Battlemind

by Michael Waddington

  I returned to the podium and pressed forward. "Proof beyond a reasonable doubt is the highest standard of proof in America. To convict a person, the prosecution must present overwhelming, uncontradicted, powerful evidence."

  "All of the proof must come from them," I said, pointing at the prosecution's table. "Their case is weak. It rises and falls on biased witnesses, known liars, and missing evidence."

  "Read between the lines. A lot of shady stuff happened at Sangar. But it wasn't Sergeant Jefferson that did it. He's a scapegoat," I said, motioning toward Jefferson. "If someone should be on trial, it should be the CIA goons that were running that prison, not him." I expected Paine to object. He didn't.

  I went on to address every witness and every piece of evidence, raising doubts, and calling out inconsistencies. Then, I reminded the jury about the evidence they did not see, the witnesses they did not hear from. The flight logs. The logbooks. The OGA civilians that were roaming the prison unchecked. Who were these OGAs? Where are they now? What were they doing to the prisoners?"

  After 45 minutes, I made my final point to the jury. "I am about to sit down, but the prosecutor gets a second chance to stand up and convince you that he has proven his case. I am not allowed to respond to his final arguments." Some might think I paused for effect. I was making sure I got the last few sentences right. "But you can respond to his final arguments," I said, making eye contact with each juror. "You can go into the deliberation room and answer on behalf of Sergeant Jefferson. Answer in a voice that is loud and clear. Answer with a finding of not guilty. Not - guilty."

  I sat down, expecting another Shakespearian soliloquy from Paine. Didn't get one. I think he was exhausted. He stood and delivered about a half dozen laborious sentences claiming he had, indeed, proven his case beyond a reasonable doubt. There was no final rousing call for truth, justice, and the American way, just a weary plea that he deserved to win.

  After Gianelli charged the jury and sent them off to deliberate, Jefferson and I retreated to our temporary office and shut the door. I reached in a cooler I had brought, took out two cans of Diet Coke, and handed one to Jefferson. Each of us took a few sips.

  "Now, we wait," I said.

  "How long does this usually take?" he asked me.

  "Could take hours. Could take all day."

  "Hmmm." Jefferson nodded and took another sip. He broke the awkward silence. "So, whatcha think?"

  "At least the murder charge was dismissed, but you may go down on some of the other charges."

  "What am I lookin' at? A few months?"

  "Paine's out for blood. He'll ask for the max. I'd guess years."

  "Damn." Jefferson shook his head. "I thought you blew up their case."

  "I did, but only the murder charge."

  Jefferson's expression saddened like he was about to cry.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "We didn't have much of a case."

  "How long do they usually deliberate?" Jefferson asked.

  "Every jury is different. Usually, the longer they're out, the more confused they are. The more confused they are, the better your chances-"

  Suddenly, the door swung open, startling me. It was the bailiff.

  This couldn't be good. "What's up?" I asked him.

  "We're going back on the record," the bailiff said and walked away.

  Jefferson's face turned a weird shade. He was shaking, like a 40-year-old virgin in a brothel.

  "They probably have a question for the judge, or they want to take a break," I said.

  "So, what do we do?"

  "We go back in and listen to their question. The judge answers it. Then we come back here and wait. No problem."

  Jefferson relaxed a little. As I opened the door, he whispered, "What if it's a verdict?"

  Time for brutal honesty. "Oh. Then, you're likely screwed."

  Chapter 83

  Back in the courtroom, Gianelli tapped his gavel, and the room fell silent. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do you have a question?"

  The jury president stood. "No, Your Honor. We have a verdict."

  The courtroom murmured. Jefferson looked at me and mouthed, "What the fuck?"

  Quick verdicts often mean a conviction, and this jury had deliberated for less than 15 minutes. The president of the jury handed the bailiff a paper with the verdict. The bailiff meandered over to Judge Gianelli and gave it to him. The whole process was excruciatingly painful. A minute felt like an hour.

  Gianelli read silently to himself. He reached for a giant yellow highlighter, popped off the cap, and began highlighting the portions of the verdict the jury president would read. The highlighter squeaked as the judge dragged it across what seemed like too many lines. Finally, he stopped, folded the paper, and handed it back to the bailiff, who then returned it to the jury president. If Gianelli was surprised, he didn't show it.

  "Accused and counsel, please rise," the judge said. "The panel president will announce the verdict."

  Jefferson and I stood and faced the jury. No member looked at us, not one. I wondered if anyone could hear my heart pounding like Secretariat down the stretch at The Belmont. The jury president took his good, damn time. My body surged with adrenaline, the same feeling one gets right before going over the edge on a roller-coaster. "This court-martial finds the accused, Sergeant Tyler Jefferson, of all charges and specifications," he paused. "Not Guilty."

  Jefferson bear-hugged me as members of the press rushed out of the room.

  "Maintain your bearing," Gianelli said, with a slight tap. It was over. Possibly a record for a military trial verdict, but it was over. "I'd like to thank the jury for their service, I wish you all happy holidays. This court-martial is adjourned." Gianelli smacked his gavel twice.

  I gathered my stuff quickly. Time to get the hell out of Dodge. The prosecution team moved like bugs on a pest trap. As I closed my briefcase, I heard Gianelli say, "Colonel Paine and Major Weiss, I need to see you in my chambers. We need to discuss a delicate matter." During the deliberations, Gianelli must have found the XXX-rated material of Paine and Weiss I had slipped under his door earlier in the day.

  Paine glared at me. "How could you do this to me?"

  "You drew first blood," I said and walked out into the bright, winter Texas sun.

  Chapter 84

  In the end, Colonel Bradley Rake would be fine. The rape victim turned out to be a runaway meth addict who'd run "honey pot" schemes throughout the Southwest. Her specialty was picking up married men in bars and seducing them. Then, she extorted them for cash. She could spot wealth in the first three minutes, and no one ever asked for ID. She looked 25.

  The guys without money were the lucky ones. Sure, they didn't get laid, but they also never got the day after phone call threatening rape charges unless they came up with five large.

  Her scams worked beautifully, until one of her conquests, a cross-eyed trucker from Abilene, refused to play ball. Rather than pay her ransom, he strangled her to death and dumped her body behind an abandoned billboard just south of Agua Dulce, Texas.

  She died two weeks after she'd taken money to bed Rake. Bad luck for her, good luck for Rake. No complaining witness, no case. So, Rake would be fine, but not unscathed. He received a Letter of Reprimand from the Commanding General and was "encouraged" to retire. No ceremony, no pictures. No one ever wants a photographic record of a handshake with an accused rapist. In the end, the Honorable Judge Rake was nothing but collateral damage.

  Rose, on the other hand, would not be okay. An hour after her last call with Max, her Honda was found at the bottom of a steep ravine a few miles east of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. She died on impact. No one could have survived that 200-foot drop.

  The local sheriff labeled the wreck an accident and attributed it to reckless driving. It was just one of many crashes that occurred annually on Route 51's hairpin turns. Because of his rush to judgment, the sheriff failed to properly investigate. If he had, he would have noticed the dent in her rear bumper.
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br />   A day after Jefferson's acquittal, Mr. Johnston (aka Thomas Fischer), stopped by the Pearl Spa, an Asian Massage Parlor outside the gates of Camp Peary, Virginia. While he lay face down and naked, awaiting a rub and a tug, Johnston was shot through the temple with a low caliber silenced pistol. His murderer remains at large.

  Chapter 85

  Since the first flight wasn't until early the next day, I decided a small celebration was in order. I agreed to meet Jefferson for a drink. The air inside the honky-tonk bar carried the usual late-night stench of sweat, beer, and hormones. I walked to the bar and ordered a rum and Coke before searching the place for Jefferson.

  I raised my drink. "To victory."

  My eyes roamed past my glass, and then, I saw him. A handful of men with crewcuts circled the corner pool table. They were obviously soldiers. Several women, varying degrees of skanky, leaned against the wall or clung to whatever grunt showed the most promise. At the table, cue in one hand and a beer in the other stood Sergeant Tyler Jefferson.

  The song on the jukebox ended, so people quit singing along with Garth about his "friends in low places," and a momentary quiet settled across the bar.

  "Jefferson!" I hollered at him.

  He recognized me and waved. After he excused himself from the game, he lumbered over to me. "Max," he said, extending his hand.

  I shook it. "What are you drinking?" I asked him.

  "Nah, I got yours, counselor. It's the least I can do."

  I nodded in the direction of the pool table. "You brought friends?"

  "Me and my boys decided to shoot some pool before we make our way home tomorrow."

  I recognized some of the people he was with. They were witnesses from his trial. One of them was Cullen. I pointed at the gaggle. "Sergeant, why are you playing pool with those assholes? They testified against you?"

  He shrugged. "Hell. I've known some of them since elementary. Let bygones be bygones."

  "Maybe you need new friends."

  He smiled and slapped me on the back. "Nah. We're just having fun."

  I nodded. "Where's your dad."

  "He had to take care of some business back in Dallas. He said he'd be in touch."

  I noticed his glassy eyes. "Why don't you let me get you a cab?" I said. Jefferson hesitated and looked with unconcealed lust at one of the females waiting at the pool table. I tapped him on the shoulder. "Sergeant, you just dodged a bullet. Let's not give Paine another target quite so soon. Time to go."

  Cabs idled outside the bar, a ready-made customer base. Sitting in a well-lit parking lot listening to a West Coast ball game, beat cruising the streets and hoping your next fare hadn't just killed a hooker.

  I gave instructions to the cabbie and handed him a $20. "Keep the change. Just make sure he gets in safely."

  The cabbie nodded. "Sure thing, buddy."

  Jefferson sprawled across the rear seat. I waited for him to buckle-up before I moved to close the door. "Hey," he said. "Hey. Hey!"

  "What?"

  "Two things, Max. I want to tell you two things."

  "Okay."

  "Thanks for my freedom. No one's ever stuck up for me before. I love you, man."

  "My pleasure. Just stay out of trouble from now on."

  "Yes, sir." I moved to shut him in, but Jefferson stiff-armed the door. "I said, 'two things.' There's something else."

  "I thought, 'I love you, man,' was the second one." It was really time for him to be headed back to his life.

  "Nope. That was all the first."

  "What's the other one?"

  Jefferson motioned for me to get closer. When I did, his hand shot behind my head and pulled me down. "It was Cullen," he said, exhaling alcohol-laden breath in my ear. "He killed that bastard."

  "You're full of shit. Nassar wasn't in the prison."

  Jefferson burst into laughter. "That's the crazy part," he said. "The CIA took him out for the prisoner swap. Stupid motherfucker got caught again three weeks later. They brought him back. He was goin' to GITMO early the next day, so no one logged him in. That's when it happened."

  "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

  "I ain't no fuckin' snitch."

  I could feel my blood pressure rising. "Cullen testified against you. He tried to put you in prison."

  "Nah. He gave some real shit testimony. Just like we planned. X-ray vision?" He let out a booming laugh. "That's some funny shit."

  "I risked everything for you, and you lied to me."

  Jefferson's eyes blazed with a maniacal, almost evangelical fervor. "So? We won," he said and pulled himself out of the cab.

  "At what cost?"

  "Fuck the cost. I got my freedom!" He poked me hard in the chest. Too hard. "And that's all that matters."

  Without hesitation, I shoved him back toward the bar. "Enjoy your freedom," I said. "Next time, you won't be so lucky." I climbed into the cab and headed for my last night at the Motel 6.

  Chapter 86

  After a long flight back, I pulled the Malibu into my driveway just before midnight. Standby is an agonizing way to fly. The only way to make it worse is to try it over a holiday. I sat in the driver's seat for a while with the motor running. It had been a long seven weeks. I had a lot to think about, but my only care at that moment was my family. I wanted to make things right.

  Annabelle called me when she heard about Jefferson's acquittal. She had changed her mind and dismissed the petition. We would be able to begin anew. "Come home for Christmas, Max," she'd said. "The kids miss you."

  I hoisted my suitcase out of the trunk, grabbed the two shopping bags full of presents I'd bought at Walmart, and walked toward the front door. No place like home.

  My heel had just touched the top step when the door opened. Annabelle must have been waiting, watching for me. She stood in the door frame, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt - radiant - the baby held against her chest. The house smelled like gingerbread cookies.

  "Hi, honey. It's good to be home."

  She smiled softly.

  "Daddy!" Ethan and Eva pattered toward me, wearing Christmas themed footie pajamas. I dropped the presents and scooped them up, squeezing them for a long time.

  "Daddy, we got you a surprise," Ethan said.

  "Don't tell him," Eva said. "It's not Christmas yet."

  "Come on, Daddy," Ethan said. "Come see the puppy Santa brought." The children pulled me inside, and Annabelle closed the door to the outside world.

  Acknowledgements

  I am grateful to the following people for their help with this book. My brilliant and beautiful wife, Alexandra, for her support and patience throughout this long process. My friend and mentor, Arthur Fogartie, for his unwavering assistance, guidance, and motivation over the past three years. Danelle Morton, for her help with the early stages of this book and for getting me started on my writing journey. Lucy González, for critiquing my drafts and helping me shape this story. Last but not least, Dean Wideman, for his insightful feedback and camaraderie.