Battlemind

by Michael Waddington

  The oak door to the Assistant Chief's office swung open as soon as the secretary announced Reggie's presence. Davenport had not aged gracefully. Too much Texas BBQ and the mini-keg of Shiner Bock he kept in his garage undoubtedly contributed to his protruding gut. Gaining five pounds a year adds up, especially over a quarter of a century. Davenport still sported a buzz cut; once a Marine always a Marine.

  "Hey, Reg." Davenport extended his hand. "How's life been treatin' ya?"

  Reggie shrugged. "Ya know, same ole shit, different day."

  Davenport gestured to a chair, and Reggie sat. The Chief opened a cabinet and poured two fingers of Scotch into a crystal glass.

  Reggie sniffed, then tasted. "A little better than the shit we used to drink," he said. "You on the wagon?"

  "No," Davenport said, "I am on the job. Enjoy it for me. It's 20-years old."

  Davenport watched Reggie savor a sip from across his expansive desk. "What's on your mind, Reg? You didn't just drop by for a drink."

  "I'm here about my boy, Tyler. You remember him?"

  "Of course." Davenport nodded and flashed a crooked smile. "Tyler played Little League with my son, he was a helluva athlete."

  "Yeah, sure was."

  "So, what's up? He looking for work?"

  "Nah. He's in some trouble."

  Davenport crossed his arms. "What kind of trouble?"

  "The Army locked him up." Reggie's eyes darkened. "Been accused of killing some terrorist in Afghanistan."

  "Whoa. Ain't that what we send them boys over there to do? To kill terrorists?"

  "Fucking PC politicians." Reggie's voice quaked.

  "So, what you want, a letter or something?"

  "No. I need background checks on some witnesses."

  Davenport leaned forward and whispered, "Come on, man. I can lose my job doing shit like that. This job is high profile. People watch me every damn day."

  "Then, don't get caught."

  "Reggie, I retire in a few months. The last thing I need is IA up my ass."

  "Fuck Internal Affairs and fuck your job," Reggie said. "I have never said this to you before, but you owe me, and I need your help."

  The career cop thought for a moment and then nodded slowly. "How many names and when do you need it?"

  Reggie pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Davenport. "Fifteen in all - and I needed it yesterday."

  Chapter 34

  Covington Paine loved his job. He always loved his job. When Paine hazed plebes at West Point, he loved his job. When he prosecuted slackers, he loved his job. When he kissed the General's ass at staff meetings, he loved his job. Paine's passion arose from his devotion to God, country, and the United States Army. Anyone who had ever spent more than 10 minutes with him knew his core values - and recognized his fanaticism.

  Once the War Crimes Prosecution Team was assembled in the conference room, Paine dimmed the lights, turned on the projector, and started his PowerPoint presentation. Paine's team were top-notch litigators: Major Hanna Weiss, Captain Steven Nelson, and CID Special Agent Adam Bronson. They were loyal and as hell-bent on winning convictions as their boss.

  Before she joined the Sangar Team, Major Weiss spent six years prosecuting felonies at Fort Hood, Texas, the Army's busiest jurisdiction. There, she earned the nickname, "The Pitbull in Heels," due to her tenacity in court. Weiss styled her hair in a severe bun and shunned make-up like children avoid vegetables. She took the Abu Ghraib and Sangar cases personally. The granddaughter of Abraham Weiss, a Polish Jew who'd survived the horrors of the Treblinka extermination camp, Hanna saw the recent Army atrocities as an abhorrent descendant of the Nazi mindset.

  Captain Nelson had the most trial experience. A life-long federal prosecutor in D.C., Nelson spent over 19 years chasing everyone from gang members to white-collar criminals. Frail and pasty, Nelson was more computer geek than Army soldier. At 44, Nelson joined the Army National Guard as a JAG lawyer. Eighteen-months later, he was mobilized to active duty to work on Paine's team.

  Special Agent Bronson spent over 20 years investigating military crimes. To him, the end, which was a conviction, always justified the means, even if the ethics got a little blurry. He specialized in 14-hour interrogations, falsifying polygraph results, and getting witnesses to change their testimonies to suit his narrative. He believed he could tell whether a person was guilty just by looking into their eyes.

  With orders to win at all costs, Paine's team was empowered to level whatever charges they deemed appropriate, whatever they thought would stick. "This is our next opponent. Captain Max O'Donnell." Paine clicked to the first slide. A photo of Max appeared on the screen. "He's defended a total of 22 felony cases in his career. Thirteen were guilty pleas, the other nine went to a jury. All resulted in convictions of some sort."

  "He's never won a case," Bronson noted.

  Weiss cracked her knuckles. "Piece of cake."

  "Is he really going to fight this?" Nelson asked in disbelief.

  "No way," Paine said. "He has three months left in the Army, and his wife's about to give birth. I'll bet you a steak dinner he'll fold before we carve the turkey on Thursday."

  Later in the day, after receiving his briefing on the case, the famous L. Edward Williams had called Paine and tried to cut a deal for Sergeant Cullen. Williams demanded full immunity and no jail time for his client. The bold offer offended Paine's ego. So, he told Williams to go to hell.

  Despite Johnston's comment about "45 minutes in time out," Paine was not about to let Cullen off easy. Cullen, after all, was charged with murder. Paine stepped out of his office and hollered down the hallway, "Everybody in the conference room. Now." After his team filed in and settled into their chairs, Paine thought out loud as he paced around the room. "Williams overplayed his hand, and I don't like having my balls busted by a media whore lawyer," he said. "He went for a home run when he should have been happy with a sacrifice fly."

  The group grumbled their agreement.

  "So." Paine rubbed his hands together. "We're going to play a little game of legal chicken."

  "What's your idea, boss?" Bronson asked, keen on messing with people's minds.

  "I want to up the ante and ask for the death penalty for Cullen and Jefferson," Paine said. "Once we put the screws to them, they'll beg for mercy. The first one to cave gets a sweetheart deal."

  "What about the other one?" Weiss asked.

  "Once we flip one of them," Paine said, "the other will have no choice but to take a dive."

  "An experienced defense lawyer, like Williams, will dig in his heels and call bullshit," Nelson said.

  Paine wagged his finger. "I think the possibility of lethal injection will bring him to his senses."

  Major Weiss jumped in, "Agreed. We've been too lenient. War criminals, at a minimum, should get life in prison. Dozens of Germans and Japanese were executed after World War II."

  Nelson shook his head in disagreement. "These are American soldiers. They aren't Nazis killing Jews. Besides, we won the war; the Nazis didn't."

  "Does it matter?" Weiss snapped back.

  "You're damn right, it matters," Nelson said. "You're looking at it from the wrong angle. How many American soldiers were executed for war crimes against the Nazis? None that I know of."

  "So what?" Weiss huffed.

  Then, Bronson spoke, "In a recent poll, the majority of Americans don't believe a U.S. soldier should face court-martial for abusing terrorists. Lots of bloggers are calling Jefferson and Cullen heroes."

  "Bloggers?" Paine's face registered disgust. "More like rumor mongers. We need to change the public's perspective; dirty these soldiers up."

  "How, exactly?" Nelson asked.

  "That's the easy part," Paine said. "First, we smear them in the media. Release as much dirt on them as possible. Second, we stack every charge we can think of."

  "Sir." Weiss sat up and passed a document to Paine. "I took the liberty of drafting additional charges." Nelson and B
ronson rolled their eyes. Hanna was a great attorney - and a world-class brownnoser. "I think we should include maltreatment, conspiracy, aiding and abetting, failure to follow Army regulations, dereliction of duty, and obstruction of justice. Maybe even throw in a drunk and disorderly on Jefferson."

  "We couldn't prove half of those charges," Nelson replied.

  "It doesn't matter what we can prove," Paine said with an ominous grin. "All that matters is that they think we can prove it."

  Chapter 35

  My flight to El Paso was uneventful. After landing, I collected my bags and walked out of the airport. A black Escalade was waiting for me at the curb. I knew it was Reggie even before he rolled down the excessively tinted window.

  "Get in," he said, motioning with his head.

  I tossed my luggage in the back and climbed into the front seat. The Little Tree air fresheners tied to the dashboard, bombarded my nostrils with the scent of synthetic strawberries. An unfamiliar funk tune blared from the speakers, pulsating the cluster of Mardi Gras beads hanging from the rear-view mirror.

  "How was the trip?" Reggie asked.

  "Not bad," I said. "You have any luck with the witnesses?"

  He rubbed his chin and laughed. "I got more shit than a chili truck. Takes a lot to surprise me, brother, but some of those witnesses are doozies." His toothpick twitched as he talked.

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "Counselor, I thought the Army had standards, but some of these cats are as nasty as a syphilitic whore. I got the reports in the back. Show 'em to you when we get to the motel," he said.

  "Highlights?"

  "We got check fraud, a deadbeat dad, some druggies, and a guy who went to jail for lying to a judge, and I'm just getting started."

  "Not bad," I said and changed the subject. "Can we swing by Fort Custer? I need to stop by the prosecutor's office and pick up the evidence. Then, I need to meet with your son."

  "Sure thing." Reggie checked the side mirror, then floored it. The big Cadillac jumped like a cat with a stepped-on tail.

  This time I did not have to wait. I found Paine sitting behind a large wooden desk, decorated with military memorabilia. He introduced Captain Steven Nelson and Major Hanna Weiss, who sat perched on the couch, like vultures.

  "O'Donnell," Paine said, "the minute we step into the preliminary hearing, all bets are off."

  "Meaning?" I said.

  Paine leaned back in his chair with his fingers laced behind his head. "You don't want this case to go capital, do you?" he asked.

  I raised my eyebrows. "You're threatening Jefferson with the death penalty?"

  Paine nodded. Weiss clucked in agreement. Nelson smirked.

  "Maybe," Paine said, "if you make us go through with the hearing."

  "That a threat, Colonel?"

  "Interpret it any way you want." Paine sneered. "We've been discussing the case. Given its gory details, the death penalty is warranted."

  "Think about how you'd feel if someone did this to an American POW," Weiss said.

  "First, no court has established that my client did anything. Second, Nassar was a bad guy, a platinum-level terrorist. And, not to put too fine a point on it, I believe the current term is 'enemy combatant,' not 'POW.'"

  "He was a human being," Weiss said, with the quivering voice of rage.

  "Call him whatever you want," I said. "To me, and the rest of America, he's a terrorist."

  "Do you want to cut a deal, or not?" Paine asked.

  "What's the current offer?"

  "We think 20 is fair. Plead him quickly and help us convict Cullen, and we'll knock it down to six."

  With a six-year sentence, he'd be eligible for parole in two years. Not bad, I thought.

  "I'll take it to Jefferson, but I have to see the evidence first," I said.

  "Tick-tock." Paine tapped his watch. "Cullen is getting a similar deal later today."

  "I'm sure he's already gotten it." I stood and picked up my briefcase. "No evidence, no deal."

  "Fine," Paine said. "Wait in the spare office while we get the file."

  The "spare office" was a tiny room with a broken swivel chair. It was heated to about 85 degrees. After half an hour, I started to nod off. Unexpectedly, the door slammed open, jolting me awake.

  A stocky man sporting a Wilford Brimley handlebar mustache stalked into the room. He was 50-ish but trying to look younger. The lousy dye job on his ink-black hair fooled no one. His Wrangler jeans were too tight. He bulged so conspicuously, I suspected he had shoved a roll of quarters down the front of his pants. A nickel-plated revolver and rodeo belt buckle the size of a license plate hung from his western-style belt.

  "Howdy, Marshal," I said. "You looking for the O.K. Corral?"

  "Name's Bronson, Special Agent Bronson." He glared at me through deep-set eyes. "They told me you were Mr. Hilarious." He pulled in a hand cart and unloaded an oversized banker's box. "Here's the evidence on your shitbag client." I could tell it was full by the effort he put into hoisting it onto the desk. "Enjoy, asshole," he said and slammed the door behind him.

  Chapter 36

  "Motherfuckers!"

  I'd read enough legal thrillers to understand what I was seeing. An evidence dump. Paine must have chained his paralegal to a copier for 72 hours straight. The box was stuffed to the rim, and not neatly. Pages were crammed, wedged, shoved, and mangled. Many of them were copies of copies in various states of illegibility. Half of the pages were heavily redacted.

  I found an Army Field Manual, a massive CID Report of Investigation, Human Rights Watch articles, and many black-and-white headshots of what appeared to be soldiers. There was no index. I bet Paine had one.

  The strategy was obvious:

  Me: "Your Honor, I have never seen this evidence."

  Judge: "Colonel Paine, have you provided this discovery to the defense?"

  Paine: "Your Honor, esteemed counsel was furnished said evidence on 21 November. It was in Box A. We have the number of the exhibit as 2,454."

  Then, I'd look either lazy or incompetent. It was a brilliant scheme.

  "Motherfuckers," I said again.

  I went through the box for two hours. The evidence did not paint a rosy picture of Sangar Prison. Numerous senior officers and American politicians had toured the facility, yet no military officers seemed to be in charge. The prison had a commander, but he had limited authority. Since the military can be almost comical with its specificity, the slipshod governance at Sangar was odd, to say the least.

  Before deploying to Afghanistan, the Army took them to visit Ground Zero, where the remains of the Twin Towers were still being cleared. Decked out in their uniforms, they received hugs, kisses, and grateful tears from civilians visiting the site. The park service gave them an American flag that had flown for a day over the site. They took the sacred symbol to Afghanistan and hung it in the center of Sangar Prison. It was a reminder of what they were fighting for.

  Equally alarming, no one ever trained the "guards" on how to guard prisoners. Jefferson and his buddies were Army Reservists. A road patrol MP unit, traffic cops who ended up guarding some of the top prisoners in the War on Terror. Guards were ordered to carry out "prescriptions" for the prisoners: sleep deprivation, exercise, whatever the interrogators posted on the board next to the Ground Zero flag.

  Most of the stuff in the box was worthless unless I was going to start a fire. I couldn't tell what was relevant. I couldn't connect the dots. I was on information overload. There were too many names. Too many unanswered questions. I assumed all this would take on some meaning as the case progressed.

  It was getting late, and I still had to meet with Jefferson. Reviewing the entire file before the hearing would have been impossible. He needs to plead this out was all I could think. I did some quick math. Talk to Jefferson. Convince him to take the deal. Go to Paine and announce our intentions to plead out. Hump it to the airport and miraculously transform my military service into a first-place spot in the standby
line.

  I closed the bulky box and lugged it out of the building. Reggie waited outside with the engine running. I heaved the box into the trunk and climbed inside. "Here you go." I handed Reggie a stack of papers.

  "What am I lookin' at?" he said as he flipped through them.

  "Sworn statements. You mind reading them while I meet with Tyler?"

  "I'm comin' with you."

  "You can't." I shook my head. "Family can only visit on weekends."

  "Alright." Reggie nodded. "I'll take a look at 'em." He wedged the documents into his center counsel, and we drove across Fort Custer toward the Brig.

  Chapter 37

  Reggie dropped me off at the Brig and went to get a cup of coffee. Inside the Brig, a guard led me to the "Attorney-Client Meeting Area," a small, whitewashed room with a round stainless steel picnic table in the center. The electric buzz of fluorescent lights and the smell of Pine-sol overwhelmed my senses.

  I sat and waited for my client. After a few minutes, a metal door creaked open, and Jefferson ambled into the room. His eyes darted from side to side.

  "Please sit." I motioned to bench across from me.

  Jefferson let out a long sigh as he plopped down and crossed his arms. "I've been waiting all day," he said. "Where've you been?" His gratitude from last week had apparently worn off.

  "Trying to save your ass," I replied.

  "How so?"

  "I just came from the prosecutor's office. He gave me a stack of new evidence."

  "How much?"

  "Six thousand pages, give or take."

  "Can you get through that by tomorrow?" He wasn't kidding.

  "Sergeant, if I had my entire law school class helping, we would not make a dent by tomorrow - maybe not by next week."

  He stared at me with his mouth open. Then he said, "Anything good in there?"

  "Not really. There are many sworn statements from people who don't like you. Did you spend your entire tour pissing people off?"