Battlemind

by Michael Waddington

  "Your Honor," I said, "may I please discuss this with my client."

  "Two minutes," he said.

  I nodded. "Yes, sir." I spoke to Jefferson as quietly as I could. I might as well have used a PA system because the room was silent, and everyone was eavesdropping. "The judge is not going to dismiss the charges," I said. "He's trying to scare the prosecution, but he may stop the trial until they find the flight logs."

  "For how long?" Jefferson asked.

  "Weeks. Months. There is no time limit. The trial could be put on hold for a while."

  "Screw that. I'm sitting in jail. I need to get this over with, one way or another."

  "The other option is for me to write up a document called a 'stipulation of fact.' I'll describe what the flight logs say. The problem is, we don't know what they say."

  "I don't care. So long as there's no delay."

  I stood and addressed Gianelli, "My client wishes to conclude this case as quickly as possible. Therefore, we prefer a stipulation over an abatement."

  "Understood." Gianelli nodded at the bailiff. "Bring in the jury and recall Doctor Needham."

  After Needham returned to the witness stand, I continued my cross-examination, "Doctor Needham, did you fly on a mission the morning of 8 August 2002?"

  "Yes," Needham said.

  "Was that aboard an Army helicopter?"

  "Yes."

  "What time did the flight depart Sangar Air Base?"

  "We lifted off after midnight?"

  "What time did you return?"

  "About 90 minutes later."

  I glanced at Paine. His face contorted like his testicles were caught in a zipper. "On that mission," I said, "you were transporting a prisoner, correct?"

  "I don't recall."

  "Would it refresh your memory if I told you that you were transporting Hamza Nassar?"

  Needham shook his head. "No. It wouldn't."

  "What actions did you take during the flight?"

  "Don't recall."

  "You didn't record any of this in your notes?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Don't know."

  Doctor Needham went on to answer, "I don't recall" or "I don't know," to my next 50 questions. He was overly coached and hostile. It looked like the jury stopped paying attention to him a while back.

  "Was an American prisoner on the return flight?" I asked him.

  Needham stared out the window.

  "Answer the question," Gianelli said.

  "For the hundredth time, I - don't - recall." One of the jurors rolled his eyes and shook his head as if to say, "Give me a break."

  "Did you provide medical treatment to an American POW on the return flight?"

  "Don't recall."

  "You cannot remember if you provided medical treatment to an American POW?" My tone was incredulous. "Isn't that something you would remember?"

  "Maybe. Maybe not."

  "No further questions," I said in disgust and sat down.

  Chapter 74

  After a brief recess, the prosecution called its next witness. As Specialist Aaron Strickland strolled into the courtroom, he waved at Jefferson and flashed his brown rotten teeth. Some of the jurors noticed.

  "Friend of yours?" I said to Jefferson. "I wonder what he is going to say."

  "Whatever it is, it'll be a lie."

  Strickland raised his hand and immediately told his first lie - to tell "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." Then, he told his second lie. "So help me God."

  "He's a piece of shit," Jefferson mumbled into my ear.

  "Got it. Now, pay attention."

  Strickland's buzz cut was fresh, no more than a day old. His polyester, white button-down shirt still bore the fresh-from-the-wrapper creases, undoubtedly purchased by Paine the night before. His red clip-on tie was at least three inches too short - bet they got it in the Juniors Department. His plastic leather shoes gleamed.

  The courtroom waited in anticipation while Paine made a great show of looking over his notes. He never took this long. The judge noticed. "Colonel, your witness." After another 30 seconds, Gianelli lost his patience. "Today, if you please."

  Paine took a languorous stroll to the jury rail, quite an accomplishment given the tight space, opened his mouth, and began coughing.

  Seriously?

  He wandered back to his chair. Made a little motion to the judge begging his indulgence, then spent almost a minute quenching his thirst. Just as Gianelli prepared to launch a verbal Hellfire missile, Paine took a breath and started. "Aaron," he said, approaching the witness like they were old chums, "please introduce yourself to the panel."

  "Hi there, I'm Specialist Aaron Strickland."

  In unison, the jurors looked at the judge, then at Paine, then back at Strickland. Some of their expressions soured like they smelled fresh vomit on a hot day.

  "Specialist Strickland," Gianelli stepped in, "are you currently serving in the United States Army?"

  "Yeah?" He inflected "yeah" like he was asking a question.

  Gianelli turned to Paine. Fuses blow with fewer hisses. "Why isn't this witness in the proper uniform?" Paine stuttered, trying to respond, but Gianelli cut him off. "Colonel Paine, it's your responsibility to ensure that all military witnesses are in the proper uniform."

  "I can explain," Paine said. "He's only a Reservist."

  Gianelli replied, "He's a U.S. Army soldier, and this is a general court-martial. Now, call a witness in the proper uniform."

  "I don't have any other witnesses on standby."

  The jurors watched the banter with amusement.

  "We'll recess until 1400 hours. That should give you plenty of time to get this uniform situation squared away."

  "I don't think it's possible to outfit this soldier in a new uniform and have it tailored in three hours," Paine said.

  "Where's his old uniform? The one the Army issued him?" Gianelli asked.

  Paine was quiet as he thought of a response.

  "I pawned it," Strickland interjected. "I needed the cash."

  The jury burst into laughter.

  Even Gianelli cracked a slight smile. "Government, this is your problem. Fix it."

  "That's going to be difficult," Paine said.

  "Colonel Paine, we are all soldiers here. Soldiers work, rain or shine, night or day until the mission is accomplished. You've been dragging this case out, and I am sure this jury would prefer to finish this trial before Christmas." Gianelli addressed the jury. "Am I right?" Every juror nodded. "Alright. This Court is adjourned until 1400 hours. Counsel and the accused, stay behind." After the jury exited, Gianelli said, "Colonel Paine, do you know anyone at Clothing Sales?"

  "Probably," Paine replied.

  "Good. I hope to God you have not irritated anyone over there with your sparkling personality. Because they need to help you - you want them to help you. If I miss my flight to see my granddaughter on Christmas, it will be your ass."

  Paine left the courtroom on a dead run. Strickland trotted behind like a faithful pup.

  Chapter 75

  Everyone knew Paine wasn't going to be able to get Strickland a new uniform in a few hours. On Army installations, only one store sold official uniforms, Military Clothing Sales, a place notorious for undependable hours and slow service. Government employees enjoying long lunches and even longer smoke breaks made uniform shopping more of an expedition than an experience. Even if the store was open, the chances they could (or would) rush to tailor a uniform defied common sense.

  At 1358 hours, Gianelli was back on the bench. Before he called the jury, he addressed Paine. "Did you get the uniform situation squared away?"

  "Yes, Your Honor," Paine replied.

  I'm sure my jaw dropped. Gianelli's eyes widened perceptibly. He turned to the bailiff and said, "Recall Specialist Strickland and bring in the jury."

  When the courtroom door opened, all eyes shifted to Strickland. Gianelli shot me a glance and smirked, ever so sli
ghtly. Half of the jurors snickered. The others cringed like they'd stepped on a pile of dog shit. "The pickle suit" hung on Strickland's rail-thin frame with all the form-fitting elegance of a caftan. Infamous for its hideous appearance, the Army Class A uniform was dark green, with a light green undershirt. Ugliest uniform on the planet.

  The jacket almost reached Strickland's knees. His arms barely turtled their way out of the sleeves. Even from a distance, I could see the pins "tailoring" his sleeves and cuffs. Strickland had to slide his feet along the carpet to avoid slipping out of the oversized, patent leather shoes, probably Paine's spare pair. They could have doubled as cross-country skis. In the stunned silence of the courtroom, the only sound was the scratching of the soles easing their way down the worn carpet.

  Once Strickland sat, Gianelli leaned forward, squinted, and eyeballed his chest. "Colonel Paine, where's his nameplate?"

  "I couldn't get one made in time," Paine said. "I had to borrow a uniform."

  "No kidding." Gianelli then addressed the jury, "As you can see, this soldier is out of uniform. We are going to proceed because I don't want to waste any more of your time. Let the record reflect that the prosecution has failed to ensure its own witness was in the proper military uniform. You shall not hold this against Sergeant Jefferson." He let the words hang for a moment. "You may proceed, trial counsel."

  Paine hurried to get started. "Specialist Strickland, let me remind you that you are still under oath."

  "Okay." Strickland nodded and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

  Paine cringed but continued his questioning, "In 2002, were you deployed to Afghanistan?"

  "Yeah."

  "Were you deployed with Sergeant Tyler Jefferson?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "What was your job, over there?"

  "I worked at the prison, the front desk, usually the night shift. Ya see. I have knee problems, so I had to work a desk job."

  "When you worked at the front desk. What were your duties?"

  "Uh, when new prisoners came in, I in-processed 'em."

  "Were you working the night shift when a prisoner kneed Sergeant Jefferson in the groin?"

  Strickland giggled. "Yup. I was there."

  "Please walk us through the events of that evening."

  "Sure can. Just like we practiced."

  Major Hanna Weiss sighed. Paine acted like he didn't notice. "Go ahead." He motioned with his hand, encouraging Strickland to move along.

  "I got on duty at midnight, my usual shift. I'm kind of a night owl, on account of all the Red Bull and shit, so I don't mind being up at all hours. The other guys liked that, 'cause they'd rather get sack time or talk to their families back home, you know, 'cause of the time difference and all. And I don't have much family. Well, I do, but we don't get along real good, so we don't talk much. And I sure as hell wasn't going to call them from Afghanistan since I don't call them from across town-"

  "Specialist, stop." Gianelli held up his hand. "Colonel Paine, can you please ask questions that don't require the recitation of an epic poem?"

  "Of course, Your Honor." Paine nodded at Gianelli and resumed his examination, "Specialist Strickland, on that night, did you have any contact with Sergeant Jefferson?"

  "On that night? Hmm." Strickland leaned back, put his right hand on his chin, and stared at the ceiling as if formulating a new theory of physics. Thirty seconds later, he said, "Yeah, yeah. I seen Jefferson that night."

  "Please tell the jury what you saw."

  Strickland seemed confused. "You mean with Jefferson?"

  I heard Weiss sigh again, this time much louder.

  "Yes, with Sergeant Jefferson. What happened with Sergeant Jefferson?" Paine was losing his patience. He and his team had spent days preparing Strickland to answer these same questions. They didn't consider the appalling number of brain cells the man had destroyed with his recreational drug activities.

  "Anyways," Strickland said, "sometime after midnight, the OGAs come in. Ya know, the guys that went out and caught the terrorists. They brung in a guy, like always. They never missed, always got somebody. Might have been a goat herder or somebody, but they always snagged someone probably 'cause they got paid by the capture' - that's what I was told - ya know, on 'count they wuz private contractor types and not reg'lar Army. Well, could have been CIA, FBI, KGB. Not sure, but them guys wuz badasses."

  "Specialist Strickland," Gianelli said, "please listen to the question and answer the question you are asked."

  Despite Paine's best efforts, his questioning of Strickland dragged on for hours. Finally, he got to the end of his examination.

  "Do you remember the prisoner's name? The one they brought in?"

  "Didn't at the time. Found out his name wuz Zamfir Naval." Cullen raised his eyebrows and glanced at Paine. "I say that right?"

  Weiss's exaggerated eye-rolling caught the attention of some of the jurors. Nineteen hours of prep time, right down the toilet.

  Paine said, "You mean Hamza-?"

  I was on my feet. "Objection. He's leading the-"

  "Sustained," Gianelli said before I could finish. "Colonel Paine, who is testifying? You or the witness?"

  "I'm refreshing his memory," Paine said.

  "No, you're leading the witness. Now, ask your next, non-leading question."

  Paine continued, "Specialist, what was the prisoner's name?"

  "It was Zamfir or somethin' like that?"

  "Does Hamza sound right?" Paine started to nod but stopped when he realized Gianelli was watching him like a cobra watches a mongoose.

  But it was too late, Strickland had caught Paine's cue. "Yeah, Hamza, that's it. And his last name has a couple of s's in it. Nassle, nope. Nasal, nope. Nassar - that's it! Hamza Nassar."

  "What happened when Mr. Nassar came into the prison?" Paine asked.

  "He hit Jefferson in the sack."

  "Excuse me?" Paine cupped his ear like he was hard of hearing.

  "He drilled him in the nut sack. Right in the family jewels - pow - in the balls. Jefferson crumpled like a double-wide in a windstorm."

  Paine quivered. It was all for show. "Then what happened?"

  "Well, the other fellas got him all chained up and stuff, and they took him off to his cell. They let Jefferson lie 'til he got his nads back in order. Took a while. It looked like that raghead crushed his nuts." Strickland laughed so loud he hiccupped. Gianelli glanced at me, waiting for me to object. I didn't, not while Strickland was making a fool of himself.

  Paine drew closer, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "After Nassar struck him, did Jefferson say anything?"

  "He sure did. I've never heard nothin' quite so cold-blooded in all my life."

  "What did he say? And, Specialist, try to remember exactly what it was. Be precise. This is important."

  Paine had set the stage the way he wanted. And, somehow, Strickland delivered his most important line perfectly. "He looked right at me and said, 'So help me God, before the night is over, I'm going to beat that towel-headed motherfucker to death.'"

  Paine almost bowed - a master thespian at work. "I pass the witness." As Paine swaggered back to his table, he flashed me an arrogant grin.

  "This seems like a good breaking point," Gianelli said. "We will reconvene tomorrow at 0800. Have a nice evening."

  Chapter 76

  As I drove to my motel, my phone rang. It was a South Carolina number I didn't recognize.

  "This is Max O'Donnell."

  "Ma-yax." The caller actually pronounced my name with two syllables.

  "Who is this?"

  "Max, this is Trey." The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but I was tired and couldn't place it.

  "Who?"

  "Trey. Trey Kline."

  My mind was blank.

  The caller cleared his throat and said, "It's David Weathersby Kline, III. My father is David Weathersby Kline II of-"

  I interrupted, "Stanford and Kline. I know who you are. How can I help you?" I didn't have time for thi
s taint bucket, but his call piqued my interest.

  "Oh no, Max. It is I who wants to help you. I have not had the pleasure of speaking with you since your job interview with our firm."

  "I've been in trial, David."

  "Please, call me Trey."

  I swallowed and spit it out. "Trey, sorry for skipping lunch at the Club. Something came up with the Army."

  "My father mentioned that. That's quite all right, and completely understandable." He spoke so slowly I wanted to finish his sentences for him. During the long pause, I could hear his breathing. I also heard paper shuffling.

  "Max, I wanted to personally call you with our offer."

  Offer - what offer? I thought.

  "Considering the high-profile nature of our practice," he said, "these sorts of negotiations are always delicate and need to be handled with both sensitivity and civility."

  "Indeed," I said. I never used "indeed."

  "There are some details we need to hammer out. I mean, smooth over. Small matters (Trey actually said "mattahs") we ought to be able to move through with alacrity."

  Good God, I thought. He must be sitting at his desk with a thesaurus.

  Trey kept drawling away, "I am so pleased you concur with our assessment. Negotiations often break down over the most minuscule issues. Actually, more often than not, parties cannot come to a meeting of the minds regarding financial considerations. However, I knew you'd be a team player."

  Was he offering me a job? "How can I help you - ah - Trey?" I asked, kicking myself for fumbling his name.

  "Well, Max," he said, "we have a figure in mind. Normally, I would write it on a slip of paper so that you could peruse it for a moment. Much less crude than an actual discussion, you know. Filthy lucre and all that nonsense."

  "Yes," I said. What the hell was lucre, and what the hell was he talking about?

  He kept on speaking with the speed of a 38-year-old tractor in a muddy field. "Given the constraints put upon us by your current geography, I guess we will have to set good manners aside and talk to one another about money."

  He could have said all that in about four seconds. Still, given I was about to become an employed civilian lawyer, I was not about to tell him to quit speaking like Jefferson Davis. "What do you have in mind?" I asked, then added, "if I might be so indelicate."