Every Secret Thing

by Rebecca Hartt

  “Did you then say Washington, D.C. needed to be burned to the ground for that to happen?”

  Dwyer waved a negligent hand. “Retired Navy SEAL Dick Marcinko wrote that in a book. I never said it.”

  “But didn’t you say, and I quote, ‘Our enemies can’t strike at us if we steal their weapons first. We amass them and we control them because, in the end, power means peace.’ Are those not your words, Commander?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” O’Rourke intoned. “This line of questioning is irrelevant!”

  Englert beetled his thick eyebrows. “Denied. Answer the question, Commander.”

  Dwyer shrugged. “I may have said something like that. So what?”

  Carew looked him in the eye. “Did you then offer to make Lieutenant Mills your executive officer, provided he agreed with your radical political beliefs?”

  Dwyer expressed puzzlement. “What’s so radical about wanting to make the world safe again?”

  Carew tried again. “What happened to your last executive officer?”

  Dwyer dropped his gaze and shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry to say he took his life two weeks ago.”

  “How unfortunate.” Carew raised eyebrows at the panel as if to suggest there was more to Lowery’s suicide than met the eye.

  Englert interrupted. “Counselor, need I remind you to stick to the events occurring on Labor Day?”

  Chastised for seeming to stray off-topic, Carew lost momentary traction. An uncomfortable silence fell over the chamber as the young lawyer scanned her notes, looking for the best way to continue. Charlotte found herself holding her breath.

  At last, Carew looked up with confidence, and Charlotte was free to exhale.

  “Commander, are you aware that your late executive officer, James Lowery, sent top-secret information via emails to unauthorized recipients?”

  Dwyer darted a nervous look at his lawyer, who sang out on a victorious note, “Objection. I believe we just established we are sticking to events occurring on Labor Day.”

  “Sustained.” The judge’s voice held an edge of impatience.

  “Yes, sir. Let me start again. Commander Dwyer, on Labor Day morning, when you went to the range to meet with Lieutenant Mills, did you send your secretary, Miss Monica Trembley, to your office with instructions to break into Master Chief Rivera’s office and remove from his locked desk a journal belonging to the deceased SEAL Blake LeMere?”

  Charlotte whispered to Lucas, “Where is Rivera?”

  “Couldn’t come. He’s in charge with Dwyer out.”

  Dwyer’s expression turned cautious. “Of course not. I would never violate Master Chief Rivera’s sanctum.”

  Carew sent him a thin smile. “And yet I have Miss Trembley’s written testimony stating exactly that—Exhibit C, Your Honor.”

  Dwyer flicked a dark glance at Monica who folded her arms across her chest.

  Carew continued. “Miss Trembley’s written statement says she delivered the journal into your hands that same day. Can you tell us what was in the journal you didn’t want anyone to see?”

  Dwyer’s jaw jumped. “No, I cannot. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Were you aware that your late executive officer sent classified information via email to unauthorized recipients?” Carew waved the printouts that Charlotte had gotten from her godfather.

  “Objection,” O’Rourke protested yet again. “How is any of this relevant to the charges?”

  This time Englert agreed with him. “Sustained. You will drop this line of questioning, Counselor.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Carew didn’t look too put out that she’d been derailed. The printouts in her hand had managed to serve their purpose, raising questions in the panel members’ minds as to whether Lowery, now dead, had sent illicit emails on Dwyer’s behalf.

  “No more questions, Your Honor.”

  Charlotte heaved a silent sigh. If only the panel could be told about Dwyer’s association to the weapons being stored in Sabena. Then they would know how conniving and dishonest he was.

  The thwack of Englert’s gavel gave Carew a reprieve before the defense stated its case.

  “Court will take a brief recess, reconvening in thirty minutes.”

  With a general murmur of relief, people got up to stretch their legs. Saul startled Charlotte by bolting out of his seat. Leaving the pew to let others out, she watched him close in on a drab woman sitting near the prosecution.

  “Who’s Saul talking to?” Charlotte asked as Lucas sidled up beside her.

  “I don’t know,” he said, following her gaze. “Wait, is that LeMere’s widow? Wow, she looks really different.”

  Offering her hand to Saul, the painfully thin woman shot a wary look at the prosecutor.

  Charlotte could tell, even from a distance, LeMere’s widow had the potential to be beautiful but took no pains with her appearance. Her hair was lank, and she wore no makeup.

  “Don’t tell me she’s married to O’Rourke now,” Charlotte commented.

  “No. I would have heard about that,” Lucas assured her. Then, with Monica demanding to speak with him a moment, he rolled his eyes and then left Charlotte standing in the aisle by herself.

  Giving up on Saul, who looked completely absorbed, Charlotte left the crowded chamber in search of a water fountain.

  Given Jaguar’s lineup of witnesses, things didn’t look too bleak from the present vantage.

  Chapter 17

  Thirty minutes later, Charlotte watched Counselor Carew blow out a steadying breath before approaching the stand to question Saul, the first witness. The visual impact of Saul in a crisp white uniform, resplendent with service medals and wearing a neatly queued ponytail, kept the onlookers riveted as Captain Englert swore him in.

  “Chief Wade,” Carew began, “kindly tell the court what happened on Labor Day morning when you accompanied Lieutenant Mills to the skeet-and-trap range.”

  In his laid-back drawl, Saul proceeded to explain how he’d been denied entrance at the clubhouse door.

  “In that case, Commander Dwyer and Mr. Bob Fripp were the only two people actually on the range with Lieutenant Mills. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was sitting on the hood of my car when I got a text from my troop leader advising me to keep an eye on Lieutenant Mills.”

  “Did he say why, Chief?”

  “No ma’am. But the circumstances of Lieutenant Mills’s disappearance the year before might have played into it.”

  Lucas glanced at the Stork, expecting him to object, but he didn’t.

  “Please continue, Chief.”

  Saul nodded. “Only way to see Lieutenant Mills was to get on the roof of the clubhouse. I took my hunting rifle with the scope so I could see him better and went up the trellis. I’d just located them on the range when I saw Lieutenant Mills go rollin’ off the edge of the platform, grabbing up his shotgun before he fell. The CO fired at him and missed, and Lieutenant Mills dived under the platform looking for protection.”

  “Are you saying you saw Commander Dwyer fire the first shot?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And the second one, too, straight down at the lieutenant, who was underneath him, pinned. I knew if I didn’t deter the CO, he’d hit his mark, so I shot at a spot close to his feet, distracting him and giving the lieutenant a chance to slip out of there.”

  “Did Lieutenant Mills know it was you who took the shot?”

  “Don’t think he could see me, but we’ve gone hunting together, so he recognized the report of my rifle. Soon as he heard it, he bolted out of there. I covered him so he could get from one trap to another and use them for cover on his way to the fence.”

  “Did Dwyer fire at him again?”

  “Yes, ma’am, five more times. Seven total.”

  “Are you sure that number is accurate?”

  “I’m a sniper, ma’am. Counting bullets is second nature. He was shooting a pump-action riot shotgun with a standard choke. They hold up to
ten shells. Lieutenant Mills’s shotgun only held five.”

  “How many times did Lieutenant Mills fire back?”

  “Only once.”

  “Did you, at some point, shoot Dwyer’s weapon out of his grasp, causing injury to his hand?”

  “Yes, ma’am, to give Lieutenant Mills a chance at getting over the fence. Needing both his hands free to climb it, he put his shotgun down. And, even though I injured the CO’s right hand, he managed to get another shot off.”

  “Please clarify. Commander Dwyer shot at the back of an unarmed man?” Carew expressed astonishment even though she knew the story.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A murmur of disapproval rolled through the rows of Navy SEALs.

  “Thank you, Chief.” Carew swung a triumphant look at Captain O’Rourke. “Your witness, Counselor.”

  O’Rourke stood up, meandered over to the defense’s table, and picked up the same poster Carew had used earlier. He showed it to Saul. “You say Commander Dwyer fired seven times at Lieutenant Mills? How is it that Dwyer is the only one injured, while Lieutenant Mills appears in perfect health?”

  The question didn’t appear to faze Saul. “Because every time he went to shoot, I laid a bullet at his feet. You can’t shoot and dance at the same time, sir,” Saul added, drawing snickers from the SEALs in the audience.

  O’Rourke didn’t look at all amused. “Chief Wade, if you were, in fact, on the roof of the skeet-and-trap range, why is there no record of your testimony in the investigation report?”

  Saul sat back, folding his arms across his chest, and sneered. “’Cause they ignored my testimony. ’Cause someone at NCIS is in bed with Dwyer.”

  The Stork cocked his head in disbelief. “Or,” he added, supplying another explanation, “you came up with this story after the fact, in order to help out your teammate.”

  O’Rourke looked back at the judge. “Your Honor will see for himself, there’s no mention in the original investigation, or any subsequent investigation, of Chief Wade having ever been present at the skeet-and-trap range. We can assume, therefore, that he has made up his entire testimony.”

  Saul began to scowl. His face turned a dull shade of red, causing Charlotte to catch his eye and will him to keep his cool.

  The Stork wasn’t done with him. “I have one more point to make. Chief Wade, how long have you been in the service?”

  Saul regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Over fifteen years.”

  “Fifteen years,” the prosecutor repeated. “How is it, after all that time, you are not aware that bringing a personal firearm onto a military installation without prior approval of the installation commander is punishable under Article 92 of the UCMJ, by two years’ confinement, dishonorable discharge, forfeiture of all pay and allowances, and reduction to pay grade E-1?”

  Saul’s jaw muscles jumped. “I have prior approval,” he said stonily.

  O’Rourke held up a finger. “Correction. You have approval to carry a personal handgun on the installation, not your hunting rifle. I thought I’d remind you of that, lest you end up facing some charges of your own.”

  “Objection.” Carew shot to her feet. “Your Honor, the prosecutor is talking apples and oranges. If the convening authority wants to bring charges against my witness, that is his priority, but his point does not change the validity of my witness’s testimony. Moreover, our forensic expert has confirmed the existence of spent rifle shells on the roof of the clubhouse.”

  Charlotte wanted to applaud Carew’s indignant retort. O’Rourke merely smirked at her and said to the judge, “I’ve completed my questions, Your Honor.”

  As the panel members watched Saul leave the witness box, Charlotte wondered who among them had believed his testimony. It was hard to tell from their thoughtful expressions. O’Rourke had done his best to discredit Saul’s testimony, but he wouldn’t be able to discredit that of Jaguar’s psychiatrist.

  A minute later, Dr. Bartholomew Branson was sitting on the witness stand being sworn in. Saul slipped back onto the bench next to Charlotte, who grimaced consolingly and squeezed his hand.

  Carew wasted no time establishing Branson’s relationship to the accused. The psychiatrist had treated Jaguar soon after he’d been brought into Portsmouth Naval Medical Center, showing signs of starvation, torture, and amnesia.

  “What was your professional opinion of Lieutenant Mills when you first encountered him?” she inquired.

  Branson scratched his clean-shaven face. “He was still in shock, a bit disoriented. It was clear to me he suffered memory loss. I assumed his amnesia was due to stress, possibly Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, as Dr. Schmidt already testified, but a CAT scan subsequently revealed damage to his prefrontal cortex, and that can also cause amnesia.”

  “Are you a trauma specialist, Doctor?” Carew inquired.

  “No. I’m a cognitive behavioral therapist. Commander Dwyer asked me to treat Lieutenant Mills as a personal favor.”

  “You owed him a personal favor, Doctor?”

  “Well, yes.” Branson sent a disapproving look at Dwyer, who was seated behind the prosecutor’s table. “Daniel Dwyer and I went to high school together. When I was looking for a job, he fast-tracked my application with the DoD and helped me get hired. Thus, when Lieutenant Mills returned from the dead, so to speak, and Daniel requested that I treat him, it didn’t occur to me to refuse him. I realized why he chose me, though, when he later asked me for the lieutenant’s clinical notes. The Military Command Exception rule allows commanders access to medical records in order to determine fitness for duty. I figured that was why he wanted to see the notes, to decide whether Lieutenant Mills was ready to return to active duty. Strangely, though, he also demanded I tell him everything the patient was starting to remember. When he saw that I had not diagnosed Lieutenant Mills with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, he insisted I do so. Otherwise, he said, the Navy wouldn’t continue to give Mills his disability pay.”

  “Was that true?”

  Branson shook his head. “Not at all. I conferred with my supervisor and was told Commander Dwyer had no right to tell me how to diagnose my patient, let alone to be told the patient’s memories.”

  “Then, Lieutenant Mills does not suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?”

  Branson leveled a benevolent gaze at Jaguar and said, “In my professional opinion, there’s nothing wrong with Lieutenant Mills apart from memory loss due to a mild brain injury.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Charlotte’s nervousness returned as Carew thanked Branson and handed him over to O’Rourke to be cross-examined.

  O’Rourke clasped his hands behind his back and slowly paced the length of the floor.

  “Dr. Branson, you were hired by the Navy after two years of unemployment. Is that correct?”

  Branson stiffened, his face suddenly expressionless. “Yes.”

  “How kind of your long-time acquaintance, Commander Dwyer, to fast-track your application. Tell me,” he said before Carew could object, “what was keeping you from finding a job outside of the DoD?”

  Branson, breaking eye contact, looked suddenly flustered. “I was…I was sick.”

  “Sick, hmm.” O’Rourke pondered the word thoughtfully. “To treat your illness, you spent twenty-four months checking in and out of the Stern’s Rehabilitation Center in Richmond, Virginia, am I right?”

  “Yes.” Branson’s reply was barely audible.

  “That must have been quite an illness. You were addicted to pills, I understand—Vicodin and Dilaudid. Is that all?”

  Carew tried desperately to deflect the prosecutor’s impeachment of her witness’s competence—to no avail. By the time O’Rourke said, “No more questions, Your Honor,” he had shredded the doctor’s reputation so completely the panel eyed the doctor with pity and very little confidence.

  Jaguar’s only hope for proving his innocence now rested on his third witness, Monica.

  Charlotte glanced at Lucas to gau
ge whether his dismay matched her own. Given Lucas’s grim expression, Jaguar didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.

  Sweat breached Lucas’s pores as Monica was called to the stand to provide her testimony.

  “Ms. Trembley,” Carew began once it was established who she was and why she was testifying, “Please describe to the court why you were sent to SEAL Team Six Headquarters on the morning of Labor Day.”

  Strangely, Lucas got the impression Monica rather enjoyed the spotlight. Looking poised, she lifted her chin and said, “Commander Dwyer asked me to enter Master Chief Rivera’s office via the commander’s office—they share a connecting door—and to use one of my keys to get into Master Chief’s desk. He said he wanted the blue journal that Master Chief had forgotten to give him.”

  “Did you know that journal detailed how his late executive officer was leaking top-secret information to unauthorized personnel?” Carew prompted her.

  “Objection, Your Honor,” O’Rourke intoned. “The journal’s mere existence is in question, not to mention the contents therein.”

  “Sustained.” Englert nearly rolled his eyes. “Stick to the facts, Counselor.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Did Commander Dwyer tell you what was in the notebook?”

  “Of course not.” Monica tossed a lock of dark hair over her shoulder. “It’s not my job to ask questions.”

  “Can you tell me where the journal is now?”

  Monica shrugged. “I gave it to Commander Dwyer at about twelve o’clock that afternoon.” She described how she had gone to his home, handing over the journal at his front door.

  “That would have been about two hours after the incident at the skeet-and-trap range,” Carew pointed out. “Did the commander tell you what had happened that morning?”

  “Not at all. He thanked me for getting the journal, and that was it.”

  “Yet he claims he has no recollection of the journal. Did he appear upset at all by what had allegedly happened that morning?”

  Monica tipped her head and thought back. “Nope. He seemed rather cheerful, actually.”

  “Cheerful,” Carew repeated. “Interesting. How would you explain his inability to recollect the journal or even recall asking you to fetch it for him?”