The Last Hour (36 page)

“Gotcha,” I said.

“All right ... so CID conducted their investigation, which was limited to one question. Was there enough evidence to indicate a crime may have occurred? Their answer was yes, so now things get turned over to what we call an Article 32 investigating officer. Think of it as the equivalent of a civilian grand jury.”

“That’s where we are now.”

“Right. It’s not an exact parallel. With a grand jury, it all happens behind closed doors. Not so with an Article 32 investigation. The hearing will be open to the press. And you’ll be there, and you and I will have a chance to see every piece of evidence, and question every witness. You’ve actually got stronger protections as a defendant than you would if you were in the civilian courts.”

I tilted my head, surprised. “Okay. So the Article 32 officer ... Colonel Schwartz ... he decides if I’m actually going to be court-martialed.”

Elmore shook his head. “No. He’ll investigate, and write a report, making a recommendation. General Buelles decides.”

“So ... what happens if Buelles calls up Schwartz and says, ‘I want this guy convicted?’”

“Not going to happen. First of all, Schwartz doesn’t work for Buelles. Second, if Buelles did that, Schwartz would almost certainly report it and then there’d be a heap of shit. They call that unlawful command influence, and we’re pretty serious about it. Understand, the JAG is an entirely independent chain of command. We take that seriously. ”
 

What he said reminded me of something which had only barely passed across my consciousness from the news a couple years ago: how some JAG attorneys had bucked everyone up to the President defending their accused terrorist clients at Guantanamo. Given how pissed everyone in the entire United States was at those guys, it had to take some balls to call out the administration. It wasn’t hard to buy what Elmore was telling me.

“All right. I’m convinced. How long will all this take? Years?”

“More likely months. I wouldn’t be surprised if Schwartz starts questioning witnesses within the next two weeks.”

“And I’ll be present for that?” I tried to imagine sitting in the same room as Colton, looking him in the eye, while he lied and blamed me for his own actions. Even after hearing it from Elmore, I couldn’t imagine that happening. Just the thought made me want to find something solid and smash it.

“Okay,” I said, surprised that my voice broke a little. “Give it to me straight. What are my odds? Is this going to court-martial? Am I going to jail?”

Elmore leaned back a little and raised an eyebrow.

“All I know right now is what’s in the investigation report. And that’s not enough to give you an honest answer. I’d like to tell you no. But a lot will depend on what I learn in the next few days. Take tomorrow off. That’s an order. Then, on Wednesday morning, I want you in my office at 7 a.m. I want to know every detail about your deployment. Every detail about everyone there. What happened, from the day your platoon got to Afghanistan to the day you left. And especially I want to know all the details of what happened at Dega Payan. Clear?”

I winced. I’d been through this with Smalls already, though her questioning had centered on only the day of the incident. There was so much more. Context, and relationships, and questions and more questions.
 

“All right,” I said. “Wednesday morning.”

As I said the words, Carrie reached over and intertwined her fingers with mine. I held on like my life depended on it.

W
e made it through Tuesday relatively unscathed.
I got a call from my Dad. He was still working on getting some answers for me. I told him about Dick Elmore and he seemed relieved. Despite my original doubts about representation appointed by the Army, Dick had reassured me. I didn’t know anything yet about his competence as a lawyer, but I knew he cared. And that mattered.

I took the day off, and instead of going out, we holed up in our bedroom, watching a marathon of science fiction movies.
The Empire Strikes Back. Star Trek.
We watched half a dozen Doctor Who episodes, and then got into some really campy stuff. We watched the 1980s
Buck Rogers
(with the Queen soundtrack) followed by
Starship Troopers
, which ignited a half hour argument over whether or not Robert Heinlein was a feminist or a misogynist. I made popcorn, and we ordered pizza, and laughed at the stupid movies and made love and held on to each other and sometimes just lay there, looking in each other’s eyes.

On Wednesday morning I was back at work. I had an awkward, silence-filled conversation with Doctor Moore, and apologized for having to leave in such a hurry on Monday. This was difficult for me. As a teaching assistant at Rice, no one paid the slightest attention to my hours, as long as I showed up for the classes I was supposed to be teaching. NIH, though, was a government organization and everything had to be filled out properly. I filled out the leave form, Doctor Moore signed it, and hopefully that was going to be the end of that discussion. I couldn’t even imagine how Moore was going to respond when I took time off for Ray’s hearing ... or the possible court-martial.

I’d cross that bridge when and if I came to it.

It was almost 4:30 in the afternoon, and I was restless to get going and see Ray, when my cell phone rang. I raised my eyebrows at the incoming number. It was Bill Ayers. I hadn’t heard from him except a note or two on Facebook since I left Texas in December. I answered, quickly.

“Bill, hey! How are you?”

“Carrie, we need to talk.”

I was taken aback. His tone was ... almost frantic. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Be honest with me. I know I screwed up asking you out to dinner before you graduated. And I’ve apologized for that. I was wrong. But ... I didn’t expect this. Why? I thought we ... I thought we were okay.”

What was he talking about? “Why, what?”
 

“I was suspended today pending an investigation, Carrie.”

“What?”

“They’re going to do the whole fucking academic witch hunt. All my research is federally funded, Carrie.”

“Bill ... I didn’t file a complaint. I never said anything to anyone.”

“Well, someone sure as hell did. They’re accusing me of falsifying research, and of letting you take primary authorship on papers I wrote.”

I gasped, feeling as if someone had closed their hand around my throat. “What did you say?”

“I said, I’ve been suspended because I’m accused of sleeping with you and falsifying your PhD research. The RCR is involved.”

RCR was Rice University’s office of the Responsible Conduct of Research. They handled complaints of academic integrity, falsifying research, that sort of thing. And it was a federally funded office that handled investigations for NIH and the National Science Foundation. Which meant, if what Bill was telling me was true, I was going to be hearing about this soon too.

I couldn’t breathe. This was a nightmare.
 

“Bill, what did they tell you?”

“Only that the complaint was made, and that the University took this sort of thing seriously, blah fucking blah, and that I was suspended from all research and academic supervision until the investigation is complete. Of course they take it seriously, they could lose federal funding if they don’t. They’ll throw me right under the fucking bus before they’ll disturb the federal gravy train.”

The spray of words out of the normally soft-spoken, polite Bill was so out of character I couldn’t help but wonder if he was drunk. That was when my phone rang. Doctor Moore.
Shit.

“Bill, I’ll call you later. My boss is calling.”

“Sure, fine,” he responded, his voice curt.

I hung up my cell. My heart was pounding as I reached out and slowly picked up the receiver on my desk phone. “Hello?”

“Doctor Thompson. Can you stop by my office?”

“I’ll be right there,” I responded.

He hung up without a word.

It had to be Nikki.
I thought about my last day in Texas, and the photo Nikki had posted on my Facebook page. Had that vindictive bitch put mine and Bill’s careers in jeopardy?

I felt like I had a lead ball in my stomach as I walked down the hall to Doctor Moore’s office. I knocked, and he called, “Come in.”

He wasn’t alone. Another guy in his fifties sat in one of the chairs facing Doctor Moore’s desk. He stood as I came in, and Doctor Moore said, “Doctor Thompson, this is Gerald Smart, from the Office of Research Integrity at Health and Human Services.”

My lips felt like rubber as I said, “Hello,” and shook hands with Smart.

“Have a seat,” Moore said.

I did, and so did Smart.

Moore tented his fingers together, just covering his mouth, studying me. My skin crawled. Finally, he said, “Mr. Smart, if you could explain the purpose of your visit?”

Smart leaned forward and said, “Yes, of course. Doctor Thompson, are you aware of the ORI and our mission?”

I shook my head. “Only in the vaguest of terms.”

He nodded. “ORI is responsible for ensuring the integrity of research funded by the Department of Health and Human Services, including any research at public and private universities we fund, as well as all of the activities of the NIH. As I’m sure you can imagine, research funded by public dollars must be of the highest integrity. We supervise investigations by academic institutions to ensure that appropriate action is taken whenever there is suspicion of fraudulent research.”

I nodded. “Okay ... so what can I do to help you?”

My heart was pounding at this point, and I could feel my neck and cheeks flushing. I already knew the answer to this question, because of the call with Ayers. But I wanted to hear him say it. What exactly was I accused of here?

“Doctor Thompson, I’m afraid ORI has received a complaint with very specific allegations against you.”

I swallowed. “What sort of allegations?”

“Specifically, that you falsified research which is due to be published in the Journal of Infectious Diseases. Additionally, the report indicated ... ahem…” He looked away from me and said, “The reporter indicated that a significant portion of your PhD work was falsified, and that this was aided by your thesis advisor in return for sexual favors. Unfortunately, we have to take it seriously. Among other things, a picture of you and your dissertation advisor kissing was sent in with the report.”

I jerked in my seat, and my hands involuntarily gripped the arms of the chair until my knuckles nearly screamed in pain.

My jaw rigid, I spat out the words. “There is absolutely no truth to that at all. Who made these accusations?”

He shook his head, a rueful expression on his face. “As I’m sure you’re aware, we can’t tell you that. It’s to protect whistleblowers from potential retaliation.”

“And give false accusers a shield of anonymity? If I’m right, the picture you’re talking about is the day I left Rice. Bill kissed me goodbye, but that’s all there was to it.”

Smart grimaced. “Doctor Thompson, our goal is to ensure scientific integrity. I assure you, no adverse action will be taken against you without the fullest of investigation.” He said the words with a straight face. But it didn’t give me confidence. He continued, “Doctor Moore here, as your supervisor, will lead the investigation here at NIH. My job is to monitor that, and make sure of fairness for everyone.”

My eyes darted to Moore. He carefully looked away from me. Now I wanted to vomit. Or scream. Or hit that smug, self-satisfied bureaucrat in the face. None of these were going to be productive responses.
 

I took a deep breath. “Okay. I assure you these ... charges ... are completely false. How do we get this done and over with so I can get back to work?”

Moore finally spoke again. “For the time being you’ll be on paid administrative leave. Your research here is on hold until the investigation is complete. I spoke with the RCR at Rice University earlier, and we’ve agreed that the most expeditious way to handle this is to conduct a joint investigation.”

I forced myself to stay calm. “What exactly will this investigation involve?”

“We’ll need to question you and Professor Ayers, of course. And review log books and all of your original lab notes from your dissertation, as well as all of the work that led to both of your upcoming papers. For the time being, the
Journal of Infectious Diseases
has put your publication on hold until we’ve reached a resolution.”

My stomach twisted at the thought they’d contacted the journal and put my research on hold, my job,
my life.

My cell phone rang. I reached into my purse and silenced it without checking who it was. I sat straight on the edge of my seat, struggling to suppress my rage and said, “Let me know what you need. I’ll cooperate fully. This is ... appalling.”

Moore nodded. “I’ll call you later this week and let you know what we need. In the meantime, you’re not to log in any NIH or Rice University systems. To make sure existing evidence is protected.”

I swallowed and stood up. Both men stood as well, and part of me wanted to scream in rage at the idea that my fitness to be a scientist, my honesty and integrity, was in question. That the question of whether or not I’d used sex to achieve my goals would be decided by a couple of old white guys who stared at me like I was a piece of meat. The rage was building in me, quickly, and I knew I had to get out of there before I said or did something I was going to regret.