Defiance

by Don Brown

  "Yes." He took another sip. "Allegedly engaged in -- although the conduct is prejudicial to the good order and discipline of the armed forces, there are better ways of disposing of this matter than a general court-martial."

  "I thought the SEALs demanded a court-martial in this case." Karen stirred her coffee and added another teaspoonful of sugar.

  "The SEALs already laid a severe licking on your client. What'd he have? A broken collarbone?"

  "Broken collarbone and right forearm."

  Zack shook his head. "Look, Eckberg faces six years' confinement -- one for conduct unbecoming of an officer and a gentleman and five for the sexual assault. I've seen dozens of these cases handled as administrative discharges coupled with a resignation from the navy."

  "An admin discharge?"

  "Why not? Saves your boy a federal conviction, and he avoids confinement."

  "On what grounds?"

  "That's the catch. Homosexuality."

  "You expect him to admit to that?"

  "I don't expect him to do anything. But if he's willing to consider it, I might have enough leverage with the admiral to persuade them to take it."

  Karen thought about that for a moment. Why was Brewer being so nice? Was there a catch? "Yeah, but even if my guy gets convicted, you think he'll serve time?" She paused. "Besides, with all due respect, I think I have a defense. After all, it was dark in the berthing area on that sub. You may have a problem identifying my guy. Beyond a reasonable doubt is a high burden."

  Zack smiled. "Karen, I quit trying to predict judges and juries a long time ago. Look no further than The State versus OJ Simpson or Bush versus Gore to see how judges and juries with the same set of facts produce different results."

  "Good point."

  "But," he added as he rose to refill his coffee mug, "your guy is looking at a maximum sentence of six years." He reached into a cabinet above the coffeemaker, grabbed a glass, and poured water into it out of the tap. "And" -- he took a swig of water as he returned to his seat -- "if we get a conviction after having gone to all this trouble to bring this case to trial on such short notice..." The prosecutor's smooth voice shifted to a tone of resolution that reminded Karen of steel. "If we get a conviction, I will ask for maximum confinement."

  Karen sat for a moment. Zack smiled, his hazel eyes boring into her like steely darts. He had the right mix of charm, fire, and innuendo to underscore his point. Maybe there was no catch. Maybe this deal was best for Eckberg. Or maybe he had questions about his own case. All she knew for sure was this: she had just been intimidated by the most charming man she had ever met.

  "Okay. I guess there are some advantages to your proposal. I can't promise anything. It's my client's decision. But I will recommend that he take it."

  "Good choice." Zack's steel-like eyes warmed again. "Let's go talk to Captain Reeves."

  CHAPTER 10

  Westbound avenue Foch

  Isle de la Cite, Paris

  By the time the black Renault had tailed the Peugeot down the Champs d'Elysses, around the Arc de Triomphe, and onto westbound avenue Foch, Fadil realized that L'Enfant was probably aboard. Weaving between traffic, running traffic lights, speeding -- all pointed to something other than a routine priestly visit to a retirement convent. The Peugeot driver's speed telegraphed a sense of urgency. Someone was trying to get somewhere fast.

  But where? An escape out of the country through either of Paris's major airports, Orly or Charles de Gaulle, would be too risky. Local police at major airports would identify and question L'Enfant about la Trec's death.

  The cars swung around the traffic circle Bois du Boulange -- the large, tree-lined park opposite the Arc de Triomphe. The Renault tailed the Peugeot on northbound boulevard Peripherique, racing along the edge of the beautiful park that had been bequeathed by Napoleon III in 1852.

  A moment later the lead car headed west on rue Charles de Gaulle. They raced past boulevard du General Koenig, then across the bridge spanning the Seine River.

  The Peugeot was headed toward the Normandy coastline, perhaps to take a ferry to England. And from there, a flight to America? Or even an asylum request at the American embassy in London?

  From Paris, the realistic destinations along the English Channel were anywhere from 90 to 150 miles away. Close enough that neither car would need to stop for refueling.

  Fadil would have to intercept either somewhere along the route or in the channel itself. He picked up his cell phone and punched the speed-dial number for Council of Ishmael headquarters in Morocco. In less than two minutes, Abdur Rahman was on the line.

  "What's your status, Fadil?"

  "We are pursuing L'Enfant by car."

  "Have you made a visual of her?"

  "Yes, Abdur," Fadil lied. "She is in the car with a priest and the driver. No indication that they are armed."

  Lying to the brain trust of the Council of Ishmael could get Fadil killed; he knew this. But if he was wrong about the identity of the passengers in the car, he was dead anyway.

  "Good. I will report this to the leader," Abdur said.

  "There is one request, Abdur."

  "What is it?"

  "I believe that she may be headed to the coast. I request three armed boats stationed in the channel between Granville and Dieppe." There was a moment of silence. Then static. "Are you there, Abdur?"

  "I assume you are asking for these boats to evacuate L'Enfant out of France, and not for interception purposes in the channel?"

  "Of course, Abdur." Unless she gets into the channel before I can capture her.

  "Because as you know, using force in the English Channel might bring excessive attention to the situation -- a situation that would not please the leader."

  "Of course, Abdur."

  "You are expected to capture or kill -- preferably capture -- L'Enfant before she leaves France."

  Fadil shielded his eyes from the setting sun, now a blinding orange ball just over the wide boulevard leading out of Paris.

  "Yes, Abdur. As you say."

  CHAPTER 11

  Claxton campaign California headquarters

  Situation room

  Hyatt Regency Hotel

  Century City

  Los Angeles, California

  Jackson Gallopoulous gazed up at the wide-screen TV showing a bright picture of his boss, Vermont Senator Eleanor Claxton, who was downstairs, stepping back to the podium to face a throng of cheering conventioneers. Screams from the crowd rocked the loudspeaker that beamed the speech into the campaign war room.

  It was no coincidence that the Claxton presidential campaign California headquarters were at the very same hotel that was hosting the national convention for the National Organization for Women. Already Eleanor's speech had been interrupted four times by standing ovations.

  "Elll-a-nor! Elll-a-nor!"

  The camera panned the crowd. Hundreds of angry women shook their fists in the air, shouting his boss's name. These women, mobilized into a political army, could prove a valuable force in the upcoming California primary.

  "Elll-a-nor! Elll-a-nor!"

  Jackson glanced around the long conference table at the young men and women comprising Eleanor's inner circle. Like him, most of the vigorous young staff were in their late twenties and early thirties. Most wore jeans, flip-flops, and sweatshirts.

  Like him, most of them were idealistic. Like him, most were tired of the worn-out conservative rhetoric that championed big money and suppressed the rights of gays and other minorities. Like him, they were all sick of the so-called Christian Right, the myopic, ignorant pigs who were disciples of Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson and had put the likes of George W. Bush and Ronald Reagan in office. Like him, they felt that real religion meant action, and that meant serving the poor by working in soup kitchens and building low-income housing -- not kowtowing to big business. Like him, and like his boss, all were graduates of Yale -- thus earning their nickname the "Yale mafia."

  In this room was the brai
n trust of the most dynamic presidential campaign in American history, the campaign that would, at long last, put a woman in the White House. If Eleanor pulled this off, the young talent in this room could make up members of America's future cabinet.

  Jackson himself dreamed of becoming White House chief of staff.

  Or maybe the secretary of state.

  Ladies and gentlemen, the Secretary of State of the United States of America, Jackson Kennedy Gallopoulous.

  If only Betty and Ray Gallopoulous could see him now. His parents had named him for the great John F. Kennedy for a reason. JFK's immortal words "Ask what you can do for your country" meant one thing, they had said, and that was embodied in one noble concept.

  Service.

  To serve the poor and to serve government were life's highest callings. And Raymond and Betty Gallopoulous had taught their son well. They had taken him to Africa on summer mission trips where they had served in the Peace Corps. Each Thanksgiving and Christmas for as long as he remembered, the family would forgo their own comforts and spend all day serving the homeless at the Salvation Army's Lexington Avenue Armory in New York City.

  The sparkling eyes of homeless children wrapped in blankets; the trembling hands of elderly women sipping hot soup with wrinkled, parched lips; the beaming faces of poor minority parents watching their children open a single present, be it a fire truck or a rag doll, on Christmas morning -- all of these images had driven Jackson toward the great Democratic Party of Franklin Roosevelt, which had made a clarion commitment to use public funds to right the wrongs of such social injustices.

  He was destined for greatness, Ray and Betty had promised. Now he realized they were right. The thought of it all gave him goose bumps.

  Either position -- secretary of state or chief of staff -- would be an appropriate reward for the whiz kid who was running the campaign of the first female president of the United States.

  "Elll-a-nor! Elll-a-nor!"

  The women, many with their arms interlocked and swaying to and fro, as if intoxicated with uncontrollable joy, were demanding an encore performance from their heroine.

  And they had every right to be angry after all those years of pig-headed conservative politics. Jackson wondered how this scene, at this moment being broadcast live in living rooms across America, was being viewed. Probably not too well in the South. But the general election was months away. Without California, there would be no general election. And Gallopoulous's political instincts told him that this scene was probably playing just fine in San Francisco and Los Angeles.

  Inside the situation room, members of the Yale mafia smiled, cackled, and high-fived one another.

  "Shhh," shushed Mary-Latham Modlin, the campaign's press secretary. "She's going to speak again."

  "Thank you! Thank you!" Eleanor Claxton remounted the podium, her larger-than-life image again beamed into the situation room via the large plasma screen.

  "We love you, Eleanor!" a gruff voice shouted. Cheering. Whistling.

  "I love you too!" She smiled, her dirty blonde hair chopped off at her collar. More cheering. She threw her arms out, made the V sign like Eisenhower, and shouted, "And I love America!"

  That set them off again.

  "Elll-a-nor! Elll-a-nor!"

  "And the America that I love..."

  "Elll-a-nor! Elll-a-nor!"

  "...is an America where there is equal justice for all!"

  "Elll-a-nor! Elll-a-nor!"

  "We will put an end to discrimination!"

  "Elll-a-nor! Elll-a-nor!"

  "I call upon this administration to end -- once and for all -- this anachronistic, outmoded, outdated, discriminatory policy in the military known as 'Don't ask, don't tell.'"

  Cheers, catcalls, and whistles sounded from every corner of the auditorium.

  "No American fighting for this country should be ashamed of who he or she really is. That's not what this great land of ours is about!"

  "Tell 'em, Eleanor!" a solitary voice shouted from the crowd.

  "Yes, I'll tell 'em!" The junior senator from Vermont shook her fist to more cheering." We will tell 'em!" The enthusiasm of the feminist crowd reached a fevered pitch. "We will tell this Williams administration to abolish 'Don't ask, don't tell,' or we will come to Washington and do what should have been done long ago.

  "We will restore equal rights for all Americans. For the gay. For the lesbian! For all Americans!" Wild cheering. The camera panned to some women wiping tears from their eyes.

  "And one other thing!" Eleanor Claxton shook her fist in the air. "We will end the trigger-happy involvement of this administration that has been so anxious to get us into foreign wars!"

  Pandemonium erupted.

  "At every opportunity, this administration has been too eager and ready to place the brave men and women of our armed forces in harm's way. Who does the president think he is?"

  Boos arose with the reference to President Mack Williams.

  "John Wayne?" Laughter. "Clint Eastwood?" More laughter. "Dirty Harry?" Still more laughter. Some women could be seen smiling and wiping tears from their eyes. The charisma of this great woman was overwhelming.

  "Well, let me tell you something ladies." A pregnant pause. "Soon there will be a new sheriff in town!"

  "Elll-a-nor! Elll-a-nor!"

  "A new sheriff... Thank you... Thank you..." Beaming, Claxton waved down the shouts of admiration. "Soon there will be a new sheriff in town who doesn't have to draw her six-shooters and point them at the world to show the world how tough she is!"

  "Elll-a-nor! Elll-a-nor!"

  "Thank you... Thank you..."

  "Elll-a-nor!"

  "God will help us..."

  "Eelllll-a-nor!"

  "Thank you." The crowd silenced again, and Claxton again shook her fist. Her voice exuded determined anger. "God will help us win California. God will help us win the Democratic nomination. God will help us win this election!" The crowd was on the precipice of a riot. "God will help us. Yes, she will! God will help us. Yes, she will!"

  Pandemonium resumed as the crowd picked up the chant. "God will help us. Yes, she will! God will help us. Yes, she will!"

  Senator Claxton stepped back, again threw her arms out with her fingers forming the V symbol, and shouted, "May God bless us. May she bless us richly. And may God bless America!"

  In the situation room, the Yale mafia broke into cheering as their heroine stepped out of view on the plasma screen.

  "Heads up, everybody. Get ready," Jackson Gallopoulous shouted. "She'll be here in five minutes. Get on your games. She'll want a report."

  Five minutes later, the double doors of the situation room flew open. Two black-suited Secret Ser vice agents burst in, followed in close proximity by Senator Claxton, who was followed by two more agents.

  The applause of the starry-eyed Yale mafia was drowned by the profanity-laced tirade of the junior senator from Vermont.

  "Who picked out this pantsuit that I had to wear out there?" Her shrill voice matched that of an angry hyena. After spewing a few select curse words, she added, "How many times have I said this beige makes me look too feminine?" Pin-drop silence. Her eyes swept the room. Jackson felt her stare bore into him, then move on to the next staffer. "Who do you people think our constituency is, anyway?" No answer. "The June Cleaver fan clubs of America?" Still no answer. "A bunch of Bible-thumping, anti-choice, what-can-I-do-for-my-man-today Southern belle idiots?"

  Silence.

  "Do you people realize this is California? And we need this state for the nomination? And we are in a tight race? And that was the National Organization for Women out there? And that some idiot on my campaign staff brings me a feminine, weak-looking, pale beige pantsuit and claims that all my navy blue pantsuits are in the hotel cleaners and then has the audacity to suggest that I wear a dress?"

  A chirping cell phone broke the tension-filled gap in the tirade.

  "This is a presidential campaign, people!" Claxton screamed over the sound of
the cell phone. "A presidential campaign!"

  "Please, Senator." Jackson hoped his voice would begin to calm the most recent of a thousand similar tantrums that the press had speculated on but that only the senator's staff had seen.

  Her eyes blazed.

  "Eleanor." He softened his voice. This time, something seemed to snap in her face; then her twisted, knotted cheek muscles relaxed and she began to mellow. At least to the extent that Eleanor Claxton could mellow.

  There, that was it. The face of brilliant reason that the country saw every night on television had returned to the situation room. If Jackson believed in God, he would have thanked him. But Yale had taught him that there is no God. Now he alone would take credit for taming the ferocious temper of the world's most powerful woman.

  "What is it, Jackson?" Claxton exhaled. She was not unattractive when she relaxed. In fact, Jackson found her to be appealing at times, a fact that may have led to rumors in the press that the two of them were an item.

  And on top of all that, there was the constant media speculation about the senator's mercurial relationship with her estranged husband, former Vice President Fred Claxton, the charismatic Democrat hero who would have been running for president himself had he not been impeached by the U.S. Senate and later convicted of perjury by the Republican-controlled House.

  "Senator, I think you knocked it out of the park."

  "Hmm." Claxton sighed. "Think so?"

  "What do you guys think?" Jackson glanced at the members of the Yale mafia.

  Mary-Latham Modlin started with three evenly spaced claps, and in a few seconds, the applause of the mafia sounded like furious raindrops on a tin roof, and the soon-to-be first female president of the United States was smiling again. "You were great, Senator," Mary-Latham gushed.

  "Yes, you were," agreed the others.

  "Okay, okay." Claxton smirked. "Let's all be seated. We need to review poll numbers."

  The senator motioned for them to be seated around the long conference table. Jackson caught Mary-Latham's gaze and saw visible relief in her eyes. Mary-Latham had arranged for the beige pantsuit to be brought to the senator's room because of polling data indicating that softer colors would help the senator's widespread appeal.