“So stipulated,” Sutherland said.
Capt. Jordan took a few moments longer. “So stipulated.”
Williams walked into the courtroom at exactly nine o’clock and the court-martial resumed. It reminded Sutherland of a Shakespearian tragedy in overdrive as it played out. It took less man three minutes for Williams to accept and enter the psychiatric evaluations into the record. The words that followed were vague echoes and Sutherland had to concentrate as the image of a young boy in a wheelchair held him captive.
“Capt. Jefferson,” Williams said, “I will ask you again, has any sort of coercion or duress been applied to you or your family to change your plea to guilty?”
“No, Your Honor, there has not.”
Sutherland’s head jerked up. The tone of Jefferson’s voice had changed. Years of experience had conditioned him to the subtle cues that marked emotional trauma.
It’s McGraw
, he thought.
He’s really upset
.
“Do you agree to cooperate fully in any future investigations?” Williams asked.
“I do,” Jefferson answered.
Williams continued through the questions required by the manual for courts-martial. Jefferson’s answers came with a predictable finality, each one driving a spike into Sutherland.
Listen to him!
Sutherland roared to himself.
This guy is full of guilt
.
Suddenly, the questions stopped and Williams read the words Sutherland did not want to hear. “I find that the accused has knowingly, intelligently, and consciously waived his rights against self-incrimination, to a trial of the facts by a court-martial, and to be confronted by the witnesses against him; that the accused is, in fact, guilty; and his plea of guilty is accepted.
“Capt. Jefferson, you may request to withdraw your plea of guilty at any time before sentencing is announced in your case, and if you have a good reason for the request, I will grant it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I understand.”
“Capt. Jefferson,” Williams intoned, “in accordance with your plea of guilty, this court-martial finds you of Charge One-oh-six-ay: Guilty.”
The silence in the courtroom was absolute. Suddenly, the whir of the air conditioner came on and a gust of cool air wafted down from the ceiling vents.
Who is going to believe this?
Sutherland thought. Then another, much stronger emotion swept over him.
What happened to justice here?
“This court-martial is in recess until thirteen hundred today,” Williams announced. Before the bailiff could utter his command to rise, everyone rose, Williams swept out of the room, his robe billowing in the rush of cool air. The reporters hurried out, anxious to file updates.
Normally, Sutherland was good at waiting, always able to find something to occupy his mind. But this time, nothing helped and he went for a run before it became too hot. He pounded the pavement, driving his body at a fast pace. He ran out the main gate and past the band of protesters who had become a permanent part of the scenery. But this time, they were strangely silent and were not waving their posters at every passing car. He turned left on DD and ran toward Warrensburg. His lungs were rasping, straining for air, when he crested a small rise.
Ahead of him, a car was pulled off to the side of the road and two women, one in uniform, were kneeling where McGraw’s van had overturned and burned. He slowed and coasted up to Blasedale and Linda who were pounding a small white cross into the ground. A big wreath of flowers lay on the ground beside them. He bent over, his hands on his knees, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “Why?” he asked.
“Because no one else will,” Blasedale said.
Linda stood up, tears streaking her face. “I knew her.” She hesitated, searching for the right words to make sense out of it all. “It was too much for her. It would have been too much for anyone. She was a good mother until she broke under the strain.” She reached out and touched Sutherland’s cheek. “We’re here because of all the good things she did.” She pulled her hand away, leaving the warmth of her touch behind.
He turned and ran back toward the base, his own demon quiet for the moment.
Sutherland made it back to his suite in the VOQ with over an hour to spare and peeled off his sweat-soaked clothes. He stared at himself in the mirror and took stock. He had changed and not just physically. Besides losing twenty pounds and looking ten years younger, he knew exactly who he was. He turned on the shower. “Get to the bottom of this,” he muttered to himself. “Don’t let it go.” He stepped into the shower and the hot water coursed over his body. The doorbell buzzed. Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and answered the door. It was Toni. “Hi. I thought you had left.”
“I did,” she answered. She was tense, on edge, and tired from the lack of sleep. “I’m working on the McGraw investigation. We need to talk. May I come in?”
He waived her inside. “What a sad case. Give me a few minutes to dress. I’ll be right back.” Before he could move, she was in his arms, her arms were around his neck and he felt the beginnings of an erection.
Don’t even think about it
, he cautioned himself, remembering what Blasedale had said. Toni’s face was buried in his chest and she started to cry. At first, it was little more than a whimper, then it broke free and her body wracked with sobs. He held her close to him as she cried, at last grieving for Harry and Andrea.
Sutherland was dressed and ready to leave for the court-martial. He looked at Toni and she came into his arms. She raised her face to his and their lips brushed. “Why?” he asked.
“Does it matter,” she murmured.
“Yeah, I think it does.”
She pulled away. “Men,” she fumed. “You can never make up your minds. My brother warned me about that.”
“Toni, this is important.”
She laughed, the old confidence back. “Let’s see how it turns out. Come on, time to go.”
They drove in silence to the headquarters building and parked. They had to push their way through the crowd of reporters and TV crews crushed around the entrances. But like the demonstrators outside the main gate, they too were subdued and quiet. He led the way up the back stairs and to the legal offices in order to enter the courtroom through the side door. Blasedale was already there, sitting at the trial counsel’s table. She followed Toni’s progress as she found a place against the side wall to stand. Then she looked at Sutherland.
“She’s here on the McGraw case,” Sutherland explained. “She needs to talk to both of us.”
“You’re damn right she’s going to talk to both of us.”
Jefferson walked in the side door, this time escorted by two sharp-looking, armed security cops. It was the first time weapons had been in the courtroom. They stood directly behind Jefferson at parade rest and stared straight ahead. The bailiff entered and called, “All rise.”
“The final act,” Sutherland said in a low voice.
“Is it?” she answered, her voice fiat and angry.
Sutherland remained standing. “All parties and the military judge are present.” He sat down and as agreed, Blasedale took the presentencing phase. Whatever was bothering her, she covered it with a blanket of professionalism. Again, he thought of a stage play with its scripted finality as they marched in lockstep through Jefferson’s Air Force career and any matters the defense wanted to enter in mitigation and extenuation. The relentless pace accelerated when no witnesses were called and Jefferson declined the opportunity to make a statement in his own behalf.
Sutherland rose to present his closing statement. He stood motionless for a moment, his head bowed before starting to speak. The lines he had so carefully crafted and memorized flowed easily as he spoke of the crime of espionage and the damage caused to the security of the United States. He paused and looked at Jefferson and, for the first time, saw the man.
He is innocent!
It hit him with all the clarity and force of a revelation and his speech was dust on the wind.
“There are times,” he said, improvising, thinking not of Jefferson but of Mikey in his wheelchair, “when honorable, decent people do hurtful, bad things. Perhaps, it is not for us to know what goes on inside the heart of other humans and, lacking that wisdom, we can only judge their actions.
“Although Capt. Jefferson has pleaded guilty to the crime of espionage, I still find myself asking the one, unanswered question: Why? Until we know that answer, I, for one, cannot totally condemn him. I acknowledge that Capt. Jefferson must be punished for what he has done. But I ask the court to sentence him with both reason and compassion. For, perhaps in some middle ground, there lies justice and hope for the future—not only his future but ours as well.” His hands dangled helplessly at his side and he fell silent. There was no more to say and he sat down.
“A pretty speech,” Blasedale growled, her anger back. “Which table are you sitting at?”
“Right now, I’m not sure.”
Capt. Jordan stood to present the defense’s closing statement and coattailed on Sutherland’s sentiments. Then he was finished.
Williams folded his hands and looked at the defendant’s table. “Capt. Jefferson, would you and your counsel stand up please?” They came to their feet. “Capt. Jefferson, I have reviewed your plea of guilty and listened to both trial and defense counsel’s closing statements with care. This court sentences you to life imprisonment, reduction in grade to airman basic, and the forfeiture of all pay and allowances. Please be seated.”
“He nailed him,” Sutherland muttered in the silence. There was no answer from Blasedale.
Williams continued as he advised Jefferson of his post-trial and appellate rights. He concluded with the inevitable, “Do you have any questions?”
Jefferson stood and there was no doubt in Sutherland’s mind that he was innocent. “I have no questions, Your Honor.” His voice was firm and clear.
Williams took a deep breath. “This court-martial is adjourned.”
Everyone stood as Williams, left the courtroom. The Rock came through the same door and nodded to the two security cops. They came to attention but made no move toward Jefferson. Jefferson stepped around the defense table closely followed by the cops. He came over to Sutherland and extended his right hand. Their hands clasped for a moment and then pulled apart. Jefferson turned and walked toward the tall sergeant waiting for him. The Rock fell in behind him as he passed through the door.
“What was that all about?” Blasedale asked.
Sutherland showed her the small white card Jefferson had left behind in his hand. “This.”
Blasedale was caged fury when she barged into her old office. The anger that had been building demanded release and she slammed the door behind Sutherland and Toni. “I warned you,” she said, glaring at both of them.
“About what?” Sutherland replied.
“About fraternization.”
“What fraternization?” Sutherland asked.
“Don’t try to tell me you two weren’t getting it on. Dammit, Hank. I’m not going to let you get away with this.”
“Excuse me, Major,” Toni said. “Get away with what?”
“Must I say it? With fucking you!”
“I can’t say I object to the idea,” Toni said, “but there’s one very small problem. I come from a very traditional family and a quick trip to a doctor will prove I’m still a virgin.”
For a moment, the silence was absolute.
If it had been another time, Sutherland would have laughed. But not this day. “I bet you can’t say the same,” he muttered.
Damn!
Sutherland thought.
Why did I say that? Cathy didn’t deserve it
. He felt miserable. Blasedale’s jaw went rigid. She turned and left the room with as much dignity as she could muster. “I hope that’s not a goodbye. I like her.” He looked at Toni. “I got to tell you, that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
She gave him a warm smile. “It was hard, wasn’t it?” She paused. “That card Jefferson gave you—I saw you pocket it.”
“You don’t miss much, do you?” She nodded as he drew the business card out of his pocket. A nine digit alphanumeric code was written on the back in neat block printing. He turned it over to read the front. It was a business card for Credit Geneve, Geneva, Switzerland.
“What is it?” she asked.
He slowly turned the card over and over. “The money.”
6:40
A.M.
, Saturday, July 24,
Khartoum
The army truck roared through the gates of the largest
medressah
in the Sudan. The Islamic seminary was still bathed in the cool shadows of Saturday morning and no sound of the angry demonstrations that filled the streets had reached inside its thick walls. The gates closed behind the truck as shouts of “Death to the Americans!” echoed in the air. The canvas sealing the back of the truck was ripped aside and eight guards dragged Mark Terrant and Doug Holloway out the back.
They were dressed in freshly laundered, but ill-fitting prison garb. Both were barefooted and manacled. A black canvas bag covered each one’s head. They were pulled down a long corridor and through the doors of a large assembly room where they were kicked and shoved into a cage made of steel bars. A hand reached through the bars and gently pulled off Terrant’s hood. The major blinked his eyes and focused on Kamigami. Kamigami moved over to Holloway and removed his hood.
“What now?” Terrant asked.
“You’re going on trial,” Kamigami said. He pointed to a fanatical little man sitting at a desk in front of the cage. “That’s your defense attorney. He doesn’t speak English.”
“Where’s the interpreter?” Holloway asked.
Terrant looked around the room. “I don’t think we’re going to get one.”
Three men wearing dark flowing robes and turbans entered from a side door and sat at a long table. “Those are the judges,” Kamigami said.