Defiance

by Don Brown

  "Laurie, one other thing. We've gotten some reports that this was some sort of gay rights rally. Have you been able to confirm that?"

  The attractive brunette nodded her head and paused for a moment, then fidgeted with her earpiece again. "Tom, there were citizens from all walks of life here. As we mentioned, women and children were here. Working people were here today. Now were some of them gay? Yes. Some were. But we don't know that all were. And those here today are saying this was not a gay rights rally, but rather a rally for civil rights."

  "Laurie McCaffity in San Diego, thank you for that report." Miller turned to the screen. "We're going to take a break now, and I'll be back with more from San Diego... right after this."

  Jackson Gallopoulous sat back with a loud sigh. "Wow."

  "What do you make of that?" Mary-Latham asked.

  "Mary-Latham." Eleanor's tone indicated that her mental gears were beginning to churn. "Draw up a statement condemning the violence, supporting the right of free speech, and attacking the navy's anti-gay policy as the root of this."

  "Jackson."

  "Yes, Eleanor."

  "Can you put together a presser in fifteen minutes in front of the Del?"

  "Tough but doable. Your press corps is already here."

  "Good. Do it. I want to be out front on this."

  "Yes, Eleanor."

  "And one other thing."

  "What's that?" Jackson asked.

  "Where's Mohammed?"

  "Down by the naval station... somewhere."

  "Get him on the line. I want him here in my suite for a briefing ASAP."

  "Consider it done."

  Courtroom 1, Building 1

  Navy-Marine Corp Trial Judiciary

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego, California

  Court-martial ofUnited States v. Lieutenant Wofford Eckberg, USN

  Day 2

  As the motorcade passed through the main gate of the naval station and turned right, Zack saw the circus of media trucks congregated outside Building 1.

  This was supposed to be a low-key trial. In fact, it wasn't supposed to be a trial at all. Not after the deal he'd worked out with Karen Jacoby. But after Karen's murder, and now after the near-ambush by a mob outside the naval station only moments ago, nothing was surprising.

  He glanced over at Shannon. Her cheeks, normally a healthy pink, had gone pale. "You okay?"

  "I'm fine." She shot him a forced smile. The Mercedes was now stopped right in front of the courthouse door. "Zack, do me a favor and wait for Raynor and Wesner before you step out the door. Okay?"

  "No problem." Zack regretted the hard time he'd given her as they crossed Harbor Drive.

  "Thanks."

  He looked out the passenger window. Another mob was stampeding toward the car. This mob was armed with microphones and cameras and bright lights.

  "Not again."

  "Something's not right about all this," Shannon said.

  "No joke," Zack replied. "I smell a rat."

  "Commander Brewer! Commander Brewer!" they yelled through the glass. Their blinding strobes, now aimed at the car, outshone the morning sun.

  "Step aside! Move that camera!" Zack looked over and saw the mob of reporters parting like the waters of the Red Sea. Like Moses and Aaron leading the troops, Wesner and Raynor were charging down the middle, gesticulating with their hands against the cameras and lights and leading a small platoon of armed marines behind them.

  The marines, in battle fatigues, formed two walls of six, making a corridor from the car to the front door of the courthouse. Mike Wesner opened the door for Zack. "Ready when you are, Commander."

  "Thank God for the NCIS and for the United States Marine Corps," Zack muttered, then stepped out onto the asphalt.

  "Commander Brewer!"

  "Commander Brewer!"

  Zack stepped into the tunnel of exploding flashbulbs and strode through the press hounds, determined to ignore their questions.

  "Is this case about the navy's antiquated policies against gay Americans?"

  He smiled, nodded, and held up his palm. "No comment."

  "Shouldn't the navy prosecute those sailors who broke Eckberg's collarbone?"

  He smiled again, nodded again, and said once more, "No comment."

  The next question, just as he stepped into the entryway of the courthouse, stopped him in his tracks. "Commander Brewer, what do you think of Web Wallace stepping in as defense counsel in this case?"

  Web Wallace? Longtime Democratic strategist and counsel to the Claxton campaign? That Web Wallace? Wallace was no Wells Levin-son. He had to say something. Either that or look like a deer in the headlights.

  "My time is limited right now, so I say only this. It doesn't matter who represents the defendant. If that's Mr. Wallace, fine. He has a reputation for excellence in his field. If someone else, so be it. Regardless, I expect justice to prevail."

  "But, Commander... Commander!"

  Zack stepped into the entryway of the military courthouse, turned to the reporters, and, like a president about to board Air Force One, gave a sweeping half-moon wave to the clamoring mob.

  A minute later, he entered the courtroom, its galleries jam-packed by members of the press. He strode down the center aisle and opened the swinging wooden gate that separated the gallery from the counsel area. The senior defense counsel, Lieutenant Commander Harvey Carpenter, in his summer white uniform, sat where Karen Jacoby had sat just two days ago -- in the lead counsel's spot closest to the prosecution table. The accused, Ensign Eckberg, also decked in summer whites, sat just to Carpenter's right at the defense counsel table. To Eckberg's right, sitting on the right side of the defense counsel table in the chair farthest from the jury box, was a distinguished-looking man with silver hair, his face deeply tanned with few wrinkles, the apparent product of multiple Botox injections.

  Both the silver-haired man and Commander Carpenter nodded as Zack laid his briefcase on the prosecution table. Eckberg stared straight ahead.

  So it was true.

  Web Wallace had wormed his way into a military courtroom and into this case.

  The reporters. The mob scene at the entrance of the naval station. The Neanderthal witch hunt comments.

  There was a rat behind all this -- a stench-laden political rat lurking in the shadows named Eleanor Claxton. Rage boiled. He wanted to slam his fist on the table.

  Love one another. The words percolated in his mind from his morning study of First John. Anyone who hates his brother is a murderer.

  A deep exhale. The words from the Holy Book, yet again, calmed his anger.

  He sat, alone for the moment, at the prosecution table and extracted a small photo from his wallet. She had been the focus of his most daring prosecution to date. A wave of emotion swept over him at the image of the smiling little Jewish girl with curly locks who had died at the Wailing Wall over a year ago in a terrorist attack. He'd gone to war for her in a courtroom in Jerusalem. The trial had nearly cost him his life when a bomb exploded in the courtroom. God bless Anna Kweskin. God bless her family here on earth.

  He pulled a second picture from his shirt pocket. This photo he handled as a precious, fragile ornament. He placed it on the table next to Anna Kweskin's image.

  The second photo showed a stunning redheaded woman wearing the white uniform of a navy lieutenant with the insignia of a member of the Judge Advocate General's Corps. "All rise!"

  There was a clomping and shuffling of feet at the bailiff's cry. Zack rose to his feet. But his eyes did not search for the tall military judge, who could be heard walking across the hardwood floor to the bench. The image of Diane Colcernian kept Zack's eyes glued to the counsel table.

  "Please be seated," Judge Reeves said.

  "I don't know what's about to happen, but this is for you, baby," he whispered. "For you."

  "We're back on the record in the case of United States versus Ensign Wofford Eckberg, USN." Captain Reeves wore an uncharacteristic wor
ried look on his face. "The record should reflect that the accused is present in the courtroom, along with trial counsel, Lieutenant Commander Brewer. The record should also reflect that detailed defense counsel" -- Reeves's voice shook, then cracked -- "Lieutenant Karen Jacoby is not present."

  The courtroom was pin-drop silent. The judge's hand trembled as he brought a glass of water to his lips, and the water shook even as he tried to sip it.

  Lord, give him strength.

  Even as he breathed the prayer, the affable North Dakotan's eyes took on the glaze of tears.

  Zack stood quickly. "Your Honor, the government requests a thirty-minute recess."

  "Granted." Captain Reeves gave Zack a quick nod of appreciation.

  "All rise!"

  Reeves moved his gaze away from the gallery, and at a pace more rapid than Zack had ever witnessed in his dozens of appearances before the military judge, Reeves hurried from the courtroom and into the judge's chambers, almost slamming the door behind him.

  First whispers, then a roar of commotion morphed into a cacophonous chorus of voices from behind.

  "Commander Brewer..."

  "Commander Brewer..."

  Strobes flashed as the press hounds snapped.

  "Lieutenant Commander Brewer, has Judge Reeves broken down like this before?" a loud voice called out over the roar.

  "Stand back!" ordered NCIS Special Agent Mike Wesner.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, you'll have to stand back, please." A shore patrolmen on the courtroom security detail stepped in beside Wesner.

  "Commander Brewer..."

  Zack waved off the questioner.

  "Mr. Wallace..."

  Their questions faded into the background. The overwhelming reality of the weekend was sinking in now. Karen Jacoby, a young naval JAG officer, a young woman with a mother and a father, had a family that loved her more than life back in -- he didn't even know where she was from. First Diane. Then Anna Kweskin. And now Karen.

  Death.

  Why so much so close to his heart in such a short time? Was he so callous that he was losing the sensitivity that even a senior naval officer like Captain Reeves was showing in public over Karen's murder?

  He closed his eyes and saw the sparkling look in Karen's eyes just two days ago. It was a look he'd seen many times over the last five years. The bewildered yet excited look of a brand-new JAG officer fresh out of justice school and about to try her first case. Now it was all gone.

  Like a river overflowing its banks after a rainstorm, brokenness welled in his chest, boiling to his neck and throat.

  Zack swiped at the water that filled his eyes.

  Shannon picked up her cell phone and dialed the preprogrammed number of Special Agent Wesner. A moment later he was on the line.

  "Mike, what's the situation at the courthouse?"

  "On a break right now. Zack just arrived in the attorneys' lounge. Everything's under control."

  "Listen, Mike, I've got to drive downtown to headquarters to meet Barry. I've called in for more backup, but I want you to stay on Zack like white on rice. Got it?"

  "Understood."

  "We've got something hot cooking. I don't know when I'll be back. But if I'm not back at the close of court, tell Zack that Captain Rudy is ordering him to the Navy Lodge at North Island tonight. One of the legalmen will bring over written orders from Navy Trial Command. The orders will be delivered to you. But don't give them to Zack until you break for the day. We don't want him distracted. Are you with me?"

  "Loud and clear."

  "When we take Zack out of here tonight, I want you to arrange for an unmarked, windowless panel truck to drive him over to North Island. We'll leave the Mercedes here on base. Got it?"

  "Roger that."

  "Call me if even a seagull flies within a mile of our guy. Got it?"

  "Don't worry, Shannon."

  "I'm not worried," Shannon lied, then turned left onto Harbor Drive, unnoticed by the police, protestors, and reporters lingering outside the gate of the naval station.

  NCIS Southwest Field Office

  A Street and Sixth Avenue

  San Diego, California

  Fifteen minutes later

  Thick gray cigar smoke hung in the room, making Barry barely visible as Shannon stepped into his office. He leaned back in his black chair, his feet propped on his big desk, with a phone cradled under his neck. The fat cigar was a source of contention with some of the health-conscious Southern Californian career bureaucrats working in administrative roles around the offices. Barry was one of those who could get away with flaunting certain government rules, knowing full well the bureaucratic power structure in Washington would do nothing about it. He knew it; career bureaucrats knew it.

  For his part, Barry had showed his "sensitivity" to his nonsmoking coworkers by opening his office window and spending his own money at Target for an exhaust fan in the window. It was about as effective as a Band-Aid on a gushing artery.

  Shannon never complained about the smoke. Women who wanted to advance in NCIS couldn't afford to complain about things sacred to the good ol' boys' network. Besides, Barry's habit could have been worse. Cigarettes were much nastier.

  Barry waved her in, then covered the phone and whispered, "I've got the director on the line." He was referring to the new national director of the NCIS, Dr. Graham Jones.

  An ex-naval officer with a PHD in criminal psychology, Jones had spent time with the FBI before becoming the agent in charge of NCIS agents all over the world. Little was known about Jones, except that he had a reputation as a "tough investigator." At least that's what the Williams administration claimed when he was appointed as director one month ago.

  The private scuttlebutt on Jones, at least among NCIS agents, said that he was a political appointee -- his uncle was Raymond Jones of Oklahoma, a powerful member of the House Ways and Means Committee -- and that the director himself, at the young age of thirty, harbored his own political aspirations within the Republican Party.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Director" --Barry motioned for Shannon to sit in one of the two wooden chairs in front of his desk -- "Special Agent McGillvery just walked in."

  Shannon sat, fanning the smoke with her hands.

  "Yes, sir... Yes, sir. By all means, sir." Barry hit a button and the line switched over to speakerphone. "Okay, Mr. Director, you're on the speakerphone now. Special Agent McGillvery is the only one here."

  "Good morning, Shannon. Graham Jones here." The director's voice was Southern, friendly, and distinctively political.

  "Good morning, Mr. Director. It's an honor, sir."

  "From what I've heard of your work during the Quasay case, the honor is mine."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "First, let me compliment you in your work in providing protection to Commander Brewer..."

  Cut the bull and get to the point, Mr. Director.

  "...and in your fine work in getting this report from this Father Robert."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "I wanted to discuss this report in a little more detail with you."

  "Yes, sir."

  "As soon as Barry forwarded this report to Washington last night, our intelligence people commenced our analysis, and we've forwarded it up the chain of command."

  "May I ask how far up the chain of command, sir?"

  "Sure. The secretary of the navy has been briefed, and the report has been forwarded to the secretary of defense's office, to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and to the National Security Council."

  "Is the president aware of it?"

  "I don't know. Possibly, but right now the memo is being worked at the SECNAV level." The director pronounced the abbreviation as "Seck Nav," referring to the secretary of the navy.

  In other words, SECNAV is sitting on this and doesn't see enough political value to push it up the chain of command.

  "Mr. Secretary, is there anything at all I can do to assist SECNAV's office in their work on the memo?"

  "Frankly, SECNA
V is concerned about authenticity."

  "Authenticity?"

  "I'm sure you understand that, politically, the secretary of the navy cannot stake his reputation on a piece of paper that was intercepted under questionable circumstances. As director of NCIS, I must know that we've got something credible before I stake my reputation on pushing this thing up the chain of command."

  Bureaucrats.

  "I mean, we've got a JAG officer murdered, for which I have no answers. And now we've got this shooting in a mob scene out in San Diego with claims the marines are involved in firing into a crowd. As you might imagine, the secretary wants answers about all this. I mean, this shooting into a crowd of civilians, if the marines are involved, is a real powder keg for the administration.

  "We've got Eleanor Claxton raising Cain. The administration is fighting a public relations war, and SECNAV wants answers. Shannon, these are delicate times. I'm sure you will understand my position. We must be careful, from a political standpoint, about how we focus our fire."

  A moment of silence.

  Shannon glanced at Barry, who at that moment was firing up another Monte Cristo. He took a drag, then gave her a what can I say? shrug.

  "Mr. Director," Shannon said, "we've got officers on a potential kidnap list. We're already missing one officer. What if Lieutenant Commander Colcernian is still alive out there somewhere? Can't we run this up the chain a little more aggressively, sir?"

  "Shannon," the director replied, his voice turning authoritative, "the navy posthumously promoted Diane Colcernian to lieutenant commander. In the eyes of the navy, she is dead. In scanning her file this morning, I see that that determination was based on the analysis of one Shannon McGillvery."

  "I could have been wrong, sir."

  "Shannon, what do you want me to do? Ask the secretary of the navy to ask the secretary of defense to ask the president to send the navy looking for her somewhere?"

  That's exactly what I want you to do.

  "Shannon, I know you're a great agent, but we have limited resources. Even if these papers are legitimate, the whole notion that Colcernian may be alive out there somewhere just because she was on a kidnap list is one in a billion, in my opinion."