“That oughtta cool some fires in Los Angeles,” Rios said. He looked miserable. “Boss, is there anything we could’ve done to prevent that disaster?”
Durant sensed the turmoil coursing through the big man. He shook his head. “The pressure has been building for weeks and that riot was going to start no matter what happened with Jefferson. It wasn’t a question of if, only when. We were simply bystanders.”
“Meredith wasn’t. That bastard is exploiting it to the hilt. He’s made every person of color look like a traitor. He’s got a lot to answer for.”
“Indeed he does.” Durant locked the wheels on his wheelchair and stood up, taking a few hesitant steps. “Okay, Whiteman’s in play. Time to go get those pilots.” He walked slowly into the office built into the side of the mountain.
9:16 A.M., Monday, July 19,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Hank Sutherland understood the silence commanding his office; it was the absence of sound. What caused the silence gave it meaning, and he had to dampen the conflicting emotions tearing at him. Catherine Blasedale reacted instinctively, sensing a. crisis in the making, and like him, was still stunned by Jefferson’s announcement. “Why?” she finally asked.
“Maybe he feels responsible for the riots in Los Angeles.”
“Even if he’s innocent?”
Sutherland shook his head. “Who knows what goes on in the human heart?” The phone buzzed and Sutherland answered. “Be right there,” he said, hanging up. “That was Williams. He wants us in chambers.” They rushed out of his office and took the few short steps to the judge’s chambers.
Williams was pacing back and forth, still wearing his black robe. “Cooper’s on his way.” They waited in silence until Cooper burst into the room. “Sit down,” Williams commanded. “Has he changed his mind?” R. Garrison Cooper, the magician of defense lawyers, was at a loss for words and only shook his head. “I’m reconvening at thirteen hundred to question Jefferson.”
“Your Honor,” Cooper said, “the defense is not ready to proceed at this point.”
“I seriously doubt if you’ll ever be ready,” Williams snapped. “Right now the biggest bomb on this base is one Bradley Jefferson, and I’m going to defuse it.” He turned to Sutherland. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but my sense of the matter tells me the government’s case has collapsed.”
“If Diana Habib’s statement checks out,” Sutherland replied, “that’s correct.”
Williams glanced at his watch and then stared at Cooper. “Does your client know this?” Cooper nodded. “Then we reconvene at thirteen hundred.” Cooper started to speak but Williams cut him off. “I expect you to counsel Capt. Jefferson accordingly; listen carefully to my questions, and object as necessary. But at this point I am above all else concerned with Capt. Jefferson’s rights and will not tolerate senseless grandstanding. Have I made myself clear?” Again, Cooper started to protest. “Save it for appeal, Mr. Cooper, if there is one.”
Sutherland and Blasedale walked slowly back to his office and stood in the hall talking. “Why do I smell a rat?” he asked, not expecting an answer. “Someone got to Jefferson.” His mind raced. “It had to be through his wife. Where was she this morning?”
“I heard the bailiff say she was in the ADC’s office,” Blasedale answered. She stopped and looked at him, her mouth slightly open. “She knew and stayed out of sight to avoid the reporters. They would have been all over her. This was planned, and she was part of it. Maybe she coached him on how to do it.”
“Well,” Sutherland replied, “we know it wasn’t Cooper who did the coaching.”
Linda came running down the hall. “It’s Toni. She’s on the telephone.” Sutherland hurried into his office and put the call on the speaker. “Where are you?” he asked.
“Refueling at Little Rock. We should arrive at Warrensburg about one o’clock this afternoon.”
“Have you heard—”
“Who hasn’t?” she said, interrupting him. “There’re motorcades all over town honking and cheering.”
“We need to speak to Harry,” Sutherland said.
“I can’t reach him,” Toni replied, worry in her voice. She gave them Harry’s phone number and told them she and Brent Mather were ready to take off. “It’s time to call Eighth,” Blasedale told him, dialing the phone number of the staff judge advocate at Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana. It took her three phone calls to track the colonel to the office of the three-star general who commanded Eighth Air Force, the convening authority for Jefferson’s court-martial. She handed Sutherland the phone and picked up an extension, not wanting to put this conversation on the speaker.
It took Sutherland thirty-five minutes to explain the situation to the colonel. It was strictly a one-way flow of information from Sutherland to the colonel updating him on the situation. Finally, the colonel felt compelled to offer some lawyerly advice. “Go with the evidence,” he said. Now they had to wait.
“What now?” Sutherland muttered. His voice trailed off as the constant whir of the air conditioner died away. “Not now,” Sutherland mumbled. He buzzed Linda on the intercom and learned the main air conditioning unit had broken down. “What was the weatherman calling for today?” he asked.
“The usual,” Linda replied. “Ninety degrees and ninety percent humidity.”
The big double doors leading from the courtroom into the main hall were wide open. A collapsible, bright yellow air duct snaked up the stairs from a portable air conditioner unit parked on the roundabout in front of the building to pump cool air into the room. Every seat in the audience was taken and spectators lined the walls behind the bar. Sweat poured down their faces and their clothes were almost soaking wet. But not one person had budged in over an hour, afraid of losing his or her place. The room was deathly silent when the bailiff called, “All rise.”
Williams walked in and took his seat. Sutherland repeated the opening lines and Williams said, “This Article thirty-nine-ay session is called to order. I want to keep the doors open to take advantage of what cooling we have and have ordered the security police to clear the halls outside. Does defense counsel or the government have any objections?” Both Cooper and Sutherland agreed, glad for whatever relief was available. Williams opened his bench book and started to read.
“Capt. Jefferson, your plea of guilty will not be accepted unless you understand its meaning and effect. I am going to discuss your plea with you now. If you have any questions, please say so. Do you understand?”
Cooper rose from his chair, ponderously and slowly. “Your Honor, I must object. This line of questioning is premature and—”
“Overruled,” Williams said, cutting him off. “I have warned you before, Mr. Cooper. Listen first, then speak. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor. That is most clear.” He sat down.
“Your Honor,” Jefferson said, “I understand everything you have said.”
Williams jotted down a note and continued. “Thank you. A plea of guilty is the strongest form of proof known to law. On your plea alone, without receiving any evidence, this court-martial could find you guilty of the offense to which you are pleading guilty.” Sutherland tried to concentrate on Williams’s words as the judge led Jefferson through the standard questions about pleading guilty. Williams’s voice was a drone in the background as the questioning played out with a predictable monotony.
“By your plea of guilty you waive, or in other words, give up certain important rights…. The right against self-incrimination…There will not be a trial…. Defense counsel, what advice have you given…” For some reason, Sutherland did not hear Cooper’s response. But he knew what it was. “Do you feel you have had enough time to discuss your case with your counsel?” Williams asked.
“Yes, sir, I have,” Jefferson replied. The questions droned on without objection from Cooper. Sutherland braced himself for Cooper’s explosion when they reached the factual basis for his plea.
“Are you aware tha
t the government is investigating evidence that may exonerate you?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
Sutherland came alert. His instincts warned him that Williams was about to make a major departure from the script. “Lacking evidence of your guilt,” he said, “I am inclined to wait for the results of the government’s investigation before ruling on your plea.”
“I have the money. I was paid—”
Cooper was on his feet, shouting. “Objection, Your Honor!”
Jefferson never stopped talking. “—over two million dollars.”
“Holy shit,” Blasedale gasped. “Where did that come from?”
Sutherland shrugged off the coat to his uniform, pulled his tie loose, and collapsed into his chair. An oscillating fan sent a blast of humid air over his desk, stirring papers but doing little to cool him. “I think Williams made the Guinness Book of Records calling that recess,” he said. “At least he gave us until thirteen-hundred tomorrow afternoon to make sense of this mess.”
“We’ve got to get out of here until the air conditioner is fixed,” Blasedale said. “How about one of our rooms in the VOQ?”
“Sounds good,” he replied, starting to gather up his files. “I see it as a two-part problem: we got Jefferson on one side and McGraw on the other, and we need the bastard who’s really guilty to step forward.”
“Maybe they’re in this together,” Blasedale said.
“That’s not an unreasonable position.” Sutherland considered the possibility and turned it over in his mind. But it felt rough, out of balance. “That two million dollars Jefferson claimed he was paid—it’s too much. The forty or fifty thou they paid McGraw sounds right. The OSI and FBI have got to check her out again. Maybe they can trace that two million.” He looked at her. “Shit! We’re right back to square one. It’ll take months, maybe years, to sort all this out.”
Blasedale allowed a tight smile. “No problem.” She made an elaborate show of checking her watch. “We’ve got twenty-seven hours.”
The intercom buzzed. It was Linda at the front desk. “The commander of the OSI detachment is on his way over.”
“What now?” Sutherland groused, mostly to himself. Blasedale worked with him sorting the files they would take to the VOQ. They were almost finished when the lieutenant colonel crashed into Sutherland’s office and slammed the door shut.
“Waldon’s dead,” he blurted out.
“Oh, my God,” Blasedale said, her face white. “What happened?”
“We don’t know yet,” the lieutenant colonel replied. “Because of the Habib woman’s statement, DOJ decided they had enough to nail Ramar. The FBI went to the club to arrest him and they found Waldon and a stripper in the office. Both dead.”
“Are you sure it was murder?” Sutherland asked.
“A fucking bullet in the back of the fucking head looks like murder to me!” the lieutenant colonel shouted.
“The dancer?” Blasedale asked.
“Andrea Hall,” came the answer.
“Oh, my God.” This from Sutherland. “And Ramar?”
“Gone.”
8:00 A.M., Tuesday, July 20,
Midi Prison, Khartoum
Kamigami waited patiently while the guards cleared him through the series of steel doors and barred passageways that led into the maximum security block. Twice, the guards waved a security wand over his clothes searching for weapons. But the look on his face warned them not to touch him physically. Finally, after much discussion and a frantic telephone call, the prison commandant appeared and escorted him inside.
The stench of human waste, rotting garbage, and years of accumulated decay assaulted him as the commandant and two guards led the way down the dark passageway. They unlocked a heavy door and threw it open. The foul odor that washed over them like a tidal wave was even stronger man in the hall. One of the guards flipped on the light.
Inside the bare cell, Maj. Mark Terrant sat naked against the far wall. A canvas bag was pulled over his head and his wrists and ankles were tightly manacled. A chain shackled him to the wall. Kamigami stepped inside and almost gagged at the smell. He examined Terrant’s bleeding wrists and spoke softly. “Your trial has been delayed a week.” He looked at the commandant, wondering how much he could say since every word would be reported to Assam. “Your trial was scheduled to start today, but it has been postponed because of events at Whiteman.” He saw Tenant’s head nod underneath the hood.
“Is Capt. Holloway okay?” Terrant asked.
“He’s okay,” Kamigami answered.
“What day is this?”
“Tuesday morning, July twentieth. Remember, conduct yourself like an officer.” He gently lifted the bag off Terrant’s head and turned to the commandant. “Remove their shackles. Let them bathe and bring them clean uniforms. Have this pigsty scrubbed clean, inside and out.”
“My men are soldiers,” the commandant protested. “I will not degrade them by giving such an order.”
“You have over two thousand prisoners here,” Kamigami said. “Use them.” He gave the commandant a little smile. “Of course, I am only offering this advice in your own best interests. Do as you see fit.” He spun around and marched out, glad to escape the stench.
26
12:07 A.M., Tuesday, July 20,
Aspen, Colo.
The phone call from Agnes came just after midnight. As Durant was still awake, Rios put the call through. “Hello, Nelson,” Agnes said. Her voice had a soft, sultry quality Durant had never heard before. “I’m sorry to disturb you so late, but I just had to talk. How are you feeling?”
“I’m feeling very good, thank you. The quacks think I just might make it.” He gave Rios a quizzical look and motioned for him to pick up the extension and record the conversation.
“You do have an amazing constitution. But I hope you are still going to have bypass surgery.”
“As soon as possible,” he answered.
“I was wondering when we, ah, might talk,” Agnes said.
“What’s wrong with now?” He almost mentioned they were on a secure line but thought better of it.
“Oh, it’s just that I hate talking over a phone. It’s so impersonal, don’t you think?”
Rios made a cutting motion to hang up and mouthed bug. “I’ll see you soon,” Durant said. Instinctively, he created a cover story for the phone call. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Agnes replied. The line went dead.
“What do you think?” Durant asked.
“The line is tapped,” Rios said, “and she wants to see you immediately.”
“Who the hell has the capability to break into our system?”
“I think that’s what Agnes wants to tell you.”
“Call the pilots and tell them to meet us at the Hawker.”
“Boss, you got to take it easy,” Rios warned.
Reluctantly, Durant agreed with him. “First thing in the morning.”
8:50 A.M., Tuesday, July 20,
Warrensburg, Mo.
The police chief escorted Toni and Sutherland into the back office at Bare Essence. “The FBI has finished,” he told them. “Except for the bodies, everything is pretty much like we found it.” Toni walked around, a grim look on her face. An FBI technical team had carefully gone over the room for evidence and she knew anything of value had been found. Still, she wanted to examine the scene of the double murder herself.
“Did you find the murder weapon?” she asked.
“Yeah,” the chief replied. “A nine-millimeter Sig Sauer. We also found a slug in the wall, probably from the same weapon.”
Toni pulled into herself, trying to remember all that Harry had taught her about the criminal mind, the way a criminal thought, the tricks he played, his screwed up view of reality. “It was probably Harry’s Sig Sauer,” she said. “The OSI has the number.”
The chief spoke in a gentle voice. “The fingerprints haven’t come back yet. We need a positive ID.”
Toni no
dded and followed him outside. She rode in silence with Sutherland as they drove to the morgue in the basement of the courthouse in the center of Warrensburg. Like most government buildings in that part of Missouri, it was constructed of gray sandstone and had a look of permanent elegance. Sutherland drove around to the back and parked. They walked down the ramp to the double doors where the coroner was waiting for them. “The chief said you were coming,” he said, leading them into the morgue. “I must warn you, it’s pretty gruesome. The girl is much worse than the man.”
They stepped into the holding room and waited as an assistant pulled the first body out of the cold storage locker. It reminded Sutherland of the standard scene in a movie or TV crime thriller. Unfortunately, this scene was all too real. The assistant carefully unzipped the body bag and Sutherland stared at the face of Harry Waldon. Fortunately, a towel covered the back of his head and they could not see where the bullet had exited the skull. “He took it in the mouth,” the coroner said.
Toni nodded. “It’s Special Agent Harry Waldon.” The assistant closed the body bag and shoved it back into the storage locker. He briskly pulled out the second body, unzipped the bag but did not pull it open.
“This is bad,” the coroner warned. He gently moved the bag aside. Sutherland gasped. He had seen photographs of cadavers as a deputy D.A. but this was shocking, far beyond anything he had experienced. This was real. He felt dizzy and tasted the bile rising in his throat. “She was shot in the occiput,” the coroner explained, using the precise term for the back of the skull. It was his way of handling the horror in front of him. “The bullet was aimed on an upward trajectory so it would exit the forehead. Preliminary examination indicates it was a dum-dum bullet. Whoever shot her meant to blow her face away. I’ll know better after the formal autopsy.”
“I can’t positively identify her,” Toni said. She turned and walked from the room as Sutherland passed out.
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