10:00 A.M., Friday, July 16,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Sutherland made a show of checking his watch hoping Williams would take the hint and declare a recess. They were still locked in voir dire as Cooper relentlessly grilled the tenth panel member. A note from Blasedale.
Break?
Sutherland nodded and came to his feet during one of Cooper’s ponderous pauses. “Your Honor, may we take a short break?” He received a grateful look from the spectators as Williams declared a fifteen-minute recess.
Cooper made a show of walking over to Sandi Jefferson and comforting her. Since she was sitting directly behind the trial counsel table, Blasedale was acutely aware of Cooper’s presence. He deliberately banged against Blasedale’s chair, forcing her to move. Rather than contend with him, Blasedale walked across the room. Sandi was whispering furiously in Cooper’s ear and her eyes kept darting to the trial counsel’s table. She’s reading our notes, Blasedale thought. That’s a mistake. The recess was over.
Cooper resumed his questioning and finally declared he was finished with the captain. As trial counsel, Sutherland called the eleventh member, also a captain. Again, Cooper went through his litany of questions, probing the captain’s reaction to hypothetical situations. While it was beyond the normal scope of voir dire, Blasedale let him ramble on. Finally, Cooper announced he had no further questions. Only Capt. Knight, the social actions officer, remained.
Blasedale scribbled a note on her legal pad:
Knight may be a racist
Do we want to keep him?
She pushed it over to Sutherland and waited. She was certain that Sandi Jefferson was reading it. Sutherland gave Blasedale a questioning look, wondering what she was talking about. He jotted down an answer and shoved the pad back to her.
If that’s true, it will look better if you bring it out.
Blasedale canted her head enough to see Sandi Jefferson make a hand motion. On cue, Cooper called for another short recess and again came over to speak to Sandi. Blasedale moved away as before and watched as she whispered to him. The recess was over and Blasedale remained standing while Williams reconvened the court.
She called for Capt. Knight and Cooper walked around to lean against the front of the defense table. But as trial counsel, Blasedale went first. “Your Honor, the government has two questions for Capt. Knight.” Williams told her to proceed. “Capt. Knight, have you ever used the word nigger?”
Cooper’s head jerked up, his heavy mane of hair flying. Capt. Knight looked confused. “Why, ah, ah, yes,” he finally stammered. He looked like he needed to visit the men’s room.
“When was the last time?” Blasedale asked.
“Ah, ah, yesterday.”
“Thank you, Captain Knight. No further questions.” She sat down.
Cooper swelled, his chest expanding. “Your Honor, I too have no further questions.”
Capt. Jordan, the ADC, rose to his feet to intervene but Blasedale cut him off at the knees. “Need I remind the court of ‘one counsel, one issue’?” Williams told Jordan to sit down and excused Capt. Knight. The ADC was writing furiously, trying to get a note to Cooper. But Cooper ignored him. No sooner had the door closed behind Knight when Cooper said, “Excuse Capt. Knight for cause.”
Williams studied Cooper over his reading glasses. “You may enter a challenge for cause after trial counsel enters its challenges.”
“Your Honor,” Cooper said ignoring the note the ADC had shoved to the front of the table. “Capt. Knight’s admission contaminates these proceedings and he should be removed instantly.” A quiet murmur from the spectators indicated they agreed with him.
Williams silenced them with a single look. “I will consider your challenge in due course,” Williams said, expecting Cooper to sit down. The spectators were in shock and the courtroom was absolutely silent. The ten reporters who had drawn the lucky numbers to sit in the room and not the theater were furiously making notes.
Cooper couldn’t help himself. His well-developed sense of the theatrical was so much a part of his personality that he couldn’t shut it off, with or without a jury as an audience. “Your Honor!” he bellowed in outrage.
“Lower your voice, Mr. Cooper.”
“Your Honor, since you refuse to consider a challenge for cause, perhaps you’ll allow a peremptory challenge at this time.”
Williams removed his glasses. “Against Capt. Knight?”
“That is correct.”
“The timing of your request is most unusual, Mr. Cooper. We are not in the business of making case law.”
“This is a procedural issue, Your Honor, not a question of case law.”
“Indeed, you are correct. Capt. Knight will be excused. However, I will note for the record that being excused does not reflect on him personally or professionally in any way.”
“Your Honor,” Cooper said, his oratory matching his indignant, but simulated outrage, “this man admitted to using that loathsome, odious, repulsive word, the hallmark of the bigoted and—”
Williams raised his voice, cutting Cooper off. “Enough. We get your point.” He consulted his notes. “For the record, Capt. Knight is a social actions officer and deals with racism and bigotry every day. If you had questioned him, or reviewed his questionnaire with some care, you would have learned that his duties require him to deal with the use of the word you so strenuously object to. Further, if you had listened to your associate defense counsel it would have been drawn to your attention. But it is not for me to question the use of the one peremptory challenge allowed the defense. You, Mr. Cooper, forced the issue.”
Sutherland did a classic double-take. Jefferson was smiling at Cooper’s embarrassment. As quickly as it came, the smile was gone. Who else saw it? he wondered.
Cooper stood there, his right hand knotted in a fist. In preparing for trial, he had not thoroughly read the Manual for Courts-Martial, which allowed the prosecution and the defense only one peremptory challenge apiece. Blasedale had sensed it and used Sandi Jefferson to draw first blood. Slowly, Cooper turned and faced her. She returned his gaze without blinking.
“Your Honor,” Cooper begged, “may we recess until after lunch?”
“We are in recess until 1300 this afternoon,” Williams said. He rose. “Maj. Blasedale, please join me in chambers.” He marched out of the room.
Blasedale followed him, passing Cooper who was still standing. “You do like eating shit,” she murmured. His gaze drilled holes in her back as she walked out of the courtroom.
“Please close the door,” Williams said when she stepped inside his office. He carefully hung up his robe before sitting down. “Cathy, what in hell do you think you’re doing out there?”
“Turning that asshole into a decent advocate.”
R. Garrison Cooper was waiting in Williams’s chambers when the judge returned from lunch. “Your Honor, may I speak to you ex parte?”
Williams gave him a long look. “Does it concern the court-martial or a personal matter?”
Cooper gritted his teeth. “Both, sir.”
Williams gave him a pleasant smile. “Come in while I call Maj. Blasedale and Capt. Sutherland.” He picked up the phone.
“But you spoke to her ex parte,” Cooper bleated.
“It concerned her personal conduct and was in no way prejudicial to Capt. Jefferson. In fact, it was the exact opposite.” He asked for Blasedale and Sutherland to join him. The two officers rushed in and sat quietly against the back wall. “Please proceed,” he said.
Cooper sat down. “Sir, I made a terrible mistake this morning because of my ignorance and pride.” Williams nodded, urging him to continue. He liked seeing lawyers eat humble pie, especially in front of other lawyers. “Because of my rash conduct,” Cooper muttered, “I acted in a manner prejudicial to my client.”
Williams played it for Sutherland and Blasedale, “Garrison, for once quit sounding like a cheap suit and come right out and say it. ‘I fucked up and threw my one perempt
ory challenge away because I hadn’t done my homework and liked the sound of my own voice.’ Well, I am not going to restore your peremptory. But, I am concerned with the rights of the accused—” He paused for emphasis.
Cooper misinterpreted the pause. “Sir, Capt. Jefferson is the victim of a conspiracy.”
Sutherland snorted. “Give it a rest.”
“We’ve been over this before,” Williams snapped. “Do not raise a frivolous defense in my court.”
Cooper couldn’t help himself and he reverted to the theatrics that had become his second nature. “I can feel it in the air. I can sense it. This case reeks of it.” Sutherland allowed a tight smile but said nothing.
Williams shook his head. “However, you have no proof. As I was saying, I am concerned that Capt. Jefferson receive a fair and impartial trial. I will allow you a great deal of latitude on challenges. But you’ve got to make the record. I am perfectly willing to excuse every member for cause. There are approximately sixty thousand officers in the Air Force between the rank of captain and colonel who can serve on this court-martial and, if necessary, you can examine every one of them. But I assure you, if you cannot find at least five, I can.”
Cooper nodded. It was going to be a long day.
1:40 P.M., Friday, July 16,
Moisant Field, New Orleans
“You’re a good pilot,” Brent Mather said, making light conversation as they waited outside passport control at the New Orleans international airport. “Where did you learn to fly?”
“At the aero club at McClellan Air Force Base,” Toni answered. “It’s the best aero club in the Air Force. Too bad they’re closing the base next year.” She came alert. “There. That’s her.” Toni walked quickly toward a disheveled-looking young woman dragging a recalcitrant two-year-old boy down the concourse. “Mrs. Habib,” she called. The woman stopped and looked at her. “I’m Special Agent Moreno with the OSI,” she said, showing her identification, “and this is Agent Mather from the FBI. We would like to talk to you.”
The woman shook her head. “I haven’t got time to talk to you. I’ve got to catch a flight.”
“This will only take a few moments, Mrs. Habib,” Toni soothed. “You’ve got plenty of time, and we’ll escort you to the head of the line. You won’t miss your airplane.”
“I don’t have to talk to you. I ain’t done nothin’.” She grabbed the boy and walked past them.
“Let her go,” Mather cautioned. “We haven’t got any reason to hold her.”
“She’s a material witness,” Toni said.
“A material witness to what?”
Toni chewed her lip. The FBI agent was right. But some instinct warned her that Diana Habib was deeply involved. In exactly what way, she didn’t know. She made a decision, wishing Harry was there. “I can’t arrest her. You can.”
“Give me a reason.”
“As a co-conspirator.”
“To her husband’s murder?”
“No. To espionage.”
Mather handed her his handcuffs. “We’re probably going to need these. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
12:08 P.M., Friday, July 16,
Los Angeles
The chartered Piper Saratoga crossed the Santa Monica Pier at twelve thousand feet and spiraled down over the airport. Marcy Bangor sat in the right seat next to the pilot, not believing her eyes. Columns of smoke rose high into the air over the center of Los Angeles, splitting the gut of the city from groin to sternum. It stretched from the harbor area in the south and ran north, past the WattsWillowbrook area, through South Central L.A., and into Hollywood. At the base of the smoke curtain, a stage of fire sparkled in the morning sun.
Behind her in the cabin, the other three reporters from the Sacramento Union sat in stunned silence. “Can we fly over there?” Marcy asked.
“No way,” the pilot answered. He increased his rate of descent as he passed through five thousand feet and SOCAL Approach cleared him to contact the tower at Santa Monica airport.
“Good luck,” the controller said.
“Encouraging bastard,” the pilot grumbled as he switched frequencies.
Marcy spoke into her microcassette recorder. “Landed Friday, July sixteen, at twelve-fourteen A.M. after uneventful flight from Sacramento. Spiraling down above Santa Monica airport to land. I can see fires in South Central L.A. All appears calm below us.”
But the pilot was of a different opinion and swore at himself for accepting the charter and leaving the friendly skies of Sacramento. The Union’s publisher had kept increasing the money and he had weakened. He dropped the gear and flaps and touched down at midfield. He taxied clear of the runway and parked by the Museum of Flying. Marcy climbed out of the door and scrambled down the right wing. She caught her breath when she saw the hole punched in the flap. “Gunfire?”
The pilot examined the damage with his forefinger. “Shit-fuck-hate! I should have never taken this flight.” The bullet had missed the main fuselage by less than eight inches.
Two very nervous young men, both African-American, were waiting inside the flight operations office. “Miss Bangor?” the older asked. She nodded. “I’m Jason, your escort. Richard is our driver.” Matey followed them out to a waiting van, leaving the three other reporters behind to fend for themselves.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“The Wilton Country Club,” Richard answered. “Sunset Boulevard is probably the safest way to get there.”
At first, Marcy was struck by how normal everything seemed. Then she realized there were very few cars on the road. They made good time as they headed east on Sunset, past UCLA and Beverly Hills. At Doheney Drive, they hit their first roadblock. Two clean-cut young white men in short-sleeved white shirts and conservative neckties waved them to a stop. Marcy checked the reserve deputy sheriff badges pinned to their pockets as she flashed her press card. Within seconds, they were cleared through. “Be careful,” one said. “We’ve reports of looting.”
They drove in silence as Marcy continued to speak into her microcassette. “The transition from the quiet residential homes into the heart of the strip is abrupt. We’re passing the cultural icons of the 1990s, the new Whiskey A-Go-Go, the House of—”
“Trouble,” Jason, her other escort, said, interrupting her note taking. He pulled over to the curb. Ahead of them a group of teenagers were blocking the street. “Sometimes I despair for my brothers,” he moaned. For some reason, the teenagers dispersed and moved on, shouting and gesturing at the van.
Richard slipped the van back in gear, drove past, and took a side street over to Melrose Boulevard. “Check the roofs,” the driver said. Marcy looked up. Armed young men, all Asians, were standing guard. “Koreans,” Jason said. “Nobody messes with their businesses, especially their new ones in this part of town.”
At first, Marcy couldn’t believe the scene in front of her. She spoke into her microcassette. “Scenes of normal life play out in front of the escalating chaos sweeping out of the heart of the city. Korean-American merchants are standing guard on the rooftops of their stores while people drink coffee at sidewalk cafés below them.” She fished her digital camera out of her bag, slipped in a fresh card, and recorded the scene. Later, she would edit the digital images and transmit the best ones over her cellular phone to the Union.
The pall of smoke grew heavier as they approached the Wilton Country Club. Four heavily armed guards at the entrance carefully checked their credentials before waving the van in. She was surprised to see golfers on the course. “They’re still making their tee times,” Jason explained. She shot four frames of the golfers, surprised that almost half were African-American.
Inside, she was escorted to a private dining room where approximately twenty men were gathering for lunch. The group was evenly divided between African-American, Anglo, Asian, and Hispanic men. Marcy knew most of them by reputation. They were the power brokers behind Los Angeles politics and other than the waitresses, she was the only w
oman in the room. Their acknowledged leader, a rumpled, portly, gray-headed African-American wearing a cleric’s collar, known simply as “the Reverend” stood to greet her. “Please, Miss Bangor,” the Reverend said, “this is off the record. Would you please join us for lunch?”
She sat down and bowed her head as the Reverend gave the blessing. She made a mental note comparing the group to a Rotary or Kiwanis meeting, not a convocation of the most powerful leaders in the city. “Miss Bangor,” the Reverend said, “your publisher at the Union and I are old friends and you come with the highest recommendations. That is the only reason you are here.”
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Marcy thought. “Reverend, on the record, is this riot in reaction to the Jefferson court-martial?”
“The community has been antagonized beyond endurance, Miss Bangor, and this rioting is a reaction to many things: the blockading of our homes into ghettos by Meredith’s stooges, the lynching in Phoenix of an innocent mother, the stonings. Must I go on? For my brothers and sisters the court-martial of Capt. Jefferson is white man’s justice where the color of a man’s skin determines guilt or innocence.”
“But what if he is guilty?” Marcy asked.
“No, Miss Bangor, he is not guilty, even if he did sell information to the so-called enemy. He was entitled to that money as is every person of color for past injustices that have yet to be made right.”
The waiters then served the first course of the sumptuous lunch and the talk turned to golf. As the table was being cleared, eight men barged into the room, all wearing the characteristic baggy clothes of street gangs. Six of them were armed with Uzis and AK-47s. One cradled a light machine gun Rambo-style in his arms. The Reverend came to his feet with a heavy dignity. “You are not welcome here,” he said.
“Yo, bro,” the smaller of the two leaders growled, “nobody be tellin’ us who welcome.”
“Miss Bangor,” the. Reverend said, “will you please give us a few moments of privacy?” One of the Reverend’s dark-suited aides touched her shoulder and pulled her chair back as she stood. She walked past the intruders and struggled to keep her composure when she saw their headbands. Red and blue bandanas, the colors of the Bloods and Crips, were twisted together. The aide escorted her out to the lobby, well-out of earshot.
Against All Enemies Page 30