“You may have proven it,” Cooper shot back.
Sutherland shook his head in disgust. Cooper was a master of the mental cockamamie that gave lawyers a bad name. Facts and evidence were fodder to be discarded, twisted, embellished, or ignored in any way he chose—as long as he won. The first casualty was the truth, the second fatality was logic, and the last was justice. “I’ll immediately relay any information as it develops,” Sutherland said.
“You do that,” Cooper said. “I will be preparing a motion for dismissal.” He rose to leave. “Of course, I will have to file a complaint with the bar association’s disciplinary committee.” He smiled. “Against both of you.”
“Give it a rest,” Sutherland said. “You got caught out and had your feelings hurt yesterday.”
“Don’t read over my shoulder next time,” Blasedale said.
Cooper drew himself up in righteous anger. Then he thought better of the anger and turned it off. “You can’t prove a thing.” He marched out of the office.
“Lawyers,” Blasedale fumed.
Sutherland laughed. “I know what you mean. My mother thinks I’ve got a respectable job playing piano in a whorehouse.” She laughed at the old joke and they were back on track. “What the hell, half of our job is keeping the Coopers of the world honest.”
“Too bad we don’t get paid for it,” she groused. “Call Central Circuit and give them a heads up.” Sutherland picked up the phone and dialed the Chief Circuit Military Judge at Randolph Air Force Base outside San Antonio.
2:20 P.M., Saturday, July 17,
Los Angeles
Marcy stood in the street and snapped pictures of the burned-out store in Korea Town. She had slept only four hours in the last twenty-four. Yet she was exhilarated and more alive than she had been on any other assignment. With what she had seen, the notes she had taken, and the scenes digitally recorded, she could write the definitive account of the riot. She spoke into her microcassette recorder. “The riot is in its forty-eighth hour. My two escorts, Jason and Richard, are still with me, tired but determined to keep me safe.”
She looked up the street, searching for the right words to explain what she was seeing. Then she remembered what Jason, her young African-American escort, had said. She keyed the cassette. “South Central L.A. never recovered from the 1992 Rodney King riots and businesses never rebuilt. Increasingly, that section of town became characterized by liquor stores and churches. Perhaps that dichotomy—scratch dichotomy—that division is a perfect reflection of the strength and weakness in all of us. But this destruction around me demonstrates how thin the veneer of civilization really is and how close we all are to the dark side of our souls—strike souls—of our nature.
“But why has the black community focused its anger on the Korean merchants who gave a new life to this part of town? Perhaps it is because they must trade here. If they need a bank or a bed, a dentist or diapers, they must come to Korea Town. And here, the two cultures, one mercantile—scratch mercantile—one commercially and family based, the other socially and communally oriented, clash.”
She played it back, and satisfied it would do, transmitted the story and photos to the Union in Sacramento over her cellular phone. They drove norm, toward New Korea Town. A car skidded around a corner and almost broad-sided them. It flashed by and they caught a glimpse of five young Mexican-Americans wearing blue bandanas and matching plaid wool shirts. “Carmelos,” Jason muttered. “They shouldn’t be in this part of town.”
The car slammed to a halt in front of a shattered clothing store. Two young Mexican-American girls, barely fifteen years old ran out, their arms full of clothes. The young men piled out of the car and grabbed the girls, throwing one to the ground. One of the gangbangers jerked the clothes out of her arms as another one stomped her with his heavy shoes.
Marcy spoke into her cassette, describing the scene. “Protest has turned into pillage and the rioters are turning on their own.” The prettier of the girls shrieked in terror as a Carmelo cut away her clothes and threw her to the ground. He jerked at his fly and dropped his pants. Richard reached under the seat of the van and pulled out the sawed-off pump shotgun hidden there. “Don’t get involved!” Marcy shouted.
“I’m not a fuckin’ reporter.” He jumped out of the van, his face twisted in anger, and fired two shots into the air. The Carmelos jumped back in the car and sped off. Marcy ran up to the girls and bent over them. Both were badly hurt. Suddenly, the car skidded around the corner and accelerated, bearing down on them. Marcy jumped back as it sped past. A hail of submachine gun fire erupted, from the front passenger’s window and cut into Richard. Then it was gone.
Marcy ran over to him as Jason drove up in the van. “Get in!” he ordered.
“Not without them,” she shouted. He got out and helped her load Richard and the two girls into the backseat “They’re still alive,” she yelled. She jumped in. “Go!”
“Where?” he shouted.
“The nearest hospital.”
“It’s on fire.”
Marcy forced herself to think. “UCLA Med Center.” Jason gunned the van and they raced for Westwood, six miles to the west. Smoke drifted down the streets and twice they had to divert around packs of looters blocking their route. The moment they reached La Cienega Boulevard they hit a roadblock. Jason slammed the van to a halt and four young whites, all wearing new fatigues and carrying sidearms transferred the two girls and Richard into an ambulance.
“Are you National Guard?” Marcy asked.
“No ma’am,” one answered. He pointed to the distinctive red-and-black arm bands they were wearing. “First Brigade.”
6:03 P.M., Saturday, July 17,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
The live coverage from Los Angeles drew Sutherland to the TV set in his rooms. He watched as Marcy Bangor dominated the TV cameras during an interview at UCLA Med Center, and he stayed up late watching the commentators pontificate on what was driving her back into the “zone.” The label “courageous reporter” seemed to be part of her name. “It can truly be said,” one commentator observed from the safety of studios in New York, “that Marcy Bangor is redefining journalistic standards, lifting the bar to new highs of attainment and bravery.”
One woman commentator asked, “Why are the gangs allowing her access and not others?” She was roundly condemned for even speculating that Marcy had special access.
“A good question,” Sutherland muttered to himself. He went back to work but kept one ear tuned to the set. He almost called Toni for an update but thought better of it. She’d call as soon as anything broke. He simply hated the waiting and wanted to get on with the court-martial, to drive it to a conclusion, successful or not. What’s the matter? he thought. He shook his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs of doubt.
He turned on his laptop computer and, for the first time in months, called up the manuscript for his book. Time had made the title, None Call It Justice, fresh and appealing. At first, his thoughts were a jumble of impressions as he started a section on military justice. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he brought order out of chaos. The phone rang and stopped him with a jolt. He glanced at his watch: one o’clock Sunday morning. He picked up the phone. “Sutherland.”
It was the law enforcement desk. “There’s a woman at the visitors center who claims to be your ex-wife,” the NCO said. “Can you come and sign her in?”
“Since when are visitors required to sign in?”
“The base has been sealed since the shooting this morning,” the NCO told him. “No unauthorized person gets on without an escort.”
“Tell Beth I’ll be right there.” He hung up. “Why now?” he groused to himself.
He was surprised by the number of heavily armed guards wearing flack vests and helmets patrolling the streets as he drove to the visitor’s center. Beth was waiting for him inside where the two airmen on duty were fluttering around her, eager to please. As Sutherland expected, she looked gorgeous and
the light linen pants-suit she was wearing was casual but elegant. “Hank, I’ve got to leave my car here and can’t drive on base.” The fatigue in her voice surprised him.
“They’ve sealed the base, Beth. Come on, my car is outside.” He transferred her bags to his car and drove slowly back to the VOQ. “Someone’s taking potshots at people,” he told her. But she was asleep. He carried two suitcases inside as she collapsed on the couch. He returned to the car to get her big duffel bag. When he came back, a trail of clothes led to the bedroom. Nothing had changed.
He dumped the duffel bag in the bedroom where Beth was sprawled on the bed. He looked at her. How many times had he seen her naked like this? But this time, there was no tingling in his groin, no slowly building lust, no eagerness to shed his clothes and feel her hands explore his body. He turned out the light and walked back to the living room.
Out of long habit, he picked up after her, neatly folding and hanging up her clothes. A ticket envelope fell out of her linen jacket. Automatically, he picked it up. The word Kandersteg with a seven-digit phone number was scrawled across the top in her big open handwriting. No one wrote quite like Beth. He glanced at the baggage stubs: JFK. Curious, he pulled out the ticket receipt. As expected, first class round trip. She had returned to New York less than six hours ago on a flight from Geneva, Switzerland. But there was no ticket from New York to Kansas City. That was Beth, totally disorganized. He placed the envelope with her passport in her handbag and finished tidying up the room.
With everything in order, he went back to his computer, eager to continue writing.
At first, it was a dream. Someone was beating on a wall in his prison cell. A primal fear stirred deep in his psyche as a dark threat loomed close by. The pounding grew louder as a voice called his name. “Hank!” He was awake. Blasedale was knocking at his door. “Come on, Hank. Wake up.” He rolled off the couch and staggered to the door, vaguely aware it was still dark outside. He managed to get it unlocked and Blasedale burst into the room. “Toni’s on the phone in my room.” She glanced around the room and saw Beth’s expensive luggage before she ran out. Sutherland followed her, not bothering to close the door.
Blasedale hurried back to her rooms and handed him the phone. He took it, trying to read the expression on her face. “Yeah, Toni,” he mumbled, surprised that he sounded even half awake. “What’cha got?”
“We just got back to the hotel,” Toni said. “I couldn’t get to you any sooner. Diana was drinking and started to cry. She said she was worried about Mikey. I pushed a little and she said Mikey was a kid with spina bifida she helped care for.”
24
2:15 A.M., Sunday, July 18,
The Farm, Western Virginia
Art Rios sat in front of the monitor and listened to Agnes recap the situation in Los Angeles. He had relatives in nearby Whittier, but that suburb was a universe away from the chaos in Central Los Angeles. Still, worry held him captive. “I also have an update from the Sudan,” Agnes said. “Maj. Terrant and Capt. Holloway are in transit between El Obeid and Khartoum.”
“Thanks, Agnes.”
“Are you going to tell Mr. Durant?”
“I’ll tell him when he wakes.”
“Shouldn’t he know now?”
“Why?” Rios replied. “You may have the Sudanese wired for sound, but we can’t do a damn thing about it.”
Agnes looked at him. “He doesn’t even tell you everything, does he?”
Rios shook his head.
10:30 A.M., Sunday, July 18,
Over The Sudan
Kamigami sat beside the blindfolded and shackled pilots near the rear of the C-130. The drone of the turboprops made any conversation difficult, not that he wanted to be seen talking to either Maj. Terrant or Capt. Holloway. Twice he had caught Assam looking at them, his brown eyes unblinking and cold. Once, just to prove he was alive and had survived the riot Assam had incited, Kamigami nodded at him. Assam blinked and looked away.
Murray, the flight engineer, climbed down from the flight deck and walked back to use the lavatory. Kamigami closed his eyes and waited. It seemed an eternity before the wiry Englishman came out. Murray stopped at the buffet to help himself to some food and ignored the protests of the steward that the food was for Assam and his party. “Try flying on an empty stomach, mate.” He munched a pear and climbed up the ladder to the flight deck. Kamigami got up and went into the lavatory. He bolted the door and checked the mirror for the telltale check mark. Nothing. The dead letter drop was empty. To be sure, he searched the back of the storage cabinets for a pack of cigarettes. Nothing.
Don’t panic, he told himself as he came out. It will be there. A steward told him to strap in for landing at Khartoum, and he permitted himself a brief mental flight of profanity. He forced a calmness he didn’t feel as the big plane landed and taxied into parking. One of the stewards came past and raised the rear door. The hydraulics whined as the door opened, clunking into place under the tail. Kamigami stood and looked out. A mass of humanity extended as far back as he could see. This time, there was no al Gimlas to save him.
4:00 A.M., Sunday, July 18,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Sutherland stood in Blasedale’s kitchenette cooking omelets as the coffee perked. “That smells good,” Blasedale said. “I didn’t know you were a cook.”
“I’m not,” he replied. “I just like omelets. Besides, it’s gonna be a long day.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“As sure as I can be at four o’clock in the morning.”
“You do know where this is going, don’t you?”
He nodded. “Right to Lt. Col. Daniella McGraw.” He slipped an omelet onto a plate and sat it down in front of her. “It never occurred to me to look.”
“The OSI checked her out and she came up clean.”
“How much coincidence do you believe in?” Sutherland asked. He didn’t expect an answer. “Diana’s holding the key. We’ve got to build a fire under DOJ and grant her immunity. Without her testimony, we haven’t got a thing.”
Blasedale walked into her kitchenette and made coffee. “Your ex is here, isn’t she?” She turned to face him. “How much coincidence do you believe in?” He shook his head, missing her point. “It’s her timing, Hank. Look when she shows up.”
“She’s a part-time reporter and is doing background on the court-martial. She’s got a nose for news.”
“And you’ve got a thing for reporters,” she said.
Sutherland heard the irony in her voice. “I was married to Beth for eleven years.”
“Do me a favor, don’t tell her anything.”
“I never do,” he protested.
“If you were married for eleven years, she knows how to read between the lines.” She fixed him with a steady look. “Trust me on this, especially if you’re still sleeping with her. Call it woman’s intuition.” She handed him a cup of coffee. “We need to get to the office and work this.”
He sipped the coffee. “Nice pajamas,” he said.
She blushed. In the excitement of Toni’s phone call, she had forgotten to put on a robe. The short chemise and matching panties she wore for sleeping barely qualified as modest. “You bastard.” Then she relented. “But it is a good omelet.”
The phone call came after lunch. It was Toni. DOJ had finally come through. Brent Mather and the FBI had delivered the immunity agreement, and Diana was going over it with a lawyer. “It looks good,” Toni said. “There’s even a provision for her to enter the witness protection program if needed. The lawyer is urging her to sign and we’ve got a legal stenographer standing by so we can take a sworn statement.”
“Has she said anything else?” Sutherland asked.
“No. Hold on.” There was a long pause. “That was Brent. She’s signed and we’re ready to start. I’ll call you back.”
Sutherland punched off the telephone and leaned back in his chair. “Finally,” he muttered to Blasedale. “I figure it will tak
e a couple more hours, if we’re lucky.” The phone rang. This time it was Beth and she wanted a ride back to her car. “Be right there,” he promised.
“Hank, don’t say anything.”
He nodded. “Don’t worry, I won’t. Call Cooper and I’ll be right back.”
Beth was ready to go when he returned to his rooms. “Where have you been?” she asked.
The lie came easy. “Ah, the JAG got the shakes last night about the court-martial and we had to explain it to him.”
“Are there problems?”
“Not on our side.” He changed the subject. “You never said last night, but why the visit? Missouri is not high on your list of places to be.”
“I’m still doing background and follow-up for a sidebar.”
“In Kansas City?” She didn’t answer as he pulled up to her car. He quickly transferred her bags and she gave him a peck on the cheek.
“I missed you this morning,” she murmured.
“Me too,” he lied.
“Is it too late?”
“Come on, it’s time to sign you out.”
R. Garrison Cooper and Capt. Jordan, the ADC, were waiting when he returned from the visitors’ center. Blasedale joined them as Sutherland related the latest developments in New Orleans. He was careful not to mention the possible link to McGraw. When he was finished, Cooper rose ponderously to his feet. “Why do I suspect you have been less than forthcoming? What haven’t you told me? I have always sensed a conspiracy.”
Sutherland grudgingly gave Cooper high marks for sensing what he had left out. “There’s no conspiracy here, Coop. We simply followed the evidence. That’s what we’re doing now. We need to hear what Mrs. Habib has to say and see how the follow-up investigation spins out. She may be lying to save her own neck. That’s why I’m going to request a continuance tomorrow morning.”
“Jefferson must be released.”
Against All Enemies Page 32