by Brian Haig
“Here’s the thing. I’ve spent the past five days going over every detail of your case. I’ve read the full case file. I’ve viewed the corpse and studied the autopsy. I’ve talked to Bales and checked out your background. And, Tommy, I can’t remember seeing a stronger case. From a strictly procedural standpoint, it’s perfect. I can’t find a single flaw, not one. You know what that means?”
“I’m screwed?” he guessed.
“That would be my professional judgment. Unless we find something we haven’t thought of, or the prosecutor or the judge make a fatal blunder, your chances of conviction are at least ninety-nine percent. And don’t bank on the prosecutor or judge screwing up. They’ve brought in the best prosecutor in the Army. And the judge is one of those guys they keep chained up in the basement unless they absolutely need him.”
“So they’ve stacked the deck?”
“Let’s just say they’re bringing in the A-team. I wouldn’t want to face these guys even if I had a foolproof defense.”
He considered that in silence.
Then I said, “Tell me something. And it better be the truth.”
“What?”
I drew a heavy breath and fixed his eyes with my best prosecutorial glare. “Did you kill Private Lee?”
It was the same question he’d told me earlier he had no intention of answering – only, having laid out the bleak facts, I now hoped he was willing to relent. Stonewalling his own attorneys never was a good idea. It had become a catastrophically bad idea.
And besides, I really wanted to hear how he answered.
“I did not,” he answered very simply.
“Do you know who did?”
“No. You can’t believe how much I’ve thought about it. All I can tell you is that I’m positive it wasn’t Moran or Jackson.”
“That’s an assumption, Tommy. It could be a very dangerous one. They’re the only other possible culprits.”
“We’ve already been through this, Major. I’m not changing my stance. I don’t believe they did it. It had to be someone else.”
“Someone else? Your apartment door was locked. You were on the twelfth floor of a twenty-story building. The windows were locked from the inside. A lock expert was flown up from Taegu. He took the door lock apart and inspected every single piece under a microscope. There were no signs of tampering, no visual scarring. The lock wasn’t picked.”
“So maybe somebody had a key?” Whitehall suggested, although you could tell from his tone even he recognized he was throwing pebbles at the moon.
“Won’t fly. You admitted in your statement that only you and the apartment management company had copies.”
He tensed a little bit. “That’s not completely true.”
“What?”
“I, uh, I lied about that. No had a key. I gave it to him months before, right after I got the apartment. I didn’t tell Bales, because it would’ve confirmed No and I were lovers.”
“You’re not making this up?”
“It’s true. If you can’t find his key, isn’t it possible the killer might’ve stolen it from him and used it?”
“How? How would the killer have gotten the key from him?”
“I don’t know.”
I pondered that a moment before I said, “What about the possibility the management company lost track of the keys?”
“That’s a possibility, too.”
I reached into my bag and pulled out the second-to-last beer. I opened it, took a long pull, and handed the rest to Whitehall, who took a short sip and immediately passed it back to me. He was watching me, so I immediately took another long draw, guessing, I think accurately, that he wanted to see if I was too squeamish to drink from the same can as a gay man.
“This is one strange damn case,” I said.
“You’re telling me,” he remarked.
“No, Tommy, stranger than you think. You don’t know the half of it.”
“Really?” He chuckled. “And I thought I was the only one who does know all the halves of it.”
“You know why Katherine asked for me?”
“Tell me.”
“Well, she and I went to Georgetown Law together. You know that old saying about cats and dogs? That was me and her. We were a walking combat zone. It got so bad the law school issued flak vests and helmets to the other students, just in case of stray rounds.”
“She can be pretty stubborn.”
“Tell me about it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not questioning her legal skills. Between you and me, if I was accused of something, she’s one of the few lawyers I’d want in my corner. It would have to be something damned serious, though. Otherwise, I couldn’t put up with her.”
“My position’s pretty precarious,” he said, smiling curiously.
“The point is, Tommy, I’m not sure why she asked for me. The passage of time hasn’t improved our compatibility. You need to know that, because we’re at the point where you’re going to see some fairly gaping differences in how she and I think and operate. I have an obligation to inform you of that.”
He needed a moment to take that one in. I had to tell him, though, because unlike Katherine, I didn’t believe in withholding critical information from my client. His fate was on the line, and this was another of those instances where what you don’t know could very well hurt you.
“Anyway,” I continued, “here’s another thing that’s got me hot and bothered. This thing is much bigger than just you and this crime. There’s all kinds of hidden currents and eddies.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s this gays-in-the-military thing.”
“No, Tommy. Bigger than that even.”
He hunched forward. “What do you mean?”
“Keith got tossed in front of a moving car and he’s in a coma. I’ll be damned if I can figure it all out. But there’s something else here… Something.”
He peered at the far wall, and the shadows accentuated the strong features of his face. If he weren’t an accused homosexual murderer who was locked up in a Korean prison cell, he’d be the perfect choice for that “noble soldier” model you see on Army recruiting posters. Strong-jawed, clear-eyed, a perfect complexion. You think of murderers and rapists as guys with shifty, soulless eyes, swarthy, pockmarked skin, crooked teeth, and thin, cruel lips. Whitehall just didn’t look the type. On the other hand, what we were dealing with here was most likely a crime of passion, not the cold-blooded variety, so that bent all the stereotypes in half.
“Tommy, be honest with me. Is there something here I haven’t been told? Are you holding anything back?”
He put the beer on the floor and faced me. “Look, all I know is I woke up one morning and the man I loved was lying dead beside me. I don’t know why. I don’t know who did it.”
“Then it’s narrowed to one option. You had to be framed. Deliberately set up. That’s what Katherine believes. At least that’s what she says she believes. Is that what you believe?”
“I don’t know. Maybe some gay-bashing group learned about us and decided to set me up. That’s possible, isn’t it?”
“It’s possible. The hardest damned thing in the world to prove, but it’s possible. Did anybody know you were gay? Aside from Moran and Jackson.”
“Nobody. Gilderstone guessed, but he’s the only one. At least, the only one who knew for sure.”
“Come on, Tommy. Don’t be bashful. Didn’t you have affairs or platonic relationships with anybody else? Think hard. Anybody? Back at West Point, maybe? In high school? Any other place you’ve been?”
There was this rather awkward moment, and at first I was confused. Then I caught on. “You mean, Lee was your first?”
“Umm… ahh… yeah,” he finally stammered.
“Jesus, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I said, then we both chuckled, because if you think about it, that was something of an awkward observation.
Then I said, “How about Lee? You said he was cautious, but isn’t it possible he had enemies? Maybe a fo
rmer lover with a grudge?”
“Anything’s possible. Maybe he was lying to me, but he swore he was celibate before we met.”
“So you were both… uh, what? Both virgins? Is that the term?”
“Yes, it’s the term we use. And yes, we were both virgins.”
So much for the old stereotype of gay men being wildly promiscuous. On the other hand, I couldn’t help thinking his sheer raw inexperience in romantic attachments might have made him less stable, less able to handle the swings and shifts of his first affair. First-timers of any sexual predilection tend to be fairly immature and prone to wild mood swings.
I said, “Tommy, you already know I’m something of a novice about how all this works. Excuse me if I say something insensitive here. Gilderstone claimed he knew you were gay because he was gay, so he caught on to your act. All he had to do was watch you with other people. Is it possible you or Lee might’ve inadvertently tipped your hands?”
“Look, some gays are easy to identify. There’s always the earring in the left ear or the flashy clothes if you want to be identified, or there’s the unconscious effeminate manner, or maybe you overaccentuate your manliness. I don’t think No or I fall into any of those categories.”
“I don’t guess you do,” I admitted. “But how’d you recognize he was gay?”
“I, uh, after one look, we knew we loved each other.”
“That’s it? Some invisible spark?”
“What were you expecting? A secret handshake or something?”
“I just wasn’t expecting some intangible emotional clue.”
“Haven’t you ever felt that with a woman?”
I had to consider that. I’d certainly felt an avalanche of lust for certain women. That happened a lot – too often, if you want to get strictly technical. And there were a few women I’d felt strong emotional attachments to, although that developed over time, a gradual thing, like a slow-motion magnet tugging me inch by inch in its direction. But I’d never looked at a woman and felt some headlong rush.
“Actually, Tommy, I really haven’t ever felt something like that,” I admitted.
“Too bad.”
“Yeah, too bad. So do you miss Lee?”
I asked the question sincerely, although I’d never in my life imagined I’d be asking a homosexual how much he missed his mate.
“God, yes. As miserable as this situation might seem, the hardest part is knowing I’ll never see him again. That probably sounds perverted to you, doesn’t it?”
For the first time I actually entertained the notion that maybe Whitehall didn’t murder his lover, that some bastard stole into his apartment in the dead of night and left the corpse beside him. How must that feel?
“Why was he your first?” I finally asked. “You’re a very attractive guy. You told me lots of gays are fairly promiscuous. What makes you different?”
“Ambition, I guess. It’s not a homosexual’s world, is it? You can come out of the closet and make a handsome living as an interior designer, or a hairstylist, or even a writer, but what other profession welcomes gays into its ranks? The military sure as hell doesn’t.”
“Then why choose the Army?”
“Why did you choose the Army?”
“I don’t know. My father was a soldier and, uh, it just looked like an adventurous way to make a living.”
“My father wasn’t in the Army, but I came to pretty much the same conclusion. The way I was raised was pretty loose and undisciplined. I was allowed to do whatever I wanted. I could stay up as late as I wanted, skip school, you name it. When I was a kid I thought it was great. When I got older, I didn’t. That make sense?”
“I guess,” I said, although frankly it didn’t make the least bit of sense. I’d barely had a loose or undisciplined minute in my whole life.
“Anyway, I wanted something more disciplined, more structured. And I didn’t want to grow up and become a hairdresser or a decorator.”
I nodded.
“And until now, I really loved it. I just figured that as long as I could hold my gayness under control, I’d do really good at it.”
“So why the Army? There are lots of other ways to avoid being a stereotype, aren’t there? Or did you always want to be a soldier?”
“Hell, I don’t know. I grew up reading war books and biographies of famous generals. Being gay, you’re still susceptible to little boys’ dreams. It drove my parents crazy, because they’re pacifists. But they’re also broke, and it didn’t hurt that West Point pays you to go. That was no small consideration. Do you want to hear the funny thing? They never blinked when I told them I was gay, but they nearly vomited when I told them I was going to West Point. Pretty ironic, huh?”
“So you suppressed it? Your gayness?”
“Yeah. Outside the house, anyway.”
“That why you boxed?”
“Believe it or not, I actually love the sport. And I guess I figured that if I could beat everybody who stepped into the ring, you know, really beat them, then everybody would say, ‘Gee, what a macho guy.’ What’s more hetero than boxing? Who’s ever heard of a gay winning the Golden Gloves or being the brigade boxing champ at West Point, for God’s sake?”
“Why’d you turn down the Rhodes Scholarship? Gilderstone said you had a good shot.”
“Maybe so, maybe not. There were lots of good guys going for it. Besides, I wanted to get to the Army.”
“You still would’ve gotten to the Army.”
“I wanted to be an infantryman. I wanted to go to the field and live in the woods and tromp around rifle ranges and lead men. Why waste two years at Oxford when I wanted to be with troops?”
He sounded completely sincere, and I must confess to a certain prejudice on my part. I, too, joined the Army to become an infantryman – which, if you don’t know, is the truest form of warrior in the military. And were it not for a wound that made it no longer possible, I would still be an infantryman. Law is intellectually challenging, and often even emotionally fulfilling, but in my mind it is still, as they say in the computer world, a default mechanism.
Tommy Whitehall and I shared something in common.
Then we both heard the sound of footsteps coming down the metal ramp that led to the cell. The steps were heavy and leaden, and we’d been left in isolation nearly an hour. It had to be the big brute.
“He treatin’ you okay?” I asked.
“Don’t let his looks fool you. He’s all right. In fact, I kind of like him.”
I chuckled and he quickly added, “Of course, I like him like a brother. And strictly like a brother.”
We were both guffawing as the cell door swung open.
The big goon sniffed the air, saw the crumpled McDonald’s wrapper and the empty beer cans, and gave me a dreadful glower. I shrugged my shoulders, since considering the circumstances, there didn’t seem any point in denying my crime.
I then reached into my briefcase, withdrew the last can of Molson, and held it up to him. “We saved one for you,” I timidly said, as I did the pshht thing.
He took it from my hand, raised it to his lips, and drained it in a single gulp.
I left Tommy Whitehall alone in his cell, no doubt to climb the walls some more. The big Korean led me out while I mentally recounted my accomplishments. I had exploited Whitehall’s loneliness, physical hunger, and susceptibility to alcohol to woo him out of his stony silence. It had worked, too. At least, I think it had worked. Before Carlson would know it, I would own our client.
But Whitehall had accomplished something, too. I found myself liking him. Some of it was what Ernie had told me about him, and some of it was just the fact that I had to defend him, which makes you susceptible to being sympathetic. But some of it was just Whitehall himself. I wouldn’t be the first defense attorney who’d been gulled by his client, but he seemed like a decent, genuine guy. And for the first time, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, all evidence to the contrary, he might actually be innocent.
I hadn�
��t changed my mind. I was just entertaining the notion.
CHAPTER 18
Two brief phone calls did the trick.
The first was to the American Bar Association. You pay your two hundred dollars a year in annual dues, and you’re part of the club. They send you biennial brochures about the legal issues the ABA is currently lobbying in Washington. They keep you apprised of bar practices. They also maintain a registry of every lawyer who’s authorized to practice law in the United States.
Unless Keith Merritt owned a small private practice in Florida that specialized in medical torts, or was a 1932 graduate of Duke law school who coincidentally was supposed to be deceased, he was not now, nor had he ever been a practicing attorney. The only other possibility was that he’d never taken or passed the bar exam. But after I called Yale Law School, where Katherine had told me Keith got his law degree, I learned that only six Merritts ever graduated from that august institution.
Not a one was named Keith.
It’s not that I didn’t trust Katherine, but I didn’t. When you know someone the way I know her, you run traplines.
So who in the hell was Keith Merritt? And why had he been tossed in front of that car? As much as I would’ve loved to dig into these pressing questions myself, I had my hands full already. I needed help. I needed someone resourceful and sly and trustworthy. That last quality ruled out Katherine or anybody from her clique. And that left Imelda. She was richly gifted with all three attributes, except that trustworthy thing, at least lately. So I went up to the HOMOS building and hooked a finger in her direction. She grumpily followed me outside and fell in beside me as I ambled in the general direction of nowhere in particular.
Before I could get out a word, she snapped, “What the hell’s your problem? You’ve been walking around like you got a brick up your butt.”
“Oh, you’ve noticed,” I spitefully replied. “I’m the one you worked with these past eight years. The one who flew you over here. The one who’s wearing the same uniform you’re wearing.”
“I ain’t forgotten.”
“Damn it, Imelda, those people, they make me uncomfortable.”