Huston, James W. -2003- Secret Justice (com v4.0)(html) (13 page)

“You deny it.”

“Deny what?”

“You deny it was your idea to have Rathman arrested and charged?”

“I had nothing to do with it, Sarah. You can take my word for it.”

She leaned back, considered, then sat forward again. “I don’t believe you.”

His eyes grew large. “You think I’d
lie
to you? You can’t be serious.”

“Come on, Howard. I’m not stupid. You resent me and always have. You don’t think I belong here.”

“You
don’t
. You’re way out of your league, playing secret government with all your little friends.”

“Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t belong.”

“Yes, well,” he said. “You’ve even told the President that
you
would make a better Secretary of Defense than me. Haven’t you?”

She felt betrayed. “I don’t think I’ve ever said that. I have offered to take the position if it ever became available, true. But not at your expense. I haven’t ever said I’m better than you.”

Stuntz laughed. “Don’t bullshit me, Sarah. I know you’re damned ambitious. We all are. But you don’t need to go to the President and stab me in the back when I’m not around.”

“I didn’t stab—”

“The hell you didn’t. And I’ll bet you were really pissed when the President didn’t do what he had hinted he would do. Weren’t you?”

“It’s completely up to him.”

“That’s why he came to me and told me all about it. He asked me how long I wanted to be SEC DEF. I told him at least through his first term. After that, we’d see. He said that was good enough for him. So, Miss Security Adviser, you’re just going to have to wait to see your little Machiavellian plan play out.”

St. James hadn’t expected the President to tell Stuntz about their private conversation. “I want you to stop the prosecution of Rathman.”

“Stop it yourself. They’ve already issued the indictment. And if we don’t prosecute him, the Europeans will. He’s now a war criminal, and they know
all
about it.”

The U.S. marshals led Rat out of the dark blue van and into the underground passageway of the Department of Justice building in downtown Washington, D.C. They moved to the elevator and stepped inside. As the door closed, one of the marshals took out a key and inserted it into the elevator panel where a button might have been for the top floor. He turned the key, the elevator lurched upward, and the marshal returned the key to his pocket. Rat didn’t even know where he was.

The marshals were as surprised as Rat at their destination. In all the years these marshals had worked for the government they had never seen a defendant taken to trial in the secret courtroom they all knew was there. The DOJ did not acknowledge the courtroom even existed. It was the courtroom for the FISA Court. The court that heard applications for secret wiretaps under the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act on people suspected of committing espionage against the United States.

The elevator stopped with a jerk and the marshals led Rat out into the area just outside the courtroom. There were no windows. To the right of the door was a small metal frame protruding from the wall. The marshal put his hand inside the frame and manipulated the rocker switches to release the cipher locks on the door. A solenoid snapped the steel bolt lock out of the way and the marshal pulled on the handle of the heavy door.

Rat was surprised by the room’s opulence, its warmth. There were several large black leather chairs behind the massive bench in the front of the courtroom, and large tables for the attorneys. There was even room for perhaps twenty people to observe the court.

Skyles was waiting for him at the defense table. He stood as Rat approached. Skyles grinned. “Got your call.”

“I can see that. Don’t screw this up.”

“You won’t regret letting me represent you. We’ll get these guys.”

“Can I sit down?”

“Sure. Until the judge gets here.”

Rat sat in the hardwood chair. “Do I have to have my hands bound all the time?”

“No. They should take those off.” Skyles motioned for the marshal, who unlocked Rat’s cuffs.

Rat rubbed his wrists. “A judge is going to hear this?”

“Right. Our trial judge.”

“Know anything about him?”

“Lots.” Skyles pulled a manila folder from his briefcase. It had been used before and Skyles had crossed out whatever had been written on the tabs and had written “U.S. v. Rathman” on the left, and “Judge Royce Wiggins” on the right. He opened the folder and brought out a report on Wiggins, including his picture. Rat looked at it quickly. Skyles turned toward Rat.

“Our judge is a member of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act Court, or FISA court, the court that meets in this room. Eleven judges from district courts around the country, three from the D.C. area. They meet in secret and hear requests for surveillance and searches. Intel stuff, spy stuff. They all feel real important, and nobody ever gets to see what they do here. There are three other judges, appellate judges that hear any appeals from their rulings, but in the twenty-five years that this court has existed, only one or two of their decisions have ever been appealed. Anyway, they’ve got a lot of power. They give the FBI and the NSA—the National—”

“I know who the NSA is.”

“Right. In this court they don’t even demand probable cause. Suspicion is good enough. They authorize electronic eavesdropping on people they believe are involved in espionage, terrorism, that sort of thing. Recently, after 9/11, more of this stuff was going on. The ACLU got wind of it and started going bat-shit, and lots of suits have followed. But so far it’s all intact. This judge is one of the ones that hears that kind of thing, and has a clearance. The DOJ picked him to try this case.”

“That’s kind of like one team picking the umpire.”

Skyles nodded. “Kind of is. If we want to challenge him, we can.”

“Does he know what he’s doing?”

Skyles put the file back in his briefcase. “Don’t know. I spoke to some lawyers who tried cases in front of him in South Dakota, where he came from, and they sort of clammed up. Didn’t want to talk about him. I finally got one guy to talk, and he said the judge is very decisive and stupid.”

Rat clenched his jaw. “Stupid? And that’s okay?”

“Just one guy’s opinion. May just mean he lost a case. Hard to tell from one report. But for now, we’re stuck with him.”

“This morning is just about bail, right?”

“Just bail. We’ll try to keep the judge from setting some huge bail amount. I’m sure the U.S. Attorney will ask for a lot of bail and claim that you’re some sort of a flight risk. It will be total bullshit, but they’re going to try to rub your nose in this thing every step of the way.”

“That’s comforting.”

“They’re not here to make us comfortable. They’re here to make sure you stay locked up. You don’t have any friends here except me—” He stopped as the judge entered the courtroom. “Stand up. Here we go.”

The U.S. Attorney hurried through the cipher-locked door in the back and rushed to his table as the judge entered.

“All rise,” the bailiff said as the judge took the bench.

The clerk spoke. “The United States District Court for the District of Columbia is now in session, the Honorable Royce Wiggins presiding. Please be seated.”

There were eleven chairs. The judge simply took the middle chair. He sat heavily, placed a file in front of him, and combed back the thin hair on his head. He looked over his reading glasses. “Call the case,” he ordered his clerk.

Rat tried to evaluate the judge as the clerk rose to read something. The tops of his reading glasses ran through his sight lines causing him to move his head dramatically whenever he wanted to see something. His face was blotchy and unhealthy-looking. There was no humor in the judge’s demeanor whatsoever.

The clerk read, “Case number one on calendar,
United States
vs.
Kent Rathman
. State your appearances.”

“Good morning, Your Honor,” said the attorney who had rushed in at the last moment. “Assistant United States Attorney John Wolff on behalf of the United States.”

Skyles stood after Wolff. “Good morning, Your Honor. Richard Skyles on behalf of Lieutenant Kent Rathman, the defendant.”

Judge Wiggins looked toward the U.S. Attorney’s table. “We’re here for a bail hearing. I’ve read the papers. Mr. Wolff, anything to add?”

Rat watched Wolff closely. He didn’t like what he saw. Wolff looked very competent and comfortable. He made Skyles look like a rube. Wolff was perhaps thirty-five, with closely cropped blond hair.

“This is a very serious case, Your Honor. It has national and even international implications. Not only is it serious in terms of the charges—manslaughter and a violation of the Geneva Convention—but it is serious in terms of the implications for the defendant involved. This is the kind of case that would ruin his career, and could cause him great personal embarrassment and humiliation. Rather than have such humiliation rest on his shoulders at the conclusion of this case, it is the belief of the United States that he would flee, and take his chances on not being brought back to trial.”

“How much bail are you requesting?”

“One million dollars, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Skyles?”

Skyles stood slowly, looking at the U.S. Attorney in disbelief before returning his attention to Judge Wiggins. “I frankly am shocked at the request of United States for bail, Your Honor. It is very clear that United States is the one that is embarrassed and humiliated by the existence of this trial. They’re doing everything they can to keep this trial away from the scrutiny that it deserves. To make the claim that this all-American hero, this Naval Academy graduate, who is considered by everyone to be the best special forces operative in the country, is likely to flee the country he loves because of this ridiculous charge is outrageous. Kent Rathman isn’t going anywhere. His job is here—which still requires his constant attention—his home is here, his girlfriend lives here, all his obligations are here. He’s not going anywhere.”

“Do you have a recommendation for the court?” the judge asked.

“Yes, Your Honor. Forgive me. Mr. Rathman respectfully requests that he be released on his own recognizance. As I said, he’s not going anywhere.”

“I’m going to set bail at fifty thousand dollars. Anything else for today?”

Wolff barked, “Your Honor, I request that Lieutenant Rathman be restricted to the D.C. area.”

Skyles put out his hands. “On what grounds? His job may require him to travel with little or no notice. This is just another way for the government to take away his profession, to punish him before they have a conviction. He’ll be here for trial, Your Honor, or anything else you want him to be at.”

“He’s a flight risk, Your Honor—”

“No, he’s not, Mr. Wolff. Mr. Rathman’s bail will be without travel restriction.” He looked at Rat. “Mr. Rathman, you will not flee before your trial, will you?”

“No, sir,” Rat said.

“And you will be here for your trial, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

“You give me your word as an officer?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Will there be anything else?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Skyles said. He looked around at the courtroom, as if in surprise. “Why are we in this secret courtroom with cipher door locks? Why are we not in an ordinary federal courtroom in the large federal courthouse the taxpayers have paid for that sits just a few blocks from here?”

Judge Wiggins frowned. “You know very well, Mr. Skyles, that this is a case which may involve secret and even top-secret evidence. I assume it is that concern that has led to the selection of this courtroom.”

“I heard that might be the case, sir. But then what is this secret evidence? It has certainly not been provided to me by the U.S. Attorney.”

“I’m sure you’ll be informed at the earliest opportunity. Am I right, Mr. Wolff?”

“Considering we received word that Mr. Skyles was retained approximately two hours ago, we have not had the opportunity to provide him with the evidence that he is entitled to at this point. He will receive everything . . . to which he is entitled, Your Honor.”

Skyles smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Wolff. I’ll be over this afternoon.”

The judge nodded. “Court is adjourned.” He banged his gavel down and stood to leave the courtroom.

Skyles turned toward Rat. “Do you have fifty thousand dollars? Actually for bail, you’ll only need about ten percent of that. Can you put it together?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“I’m going to leave that in your hands. Call me if you get stuck. I’m going to go start rubbing against the U.S. Attorney. I’ve only seen this Wolff fellow once before. Never tried a case against him. Unfortunately, he is supposed to be one of the sharpest in the D.C. office. I guess we’ll find out just how sharp he is. I’ll see you later,” Skyles said as he followed Wolff out the door.

The marshals took Rat by the arms and led him back to jail.

Even though it was April, the day dawned cold and hard. The slate-gray sky warned of a building storm and likely snow. The three woodsmen stomped the night’s cold out of their legs as they prepared to leave their camp just as they had done every day for the last four weeks. What had at first sounded like a lucrative easy job had turned into drudgery. They were there to find certain trees of certain diameters and single-cut them. It was tedious work, and only after accepting it had they realized that the trees they sought were hard to find. Only after arriving were they told their pay was based on
finding
and cutting the large trees, not just looking. They were to be paid by the piece.

One week to go and then they could go back to Tbilisi for a two-week break. They looked forward to returning to the city, the capital of the Republic of Georgia, to taste some high-quality vodka instead of the swill they had brought with them in their flasks. They wanted to see families and girlfriends, and get paid. Then when they renegotiated their pay and returned back to the woods of Georgia, the remote thankless woods of Abkhazia, they would be farther away from winter and the cold would have receded a few degrees.