“I’m not sure how they’d word it, but basically ‘Hey, I’m not a leader, I’m a follower. I only went along with Colonel Wilcox because he’s big and bad and scary.’”
“Somehow I suspect the motion will use other language. And you think he’ll request a delay to consult with his new council?”
“Actually, I heard just the opposite. That he’ll request to be tried first. So that Colonel Wilcox’s outcome isn’t prejudicial to his own case.”
“Interesting. The wolves will always, at some point, turn on themselves.”
“Yes sir.”
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In the civilian court system defense attorneys and prosecutors only pretend to hate each other’s guts.
Part of that is the show they must put on so that spectators know they’re doing their jobs to the utmost of their abilities.
Lawyers call it courtroom theatrics, or “the circus show.”
The accused wants to think their attorney is the toughest guy in three counties. That he takes no crap from anybody, and he’s not about to let his client be railroaded.
Or, for that matter, get anything less than the very best deal available.
Prosecutors, on the other hand, live and die by their conviction rate.
Many are elected officials. And by their very nature, elected officials are up for occasional re-election.
Many voters do their homework. They’re the type of honorable citizens who believe anybody who commits a crime should be hung, then drawn and quartered, then burned to death, should they survive their hanging and quartering.
They don’t give a damn about what kind of man the prosecutor is, as long as his conviction rate is equal to or higher than his peers.
Consequently, if a prosecutor wants to stay a prosecutor, he must be tough. He must win his cases. He must convict the accused and send them away for as long as he can.
American citizens don’t like paying for prisons, but they prefer them to be as full as possible.
That’s why so many cases are plea-bargained out.
A prosecutor will only take a case to trial if it’s a slam dunk. If he’s confident he can win.
Because he looks very bad when he loses.
And because in counties where district attorneys are elected instead of appointed, too many losses can jeopardize one’s job.
Voters want their district attorneys to be tough and successful, for they, along with the police, are seen as the protectors of society. It’s the cops who pick up the bad guys and toss them into jail. But it’s the DA and his team who keep them there.
A successful district attorney, meaning one who usually wins his cases, can tout that record when he’s up for reelection. He can make television commercials that brag of an eighty percent conviction rate.
Or whatever.
Another DA in another county who had a twenty percent conviction rate might not want to make that fact public.
The nice thing about a plea bargain is that it isn’t seen as a loss for either party.
The defense attorney can tell his client, “Hey, five years in prison isn’t that bad. After all, you were stupid enough to look right at the surveillance camera when you burglarized that jewelry store.
“And you weren’t smart enough to wear gloves and left your fingerprints all over the darned place.
“And you cut yourself when you climbed through the shattered window and left your blood and DNA behind.
“And you used your real name and real address when you walked next door and hocked the jewelry at a pawn shop.
“And you bragged about the heist to at least seven people, two of which were undercover cops.
“And you can’t exactly throw yourself on the mercy of the court by saying it was your first offense and it was an error of your youth, since you’re forty eight years old and you’ve been busted for burglaries on six different occasions.
“All in all, five years is a good deal. Maybe while you’re in prison you can take classes, find yourself a new career.
“Because let’s face it, you’re a pretty lousy burglar.”
The prosecutor can also count it as a victory.
“Sure, we could have tried him.
“But the sentencing guidelines call for a max of eight to ten years for a non-violent property crime in which a gun wasn’t used.
“Odds are he wouldn’t have gotten much more than five years, but we’d have spent over a hundred thousand dollars of county money going through the process.
“Even more if he found grounds to appeal.
“And he could probably appeal on grounds of ineffectual counsel since his attorney belittles him and insinuates he’s not good at his chosen profession.
“Yeah, we could have gone to trial but it would have been costly.
“This way he’s off the streets and out of your jewelry stores for five years. Longer if he’s a dumbass who can’t behave himself in prison and gets into trouble and has time added to his sentence.
“At least five years he’s out of your hair.
“And who knows? Maybe he’ll drop the soap in the shower and make friends with a big redneck named Bubba and the two will run off to the mountains of Kentucky and cook moonshine together after they get out. Maybe they’ll live there happily ever after.
“Maybe he’ll be out of your hair forever.
“So yes, the plea bargain is a win for the county too. We’re going to count it as a victory.”
In the military justice system, prosecutors aren’t elected.
They are commissioned officers with law degrees who are appointed to the Judge Advocate General’s or the Staff Judge Advocate’s office.
As such appointees they represent the “public” or the base populace. The “good people,” if you will.
Since they’re not elected, their jobs don’t depend on their success rate, or the number of convictions they can brag about.
However, their promotions often do. For one cannot justify promoting a captain to a major if he has a dismal success rate in the courtroom.
Very few military attorneys ever work a capital case.
Very few crimes in the armed forces are serious enough to warrant a death penalty.
Since such cases are so rare, those who have worked on one (on either side) usually have great stories to tell around the officer’s club.
Especially if they came out on the winning side.
It should be a surprise to no one, therefore, that some military attorneys salivate at the thought of prosecuting a death penalty case, winning, and sending some dumb criminal to death row.
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Captain Robert Aduddell wasn’t one of them.
Aduddell was a Christian man who believed in his heart that God Almighty was the only one who had the right to decide who lived and died.
He didn’t believe in the death penalty and was staunchly liberal in most of his beliefs.
In law school he envisioned himself as a public defender. One who fought to keep the poor and disadvantaged from being railroaded by a legal system which favored those with money.
He envisioned himself as a man who would save people from death row instead of putting them there.
The problem was he ran out of money.
We’ve already talked about the military’s medical corps program, in which they pay the tuition and other fees of medical students with the proviso they serve time in the military to pay it back.
It turns out the Air Force has a similar program for those pursuing a law degree.
When civilian Robert Aduddell ran out of money halfway through law school the Air Force told him he could be Captain Robert Aduddell when he graduated.
They’d pay his bills and tuition the rest of the way, and he’d only have a six year commitment to the Air Force when he finished.
It wasn’t the best deal ever, but the best one he could get.
And it was really his only choice, for broke is broke and he was limited in his options.
Well, he could have piled on more student debt, but he knew a guy in his sixties who was still paying off his student loans.
His friend’s plight made the Air Force deal sound pretty sweet.
So he took the Air Force up on their offer, finished his degree, and graduated with honors from the University of Southern California.
When the Air Force made its offer he knew absolutely nothing about the military justice system. Or the military either, for that matter.
An attorney lives or dies on his research, though, and he did his homework. He did his due diligence and was on his way to becoming an expert on military justice by the time he became a part of it.
He assumed he could talk his way into a position as a defense attorney, working for the Air Force Area Defense Council instead of as a prosecutor for the Staff Judge Advocate.
It wasn’t meant to be.
One thing every Air Force member quickly learns is that he cannot “talk the Air Force” into anything.
The Air Force is all about accomplishing its mission, on time, every time.
Put another way, Air Force needs always come first.
Always.
Oh, he was allowed to put in a request to serve on the defense side of the table.
But there was no position available at Randolph Air Force Base when he was assigned there.
The only spot available was with the prosecution team.
The Air Force is full of colorful sayings and phrases.
One of them is “Shut up and color.”
It means the same as “bite your tongue and do as you’re told.”
Captain Aduddell wasn’t happy that he’d be in the business of sending people to Ft. Leavenworth Military Prison instead of getting them acquitted.
But he was no longer a civilian who had the freedom to make his own choices.
He was now a member of the finest Air Force in the world.
He was required to follow orders.
So he shut up and he colored.
One thing the military justice system has in common with the civilian system?
They want people to think the two sides are mortal enemies; that they hate each other with a venomous passion.
It makes their clients think they’re getting their money’s worth.
It makes for a better show for courtroom observers who like drama.
The truth is, in both systems, most of the drama is all for show.
Many attorneys never go into a courtroom unless it’s just to hand the judge papers to sign.
For those who actually litigate cases, though, acting is a carefully honed skill.
It’s not that they’re trying to mislead anyone.
It’s more that they’re trying to influence them. And not to influence everyone.
But certainly the judge and jury.
Like it or not, right or wrong, whether an attorney wins his case often depends on how he can sway those who really matter, especially during closing arguments.
That’s why attorneys often pace back and forth in front of a mirror for hours, practicing their closing arguments and experimenting. Trying to decide which words to use, where to place their inflection, which key points they want to drive home by repeating them over and over again.
The drama, though, or the vast majority of it, is reserved for the courtroom and final deliberations.
Other than that, the whole process is paperwork heavy, and often tedious and boring.
And yes, attorneys from both sides typically socialize when away from the courtroom.
That’s because, lawyer jokes aside, attorneys are a breed of their own.
They work in a field few outsiders understand.
They have their own language.
And they’re bound by a code of ethics which, like it or not, binds them all together.
The night after he met with Major General Stephens, Captain Aduddell was sitting at a table in the officer’s club bar, sharing drinks with another captain.
Captain David Wright, who represented the men Aduddell was going to try to condemn to death.
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Aduddell asked his friend, “Well, when do you plan to go see him then?”
“Probably Thursday. One of our motions had some blatant errors and we had to redo it. What I wouldn’t give for a halfway qualified clerk who could not only spell ‘grammar’ but also knew how to use it.”
“Hey, these days we accept anybody with a pulse. And we’d accept zombies too if they knew the difference between habeas corpus and a habeas petition.
“Just don’t wait too long. The general told me he wants to get this thing started so we can get it over with.”
“Speaking of motions, I heard something about you preparing a motion to separate?”
“Medley. He knows that Wilcox isn’t exactly a popular guy and doesn’t want to pay with his life because somebody has a vendetta against his co-defendant.”
“Let me guess. You’ve tried to explain to him he could be found guilty as a minor co-conspirator, a bit player in the grand scheme, and come away with a far lesser sentence?”
“I did.”
“And he says he doesn’t want to take any chances. That the panel might take the easy way out and find they were equally complicit and give them the same sentence for convenience sake.”
“Something like that, yes.”
“What does the ADC think about that?”
“He likes it.”
“What? Seriously? Why on earth would he want two trials and twice the defense staff? I mean, this one case has to be tying up your entire budget all by itself. Not counting most of your staff.”
“That’s just it, Robert. We have no budget. We’re working on IOUs, remember? Right now the sky’s the limit on what we can spend, because we’re dealing in ghost money anyway. Boo Bucks, the ADC calls them.
“As for staff, this is the only death penalty case I’ll ever work. Likely the same for my assistants.
“And it’s okay with me if I never have another one. I didn’t ask for it, and I don’t particularly want it. I’ll finish it because I’m not a quitter and I don’t walk away from something and leave it undone.”
“But…?”
“But apparently I’m a rare breed at the ADC. Because everybody else is chomping at the bits to step in so they can work a death penalty case as well. So they can list a successful capital case on their annual Officer Performance Report and ride that son of a bitch for the rest of their careers.
“They all know it’ll be the pinnacle of their careers. It’ll drive their future promotions and their future assignments. A victory in a capital case will be their golden ticket to a Pentagon job five years from now.
“It’ll get them their first star five years later and their second five years after that.
“It’s a new world, Robert. The old rules don’t apply anymore.
“They’re like sharks in bloody water. They seem to sense the only way to get ahead in a post-frozen Air Force is to set themselves apart from everybody else.
“Way apart.
“And they’re thinking, what better way to set myself apart in the military justice game than to be able to go near and far and shout from every rooftop, ‘Hello world. I’m the one who saved Colonel Medley from the firing squad!’”
“So, the other lawyers in the ADC want a piece of the pie… just so they can brag about the acquittal and earn promotions from it?”
“Exactly. If Medley separates from Wilcox he’ll need his own counsel. His own trial.
“He’ll get a delay as well.
“Not only will our expenditures double. But we’ll have the second trial hanging over our heads for several more months.
“And they’re doing all that just so they can brag they had a hand in it.”
“That’s rather sick, if you ask me.”
“No duh.”
“And the ADC is supporting it?”
“Yes. He says if three quarters of his staff is tied up on
one case he might as well tie up a hundred percent on two.
“He says that way he can put all the other pending cases on ice. Focus on the two exclusively. And staff can do things like share admin support and other resources. He says from a management point of view it makes sense.
“And that way all of his attorneys can get involved in the biggest cases of their careers. They can all have a piece of the pie.”
Aduddell’s jaw dropped.
He couldn’t believe what Captain Wright was saying.
Then he started laughing.
“So,” Wright said. “You think this whole thing is as ludicrous as I do?”
“Yes. I find it as ludicrous as I find it improbable.”
“Improbable? Why?”
“Have you met General Mannix, David?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I’ve been summoned to his majesty’s bunker twice. Both times he chewed me out and convinced me I was no more important than the chewing gum on the heel of his shoe.
“Why? Have you met him?”
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.
“But I’ve done my homework. I’ve found out everything that’s publicly available about him.”
“And?”
“He’s the convening authority, David. He’s the one who’s got to approve trial separation.
“He’s already chomping at the bits to get the trial started. He’s already complaining about why it’s taking so long, why we haven’t commissioned the Article 32 hearing, why we haven’t made arrangements to start gathering up witnesses and trucking them in here.
“Do you honestly think he’s going to find favorably on a motion to separate knowing it’s going to delay the outcome of the trial by several months, maybe a year?”
Captain Wright paused, then swallowed hard, then replied.
“He’ll have to, Robert. Legally, he’ll have no choice.”
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Not far from Joint Base Lackland things weren’t all gloom and doom.
Junction was only a little over a hundred miles west and north along Interstate Highway 10. Yet the difference in atmosphere made it seem worlds away.
At JB Lackland the stress was so palpable it could be cut with a knife.
This Changes Everything Page 15