“I’m not complaining,” Kirkwood said defensively, walking inside the headquarters with O’Connor. “I’m just saying we might do better if all of what happened yesterday and last night didn’t get mentioned in dispatches. I would rather that Major Dickinson heard nothing of it. That’s all.”
“That asshole has you intimidated!” Terry O’Connor said, walking down the passageway toward a desk in the hallway where a burrheaded gunnery sergeant sat behind an open logbook.
“I’m not intimidated,” Kirkwood huffed.
“Dicky Doo has you by the balls, admit it,” O’Connor said, and then looked at the gunny. “We’re lawyers from Da Nang looking for our clients that you have boxed up around here somewhere.”
“That would be at PMO,” the gunny said. “I can call over there and have them send someone here to pick you up.”
“Would you do that for us?” O’Connor said, smiling.
“What’s going on out there?” a voice boomed from an office behind the gunny’s desk. In a moment a barrel-chested, cigar-chomping colonel wearing a flight suit stepped through the doorway and gave the two captains a quick up-and-down look.
“Sir,” the gunny said, “these are lawyers for a couple of turds we’ve got locked up. I’m calling PMO to give them a ride.”
“You boys look like you’ve been shot at and missed, and then shit at and hit,” the colonel said in a loud, rasping voice, while clenching the stogie in his teeth and laughing. Then he glanced down at the gunny. “Go ahead and give the desk sergeant a call, and tell him I said to get his ass over here and pick up these two officers.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” Kirkwood and O’Connor said simultaneously.
“Care to come rest your butts in my office?” the commander of Marine Wing Support Group Seventeen said, sweeping his hand back in a gracious gesture for the pair of captains to come inside and sit. “I’m Jerry Sigenthaler, one of the stud ducks in this pond.”
“Jon Kirkwood, sir, and this is my colleague Terry O’Connor,” Kirkwood said, stepping through the doorway and following the senior officer, who then flopped on a brown leather couch and threw his feet across a stack of magazines piled on a coffee table.
“You boys ride down in the wheel wells, or did you get totally fucked up like that on purpose?” the colonel said and laughed.
“We spent the night at LZ Ross,” O’Connor offered.
The colonel roared laughing, nearly choking, and then took a sip from a mug of coffee to clear his throat.
“Well, that explains it,” Sigenthaler said, and pointed at two brown leather chairs where the captains then sat. “Hell of a fight down there last night I hear. I guess it would have anyone’s knob looking a little bit frayed.”
On the colonel’s desk sat a monstrous, ornately carved wooden name-plate. Adorning its left side, pinned to a red patch of felt, a colonel’s silver eagle rank insignia gleamed. On the right side of the gaudy, ornamental placard, a silver and gold Marine Corps officer’s emblem sparkled. Decoratively cut into the Filipino monkey wood in two-inch-high English script the words Jerome W. Sigenthaler stood in a sweeping arch.
“I guess you two learned how the other half lives over here then,” the colonel then beamed. “You don’t look any worse for wear, though. You ain’t leaking anyplace, are you?”
“No leaks, sir. Although a shower and a good night’s sleep would do wonders for us both,” Kirkwood offered.
“Gunny Purdue, the boy out front, said you’re lawyers seeing clients,” the colonel then purred.
“Yes, sir,” O’Connor answered. “I am the defense counsel for Private Celestine Anderson, and Captain Kirkwood represents Corporal Nathan L. Todd.”
“Since they’re the only two prisoners in the cage right now, I know who you’re talking about,” Colonel Sigenthaler growled, biting down on his cigar. “Cold-blooded ax murderer. Hell, I was a cunt hair from just pulling out my pistol and shooting the son of a bitch on the spot. You should have seen what he did to that poor boy. Split his head half in two.”
“I heard that the sight of the death was quite gruesome, sir,” O’Connor said, carefully choosing his words.
“So, what do you want with the boy?” Sigenthaler said, sipping coffee, and then noticing the two lawyers watching him. “Shit, I’m sorry, boys, right over there on the sideboard, grab some cups and pour yourselves some coffee. Hell, relax.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kirkwood said, and walked to the table, where an urn filled with coffee sat next to a stack of white mugs, and a jar of sugar and instant creamer. Terry O’Connor followed his partner and filled a cup, too.
“What about that cocksucker?” the colonel then asked.
“Accused cocksucker,” Kirkwood responded. “Corporal Todd stands accused.”
“So does the fucking ax murderer,” Sigenthaler retorted, “but that doesn’t change the facts of what happened.”
“That’s why we have a trial, though, sir,” Kirkwood then said, “to seek the truth of what actually happened. I’m sure that even the ax murder has a basis of explanation. No one just kills another man with an ax for no reason.”
“Oh, shit, I’m sure he had his reasons,” Sigenthaler said, chewing his unlit cigar. “But this guy’s pulling out another Marine’s dick while he’s sleeping, and trying to suck it. I’d like to hear the explanation of what motivated that son of a bitch.”
“Sir, that does raise a lot of interesting questions, doesn’t it?” Kirkwood said, sitting back in the chair. “We have six black Marines accusing this nonblack outsider of trying to sexually assault one of their cohorts as he slept, and then they beat the hell out of him for it. Quite a few questions arise.”
“Shit, the son of a bitch needed his ass whipped, trying to suck a good man’s dick while he’s asleep,” Sigenthaler growled, biting the stogie hard. “Damned disgusting! Don’t that make you boys want to puke?”
“What if the group of black Marines whipped my client’s ass, just for the sport of it, and then made up the cocksucking business as a good excuse to cover themselves for the assault and battery that they committed?” Kirkwood offered.
“Those son of a bitches would be painting white stripes on the runways in midday heat they pull something as chicken shit as that,” the colonel said.
“Sir, I have not yet talked to my client, but he did make a quite long and very detailed voluntary statement,” Kirkwood said, sipping his coffee. “He claims that he simply went inside the barracks after getting off duty, and the six black Marines jumped him as he entered his cubicle. He emphatically refutes the accusation that he has any homosexual desires whatsoever.”
“That’s his word against six pretty good Marines, Captain,” the colonel then said. “The boys who nailed his wicked ass, they all have good records. Never any trouble. Totally out of character for them to attack any fellow Marine, no matter his color. This kid, Todd, he’s new here, so I don’t know what winds his clock.”
“That’s why we have a trial, sir,” Kirkwood said, and then sighed. “Although in this man’s case, just having such a charge levied against him has taken its toll in damages already, and threatens his entire future. Did you read his statement?”
“No, not yet,” the colonel said. “We alerted your office Friday morning, after the shit happened Thursday night. The ax murder has taken priority. I’ll get it read tomorrow, before we ship them up to the brig at Da Nang.”
“Sir, I hope that you will consider what Corporal Todd asks in his statement before you process it any higher,” Kirkwood said, seeing the opportunity to plea his case before facing Charlie Heyster and any theatrical tricks he might pull in court against a man accused of homosexual conduct.
“So, tell me, Captain,” the colonel said, now walking to the sideboard and refilling his coffee mug, “what is so damaging?”
“The man will never be able to go home,” Kirkwood said. “His people will ostracize him, simply based on the charges, even if we exonerate him. Any record that he was ever accused of homosexuality can brand him with an ugly specter that will ruin him not only where he lives but among his own family, too. They’ll disown him.”
“That’s a little hard to swallow,” the colonel said, and then laughed as he sat down, “like that big black dick he tried to suck.”
Kirkwood and O’Connor smiled politely at the jovial colonel with his poor taste in humor.
“Sir, are you at all aware of Corporal Todd’s background?” Kirkwood said, now walking to the coffee mess to refill his cup, too.
“Like I told you,” Sigenthaler blustered, “the boy’s new here, I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“He’s a full-blooded Cheyenne from a highly respected family, coming from a very tightly knit Indian community in Colorado,” Kirkwood explained, sitting back in his chair. “According to Todd’s voluntary statement, the Cheyenne people have strict social standards and customs. They don’t even marry outside their nation, did you know that? That’s why we have so few of them remaining today.”
“That boy’s a Cheyenne Indian?” Colonel Sigenthaler bellowed. “Shit, those lying bastards, accusing him of cocksucking. They beat this poor boy to a pulp, too. The sons a bitches made the queer story up just to cover their attack on this lad. By damn, I’ll have them filling sandbags and burning shitters for the next six months if I don’t keel haul them first.”
“Sir?” Kirkwood said, perplexed at the 180-degree outburst. “Now you’re suddenly convinced that the six black Marines accusing my client are lying?”
“Damned right they’re lying!” the colonel growled. “Shit, boy, anybody knows that there ain’t any queer Indians! That’d be like calling John Wayne a fruitcake. And he damned sure ain’t any fruitcake. Neither is this Indian boy.”
The colonel then walked to his desk and removed a tan manila folder from a tower of wooden trays. He pulled the charge sheet accusing Corporal Nathan L. Todd of homosexual conduct from it and started to tear the paper in half. Jon Kirkwood quickly stepped to the desk and put his hand on the document.
“Sir, you can’t just tear it up,” the lawyer said.
“Why the fuck not? It’s a damned lie!” Sigenthaler bellowed.
“We need you to write an endorsement disapproving the charges, and ordering that the entire incident be expunged from Corporal Todd’s record,” Kirkwood explained. “Say the complaint lacked material and corroborating evidence to support the charges, because that is clearly the case. We have a group of assailants accusing my client with nothing to back them up, and circumstances suspiciously pointing to their culpability in the gang-style assault and battery of my client. Furthermore, Corporal Todd vehemently denies the charges, and we both know about Indians, don’t we.”
“Hell, yes,” Sigenthaler said, jotting some notes on a yellow writing tablet. “Ain’t any queer Indians.”
Terry O’Connor got a fresh cup of coffee, and then looked at the colonel as he walked back to his chair.
“You care to discuss my client’s case, sir?” the lawyer said.
“Skipper, with a dead body in a bag, I don’t think we have much to say about your client’s case,” the colonel said, not looking up and still scrawling hurriedly on the notepad.
“What about Todd, sir?” Kirkwood then asked, hoping to resolve all questions about his client’s incarceration status.
“We’ll let him out of that cage right now. He can pack his trash, and fly to Da Nang with you this afternoon. The lad damned sure can’t stay here. Not now,” Colonel Sigenthaler said, lying back on the couch and crossing his legs on the coffee table once again. “By now, half the Marines in the barracks have heard about the charges. News like that travels fast. They’ve got him flagged as queer, and they’ll have his ass. Not fair, but the damned facts of life in these parts. We’ll just ship him up to Freedom Hill anyway, only he’ll be working on the other side of the bars at the brig.”
“Sir?” Kirkwood said, now confused.
“We’ve got a quota to fill for a chaser up there, and I just filled it,” the colonel said with a satisfied smile, sipping his coffee.
MONDAY AFTERNOON, JON Kirkwood left the defense section’s offices early. Terry O’Connor had just begun to peel the layers of misinformation off his client’s murder charge and surrounding statements by witnesses and authorities, and already realized that extenuating circumstances might offer some real hope for a lighter sentence or a reduced charge of manslaughter.
Kirkwood had aptly pointed out that rather than making the prosecution prove his client killed Buster Rein, concede the fact. Anderson did kill Rein, but argue that the man needed killing. Doing so would open the door to the many extenuating issues that led to the final act, done without planning, committed in a rage of anger, provoked by the victim. O’Connor had angled on that same avenue of thought, but had worried about trying to defend against the charge rather than maneuvering to the why of it. Such a concession would also eliminate the long parade of eyewitnesses who had seen the killing at a distance but who knew nothing of the circumstances that led to it. Stanley Tufts, the lead prosecutor on the case, ably assisted by Philip Edward Bailey-Brown, half of the intellectual tandem of the Brothers B, would no doubt look to call as many eyewitnesses as possible, to reinforce the heinous nature of the killing, and let them paint the defendant as cold-blooded and mean.
Concession of the fact that Anderson did kill Rein would remove the need for the court to examine the details of the slaying itself. The trial could then focus on the issues that provoked the killing. It removed many of the tools with which Tufts and Bailey-Brown would use to bury Anderson.
With a pared-down agenda of jobs to get done, Terry O’Connor went to work looking for witnesses and testimony that would justify the killing of the racist thug. Dicky Doo had told O’Connor that he could have First Lieutenant Wayne Ebberhardt to assist him in the defense, but no one had talked to the lieutenant since Friday night. Rumor speculated he might have gone flying with Lobo early that morning. Others reported sightings of him in the ville with a flight attendant, and that he had a tall, shapely white woman shacked in a Da Nang hotel. No one knew for sure where Ebberhardt had disappeared, but they didn’t let the mojo know about it either.