Authors: Brian Haig
“No kidding? What kind? Real, meat-eating Republicans? Or, that phony, limp-wristed Rockefeller kind?”
“I even had a skinhead in my law school class.”
“A skinhead?”
“Way wacko.” She rolled her eyes. “All he wore were those freaky black T-shirts, camouflage pants, and combat boots. He concentrated on constitutional law. He had this plan to graduate, then spend the rest of his life trying to stuff the Supreme Court docket with challenges to various antidiscrimination statutes. Rambo Esquire, we all called him.”
“Damn, he sure chose the right place. What’s the name of that professor? You know, the one who wrote all those bestselling books and keeps suing the government?”
“Alan Dershowitz?”
“Yeah, that guy.”
“Alan actually liked him,” she said. “He thought Rambo had spunk and chutzpah.”
“You know Dershowitz?”
“Very well, in fact. Alan was my faculty adviser. Also the best lawyer I ever saw. I took both his classes.”
“Gee, and I thought I was the best lawyer you ever saw.”
I nearly smiled. Of course, I was being sly and disingenuous. I was trying to dispel these troubling doubts about Morrow, like maybe she hadn’t really gone to Harvard Law, like maybe she wasn’t really a lawyer, like maybe she was a plant who’d been placed here to report on me and keep me in line. Of course, I had the same doubts about Delbert, but I was fast reaching the point where I needed someone to confide in. Lots of strange things were happening, and I felt like I needed a sounding board.
I said, “Do you mind if I unload a few things on you?”
Her being a beautiful woman and all, I probably should have picked my words a little more carefully. She’d no doubt had dozens of men ask her that same question, then start unburdening about the lousy wife that didn’t understand them, or the sex life that wasn’t working or some such thing. Beautiful women spend a lot of time being confessors to men who want to get into their pants.
She kind of winced. “Okay, Major, if you must.”
“First, let’s drop that major thing, okay? Sean will do just fine.”
From the dubious look on her face, this seemed to confirm her worst fears. “Okay, Sean, fine.”
“What I need from you is a sanity check.”
This confused her for a moment, since it was obviously not what she’d expected to hear. Unless, that is, by sanity check I was leading up to her playing doctor, and when boys and girls play doctor, then, well . . .
She nodded, and I continued. “Look, I’m feeling very weird about what’s happening around here. Yesterday that reporter, Berkowitz, stopped by and asked me a few questions about the investigation. Then, this morning, he’s dead. It had all the earmarks of a professional hit, the kind of thing a Mafia pro might do, or maybe a Special Forces guy who’s been trained to use exotic weapons.”
Lisa was nodding along.“And you think there’s some kind of link?” she asked, very cool, very detached.
She sounded just like a therapist. Not that I’ve ever been to a therapist, mind you. Well all right, when I left the oufit, they had me spend a few sessions with a head shaker. They did that to everybody, though. Honest.
I finally said, “Actually, yes, I do think there’s a link. But let me cover some other ground first. This afternoon I had another session with that big ape, General Murphy. I asked him what happened when Sanchez’s team missed their daily sitreps. He said nothing. That didn’t make sense to me, because one of the purposes of those routine sitreps is to confirm to your headquarters that you’re still alive. So I asked him why no red flags went up.”
“And he said?”
“That the ops center usually waits twelve hours until the next sitrep period. Only if the team misses that second report is there a response.”
“I could see where that would make sense,” she said. “Actually, it doesn’t. You have to understand the urgency of timely sitreps. Especially when you’re talking about units operating behind enemy lines. But anyway, I then went to the ops center, just to see what I could find out. I asked the ops sergeant if he remembered any cases when teams failed to make their sitreps. He said KLA teams occasionally missed, but no American team had ever missed. Then I asked him what he would do if he lost contact with a team. He said they would immediately push every panic button in sight.”
“So we have a difference of opinion between a sergeant and a general.”
“Or we have a liar.”
“Which is a large leap to a dangerous conclusion.”
“Maybe. However, the same ops sergeant warned me that somebody put out the word not to cooperate with our investigating team.”
This news at last got something other than an argumentative reaction. “Why would he tell you that?” she asked.
“One of those odd coincidences. He remembered me from when I was stationed at Bragg years ago. I guess it was one of those auld lang syne things.”
“And you believe him?”
“I watched a full colonel take him apart just because he talked to me.”
“There could be a lot of explanations for that.”
“There could, but I can’t think of any. Now odd incident number three. An NSA guy showed up here a few minutes ago. He stopped by to tell me we’re in luck, that one of their satellites was over Zone Three. He told me he was stationed here but refused to give his real name. Only thing was, he was carrying a
Washington Post
and a trench coat. By the way, it’s been raining cats and dogs in Washington the past twenty-four hours. I hope you remembered to close your car windows.”
She pulled on her lip for a while and seemed to weigh everything I’d just said. Then she stared down at the floor, then up at the ceiling. She put a pencil eraser against her lip, and I don’t know why, I just found that sexy as hell.
Finally, she said, “I’m really sorry. I just don’t see any connection between all these things.”
“Time and place, Morrow. A journalist gets murdered, a general lies, a unit obstructs justice, and a strange man arrives from Washington. All inside twelve hours. All here in tiny Tuzla.”
“Taken individually, any of those things has a variety of possible explanations.”
“Or maybe they’re like those noxious weeds with a common root, with those long underground stems that make them bloom in different places.”
“If you have a fertile imagination.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I admitted. “Maybe I’m just paranoid.” “Do you have some reason to be paranoid?”
“None I can put my finger on. But sometimes in battle, you look at a hill and just know there’s something lurking on the other side, something dangerous.”
“This isn’t a battle, though.” “Tell Jeremy Berkowitz that.”
S
leep did not come easily that night. I lay in my bunk trying to fit all these little pieces together, and frankly the best I could manufacture was a Frankenstein-like image: a gangly, stitched-together resemblance of a monster. Only my Frankenstein was missing a few arms and legs, and I couldn’t bring it to life. Everything I came up with was too moth-eaten for even me to believe.
Clapper’s call came at two o’clock in the morning, and I was still fully awake, so I didn’t grouse or grump.
He started the conversation with,“Damn it, Drummond, what the hell’s happening out there?” He sounded really pissed, which was another reason I didn’t grouse or grump.
I said, “Things are proceeding well. Some NSA guy stopped by today and said we’re in luck. Thanks for your help.”
“I’m not talking about that. I just got off the phone with General Murphy. He says you’re harassing him and other members of his command. He says your conduct has been unprofessional.”
“He never mentioned anything to me.”
“He faxed me a long list of official complaints. Being disrespectful to senior officers. Threatening senior officers with indictments. Blocking an officer from his defense counsel. Harassing and badgering witnesses. Not to mention forcing your way into an operations center and preventing key personnel from doing their jobs in the midst of a field operation, thus endangering the lives of soldiers in the field.”
“Look, sir, all of that’s bullsh—”
“He attached a stack of witness statements. Let’s see, here’s a set from Lieutenant Colonel Smothers and his attorney, Captain Smith. Here’s another from Sergeant Major Williams, and a Colonel Bitters. Shall I go on?”
“No, sir, I can ex—”
“Ah, let’s not overlook this one. It’s from the group chaplain. He says you tried to pressure him into violating his confessional confidences.”
“I talked to him, but I—”
“Now, I’m going to ask you once again, what the hell are you doing out there?”
He’d finally given me an opportunity to defend myself, but I was too busy trying to get some air back in my lungs. I felt like I had just dived into a swimming pool filled with big chunks of ice, and my gonads were now somewhere in my chest and heading toward my throat. It suddenly struck me that what I was apparently doing out here was being outwitted at every turn. I’d been framed, literally from the moment I’d stepped onto Tuzla’s tarmac. Everywhere I went, and every interview I’d done, someone had trotted along behind me. Or beside me. I’d underestimated the opposition.
Besides, the golden rule of the Army is that rank makes right. It might not be fair, but the whole damn system would collapse unless that rule was preserved and protected.
Not to mention the golden rule of law, which is that he who possesses the most compelling and abundant evidence wins. Murphy had gone to the trouble to manufacture statements and collect witnesses, whereas I had nothing but my word as an attorney and an officer. Such as it was.
I very weakly said,“I’m sure we can clear this up, when we have time.”
“You’re right.When this is over, there’ll be an official inquiry into your conduct. I hope I don’t need to remind you that Chuck Murphy might well be the most respected officer in the armed forces. He was first in his class at West Point. He was an All-America tackle and got the Heisman. He was a Rhodes scholar and a war hero. His integrity is unblemished and unquestioned.”
By extrapolation, my reputation and integrity obviously had some gaping flaws.
I stammered, “I understand that, b—”
“And another damned thing. The very damn reason we chose a lawyer to head this investigation was to have someone with enough acumen to navigate that legal minefield out there. Remember the ‘fruit of the poisonous tree’?”
“Of course I remember,” I said. The “fruit of the poisonous tree” is the legal doctrine that says that once the route of discovery becomes tainted by poor process, not only that specific piece of evidence but all that follows in its path becomes inadmissible in court.
He more or less yelled,“You recommend a court-martial now, and the defense will have a field day. You really screwed this up.”
“Look, sir, I—”
“Another thing. The head of the Criminal Investigation Division was in here a few minutes ago. He asked me for your military personnel file. He’s conducting a background check on you. What in the hell’s that about? What exactly is your involvement with Berkowitz’s murder?”
“None I know of, General. I told you Berkowitz came to see me the day he died. Two CID investigators have been to see me twice. They said they were bothered by some curious notes in Berkowitz’s journal.”
“Curious? What in the hell does ‘curious’ mean?”
“I asked them the same question, but they’re treating it like privileged information.”
There was this long, tense pause, then, “I’m not happy with your performance, Drummond. I mean, I’m really friggin’ unhappy.”
“I’m not happy with it, either,” I admitted, although for very different reasons than his.
“You just keep your nose clean till this is over. No more complaints from Chuck Murphy. I mean, I don’t want to hear another word. Have I made myself clear?”
“Very clear.”
“We’ll have an inquiry when this is done,” Clapper threatened again before his phone came down hard in the cradle, and our conversation, such as it was, abruptly ended. Other than a few “yessirs,” and “but I’s,” I hadn’t contributed much.
It was no use trying to fall asleep. I got out of my bunk, got dressed, then walked over to our little wooden building. Two of Wolky’s burliest MPs stood beside the door. I showed them my ID and they let me in. Imelda was inside sitting on her bunk, flashlight in hand, reading one of those big, thick books she likes so much. She glanced up when she heard the door bang open and shut and quickly stuffed the book under her sleeping bag. This is a woman who makes the most out of being underestimated.
“Who’s there?” She blinked into the darkness.
“It’s me, Imelda.”
“Oh,” she said. “What are you doin’ here at this hour?”
I said, “I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d come over and review some law books.”
The truth was, I was feeling like such a world-class heel that I thought I’d punish myself, like those fourteenth-century monks who used to horsewhip their own backs in expiation for their sins. Only I chose a more cruel form of chastisement. I was going to read every legal text I could get my hands on.
“This gig’s not goin’ too good, huh?”
“No, it really isn’t,” I mournfully admitted.“I think I’m screwing it up.”
She sat and pondered that for a moment. We’d probably worked two dozen cases together over the years, and although I respected the hell out of Imelda, we’d never really conversed about the guts of any of those cases. I’d shuffled papers at her and given her chores to do, and she’d stayed busy supervising her clerks and making sure I showed up at court prepared and on time.
“You think they’re guilty?” she asked.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I suspect they’re guilty, but I seem to be the only one who holds that opinion.”
“I think they’re guilty as a cropa diseased whores in a nun-house,” she said.
In case I haven’t mentioned it before, Imelda could get very picturesque at times. I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms. I hadn’t come here to have a long discussion with Imelda, but I had nothing better to do. If you’ve ever read a legal textbook, you’d know what I mean.