The Night Crew, page 3
part #7 of Sean Drummond Series
I did not need to be told that this was another of the Al Basari photos. But I was sure this was the first time I had seen it, and I was sure, as well, that the American public had never laid eyes on it.
A female soldier, whose face I vaguely recognized, was squatting, naked, and peeing on the head of a prostrate Arab gentleman. It was a frontal shot, looking down from a higher angle; though not blurry, it was slightly off-centered and definitely off-angled, suggesting that the photographer was an amateur, with questionable artistic skills at that.
As I mentioned, the poor guy being used as a toilet looked Arabic, probably Iraqi, and was skinny and bony to the point of emaciation. People in that region tend to age prematurely and, though he looked seventy, he could easily have been closer to fifty. And, though his eyes and mouth were squeezed tightly shut, his reactive expression could not have been more emphatically evocative—a combination of terror, helplessness, disgust, and shame.
I could see why this particular photo had not been shown by the press, who normally will exploit anything that shocks or appalls. I’m old enough to be called worldly, and young enough to be part of the generation that has been bombarded with pornographic imagery by Hollywood, by Madison Avenue, and by every magazine rack in every roadside convenience store. And while I’m not squeamish or prudish, I was instinctively offended, reviled, and yes, shocked—and I don’t mean merely by the monumental vulgarity of her act, but because the squatting soldier, otherwise completely nude, wore her black army beret perched awkwardly on her head.
This was definitely not a soldier being all she could be; or, in fact, should be.
Despite her evident effort to be erotic, the effect was not titillating or alluring; it was, in fact, repulsive. I found myself looking around to be sure nobody was observing me observing this.
Katherine sensed my discomfort and asked, “Intriguing picture, don’t you think?”
“That’s not the adjective I’d choose.”
“Okay. How would you describe it?”
“I’m at a loss for words,” I answered, truthfully. I turned the picture face down. “Are there more like this?”
She recognized what I was asking and casually flipped the picture back over. “Many hundreds, in fact, and some are worse. Think about this picture and let your imagination do the rest.” She allowed me to process that, then asked, “How do you think a Court Martial Board will react?”
“I wouldn’t give them the opportunity. I’d move heaven and earth to get these photos suppressed.”
“That’s an interesting suggestion. On what grounds?”
“Irrelevancy, of course. And they’re poisonously prejudicial to a fair trial.”
“Do you think that will work?”
“The first point might be a stretch, but a generous judge might buy the second.”
She seemed to think about this, then asked, “Do you recognize her?”
I nodded. Her name escaped me though I knew it had been all over the news—but definitely I recalled her face from a few of the more radioactive photos. For reasons of both modesty and good taste, certain strategic sections of those photos had been doctored or blurred for public consumption, but what she was doing was far from ambiguous—I recalled one shot where she was on her knees, smiling and pointing at the groins of some disgruntled nude prisoners; in another, she was dragging one unhappy soul around by a string tied to his puddly.
I glanced again at the picture that lay face up on the table between Katherine and me. Cops always focus on the perp first, lawyers on the victim. I turned my attention to the lady in question.
The soldier was short, I estimated 5'2" or so, and young, nineteen or possibly twenty. Though not fat, nor even chubby, she had a low, squat build, and was thick-limbed, with a round face and plump cheeks. Her hairstyle, probably intended to appear seductively tomboyish or, I suppose, bawdily pixyish, actually looked monkish and ridiculous. She was not ugly, but neither was she attractive or in any way alluring or particularly sexy.
In fact, she looked stupid—not ditzy or spacey—but simple-minded; or, considering the very graphic evidence, the better adjective might be empty-minded. A half-smoked cigarette dangled lazily from her lips at the moment the photo was taken, and she was smiling, not into the camera, per se, though she seemed not to be unaware of its presence.
Her smile had this weird, bothersome, lazy afterglow I couldn’t quite put my finger on—not forced, not hesitant, nor embarrassed or even sadistic—any or all of which seemed to be the predictable adjectives, given her activity at that moment.
To the contrary, I thought her smile looked unbridled, uninhibited, maybe frivolous. The proper adjective seemed, for some reason, important, and it struck me that the right word was narcissistic, but in the same way a small child performing her first clumsy ballet recital smiles at an audience.
I was suddenly overjoyed that I hadn’t taken Katherine’s offer. I’d been away from the army long enough that I was no longer in touch with current politics or barracks scuttlebutt. But from the news reports about what happened inside Al Basari prison, clearly this was about more than a few misbehaving jailors molesting and humiliating their prisoners: it was a shocking breakdown in military discipline; it was a failure of leadership that possibly included more than a few general officers and quite possibly some senior officials at the Pentagon and White House; it was a crime that was possibly allowed, abetted, or even encouraged by political dictates and pressure to make the prisoners talk.
When you add all that together, typically the institutional response is some form of cover-up, or ass cover, or monumental spin project. Then again, this was total conjecture on my part: I had no idea any such thing was afoot. I also had no idea it wasn’t.
And last, though not least selfish, it was an opportunity for some overeager military lawyer to throw his career down the toilet. No, I did not need this.
Turning the photo facedown again, I asked Katherine, “This is your client?”
She nodded as she slid a few pieces of stapled papers across the bar table, at me. “I also think you might want to take a look at these.”
The papers looked amazingly like a set of military orders.
Upon closer examination they were orders, signed by Major General Harold Fister, Chief of the US Army JAG Corps, effective 10 February, assigning some poor schmuck whose name sounded remarkably like mine as Military Cocounsel for the defense of Private First Class Lydia Eddelston.
“Forget it.” I slid the orders back in her direction. “I am not currently assigned to the JAG branch. General Fister has neither the authority nor the jurisdiction to give me orders.”
She slid the orders back at me. “General Fister called your current employer . . .” She hesitated then asked, I think insincerely, “Ms. Phyllis Carney, right?”
The orders sat right where they were.
Katherine continued, a bit smugly, “She was enormously helpful. She generously agreed to release you, TDY, back to the JAG branch for up to sixty days, or until the trial ends, whichever applies.”
“Then I’ll call her.”
“Feel free.”
“I don’t need your permission, Katherine.”
“No . . . but you should know that she didn’t sound unhappy to lose you.” In case I wasn’t getting the message, Katherine confided, “She sounded delighted, I thought.”
The lady under discussion, Phyllis Carney, was my presumptive boss at the CIA, an older lady, between eighty and ninety, very ladylike, and pleasant and charming in a quaint, old-fashioned manner; all of which is an illusion, of course, except her age. Maybe.
Phyllis does not suffer fools gladly, which I approve of, and she often encourages her subordinates to “be bold, to think outside the box,” to exercise “initiative” and other new wave management aphorisms—which I might push a little too far.
So we’re not exactly salt and pepper: more like vinegar and SweeTARTS, to continue the bad food metaphors.
That aside, I actually like Phyllis, and at times, I think she likes me, too, so I was a little surprised that she released me so readily.
Anyway, an uncomfortable silence had settled over our table, which Katherine broke, stating, “I’m sorry. I should probably have told you about this at the beginning.”
“Yes, you probably should have.”
“I had a good reason for my little charade.”
“You always do, Katherine. That’s your problem. You play games. You withhold.”
“I just wanted to—”
“I really don’t care why—”
“Would you shut up, Sean? Let me finish . . . please.”
Just like old times.
She gazed into her beer, collecting her thoughts, or constructing her alibi. “I wanted to . . . to gauge your reaction before you knew she was your client. You’re a lawyer, but you’re an army officer, first, last, and always. I needed to see how someone like you reacted to that picture.”
I leaned across the table until our noses nearly touched. “No, you wanted to prove you’re smarter and more clever than I am. Okay, you’ve proven it. Great. Whoopee, Katherine. And now you have a head start on this case, and I’m coming into it blind, which gives you a big advantage. And though I’m your cocounsel you intend to keep your knee on my chest and keep me second fiddle. So you need me for credibility with the jury, but maybe I know more about war than you do, and maybe I can cut through the roadblocks and red tape the army will construct, and maybe my Top Secret clearance will allow me to see things you can’t, and maybe I’ll understand a few things you don’t. So our client will be better served if we use our ammunition on the prosecutor instead of each other, so save the empty apologies and cut the bullshit, Katherine.”
I’ll mention again here that Katherine was first in her class at Georgetown Law—and Sean Drummond, by an almost infinitesimal margin, was number two. Given her bohemian breeding, disposition, and outlook, I don’t think she bought into the whole law review, dog-eat-dog, be-number-one-at-any-cost thing that seems to permeate every law school in the country.
I seem to bring out something in Katherine that only Freud could explain.
And now, here she was unexpectedly reappearing in my life again. And no, I did not for a minute believe she was seeking my legal talents, my military credentials, or my charming company.
I’m not that charming, for one thing.
Anyway, she was laughing, as though this was a big joke. I said, “It’s not funny.”
“Well . . . I’m sorry if . . . if I maybe mishandled you.”
“No ifs about it, sister.”
“I really do want to work with you.” She stuck out her hand. “Come on, shake.”
We sat for a moment staring at each other.
With her hand still out, Katherine glanced at the watch on her other wrist. “Our client’s waiting, so let’s get this over with. Come on, shake.”
We shook, and she stood up and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. Instead she headed straight for the stairs and stuck me with the bar bill.
Chapter Three
We walked out of the officers’ club main entrance and in the direction of the military police station at Fort Myer, which, conveniently, is only a five-minute walk from the officers’ club, via a short connecting sidewalk.
The night was cold and dark, but army posts tend to be overorganized and anal about everything, including lighting. To our right was a fenced-in, outdoor tennis court and just beyond that, the stately quarters of the military’s most senior officers, the army Chief of Staff, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and to our rear, homes for enough two- and three-star generals to lead another invasion of Europe.
Quartered in one of those houses was Major General Fister, the JAG chief who assigned me this gig. I made a mental note to myself to leave a sack of burning dog poop on his doorstep.
I should grow up and rise above such puerile gestures; then again, he started it.
In case you’re interested, Fort Myer is one of the older army bases, established in the early years of the Civil War on a hill with a commanding view of the capital across the river, from which large batteries of artillery could rain death and destruction on any rebels attempting to snatch the northern capital. That war is long over, its dead and survivors alike long since buried, and the once imposing rows of batteries have dwindled to a few lonely cannons, rusted evidence of the noble mission this post once served. None of our recent wars have required defenses for our national capital, though September 11th came pretty close.
So, these days, Fort Myer’s purpose is mostly pomp and ceremonies; it has a spit-and-polish parade-ground unit appropriate to that mission, a large parade ground for them to march around, a lovely chapel, and is adjoined to the military’s most hallowed ground, Arlington National Cemetery.
Though I’ve been stationed in Washington for years, I don’t come here often, and when I do, it always brings back memories, some warm, some otherwise. As a kid, when Pop was stationed at the Pentagon, like most military families in DC, we rented a small bungalow on the economy—a term that betrays everything about how military people view the civilian world. During Washington’s long, torrid summers, Mom used to pack big brother Johnny and little Sean into our Country Squire wagon, and we’d race here, frolic in the o-club pool, get our weekly army butch cuts, load up the back of the wagon with inexpensive commissary groceries, top off with cheap gas, and then return to the land of the taxpayers who made all this largesse possible.
The Vietnam War was in its final throes then, and Pop already had orders for his second and ultimately, his final tour in Vietnam, and, as it turned out, in the army. While we frolicked and eyed the good-looking general’s daughters in their skimpy bikinis, in the distance you could hear the frequent drone of the bugle and rifle pops from funeral details rendering the final salute to another fallen soldier—somebody’s dad, son, or husband. When your own dad is a month from deployment, every little pop puts a lump in your throat.
Unfortunately, with two wars raging, those echoes are again rampant—and for the senior generals who live here, the sounds of death are omnipresent, inescapable, sobering. This might not be exactly what the army intended when it placed its premier cemetery next to this base, but neither is it a bad idea.
Katherine and I walked in silence for a while before I inquired of her, “How long has Lydia Eddelston been your client?”
“A little over two weeks.”
“But it’s been, what, three months since her arrest. Right?”
“Two, to be precise. She had a military attorney, initially. Captain Bradley Howser. Do you know him?”
I shook my head.
“A good lawyer from what I gather. He was pressuring her to plead out. He told her he had arranged a good deal.”
“Charges?” I asked.
“Conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to obstruct, multiple counts of making a false statement, multiple counts of assault and indecent acts, maltreating detainees, dereliction of duty, conduct unbecoming . . .” She paused, then confessed, “Without the full written script, I’m afraid I can’t recall all of it.”
I stared at her a moment.
“I know.” She gave me a knowing glance. “They’re throwing the book at her.”
This was a fairly common practice, especially whenever conspiracy is involved or suspected. To get one of the coconspirators to turn evidence on their colleagues, you pile up a smorgasbord of charges, from the profoundly serious to the drolly inconsequential, from those where the evidence is flimsy and guilt nearly impossible to prove, to those—such as dereliction of duty and/or conduct unbecoming—that are so broad and encompassing that a fart in a public place virtually assures a guilty verdict. The prosecutor then has a high-probability conviction, along with an arsenal of charges he or she can barter for a deal; the defense attorney has a mountain of shit piled on his lap.
As a prosecutor, I’ve done this myself, and, as a defense attorney, I’ve been on the receiving end; I’d rather play Russian roulette with five and a half rounds in the chamber. I asked Katherine, “How good a deal?”
“Five years in Leavenworth. Reduction to Private, E-1. Bad conduct discharge.”
“Depending on which charges are waived, that doesn’t sound like a bad bargain.”
“Maybe not. She would have to admit guilt, cooperate, and give testimony against the others, of course. This wasn’t what she wanted.”
“I don’t see the problem, Katherine. Even military lawyers don’t overrule their client’s wishes.”
“She understood that, Sean. As did he. She didn’t fire him . . . unfortunately, Captain Howser had . . . well, he experienced an unfortunate accident. About three weeks ago.”
“How unfortunate?”
“He died.”
“I see. What was the nature of this . . . accident?”
“Automobile. Driving in the mountains of Colorado along a narrow twisted road, he got sideswiped, and went off a cliff.”
I remained silent.
“The police classified it a hit and run,” she felt it necessary to explain.
“And they’re sure it was an accident?”
She stared at me. “You know, I asked the same question.”
“And . . . ?”
“Okay, so here’s what I was told. Captain Howser owned a Porsche—a not particularly well-maintained old one that he bought used—was a bachelor, and for extracurricular fun he did high-altitude, black slope skiing, and paragliding off mountain tops.” She concluded, “A life in search of an accident.”
“Don’t generalize, Katherine. Those who live fast, sometimes die of old age in their beds.”
She rolled her eyes at this questionable wisdom, and clarified, “From the skid marks the police estimated he was doing sixty on a bend marked for thirty.”
