Probity: A Legal Suspense Novel

by Thomas Gatta

  PROBITY

  A Legal Suspense Novel

  Thomas Gatta

  ¶

  PRONOUN

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  All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

  Copyright © 2017 by Thomas Gatta

  Interior design by Pronoun

  Distribution by Pronoun

  ISBN: 9781508072508

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Probity

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  You know who you are. With love and gratitude always. Thank you.

  Note:

  This novel is based loosely on press accounts of a raid an unidentified Afghan-American force carried out in 2009 in Kunar Province, Afghanistan, but the book is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, places, circumstances, and events portrayed in the novel are fabricated or products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or to actual circumstances and events, is unintended and coincidental.

  PROBITY

  - 1 -

  October 2015, Alexandria, Virginia

  Sometimes doing a great right can feel more than a little wrong. Kate looked down at her hands as she sat in the courtroom. Her nails were chipped and the cuticles jagged, not like the perfectly manicured and painted ones she looked at in women’s magazines. But her life was that way. Damaged. In need of repair.

  The US Deputy Assistant Attorney, David Sommers, had called Kate to testify in a case the Eastern District of Virginia was prosecuting against Sean Bennett. The prosecution and the State were convinced that Sean had “exceeded his brief” in Afghanistan and killed Afghan civilians, most specifically a group of school children in Khandahar.

  Kate believed the prosecutor’s case was circumstantial. After all, the killings had taken place years ago, and how were Virginia legal authorities to gather evidence? Sean had told Kate that he had killed Afghans, “rag heads,” while assigned to the Afghan theater. He’d even written her e-mails talking about all the “slaying” he’d been doing. And Kate knew Sean was convinced he was doing the right, patriotic thing. He was destroying the enemy before the enemy could kill US servicemen. As Sean said, that was the objective, ultimately.

  Kate had known Sean for years. They both worked for the same, almost non-existent, employer, the Pentagon’s Special Unit (SU). Years ago, the then President had ordered the SU established to enable the Pentagon to conduct complex missions. The top brass could call upon the SU to discreetly resolve problems. If the SU did its job, the Pentagon wouldn’t have to respond to touchy situations by sending in large numbers of military forces, making long-term commitments, and risking a domestic outcry. Just how much money the SU received—millions of dollars—and how many people worked for the SU—a lot—was sensitive. No one wanted to admit to any records relating to the unit.

  SU Command Central wasn’t even located in the Pentagon or in Florida with the Special Operations Command (SOCOM). Instead, the SU had its headquarters in an obscure office building in Herndon, Virginia, amid the dot-com startups. The SU’s operatives were known to insiders as “the Ghosts.” They were elite civilian commandos, many of whom had previously served in the military. And because the Ghosts were civilians, the Pentagon could easily report that none of its troops were involved if a special mission went bad. The SU was a constant irritant to SOCOM and to the CIA, the US Government Agency legally allowed to conduct covert action.

  Kate knew Sean, who was one of the Ghosts, considered himself above her touch for a long-term relationship, but they’d shared some interesting times during their work together. And Sean confided in her, particularly when he ran afoul of his current girlfriend or the bureaucracy at Command Central. That was why she was sitting in this courtroom—Sean’s private conversations with her. Not that the lawyers knew about them.

  Kate reflected that she wasn’t anything special. She was just a thirty-eight-year-old targeter for the SU. She had a mediocre body, a mediocre career, a mediocre bank balance, and no immediate prospects for improvements.

  Kate looked over at Sean, who was lounging at the defense table with his lawyer Simon Smith. The attorney was okay. Medium-brown everything. But Sean was gorgeous. In his late thirties, he wasn’t all that tall, maybe five feet eleven, but his body was lean and muscled—perfect for his Ghost work. Sean’s light brown, almost blond hair and blue eyes earned him multiple looks from the women in the courtroom. Kate thought that all the other men present had reason to hate him. Added to his looks, Sean had charm. He flashed a smile frequently that caused women’s hearts to race, and he was the “real thing.” He was the “golden boy next door” warrior, fighting for his country. Sean even liked dogs—he had a huge St. Bernard—and he drove cool cars. His latest acquisition was a red, 1972 Corvette. He had restored it to revving, virile beauty. It fit him.

  Kate’s attention shifted back to the prosecutor as he finished his opening statement. What a drone. Sommers, a fifty-something apparatchik with graying black hair and glasses, was telling the jury he intended to prove that Sean had murdered a group of Afghan school children. Sommers also claimed he intended to call witnesses who could attest that Sean had no military authorization to commit what the prosecutor called atrocities. Hah. Sean was a former Army enlisted officer. Would he go that far beyond orders?

  Kate wasn’t looking forward to testifying. She did not want to get into more trouble.

  - 2 -

  David Sommers stacked his files carefully before placing them in his briefcase and turning to his co-prosecutor, Madeline Kozak. “I think we’ve made a good enough start for today, Maddie. We can discuss our strategy for tomorrow when we get back to the office. I’ll want you to take the lead from now on until the closing.” Maddie nodded. “Fine, I want to grab some coffee and something to eat, and I’ll meet you in your office in about 30 minutes.” Maddie had worked through lunch and was starting to get shaky. Tall, blond, 31 years old, and a CrossFit addict, Maddie needed caffeine and calories.

  Sommers replied, “Good. I want you to examine several of the witnesses tomorrow, and we need to plan carefully.”

  Thirty minutes later, Maddie was seated with Sommers at the conference table in his office. Although she was assisting in the case, much of the investigatory work was hers, not Sommers’. He was the face; she was the brain, in her view. Sommers had political ambitions. She didn’t. Maddie did have school debts to pay—some $150,000 to Syracuse Law—and she intended, once she’d gained trial experience, to move from the Eastern District of Virginia Prosecutor’s office to a firm that would help her defray her school expenses more quickly. This case could earn her a name. And it was a case she wanted to do.

  Maddie believed Sommers accepted that he had to be involved because the case was “high profile.” Nonetheless, he probably thought his involvement would only hurt his political chances. So, Sommers would go through the motions, but he was leery of the Government prosecuting a “war hero.” That was why he wanted Maddie to do much of the witness examinations.

  Sommers, with his coffee cup before him and removing his file folders from his case, asked Maddie, “So, who do you intend to call first tomorrow? I would suggest that you call Bennett’s supervisors, so you can inform the jury of what Bennett’s orders were.”

  “I want to begin calling members of Bennett’s team. These are the men who were with him in Khandahar and can speak to what
he did and their perceptions of Bennett’s orders. Calling Bennett’s supervisors first will put the jury to sleep. They’re bureaucrats, and they are going to spin and obfuscate.” Maddie paused, looked at how tightly Sommers was gripping his pen, and reflected that that was just what Sommers wanted. Get the jury to snooze off and eventually get Bennett freed. Sommers could look upright; he’d investigated, prosecuted, and the results exonerated the defendant and his managers. Just what Sommers needed for his political adds. Maddie could just see the Washington Post headline, “Public Prosecutor Pursues Tough Case, Says Justice Serves Special Unit War Hero.” What a crock.

  Maddie continued, “I want to call Bennett’s second in command, Robert Mortimer, first. I think he can set the scene for the jury and help it understand what the conditions were like. He also can comment on Bennett’s orders. Then, depending on the time, I’ll call some of the other members of Bennett’s team in Khandahar.”

  Sommers leaned back from the table, looked over his glasses at Maddie, and said, “Why take that approach? Do you want all the grisly details out at the start? Why not wait and avoid grossing out the jury? I mean, really, this guy is a war hero. He was trying to get the bad guys who were laying IEDs and killing our troops.”

  Sommers continued, “Look, Maddie, we’re pursuing this case because we have to. Someone reported it to the Oversight Committees, and they want it dealt with. We have to do that, but we don’t have to drag a good man and his team through the mud. Nor do we have to take on the Pentagon and its Special Unit. We won’t win at that. I have SU lawyers breathing down my neck already about what we can and can’t reveal in the courtroom. And we can’t reveal much. Hell, in most cases, we can’t even give real names.”

  Maddie looked back at Sommers and said, “David, we’re pursuing this case because we have a responsibility to do so. You’ve seen the evidence and the witness statements. How can you think nothing happened out in Khandahar?”

  Sommers replied, “Not nothing, but certainly not the evil things we will need to outline to make our case. The public doesn’t want to hear yet again that good soldiers do bad things. And the Pentagon isn’t going to want to take the blame as an institution. That’s not in its history. Even if it did authorize killings, it’s not going to admit to it. So, what do you hope to accomplish? You’ll have days of testimony, at a high cost to the taxpayers, and the results will be the same. The jury won’t find Bennett guilty. They won’t want to. Good God, look at the man. He’s everyone’s ideal of the ‘boy next door’ soldier who’s done God’s work in defeating terrorists.”

  “David, Bennett killed civilians who weren’t terrorists. He massacred school children. How can you think that’s not evil?”

  “They were illiterate Afghans, Maddie. Their allegiances were for sale. And, even if they weren’t terrorists themselves, they probably were connected to people who were targeting our troops. Hell, your husband was killed in Afghanistan by one of those IEDs. Why do you want to go after Bennett so badly?”

  Maddie’s fingers shook slightly as she placed her pen next to her legal pad on the table. She pushed a strand of blond hair behind her ear and said, “Fine, David. I take your point that we may not win. But I’m going to do my best to do so. And Mike was killed in Afghanistan trying to make a difference. He believed duty matters. He also thought we could help the Afghan people. Allowing someone like Bennett who did wrong things to get a pass won’t honor Mike’s memory. And for the record, Mike was Army, not part of the SU’s Ghost forces. Army personnel operate according to the laws of war. The Army will prosecute its men for violating those norms, particularly relating to violence against civilians. The Army has to. That’s what makes the US Army better than the enemies they’re fighting. Perhaps the SU needs to ensure that its people also abide by those standards. Why do its forces get a pass?”

  Sommers frowned, leaned across the table toward Maddie, and said, “Oh don’t lecture and get all self-righteous with me, Missy hot pants. You think you have all the answers on what’s right and what’s not? You think your bright, shiny Syracuse Law degree establishes you as the moral authority? See what the jury says. Believe me; it isn’t going to convict Bennett and his boys. Hell, moviegoers at that ‘Sniper’ film were chanting for the sniper guy, Chris Kyle, to shoot. Americans aren’t going to see anything wrong in Bennett’s actions. Nor do the Committee members really want us to find anything. They booted their report of wrongdoing to main Justice. The lawyers there asked us to pursue the case because they didn’t want to. Justice doesn’t want to go against the SU, and the Committee members want to get reelected. Morals are an expensive thing. Few of us want to pay the cost.”

  Maddie put her hands on the edge of the table, pushed back her chair, and rose. She looked Sommers in the eye and told him, “If you ever call me ‘Missy hot pants’ again, I will kick you in the balls. And if you don’t want me on the case, fine. I’ll withdraw. You can see what nasty things stick to you after the trial’s done. But, understand this, I will go to the press and explain that your political ambitions have undermined your interest in fully prosecuting this case.”

  Sommers leaned back and laughed. “Maddie, I’ll look like I’m defending the brave SU officers against the mean, misinformed Government. People are fascinated with the idea of a Ghost unit working for the Pentagon.”

  Maddie glared at Sommers and said, “Really, or will you look like you’re incompetent and negligent? And an apologist for the SU? Is that what you want?”

  Sommers leaned toward Maddie. “You’re bluffing, sweetheart. And I’m not an apologist; I’m a defender against its ill-informed detractors. Apparently of which you are one.”

  Maddie reached over, picked up Sommer’s coffee cup and dumped the contents into Sommer’s lap. “Too bad it’s not hot. Do you really want to call my bluff? I’m heading for the District Attorney’s office to register my formal complaint against your sexist comments. Decide whether you want me on the case or not.” Maddie slammed the door on her way out.

  - 3 -

  Portia, the secretary for Andrew Cohen, the District of Attorney for the Eastern District of Virginia, peered over her reading glasses at Maddie as she strode into the office. “Uh oh. Has Sommers been an ass again?” Portia was graying, slightly dumpy, and had three daughters who had graduated from top law schools. She knew pretty much everything worth knowing in the office.

  Maddie took a deep breath and said, “Yes, and I’m not helping any. I need to see the DA and explain before Sommers does. Is he in?”

  Portia smiled gently and said, “Yes, have a seat for a minute, and I’ll let him know you’d like to speak with him.” Portia picked up the phone while Maddie plopped down in a leather armchair, crossed her legs, and studied one of her shiny red high-heeled shoes.

  “Okay, the DA can see you now,” Portia said.

  Maddie got up and knocked gently on the DA’s door. She entered at his low “Come on in.”

  Andrew Cohen was in his mid-fifties and was a long-time prosecutor who had worked his way up through the system. He had so far eschewed politics for courtrooms and classrooms, which Maddie thought was rather too bad. Cohen was genuinely interested in people, and he might be a good legislator. Certainly better than Sommers would ever be and far more honest, Maddie thought.

  She told Cohen, “Sir, I think I’ve baited the badger a bit – but with good reason!”

  Cohen gestured toward a chair in front of his desk and said, “Maddie, please have a seat and explain what’s going on for me.”

  Maddie seated herself and described what had just happened with Sommers and his “Missy hot pants” and “sweetheart” comments.

  She told Cohen, “I know the names, in themselves, are pretty mild, really—I mean, who calls someone ‘missy hot pants’ in this day and age?” Maddie shrugged, gestured to her outfit—a conservative gray pantsuit and white blouse, with her one concession to fashion being the red shoes—and smiled slightly. Then she said, “I really think Somme
rs’ labels are a tactic he’s using to demean me and undermine my confidence in the case. He’d rather not pursue it, despite Justice and the Oversight Committees asking us to do so.”

  Cohen leaned forward and splayed his hands out across the top of his desk, knocking off a few papers from the piles scattered on the surface. He said, “Maddie, I know Sommers is an ass, everyone does. And he’s an ambitious ass. He wants to stay on the good side of the Pentagon, the Committees, and the public. He’s afraid this case will taint him. Sure, it could make him look like he supports ‘truth, justice, the American way,’ and all that wonderful stuff, but it also could go the other way and poison his political prospects. Plus he’s afraid of you. You’re young, but you’ve got a first-class education and mind that make you more of a lawyer than he’ll ever be. Not to mention your bringing up moral dilemmas that make him profoundly uncomfortable—or at least I think he should be uncomfortable if he thought enough about them.”

  Cohen leaned back, removed his glasses, and looked up at the ceiling. After a short pause he said, “And isn’t that what this case is about? Moral dilemmas? And how the justice system responds? Everyone has a view about what’s right and what’s not. Bennett may be a saint or an Eichmann, depending on your view. But we are left, at the end, with our laws and what they say about acts and consequences. It’s the law, not political parties or public opinion that should make the difference.”

  Cohen looked down at his desk and smiled, “Have you seen the picture of my new cat?”

  “What?” Maddie responded.

  “My cat,” said Cohen, handing over a framed picture of a fat, furry gray face dominated by huge golden eyes.

  “I found him wandering the neighborhood. He was emaciated, sick, and flea-bitten. My wife said he belonged to the neighbors down the street and that he cruised the area around our house looking for food. Now why wouldn’t the neighbors look after him? He seemed a friendly fellow.”