The Night Crew (14 page)

“Do you have a problem with the word torture?”

“I do, as will you, on the stand. It’s too late to change it now, because that’s the exact noun you used repeatedly in your crime report. But you don’t really
know
it was torture, do you, Chief?”

“I know it sure as shit wasn’t suicide.”

“Since we’re into conjecture, let’s try out a few other theories. Try revenge. Or uncontrolled fury or rage. Or, if you don’t like those, try the act of a fellow prisoner, somebody totally deranged and unhinged from reason. You said yourself that the prison at Al Basari was full of nuts, schizos, and psychopaths.”

Chief Rienzi was now annoyed enough to begin rubbing his forehead. He’d just gone from a fairly content man with his tummy stuffed with free pizza to a distinctly unhappy individual holding an untenable position. He had made a kingsize blunder—the cardinal sin of conjecture—and just been given an alarming preview of how that gaffe would be shoved up his ass at the trial.

Worse, it would be a legal gang rape as all five of the accused were tried and all five of the defense lawyers copycatted one another.

Trying to look composed, he said to me, “Why are you bringing this up now?” as in, why are you firing your big gun prematurely? He knew, as did I, that I could’ve withheld this ammunition till the trial and used it to discredit him on the stand.

“Honest answer?” This query, of course, is always the prelude to a lie.

“Sure.”

“You were doing a hard job in difficult circumstances and I have no interest in burying you on the stand. What would that help?”

He did not appear to buy this claim; he seemed, in fact, to assume I was jerking him off. Smart guy. After a moment’s hesitation he said, “And you’d like a favor in return?”

“How understanding of you to ask, Chief.”

“All right, what is it?”

“You did the investigation and had the first look at the crime scene and suspects. Who did you think did it?”

“I had no idea.”

“Go on.”

“How much do you know about General Palchaci?”

“Assume I know nothing,” I replied, failing to clarify what an excellent assumption that was.

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Palchaci was one of Saddam’s favorite generals. He was from the region of Tikrit, Saddam’s home town, and commanded one of the revolutionary guard divisions, a singular honor reserved for Saddam’s most trusted lieutenants.”

“So he was not one of the good guys?”

“Oh, he had quite the well-deserved reputation as a miserable bastard. Over the years, he’d done a lot of dirty work for his patron. And by dirty, I mean that in every literal sense of the word. He was particularly hated and feared by the Shiites and Kurds. He was a key figure after the first Gulf War, putting down the insurrections. The record indicates he obliterated three entire Shiite villages, then had them flattened and buried in dirt—not because they were guilty or implicated, just to dissuade others from rising up in opposition. An example. Old men, women, children—he buried all of them. That gives you an idea of his style.”

“So he had a lot of enemies?”

“A lot?” he mimicked. “Try about three quarters of the country. After the invasion he went underground. The intel folks surmised he was designated by Saddam to help inspire, organize, and lead the insurgency. That’s what he was doing when he was captured. Not number one, but certainly top ten.”

“How was he captured?”

This question seemed to amuse Rienzi because he chuckled. “His own cousin turned him in.”

“Family always comes first.”

“He was using the cousin’s house for a hideout, and he raped his host’s daughter. Dumb shit. The girl was only twelve, and she was his blood relative, for God’s sake.” He added, in a sentiment I probably agreed with, “Palchaci deserved to die the way he did.”

This of course was very valuable knowledge, as it would go a long way toward persuading the court martial board that Palchaci was a murderous monster long before he became a murderer’s victim. Murder is murder, in theory, but in reality it comes in many flavors. It did not in any way alleviate the fact of Palchaci’s murder, but offered a powerful argument in favor of leniency—after a conviction, that is.

Unfortunately I was no closer to knowing my client’s guilt or innocence, and in that light, I asked, “Do you think any or all of the accused guards had anything to do with his killing?”

He gave me a long hard stare. “Understand, Colonel, that at the time I was investigating the crime I was unaware of the . . . well, the extracurricular activities of your client and her friends. But knowing what we all know now—that Elton and his crew were going collectively nuts in there—yeah, I’d put them near the top of my list.” After further reflection he got a little more specific. “The very top.”

“There’s a big difference between sex games and murder. There was no physical evidence connecting them to his death.”

“Not exactly accurate. There was proximity, there was motive, and there was the unusual fact that he died in a prison block they controlled. Remember, they had the keys to his cell. And they certainly were displaying . . . behavioral issues.”

“All of which falls under the heading of circumstantial.”

“You asked what I think and I’m telling you. You’ve seen the pictures. Things were spiraling out of control in that cellblock. Compare the activities of night one to the shit happening on night twenty, and you get the distinct impression that it was getting harder for this happy little band to get their rocks off. Look at those pictures—study their faces, Colonel.”

“And what will I see in their faces, Chief?”

“Look, if you haven’t read a book called
Lord of the Flies
, I highly recommend you do. That’s what was happening in that cellblock. A bunch of kids were marooned in there, absent any adult supervision, and away from civilization. They reverted to their own rules. The more they got away with, the more they tried, and . . . Look, based on the stuff they were doing in the last pictures . . . yeah, I could see them taking the next step up the ladder of insanity.”

I wanted to disagree with this logic, but the truth was I found myself in total agreement. And the larger truth, I thought, was so would a board of good and earnest soldiers in a military courtroom. It was the same unsettling thought that had kept me awake the night before after reviewing the whole disgusting tableau of pictures.

As a group, and as individuals, Lydia and her friends had gone on a journey together, a journey into darkness—a journey that escalated without any moral breaks or intervention by the authority figures above them. Rienzi was right—they were like kids breaking the rules, surprised they were getting away with it, and thus, they acted as though they created the rules.

But did they break the cardinal rule, the sixth commandment? I wasn’t yet willing to accept that they did.

But neither would I rule it out.

I thanked Rienzi for his clarifications and candor, then said, “I may want to talk to you again.”

“Whoopee. I’ll look forward to it.”

Actually he looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. I went to the door and left Chief Rienzi and the smell of overbaked anchovies that now permeated his small office.

It occurred to me that a lot of careers were hanging on this case, the five accused certainly, but also those in the chain of command, those who investigated the crimes, and probably the lawyers on both sides of the docket—and last, though certainly not least, the attorney I care most about.

In fact, the asses on this post were so tight you could ship in a little coal and run a diamond factory here. But I was relieved to learn that I probably didn’t have to worry about the murder charge. Rienzi had as much as admitted that the government lacked anything beyond broad circumstantial evidence, and certainly there was nothing directly connecting my client to the death of General Palchaci.

My cellphone rang. I checked the incoming number and it was Katherine, obviously checking on my whereabouts. I punched receive and said, in a mildly aggrieved tone, “I just finished with the investigating officer. Where were
you
?”

“What? . . . What are you talking about?”

“I just talked to Rienzi. Once again, where were you?”

“You . . . what? Obviously without me. That’s—”

“Didn’t you get my message?”

This of course was not a lie but a lawyer’s nimble way of not telling the truth.

“Don’t try that bullshit on me.”

Well, time to change the subject. “I have happy news to share with you.”

“Don’t try to change the subject. I won’t have you freelancing—”

“Rienzi doesn’t know who committed the murder. They have no physical evidence.”

There was a brief pause, then Katherine asked, “What?”

“All they have is that Lydia and her friends were the guards, they had the keys, and were already behaving badly. It’s circumstantial with a large
C
.”

“Rienzi said that?”

Note that she had forgotten her little problem with
moi
. I can be very clever. “Nearly word for word.”

“Then what’s it doing on the charge sheet?”

“Don’t ask questions that have obvious answers.”

“Make it more obvious for me.”

“It would’ve been impossible
not
to include it, Katherine. A senior Iraqi officer died in a horrible way in a cellblock controlled by a few soldiers who were about to become pinup idols for the Marquis de Sade star of the month club. The army couldn’t shove his murder under a rug, and our clients had already signed up to be perfect suspects.”

There was a long break in the conversation as she thought about this. “But . . . if the charge is this weak, they risk undermining the other charges, right? No competent prosecutor would take such a dumb risk.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Don’t play stupid, Sean. If a jury sees that the prosecution case for murder is sloppy and flawed, that bleeds over. They could discredit their entire case.”

She was getting it. “It certainly would, and my bet would be that the prosecutors were dragged into it kicking and screaming. But the commanding general wanted to avoid a public relations flogging by allowing a murderer to go free, insisted on throwing it into the mash, and left the prosecutors no choice but to proceed.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Maybe.”

“So are there other options?”

“One, and it’s not necessarily exclusive, is that they have no intention of dragging the murder charge into court. It’s a ruse—leverage they’re holding as barter for a deal.” I added, “If nobody bites, they drop the charge before they embarrass themselves in front of the court martial board.”

“Which works only if
we
don’t know it’s a bluff, right? What’s two?”

“An ongoing investigation. They’re still digging, still hoping for a break, or a Hail Mary, before it gets to trial.”

“Not likely. If they haven’t found a smoking gun yet, they won’t.”

“You might be right, Katherine.”

“It sounds like there’s a ‘but’ to that sentence.”

“Here’s a novel thought. You also might be wrong.”

“You know . . . that
is
a novel thought.” I think she was being tongue in cheek, but with Katherine, you can never be sure.

“Well, for the sake of our client, let’s consider it.”

“Because you believe in the possibility that our client or one of her friends killed Palchaci?”

“Don’t you?”

I found it interesting that she failed to answer that portentous question. She asked me, instead, “What more could they be looking at? What other leads do they have?”

“Katherine, I’ve been on this case two days. I don’t even have dirty laundry yet.” I suggested, “Maybe it’s something we should talk to our client about.”

“That’s a good idea. Just not today.”

“Why not? I’d like to get this out of the way. If we can discount the murder charge, we can focus our energies on the lesser charges.”

“She’s got her pysch exam with the government expert today.”

“And you don’t want to overload her mental circuits, right?” I asked, without mentioning that this could probably be accomplished by asking her if there was a state in the union called Montana.

“Well, to be frank . . . she has a limited ability to concentrate on more than one issue at a time,” Katherine admitted, then added, more curiously I thought, “Like somebody else I know.”

There was a subcurrent to that statement but I didn’t pick up on it: perhaps I didn’t want to.

Chapter Thirteen

I made the five-minute drive back to our home/office, picked up my cocounsel, and drove her back to the front gate. The same young MP was back on duty—he took one look and frantically waved us through with an expression of immense relief when we obeyed his instruction. I think he wanted to avoid Katherine. She can be tiresome.

From there, we drove back to the cadet area, and I parked on the same rooftop again.

We then hoofed it back to the same building where we had earlier met LTC Paul Eggers, but we moved up the stairs to a different floor, a different conference room, and a different prosecution witness, Captain Nate Willborn.

I pushed open the door and ushered Katherine inside, then, a beat behind, I entered. Captain Willborn was seated at the long table, right next to a lovely female JAG officer, and I didn’t even have to check the rank on her collar or the letters on her nametag to know she was titled and named Major Mary Ingle.

I had met Mary twice before, once in a courtroom encounter that led to her defeat, and once on a dance floor, that led to dinner, and that led to drinks, and that led to . . . well, a real gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.

But, yes, it led to that, too.

Apropos of that night, I recalled Mary’s rather brusque revelation to me over coffee in her townhouse the next morning: “My fiancé, Pete, is coming over any minute.” She further revealed, “He’s a member of Delta, one of their top gunslingers.” She then asked, “Would you care to stick around and meet him, or be a perfect gentleman and slip out the back door now?”

I hadn’t seen an engagement ring, and apparently informing me about this little detail must’ve slipped her mind, so
I
had done nothing wrong and had absolutely nothing to fear from Deadeye Pete—though I wasn’t betting he’d see it that way. Anyway, never let it be said that Sean Drummond is not a perfect gentleman, when the situation calls for it.

If you’re interested, this was one of those occasions when a gentleman is not expected to send flowers or chocolate the next day.

Anyway, Mary was smiling as I entered the room and it was obvious she was expecting me, though I had no foreknowledge that she was involved with this case. I had studied the roster of opposing counsel and was confident her name wasn’t on the list.

Also, it was interesting that Captain Willborn had chosen to arrive for this meeting lawyered-up, for, as I mentioned, he was merely listed as a witness.

Katherine introduced herself to Nate Willborn and to Mary, then said, “And this is my cocounsel, Sean Drummond.”

Willborn rose like a proper gentleman and we exchanged brisk handshakes. He was slight of build but made an obvious effort to produce a strong grip. Mary chose to remain seated and mentioned in a forthright manner, “Sean and I are already acquainted.”

“I see.” Katherine took this in, then said, “Sean does get around, doesn’t he?”

Mary smiled at Katherine, who smiled back. Regarding this awkward situation, Mary remarked, “Small world.”

Well, the temperature in the room instantly cooled about a hundred degrees. How do women know these things?

I thought for a moment about the appropriate response to this prickly situation, and quickly decided that I didn’t owe anybody an explanation, appropriate, or, more in character for me, otherwise. While I had known Katherine for well over a decade, the standard protocol of coital disclosure applied: I hadn’t slept with Katherine, so who I had slept with was none of her business. Then again, had I slept with her the issue of disclosure would have become even more interesting.

And regarding Mary, whatever the advisable protocol is for a regrettable one-night stand wasn’t in my copy of the
Service Etiquette
, Fourth Edition.

We all sat, and Sean, Katherine, and Mary tried to pretend like this was not an awkward moment. Nate Willborn, at least, looked absolutely clueless. Men have no instinct for these things.

I said to Mary, “What are you doing here?”

“For this meeting, consider me the counsel for Captain Willborn.”

Katherine asked the logical question I was about to ask. “Why does a witness for the prosecution require a lawyer?”

“He doesn’t, necessarily. I’m only here to keep you honest.”

Setting aside the obvious oxymoron of lawyers trying to keep lawyers honest, I asked Mary, “Are you on the prosecution team?”

“I am.”

“Since when?”

“Yesterday, today, and tomorrow.”

“Funny, I didn’t see your name on the scoresheet.”

“Because there are five different trials, it was felt that there should be an overall coordinator. That would be me.”

Katherine and I exchanged looks. This was a smart move from the government’s point of view, as it gave the five prosecutors a big advantage the defense could not share. Among the accused it was every man/woman for him/herself as we all clawed and scrambled to get the best deal for our clients, even if that meant, as it so often does, that the other accused got the short end of the stick, or the long end of the sentence.

In military parlance, the tactic is divide and conquer, and Mary’s role was to act as a clearing house, to probe our weaknesses and vulnerabilities, to coordinate the activities of the prosecutors, de-conflict any damaging issues, and to bring back as many scalps as possible.

“Congratulations,” I said to Mary, “General Fister chose well.”

“I’ll assume that’s a sincere sentiment and say thank you, Sean.”

“Assume whatever you want.”

Well, the sexual tension in this room could be cut with a fat slice of salami. I never understood why Mary chose to seduce me, or why I chose to succumb to her charms, but I suppose it had something to do with the usual pressures of getting married, the queasiness about whether she’d chosen the right mate, a last-minute fling—or maybe she was just horny. Ordinarily I don’t mind being the antidote to that last itch, but not when my partner is married or engaged, especially to a certified member of the army’s most elite killing unit.

But the main reason behind the tension was Mary’s army-issue maternity blouse. She appeared to be more-or-less eight months pregnant, which roughly corresponded to the aforementioned time I had snuck out her back door.

About that, I remembered to say, “Also congratulations about the wedding.”

This was a polite way to acknowledge the gold wedding band on her finger without saying something less clever, like, Is there a paternity suit in the room?

“Again, thank you,” Mary replied. “It was a beautiful ceremony. I would’ve sent you an invitation but . . . I seemed to have misplaced your address.”

“And congratulations on the child,” I remembered to add—how’s that for subtlety?

“His name is Little Pete.” She patted her stomach and offered me a matronly smile. “A boy, obviously. He’s going to be named after his father.”

I nearly jumped to my feet and yelled whoopee over this slyly worded revelation, but settled instead for a pale smile I hoped didn’t betray too much relief. If you’re wondering, this really is how you spell relief. Nothing alleviates male anxiety more than the simple phrase, the baby is not yours.

Poor Captain Willborn, the presumptive subject of this unhappy little get-together, was beginning to look like a third wheel.

Fortunately Katherine brought this meeting away from
Days of Our Lives
and into a safe focus, and asked Mary, “Are there any ground rules for this session?”

“Quite a few.” She added with a look in my direction, “Don’t worry. I’ll let you know if you violate any of them.”

Katherine considered that rather amorphous threat, then without further ado, said to Captain Willborn, “Will you describe your duties at Al Bazari?”

He glanced at Mary, who nodded, indicating, apparently, that it was okay to risk an answer to this perfectly innocuous question. “I was a section leader in the 315th Military Intelligence Battalion. I was in charge of—”

“A section leader?” Katherine snapped. “What does that mean?”

“I was about to—”

“How big was your section?”

“It was a standard interrogation te—”

“Standard? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Uh . . . there were three of us.”

Katherine had her notebook out with her pen poised, and her mind, and her tongue, sharpened to a fine point. Clearly, with these rapid-fire interruptions, she was trying to rattle him, but so far he seemed cool enough.

Military Intelligence is an interesting branch, whose main purpose is to study the enemy, interpret the enemy’s intentions, and provide ample forewarning to the troop commander to eliminate any unwelcome surprises, like defeat in battle. MI officers tend to be bright, highly organized, and essentially staff officers rather than leaders, which usually means their personalities are more bureaucratic, which often equates to being stuffy and hyper-cautious about saying things that might be proved wrong. They are often described as the two-handed branch due to their propensity to start conversations with “Well, on the one hand, this, and on the other hand, that.”

Clearly, in this case, Captain Willborn regarded Katherine and me as the enemy, and I could almost see his mind churning to try to determine our intentions and our tactics.

“Name the other two,” Katherine said in a severe, distrustful tone.

“Chief Warrant Officer Amal Ashad and Sergeant Kenny Waylon.”

“And where are they now?”

“KIA. Killed in action.”

“Thank you, but I know what KIA means, Captain. Are you saying both were killed?”

“Yes . . . both.”

“How? When?”

“In Iraq. About two months ago.” He paused and looked at her, apparently awaiting another rude eruption, but when none materialized he continued, “I wasn’t there, but I understand the Humvee they were riding in got hit by a roadside bomb. An IED, it’s called, which—”

“I also know what an IED is.”

“Right,” he said but didn’t sound like he meant it. He was making a deliberate effort to get on Katherine’s nerves with these little insinuations about her civilian status and lack of military knowledge. “Well, it was a big one. They died instantly. They were both blown into mist.”

Katherine exchanged eye contact with me. Two months ago was right around the time the scandal first broke.

I said to Captain Willborn what we both were thinking. “Two of the key witnesses kick off just as the investigation kicks in. A little odd for a coicidence, don’t you think?”

“Yes. It was most unfortunate.”

As an attorney, I don’t particularly like coincidences, particularly when they are not to my advantage. It’s not that I don’t believe in them, for, on rare occasions, they do happen. More often, however, the word can also be a synonym for “cover-up” or “bullshit” or the even more interesting “erasure of a big problem.”

Willborn seemed to know what I was thinking—it wasn’t hard—and quickly remarked, “Look, there is a war going on over there. Shit happens. The choice of who dies is not ours, it’s the enemy’s.”

“Not always.”

“No . . . maybe not.” He then added, with an attempt at certainty, “In this case, it was
definitely
the enemy.”

“I thought you said you weren’t there.”

“As their team leader I was informed of the circumstances and included in all the paperwork and documentation regarding their deaths. It was definitely an IED. Like I said, Colonel, shit happens.”

“You don’t sound all that choked up about their deaths.”

“It happened two months ago. The grieving period is over.” He apparently recognized how brutally callous that sounded and informed us, “The truth is, we weren’t all that close. They were assigned to my team after I got in-country. Amal Ashad was pretty standoffish, and I don’t buddy-up with sergeants under my command.” He further added, unnecessarily, “The army discourages fraternization between the ranks.”

“I see.” I then asked, “What were their responsibilities as members of your team?”

“Our mission was interrogations. Ashad was an expatriot Iraqi. Born in Baghdad, he immigrated to the States when he was a young teenager. So he was a native-level linguist and had a lot of helpful insights into the local culture. Waylon was our driver and did administrative work for us.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“He kept our files in order and mostly did odd jobs.”

“Did you perform a lot of interrogations?”

“We were drowning in prisoners to be interrogated. So the answer’s yes.”

“Who decided who your team would manage?”

“Headquarters . . . usually the colonel or the operations office. Mostly it was haphazard unless there was a direct line of connection.”

“Explain that.”

“It’s a routine goal in interrogations. Say we were making headway on a particular insurgent cell and a new prisoner was suspected of involvement with that cell, or say a new prisoner had a relationship to one of the targets already assigned to our team. In those cases, it made sense to assign that source to our team. The idea was to maintain continuity. Of course, it wasn’t always possible to achieve.”

“Why wasn’t it?”

“Because we were getting so many prisoners, a ceaseless deluge, it was like a never-ending conveyor belt. We were thinly spread. Of course, speed was always an issue.”

“Speed?”

“Speed . . . yes. The target is most vulnerable and mentally disorganized immediately after apprehension. Initiative and momentum are everything in interrogation—you can’t afford to spend weeks or days, or even hours, debating who will handle the prisoner. Lose that psychological window, that brief moment of confusion, fear, and dislocation—that fleeting psychological advantage—and you might never recover.”

“Is that how your team ended up with General Palchaci?”

He was opening his mouth to answer that question when Mary barged in. “That question is out of bounds.”

I looked at Mary. “What does that mean?”

She looked at Katherine. “What level is your security clearance?”

To which Katherine replied, “Don’t be facetious.”

Mary directed her eyes back at me. “General Palchaci’s disposition and how that decision was made are classified.”