by Brian Haig
He fell quiet again. Then, “What’s he like?”
“Minister Lee?”
“Yes, No’s father.”
“An impressive man. Tall for a Korean, maybe five-ten, slender, silver-haired, strong-featured, calm, and uh… I guess stately is the best word.”
“Sounds like No,” Tommy said.
“His mother’s no slouch, either. I’ll bet she was an incredible beauty. She’s still damned attractive,” I said, then added, “the old man’s hanging together, but his wife’s brittle. When we went in No’s bedroom I thought she was going to crumble.”
I wanted to see how he reacted to this, but in the dimness I couldn’t tell. I thought I heard a sigh, but maybe I was just imagining things.
Finally he asked, “But No still had the key when he died?”
“He still had it. The apartment management company still had all their copies, too. Know what that means, Tommy?”
“I didn’t do it,” he said, although in a very resigned tone, like he was tired of saying it and he knew I wouldn’t believe him.
“Katherine and I met with the prosecutor today. He offered a deal.”
“And what was his deal?”
“Plead to all charges and there’ll be no death sentence. You’ll get life.”
“That means no trial, right?”
“There’ll be a quick hearing, followed by a sentencing hearing, but the verdict will be predetermined. We’ll be allowed to present extenuating circumstances and beg for mercy, but the sentence won’t change. The key issue’s this: By pleading, you lose the right to appeal on the basis of flawed procedure, or an unfair trial, or an overly harsh sentence. An appeal will take the discovery of new evidence.”
“And what are the chances of that?”
“It happens sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. Occasionally the real perp feels guilty and comes forward and confesses. Sometimes a detective investigating another case stumbles onto something tied to your case. We can look into hiring a private detective to keep digging around. That takes money, though. Lots of it.”
“More money than I have, right?”
“You’ll be dishonorably discharged, so your pay will stop. A really good PI, you’re probably looking at a few hundred thousand a year.”
“And once I’m sentenced, OGMM will forget all about me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On Katherine. She’s been with them eight years. She’s their top gun. Maybe she has influence.”
He sipped from the beer and considered all this. I’m sure he’d thought about it already, because it wasn’t long before he asked, “And if we go to trial?”
“Our only hope is that the prosecutor or the judge makes a calamitous blunder.”
“And what are the odds of that happening?”
I stepped over and sat down right beside him on his sleeping mat. I pulled two fresh beers out of my case, opened them, and handed him one. We were getting to the raw, nasty truth about the rest of his life. My bedside manner could be key here.
“Most judges have a bias. They’re supposed to be impartial, but they’re human. Maybe they spent their lawyer years as defenders or prosecutors, and that leaves them looking at the law from that angle, or maybe they just interpret the Constitution a certain way. This judge is very pro-prosecution. He’s also antidefense. That might sound like one bias, but it’s not. They’re two very distinct bents.”
“So I drew a bad straw?”
“The Army drew the bad straw for you.”
“Can Katherine handle him?”
“Katherine’s legal tactics are shaped by the fact that the majority of cases she’s handled are military gay cases, where the laws are written against her. Her strong suit is theatrics. She’s a showman. She’s very expressive and can be fatally caustic. She has a reputation for judge-baiting. You know what that is?”
“Please explain it.”
“A judge is responsible for everything in the trial. He’s got to maintain proper decorum and he’s got to temper the behavior of the attorneys. Depending on the complexity of the case he might have to make dozens of tricky judgments – about evidence, about the limits of examinations and cross-examinations, about the tone and conduct of the lawyers. He can sometimes recess and go to his chambers and contemplate a particularly thorny issue. Usually, though, he has to make his judgments spontaneously, on the bench. Katherine’s forte is trying to get the judge to dislike her, to get overheated. She taunts them. She provokes them. It might sound crazy, but she actually tries to prejudice the judge against her. She raises lots of empty objections to get the judge in the habit of overruling her, then she slips in a valid one and hopes he responds on autopilot. Maybe he allows a piece of evidence he shouldn’t. Maybe he sustains a lawyer’s statement that’s prejudicial. She throws lots of empty motions at him, and somewhere tucked in the middle of the stack and vaguely worded is something applicable. Her whole aim is to bombard an angry judge with rulings, to force him into a biased procedural error. That error later becomes the basis for an appeal. Katherine’s forte isn’t winning cases, it’s getting them overturned.”
Whitehall said, “Sounds like smart strategy to me.”
And I said, “Most lawyers think it’s sleazy because it’s a way to try to circumvent the law. I mean, if a lawyer gets his client off because he got the judge overtorqued at a critical moment, has justice really been served?”
“So you think Katherine’s sleazy?”
“That’s not what I said. Her specialty’s defending folks accused of breaking a law she believes is morally reprehensible. She’s fighting a wrong with a wrong. To her, I’m sure it all balances out.”
“But you don’t think it’ll work with this judge?”
“Not with this judge and not with this prosecutor. Colonel Barry Carruthers has been known to throw defense attorneys in jail. He’s a real badass, Tommy, and he’ll be expecting Katherine’s game, because she’s known for it. As for the prosecutor, he’s probably the best in the Army. You need to know this. Eddie Golden’s never lost a murder case. He’s tried maybe seven or eight and he’s gotten four death sentences.”
“You think he’s that good?”
“I’ve faced him twice. I lost both times.”
“That why the Army brought him out here?”
“That’s exactly why Eddie’s here. The Army’s taking no chances.”
“Are you afraid of this Golden?”
“Scared shitless. He’s the perfect lawyer, with the perfect case, and perfect witnesses, and the perfect judge. The moons aren’t lined up right here, Tommy.”
He chewed on this a few moments without touching his beer. He was hunched over and his jaw muscles were working like a pair of furious pistons.
Finally he said, “Why are you here telling me this? Why isn’t Katherine here?”
“You remember I warned you that she and I share different philosophies on some things?”
“I remember.”
“This is one of those things. I believe in open disclosure with my client. She doesn’t. Another thing – but this stays between you and me, right?”
“Okay,” he said, sounding hesitant and unsure.
“Katherine and I have different agendas. She’s employed by OGMM. She’s pushing the gay agenda. This is her life’s work. If something jeopardizes that cause, I don’t know how she’ll come down.”
“And what are you pushing?”
“I’m career Army, Tommy. I’m pushing truth, justice, the American way. I’m opposed to bending the rules or trying to beat the system. I don’t judge-bait. I don’t play games. If you’re innocent, we try to prove that. If the prosecution makes a procedural mistake, that’s fair game. We’ve got the best and fairest legal system in the world. You pay your nickel, you take your ride. Don’t try to cheat the turnstile.”
“Let me see if I have this right. She’ll sell me upriver if I harm the movement, and you’ll sell me upriver
if I threaten your principles?”
“No, Tommy. Nobody’s selling you upriver. But just like all judges are predisposed, so are us lawyers. There’s one other thing I have to warn you about, too. Katherine’s emotionally entangled in your case. She’s taking it personally. Don’t take that as a good thing, either. Lawyers are supposed to operate from cold hard logic.”
Tommy stood up and began pacing his cell. Given the size of the room, he could only go three steps this way, three steps that way. But even in such a compressed space, he still moved like a caged panther, sleek and muscular, with long, graceful strides.
“So I’ve got one lawyer who’d do anything to win and one who’s afraid to step on cracks. I’ve got one who’s emoting and one who could care less about me. I’ve got one who’s a fanatic for the gay cause and one who hates gays.”
I didn’t want to admit this was a fair summary, but it was damned close. Except for that last crack, anyway.
“Tommy,” I said, “I don’t hate gays.”
“Don’t kid yourself. We gay people, we can smell homophobia. It’s got a real nasty odor.”
“I’m not a homophobe, Tommy. I’ll admit it makes me uncomfortable, but that’s as far as it goes.”
“Okay,” he said, not like it was really okay, not like I was telling the truth; more like he wasn’t willing to argue about it. “So I make you uncomfortable.”
“Look,” I said, “it’s no big thing. Christ, my own mother makes me uncomfortable. Combat boots on a hot day make me uncomfortable.”
“But you don’t think your mother or your combat boots murdered and then raped somebody.”
“No, you’re right,” I told him. “But I don’t think you did, either. And that’s the thing that makes me most uncomfortable.”
He stopped dead in his tracks. He turned and stared at me. “You believe I’m innocent?”
“I didn’t say innocent, Tommy. You’re an officer who was having an affair with an enlisted soldier. And it happened to be a gay affair. I said I don’t think you killed and raped him.”
“Okay, why?”
“Call it instinct. I mean, every piece of evidence screams it was you, except one.”
“And what would that be?”
“You.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you don’t fit the crime. Because you’re too smart to have let it go down the way it did. Because I think you’re probably a pretty decent guy. Because the key in No’s possession proves you were lovers, and maybe, if you’re telling the truth about that, you’re telling the truth about everything.”
“Then what do you think happened?”
“I haven’t got a clue. But Katherine was right about one thing.”
He chuckled at that, which was the last thing I expected him to do. “And what could Katherine possibly be right about?”
“You were framed. You were set up. Not by a rookie, either.”
CHAPTER 23
I heard the church bells pealing over the pounding on my door. I peeked angrily at the clock: 5:15 A.M., Sunday morning. If I had a pistol I would’ve shot the bastard at the door. I’d fallen asleep only two hours before, because there’s nothing I hate more than an innocent client who hasn’t got a chance in hell of winning.
I threw on my pants and, since one punch in the nose was already one over my weekly allotment, cautiously spied through the peephole till I saw the top of Imelda’s head. In case I haven’t mentioned it, Imelda’s only five foot one and maybe 140 pounds, although a hell of a lot of cordite is packed inside that tiny shell.
When I opened the door, she stomped in without asking. Another damned thing about Imelda: She thinks she owns the world. Somebody, someday, ought to disabuse her of that notion. It certainly won’t be me, though.
“Okay,” she spat out by way of introduction, “Keith Merritt.”
“Right. Keith Merritt.”
“This guy ain’t named Keith Merritt.”
Having already ably established that verity myself, I said, “Right. Keith Merritt is not the name of the guy in the hospital bed.”
“Passport’s phony, too.”
“His passport’s phony, too,” I repeated. Now, how the hell did she know that?
“I checked at the embassy. There’s a Keith Merritt with that passport number, only he’s a lawyer down somewheres in Florida,” she quickly added, accurately reading my thoughts, as she usually did, which I found incredibly disarming.
“So who’s this guy?”
“Nothin’ too hard ’bout that.”
“No?”
“Boy’s got fingerprints, don’t he? Fingerprints can be checked, can’t they?”
“Of course,” I said. “And have you done that?”
“ ’Course I’ve done that. The man’s in a coma; what’s so hard? Go into his room, roll his finger in ink a few times. Not like he noticed. Only hard thing was getting a friend in CID to run the check.”
“So who’s this guy calling himself Keith Merritt?” I asked again, playing along, but of course I knew what she was up to. It was the old sergeant’s trick of making me go through a lengthy disposition to find out exactly how clever and resourceful she was, how many strings she had had to pull. That way I wouldn’t get any dumb ideas, like maybe I didn’t need her or something idiotic like that.
“Name’s Frederick Melborne.”
“Uh-huh.”
“As in Melborne and Associates.”
“This is not a brokerage house I take it?”
“You take that right,” she frostily announced. “It’s a private detective agency in Alexandria, Virginia.”
“So he’s a PI?”
She drew in her chin and stared down her nose at me. “Well he probably ain’t the receptionist.”
It struck me the reason she was busting my balls might be because she was still sore about this gay thing. I’m very perceptive that way.
“And does Melborne have a license?”
“ ’Course he’s gotta license,” she barked, withdrawing a slip of paper from her pocket and reading from it. “Number AL223-987 issued by the state of Virginia in the year 1995.”
“So he’s real.”
“Ex-Army, too. Used to be a lieutenant in the MPs. Penn State, ROTC grad, three years at Fort Benning, got out and went into private business. Should know his way around.”
“Imelda, you do very impressive work,” I said, offering her my most suave grin. I was trying my utmost to mend whatever little problem we were having here. That suave-grin thing works wonders for Eddie Golden, right? Why can’t it work for me?
“I’m not done,” she grimly replied, stubbornly oblivious to my charms. “Melborne got here before Miss Carlson even. Two weeks before.”
“Interesting. Do we know what was he snooping around for?”
“ ’Course we know,” she announced like it was the stupidest question in the world. “Some friends say he was askin’ around about where gays go to party, that kinda thing.”
“So it looks like he was either out for a little fun or he was trying to infiltrate the local gay community?”
“Ain’t that what I said?”
“Why would he be doing that?”
She blew some air through her lips. “Want me to go back there and ask him that? He’s in a coma. Not like he’ll answer.”
I went over and sat on the edge of the bed as Imelda studied me from behind her tiny glasses.
What I wanted to say was, “See, Imelda, just like I told you. That bitch Katherine’s been sandbagging me, uh, you… uh, us.” That’s what I wanted to say. But she was tapping her hand on the side of her leg in a pent-up way, so I controlled myself.
What I said instead was, “I’ll tell you what I think. OGMM hired Melborne and gave him the names of some local gays so he could come over here and infiltrate the local rings. Katherine was using him to run discreet background checks on Lee, Moran, and Jackson.”
“Might be that,” Imelda noncommittally rep
lied.
“And I think Melborne found something, or got close to finding something.”
Imelda indifferently said, “Maybe.”
“So who used him to buff the front of that car? Some gays who got bent out of shape that he was looking into their affairs? Some fanatical antigay group that decided to make an example of him? Or somebody else?”
Imelda was still tapping the side of her leg. I could tell by her expression I wasn’t getting her full cooperation here.
It was starting to distract me, so I said, “You got something you want to say?”
She lowered her glasses down the bridge of her nose, an apocalyptic sign, like a battleship raising its colors to signal it’s ready for combat.
“You sure you wanta hear it?”
I wasn’t, but I’d brought it up, so I said, “Sure.”
“What I think is you and Miss Carlson oughta have your sorry asses kicked. That’s what I think.”
“Huh?”
“You oughta be ashamed of yourselves. Playin’ all these games with each other, while you got a man facing the executioner. How’d you like to be that boy? How’d you like to see the two lawyers who’re supposed to be savin’ your ass running about pissin’ on each other’s backsides?”
Now, I could’ve told Imelda she was exaggerating, only that’d be splitting hairs. Or I could’ve tried telling her this was all Katherine’s fault – which, believe me, it was – except Imelda Pepperfield was a throwback to the old Army. And in the old Army, there were only two colors, black and white, and any attempt to find cover in the middle could prove lethal.
So all I said was, “Okay, okay. I’ll work on it.”
“You better,” was all she said before she stormed out.
She was obviously in a gnarly mood, partly because she’d just spent the entire night on the phones tracking down Melborne’s true identity, and partly because, well… I guess, just partly because. You gotta know Imelda.
I got cleaned up and went downstairs and had breakfast. When I got back to my room, an envelope had been slipped under my door. I tore it open. In a tight scrawl it said I had an eight o’clock appointment in the office of General Spears. This time, “8:00” was underlined about ten times in thick marker, like, Don’t be late again, Drummond.