The Night Crew, page 4
part #7 of Sean Drummond Series
“Got it.”
She nodded.
“The normal practice, Katherine, is for the army to appoint a replacement attorney and, if necessary, to reschedule the trial date. So, why you?”
“In fact, the army was in the process of assigning a new JAG officer. Lydia met with him a few times, he didn’t seem to particularly believe in her innocence, and she didn’t particularly believe in his passion for her case. You know how it goes—no client is comfortable when their own lawyer doubts their innocence.”
“If they are innocent,” I stipulated.
She evaded that implied question and continued, “So, for various reasons, my employer became interested in her case. I was asked to make a stab at representing her. I did, the army candidate went away, and here we are.”
“Were you given Captain Howser’s files?”
She nodded. “The local JAG carted it all up, packed it in boxes, and delivered them.”
“And . . . ?”
“And, here’s the good news. Howser had already received the discovery materials, and there is a detailed transcription from the Article 32 hearings.”
Discovery is the required legal process whereby the prosecutor must turn over to the defense all the evidence he intends to employ in court against the accused, both that which could be incriminating, and that which might prove exculpatory, which on occasion, prosecutors forget to include. And an Article 32 is the military version of a grand jury process, the first step in building the scaffold. I asked Katherine, “And had the good captain done his homework?”
“It’s the usual mixture—some solid investigation, some misdirected bullshit. Although he lived risky, as I said, he was a good lawyer. Very detail-oriented. His files are well-organized.” She looked away for a moment. “But he either hadn’t wound up his investigation or a few critical files are missing. There are some gaps I found surprising.”
Apropos of that thought, I replied, “I don’t always trust the work of other lawyers.”
She knew whom I was referring to, but refused to rise to the bait. “I recommend we approach this like a fresh case. Use his files as background.”
“Good idea. And who is your mysterious employer?”
“Vietnam Veterans Who Oppose the War in Iraq.”
“Who?”
“They’re new, and not very large. Don’t underestimate them, though. They’re very serious, and very, very seriously funded.”
Echoing her theme, I pointed out, “And they’re very, very, very seriously confusing their wars.”
She watched the sidewalk awhile, then asked, “Have you heard of Nelson Arnold?”
“The billionaire?” She gave me a half-nod, and I continued, “Big hedge fund guy, right? New Yorker, collects beautiful women, big yachts, and oversize mansions.”
“He also collects causes he believes in. He’s a Vietnam vet with no fond memories of his war. For various reasons, he’s opened up his checkbook.”
“What are those reasons?” I looked at Katherine and specified, “More to the point, what’s his, or what’s their interest in Private First Class Lydia Eddelston?”
“Not her, necessarily. They have a larger interest.”
“Which would be what?”
“She and the other accused are being made into scapegoats. Meaning the lower ranks are getting railroaded and screwed, and the people who are ultimately responsible get a free pass.” She added, “They saw this happen in Vietnam. They are intent on doing something about it this time.”
“They should mind their own business and allow the army to do its job.”
“You’re so predictable.”
“This is a legal case, Katherine, not a political inquisition.”
“You don’t know enough about this case to draw that conclusion.”
“I know the army.”
“So do I, Sean.”
“Give it a break, Katherine. Really.”
“There are different kinds of patriotism, Drummond. Hard as it might be for you to get through your thick, Orwellian mindset, dissent and criticism can be the highest form of loyalty.”
I wasn’t really interested in hearing her quote scripture and verse from the gospel according to Saint Henry David Thoreau, so I changed the subject. “Where will the court martial be convened?”
“West Point, New York. It has a large population of officers who have seen combat from which to create a fair board, and a secure facility for the proceedings. Lydia is being held there.”
“Then what’s she doing here?”
“She was flown down for a deposition concerning one of the other defendants.”
I nodded again. Five soldiers had been charged with whatever happened at Al Basari, so it sounded like two or more of their defense attorneys had cooked up a cooperative witness arrangement of some sort. By inference, Private Eddelston and her attorney had agreed to testify on behalf of one or more of her codefendants, and probably that meant a quo quid pro; and, probably, prior to his untimely demise, that deal had been worked out by Captain Howser. Obviously, Katherine was going with it.
I hate walking into cases where somebody else has already decided on the trial strategy. I prefer to make my own mistakes; usually they’re smart mistakes, because they’re mine.
But also, if you read between the lines of what Katherine was saying, she and her financial backers intended to use this case to prosecute the army and the administration for their lenient rules on torture and interrogation, if not for the overall flawed execution of the war. This had been Katherine’s modus operandi in gay cases where it was a foregone conclusion that most of her clients would lose, but she exploited the court martials to show the public the cruelty and farcicality of the laws banning openly gay soldiers from serving.
Her gay clients were sacrificial lambs to get the laws overturned, and consequently, Katherine’s legal tactics and strategies were more offensive than defensive, directed less toward disproving the case against her clients and more toward proving the government’s guilt. But, I thought, what worked for the gay cause would not work in this case where the court martial board would be composed of seven professional soldiers who might not take kindly to an attorney attempting to convict their own service of ineptitude and, as combat veterans, might not share Katherine’s squeamishness about torture and interrogation techniques that were intended to save soldier’s lives and win battles.
I could see another battle brewing between her and me over how to approach Eddelston’s defense.
In that light, I asked, “And what’s your impression of Private Lydia Eddelston? Guilty or innocent?”
“We’ll trade opinions after you’ve met her.”
Which was a good note to end on because we were standing on the stoop of the military police station.
Chapter Four
In character with the rest of the post, the building was a neat-as-a-pin, red brick, faux colonial-style affair, with close-cropped shrubbery and a precisely handpainted sign announcing its purpose. Compared with MP stations at larger military bases, this building was small and definitely looked sleepy.
But, as the residents on this post were either senior officers or handpicked soldiers from the Old Guard, a big sheriff was neither needed, wanted, nor, probably, all that good an idea. I mean, generals don’t really like their kids getting busted for dope, or their wives getting pulled over for speeding tickets.
We entered and moved straight to the good-looking staff sergeant behind a desk who glanced up and asked in a polite but firm tone, “How can I help you?”
I identified myself, flashed my military ID, and introduced Katherine. He appeared to be expecting us and, glancing at his watch, informed us, “The prisoner is waiting in an interrogation room. Follow me, sir.”
He led us down a narrow stairwell to the lower level and stopped beside the second door on the left. There was no guard posted, so Lydia Eddelston was apparently not regarded as a danger to herself or to others, nor was she considered a flight risk, which I guess I understood.
Given all the publicity surrounding this case, Lydia Eddelston couldn’t walk two steps off this post without some kid pointing at her and saying, “Look, Mommy, there’s the lady who led that man around by his ding-dong.”
I thanked the sergeant and inquired, “Is this room cleared of listening and observation devices?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long do we have?”
“One hour.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. We don’t wish to be disturbed.” I turned to Katherine, who nodded, and I pushed open the door. We entered a small, rectangular room, about eight by fifteen, furnished in the functional, minimalist manner the army prefers, with only a long wooden table and ten wooden chairs.
Private First Class Lydia Eddelston was seated, wearing a desert battle dress uniform, sans handcuffs, at the long wooden conference table. Her nose was stuffed inside a People magazine with Tom Cruise doing his I-get-paid-twenty-five-million-bucks-for-being-a-movie-stud smile on the cover—at the sound of the door being opened, she looked up, first at Katherine, whom she smiled at, then at me: the smile faded.
We moved to the table and sat across from her. By way of introduction, Katherine stated, “Lydia, you remember I told you that a military lawyer had to be involved as cocounsel?”
“I guess.”
“This is Lieutenant Colonel Sean Drummond. We were classmates at law school and worked another case together.”
Lydia stared at me, and it did not seem to compute that I was dressed in civilian attire.
I extended my hand. As a senior officer I did not need to do this, but enlisted clients tend to become stiff or timid around senior officers and informal gestures can go a long way toward breaking the ice.
Lydia Eddelston, however, was either too young, or was from a socioeconomic background where handshakes were not a common form of greeting. She stared at my hand for a few beats, then, almost hesitantly, we shook.
I said, “Despite my rank, Private Eddelston, I work for you.” I continued with my standard spiel about lawyer-client relations, lawyer confidentiality, and so forth and so on, and ended, as I usually do, by asking, “Do you have any opening questions you’d like to ask me?”
She thought about this too briefly. “No, sir. Don’t guess I do.”
“After we’ve become better acquainted, maybe you will. In the meantime, I’m new to this case, and I have a few questions.” Like, what in the hell were you thinking when you idiots took pictures? But I didn’t say this, of course.
She looked at Katherine, who nodded, which I regarded as a revealing gesture, then nodded at me.
I started off, “Where are you from?”
“Justin, West Virginia.”
“Age?”
“Twenty, sir.”
“How long have you been in the National Guard?”
“’Bout two years. Ever since high school. Signed up under delayed entry six months ’fore graduation.”
“Like it?”
“Sure . . . well enuff.” She paused for a moment, then had a reasonable second thought. “Least-wise, ’fore all this happened.”
I did not want to talk about that yet, and asked, “Why did you join?”
“Thought it would be fun. Maybe pick up a few skills fer afterward.”
“Maybe earn a little college money?”
“No, sir . . . didn’t really care nuthin’ ’bout that.”
“I see.” I thought about that revelation, then continued, “Justin? I’ve never heard of it. Small town?”
“Guess so. Only had, like forty kids in my graduatin’ class.”
I smiled.
Like a lot of residents from small, irrelevant bumps in the middle of nowhere, Lydia knew how to milk this angle and quickly elaborated, “Only got like, I don’t know, maybe two stoplights. Got a 7-Eleven, though.”
Actually, a surprising number of the army’s recruits come from these anonymous pockets in the middle of Rural Nowhere, USA. For the most part, they make great soldiers—dedicated, hardy, industrious, not cynical like their big city counterparts, imbued, instead, with the kind of red-meat patriotism that equals unquestioning obedience. I would put a gun to my head if I lived in such a place, and I suspected that Lydia’s motives for enlisting in the Guard were a little more dark and complicated than she was admitting to me, if not to herself. After she tried out a few more quaint anecdotal details about Justin, I asked, “And did you have a full-time civilian job?”
“Sure did. At the post office.”
This was an almost irresistible set-up for a crack about postal employees, but I asked, with an admirably straight face, “Doing what?”
“Letter sorter. Good benefits. Didn’t pay much, though.”
And so on. Most of this stuff could be gleaned from her personnel jacket or a standard background check, of course. But with new clients it’s important to build trust and rapport, to get to know each other before you get into the ickier stuff, such as, What in the hell was on your mind when you peed on that man’s face?
Anyway, as we went on, my initial impressions regarding Lydia Eddelston were largely reinforced, though she was slightly cuter in person than in the photo of her emptying her bladder. Also I thought she had packed on a few pounds since those pictures, which could be accounted for by the fact that she was in confinement with nothing better to do than eat.
Her accent was thick, country-style, and grammar and diction were definitely not her friends. Though she possessed a high school diploma, she was not well educated and, occasionally she stared at me for inappropriately long periods before responding. I couldn’t tell if she was dense, confused, the victim of some weird processing disorder, or all of the above.
As brazen and uninhibited as her poses and expressions appeared in the photos, in person, she came across as shy, remote, and while not depressed, clearly she was emotionally fragile. Also, she kept glancing at Katherine: fleeting, needy glances. Presumably she came from blue-collar, or possibly, no-collar stock. Regarding family, she informed me that she was raised a strict Southern Baptist, one brother, also in the National Guard, both parents still living and still married, and hopefully they weren’t first cousins or, God forbid, brother and sister.
Simple. That one adjective jumped out as I listened patiently to her responses to the perfunctory questions I occasionally had to reframe, because she became easily confused. Simple answers. Simple outlooks. Mentally simple. Indeed, I was tempted to ask her for her proof of age, because, in both her mannerisms and her coyness, she seemed to me almost childlike.
The more I listened to her, the more difficult I found it to believe this intellectually austere woman was the provocateur of so much attention, trouble, and harm. If I ever met anyone predestined for a life that would arouse little interest or attention, Lydia Eddelston was the personification of it.
For some reason, I recalled Homer’s aphorism about Helen of Troy—she, of the face that launched a thousand ships, and a war—and certainly here we had a paradox or an irony, for the somewhat plain face across the table from me threatened to sink a thousand careers, not to mention capsizing an entire war.
The mystery was not whether she did it or not. She definitely did. The mystery was this: How and why had such a seemingly unremarkable young lady from bucolic small-town America become the iconic figure of a war that seemed to be going off the rails?
Strange. No other word could explain it—strange girl, strange behavior. Strange case.
For a moment I closed my eyes and listened to her speech; the image that formed, inevitably, was of Lydia on a small backcountry farm, wearing slack blue coveralls, hauling milk pails or slopping pig shit, whatever it is farm hands do these days. I reopened my eyes and was instantly transported back to the photographs showing Lydia doing things that were surely the buzz of her Baptist congregation back in Justin, West Virginia. I couldn’t imagine what her preacher thought, or for that matter, her parents, of their little girl engaged in such vulgar activities. I could guess, though, that they were angry—angry that the army had turned their little girl into a monster, angry that the army had gotten her into this mess, and angriest of all that the army was now trying to put their little girl in the slammer for life.
Anyway, we continued the questioning in this perfunctory vein for about another twenty minutes. At one point, I asked about her MOS—her military occupational specialty—her military experience and training. To my surprise she informed me she was a 71 bravo—a personnel clerk—rather than a military policewoman or military intelligence specialist as I had assumed she would be. So what was a paper jockey, a fair-weather pogue in military parlance, doing in a military prison cellblock in a war zone? And why was a personnel clerk involved in prisoner interrogation?
But the extent of her military training entailed a three-month stint on active duty at Fort McClellan at the start of her enlistment, where she was taught the fundamentals of the military personnel system and a few rudimentary clerking duties, typing, correspondence, and so forth. Afterward, as per the standard National Guard contractual obligation, twice each month she reported to her local armory for her required weekend drills. Depending on the Guard unit in question, that may have entailed two fast and furious days of meaningful training or an extended weekend beer bash.
Her call-up for deployment to Iraq came at the last minute. After only one frantic week of country orientation and refresher training in basic combat skills, she found herself on a troop plane bound for war.
I should mention here that National Guard people are, in the truest and noblest sense of the term, America’s citizen-soldiers. They are patriotic citizens with full-time civilian jobs, families, community responsibilities—a full and demanding life outside military service—the modern-day equivalent of revolutionary-era minutemen who, at the first bang of the claxon, rush off to the ensuing environmental apocalypse or the sound of the guns, whatever the situation dictates.
