The Night Crew (12 page)

As only she can, Katherine looked ready to jump down his throat, but I interceded and asked Eggers, “How well did you know Sergeant Danny Elton?”

He looked both relieved to be reprieved from the earlier topic and unhappy to be on this one. “Not very well,” he said, then quickly expanded on that, saying, “To be honest, Elton was one of those soldiers who were assigned to my battalion at the last minute.”

Katherine opened her mouth and started to go back to the earlier topic, so I raised my voice and asked, “Before the scandal came to light, had you ever met him?”

“I suppose I had.”

“Is that a yes, or a no?”

“A . . . a yes.” After a moment of squirming, he added, “But I didn’t recall him. He’s the type of soldier . . . well, he really didn’t make much of an impression.”

“According to his personnel file, he was a troubled soldier with a well-documented record as a disciplinary problem with big attitude issues. Who promoted him to be shiftleader of an entire cellblock?”

“I don’t exactly remember.”

“Try harder.”

“His platoon leader, maybe, or his first sergeant. I don’t know. Those decisions occurred far below my level.”

“Didn’t you have to approve it? Controlling an entire cellblock is a big responsibility, one normally assigned to someone two paygrades higher than Elton’s. You were the prison commandant.”

“Oh, well, I’m sure I did. It was sort of pro forma, those temporary assignments. A piece of paper floating through my in-box. Never had much time to investigate the individuals.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He looked at me. “Have you ever run a prison in a war zone?” The question was specious, as was his expression, and he went on, “On a daily basis, we had nearly nine thousand prisoners. I had a full battalion of three hundred and eighty men to command, in addition to the prison facility. I had to feed them all, house them, process those coming in and those leaving. I had to arrange for electricity in a country without power. And without workable plumbing or sewage or running water, I had to arrange latrine facilities for ten thousand people to take a shit, and potable water to brush their teeth. These simple things and many others occupied whole days of my time. I had to oversee our contractors, attend frequent command and staff meetings in Baghdad, handle personnel issues, coordinate with the military intelligence people . . .” He paused, then asked me, I think facetiously, “Should I go on?”

“It was tough duty.”

“Tough? On an average night, I was lucky to get three hours of sleep. Same for my chain of command. We were all walking zombies. And of course there were those things that came up unexpectedly, the unscheduled mortar attacks, or a prisoner died, or one of my soldiers died, or got badly wounded, or a sudden influx of hundreds of new prisoners had to be . . . well, let’s just say things were never dull.” He awarded me a sarcastic smirk. “So no, Drummond . . . no, I didn’t pay a lot of attention to an E-5 running one of very many prisoner sections under my control.”

“What about the three women involved? Lydia Eddelston, June Johnston, or Andrea Myers? How well did you know them?”

“The God’s honest truth . . . the first time I ever heard their names was when this thing broke.”

“But they had free access to the prison. Isn’t that unusual?”

“What do you mean?”

“I should not have to describe what I mean, Colonel Eggers. Three female personnel clerks, not even assigned to your battalion, yet they were free to come and go, at all hours, to roam at will throughout a male prisoner cellblock. This suggests a remarkable laxness, a clear breakdown in proper prison procedures and discipline. They were present in your prison, late at night, engaging in shockingly unrestrained behavior and yet, nobody ever dropped in to check on them.”

Rather than respond defensively, or in any meaningful or constructive way, he simply shrugged.

“Should I rephrase that as a question?”

With a look of pure irritation he replied, “Okay . . . yes, I suppose there was a lapse in proper procedures.”

Katherine asked, “Why?”

Again, he shrugged. “It wasn’t an ideal situation. Nobody had a right to expect perfect results. Ninety-five percent of prison operations functioned well . . . uh, reasonably effectively . . . and here, uh . . . in this instance . . . well, human error . . . common oversight . . . Look, I still don’t know how those three girls pulled it off.”

When neither Katherine nor I replied to that stumbling, half-hearted confession, he stated, “I have three daughters myself. My two oldest are about their age.” He turned and looked at Katherine. “What would make girls behave like that?”

Indeed, what would? I worked up a deep frown and warned him, “Colonel Eggers, you should be aware that as a prosecution witness, you will be cross-examined by us on the stand. We have done considerable research into the conditions at Al Basari, and the results are a bald contradiction of what you’re telling us now. We have expert witnesses who can and will attest to the genuine circumstances at that prison. Neither Miss Carlson nor I will go easy on you on the stand. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes . . . uh . . . I believe I do.”

“Then I encourage you to do some serious soul-searching before the trial. Your career is already ruined. And while the conditions of your retirement might be in jeopardy, so is your reputation as an officer, your integrity as a West Point graduate, and your self-respect as a husband and a father.”

“I don’t need lectures from you on my integrity, my duty, or anything else, Drummond.”

“Yes, I believe you do.” I leaned across the table. “That these five soldiers conducted themselves reprehensively isn’t in question. What remains very much in question is how much the command environment, the scandalous lack of resources, and possibly command interference contributed to their actions.”

As it was intended to, this lecture annoyed him and he came forward in his chair until his face was two inches from mine—his face grew tight, his eyes became slitty, and for the first time his tone conveyed a world of genuine intonation. “Those three fucking bitches weren’t even in my chain of command, Drummond. They ruined my career and brought shame and dishonor on all the good soldiers who were doing their jobs under the most terrible circumstances imaginable.”

I stood up. “You’ve been warned, Colonel Eggers.” I looked down at him. “We can and will call as many witnesses as we wish. There are a lot of soldiers who did duty at Al Basira, and who experienced life under your command. You can’t stop the truth from coming out.”

He stared back a moment, then looked away.

Katherine did not appear ready to leave, but I had left her little choice, so she stood and joined me, though she definitely did not look happy about it.

I nodded at Eggers who stayed in his chair looking like a man who had just learned that he had an inoperable brain tumor.

The moment we were outside, Katherine turned to me and in a very cold tone, said, “The next time you decide to take over an interview, have the courtesy to let me know in advance.”

I continued walking and said nothing.

After a moment of silence she remarked, “Why do you look so angry?” She then observed, “You were on the right track, Sean. You shouldn’t have backed off.”

“Why not, Katherine?”

“You know why. Because he’s getting a free ride for failing to come out with the truth.”

I looked at her. “What did you do after September eleventh?”

She mulled that question before she said, “I suppose what everybody did.”

“And what did everybody do?”

“I mourned, I wanted somebody punished, and I prayed for my country. I actually applauded when we attacked Afghanistan.”

“But that’s not what everybody did, Katherine. Soft, chubby little Paul Eggers left his wife and his three young daughters, his nicely tended home in the suburbs, and all the luxuries and conveniences America has to offer, and he deployed to a combat zone, probably for a fraction of the pay, to do a miserable job in a hellish place where your whole life hangs on whether an insurgent mortarman decides to change the deflection of his tube one degree or two, or whether you choose to drive down the wrong street at the wrong time, and end up on the one with the big bomb planted there with your name on it.”

“I understand that, Sean . . . but—”

“No buts, Katherine, hear me out. You or I may tear him apart on the stand, but we don’t have to feel good about it. In fact, we should feel ashamed because he’s a real patriot and though he might have fallen down on his job, he was there, and he was probably trying his best in a position nobody in his right mind would want.”

“All I ask is that he tell the truth.”

“No, you want him to tell the truth as you want to hear it. You want him to say conditions at that prison were deplorable. You want him to confess that he failed to run a good prison and that caused three young girls and two guys to do what they did. You want him to say that the military
wanted
Lydia to do what she did, and that Lydia was not responsible for her own conduct, sexual ethics, or actions.”

“And what if that’s true?”

“Then it’s only part of the truth.”

“Don’t go naive on me, Sean. Our job as lawyers is to expose those truths that are advantageous to our clients.”

“I know my job, Katherine. Spare me the lecture.”

We walked on in silence a while longer, nursing our opposing grievances, then Katherine asked, “Why did you give him a free ride on the prison conditions? Or the failure of his chain of command?”

“Did I?”

“You know you did.”

“All right. Because he’s facing an impossible quandary, and he hasn’t yet been called on it. He’s under crushing pressure, personally and professionally, to paint the best portrait of his operation. His balls are in the hands of people above him, and he hasn’t yet figured out what’s more important, his self-respect, or his ass.” I concluded, “Anyway, we don’t know enough at this stage to break him.”

“You mean, you prefer to do it on the stand?”

“I mean, if we have to, and it will help our client, yes. And I don’t want to cue him on the direction we’ll take.”

After considering that for a moment, Katherine said, “Good call.” She then informed me, “I actually look forward to getting him in the witness chair. He doesn’t impress me. I could see him as a staff officer, but he doesn’t seem to possess the qualities of a solid commander.”

“I’m not sure it mattered, Katherine. I’m beginning to get a picture of complete chaos over there. George Patton would’ve been shellshocked.”

“Welcome to the party.”

Which was an appropriate introduction for what happened next. An older, seedy-looking gentleman popped out of a doorway directly to our front, exchanged a quick look of recognition with Katherine, and headed in our direction.

He stopped and Katherine gave him a brief hug and an air-kiss on the cheek. She remembered her manners and said to him, “Mel, this is my cocounsel, Lieutenant Colonel Sean Drummond.” Then to me, “Mel Cramer. He’s the journalist who broke the Al Basari story.”

All of Katherine’s new pals seemed to be into truncated names.

He put out his hand to shake, but I must not have been paying attention—I think I was preoccupied studying the air quality—because, after an awkwardly long moment, he withdrew the hand.

In truth, the name was more than familiar, though not the face, which was heavily lined, pockmarked, large-nosed, and ugly. In his late sixties or perhaps early seventies, with a full head of wooly white hair, he was dressed beneath both his station and his age, in faded dungarees and a worn safari vest, à la Crocodile Dundee, as if he was about to wrestle a bull rhino to the floor, or topple a president with an in-house scandal. I wondered if he was wearing a diaper for incontinence.

I was also aware that Cramer was an old-timer who had broken military scandals and exposed military secrets going back to the Vietnam War. He had one or two Pulitzer Prizes on his shelf and was still going strong, still exposing secrets, still igniting scandals, and, as his presence here indicated, was now angling for another shimmering trophy to add to his collection. In his circles he was an admired legend for getting the inside scoops, and for turning molehills into three days of front-page outrage and fat book deals.

In my circle, he was a lowlife, scumsucking hack who would sell his soul and undermine his country for a byline. I recalled the old saw about why reporters always whistle when they are on the toilet; it’s the only way they can remember which end to wipe.

Anyway, Mel and I exchanged brief eye contact and instantly decided we loathed each other.

He turned to friendlier company, Katherine, and announced in a loud, theatrical tone, “Boy, this place is in high cover-your-ass mode.”

“Not getting much openness and cooperation?” Katherine commiserated back.

“No shit. I just wasted two hours with some pathetic public relations twerp they brought up from DC to handle this. He jerked me off so hard I might have to see my urologist.” He laughed at his own bad joke, which is another habit I find annoying.

Katherine, in an effort to explain my bad manners, mentioned to her pal, Mel, “I can’t even get my cocounsel to tell me what he had for breakfast this morning.”

Mel laughed, slapped his side, then replied, “Hey, you know the difference between talking to an army lawyer and a lobotomy patient?” He then howled out the answer to his own riddle. “At least the lobotomy patient has half a brain.”

I was going to tell him the one about how to save a reporter from drowning—take your foot off his neck. But I summoned all my willpower and courtesy, then said, very respectfully, “Fuck off, Melvin.”

But I sensed that Mel was one of those men who enjoy irritating you, so to piss him off I smiled, and even produced a laugh, like I didn’t mean it. Au contraire—I meant every syllable.

Katherine said to her buddy, “Forgive him, Mel. He’s not a big fan of the First Amendment.”

To which Mel replied, “Probably can’t count that high.” Apparently, this was another big ha-ha, because Mel nearly soiled his pants he laughed so hard.