The Night Crew (10 page)

June did not look pleased with this assessment, but she replied, “If you wanta put it like that . . . then okay.”

Katherine closed her notebook and abruptly announced, “I think we’re finished with this session. We may want to speak with you again.”

June produced a shrug, and said, with no apparent enthusiasm, “Not like I’ve got better things to do.”

We stood, but June remained seated. Evidently, I had put her too much at ease. I said, “Since you’re going to be a witness, we’ll have to go through everything. Think about what happened, and we’ll speak again.”

We left and went outside. In the car, Katherine turned to me and said, in a tone that was clearly disapproving, “I don’t think you handled that very well.”

“Nonsense. She was eating out of my hand.”

“Look, I know you’re uncomfortable speaking about intimate matters with attractive females and—”

“Wait a minute, I—”

“No, hear me out, Sean. To get to the bottom of this case, you have to overcome your Victorian prudishness. Sex is at the heart of this case. You should’ve seen your face when you asked those questions, like you were touching a hot stove. I know men find it easier to ask a plain-looking girl like Lydia these kinds of questions than a somewhat attractive woman like—”

“Give it a break, Katherine. And for the record, she is hot,” I said to piss her off even more.

“Oh, for God’s sake, she’s young enough to be your daughter.”

She was trying to goad me, but I knew how to respond. “How old is Nelson Arnold, your billionaire buddy? Does money make men look younger?”

“Watch it, Sean. You’re way out of line.”

So we seemed to be at a draw. Practice makes perfect, and after all these years of provoking each other, we were getting pretty good at it. Katherine is not as sarcastic as I am; Katherine, however, has excellent aim.

But I thought I knew what lay behind Katherine’s outburst and it surprised me—jealousy. As I said before, Katherine is not an emotional person, at least not on the outside, and it can be hard to tell what she is thinking, and even harder to understand what she is feeling.

But it was nice to see that she had enough feelings for me to promote that mood.

I gave her, and myself, a moment to cool down, then asked, “So what did you think?”

“About what? About her?”

“I believe you already vented your feelings about me.”

“Okay. I think we’ll have a big problem with her on the stand.”

“Because of their differing memories about how these activities were initiated?”

“Partly, yes. Mainly, because I know her type.”

“I’ll bite. What type is June?”

Katherine turned and faced me. “Look Sean, sex is more complicated for women than it is for men.”

“I believe I’ve heard that somewhere. Should I take notes this time?”

“Because it’s true. For some women, it’s about submission. For some, it’s the opposite, about dominance. It’s like yin and yang, and sometimes it’s a mixture of the two, at war with each other.”

“Spare me the lecture, Katherine. Men have two brains. Believe me, that can get fairly crowded.”

“No, men have a dominant brain; the other one, the one that’s supposed to think and reason, short circuits the moment the unthinking one engages. Women are always thinking, before, during, and after.”

“Is this the voice of personal experience?”

She made the wise choice to ignore me. I can be annoying. “Since you asked, June is the barracuda type. I mean that in every sense of the word. She seduces to show the man she can have him anytime she wants. It might have to do with her memories of her father, some suppressed compulsion to reverse the roles between the hunter and the hunted . . . the predator and the prey, if you will. But also, it’s a display of superiority to the women around her, a way of saying ‘I can have any man I want, including yours.’ ”

Women have a different take on these things. I mean, men have a fairly impulsive view of sex that pretty much begins and ends with the climax. For women, the orgasm can be faked, and real or not, is only the middle of the story. I don’t know which is right or wrong, I only know it keeps things interesting. Also dangerous.

I put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking space. I told Katherine, “I’d like to see the remainder of the pictures when we get back.”

“I should warn you, it’s best not to look at them on a full stomach.”

“Really, Katherine. I believe I’ve seen the worst that people can do to one another.”

“That was only war,” she replied. “These pictures are worse.”

“I’ll hold my nose when I look.”

“Okay, tough guy, you’ll get them after dinner. There are several hundred to wade through.” She added, after a moment, “Incidentally, Nelson Arnold is driving up from the city. He’d like you to join us for dinner. He wants to meet you.”

“Doesn’t he have a helicopter like every other self-respecting billionaire?”

“You’re prejudging him, Sean. Don’t.”

In fact, I had looked him up on the Internet that morning. Mr. Nelson Arnold seemed to be a classic case of poor kid makes good—or rich, which in America might not be that different—having returned from Vietnam, used the GI bill to attend Rutgers, done a few years in investment banking to learn the trade, then gone into business for himself. He was not listed in the Forbes Top 100, but had he not developed the questionable habit of throwing a billion dollars a year, every year, into an assortment of liberal charities and causes, he’d be somewhere up there. Still, his wealth was pegged somewhere between two to three billion dollars, which, for a guy scraping by on army pay, is what I would call a fairly impressive margin of error.

Though he attended plenty of charity balls and la-di-da soirees in the Hamptons and Palm Beach and Davos, unlike most of his species of hyper-rich, he apparently had an aversion to being photographed or to seeing his name bandied about in the social columns.

The source of his monstrous wealth was a hedge fund named The Old Warrior’s Fund, which was an interesting title. He was a widower—his first wife had died ten years ago—and according to several columns that deal in this kind of esoteric trash, he now led a fairly active social life, including a scattering of Hollywood lovelies, a few female politicians, and assorted other prominent ladies who scratched his fancy.

Not for nothing, I have noticed that the ladies are strongly attracted to men who own yachts. They must have seafaring in their DNA.

I asked Katherine, “Who’s paying for dinner?”

“Dutch treat.”

“Dutch . . . What?”

“It’s part of my bargain with Nelson. He pays for the legal services, but that’s where it stops.”

“Am I bound by this agreement?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Tell him I like Béarnaise sauce on my filet mignon.”

Chapter Ten

Katherine was right, Nelson Arnold was not what I expected but even worse than I feared.

He arrived, for one thing, driving his own car—not a sumptuous Rolls Royce or even a sleek Lamborghini, but a crap green Ford Taurus station wagon, about five years old, dinged and dented. It didn’t even have leather.

Nor, as I had expected he would, did he arrive attired in an Italian-made, hand-sewn suit with matching Guccis, or even Brooks Brothers high-end leisure wear, but instead wore distressed blue jeans, a faded flannel shirt, and well-scuffed hiking boots, à la lumberjack chic. If you’re interested, I
dress
; the rich are
attired
.

I was aware that he had to be in his very late fifties or early sixties, though he looked roughly my own age with blondish-brown hair, lightly dusted with gray, sharp blue eyes, was very fit, and had enough wrinkles to make his face interesting, without appearing ancient or even worn.

The rich, of course, can afford to be beautiful and preserve their youth, though I had the sense that, with Nelson Arnold, it was less nurture, more nature.

He bounded out of the car, brushed Katherine’s cheek, and stuck his hand out to me. “A pleasure, a real one,” he said, even managing to make it sound sincere. “Do you prefer Colonel or can I call you Sean?”

I took his hand. “Can I call you Nelson?”

“Actually, my friends call me Nel.”

“Right. Can I call you Nelson?”

He smiled, then sort of nodded as if to say, this is going to be a long evening. Indeed it is, Nelson, the longest of your life. He replied, “Call me whatever you like.”

Oh, I will, Nelson, I definitely will. We got into his car, Katherine in the front passenger seat, yours truly in the backseat, and Nelson, or Nel, if you prefer, behind the wheel.

I studied him studying me in the rearview mirror. Eventually, he remarked, “You remind me of him.”

I took the bait. “Who?”

“Your father. I definitely see a strong resemblance.”

“I wasn’t aware you were friends.”

“We weren’t, exactly. I served under him. ’69 through ’70, in Nam. He was my brigade commander. That was your father, right?”

Our eyes met in the rearview mirror.

“Your old man was a real hellion. Everything by the book, everybody had to dig proper foxholes every night, and he always dropped in unexpectedly. Rumor was he never slept.” He chuckled. “Never saw a better ass-chewer.”

“I helped him perfect that part.”

He ignored that. “I can’t say I liked your father, but I certainly respected him. I was only a buck sergeant and I hated digging those damned holes, but it saved my ass two or three times.” He then asked, “How is he?”

“Great. He runs a car dealership down south.” Apropos of Nelson’s fond remembrances, I informed him, “High turnover among his sales people. They’re tired of digging holes.”

He laughed. It seemed we were into reminiscences, and he remarked, “I remember the night he got wounded. It was pitch dark, cold, been raining heavily for days, a real lousy night for an operation. We were doing a sweep in the Highlands, and he got shot with a . . . a . . . ?”

“A crossbow.”

“That’s right.” He smiled. “A crossbow.”

He laughed again and I joined him. Pop had just climbed out of his helicopter, he dropped his map, bent down to pick it up, and some Vietcong with a terrific sense of irony landed one where the sun doesn’t shine. To this day, whenever asked what he thought of Vietnam, he answers, fairly bluntly, “Aw, it was a big pain in the ass.”

Nelson wheeled the car into a parking lot and lo-and-behold, it was the McDonald’s just outside the gate of West Point. He pointed at the arch. “I love these places. I put a few hundred million in their stock back in the late seventies. Haven’t sold a share yet. Now worth about three billion. I eat here whenever I get a chance. Anybody mind?”

“I was really looking forward to stale roadkill,” I informed him.

Predictably, Miss Preserve the Body and Soul reminded him, “You know I like to eat healthier, Nel.”

He parked, and got out of the car. Like most billionaires, he really didn’t care what we liked.

We entered the McDonald’s and stood in line for a few minutes: Katherine ordered green stuff; Sean, a greasy Big Mac; and Nelson two Quarter Pounders with cheese, a large chocolate shake, a large bag of fries, and then, he dropped five million on the counter and bought the place. Just kidding.

We settled around a small table in the back and dug in. After a moment spent studying my Big Mac, Nelson asked Katherine, “How’s the case look?”

“It’s too early to tell. We’re still in the exploratory stage.”

“So you’ve formed no strong views yet?”

“That I’d hang my hat on . . . ? No. The five accused are all singing pretty much the same tune, with a few minor variations.”

Nelson considered that assessment. “So you think they corroborated?”

“Yes, they definitely did,” Katherine replied, picking through her salad, trying to find something that wouldn’t induce an immediate cardiac coma. “When you read the Article 32 results, it’s obvious. Of course, it won’t last.”

“Why not?”

“The usual problem with conspiracies. They differ in the small details. It hasn’t been a problem so far . . . but it will be in court when they’re answering under oath for the first time, and five different prosecutors begin digging deeper and picking them apart.”

“That how you’d do it?” he asked. He had already started on his second burger. Also, the fries were gone, and the shake was already making that obnoxious slurping sound. What would Miss Manners advise about such a situation? Eat faster so he wouldn’t feel like the only glutton at the table, or let him win the eating contest?

“That’s exactly what I’d do, Nel,” Katherine replied. “Any experienced prosecutor will see the opportunity and exploit it.”

“And what’s the second part?” The second burger was almost gone and he was eying what was left of my Big Mac.

Katherine advised him, “Somebody’s likely to be hung with a murder or manslaughter charge, and the rest will face coconspirator charges. In a week or so, five different defense teams are going to start pressuring their clients to cop a deal and plead out. The closer we get to a court date, the more our clients are going to feel the heat.”

“You think one of them will break ranks?”

“It could be the difference between ten years and life. Yes, all of them are going to contemplate their options.”

“So what do we do about that?”

“That’s not clear. We have a lot more work to do before that stage. For instance, we need to know exactly how vulnerable Lydia is. Especially relative to the others.”

It was interesting that Katherine chose the term “vulnerable” instead of “guilty,” which was the real issue. Nelson chewed the last of his fries, then looked at me, “That what you think, too, Sean?”

“I think what I think is none of your business, Nelson.”

His expression didn’t change. “Why isn’t it?”

“Because Katherine and I don’t work for you. We work on behalf of the accused, and while you might have more money than Midas and you might pay Katherine’s bills, my paycheck is signed by my Uncle Sam. Besides, I’m not in habit of disclosing sensitive case information with an outsider.” I added, “Lawyer’s oath.”

His eyes sort of narrowed. “Didn’t Katherine tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“I also have a law degree. NYU Law, and I’m a member of the New York bar.” He paused before he dropped the big news. “I’m also listed as a cocounsel.”

I looked at Katherine who, for some reason, had failed to mention this small yet not insignificant detail and now found something more interesting to look at on the other side of the room. I said to Nelson, “No . . . Katherine never brought that up.”

“So now you know.”

“Yes, now I know.”

“Is this going to be a problem for you?”

“Did you register with the military’s legal affairs office to represent the accused?”

“The moment Katherine got Lydia’s permission to represent her, yes.”

“Have you ever participated in a trial?”

“I got the law degree more or less on a lark. Figured it would be helpful in business.” He hesitated then added, “It has been.”

“Please answer the question.”

“No. I’ve never represented a client in court.”

“Do you have any experience in criminal matters?”

“Nope. Just corporate law. But every lawyer has to start somewhere.”

“Then no, I have no problem at all.”

He may have picked up the small note of sarcasm that may have crept into my tone and said, “Relax, Sean. I don’t expect to be making any courtroom arguments. I’ll leave that to the pros, you and Katherine. I’m not in this for the publicity, nor do I have any pretensions about being Clarence Darrow or Alan Dershowitz.”

“Then why are you in it?”

“It’s a cause I believe in.”

I looked at Katherine, who did not look back; she now was studying the Golden Arch outside the window as if it held the key to the mystery of life. It struck me that she had set up this little tête-à-tête, and was enjoying every second of it. Have I mentioned how manipulative she can be?

I looked at Nelson Arnold. “I wasn’t aware it was a cause.”

“I suppose I owe you an explanation.” He looked back at me and explained, “I was a lower enlisted soldier in ’Nam. I was a volunteer, not a draftee, and I did two tours there, having volunteered for the second one after I served under your dad. He was an inspiring commander. I regarded it as my patriotic duty.”

“Good for you, Nelson. Your government thanks you, your fellow citizens thank you, and I thank you. You earned the right to get filthy rich.”

“You know, Sean, I believe I did.” He leaned forward and added, “I have two Purple Hearts and a Silver Star, and I spent three months in a VA hospital recovering from the Silver Star and second Purple Heart. Now I also believe I have blood rights as a citizen to prevent history from repeating itself, the ugly history I lived through.”

“Which part of that history bothered you?”

“A lot of it. The lies, the mismanagement in Washington, the bankrupt strategy. I wasn’t aware of it while I was lying in foxholes praying I didn’t get my ass shot off. But later, I understood I’d been used and abused. Me and about ten million other guys, some living, some dead.”

“And Lydia Eddelston is to be your expurgation?”

“That’s not exactly the way I think of it.”

“Have you at least given some thought to the fact that she might be guilty? Inconvenient, I know, but the facts, as we currently know them, certainly support that presumption.”

“Guilt and innocence might be interchangeable concepts in this case.”

“Why her and why now?”

“Why not her, and can you name a better time than now?”

“You tell me, Nelson. What part of your past does she fit into?”

He paused to think about this a moment, as did I. Vietnam produced more brooding regrets than any other war fought in our long, bloody national history; regrets by politicians, regrets by the public, and more deeply than others, regrets by those sent into the jungles to battle determined foes, and experience firsthand the horrors of a war in a faraway alien land that we failed to win.

My own father returned with a ruined colon, a king-size whoopee cushion, and a grudging determination to get on with his life. He took his retirement with 80 percent disability, put the war behind him, and began pushing used cars, hardly the career I’m sure he dreamt of when he strode the majestic plains of West Point.

He never spoke of the war—except quite literally, as a big pain in the ass—and addressed its memories with the tempered stoicism of a career soldier. When he and his military buddies got together they told war stories that normally were quite funny, and often weird, but whatever angst or lingering nightmares they held stayed hidden, smothered somewhere beneath the laughter and old boy bonhomie.

Nelson Arnold, apparently, was from that other school of survivors; his war ended over thirty years before, and in some weird way, he was still fighting it.

Nelson completed his reverie, saying, “Lydia came to me by chance and circumstance when her lawyer died. It didn’t have to be her but she’s ideal.”

“Ideal for what?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sean. She’s a young and dumb country girl, at the bottom of the military foodchain, and now she’s facing court martial for a scandal brought on by others.”

Rather than debate these points, I asked Nelson a more pointed question. “Does she know you view her as a totem, a symbol? She’s facing life in prison, Nelson. I think she has a right to know one, and possibly two, of her lawyers have their own agenda.”

If this accusation troubled him, he didn’t show it. “To be truthful, I don’t know what she understands. I have explained my interest in her case to her, directly. She had no complaints or hesitation.”

What he didn’t say, what he didn’t need to say, was that Lydia had neither the brains nor the common sense to understand this Faustian bargain. I doubted Lydia could identify Vietnam on a map, would probably be surprised to learn we had fought a war there, and she certainly had no concept of the demons and ghosts haunting Nelson’s brain. She was the classic pawn, limited to one slow move, easily outfoxed, no doubt dazzled by the word “billionaire.”

But Katherine considered this an appropriate moment to chime in and said, “Nel’s motives aren’t at issue here, Sean.”

“They are with me.”

“The only issue is the quality of the defense. Nel has committed to funding whatever we need to defend Lydia. The best expert witnesses, the full costs of lawyer expenses, any lab or research needs that would help the case. It’s a remarkable act of generosity.”

“Did Nelson agree to keep his personal bias and quest out of it?”

Nelson did not enjoy being talked about in the third person and said, “Nelson can speak for himself.”

“Then tell Nelson to answer the question.”

“I have no intention of polluting the best defense possible.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“That’s as good an answer as you’re going to get.”