"I guess I come on a little strong sometimes."
"Well, there is a big difference between being unpopular and being a murderer."
"Sir, I didn't kill nobody."
"If you didn't kill Nassar, then who did?"
Jefferson crossed his arms. "Don't know."
"You have no idea who beat the shit out of him?"
"Nope?"
"Was it Cullen?"
"No way."
"How do you know that?"
"I know him. He'd never do that."
"Could it have been someone else in your unit?" I asked.
"Don't know nothin' about it, except I had nothin' to do with it."
"Then why are so many people pointing the finger at you?"
"Some people just don't like me?"
"Why?"
"Because." He shrugged.
"Sergeant, throw me a bone," I said. "I'm trying to help you."
"Sir, I don't know nothin'."
"If you don't know nothin', then I'm wasting my time here." I slid a two-inch stack of papers across the table. "Read these sworn statements before you go to bed."
Jefferson flipped through the documents. "That's a lot of reading," he said.
"You got something better to do?"
He shook his head.
"Good. Your dad dug up dirt on some of these witnesses. I should be able to discredit them at tomorrow's hearing."
"My dad?" Jefferson's face soured.
"Yeah."
"Reggie's a piece of shit. I don't want him involved."
"Too late. He's here, and he's been helping me."
"Fuck him. He was never around. Now he shows up?"
I nodded and changed the subject. "By the way, the prosecution came back with another offer - 20 years - they'll drop it to six if you help convict Cullen. You'll be eligible for parole in two years."
Jefferson shot to his feet. "What the fuck, Captain? First 10, now 20? And, I ain't no buddy fucker."
I stood slowly and spoke in an even tone, "Sergeant, sit down, and do not raise your voice like that again."
He sat. "I ain't no rat," he said.
"Well, Cullen might be. They offered him the same deal."
"I don't want any jail time. I want to go home." Jefferson did not get it.
"Sergeant, after the mess at Abu Ghraib, if a U.S. detainee gets a bloody nose, someone is going to pay. You've been around the Army long enough to know that shit rolls downhill. In this case, we're not talking about a bloody nose. We're talking about a dead body - one to which you are directly connected. I'm trying to get you out of prison in time for you to see your children graduate from high school." I thought I was making progress. I thought wrong.
"Captain." Jefferson's eyes glazed over. "Tell them I'll plead to dereliction of duty. No jail time. No dishonorable discharge."
"That won't fly. Our counteroffer must be reasonable. It-"
"But I'm not a violent person," he said, interrupting me.
"Sergeant," I said with more edge than I wanted. "Do not interrupt me. No jail time, in a murder case, is not reasonable."
Jefferson huffed. "This is fuckin' ridiculous."
I slammed my hand on the table. "Stop talking and start listening. Your mouth is one of the reasons you're in this situation."
Jefferson could not contain himself. "Why would I kill someone? Why would I risk everything? I have two-"
"Shut. The. Fuck. Up! If you don't get anything else out of this meeting, get this: Stop talking!"
"Fuck - you - sir."
I walked out of the room with the same tired refrain playing behind me.
"I didn't kill nobody."
Chapter 38
Outside of the Brig, Reggie waited in his Escalade, and I climbed in. Rick James' "Give It To Me Baby," blared on the radio.
"How'd it go?" Reggie asked as I buckled up.
"Your son rejected the prosecutor's deal."
Reggie nodded and sucked on his teeth. "That's my boy."
We cruised north on U.S. Route 54. As the El Paso city lights faded behind us, I asked Reggie, "Where are we going?"
"A buddy of mine owns a motel on the East Side; he's gonna hook us up." I wasn't sure what he meant by "hook us up." The Army would pay for my room, so long as it was at the government rate. Before the trip, Reggie agreed to be my driver and arrange the travel details. I did not specify which hotel. Now, I wished I had.
"I read those statements you gave me," Reggie said.
"What do you think?"
"None of their stories add up. Trust me, I've seen trumped-up shit before. They're lyin' about my boy."
"How can you tell?"
"Easy," he said. "When a witness gives too many details and points the finger at someone else too hard, it's a red flag. They're tryin' to shift the blame."
It made sense to me.
"You know what else?" he said. "The cops wrote some of those statements."
"Why do you say that?"
"The statements made in Afghanistan, back in 2002, were all handwritten. They don't say shit about Tyler. But in 2005, those same 15 witnesses were re-interviewed by Special Agent Bronson. All 15 statements were typed. They all point the finger at Tyler, and every last one of those assholes refers to Tyler as 'The Perpetrator.'"
"Maybe they didn't have a computer," I said.
"Son, they had multi-million-dollar weapons systems. You don't think they had a fuckin' laptop?"
I wasn't so sure. To me, the statements seemed pretty straightforward. Multiple soldiers described Jefferson abusing prisoners. They gave times, dates, and described acts of violence that matched the physical evidence. Gory photographs corroborated their accounts. The autopsy conducted by the Army concluded that Hamza Nassar's death was a homicide caused by blunt force trauma.
"Here we go," Reggie said as he took a hard right into a motel parking lot. The Rodeo Inn was a one-story building. A glowing neon sign on the roof featured a cowboy riding a bronco. A few letters were burned out. It flashed: "Welcome to th Rode In." The place reminded me of a set from a low-budget horror picture.
"Seriously?" I said.
"It ain't the Ritz, but it's clean, and it's free."
"Good point," I said. Though I wasn't that confident.
Next to the motel was a large metal building with a well-lit sign that said, "Kitty Kat Lounge: All Nude Exotic Ladies & Gourmet Buffet. Open 24/7." Twin searchlights crisscrossed the night sky telling the world the Kitty Kat was open for business.
Reggie parked and hopped out of the SUV. "I'll get the room keys. You stay here," he said and slammed the door. A few minutes later, he returned. "You're in 15, next to the vending machines. I'm in seven, the deluxe suite." He tossed me a key and winked. I followed Reggie to the trunk, and we grabbed our bags. "Meet me in 10. We'll grab a bite and discuss strategy," he said, and we headed to our rooms.
A few minutes later, when we met, I started walking toward the Escalade. "Where you going, counselor?" Reggie lowered his sunglasses and raised an eyebrow.
"There's a Mexican restaurant a few miles back." I motioned toward the highway.
"Nah." Reggie shook his head in disapproval. "Kitty Kat's got some good wings. Some nice eye candy too."
I must not have hidden my skepticism well.
"Seriously," he said. "Trust me." I followed Reggie across the 100-yard stretch between the motel and the club. We passed a dude getting a blowjob underneath a big rig and a rat-faced woman who offered full-service sex for $40, or a threesome for $60. This was insanity. I was in the middle of nowhere fighting a losing murder case, my wife was about to go into labor, and my client's father was taking me to a strip club for dinner.
Outside the club, Mani, a thick-necked Mexican wearing a black leather vest, manned the entrance. Tattoos covered every inch of visible skin below his chin line. "Sup Reg? Long time no see." He and Reggie exchanged fist bumps and bro hugs. "You out here on business?"
Reggie shrugged.
"Enj
oy." Mani unhooked a velvet rope and opened the door. Bass and cigarette smoke spewed from inside. As I passed him, Mani leaned toward me and shouted into my ear, "We got some fine ass tonight." I nodded and kept walking.
Inside, girls of all shapes and colors strutted the catwalk and swung from brass poles. Lights flashed, and the woofers made my insides vibrate. A tall Hispanic woman led us to a booth near the stage. A sign on the table said, "VIP." A painted-on mini-skirt began at her trim waist and ended just under her full hips. She wore a silk halter. Long black hair cloaked her tattooed back.
"Welcome to the Kitty Kat," she said with a Spanish accent, by way of Jersey City. "I'm Esmeralda." She placed her hand on her exposed chest and chomped her gum as she spoke. "I'm going to be taking care of you guys tonight. I heard you're close with Rico."
"We go a ways back," Reggie said with a lopsided grin.
I was intrigued. Who was Rico, and how does he know Reggie?
"Rico's out of town on business," she said as she caressed Reggie's shoulder. "He asked me to take care of you guys." Reggie eyeballed Esmeralda from head to toe, paying careful attention to her large breasts. Nodding his approval, he bit his lower lip and grunted.
Then, Esmeralda slid into the booth next to me. "Hey baby, whatcha drinkin' tonight?" Her skin felt like velvet against mine; she smelled of floral shampoo.
"Water, please," I said.
Reggie howled. "What the fuck kind of lawyer doesn't drink?"
My eyes darted to Reggie. "I have court tomorrow," I said.
Esmeralda moved to Reggie and sat on his lap. "And what can I get for you, big boy?" She slid her hand inside his red silk shirt, unbuttoned to mid-chest.
"I'll take a double Crown on the rocks." His mouth twitched. "And get that man a real drink."
Esmeralda batted her eyes at me.
"Whatever you have on tap," I said.
"Is Modelo all right?" she asked.
"Yeah, sure."
One beer turned into a second, then a third. Somewhere around the time we started doing shots, the night turned into a blur. I only remembered two things: Esmeralda bringing drinks and the feeling that I was - for the first time in a while - genuinely having a good time. I have a vague memory of my cell phone vibrating. I didn't answer.
Chapter 39
I woke naked in a pool of sweat. I never slept naked. The room was dark and stifling, like the inside of a coffin. As I felt my way to the bathroom, I stubbed my big toe on a table. Only then, I realized I was not at home. I flicked on a light and yanked open the curtains. Sunlight streamed through the window and split my throbbing head like a laser. My eyes searched for a trash can, just in case.
Dread overcame my hangover. A quick reconnoiter of the room relieved me a little. I was alone. My screw up had been limited to excess alcohol. I willed my watch into focus. It was almost seven o'clock in the morning.
Shit. The hearing started in an hour and 15 minutes. After I showered and shaved, I threw on my Army uniform and sprinted out the door. Where is my rental car? Then, I remembered I didn't have a car.
Reggie's suite was at the end of the building. His Escalade stood guard outside. I must have been walking east - the rising sun drilled into the back of my brain. Reggie didn't answer my knock, so I called his cell. The call went to voicemail after three rings. I walked to the Escalade and tried to open the front passenger door, hoping he left a spare key inside. The car alarm screamed.
Then, I heard Reggie's voice. "What the fuck are you doing with my ride, counselor?"
I turned. Reggie stood outside of his room shirtless, and wearing a G-string. "We're late for the hearing," I said.
Reggie moved to his room with all the urgency of a lumbering bear. He reappeared wearing jeans. He dug into his pocket and tossed me his keys. "You better haul ass," he said.
"You coming?" I asked.
A tall, bleached blonde walked up behind Reggie and wrapped her arms around him. Though hidden by Reggie's bulk, it was apparent she had not bothered to dress. "What's going on, baby?" she said in a childish voice.
Reggie ignored her. "Go. I'll get there. I have some unfinished business." Reggie leered at the woman behind him. If she was 18, she hadn't been for long.
I peeled out of the parking lot and hit the highway. The speedometer tipped 95 mph as I barreled toward Fort Custer. My cell phone beeped, and I stole a glance - five missed calls. All from Annabelle. All from last night. Calling now would only mean a fight. I didn't have time. I realized that my association with Reggie wasn't shaping up to be a good idea.
Chapter 40
At the Fort Custer gate, I popped three pieces of spearmint gum into my mouth, and lowered the windows, hoping it would disguise the alcohol emanating from my pores. I passed through the gate without a problem and drove to the JAG office. Inside, I found Jefferson shackled and flanked by two guards.
"Glad you could make it," he said. The sarcasm was evident.
"Follow me." Jefferson's shackles dragged across the wooden floor as he hobbled toward me. We ducked inside an empty, windowless room and closed the door. His guards stood watch outside. "Did you read the statements I gave you?" I asked him.
"Some of them," he said.
"Why didn't you read all of them?"
"They brought back too many bad memories."
"What about Nassar?" I prompted him. "What happened to Nassar?"
"He was a bad dude," Jefferson said, dodging the question.
"That is not what I asked. How did he die?"
"I don't know," he said. "I rarely worked in the VIP rooms."
"What VIP rooms?" My face scrunched. "There's no mention of that in the case file."
"That's where the OGAs did their dirty work."
"What the hell is an OGA?"
"Other Government Agency. Bad mother fuckers, probably CIA." I realized I was woefully unprepared for this hearing. I had a basic grasp of the case, but I knew nothing about VIP rooms or the OGA. If Jefferson was telling the truth, perhaps the OGA had something to do with Nassar's death.
A knock interrupted our conversation. Colonel Paine opened the door a few inches and said, "Judge Hackworth wants to see us."
I stood and followed Paine to the judge's chambers. I called to him as we walked, "Sir, when can I see the classified evidence?"
Paine stopped and faced me. "Never," he said. "We gave you what's relevant."
"I want everything, whether you think it's relevant or not, or I'll ask for a continuance."
"Do as you please." Paine pivoted and continued down the hallway.
Colonel Hackworth was finishing up a story when we entered his office. "I said, 'guilty of all charges,' and the dumb SOB took off like a jackrabbit, jumped out the third-story window, and broke his back. All he was going to do was six months in the Brig." Everybody in the room hooted. Hackworth stopped laughing when he saw me. "Take a seat," Hackworth said, motioning to a small brown couch in front of his desk. On the couch were Weiss and Nelson.
"Thank you, but I prefer to stand, sir," I said.
Hackworth stared at me. "Captain O'Donnell, sit down." Paine remained standing as I squeezed in between Weiss and Nelson and tried not to grunt.
"Good morning, everyone," Hackworth said. "I want to go over a few ground rules before we get started. First off, are there any outstanding issues?"
"All witnesses are present or on standby," Paine said, in his usual condescending tone. "However, I am worried that the defense may attempt to elicit classified evidence."
"Is that true, O'Donnell?" Hackworth said.
"Colonel, I-"
"It's 'Your Honor.'" Hackworth interrupted.
"Your Honor," I said, "I have no idea what information is classified and what isn't. The prosecution has not given me any classified evidence and-"
Now, Paine interrupted me. "Mike, (I noticed that Hackworth did not correct him) Captain O'Donnell cannot feign ignorance. According to National Security laws, whether he knows it's classified or not,
releasing classified information is a felony."
Hackworth turned to me. "Is that understood, O'Donnell?"
"Sir, I mean, Your Honor. To do my job, I need to see all the evidence, including the classified evidence."
The judge removed his glasses and said, "Can you cite a rule that requires the prosecution to hand over classified material before a preliminary hearing?"
"Not off the top of my head," I said.
"Me neither," Hackworth replied. "We'll start the hearing at eight o'clock sharp. That should give everybody time to make final preparations and use the latrine."
Chapter 41
Judge Hackworth shook his head in disapproval when Jefferson and I walked into the hearing at 7:55 a.m. In the Army, if you aren't 15 minutes early, then you're late. The prosecution team preened at their table, obviously pleased with their punctuality.
There was no courtroom for the hearing, merely a conference room with three long tables arranged in the shape of a horseshoe. One for the judge and court reporter, one for the defense, and one for the prosecution. A folding metal chair for the witness sat in the middle of the horseshoe.
The room was 20 feet wide by 30 feet long. It felt crowded. It felt cramped. It felt claustrophobic.
The walls were covered with unpainted drywall. Old fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A despotic Judge Hackworth lorded over the room. He had an array of multi-colored folders organized in front of him. The court reporter hurriedly adjusted his recording equipment.
Jefferson and I sat in chairs jacked up against the wall. I struggled to stand up straight because my chair could not push back far enough. The prosecution team was positioned directly across from us.
Two dozen cheap metal chairs were packed with the usual courtroom spectators: Army flunkies, paralegals, busybodies looking for some drama, and some disheveled news reporters. Most were there for a show, for entertainment, like people in centuries past who attended public executions. The only thing missing was popcorn.
Judge Hackworth shuffled through his papers, squirmed in his rickety chair, and glanced at his watch every 10 seconds. The hearing began promptly at 8 a.m. "This Article 32 hearing will come to order," Hackworth said, and the room fell silent. "Are you Sergeant Tyler B. Jefferson, the accused in this case?"
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