I remembered the quotation from Dante's Inferno as I entered the room: "lasciate ogne speanze voi ch'intrate" - the inscription over the gates of Hell.
"Abandon every hope - you who enter."
Chapter 55
A week after the preliminary hearing, despite my written objection, which was no doubt now residing in some landfill, the Commanding General forwarded Jefferson's case to a court-martial. The Army moved quickly and appointed a trial judge the same day, Colonel Bradley Rake.
With over 20 years on the bench, Judge Rake was the most senior judge in the Army, and he had yet to mention retirement. Sixty years old, the judge had whitish hair combed to the side, and a plump, ruddy face. Outside of the courtroom, he was jovial and friendly with everyone, including defense lawyers. He and his wife of 30 years hosted an annual JAG Christmas party. They treated young Army lawyers to Glühwein, a favorite holiday drink at German Christmas Markets, and regaled the assembled with stories of their travels while stationed in Europe during the Cold War.
Rake seemed the perfect judge. On the bench, he exuded a calm demeanor. His docket was never backlogged. Most lawyers enjoyed practicing in front of him - until they rocked the boat. Judge Rake had one pet peeve: Soldiers who pled not guilty. "Integrity is everything," Rake said on more occasions than anyone could count. "Any guilty soldier who pleads not guilty shows a lack of integrity."
Rake responded with reasonably fair sentences, as long as defendants, "accepted full responsibility," and never, "wasted the Court's time." Rake took not guilty pleas as a personal offense - and let slip the dogs of war. Soldiers refusing to show penitence, and beg forgiveness endured a process as painful as an ascent up Mt. Everest without shoes. The lawyers representing the ungrateful and defiant soldiers felt the full wrath of Judge Rake as well. Jury trials transformed the congenial jurist into a merciless harpy - part prosecutor, part avenging angel. Rake labored to maintain a neutral appearance, while his passive-aggressive comments and rulings steadily tipped the scales of justice in the prosecution's favor.
Colonel Paine demanded an immediate arraignment when the news of Judge Rake's assignment broke. His request was granted, which meant I had to return to Fort Custer for the third time in a month.
At an arraignment, the judge sets the trial date. The defendant enters a plea of guilty or not guilty and elects to be tried by a judge or a jury. Military arraignments routinely last about the time it takes to boil an egg. Both the prosecution and defense can weigh in on a trial date. But, the decision usually comes down to the judge's availability.
This morning, Jefferson and his guards were the only people in the courtroom when I arrived. He raised his arm in greeting. The shackles restricted him to a weak wave. Fashion models would have killed for his cheekbones, high and chiseled, made more distinct due to his noticeable weight loss.
"Good morning, gentlemen," I said to the guards and pointed at Jefferson's leg irons. "Can you please remove his shackles."
A skinny, pimpled guard opened a canvas bag. He rooted for a while, like a pig nosing for truffles, then dumped the contents on the table. Chains, belts, and handcuffs clattered on our flimsy card table. After a minute of rummaging, he stopped. "Ain't got the keys, sir. Must have left them back at the Brig."
"Then go get them," I said.
Jefferson interrupted, "What's the point? I'm going back to lock up when we finish."
I ignored Jefferson and said to the hapless guard, "Army rules prohibit prisoners from being shackled in the courtroom. One of you better go get the key."
Pimple Face plodded out of the courtroom, lowered his head, and muttered into his tee-shirt, "Asshole." He jerked his head sideways, pale with the realization he'd spoken loud enough for me to hear. I let it go. Racking this guy wasn't worth it. He realized I wasn't going to respond and scampered out of the courtroom in search of the key.
Five minutes before noon, Paine and his entourage entered the room and took their seats at the prosecution table. Not one of them acknowledged my presence. At precisely 12 o'clock, Judge Rake entered the courtroom, followed by Becky Grice, a washed-out court reporter in her late 50s. The cloying odor of stale cigarette smoke wafted across the room as Grice hurried about setting up her recording equipment.
The moment Judge Rake entered, Paine jumped to his feet and shouted, "All rise."
The judge squinted and asked, "Where's the bailiff?"
"Your Honor," Paine said, "we didn't think we needed a bailiff. The arraignment is only going to take a few minutes."
"This is a court-martial," Rake said. "A bailiff is required at all proceedings."
"Would you like me to get one now?" Paine asked.
"No, but from now on, I expect a bailiff."
Then, Rake turned to me. "Captain O'Donnell, are you ready to proceed?"
I stood. "Yes, Your Honor."
"How does your client plead?"
"Not guilty."
Rake lifted his head in slow motion and lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose. He was making a point. "Counsel, what is the status of plea negotiations?"
"There are none," I said.
"Captain O'Donnell." His tone was condescending. "You do understand that Sergeant Jefferson is facing premeditated murder?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Does your client understand that the mandatory punishment for murder is life in prison?"
I nodded. "Yes, Your Honor."
Rake held his gaze. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. I did not flinch. "Understood. Let the Court know if Sergeant Jefferson changes his mind."
"Will do, Your Honor."
"Would he like a trial by judge or jury?"
"A jury."
"Noted." Rake scribbled on his notepad. "Now, let's talk about trial dates. Government, when are you ready to try this case?"
Paine stood. "The prosecution won't be ready until after the New Year," he said. "Our first available date is 21 February."
"That pushes this case out for almost three months." Rake shook his head and swiveled toward me. "Defense, what is your position?"
Paine had taken me by surprise. I figured he'd demand a quick trial date. He knew that 30 January was my last day in the Army. I would be released from the case, and a new lawyer would be appointed if Rake set the trial for February. I turned to Jefferson and whispered, "What do you think?"
"I want to get this over with." Jefferson's breath quickened. "I can't stay in jail for three more months."
"You'll be in jail for a lot longer than three months if we lose."
"I'll take my chances. We're either ready, or we're not. I just want to go home."
I turned to the bench. "Your Honor, my client is sitting in jail, and he wants out. He demands a speedy trial. We will be ready on 9 January."
"So, Sergeant Jefferson." Judge Rake licked his index finger and flipped through a pocket calendar. "Your lawyer demanded a speedy trial. Is that your wish?"
"Yes, sir," Jefferson said.
"Then, I'm looking at a trial date." Rake paused for effect. "Sometime in December. 12 December, to be exact. Colonel Paine, do you have any cases scheduled that week?"
"No, I'm wide open," Paine said. His sinister grin told me I had walked into a trap.
"Defense, what about you?" Rake asked.
"I'm not available that week," I said. "My wife is pregnant. In fact, she's overdue. It's a high-risk-"
Rake cut me off. "Counsel, my question was, 'Do you have other cases scheduled that week?'"
"Cases, no, but I don't think I can be ready that soon considering-"
Rake interrupted me again. "Captain O'Donnell, you demanded a speedy trial. Are you withdrawing your request?"
"No, sir, but I will not be ready until January."
Rake rolled his eyes at me. "Your request for a speedy trial is granted. This court-martial will reconvene on Monday. Both sides have 24 hours to file motions and submit their witness lists." Judge Rake closed his pocket calendar and peere
d at Sergeant Jefferson's feet, which were visible under the table. "Trial counsel." Rake scratched his head. "Why is the accused wearing shackles in my courtroom?"
"I didn't know." Paine shrugged. "Captain O'Donnell did not inform-"
Rake held up his hand, stopping Paine mid-sentence. "Captain O'Donnell should have informed you, but it is ultimately your responsibility," Rake said. "Next time, I expect his leg irons to be removed before he appears in my courtroom."
Paine's eyes bore into me.
"I am awarding Sergeant Jefferson one day of sentence credit for the violation." Rake hammered his gavel. "This court is in recess until Monday morning."
Jefferson tapped me on the shoulder. "What does that mean?"
"That means we have a week to get ready for your murder trial, and if you're convicted, you get life minus one day."
Chapter 56
After the arraignment, I canceled my flight home and booked a room at the Motel 6 near the El Paso airport. Over the next 24 hours, I'd have to work non-stop to meet the judge's deadlines. I checked into my room and compiled a solid witness list. A few hours later, I took a break and called Annabelle.
"Hello," a voice whispered. It was Martha.
"Martha, it's Max," I said. "Can you please put Annabelle on?"
"Max, do you know what time it is?"
"It's 10 o'clock."
"We didn't hear from you all day. Now you call late at night. What is wrong with you, Mr. Max O'Donnell? You should be ashamed of yourself."
"Look, Martha. I just want to talk to my wife and-" She hung up the phone. I called back. It went straight to voice mail. So, I hung up and continued working.
An hour later, Rose called. "Max, can we meet up?" she said. "I have something for you."
"I don't think so, Rose. You screwed me over last time we spoke, and I found myself at the other end of an investigation because of it."
"You'll want to hear this. It's a gamechanger."
"What is it?"
"I can't say over the phone, in case someone is listening."
"Fine. I'm at the Motel 6 by the airport. Room 116."
"Motel 6? You went all out."
"Nothing but the best," I said.
"I'll see you in a few minutes," she said and hung up.
Meeting with a sexy, conniving reporter in a two-bit motel to discuss an ongoing case, wasn't the smartest move of my life, but what the hell. She had her agenda, and I had mine.
Thirty minutes later, Rose arrived at my room carrying a backpack and a six-pack of Corona. "You plan on spending the night?" I pointed at her backpack.
"In your dreams." She winked and smiled. For a moment, we stood in awkward silence. "You going to invite me in?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.
"Yeah, come in," I said, stepping aside. "Make yourself at home." My stomach tightened as she slid past me. The same feeling you get when you're about to do something you know is wrong.
Rose sat on the edge of the bed with her legs crisscrossed. She opened two beers, handed one to me, and pulled a thick folder from her bag.
"What's that?" I asked, pointing at the folder.
"Research," she said.
"Research on what?"
"Nassar." She paused. "He may be alive."
I jerked my head back and said, "Alive? I have his autopsy photos?"
"That may not be Nassar," she said. "Do they match his Red Cross photos."
"What Red Cross photos?"
"At Sangar Prison, the Red Cross photographed every prisoner."
"The only photos I have are from the autopsy."
"Then, you need to request the Red Cross photos."
"Will do," I said, and jotted down a reminder in my notepad.
We spent the night combing through Rose's documents. One that caught my attention was a story published by Amnesty International, a human rights organization. The article claimed the U.S. was running a top-secret torture program that made prisoners disappear. These prisoners were labeled "Ghost Detainees" and sent to secret prisons in countries like Egypt and Yemen, to be tortured. The White House dispelled these rumors and called the Ghost Detainee story "completely false."
Rose handed me a page from the Amnesty International website. "Check this out," she said. The page contained the names of suspected "Ghost Detainees."
I scanned through the names. Nothing jumped out. "What am I looking for?" I asked.
"Omar bin Mohammed. That's one of Nassar's aliases."
"How do you know that's our guy?"
She flipped through the file and handed me a profile of Nassar, from her source at The Washington Post. It listed when he was captured, in which prisons he was held, and when he disappeared. It also included his known aliases and a photo of Nassar in his 20s. One of them was, "Faud Halbousi," the name on the POW custody form.
"This makes no sense," I said to her. "Why would the Army charge Jefferson with killing Nassar if he's in a secret prison?"
"It's easier to scapegoat a reservist than to reveal the truth."
If Rose was correct, then Jefferson was innocent. Dread crept over me as I thought of Jefferson being locked up for a crime he didn't commit. The trial was a week away, and I was nowhere close to having a winning defense.
"Want some coffee?" I said. "It's going to be a long night." Rose shook her head no. I stood, emptied my beer into the sink, and turned on the coffee machine. I scanned Rose's documents while the pot brewed. What I read was intriguing, though I was not sure how it would help Jefferson's case.
I noticed a pattern with the ghost detainees. In every instance, they were listed as official prisoners of the United States. Then, for no apparent reason, their names vanished from the list. When reporters and international organizations asked questions, the official reply was, "The prisoner is no longer in U.S. custody." Beyond that, no information was released.
After hours of reading, I yawned and looked at my alarm clock. It was almost three o'clock in the morning. Rose was asleep on the bed, still surrounded by papers. I put a blanket over her, shut out the light, grabbed a pillow, and laid down on the floor.
Chapter 57
The next morning when I woke, Rose was gone, along with her documents. I spent the morning doing legal research and writing the motions. At noon, I decided to workout. I did a few sets of burpees in the motel parking and then ran toward the Franklin Mountains. It was 65 degrees and sunny. I got into a rhythm as my mp3 player blasted 50 Cent's "In Da Club." For a moment, I was in another world, one without Sergeant Jefferson and Sangar Prison. With each step, my mood improved.
A few miles later, my Blackberry buzzed three times. I kept running. After the fourth buzz in two minutes, I stopped, pulled the phone out of my pocket, and checked my e-mail. Bad idea.
Paine had unleashed a barrage of damning new evidence against Jefferson. He included arrest reports, gossip from past co-workers, and a statement from an ex-wife I didn't know he had. It was a brilliant study of character assassination. I couldn't catch a break. One step forward. Two steps back.
The next e-mail contained an order from the Commanding General granting Sergeant Cullen immunity in exchange for his testimony against Jefferson. This was not a surprise. I had expected Cullen to turn on Jefferson. I just wasn't sure when.
The next e-mail was titled "Specialist Aaron Strickland - Sworn Statement." Who the hell is Aaron Strickland? I thought.
A slight sense of panic set in. I was almost out of time and options, and it was too late to make a deal, at least not a good one. With each day, the prosecution's case was getting stronger. I cut my run short and took a $16 cab ride to the motel. After I showered and changed clothes, I was on my way to the Brig. Sergeant Jefferson had some explaining to do.
I walked into the Brig, flashed my military ID, and was led into the attorney meeting room. The ever-present hum of the fluorescent lights and the pungent odor of Pine-sol stood out more than ever. I was tired of this place. I reminded myself that, win or lose, I'd be going home in
two weeks, in time for Christmas. Jefferson, however, could be spending the rest of his life behind bars.
A few minutes later, a guard led Jefferson into the room. "Nice to see you early for once, Captain," Jefferson said.
"Cut the sarcasm," I said. "It's getting old."
"What's your problem?"
"For starters, I just got a bunch of evidence dumped in my lap, and it makes you look guilty as fuck." He started to say "bullshit," but I cut him off. "I'm not here to debate you. I'm going to lay it on the line."
Jefferson crossed his arms and frowned.
I continued, "Our case is getting worse by the day. Every time I get new evidence, it's bad."
"What new evidence?"
"For starters, I got a list of witnesses that say you're a lying sack of shit," I said. "Got any idea what that means?"
"What?"
"It means you're going to get destroyed on cross-examination if you testify."
Jefferson finally cracked. He put his head into his hands and sobbed. I let him cry it out. For a moment, I felt sorry for him. "How is this fair?" he said in a whiny tone. "Weren't they supposed to hand this stuff over a long time ago?"
"Doesn't matter. The judge will let it in," I said. "My guess is, once they realized this was going to trial, they sent out investigators to uncover every dark secret from your past."
Jefferson hung his head and sagged in his chair.
"There's more," I said.
Jefferson shrugged as if to say, "What else?"
"Your buddy, Cullen, was granted immunity."
"Huh?" Jefferson furrowed his brow and squinted hard, trying to grasp what I had said.
"Cullen is going to testify against you. He's going to say you murdered Nassar. They also added a new witness. Specialist Strickland."
Jefferson's face turned to a scowl. "What's that asshole have to do with my case?"
"He's going to say you threatened to kill Nassar, right before he died."
"He's lying," Jefferson said.
"That's what you say about everyone," I said. "The jury is not going to believe that every single witness is lying. Discrediting one or two people is no problem. Discrediting 10 is another story."
Battlemind Page 15