“There is a question about his safety,” Sutherland replied. “What with snipers off base.”
Cooper stood in the doorway. “I am certain this island of tranquility in a sea of chaos and the bedrock of military justice can provide for his well-being.”
Sutherland grinned. “I’ll be damned. You can read.”
“I want to see everything on this Habib woman, including her statement.”
“We’ll forward everything we have, including her statement, as soon as we get it.”
“Do that,” Cooper said. “Now, I must inform Capt. and Mrs. Jefferson of the good news.”
“Coop,” Sutherland said, “don’t get their hopes up. Mrs. Habib’s testimony could be the smoking gun that convicts him.”
Cooper swelled up in righteousness. “There is no smoking gun. Capt. Jefferson is innocent.” He marched out of the office with the ADC in tow. Then he spun around and marched right back in. “I was with that poor man and his wife before I came here. Do you know what they were doing? They were sitting in front of a TV holding hands and watching the riot. How do you tell an innocent man that he is not responsible for that?” He glared at Sutherland. “Tell me!”
“Save it for the lawsuit,” Sutherland said. Cooper stormed out, making a theatrical exit stage right.
Blasedale closed the door and sat down. “Are you going to tell him about McGraw?”
“I will if we continue against Jefferson, but not now. Cooper would leak it to the media in a heartbeat. I met McGraw’s kid, Mikey. He doesn’t need to get dragged into this. Besides, it may just be coincidence, and she’s got enough on her plate.”
“You’ve got to give Cooper credit,” Blasedale said. “His instincts were right on.”
“Even a stopped clock is right once a day.”
Blasedale gave a little humph. “I liked him better hung over and in jail.”
Sutherland laughed. “Hey, don’t blame me.”
“Why not? You were the one who bailed him out.”
9:47 P.M., Sunday, July 18,
Los Angeles
Marcy stood in the shadows across the street from the church watching a group of Bloods and Crips mill around as they screwed up their courage. When she saw a Molotov cocktail, she lifted her camera and snapped a picture, hoping the light was good enough to record the scene. She dialed the Union on her cellular phone and quickly filed her story.
“It’s Sunday night, July eighteenth, and the riot is entering its fourth day. Thanks to the timely reinforcement of the Los Angeles police and sheriff’s departments by the First Brigade, the riot has been contained. But the governor still refuses to call out the National Guard, claiming the local authorities are on top of the situation. However, only my escort’s skills of survival and negotiation have kept me alive in this hell.
“I’m at the virtual epicenter of the chaos sweeping South Central Los Angeles, watching rioters gather in front of a Korean Baptist church near Olympic and Vermont. Until now, an unspoken agreement has kept the churches inviolable. But I can see at least one Molotov cocktail.” Hard experience had taught her that Molotov cocktails were like rats in the woodwork: see one and you knew more were around.
Her editor in Sacramento interrupted. “Do you have any more photos?”
“What about the story?” she muttered.
“Right now the photos are the story. You’re the only reporter still in the zone.”
“When’s the governor calling out the National Guard?” she asked.
“I doubt if he will. We’re getting reports of units refusing to leave their hometowns. He’s afraid if he orders them into Los Angeles, they’ll mutiny rather than leave their own communities undefended.”
She interrupted him. “Oh my God, they’re throwing Molotov cocktails at the church. There’re people inside.”
“Get more photos,” her editor ordered.
She broke the connection and dialed the discrete number of the command center she had been given. “They’re firebombing a church,” she said, reporting her location. “There’re people inside.” The controller promised her he’d try to get a fire truck through. Jason pulled her back into the shadows.
Most of the Crips wandered away looking for another target, but about fifteen Bloods stayed behind, laughing and drinking as the people inside the church tried to extinguish the flames. In the distance, the distinctive wail of a fire truck grew louder. “I don’t like this,” Jason said. “The fire department is high on their hate list, right after the police and schools.”
The efforts of the congregation were paying off and the fire was dying away. Suddenly, one of the Bloods stepped clear of his buddies and sprayed the Koreans with gunfire from a Mac Ten, forcing them back into the church. At that moment, the fire truck pulled up. “Thank God,” Marcy whispered, still shooting frame after frame.
“Don’t bet on it,” Jason muttered. The Bloods clustered around the firemen and yelled at them to leave. But they continued to unlimber a hose and connected it to a fire hydrant. A fireman turned the valve and they directed the stream of water onto the burning church. Again, the congregation joined in the effort and the flames slowly yielded as the shouts and threats from the gangbangers grew louder. “Let’s get out of here,” Jason said.
“I want to get this,” Marcy replied. She jammed another card into the camera and continued shooting.
“Be careful,” he told her. “This is different.”
But it was too late. The Blood with the Mac Ten rushed the firemen and sprayed them with gunfire. Methodically, he stood over each one and fired, reloading twice. When he was not killing a fireman, he sprayed the church, forcing the people back inside. Finally, he was out of ammunition. The people inside the church surged out, running for their lives. The Bloods threw more Molotov cocktails and shots from a single revolver echoed down the street. But it was not enough to keep the Koreans inside.
The Blood threw down his gun, picked up the fire hose, and aimed it at the people still streaming out of the church. The blast forced them back inside. A ten-year-old boy ran out, his clothes on fire. The Blood turned the fire hose on him and knocked him down, washing him into the street. He tried to pull the hose after him as he advanced on the boy, but it was too heavy. Other gangbangers joined him to help with the heavy hose. Now, he tumbled the boy down the street with the jet of water, laughing maniacally as more people escaped from the burning church.
Marcy stepped out of the shadows and raised her camera, trying for a clearer shot. One of the Bloods saw her and yelled. The man on the nozzle turned it on her, still laughing. The force of the water knocked her off her feet and threw her against the curb. Now he advanced on her, washing her down the street as she clutched the precious camera against her body. But the hose was not long enough and he turned back to the boy who was staggering to his feet.
Again, the man laughed as the water knocked the boy down. He concentrated on the child, washing him toward a storm drain. “Open the mutha!” he shouted. One of the Bloods pulled the grillwork away and he washed the boy into the drain.
Down the street, two African-American men ran out of a house and pulled Marcy to safety inside. “You’ll be okay here,” one said. “Where’s your friend?”
“Jason? I don’t know.” She heard the back door open and the room filled with Koreans from the church.
“We’re saving who we can,” the man said. The house rapidly turned into an emergency room.
Marcy looked out a front window. The rioters were pulling the fire hose closer to the storm drain. A dark premonition pounded at her. “I’ve got to get this,” she said, moving toward the back door.
“Miss Bangor,” the man who had rescued her said, “When you report this, please tell the whole story. That isn’t us out there.”
“I know,” she said. “Jason showed me that.” She slipped past two Korean women being helped through the back door and ran up the side of the house. She worked her way closer to the gangbangers who had dragged the
fire hose right up to the storm drain. The boy’s desperate cries echoed from the dark pit. The man played with the nozzle control and discovered he could choke the water into a much more narrow, cutting beam. He laughed as he directed the water into the drain. A blood-red spray ricocheted out in the half light of the burning church.
An armored car roared around the corner, its lights flashing. The gangbangers turned and ran as the car sped past Marcy. The Blood who had killed the fire crew and handled the hose slipped in the water and twisted his ankle. He hobbled after his buddies but the pain drove him to the ground. He crawled under a burned-out car as the armored car slammed to a halt. The side hatch banged open and a man in fatigues and wearing the distinctive red-and-black arm band of the First Brigade climbed out.
Marcy ran up. “Get the bastard!” she shouted. She staggered and almost fell. For a moment, she felt herself hover on the edge of total collapse as the crushing tension of the last three days bore down. With the last of her will, she held on. “Just get him.”
“Get who?” the armored car commander asked.
“Him!” she shouted, pointing at the burned-out car. “The bastard hiding underneath.” Automatically, Marcy’s instincts as a reporter kicked in and noted the armored car commander’s name tag: Alexander.
Alexander directed his flashlight under the car. “What did he do?” Without a word, Marcy turned her digital camera around and called up the scenes she had captured. “Freeze that one,” Alexander ordered. Marcy gasped. She had caught the Blood standing over the open drain, aiming the nozzle of the fire hose down. His face was clearly visible against the reddish spray of water shooting out of the drain, cascading down like a fountain. Alexander walked over to the drain and directed the beam of his flashlight down the dark hole. He pulled back and sank to his knees, throwing up, while two of his men crawled out of the armored car. “Get him out from under there,” Alexander ordered, pointing at the burned-out car.
The two men dragged the Blood out from under the car and stood him up. “Let him go,” Alexander growled. They did and the man almost collapsed. He tried to take a few steps but the pain was too great.
Without a word, Alexander walked toward him. Marcy jammed a fresh card into her camera and started to shoot. Her strobe light froze the motion in a series of surrealistic flashes as Alexander drew his sidearm, a 9mm Beretta.
“Yo, ain’t no way,” the Blood pleaded. “Nobody be hurtin’ prisoners.” Another flash as Alexander pulled the slide of his Beretta, chambering a round. “Pa’leese,” the Blood begged.
Alexander never broke his pace as he raised his Beretta and fired a single shot square into the man’s forehead. The flash from Marcy’s camera went off at the same instant and Alexander turned to her as he holstered his weapon. His hands were shaking. “Are you going to report this?”
She took a deep breath. The summary execution of the gangbanger in the midst of the looting and chaos was the story of a lifetime. “I’m a reporter. It’s my job.”
He snorted. “You’re a fool if you think a court in this town would have convicted that bastard. It’s time to choose sides, lady.” He climbed into the armored car and shut the hatch. She watched the vehicle as it rumbled down the street and disappeared around a corner. Jason came out of the shadows and stood beside her. She breathed deeply, thankful that he was safe. “Did you get his name?” he asked.
“Alexander. He’s from the First Brigade.”
“What are you going to do?”
Without answering, she walked over to the storm drain and threw the camera into the dark pit. The story was no longer about photos and sensationalism. Tears rolled down her face. “Why, why, why?” she moaned. A fierce resolve captured her. She was going to find the answers.
5:01 A.M., Monday, July 19,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
The courier plane landed before sunrise and ten minutes later, the package was delivered to the legal office. Sutherland was waiting and signed for it. His hands felt weak as he ripped it open. “My stomach went south hours ago,” Blasedale said. He nodded and sat down at his desk to read. Blasedale made no attempt to read over his shoulder and waited for him to hand her Diana Habib’s statement page by page as he finished. They read in silence. “Now I know why Toni wouldn’t discuss it over the phone,” Blasedale said when she had finished reading the last page.
“The Rock was right,” Sutherland replied.
“Only if this checks out,” she cautioned. “I don’t know why she did it.” She looked at Sutherland, tears in her eyes. “I do know why.” The two prosecutors sat in silence, each caught up in his or her own heartache.
According to Diana Habib, she had worked for McGraw as a practical nurse helping to care for her son Mikey. Once she had gained McGraw’s trust, she approached McGraw with an offer from her husband, Mohammed Habib. A student was doing research on the decision-making process in the military for a security studies seminar at Central Missouri State University in Warrensburg. The student needed an insider’s point of view and was willing to pay McGraw for her help. It was agreed that any help McGraw gave the student would not include classified information. Once the money started flowing, it proved helpful with the crushing expenses of Mikey’s care.
Then the student asked for information about the B-2. McGraw knew the magazine Aviation Weekly had printed a story on the same subject and simply repeated the article. But the trap had been sprung. The information in the magazine had been classified secret by the Air Force and she had confirmed it. Any revelation that McGraw had compromised classified information would result in her being kicked out of the Air Force, the loss of her retirement and benefits, and maybe even jail time. With Mikey hostage, it became a simple case of blackmail.
After that, Diana had relayed messages between her husband and McGraw. Occasionally, she would pass money to McGraw, always in cash. She did not know the content of the messages, how much money was involved, or where it came from. When her husband came home with an expensive Rolex watch, he admitted he was skimming from the payoff money. When her husband had been murdered, she ran out because she was afraid. She called Mohammed’s parents, who had immigrated to Brazil, and they sent her money for plane tickets to Rio de Janeiro. She was attempting to leave the country when the FBI arrested her. Under specific examination, she claimed that her husband knew Osmana Khalid, the Egyptian cleric. However, he did not know Capt. Jefferson and had never spoken to him.
“The money was too tempting,” Blasedale said. “Then she couldn’t escape without hurting Mikey.”
“And we almost convicted an innocent man because he was standing too close to Khalid,” Sutherland said.
“If Diana Habib is telling the truth,” Blasedale added.
“She is, Cathy. I’ll request a continuance the moment we reconvene.”
“Williams arrived last night. I think we need to give him a heads up. I’ll call Cooper.”
“God, he’s gonna love this.”
The judge’s chambers were crowded as Williams read the request for a continuation and Diana Habib’s statement. He folded his hands over the request and thought. “I will grant your request for a continuance when we reconvene. Further, I will order that Capt. Jefferson be released from the detention facility and confined to base. He can be housed in a VIP suite in the VOQ. Hopefully, proper security can be provided. Further, his wife may join him and he will have access to all base facilities.” He looked at Cooper. “Is that satisfactory?”
“No, Your Honor, it is not,” Cooper said. “I will submit a motion for dismissal of all charges.”
“I will rule on it accordingly,” Williams said.
“Further, I demand the Habib woman’s statement be made immediately available to the defense.”
“It will, Mr. Cooper. But as it contains classified information, it will be made available to the Area Defense Counsel, Capt. Jordan, not you. Further, it will be released to you only if the government decides to proceed with the case against
Capt. Jefferson.” Cooper started to protest but Williams made a sharp cutting motion with his right hand, silencing him. “Have you apprised Capt. Jefferson of these developments?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Cooper replied. “I have.”
“Good. Let’s proceed.”
They walked out into the courtroom while Williams donned his robe. All seats but one in the spectators’ gallery were filled, people were seated, afraid they would lose their places. Only Sandi Jefferson’s seat was vacant. Silence hung in the air like electricity and the bailiff’s call of “All rise” rang like thunder. Williams walked in. “The court-martial will come to order.”
Sutherland remained standing. “All parties present when the court-martial recessed are present. The members are absent.”
Jefferson immediately came to his feet. “Your Honor, I wish to enter a Thirty-nine-ay session to address the court.” Cooper started to stand up, a stunned look on his face. Jefferson placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down. Hard.
“So ordered,” Williams said. “What is it you wish to say?”
“Sir, I change my plea to guilty.”
PART THREE
JUSTICE
25
8:12 A.M., Monday, July 19,
Aspen, Colorado
“It’s on TV,” Rios said, drawing Durant’s attention away from the big window with the magnificent view of the valley. Durant nodded and spun his wheelchair around to face the big TV screen. It was the first time it had been on in years.
A reporter for CNN was standing in front of the 509th headquarters building as people streamed outside. “Within moments after reconvening this morning, Capt. Jefferson stunned this court-martial by changing his plea to guilty. Even his defense attorney, the legendary R. Garrison Cooper, was totally unprepared for the change in plea, and the judge, Col. William W. Williams, immediately declared a recess until Jefferson could confer with Cooper. At this time, we have no idea how long the recess will last.”
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