Battlemind

by Michael Waddington

  This was bad. Reggie could play innocent all he wanted, but if the Rake situation backfired, I would spend the rest of my life breaking rocks somewhere. There were too many loose ends, and one of them could fray at any moment. Even without Judge Rake assisting the prosecution, I faced an uphill battle. What if Rake was replaced by a worse judge? Then what? Would Reggie set him up too?

  I brushed my teeth and booted up my Army issued laptop. I needed to know more about Rake's situation, and what damage Reggie had caused. As my computer churned to life, I brewed a pot of coffee and showered. I Googled Rake's name. Only one article appeared, a "breaking news story" in the El Paso Star.

  The article had few details, mainly what was released by the local Sheriff's Office. Judge Rake was being held in the El Paso County jail, awaiting a bail hearing. The initial charges included rape, strangulation, and kidnapping.

  For a moment, I felt complicit, but not for long. Rake was a corrupt judge, and he needed to go. Nobody forced him to have sex with a teenager he'd met in a bar. He created this situation, not me. Part of me was relieved because Jefferson's trial would have to be delayed until the Army replaced Judge Rake. With the trial on hold, I decided to take the morning off and go to Denny's for breakfast. I tried reaching Annabelle, but once again, it went to voicemail.

  By noon, I was back in my room, preparing to fly home when I received an e-mail from Colonel Antonio Bertram Gianelli, a senior military judge. "I am now presiding over the U.S. v. Jefferson court-martial. The trial will proceed as scheduled."

  Chapter 62

  Two weeks after Aaron "Greaser" Strickland escaped from the transport van, he figured that the Army had stopped looking for him. After three weeks, he was sure of it. Of course, no one had ever accused Aaron Strickland of being a genius.

  Strickland and Misty, the erstwhile clerk at the convenience store, had spent almost every minute together since she'd facilitated his escape by hoisting him into the trunk of her 1989 Mercury Cougar, and abruptly leaving the employ of the gas station. That morning, she hacked off his shackles with a pair of bolt cutters from her grandpappy's tool shed.

  Misty had some money. Her dead mother "left her a bundle." What was left of her $30,000 "estate" evaporated quickly during their three weeks of screwin', druggin', and "fancy eatin'." About the time Misty said, "Hey babe, I only have a few hundie left, maybe you should go get a job," Aaron took her for one last roll in the hay, then walked out the door.

  "I'll be back," he said, as he buttoned the shirt she'd bought him at an upscale western wear store. No, he wouldn't. Misty was fun, but she looked a lot better when he was high, and it appeared sobriety was being forced on him by way of economic depravity. He reasoned that if he had to work, he wanted to come home to a better-looking piece of ass.

  When he crawled out of bed at noon, Strickland had a plan. He'd snag a job, charm another sweet young thing, and spend a few months flipping burgers during the day and doing the meth-aided mattress Mambo at night. While Misty slept, Strickland "borrowed" her car, and drove into town. On his way, he stopped at a bar for a little liquid refreshment. Then, he headed to McDonald's. He'd done fast food. He could cook burgers. Hell, a trained chimp could bag fries. Over the next couple of weeks, he figured he could take a few bucks from the till every day (not too many) and liberate a box of patties every once in a while.

  What Strickland did not figure on was the Army's dogged persistence. The Military Police had circulated wanted posters around town in the aftermath of his escape. Catching him with a wanted poster was a long shot. The MPs assumed he would be hundreds of miles away by the time they handed out his likeness. Unfortunately for Strickland, he had never left Stanton, Texas.

  Strickland was busy making up "facts" on his application and munching on a complimentary Big Mac when a quartet of military policemen sitting in the dining area compared his face to the clipboard likeness they all carried. After they finished their sodas, two of them approached Strickland while the other two covered the exits.

  "Mr. Strickland?" one said.

  "I'll be finished in a second, boss," Strickland said, without looking up.

  "Come with us, please?"

  "I need a minute." Strickland kept his face buried in the application.

  "You don't have another minute." One of the MPs pushed Strickland's face squarely into the Big Mac and held it there, while the other cuffed him.

  As they walked out, Strickland turned his special-sauce smeared face to the taller of his two escorts. "Hey man," he said. "Can you grab the rest of my fries?

  Chapter 63

  Throughout the day, Martha and Sterling had tag-teamed the phones with the expertise of professional goalies, blocking every one of the dozens of calls I attempted. I finally talked to Annabelle, but only after a brief and ugly confrontation with her father.

  "Max, Annabelle still has not regained her strength," he said.

  I lost it. "Sterling, you arrogant prick. Put my wife on the phone, now." My outburst did the trick.

  "Max?" she said faintly. She sounded mouse-like. And, she seemed glad to hear from me.

  "Hi, baby," I said.

  I was wrong. Annabelle was not glad. "Maximillian O'Donnell." An icepick ran up my spine. "Max, why haven't you called? Our - my son is a day old, and I am just now hearing from you. Are you going to tell me your case is more important than the birth of your child?"

  "Annabelle-" was all I got out of my mouth.

  "I have asked every hour or so about you, and Mother and Daddy told me you haven't called. They said you never returned any of their calls since little Sterling was born."

  "I've been calling," I said. "I couldn't get through."

  Silence.

  "About the name," I said.

  "Isn't it wonderful? Daddy is so thrilled. He's already set up an account for college, and even applied for the social security number so everything will be official."

  "Honey."

  "No, Max, don't you honey me."

  "What?"

  "I hope you're having fun on your little trip to Tijuana or wherever you are."

  Annabelle knew that Fort Custer was in El Paso. She was parroting back whatever mental cyanide Martha had poured into her brain. I searched for an avenue of retreat. "Annabelle, I called to tell you that I love you, and I'm happy the baby is okay. I can't wait to see him."

  "Well, he's okay, but barely," she said. "The little guy is scrappy. A real fighter, just like-"

  I stood tall, waiting for it.

  "-just like my daddy."

  The only fighting Sterling Hillyard had ever done was making sure he and his partner, "Big Bob" Dalton (of the Dalton, Georgia Daltons, as Martha would say), got enough strokes on the first tee before their weekly Saturday cheat-fest disguised as a golf game.

  "From now on, I'll call every day," I said.

  "Well, don't put yourself out too much, dear," Martha said, as she grabbed the phone from Annabelle. Another stab, this one lower in my anatomy. "I know you are so busy fixing the problems of low-life Army criminals you don't have a lot of time for family matters. Don't you worry. Sterling and I have everything under control." I stared at the phone as it went dead.

  After the call, I rushed to the airport and caught a flight back to South Carolina. I tried to relax but couldn't. As soon as the pilot turned off the seatbelt sign, I stood and paced the aisle for the rest of the flight.

  Seven hours later, at the hospital, I found Annabelle in bed, sobbing. Her mother and our neighbor, Janet Grigsby, were at her side. The room was decorated with flowers and balloons, congratulating Annabelle on the birth.

  I ignored the other women in the room and went straight to Annabelle. "Honey. What happened?" I said. She did not respond. She was inconsolable. I took her hand. "Annabelle, are you okay?" She didn't reply. "Where's the baby?"

  "You mean little Sterling?" Martha jumped in.

  Who do you think I mean? I thought, but I bit my tongue.

  "How's my son?" I as
ked.

  "Like you care," Annabelle blubbered.

  "Do we have to do this now?" I said.

  "He's in the NICU," Martha said.

  "The what?"

  "The neonatal intensive care unit," Martha said.

  My heart sank. "What happened?" I asked.

  "He has elevated bilirubin - some liver enzyme," Martha said. "He has to be under the lights for a few days."

  "Is it serious?" I asked.

  Annabelle wailed, "My baby. What's going to happen to my baby?"

  Martha and Janet stared at me like this was my fault. After Annabelle calmed down, she turned to me and said, "I think we need some time apart. Daddy told me about what you've been doing in Texas. He swears all the stress complicated the birth."

  "Nothing happened," I said.

  Martha huffed under her breath.

  Janet nodded in agreement.

  "Things have been bad for a while," Annabelle continued. "What you did brought old wounds to the surface."

  "What are you talking about?" I asked, honestly confused.

  "The drinking, the lying, the way you treat my parents. I've had enough," Annabelle said.

  "Your dad is an asshole," I said. Shouldn't have, but it felt strangely liberating.

  "That's exactly what I mean," Annabelle said. "You're volatile. My parents are scared of you. They don't think the children and I are safe around you. You need help."

  "Not safe? What are you talking about?"

  "I'm moving in with my parents for a little while," Annabelle said. "That should give you enough time to get your stuff cleared out of the house."

  "What? Where am I supposed to go?" I said, raising my voice.

  "Not my problem, Max."

  "Are you fucking crazy?"

  "There you go again," Annabelle said. "Your temper is out of control. I never know what you're going to do."

  "I haven't done anything."

  "Please leave Max," Annabelle said. "I don't feel well."

  I stood and headed for the door, as Martha called out, "She knows about your dalliances with that Mexican homewrecker."

  I whirled, barely in control. "My what?"

  "Now is not the time to play coy, Max O'Donnell," Martha said. "My husband and I have been on to you for a long time."

  "Fuck you, and fuck Sterling," I said, and walked out the door.

  Chapter 64

  At the hospital, Martha had told me Ethan and Eva were "at home." She meant their home, a mammoth of a house, complete with a four-car garage and a putting green. It was located in the oldest and wealthiest section of South Carolina's capital city.

  I planned on picking up my kids and bringing them home with me when I left the hospital. No one was going to take away my children. By the time I pulled into Sterling's circular drive, I could feel my pulse banging away in my ears. I'd been played, made to look like an uncaring - worse, a philandering - husband.

  Sterling opened the door as I reached for the bell. He'd been warned. "Max, is there something I can help you with?"

  "Nice of you to give the butler the night off," I said, and shoved past him into the marble foyer.

  Sterling made that inane chuckling noise he liked so much, a cross between a hiccup and a croak. "Charles only works in the evenings when Martha and I host functions," he said. He stopped when he saw my face. "Max, are you perturbed about something?"

  "Where are my kids?"

  "They've gone to bed. Perhaps you should come by in the morning."

  I climbed the stairs and found Ethan and Eva in the spare bedroom playing with toys. "Daddy!" I collapsed under an avalanche of hugs and kisses.

  "Are we going home?" Eva asked.

  "Is my new brother at home?" Ethan asked.

  "He's our brother," Eva retorted.

  "Nope," Ethan said. "He's a boy. He's mine."

  I interrupted the property dispute. "He's still at the hospital," I said. "Let's go home."

  Sterling met us at the bottom of the stairs with a cordless phone in his hand. "They need to stay," he said as he stepped in front of me. I dodged to his left. Then, Sterling screwed up. He put his hand on my shoulder, and not in a buddy-buddy way. It was an attempt at restraint. "Max, you're already in trouble with Annabelle, and with the Army. Let's not make this worse."

  "Get your hands off me, Sterling."

  His eyes narrowed, and his hand stayed put. I turned toward the door, but Sterling gripped harder and pulled. Instinct kicked in. Instinct propelled by anger. I grabbed Sterling's hand and put him in an Aikido wrist lock. Sterling went to one knee, agony etched on his face.

  "Touch me again, and I'll break your arm," I said, my voice a whisper.

  The kids were by the door, watching us. "Daddy, are you and Papa fighting?" Eva asked, looking concerned.

  "No, honey." I kept smiling. "Papa slipped. I'm helping him up." I pulled Sterling to his feet, grabbed the children, and headed through the front door. Outside, I saw two Richland County Sheriff's Department cruisers in the driveway. A pair of uniformed deputies approached the house.

  Sterling's voice came from behind me. "There he is, deputies. That's him."

  The deputy on the left reached for his taser. I raised my hands.

  "All good here, guys," I said. "Just picking up my kids." I glanced over my shoulder, careful not to turn my back to the deputies. "Kids, go back inside with Papa," I said. "We'll go home in a second."

  Ethan and Eva ran toward the house, and I heard the door close.

  "Are you Max O'Donnell?" the deputy on the left asked.

  "I am Captain O'Donnell, JAG Corps, U.S. Army," I said, hoping I might get a little professional courtesy.

  "Captain O'Donnell, you are served," the deputy said as he handed me a piece of paper. "You've been ordered by the Honorable John S. Tolliver to have no physical contact with the following individuals until a hearing can determine the scope and necessity of this order. Annabelle O'Donnell, Ethan O'Donnell, Eva O'Donnell, Sterling O'Donnell, Sterling Hillyard, and Martha Hillyard."

  I read the paper. "A restraining order?" I said. "Seriously?"

  The one on the right nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "Guys-," I said. I couldn't finish.

  "Captain." It was the one on the right again. "We know how these things go. This is obviously a family thing that's blown up in your face. Go home, read the order, comply, and things will work out. You wouldn't want to do anything that might upset the little ones, would you?" He pointed over my shoulder.

  "It's okay," the one on the left said. "You can look."

  I turned around, and Ethan snapped to attention and saluted me. I returned it and headed toward my car.

  "Sir," I heard one of the deputies say as I climbed in. "You probably ought to get yourself an attorney."

  After I got home, I sat on my sofa and studied the order. For the next 30 days, I could not be within 500 feet of my family. I also had to vacate our home within 24 hours. This had been planned. It takes a day - at a minimum - to get a restraining order from a county judge. I was sure Sterling had set this up with David Kline, probably over a couple of Scotches at the club.

  Before I went to bed, I made a call. The gruff voice sounded the same as always. "Who is calling this late?"

  "Hi, Dad," I said.

  "Max?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You okay, son?" The old man was getting soft.

  "No, sir. I need help."

  "Are you in jail?"

  "No, sir."

  "You need some money?"

  "No, sir."

  "Then what is it?"

  I laid it out. Getting forced into a losing murder trial with three months left in the Army, no job prospects, and my marriage was in the toilet. The phone went quiet for a while. "Dad?" I could hear his breathing.

  "Son," he said, "For starters, stop feeling sorry for yourself. It's unbecoming. Second, quit your whining about the Army. It's nothing but a gigantic bureaucracy run by assholes and egomaniacs. They eat their
own. You knew that when you joined. You want to come out on top? Get your head right. If your head's not right, nothing else will be."

  "But-"

  "Knock off the pity party." He interrupted. "Life's not fair. We both know it isn't. Nothing in the world is fair. Use it."

  "Sir?"

  "Use the unfairness. Let it fuel you to fight and win. That's what we do. That's how I raised you. Remember - Battlemind."

  I was back on the hill watching Chris Tomassi charge at me on the stolen bike. "Battlemind." The same thing Dad said to me before I reclaimed my jacket. I sat for a while. My dad couldn't see me, but I was nodding.

  He spoke again. "Son, take the fight to those sons-of-bitches. Take back what is yours." With that, he hung up.

  Chapter 65

  I took an early morning flight back to Texas and headed straight for the Brig. When I saw Jefferson, I could tell the stress had taken a toll on his body and mind. He'd lost at least 15 pounds while in jail, mostly muscle. His cheeks were sunken, and he was depressed.

  "What are our chances of winning?" Jefferson asked me.

  Always a tricky question, because nobody ever wants to hear the truth. Criminal defendants want to hear what makes them feel good, and that is almost always a lie. "We have a fighting chance," I said, a vast over assessment of the odds.

  The prosecution had eyewitnesses, a motive and opportunity, and enough lousy character references to convict a nun. Sure, a lot of it was petty gossip and hearsay, but there is such a thing as "death by 1,000 cuts." Someone eventually bleeds out.

  "So, what's the plan?" Jefferson asked in a flat tone.

  "We're going to attack the prosecution's weaknesses. The more we focus on their weaknesses, the more the jury will focus on them. Each weakness helps build reasonable doubt. We only need one reasonable doubt to win."

  "That's it?" Jefferson threw up his hands. "That sounds like legal mumbo-jumbo. How are you going to prove my innocence?"

  "Sergeant, I've explained this a dozen times. We don't have to prove your innocence. We don't have to prove anything. The prosecution has to prove that you're guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."