Mortal Allies (41 page)

Katherine, being the lead counsel, took over. “No, Your Honor, not at this time.”

He leaned back in his chair. He was still brooding and bouncing that little ball on his desk. “But you expect me to approve your request?”

“Yes sir,” Katherine said, and it did not escape my notice that she sounded and looked as meek as a housebroken kitten. Suspiciously so, in fact. She’d apparently switched to good cop/good cop routine.

Smart girl. There’s a time for in-your-face, and there’s a time for laying back.

The ball stopped bouncing and the judge bent forward again.

“All right, I’ll let you know my judgment. But if I allow it, the prosecutor has to be present. Moran and Jackson are his witnesses and he has the right to share in the fruits of your discovery. Another thing — call it point one: I want to know whatever you find out, as soon as you find it out. I don’t want to get into court and have any big surprises. Not on this case. Capisch?”

“Capisch, Your Honor,” we both respectfully replied.

“Point two: Don’t forget point one. God help you, don’t forget point one. Miss Carlson, don’t confuse me with those pansy-asses you baited and sucker-punched in the past. I’ll rip off your head and poop down your throat.”

Katherine sat and stared at him, and I have to tell you, there wasn’t any doubt in my mind that Barry Carruthers was not a man to tangle with. Nor was there any doubt that he’d researched Katherine’s trial history and was well aware of her theatrical tactics.

He then said, “Now, you step outside, Miss Carlson. I need to have a word with Drummond here.”

It wasn’t like she could say no. It was his office, after all. For once, she didn’t backtalk, or grumble, or anything. She got up and left.

I sat nervously in my chair and anxiously wondered what this was about. If he didn’t want witnesses, it had to be bad.

He picked up the ball and started squeezing it again.

“Drummond, do I need to tell you that our friends in Washington aren’t real pleased with your performance out here?”

So that’s what this was. He’d asked the civilian to leave so we could have a soldier’s heart-to-heart. He was about to deliver the mail, as they say. I slumped down in my chair.

“No, Your Honor. I think I’ve guessed that.”

“You’re a SPECAT special attorney, right?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I replied, although my mouth was agape.

What I was admitting was that I’m a Special Actions attorney assigned to a secret court that handles the ultra-sensitive cases of soldiers assigned to what the Army calls “black units.” In other words, units whose purpose and missions are so absurdly secret and sensitive the military won’t admit they exist. There are a lot more of these units than the public has any idea exists, which is actually paradoxical, because the public supposedly is unaware
any
of these units exist. With the marked exception of Delta Force, of course, which has to be the most widely publicized nonexistent unit in history.

Although the soldiers assigned to black units take strict vows to never mutter a word about what they do, when one of these “black” troopers gets accused of a serious crime, most of them instantly forget that vow and start threatening public disclosure unless they get a favorable plea bargain. There’s also the danger that a public court-martial would expose information that could be hazardous to the nation’s security.

Thus the SPECAT tribunal, where I work. The judges are handpicked. The lawyers are handpicked. We all have security clearances that run down the length of our arms. I got to be one of these attorneys because I was in the outfit, which happens to be the “blackest” unit of them all, and I got wounded so badly on a mission that my career as an infantry officer, such as it was, was over. The powers that be decided to send me to law school and then make me pay it back by working as a SPECAT lawyer.

I’m sure they were all regretting it now.

Judge Barry Carruthers wasn’t supposed to know this, of course, because the existence of the SPECAT court was kept as secret from the rest of the JAG Corps as it was from the rest of humanity.

He was grinning. “Drummond, I spent four years as a SPECAT prosecutor.”

“I had no idea,” I admitted.

“Long time ago. But I’m not keeping you here to trade chummy stories about life as a SPECAT lawyer.”

“No, I don’t guess. You’re here to tell me to straighten up and fly right.”

“I’ve never heard of a court case that caused so much godawful carnage. You realize, don’t you, that this alliance is on the brink of disintegrating?”

“That’s what they say on the news.”

“The news don’t know the half of it, Drummond. The Secretary of State’s here on a last-ditch effort to keep it together. Personally, I don’t have any money on him. You should see the messages flying back and forth between here and Washington. It’s ugly. And if you and Miss Carlson come into my court and start trying to prove this Lee kid was gay, then don’t wait till the last American flight to get off this peninsula, because our boys will be loaded on troopships, and it won’t be long before Uncle Kim up north decides it’s time to come south for an extended visit.”

“Your Honor, I—”

“Knock off the ‘your honor’ crap. We both know this isn’t a proper judge-to-lawyer conversation. This is a mano-to-mano chat we’re having here.”

“Right.”

He fixed his eyes on my face. He paused for a moment to let me know this was a decisive moment. Then he asked, “Do you really believe Whitehall’s innocent? Don’t screw with me now, Drummond. I’m not the jury. You don’t have to persuade me. Give me a no-shit answer.”

I did not pause or hesitate. “Of murder, rape, and necrophilia, I do. The other crimes, I suspect he did.”

He leaned back in his chair and kept staring at me. I guess he was trying to look into my soul to see if I was capable of telling the truth or if I was just one more prevaricating, weasel-faced defense attorney.

Finally he nodded that big head of his and said, “All right. Do what you have to do. Talk to Moran and Jackson. On Friday, we’re gonna have a trial, and you and Carlson come in and give it all you’ve got. No holds barred. I won’t be easy on you, but if an American soldier, of all people, can’t get a fair trial, then you and I chose the wrong profession.”

I thanked him, left, and hooked back up with Katherine. As soon as we got outside, we stood right where we were, in the sunlight, blinded and awestruck for a second.

I said, “We’ve got permission to talk with Moran and Jackson. Also, trial starts on Friday. No holds barred.”

She nodded. “Friday. No holds barred.”

We fell quiet.

I finally laughed. “Ah hell, he’s not so tough. He’s a big pansy.”

Katherine giggled, too. “Did you hear what he said? He threatened to rip off my head and
poop
down my throat.
Poop
? He’ll
poop
down my throat? What kind of a man uses that word?”

“A man who means it.”

She sighed. “God, I’m not looking forward to this trial.”

I
melda waited impatiently by the front door to the hair parlor. She grabbed my arm and dragged me into a back room, then closed the door behind us.

She said, “Michael Bales.”

“Right, Michael Bales.”

“I checked his ass out.”

“You checked him out.”

“In country five years. Came over on a three-year tour, married a Korean, and extended.”

“So he’s a homesteader?” I asked, or concluded. Homesteaders are troops who get tired of being shifted from one end of the earth to the other and fight to remain in one place. It’s a fairly common thing with troops in Korea especially, because so many of them marry Korean girls who aren’t real eager to leave Mamasan and Papasan to go live in a strange culture on the other side of the globe.

“Guess who his wife is.”

“A girl who’s into S&M. On weekends they send the kids to stay with Grandma and Grandpa so they can tie each other up and beat the bejesus out of each other.”

“Choi’s sister.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Actually it was a stupid question, because one of the things about Imelda Pepperfield is that she never kids. I’ve heard her try to tell jokes, but frankly her timing sucks. Imelda’s one of those folks who’re only funny when they’re not trying to be. A natural comedienne, I guess you’d say.

Unlike me — a forced laugh a minute.

“Bales is the number one boy around here. A tough case rolls in, he’s the man. Boy’s broken more cases than Jesus saved souls.”

“And now we know how he does that, don’t we?”

“He busts their nuts and don’t get caught.”

By the time we walked out of the office, Katherine had already called Fast Eddie and arranged for him to meet us at the holding facility. We had two days left. Katherine wasn’t wasting time.

Since both witnesses were soldiers, it seemed obvious I should come along. We decided to bring Imelda as well, technically as our recorder, but really because she was a senior noncommissioned officer and might catch something we missed. The Army’s like that. All kinds of hidden cues pass among the troops that officers and civilians can’t begin to detect.

Twenty minutes later, we walked into the holding facility. A tall, gangly MP lieutenant met us at the door and lethargically escorted us to an interview room. Eddie was already there, seated beside a short, wispy, skinny kid who looked frightened as hell. The kid had wavy blond hair, a sallow, skinny face, reddened rudiments of popped, scabby pimples, and big, round, frightened blue eyes. I recognized his face from his photo. He looked even more effeminate in person.

“Good morning, Eddie,” Katherine said, giving Golden a perfectly churlish smile.

“Have a seat,” Eddie said, no longer using any of his famous charm on Katherine or me. Eddie’s a smart boy. He doesn’t waste ammunition.

Katherine instantly extended her hand across the table at Jackson. “Hello, Everett, I’m Katherine Carlson, the attorney for Thomas Whitehall.”

She gave him a positively dazzling smile, and she was a beautiful woman, and although Jackson was gay, a smile on a beautiful woman’s face is still a glorious thing to behold. I mean, I was staring at her. Of course, I’m hetero. But then, she’s not, which just goes to show how chaotic everything was in this case. Anyway, Jackson shook her hand.

“And this,” she pointed at Imelda and me, “is Major Sean Drummond, my co-counsel, and Sergeant Imelda Pepperfield, our legal assistant.”

He gave a brief glance in our direction, then turned immediately back to Katherine. Imelda, I noticed, had backed herself into a corner with a pained expression on her face.

Katherine continued. “Everett, I’ve been hired by OGMM, whom I’ve worked for, I guess, for about eight years now. I’m a civilian, of course. My specialty is military gay cases. I’m what you might call an advocate. I believe gays should be allowed to serve, and I make my living fighting for that right in the courts.”

This was a very clever move on her behalf. She was informing young Everett Jackson, a soldier imprisoned and about to be dishonorably discharged for committing homosexual acts, that her life’s work was fighting for guys like him. By implication, she was saying, Hey, about that legal pretty boy on your right — that’s right, the good-looking stud in the green uniform. Don’t be taken in by him; sure he might act like a nice fella, but he’s the guy who gets paid for getting guys like you shoved out of the service. I’m the good guy here, Everett. We’re simpatico. Let’s be chums.

Jackson was nodding like he understood. I was trying to look invisible. I didn’t want him looking at me and thinking, Hey, what about him? Isn’t he one of the gay haters, too?

But Eddie wasn’t any chump, either. He quickly said, “Don’t be fooled by her, Everett. She’s the attorney for Thomas Whitehall, the man who murdered Lee No Tae and got you into this mess. She doesn’t care about you. She cares only about her client.”

Jackson’s eyes shifted back and forth a few times from Eddie to Katherine, and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

Katherine swiftly said, “Of course, he’s right, Everett. My job is to defend Thomas Whitehall. And I do it willingly, because I know he’s being railroaded, just like I suspect you were railroaded into giving the testimony you provided.”

Jackson so far had not said a word. He had not been asked to say a word. The prosecutor and defender were too busy fussing and fencing over his loyalty.

“Now, Everett,” Katherine continued, “let me tell you what this is about. In your testimony, you said you were invited to Captain Whitehall’s apartment by First Sergeant Moran. Is that right?”

Jackson looked at Eddie, who nodded at him that it was okay to speak. The fact that he looked over at Eddie, this wasn’t a good omen.

He said, “That’s right, ma’am.”

A big, warm, friendly smile. “Please, Everett, drop the ‘ma’am’ stuff. Call me Katherine. I’m not one of these stiff-lipped Army guys here.”

“Okay, Katherine. Yes. First Sergeant Moran invited me.”

“Didn’t you find that strange? I mean, how often do you get invited to an officer’s quarters for a party?”

“A little odd, yes. But I was, uh, well—”

“You were First Sergeant Moran’s significant other?”

“Yes, that’s right. I thought, well, you know, I thought I was invited like his date.”

“Of course,” Katherine said, as though this were the most innately aboveboard thing in the world. After all, she
was
a gay rights advocate. He didn’t have to be embarrassed to disclose these intimate details to her. He didn’t have to feel awkward. He could say it like it was. She, after all, was Jackson’s only
real
soul mate in this room.

“Anyway,” Jackson continued, “I felt odd at first, but Whitehall, uh, the captain, he was a real nice guy. I mean, he seemed real nice. He kept pouring me drinks, and he spent a lot of time talking with me. I, uh, I felt pretty comfortable.”

“And what was Carl Moran doing? Was he talking with Lee No Tae?”

“Yeah. Part of the time, anyway.”

At this point, Eddie lurched forward in his chair. “What in the hell’s going on here? What does this line of questioning have to do with the interrogation?”