I was not sure exactly when or why, but I had lost my fighter spirit somewhere along the way. Four years ago, I would have jumped at the opportunity to defend Jefferson. Now, I was trying to duck out of the fight.
Then, I thought of my dad. What would he think? What would he say? I knew the answer.
As much as my inner voice said, "walk away," I couldn't turn my back on Jefferson. He needed my help, and I was his only chance at getting justice. I drove straight to Major Dill's office. His secretary waved me past. I went to his inbox, removed Jefferson's release memo, and shredded it.
On my way home, I called the Brig.
"This is Sergeant Jefferson."
"Sergeant, my boss won't let me quit," I said. "You're stuck with me."
Silence, for what seemed like a minute.
"Okay. Let's win this." His voice was confident.
"Going forward, do not talk to anyone - especially Cullen," I warned him. "He will screw you over in a heartbeat."
"Yes, sir. Thank you for staying on my case."
Quietly and secretly, I thanked my dad.
Chapter 29
In the following days, I felt a renewed sense of energy. Jefferson deserved the best defense possible, and I looked forward to the fight. I started getting to the office early, even beating Jules there. On a Thursday morning, I received an email from Colonel Michael Hackworth, the Investigating Officer presiding over Jefferson's preliminary hearing.
The communication was terse. "I am the IO for the U.S. v. Sergeant Tyler Jefferson preliminary hearing. The hearing will commence on Tuesday, 22 November 2005, at 0800 hours. I will conduct a conference call with counsel today at 1300 hours to discuss logistics." The hearing was in five days.
I wrote a quick reply. "The defense respectfully requests a delay. Unavoidable family issues. I have discussed with Colonel Paine, and he is agreeable."
This morning, Annabelle was scheduled for a follow-up appointment with her OBGYN. I planned on going with her to the check-up, grabbing lunch, and dropping her off at the house afterward. I'd talk to Paine and Hackworth on the way back to my office.
Turns out, the doctor was running late with a problematic delivery. At the exact moment, the nurse said, "The doctor will see you now," my phone rang. Annabelle stared daggers at me as she waddled behind the double doors.
I answered the call. Hackworth skipped introductions and got to the point. "Gentlemen, the preliminary hearing is set for this Tuesday. My understanding is that the defense wants a delay."
"That is correct, sir," I said. "The defense will be prepared to go after 10 December."
"Government, what's your position?" Hackworth asked.
I was halfway listening until Paine said, "We vigorously oppose a delay. We're ready to go on 22 November."
"Colonel Paine, we discussed this the other night," I said, barely avoiding calling him a liar. "My wife is due with our third child - eminently due. I thought we had reached an understanding."
Paine was ready. "I did not agree to a continuance," he said. "Justice delayed is justice denied."
"Colonel Hackworth," I said, "you know I am stationed at Fort Arnold. I have not met with my client yet. I was recently assigned to this case. So, I need a little extra time."
Paine's voice greased through the phone. "Actually, according to my notes, headquarters officially assigned this case to Captain O'Donnell on 1 November. I was told that he did not pick up the file until 5 November. Regardless, he has had this case for over 10 days. Even though he blew off a meeting with me in El Paso last week, he has had adequate time to consider a plea agreement, one he apparently has decided not to take."
"That true, Captain O'Donnell?" Hackworth asked.
"Sir, until two days ago, I thought a civilian attorney had assumed Sergeant Jefferson's defense," I said.
Hackworth recognized the dodge. "Don't quibble with me." His tone was aggressive. "It sounds like you have frittered away nearly two weeks and still want a postponement." Hackworth continued with a voice like Moses descending from the Mountain, "Captain O'Donnell, in life, nothing is certain. The doctors virtually guaranteed the due date when my wife was pregnant with our third child. We thought we had plenty of time. I put off painting the nursery. Well, you can guess what happened. The baby came two weeks early. For all we know, your wife could go into labor this afternoon, and you will be a proud papa handing out cigars at Fort Custer when you report here next Tuesday morning."
I thought about throwing out something about the impending Thanksgiving holiday, but I knew I was beaten. I signed off, hung up, and went to find my wife. A nurse guided me down a hallway and opened the door to an examination room. Annabelle was in tears.
"Placenta Previa is when the placenta lies low in the uterus and covers the cervix," the doctor explained. "During delivery, it may lead to severe bleeding. It can be dangerous for the mother and her baby."
The doctor's emotionless voice could have been describing the intricacies of the internal combustion engine. I barely heard her. She talked a lot. I remembered bed rest, I remembered "the baby is fine," I remembered something about reducing Annabelle's stress.
Certain natural laws are immutable. What goes up must come down. All objects fall at a rate of 32 feet per second, squared. Dick Vitale will use the word "awesome" at least 70 times during any given basketball game. Every creature will eventually die. And, when Annabelle is angry, I go back to the couch. I should have pushed harder for a sleeper sofa.
That weekend before I left for Texas, I tried to make amends with Annabelle, but she pretended to be asleep. I headed downstairs and checked the flight schedule. The Monday before Thanksgiving is one of the busiest times of the year. I had a seat on a morning flight with a connection in Atlanta. Scheduled arrival in El Paso: 4 p.m. local time.
I pulled a blanket and pillow out of the closet and tried to sleep. Three hours later, I was awake and on my way to the airport. I scribbled a schedule for Annabelle on my way out the door.
"Monday afternoon: Arrive in El Paso/meet with Jefferson. Tuesday: hearing. Wednesday: Flight home. Give the kids kisses from me."
No need for a love note. She'd made her feelings clear as I left the bedroom.
"Don't hurry back," she'd said. "We'll do fine without you."
Chapter 30
In Washington DC, little had changed in The Olde Ebbitt Grill since it opened in 1856. Sure, décor and menu and even the location had been altered. Still, the atmosphere, the gravitas of a place frequented by politicians, lobbyists, and general governmental dirt mongers had remained virtually untouched for over 150 years.
Two men occupied a booth at the back of the establishment. They were not speaking. Robert Walters alternated between fidgeting with his double Johnnie Walker Blue Label and buttering the dinner roll on his plate. He wore the District's uniform - dark, pinstriped suit, Brooks Brothers tie, and matching pocket square.
Walters landed the position as the Secretary of the Army despite having never served. He had worked as an anti-green lobbyist for over a decade, stashing favors and spreading the wealth from industries more concerned with profits than the environment. He was a small, unassuming man, but those who underestimated Walters did so at their own peril. He was legendary for his relentless fund-raising efforts and ruthless political acumen.
The other man stared at his menu.
A hostess approached the table with a uniformed Army officer in tow. Walters stood and said, "Colonel, thanks for flying in on such short notice."
The men shook hands.
Paine offered his hand to the booth's other occupant and said, "Colonel Covington Paine, Army JAG Corps, it's a pleasure to meet you."
"Sit down," the third man said. "Don't fucking announce your presence."
Paine blushed and slid into the booth next to Walters.
"Colonel, this is Mr. Johnston," Walters said. "He can be an asshole when he's hungry."
Paine nodded. "Sir, your first name again?"
; "Mister," Johnston responded and resumed his perusal of the dinner selections. Paine had been around the block enough times to recognize a CIA guy. Johnston was a muscular, middle-aged man with blond hair, a handsome face, and a high forehead. His gray eyes were intense, his face rugged thanks to years in hot, arid climates. With a constant smirk, he resembled a cocky Ivy League frat boy. In his time at the CIA, Johnston was notorious for sexually exploiting young female recruits.
Johnston had entered the CIA straight out of Princeton and slithered his way up the ranks, carefully crafting political alliances. During his tour as Deputy Station Chief in Kabul, Afghanistan, after 9/11, he took credit for the rapid collapse of the Taliban and the quick pacification of the country. Even with an IQ well into the MENSA stratosphere, he was more ruthless than brilliant.
An upbeat waiter approached the table and poured bottled water for the group. "My name is Marcos. It's my pleasure to serve you this evening."
"Listen, amigo," Johnston said, "can't you see we're in the middle of something?"
Marcos did not take the hint. "Can I start you gentlemen off with a cocktail?"
Walters intervened. "Marcos, give us a minute, please."
"Of course!" Marcos said, wandering off with a smile still plastered on his face.
"Damn, Johnston, you are a Grade-A asshole," Walters said.
"Fuck you, Bobby," Johnston replied. Then, he snapped his head toward Paine. "Colonel, let's cut the bullshit." Johnston rapped his knuckles on the table, causing the silverware to bounce. "What's going on with your cases?"
"Which ones?" Paine asked. "I have a lot on my plate."
Johnston scoffed. "Colonel, even an idiot private can figure out that the Secretary of the Army and the fucking CIA aren't here to discuss a case of grab-ass in the chow hall."
"You mean the Sangar cases?" Paine asked, trying to maintain composure. No one had spoken to him like that in, well, maybe ever.
"Yes, Colonel, the Sangar cases," Johnston said in a mocking tone. "The cases that should have gone away the day before our Lord was born."
"They've been on my desk for less than three months," Paine said.
"That's three months too long," Johnston replied. "Make them go away. Now."
"Why?" Paine said.
Their eyes locked.
"Why?" Johnston asked incredulously. "Because there are people involved in this that you don't want to fuck with."
Paine assessed the situation. Something told him pissing Johnston off could mean finishing his military career burning shit barrels at an airbase in Uzbekistan. Still, Paine was a tried-and-true Army Prosecutor. "Mr. Johnston," he said, "I'm going to hammer these defendants. We have rock-solid cases. They're scared and desperate. They'll plead out, or we'll crush them at trial." Paine was staring at Johnston, but he failed to see the warning signs.
"Good God, Colonel," Johnston said. "Did your momma drop you on your head repeatedly as a child, or did you have a lobotomy?" Johnston took a long, loud gulp of water. "I don't care how strong you think your cases are. These things go away. I mean away. They never see the light of day. Here's how this reads to the public. Some soldiers got frisky; they slapped some camel jockeys. They do some time, and everyone is happy."
"Sir, there were grave human rights violations at Sangar," Paine said. "Some of the prisoners were murdered in cold blood. The Army cannot allow its honor to be sullied by a few bad apples."
Johnston sighed. "Hell, you guys already look like shit because of Abu, but Sangar is different."
"How are they different, and how is the CIA mixed up in this?" Paine asked.
"You're catching on, Colonel." Johnston grinned. "Two beats behind, but you'll eventually get up to speed."
"Answer my question," Paine said.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
"No, I'm not kidding. I need to be read-in on this."
Johnston didn't say anything for 10 seconds, then 20. Finally, after a full minute, he spoke in a quiet whisper. "Colonel," he said, "let me be direct. I will use simple words, so you don't miss the point." He held up one finger. "There's nothing to read, nothing to know, and nothing to say." Second finger. "I don't care if these soldiers only get 45 minutes in time-out because . . ." He held up a third. "No one is ever going to know anything about the Agency's involvement. If they do, two of the people at this table will be wearing paper hats and serving French fries. And, Colonel - to be clear - I never wear a fuckin' hat."
Both Walters and Paine wanted to speak. Neither one dared.
Johnston finally broke the silence in a voice that could have been heard in the Oval Office a half-mile away. "Hey, Marcos! Are we ever going to get some fucking service over here?"
Chapter 31
Elsewhere in the nation's capital, Rose rolled onto her side. She'd waited long enough.
"Baby," she said, "I need something big."
"I thought I just gave you that," the man said, smiling.
"You know what I mean. I need whatever you have on the Sangar thing."
He cut his eyes at her and left the bed. At least he shut the door when he peed. He reopened it as he was brushing his teeth, then wandered back to bed. She could tell he was ready for Round Two. "Dammit, Rose. I've given you all you're going to get. Enough is enough. We shouldn't ruin tonight with a lot of shop talk. I'm leaving tomorrow."
She tried to sound disappointed. "Where you going, baby?"
"It's classified," he said. It wasn't, but he knew the words made her hot.
Rose could always get information - and she knew precisely how. Her hand slid across the sheet.
"Rose, I'm serious. I can't tell you anything else about the Sangar business. You have been waiting to put out the story; you want it to be spectacular. Even if I never tell you anything else, once you post it, everyone will know it came from me."
Rose laughed. Nothing dainty, a full-throated guffaw. "No, they won't, babe," she said. "Do you think for one minute that you're the only Congressman in the world who thinks I'm cute?"
He started to protest but was cut short as her head disappeared under the sheet.
Chapter 32
Even at Fort Custer, in the U.S. military justice system, the accused is entitled to due process. Before a case can go to a General Court-Martial, an Article 32 Investigation, a preliminary hearing of sorts, must be conducted. Military law experts often compare the hearing to a civilian grand jury, a process designed to stop cases from going to trial when there is insufficient evidence. In the military, grand juries do not exist. Instead, a single officer sits in judgment. This officer is called the Investigating Officer, the IO for short. In high-profile cases, like the Jefferson case, the IO is often a military judge.
Some Investigating Officers conduct thorough investigations and draft comprehensive reports with well-reasoned recommendations. Most merely sign off on the paperwork and move the case along toward trial. This is why JAGs call Article 32s, "the rubber stamp."
Two days before the hearing, as required, Paine had sent out a witness list. The file in my lap listed 15 names. That meant that in the next 36 hours, I would have to meet my client, get a copy of the entire case file, read it, and interview those 15 witnesses. I needed some help. So, I picked up my phone and called Reggie Jefferson in Dallas.
"Who is this?" Reggie asked.
"This is Captain O'Donnell."
"Bout damn time," he said. "What's going on with the case?"
"They set the preliminary hearing for this Tuesday."
"I figured the Army would move fast. How can I help?"
"The prosecution has 15 witnesses. I just got the list," I said. "I have no investigative resources. All I have are their names and phone numbers. Can you look into them for me?"
"Send me what you have."
"Thanks, Mr. Jefferson."
"Call me Reggie. What else do you need?"
"Can you make it to the hearing? I could use the backup."
"You got it. In the meantime, let me dig up
some dirt on these motherfuckers."
Chapter 33
That same day at noon, Reggie strolled into the Dallas Police Department dressed in a black suit and red tie. He was on his way to visit an old friend, Assistant Chief Charles Davenport. Reggie and Davenport went way back. They attended the Police Academy together and worked their first assignment as partners.
After his first tour as a beat cop, Reggie went to the operations side; SWAT and then counter-narcotics. He loved taking out narco-traffickers. Davenport was drawn to the administrative side, where he quickly climbed the ranks. The two were bound by a dark history. Their first job as rookies was patrolling the projects in the Ross-Bennett Grid, rousting street dealers, and responding to domestic violence calls.
One rainy December evening, they found a 20-year-old woman screaming on the sidewalk. "He's gonna kill my babies," she said.
The officers ran into the two-bedroom walkup, with their guns drawn. They found the man, Deshawn Ward, standing in the kitchen wearing a white tank top, boxers, and Adidas flip-flops. His back was turned to the officers.
Davenport issued the command. "Police! Put your hands up."
The man, startled, spun around. He had a small paring knife in his hand. Davenport fired, spraying the white laminate cabinets with blood. Ward flew back, mortally wounded. Davenport stared at the sliced lime and unopened beer on the counter, as Reggie sprang into action. "Protect and serve" is a great motto, but the first rule on the streets is, "Cover your partner's ass." Reggie ground the lime in the disposal and put the beer in the fridge.
The woman from outside ran into the kitchen and screamed, "What did you do? You killed him."
She swung at Davenport and missed. He grabbed the woman and pushed her out of the kitchen. Reggie took a rag from the counter, opened a drawer, dug out a large kitchen knife, and carefully placed it in the dead man's hand. The subsequent investigation ruled it a "clean shoot," and Davenport was cited for bravery. Time to return the favor.
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