by Mel Odom
Erickson held up a hand. He was a grimly efficient man approaching fifty. He was dark haired but with silver at the temples. “Lieutenant, I’ll be the judge of whether or not someone is being badgered in this courtroom.”
“Yes, sir,” Benbow said. He sat back down.
“Major Trimble,” Erickson said, “you’ll please refrain from continuing your comments about the court equipment.”
“Yes, sir.” Trimble appeared untouched by the judge’s caution. He came forward and stood in front of Megan, his hands clasped behind his back. “Now, Mrs. Gander, you’ve heard testimony from several other people in the courtroom this morning about how you treated Gerry Fletcher. That testimony proves that you failed to notify either of his parents of his whereabouts.”
Megan didn’t respond. He wasn’t asking a question.
“Mrs. Gander, you did hear that testimony, didn’t you?” Trimble asked.
Benbow stood again. “Colonel, I don’t believe the major’s attempt to test Mrs. Gander’s memory or her hearing is what we’re here for.”
Trimble spoke quickly and smoothly. “I beg to differ, Lieutenant. It seems to me that Mrs. Gander’s memory of the time in question is very important.”
“Colonel,” Benbow pleaded.
“Lieutenant,” Erickson said. “Sit down.”
Benbow sat.
Megan felt naked and vulnerable in the witness chair. So far this morning, she’d sat at the defense table and listened to her behavior being pummeled by witness after witness. Trimble had had officers reading from the codebook regarding dereliction of duty, emphasizing that civilians fell under the military court system during times of martial law, just as it had been declared at the fort since the disappearances. He’d had nurses who had been on duty that night, who’d checked Gerry Fletcher into the ER. He’d built up an ironclad case that she’d not called the Fletchers to let them know where Gerry was.
The case had started out against her from the beginning, and Trimble had taken little time in getting to her and boxing her in.
“Major,” Erickson said, “get to the questions you have relevant to the proceedings.”
“Yes, sir.” Trimble stared at Megan as if he could break her.
Megan remembered how angry he had gotten when she’d been in his office, how vindictive and petty, and how … afraid. Now that she thought back, she could clearly remember his fear that she was right. She took a deep breath.
“Mrs. Gander,” Trimble said, “do you have any history of psychological impairment?”
“If I did,” Megan said as plainly as she could without getting emotional, “I’m sure you would have dug it up and trotted it out for the court.”
Angry red fire lit up Trimble’s face. He burst into motion, turning toward the judge’s bench. “Colonel, I must object to this kind of treatment. It’s egregious.”
“It also,” Megan snapped, “happens to be the truth. If you could have found something like that against me, you would have had a witness up here testifying to that.”
“Mrs. Gander,” Erickson said, “I will have order in the courtroom.”
“Yes, sir,” she said but stared at Trimble.
“Major, continue your questioning.”
Trimble pulled at the bottom of his uniform jacket and gathered himself. “Mrs. Gander, do you have a history of psychological impairment?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had a coworker, another counselor, mention that you were under a lot of stress?”
Megan thought about that one for a moment, then realized that any interview with any of her coworkers who knew her would have turned up only one answer. “Yes,” she said.
“Has that been mentioned on more than one occasion?”
“Yes.”
“By more than one coworker?”
“Yes.”
Trimble nodded as if he were completely satisfied. He turned and faced the jury of twelve army personnel—officers and enlisted men and women. “Have you ever been treated for stress?”
“No.”
“Oh really?” Trimble turned on her. “Have you never taken part of the day off after a particularly unsavory encounter with a teen in your charge?”
Megan knew she had no choice. “Yes.”
“At another counselor’s recommendation?”
“Yes.”
“By different counselors at different times?”
“Yes.”
“By different counselors concerning the same day?”
Like when Jill Thompson tried to commit suicide? Megan thought. “Yes.”
“Did you take those days off?”
“Sometimes.”
“But not always?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t feel like I had to.”
Trimble pinned her with his gaze. “Was that your professional opinion?”
Megan squelched her anger. “Yes.”
“Mrs. Gander, have you ever heard the advice that a physician treating himself or herself has a fool for a patient?”
“Yes.”
“Would you say the same thing about counselors?”
Megan took a breath in and let it out. “Yes.”
“Yet, did you not refuse the advice of professionals in seeking some relief for your own emotional stress?”
“I did. And I managed on those days just fine.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
Trimble retreated to his desk and glanced at notes.
Megan felt the silence in the courtroom grow unbearable.
Trimble spoke without turning around. “Were you stressed the night you went into Leslie Hollister’s home?”
Megan’s gut clenched. She felt immediately vulnerable. The MPs’ testimonies about that night had been unshakable. Leslie had even signed a statement that she felt Megan was to blame for her shooting herself. Megan understood the girl’s motivation, though. She was a teen and having something like that be her fault was too much.
“Not any more than anyone else has been these past few days,” Megan answered.
Trimble turned around. “Mrs. Gander, where is your husband?”
“In Turkey.”
“Fighting against the Syrians in what is very likely to be a losing proposition?”
“That’s what the news says. I believe in my husband.”
“Your husband is not an army, Mrs. Gander.”
“No,” she said, “but First Sergeant Sam Gander is one of the finest soldiers the U.S. Army has ever turned out, and I know he’ll do his best to do his duty and come home.”
A few of the soldiers in the audience nodded and smiled.
“I’m sure he’ll do his best, Mrs. Gander. But are you convinced that he will come home?”
Megan searched her heart for the truth but was scared of what she’d come up with. She knew God existed, that God had raptured the church, but she wasn’t sure God cared. If God cared, would He have let her be put on trial to possibly lose her freedom and her family’s financial stability?
“Mrs. Gander,” Trimble prompted.
Still she didn’t answer.
“I’m not asking for a percentage figure, Mrs. Gander. Just an acknowledgment that you have been and are concerned about your husband’s well-being.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“So that was on your mind that night?”
“Probably.”
“Yes or no, Mrs. Gander. ‘Probably’ isn’t much of an answer.”
“Yes,” Megan said.
“That was on your mind that night?”
“Yes.”
Trimble stepped back in front of her. “Didn’t you also lose a son to this phenomenon?”
Megan’s eyes teared as she tried to hold back her anger. “Don’t you use my baby against me,” she whispered. “Don’t you dare do that.”
“Colonel,” Trimble said, his eyes never leaving Megan’s, “please instruct the witness to answer
the question.”
“What kind of man are you?” Megan demanded.
“I’m a man trying to get at the truth of that night,” Trimble said in a quiet voice. “Colonel.”
“It’s no surprise to me that you were left behind,” Megan said. “There you stand in your uniform, wrapped in all the pomposity of your office, and you don’t stand with God.”
Trimble’s face went livid. “How dare you!”
The colonel banged his gavel. “Mrs. Gander, that’s enough.”
Megan barely restrained herself. She forced herself to breathe out. “Yes, Colonel.”
“I want no more outbursts like that,” Erickson said. “And you will answer the major’s questions.”
Megan nodded.
Trimble straightened his uniform blouse again. “Did you lose a son to the phenomenon?”
“Yes.” Megan made herself grow cold and distant inside. God, how can You allow this? She barely held back her tears, restraining them only because she knew Trimble would react to them like a shark would to blood in the water.
“Was the stress of your son’s loss on your mind the night you dealt with Leslie Hollister?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have another son, named Joey?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where Joey is?”
Megan cursed Trimble, knowing that the man knew more than she had expected.
Benbow stood. “Colonel, I fail to see the relevance of Mrs. Gander’s other son in these proceedings.”
“Colonel, these events all help demonstrate the frame of mind Mrs. Gander has been in for several weeks.” Trimble never took his eyes from Megan. “In addition to her oldest son’s present status as a runaway, the boy has been of some trouble to Mrs. Gander for some time. These things all add up, Colonel. I want to show that Mrs. Gander was unfit for her role as counselor at the time she worked with Leslie Hollister and Gerry Fletcher.”
“I’ll allow it,” the colonel said. “Lieutenant, sit down.”
Benbow looked unhappy, but he sat.
“Do you know where Joey is?” Trimble asked again.
“No.”
“So he was on your mind that night as well?”
“Yes.”
“Was Joey late for his curfew the night you were dealing with Gerry Fletcher?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know where he was?”
“No.”
Trimble put his hands behind his back, once more in complete control of himself. “The night you saw Gerry Fletcher, you were worried about your husband and your son, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think your judgment was impaired?”
“No.”
“But didn’t you choose not to notify the Fletchers that their son was in the post ER?”
“Yes.”
“And you knew that was against the rules and regulations of this post?”
“Yes.”
Trimble leaned forward and put his hands on the witness-box railing. “Do you consider yourself above the rules and regulations of this post, Mrs. Gander?”
“No.”
“How can you say that after admitting that you willingly broke those rules and regulations?”
“I bent those rules and regulations in order to help Gerry Fletcher.”
“Didn’t the boy tell you he fell off his house?”
“Yes, but that wasn’t the truth.”
“And what was the truth?”
“Gerry said his mother and father got into an argument that night,” Megan said. She tried to make her voice strong and controlled. “Private Fletcher struck his wife. More than once.” She turned to the jury as Benbow had instructed her to.
“Mrs. Gander,” Trimble called, trying to step into her line of vision.
Megan hurried on. “Private Fletcher struck his wife more than once. Gerry tried to intervene. Private Fletcher then struck his own son, injuring him to the point that he needed emergency-room attention.”
“Mrs. Gander,” Trimble said. “Would you look at me?”
Megan did.
“Do you believe that was the truth?”
“Yes,” Megan said, “I do.”
Trimble returned to his table and came back with a piece of paper. “I have the doctor’s report from that night. It states that Gerry Fletcher fell off his roof.”
“Objection,” Benbow said. “The major is making a statement, not asking a question.”
“Sustained,” Erickson said. “Major, please address the witness with a question.”
Trimble nodded and asked, “Mrs. Gander, have you seen Gerry Fletcher’s hospital report from that night?”
“No.”
Trimble passed the paper over. “Please have a look at it now. Look at the reason for treatment.”
Megan looked.
“Please read it for the court,” Trimble directed.
“’Patient said he fell from his rooftop while stargazing.’”
Trimble took the paper back. “I used to do a lot of stargazing in my youth. But I never did it from my rooftop. Do you know why?”
“Objection,” Benbow said. “The major is leading the witness. Unless she grew up with or had prior knowledge of Major Trimble while he lived at home she could not possibly have the answer to that question. Given the age difference between the two of them, I don’t think that’s possible.”
The comment drew a withering stare from Trimble, but Benbow withstood the effort with ease.
“Sustained,” the colonel responded. “Major, a less personal question, if you please.”
“I will be happy to oblige, Colonel.” Trimble smiled, showing everyone there he was in control. “Did you ever stargaze, Mrs. Gander?”
“Yes.”
“Ever from the rooftop of your own home?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Megan hesitated, knowing there was no way around the answer she had to give. “Because my parents wouldn’t allow it.”
“Why wouldn’t your parents allow something as innocent as stargazing from the rooftop?”
“They felt it was too dangerous.”
“Why was it dangerous?”
“Because I might have fallen.”
Trimble turned and walked away. “Did you ever go up on the rooftop, Mrs. Gander? In spite of your parents’ orders?”
“No. I did not.”
“You obeyed them?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that Private Fletcher told his son not to go up on that rooftop?”
Megan halted for a moment. “No. I didn’t know that.” But she felt certain Fletcher was lying.
“Did Gerry mention that his father told him not to go up on the rooftop?”
“No.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that boys sometimes don’t obey their parents?”
Megan knew that the insinuation was there for the jury and everyone else that Joey hadn’t been obeying either. “No,” she said, “it would not.”
“Has your son ever come home and told you a fib to get out of trouble?”
Benbow said, “Colonel, I fail to see the relevance of that question, and I find it insulting.”
“Colonel,” Trimble said in a calm tone, “the question lends itself to both Mrs. Gander’s professional capacity as a counselor and to her personal experience as a mother. Children lie to their parents to keep out of trouble. It’s a fact of life.”
“Not all children,” Megan said. Chris had never told a lie a single day in his life.
“I’ll allow the question,” the colonel said.
Obviously disgusted, Benbow shook his head and sat.
“Did your son Joey ever lie to you, Mrs. Gander?” Trimble asked.
“Yes,” Megan answered, and her heart ached.
“On more than one occasion?”
“Yes.”
“So you are no stranger to the fact that children tell lies?”
“No.”
“In fact, haven’t young people and children that you’ve worked with in your counseling job also lied not only to their parents but to you as well?”
“Yes.”
“And they did it, many times, to keep out of trouble?”
“Yes.”
Trimble leaned on the witness-box railing again, only a few feet from her. “Did Gerry Fletcher lie to you that night when he said his father beat him?”
“No.”
Trimble drew back for a moment. “Did you see Private Fletcher beat his son, Mrs. Gander?”
Megan forced her breath out. “Of course not. I would have had Private Fletcher up on charges so fast it would have made his head swim.”
“Then how do you know Gerry Fletcher was telling the truth?”
“Because I believed him.”
“Did the people at the front desk believe him when he said he fell from his house?”
Megan had heard their testimonies. “Yes. But Helen Cordell and Dr. Craig Carson didn’t believe the story about falling off the house. That’s why they called me.”
“Because you are—were—Gerry’s counselor?”
“Yes.” Trimble’s hesitation over word selection brought it home to Megan that Gerry was gone, that Chris was gone.
“Did they think you could figure out which truth was the true truth?” Trimble asked.
“They already knew the truth,” Megan said. “They were hoping I could get Gerry to open up and tell about the beatings he’d been getting from his father.”
“Beatings?”
“Yes.” Megan gazed fiercely at Boyd Fletcher, who returned her gaze impassively. “On more than one occasion.”
“Gerry told you about those beatings?”
“No.”
“Then how did you know?”
Megan felt trapped and frustrated. “Because you get a feel for these things. I’ve been a counselor for years.”
“A feel?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that a rather unscientific term?”
“I suppose.”
“So you felt that Gerry had been getting beaten at home?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you do anything about that?”
“I tried. Without Gerry coming forward, I didn’t have a case.”
“Do you have a case now?”
“No.” Megan looked at Boyd Fletcher. “But I wish I did.”
“Do you feel animosity toward Private Fletcher?”