by David Archer
Mathers leaned back against him again, and he could tell that she was crying softly. He had often wondered if she really had the hardness of heart that it took to be a good lawyer, and it seemed this case was going to be the one that broke her. Of that, he was absolutely certain, so he simply put his arms around her and let her cry.
Sometimes, that's just all a man can do. The following morning, she would be walking into that court-martial, and he wasn't sure whether she would even be the same person when she came back out. They ended up falling asleep right there on the couch, huddled together in Mathers' desperate need for human contact, and only woke when the sun came through the window to tell them that it was time, once more, to face the future.
The court-martial was a joke. The prosecution paraded its entire line of witnesses before the judge and members of the court, while Mathers had only Foster, himself, to put on the stand. She had done her best, cross-examining each witness and watching them squirm on the stand as she piled on all the pressure she could to try to break their stories, but they had obviously been well rehearsed. She could make them nervous, but she couldn't make them crack.
When it came time for the defense to make its case, she put Foster on the stand and simply let him tell the story in his own words. To her, they were the first words that sounded even slightly believable in the entire proceeding, but the prosecution turned his cross-examination into one of the most vitriolic attacks she had ever seen in a court.
Still, Foster could not be rattled. He kept his cool, never once becoming upset or angry, calmly answering every question. Some of them he answered over and over, always with the same response, until at last even the judge and panel got tired of hearing it all repeated. After, she rested her case, knowing she had done all of the little she could do, and knowing full well that it wasn't going to be enough.
“Sergeant Foster,” she began, as the members of the court filed out to begin their deliberations. “I've been thinking, and—well, I want you to know that you won't be forgotten. We may still have a chance to save you on appeal, but no matter what happens, I want you to know that I'm not going to let this be swept under the rug. I've copied all of my notes in your case; I've got hours and hours of recordings from where you and I talked it over, so I know the whole story. We might not have a chance to win here in this court, but there's another court. I'm going to write a book about you and this case, so that people learn what really happened, and just how corrupt our system really is.”
Foster sat there at the defense table and smiled at her. She knew, of course, that the smile was merely an affectation, that he had practiced it over and over until he could make it look genuine, but it still made her feel good.
“Lieutenant Mathers, I appreciate that. But do yourself a favor, and wait until Congressman Gibson retires.”
The members of the court returned after only twenty-four minutes of deliberations, and their foreman stood to read the verdict. Noah was convicted on all counts, just as he had told her he would be.
“Sergeant Noah Foster,” intoned the presiding officer, as Noah stood to hear the official pronouncement of the verdict. “The members of this court have found you guilty of multiple counts of murder and sedition. This court will now move to the sentencing phase, unless the defendant is in need of a recess.”
Noah kept his eyes on the eyes of the judge. “I don't need a recess, Sir,” he said. “I'd like to proceed.”
Mathers leaned over and whispered into his ear. “Foster, are you sure? We can take a break, reconvene tomorrow.”
Noah shook his head. “All that would do is give me one more day to second-guess what we could've done. Let's just get this over with. There's actually a lot of books I want to read before I die, so the sooner I get started, the better the chance I'll get to finish at least some of them.”
Mathers looked up at the judge. “Defense is ready to proceed, Sir,” she said.
Just like the court-martial itself, the sentencing phase was a farce. The presiding officer listened to statements about Foster's character from his commanding officer and several of the men who had already testified against him, painting him as a dangerous and psychotic individual. When it was her turn, she put Foster back on the stand and let him talk about his childhood, the things that had happened to him. She asked him about his psychological problems, and was quickly shut down by the judge. By the time she finished, she was standing before the presiding officer with tears streaming down her cheeks.
And then it was time. “Sergeant Noah Foster,” the judge said, “you have been convicted of murder and sedition, both of which are eligible for the death penalty under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, and this court has heard testimony from a number of your peers and superiors that makes me wonder how you ever managed to get into the Army in the first place. Men like you are not fit for military service, and it amazes me that it took so long for your flaws to become visible. It is therefore the order of this court that you shall be taken forthwith and transported back to the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, there to be executed by lethal injection at such time as may be ordered by the Commander-in-Chief of the United States of America.”
There was no outburst. Foster stood silent as the sentence was pronounced, and the only sound in the room came from the soft sobbing of his defense attorney. He turned to her.
“Lieutenant,” he said, “I want to thank you for all you've done, and all you tried to do. What's our next step?”
“I'll begin work on the first appeal immediately,” she said. “Then we'll keep at it until we either get your sentence commuted, get your conviction overturned or—or we exhaust all possibilities. The way this usually works, they'll have you shipped back to the states within the next couple of weeks. They'll fly me back for each appeal hearing, so you'll see me again.”
“Good, I'd like that. Looks like my ride is here,” he said, indicating the two MPs who stood by the door waiting to take him back to his cell. “Try not to let this get you down, Lieutenant. Believe me when I tell you that I can see how hard you tried. Like I told you before, it's time you go and find someone you can save, and put all your effort into them.”
He held his hands out for the MPs, and they put the cuffs and shackles back on him before leading him out the door. Mathers was alone in the courtroom, and for just a moment, she simply sat down at the defense table and let her tears flow.
Five minutes later, she walked out of the room with her head held high.
Things moved quite a bit faster than Mathers had expected, and Noah was shipped back to the states less than a week later. She had spent as much time with him as she could, in preparation for the appeal, but there were still numerous points she needed to discuss with him. She stormed into her commanding officer's office once again.
“At ease, Lieutenant,” Captain Willis said. “You want to tell me what this is all about?”
“It's Sergeant Foster,” she said. “I'm working on his first appeal, but I went over to the stockade this morning and they said he's been sent off to Leavenworth already. What's going on?”
Willis leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his face. “Lieutenant Mathers, didn't we already have this conversation? Your client got the attention of some high-profile political power, remember? Don't expect the government to drag its feet on this case.”
“He still has a right to his appeal,” she said. “How am I supposed to properly prepare for the appeal, when I didn't get enough time to sit down with him and get all the information I need?”
Willis looked her in the eye and let out a sigh. “Look, Abby, I know how frustrating this is, and especially for someone young and idealistic like you. You've just got to accept that you've done the best you can do, and learn to live with it. If you still need to communicate with the Sergeant on his appeal, there's an email set up that you can use, and he'll be taken to a special computer where he can read your emails and reply to them.”
Mather
s stood there and stared at her CO for a long moment. “Sir, with all due respect, I've been here long enough to qualify for transfer back to the US. I'm going to apply for the transfer today, and I hope you approve it.” She saluted, then executed another perfect about-face before walking out the door. Willis sat there and watched her go, knowing that there was nothing he could say or do to make her feel any better. Damn it, he thought, most lawyers get at least a few years under their belts before all their ideals are ripped away from them. Maybe I should have kept that case for myself, instead of giving it to a newbie.
FOUR
Death row at the US Disciplinary Barracks, which was better known as “The Castle,” didn't look like anything you’d see in movies. Noah wasn't placed into a cell with bars, but into an actual room. There was one bed, bolted to the floor and the wall, a table with one bench seat attached to the wall beside it, a set of shelves, a stainless steel combination sink and toilet unit, and a shower stall. He was allowed to make purchases from the commissary, including food, snacks and candy, pencils and stationery, playing cards, and personal hygiene items, and the prison library brought a book cart around three times a week. He would be allowed to select up to four books at a time to keep in his room.
For a man who had been sentenced to death, this almost seemed like easy street.
He'd been given a mattress, a pillow, sheets, blankets, towels and such just before he'd been escorted into his room, so the first thing he did was make up his bed. That occupied less than three minutes, and he didn't know when he might get a chance to get the books, but there was a small tablet of paper and a couple of pens on one of the shelves, so he sat down and began to write some letters.
During the time he'd been incarcerated in Iraq, Noah had not been permitted to write any letters to friends back in the states, on the theory that the situation made him a security risk. Now that he was back in America, though, he'd been told that he could write to anyone he wanted. He had very few friends, but he wanted those that he did have to know the truth of what had happened to him.
He picked up a pen and stared at the paper for a moment, trying to decide whom to write to, first. His grandparents had kept in touch with him over the years, but he wasn't sure that he was ready to tell them what was going on. His friends from the first foster home he lived in had remained loyal to him, especially Molly, but she was a genius, and would immediately start trying to figure out some way to help him. Considering her career in a government think tank, he didn't really think it would be a good idea for her to get involved in his problems.
Jerry, his best buddy from those days, had grown up to become a rocker. He was front man for one of the most popular rock groups going, named The Question. He was rarely anywhere near home, and the letter might take months to even get to him. Jimmy, the other boy he'd befriended back then, was doing time himself, after getting caught up in an investment scam that tried to hide money from the IRS. He had two more years to go on a five-year federal sentence, so Noah figured that his own sentence would probably be over before Jimmy got out.
The only one left to write letters to, then, would be Jerry's sister, Lizzie. Lizzie and Noah had exchanged a few letters over the years. Even though she was married, he knew that she still harbored a bit of a crush where he was concerned, but he also knew that she would make sure everyone else who needed to found out the truth. He sat there for a moment, and then began to write.
Lizzie,
First, let me apologize for not writing sooner. I've been in a situation where I wasn't allowed to write letters back home to anyone, until now, and I hope you understand and forgive me. Believe me, it wasn't my choice.
I'm afraid I've gotten myself into some trouble. It's a long story, and I'll tell you, but the gist of it is that I found myself in a position where I had to kill some of my own men. Please believe me when I say that it was absolutely necessary, and I saw no other choice.
However, when I reported the incident that led to it, other men who should have been prosecuted for their own crimes all concocted a story of their own, and laid all the blame on me. I have been court-martialed, convicted and sentenced to death. I'm filing an appeal, but there really isn't much hope that I can prove my innocence, or even prevent my own execution.
Noah went on to explain the whole story, including just who Lieutenant Gibson's father was. He cautioned her not to try to get involved, and to make sure she got that through to all of the others. There was nothing they could do to help him, and any attempt to do so would only blow up in their own faces. He didn't want that, and had already accepted the inevitability of his fate.
It took him a little over an hour to write the letter, and he folded it up and put it in the envelope, leaving it open as he was required to do. He slid it through the slot in his door, so that one of the guards could take it to the mailroom. Then he sat down at his table again and began thinking about what he should do next.
He'd only been there for a couple of minutes when he heard the keys outside, and his door opened.
“Noah Foster?” One of the guards stood there in the open doorway, just looking at him.
“Yes,” he said. He hadn't expected anyone to come to talk to him just yet, so his senses were on high alert.
The guard nodded. “I'm Lieutenant Spencer,” he said. “I'm in charge of this unit. I make it a point to come and meet everyone assigned here. You getting settled in okay?”
“Yes, Sir,” Noah said, coming to attention, “and I apologize for my disrespect a moment ago. The way the light is set in here, I couldn't see your rank tabs.”
The lieutenant smiled. “It's not a problem, we don't stand on a lot of ceremony in here. At ease. Have you got everything you need?”
Noah shrugged. “I don't know that I really need anything,” he said, “but would you know offhand when the book cart might come around? Oh, and when do we get to order from the commissary?”
“Well, I can send the book cart down in just a few minutes, that's no problem, and you can go ahead and put in a commissary order whenever you like. You get it the next day after your order. There should be an order form in one of those tablets on the table.”
Noah looked quickly, and sure enough, he found the form tucked into the back of the tablet he'd been using. “Thank you, Sir,” he said. “I'll do my best not to cause you any headaches.”
The lieutenant nodded again. “I've actually been going over your file, today, and from what I can see, you must have been a model soldier and a model prisoner. Never so much as a disciplinary action, until now. I'd just about bet that there's a lot more to your story than meets the eye, but I've been around here long enough to know that it probably doesn't matter a whole lot.” He glanced down the hall to his right, then back at Noah. “We got a pretty good psychologist here, a lady named Doctor Oakes. She can't do squat about your case, but there's a very good chance she can help you cope with it better. Don't hesitate to put in a request to talk with her, when things start to get to you.”
Noah smiled. “Thank you, Sir, but not a whole lot gets to me. I'll be fine. Of course, it'll help when I can get some books to read.”
“Okay, then,” the lieutenant said. “I'll see to it the book cart comes in just a few minutes. And if you feel the need to talk with me again, I run this unit on an open-door policy. You just tell one of the guards, and they'll let me know. I'll come to see you at my first opportunity.”
The door closed, the keys rattled, and Noah was locked in again. He sat down at the table and began checking off things he wanted to purchase from the commissary. He ordered shampoo, soap, deodorant and an assortment of snack foods, and added a deck of playing cards for good measure. If he was going to be in solitary confinement, he might as well play a little solitaire.
Lieutenant Spencer was true to his word, and by the time Noah finished preparing his order, he heard keys rattling again, and the door swung open. A guard stood in the hall and watched as an inmate trusty pushed the book cart into the room
.
“You allowed to keep four books in your room,” the trusty said, in the down-home dialect of the South, “and after this time, you got to give me back a book to get a new one. If you tell me what kind of books you like, I'll try to pick some out the library and put on the cart for you.”
Noah grinned at him. “I appreciate that,” he said. “I like stories about history, especially stories that talk about how people did things a hundred years ago or two hundred or however long. Westerns are good, too, and if there aren't enough of those to go around, I like spy stories and stuff like that.” He was looking through the books on the cart as he spoke, and pulled out a book about King Arthur, and another about magic. “These kinds of stories would be okay, too,” he said, and the trusty nodded.
Noah chose his four books, and set them on one of the shelves. The trusty began to pull the cart back out the door. “Okay, I be back in a couple days, and I see what I can do for you. My name's Benny, you be seeing me a lot.”
The guard closed the door as Benny left the room, and Noah sat down to begin reading. King Arthur was one of his favorite quasi-historical figures, and Noah enjoyed reading about his adventures, whether from the original legends or those written by later authors.
Life settled into a routine rather quickly, mostly involving reading, eating the occasional snack, working out in the room, and his once-daily, hour-long recreational break, which took place in a concrete square somewhere in the middle of the building. The top of the square, but for a double layer of chain-link fencing, was without a roof and open to the sky. Since the weather was warm, he enjoyed the sensation of being outdoors, even if he couldn't see a tree or blade of grass anywhere.