfire from a Mac Ten, forcing them back into the church. At that moment, the fire truck pulled up. “Thank God,” Marcy whispered, still shooting frame after frame.
“Don’t bet on it,” Jason muttered. The Bloods clustered around the firemen and yelled at them to leave. But they continued to unlimber a hose and connected it to a fire hydrant. A fireman turned the valve and they directed the stream of water onto the burning church. Again, the congregation joined in the effort and the flames slowly yielded as the shouts and threats from the gangbangers grew louder. “Let’s get out of here,” Jason said.
“I want to get this,” Marcy replied. She jammed another card into the camera and continued shooting.
“Be careful,” he told her. “This is different.”
But it was too late. The Blood with the Mac Ten rushed the firemen and sprayed them with gunfire. Methodically, he stood over each one and fired, reloading twice. When he was not killing a fireman, he sprayed the church, forcing the people back inside. Finally, he was out of ammunition. The people inside the church surged out, running for their lives. The Bloods threw more Molotov cocktails and shots from a single revolver echoed down the street. But it was not enough to keep the Koreans inside.
The Blood threw down his gun, picked up the fire hose, and aimed it at the people still streaming out of the church. The blast forced them back inside. A ten-year-old boy ran out, his clothes on fire. The Blood turned the fire hose on him and knocked him down, washing him into the street. He tried to pull the hose after him as he advanced on the boy, but it was too heavy. Other gangbangers joined him to help with the heavy hose. Now, he tumbled the boy down the street with the jet of water, laughing maniacally as more people escaped from the burning church.
Marcy stepped out of the shadows and raised her camera, trying for a clearer shot. One of the Bloods saw her and yelled. The man on the nozzle turned it on her, still laughing. The force of the water knocked her off her feet and threw her against the curb. Now he advanced on her, washing her down the street as she clutched the precious camera against her body. But the hose was not long enough and he turned back to the boy who was staggering to his feet.