by Don Brown
“Please be seated.” Mack smiled and waved nonchalantly. “Wally and I just want to watch a little TV for a minute.” Wally picked up the remote and flipped on the television.
“. . . about one hour ago, a Navy jury returned with a verdict of guilty against Petty Officer Antonio Blount on the charge of raping Ensign Marianne Landrieu, the niece of Senator Fowler. The trial then went into a sentencing phase in which the only defense witness was the mother of Petty Officer Blount, Mrs. Sophie Jones.
“Mrs. Jones, in tearful testimony, pled for mercy for her son. She portrayed him as a good, respectful boy whose dream as a child was to be a Navy SEAL.
“But the military jury—or ‘members’ as they call themselves in the military justice system—apparently did not buy Lieutenant Colcernian’s arguments. Nor did they buy Mrs. Jones’s plea for mercy. After deliberating only fifty-two minutes, the members returned with a sentence against Petty Officer Blount, confining him to thirty years in the Navy brig.”
“Wow,” the president mumbled. “Thirty years.”
“The sentence also reduces Petty Officer Blount to pay grade E-1, which is the lowest enlisted pay grade, and dishonorably discharges him from the Navy.
“Although military law allows for up to life imprisonment for a rape charge, we are told by JAG Corps veterans that the thirty-year sentence is considered to be very heavy for this type of offense.
“The Reverend JamesOn Barbour has been here in San Diego monitoring the trial. He just issued a statement condemning the verdict and the sentence as—and these are his words—‘an unfortunate example of racism in the twenty-first century.’ We’re told that the prosecutor, Lieutenant Zack Brewer, will be leaving the courthouse in just a few seconds and may have a few words for us.
“And now, Lieutenant Brewer is exiting the military courthouse. Let’s see what he has to say.”
The president saw the image of a young, trim naval officer in smart summer whites step through the familiar-looking front door of Building 1 to a battery of pre-positioned microphones attached to a temporary podium.
“Lieutenant, Jan Oberholtz. KNSD. Your thoughts on the outcome of the trial?”
“Jan. Here are my thoughts,” Zack said calmly. “The Navy has today shown that we will not tolerate this kind of conduct, especially when the victim is an officer. At the same time, however, it is a sad day, in that one of our Navy SEALs, now a former Navy SEAL, has fallen. So justice was served. And this is good. But it has been a painful process for all.”
“Lieutenant, did Blount get a fair trial, and did the judge’s restriction on the testimony of the three defense witnesses influence the jury?”
“Yes, Blount got a fair trial. Judge Reeves’s ruling, in my view, was overly generous to the defense. Under the rape-shield statute, none of the witnesses should have been allowed to testify at all. Beyond that, I’m not going to speculate what the members thought or comment any more on the ruling.”
“Lieutenant Brewer, could you comment on the Reverend Barbour’s calling the trial and the verdict ‘an unfortunate example of racism in the twenty-first century’?”
“I’ve been busy in the courtroom the last couple of days and haven’t heard those particular comments. But I have heard similar comments coming out of Mr. Barbour’s camp all week.”
The president snickered when Brewer called the Reverend Barbour “Mr. Barbour.”
“Such comments are unhelpful. They come from a man who has no clue about any of the real facts surrounding this case. Mr. Barbour’s presence in San Diego has created an unfortunate sideshow obviously designed to promote his own agenda, whatever that might be. Frankly, his presence here and his irresponsible statements have no legal or relevant significance, except to give you good people of the media something to talk about.”
The president choked on his tea. When he could speak again, he grinned at Walsh. “Captain Guy is right. This Brewer kid is good.” Mack Williams drained the last drop of lukewarm tea from his cup. “I’d better get back to the French ambassador. Before he gets huffy. You know how the French are.”
Walsh nodded. “Think we’ve found our prosecutor, Mr. President?”
“Don’t know yet, Wally. We’ll see.”
CHAPTER 42
Office of the Commanding Officer
Navy Trial Command
32nd Street Naval Station
San Diego
During the weekend following the greatest victory of his career, Zack tried to restore some normalcy to his life.
Saturday, he drove into the mountains on Interstate 8 to the little village of Julian, the quaint restored village dating back to California’s Gold Rush. Now it was known for its crafts, antiques, and homemade apple pies. He had gone alone, trying to get his thoughts together.
On Sunday, he visited College Avenue Church on University Avenue near San Diego State University. He wore a blazer, khakis, and shades, hoping the large crowds would provide him anonymity. But because the San Diego Union had run two wrap-up articles that morning, he was spotted.
“You look familiar.”
“Hey, aren’t you that JAG officer?”
“I saw you on television.”
The questions were not all that bothersome, and a simple “yes” or “thank you” in response was generally enough to satisfy the curiosity seeker. After hearing a thought-provoking message on God’s grace, he slipped through the sea of worshipers and out the back doors unnoticed.
As he searched for his car in the parking lot, something stirred his heart. He remembered the sense of peace, the sense of God’s presence, he had felt during his conversation with the chaplain the day of the verdict. What was it the chaplain had prayed for? That God would draw Zack closer to his heart.
After the hoopla of the verdict, he had almost forgotten the man’s prayer. But he hadn’t forgotten that sense of peace he longed for. Or the earnestness of his heart in seeking a renewed commitment to his Lord.
He drove through a Jack-in-the-Box, bought a burger, fries, and a Coke, then drove the short distance to the summit of La Mesa’s Mount Helix.
Just a few others were picnicking under the huge, white, thirty-six-foot cross perched on the vista overlooking east San Diego.
Zack walked to the three-foot-high stone ridge wall just a few feet in front of the cross, looking to the west. On this clear, bright Sunday afternoon, his view included all of San Diego, from the San Jacinto Mountains, San Diego Bay, and the sparkling downtown high-rises, to the distinctive outline of Point Loma in the distance, and beyond all that, the Pacific. The breathtaking, panoramic vista reminded him of the awesome creative power of God.
All weekend, he had been plagued by a sense of uneasiness. Was God trying to tell him something? Blount was innocent after all? Zack had sent an innocent man away for thirty years? It was the heaviest sentence for a rape trial out of a San Diego court-martial in recent memory. Surely, Blount was guilty. He’d even prayed for justice with the chaplain just before the verdict.
He dropped his head into his hands. But instead of the peaceful communion he sought with his Lord, images of the trial, his triumphant defeat of the defense, marched into his mind. He had triumphed. Good things were ahead for him. He knew it would be so. He had prayed for the outcome of the trial. Didn’t it stand to reason that whatever accolades followed were deserved? Actually, gifts from God himself?
Monday morning came quickly, and it was nice to report to work in a working khaki uniform for a change. With khakis, you didn’t have to worry about a splotch of coffee showing up. This very thought occurred to him as he stepped into the coffee mess at 0700 hours for his first caffeine dose of the day. His immediate boss, the senior trial counsel, was already there, sipping his coffee from a San Diego Chargers mug.
“Good morning, Zack.”
“Morning, Commander.” Zack poured his coffee and walked across the room to where his commander was standing.
“Things seem normal again on the morning after?”
“I hope so, sir. I’m ready for a few simple unauthorized-absence guilty pleas.”
“Don’t get too excited about things getting simple just yet. The skipper wants you in his office immediately.”
Zack took another sip of the hot, black coffee. “Sir, do you know what that’s all about?”
“Yes, but I think the skipper wants to talk to you about it personally.”
Zack hated secrets, and even more so, he hated being kept in suspense. “Sir, I’m ready whenever you are.”
They walked out of the coffee mess, around the corner, and a moment later, Zack and his commander stood just outside the captain’s office. The commander rapped lightly.
The middle-aged Texan drawled a friendly response, and they entered.
“Commander, Lieutenant, come on in and be seated.”
“Congratulations on a job well done.” He focused on Zack, who sat down on the sofa beside the commander.
“Thank you, Skipper. But this is a team victory for the whole trial wing, not just me. And I can’t underscore how much your support has meant in this whole effort, Captain.”
The captain exchanged a wide smile with Zack’s commander. “You don’t have to butter me up. I’m already putting you in for a Navy Commendation Medal for your good work. You earned it.”
“Thank you, Skipper.”
“And one other thing, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Have you heard
“Have you heard anything from Ensign Landrieu over the weekend?”
The question took Zack by surprise. “I haven’t talked to her, sir. She called and left a message on my cell phone, but to be honest with you, I took the weekend off.”
“She was probably calling you from South Carolina.”
“South Carolina?” Zack frowned.
“It seems like you impressed some high-ranking government official with your performance.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“Understand this, Lieutenant. You’ve been extended an invitation to spend time with the ranking minority member of the Senate Armed Services Committee at his beach home in Hilton Head. A Navy C-9 leaves North Island at 0600 hours tomorrow morning headed to the Marine Corps Air Station in Beaufort, South Carolina, where you will be provided transportation over to Hilton Head to Senator Fowler’s compound.
Consider this similar to a vacation without having to take leave. Congratulations, Lieutenant. And do the JAG Corps proud.”
Zack’s stomach tightened, and the uneasiness was back. “Sir, I don’t know what to say.”
“You say what all good officers say when receiving a direct order from a superior officer,” his superior officer said, then grinned.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Very well.” The captain rose to his feet, prompting Zack and his commander to do the same. “You’ve got some packing to do, son. Go home and get ready. You are dismissed.”
CHAPTER 43
Lieutenant Diane Colcernian’s townhouse
Near Jimmy Durante Boulevard
Del Mar, California
Diane’s boss, the senior defense counsel, suggested she take a few days off after the Blount trial. She got up Monday morning, threw on running shorts and a UVA T-shirt, and took a six-mile run on the beach. Still trying to decide about time off, she jumped in the shower, threw on a bath towel, walked to her closet, and pulled out a pastel pink French terry robe.
She had just finished a cup of peach yogurt and poured herself a cup of black coffee when the telephone rang. She let it go to the machine.
“This is Pierre. Where have you been all weekend? I am sorry about the trial. Call me. We must talk.” There was a click, followed by a dial tone.
She didn’t think she had the emotional energy to return the call. Coffee mug in hand, she wandered back to her closet. Her attention was drawn to the khaki uniform blouse with the silver railroad tracks of a Navy lieutenant on one collar and the mill rind symbol of a JAG officer on the other. Beside it hung the matching khaki skirt.
Her father had been wearing working khakis the last time she saw him before the stroke. He looked so rugged and handsome. The three silver stars of a Navy vice admiral pinned to his collars, sparkling in the sun. Though he was disappointed in her choice, he wrapped his big arms around her in a lovable, protective, teddy-bear hug as he put her on the plane to New York. She remembered the promise she gave him the next time she saw him that day in the Portsmouth Naval Hospital.
After he died, her heart had ached for days and nights with longing to see him again.
She thought of her father’s character, how he never let defeat stop him. It wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. Even with his seeming defeat over her choice to become a model, the twinkle in his eye said he knew common sense would win in the end.
She touched the sleeve of her uniform and grinned. Common sense had indeed won. What would Daddy do if he was in my shoes right now? She didn’t have to think twice to come up with the answer: he would shake off the doldrums and go to work. He wouldn’t feel sorry for himself. He wouldn’t accept personal defeat.
Neither would she.
Besides, she had made a promise to her father. And she was going to keep it.
And even though the best JAG officer in the Navy might be Zack Brewer, for now, she knew she wasn’t far behind. Besides, Brewer was probably a short-timer. He would cash in his chips with a big firm or go into politics. At least, that was the rumor. His natural charisma in front of judges, juries—and TV cameras—told her it was bound to be true.
The thought of Brewer leaving the JAG Corps was somehow discomforting. Why was that? He’d just beaten her on national television in the biggest trial of her life.
Ninety minutes later, dressed in her khaki working uniform, her hair twisted into a bun, she slipped in the back door of the defense wing and headed to her office. Closing the door, she picked up the telephone and buzzed her legalman paralegal.
“This is Lieutenant Colcernian. I’m in. You don’t have to broadcast it unless someone asks who’s senior to me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” her paralegal said. “Mr. Rochembeau has called here four times already this morning.”
“Thanks, Kim.” Diane sighed. She could no longer put off talking to Pierre. But what could she tell him? His friendship had meant everything to her through the years. He had done so much for her—and for her father, even arranging for twenty-four-hour nursing care after his stroke. Thanks to Pierre, the admiral had been comfortable during the final year of his life. The nursing care alone cost Pierre over a hundred thousand dollars.
There was no doubt about the goodness of Pierre’s heart. But was it enough to marry him? Even though there was no sizzle? No chemistry?
The diamond engagement ring had been locked in her safe-deposit box since he left for New York. She glanced at her finger, picked up the phone, and buzzed her paralegal. “Kim, please get Mr. Rochembeau on the line for me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
CHAPTER 44
Marine Corp Air Station
Beaufort, South Carolina
At 1500 hours, eastern time, the Navy C-9 carrying Lieutenant Zack Brewer touched down on the sunny, humid runway at the Marine Corps Air Station, Beaufort, South Carolina. He received the customary salutes from the USMC ground crew as he descended the ladder to the tarmac, then was met by someone who was definitely not a United States Marine.
A richly tanned brunette, wearing white Bermuda shorts, a pink Izod shirt, designer shades, and white sandals, smiled at him. She sported more makeup than a painted Easter egg.
“I’m Sally Burleson, the senator’s administrative assistant. Nice uniform. You look better in person than on TV.” Her refined, sophisticated tone held a hint of Southern drawl. “I’m driving you to Hilton Head. Ready?”
Without waiting for an answer, she led him to a brand-new BMW and popped the trunk. After he had stashed his bags in the back and slid into the passenger s
ide, she revved the engine and stepped on the accelerator.
During the ride down the long, desolate roads through the salty swamps of Jasper County, Sally talked nonstop, happily disclosing parts of her life story without expecting a response. She was an LSU cheerleader, he learned, and a Baton Rouge debutante. She and the senator had watched him on television many times, and the senator was impressed. She hoped to have a career in Washington and maybe go into politics.
Forty minutes after leaving the base, Sally’s BMW crossed the bridge from Bluffton to Hilton Head, and a few minutes later, she turned left off the William Hilton Parkway to the entrance of Palmetto Dunes Plantation.
Spanish moss trees, green, luscious golf courses with irrigation systems spraying water on the greens, thousands of azaleas blooming, and alligators sunbathing along the lagoons were visible along the eastbound causeway cutting through Palmetto Dunes.
Sally pressed a speed-dial number on her mobile phone. “Senator, we’re on the plantation. We’ll see you in a minute.” She tossed a coquettish smile at Zack as she flipped the phone closed. “He’s so looking forward to meeting you.”
A moment later, Zack caught a glimpse of the Atlantic behind the hotel as the BMW bore left through a traffic circle full of azaleas just in front of the Hilton Resort. They stopped briefly at a security gate and then followed another moss-lined road, running parallel to the beach, for a half mile or so.
“Here we are.” Sally turned up a driveway paved with seashells. The large oceanfront house rose before them, pink stucco with expansive palladium windows across the lower floor, providing a view through the house to the beach on the other side.
Zack exited the car just as the massive front door of the house opened. A silver-haired man in a white tennis outfit stepped out. At his side was an exquisitely trim and beautiful blond in a short, blue and white tennis dress: his star witness in the court-martial of United States v. BT3 (SEAL) Antonio Blount.
As the smiling duo stepped toward him, Zack recognized the man as Senator Roberson Fowler. He wore the trademark wide smile Zack had seen on television hundreds of times.