The Night Crew, page 8
part #7 of Sean Drummond Series
But tomorrow I was determined to find out who had masterminded the worst scandal of the war, who had taken the pictures, and who had talked a group of fine young American ladies into such bizarre and depraved behavior. With a little luck, I would also get some idea of who had murdered the Iraqi in the sleeping bag.
But perhaps I was being overly optimistic.
In fact, had I known what lay before me, I wouldn’t have slept a wink. I would’ve climbed back in the car and raced as far away from this place as I could get.
Chapter Seven
I was up at eight, showered, shaved and, by quarter after, I had finished my morning ablutions. I was back in uniform for the first time in months, and seated in my office with a warm cup of coffee in my hand by 8:30. All was good with the world.
I’m a fast reader, and, as with most criminal lawyers, I have a long familiarity with the forms of military justice. Though I was a little rusty, by nine it was all coming back.
Coming into a case cold, and late in the game, I have found the best place to start is with the results of the Article 32 investigation, the military equivalent of a grand jury. In this case, as I suspected, given the seriousness of the case, the commanding officer of the accused, Major General Claudia South, had appointed a JAG officer to conduct the investigation. Typically, the commanding officer appoints a field officer wearing the branch brass of the unit where the crime occurred, but General South obviously understood from the beginning that this case was special, filled with legal minefields, and any procedural mistakes would come back to bite her in the ass.
So she made the wise choice of appointing a legal professional, Lieutenant Colonel, or LTC, Dan Philcher. I knew the name and I knew, as well, that Philcher had a fine reputation as an officer and as an attorney. As it reduced the chances of a mistrial or the opportunity to disqualify important evidence, this was good news for the army and bad news for our client. A Captain Perry Winters was the prosecuting attorney.
Article 32 investigations are less formal than general court martials, though the accused retains most of the rights afforded in the civilian world. Captain Bradley Howser, now deceased, had represented Lydia, and, as per procedure, he’d been allowed to cross-examine the witnesses with wider latitude than might be permitted in court, and his client was allowed to make statements not under oath.
A court reporter had been present, and, at first glance, everything looked in order. The principal witnesses included the captain who commanded the military police company in the cellblock where the crimes occurred, the lieutenant who led the military police platoon, all five of the accused soldiers, two military intelligence officers, three Iraqi prisoners to testify firsthand about the abuse, and Lieutenant Colonel Eggers, who both commanded the military police battalion and served as commandant of the prison.
There were various other witnesses, including the two army CID warrants who performed the initial investigation into the death of the Iraqi prisoner and a few members of Lydia’s chain of command, among others, but their testimony was tangential at best—what kind of soldier was she, who did she hang out with, and so forth and so on.
After thirty minutes spent surveying the case landscape and Lydia’s testimony, which largely accorded with what she had already told me, I jumped ahead to the testimony of Sergeant Danny Elton, Lydia’s presumptive beau, and the ranking soldier in the cellblock.
The conventional wisdom seemed to be that he was the ringleader of this sordid affair, the heavy hand, and the auteur responsible for the cinematography. But consensus, I had learned, is often just the first step into communal idiocy. Consider lemmings, for instance.
Captain Perry Winters, the prosecutor, as per tradition and procedure, had gone first and opened with the usual background questions. Full name and age—Daniel Boone Elton, 37. Marital status—divorced thrice, currently unattached. Hometown and military record—Dalton, Ohio, with fourteen years in the National Guard. Education—high school graduate, then two years in junior college, but no degree. Civilian employment—a long list of temporary, unskilled jobs from clerking in 7-Elevens, to yardwork, to being a waiter in a long list of restaurant chains. Notably lacking, it struck me, was any history at the managerial or leadership level.
I spent a moment thinking about this. Like Lydia Eddelston, Danny Elton’s socioeconomic status was somewhere down there, but given his age, thirty-seven, and his clear lack of professional success in the army or in civilian life, Elton seemed doomed to remain there.
My experience has been that some people lack the social aptitude, mental skills, influential parents, or luck, to break out of the pack and improve their socioeconomic standing. Others, and I sensed that Elton might fall into this category, remain stuck in low, unchallenging jobs because they prefer it. They are, in short, fugitives from success, more or less because they choose to be. According to his personnel files he had a fairly high IQ, roughly 120, and he was in the army, which indicated no serious drug or alcohol or health issues.
Yet, at thirty-seven, he still was stuck in the rut of menial work, and after fourteen years in the National Guard had only managed to claw his way up to E-5. I briefly surveyed the efficiency ratings in his personnel file and they confirmed that Danny Elton was regarded by his superiors as less than a stellar leader of men, or even of himself. There were recurring mentions of attitude problems, authority issues, and disciplinary problems. Strong-willed was mentioned several times, not in a context that was meant to be complimentary.
I returned to my reading and was struck by this passage:
Captain Winters: “You were the shift leader of Cellblock One?”
Sergeant Elton: “Yeah, that’s right. All the badasses were kept there. Jus’ say, I knew how to control ’em.”
Captain Winters: “How was that?”
Sergeant Elton: “How was what?”
Captain Winters: “How did you control them? Were special techniques required? Did you have unique operating instructions?”
Sergeant Elton: “Special . . . ? Look, let me clue you in about these guys. Only certain types made it to my cellblock. Career crooks, and by that I’m talking murderers, sociopaths, and . . . uh, what you might call fuckin’ incorrigibles. And the big-time terrorists. Not the gunmen or bomb throwers or street toadies. We’re talkin’ Hadjis who run the insurrection.”
Captain Winters: “And how were these people chosen for your block?”
Sergeant Elton: Laughter. “Sometimes they came straight in. The intel types identified ’em. Maybe they had a record under Saddam, maybe they got fingered by stoolies. Lots of ways, I guess. I didn’t ask. I really didn’t give a shit how they got there. Sometimes, they graduated to me from other blocks. The hard cases. Their block leaders were pussies, couldn’t handle ’em.”
Captain Winters: “So what did you do differently to control them?”
Sergeant Elton: “Attitude.”
Captain Winters: “Attitude?”
Sergeant Elton: “Ain’t that what I said? You kept your boot on their chest or they’d go wild. They’d throw shit and piss in your face. They’d kick and punch and bite you. They’d cut you. They’d throw riots and mess with you in a thousand ways. You lawyers got no idea what these people are like. Ain’t like nothin’ back here. It’s war, man. These people don’t think nothin’ of blowin’ up a schoolbus filled with little kiddies. They cut off heads. It was dog eat dog in there. You hadda work hard to be the big dog, or they’d fuckin’ bury you.”
I had the thought that Elton must’ve watched that court room scene of Jack Nicholson and Tom Cruise verbally fencing in A Few Good Men, and this sounded like his coarsened rendition of Jack Nicholson’s soliloquy, albeit replacing being “up on the wall” in the defense of democracy with his thoughts on “being the big dog.”
Just as obviously, LTC Philcher wasn’t buying it, because in reply to this oration, he said, “Just answer the question, Sergeant. Did you have unique instructions or orders regarding prisoner treatment?”
Sergeant Elton: “Wasn’t like that, no. Wasn’t like anyone had time to sit down and type up some neat little book of instructions. You know, like you can do this, but just don’t do that. But my officers, they knew how I operated. And don’t you let ’em act like they didn’t. Hell, the whole prison knew. Whenever any prisoners got out of line in other blocks, the guards told ’em, quit fuckin’ round or you’re going to Elton’s hole. And you know what—the prisoners, they all knew what that meant.”
Captain Winters: “What did they know?”
Sergeant Elton: “Come to my house, you play by my fuckin’ rules.”
Clearly, Sergeant Elton was a man with some serious authority issues, and a mountain-size chip on his shoulder. A man needs to find his role in life—father, coach, priest, bully—and Elton had decided to be the all-knowing badass who set the rules. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely; and, in the dead of night, it can create monsters.
Then, a little later:
Captain Winters: “On December 21, the death of General Yazid Palchaci was reported in your cellblock.”
Sergeant Elton: “Sounds about right.”
I paused for a moment to consider this interesting exchange. It was the first I had heard that the homicide victim was an Iraqi general. I assumed that he had to have been one of Saddam’s generals, and further, I assumed that the idiots running the cellblock had picked the wrong victim. Rank doth have its privileges and, fair or not, when you kill a general, it doth generate a crapfest.
Captain Winters: “Can you describe the circumstances that led to his death?”
Sergeant Elton. “Nope. We discovered his body in his cell and called it in.”
Captain Winters: “In his cell? Did he have a cellmate?”
Sergeant Elton: “I don’t recall.”
Captain Winters: “Wasn’t General Palchaci what the intel people called a high value target?”
Sergeant Elton: “Why don’t you ask them?”
Captain Winters: “According to the records kept by the prison warden’s office, General Palchaci was in an isolation cell. He lived by himself under lock and key.”
Sergeant Elton: “Yeah? Well, that don’t mean nothing. Hell, them records was always messed up. Any given day there was, like, eight, nine thousand prisoners. Coupla hundred comin’ in, coupla hundred bein’ processed out. Fuckin’ clerks never kept it straight.”
Captain Winters: “He was in your cellblock, Sergeant. Under your direct supervision. You have no idea how anybody got the key to his cell, entered it, and beat him to death?”
Sergeant Elton: “Do you?”
I moved on to the testimonies of the other accused soldiers: Andrea Myers, June Johnston, and Mike Tiller. I spent another hour reading their statements until I thought I had the general picture. Andrea Myers and Mike Tiller struck me as both the least informative and least knowledgeable of the night crew. I had the impression both were followers and bit players, and I placed them low on my list of interesting people to get to know.
Moreover, all the testimonies of the night crew, in ways large and small, correlated and concurred. Nobody knew how or why or when General Palchaci died. None could recall how his body was discovered or, indeed, who found the corpse. All their actions were for the greater good, i.e., “prepping” the prisoners for interrogation. All agreed that Sergeant Elton got his marching orders from Captain Nate Willborn and Chief Warrant Officer Amal Ashad, the former, the MI team leader, and the latter, the MI linguist who served under the captain.
I was about halfway through Private Andrea Myers’s performance in the witness chair when Katherine entered the room and fell into the chair across from me.
She wore a shapely black pantsuit, crossed her legs, and asked, “What are your impressions so far?”
Well, she looked great but I saw no need to mention that. “My bed was lumpy.”
“Anything else?”
“Imelda’s coffee hasn’t improved.”
She smiled and seemed to enjoy my complaints. “Imelda was right. You’ve gone soft, Drummond.”
“Can’t you talk your billionaire buddy into throwing in a decent coffeemaker? A maid would be nice.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She obviously wanted to avoid this subject, though. “I meant, any relevant observations on the case?”
“Tell me what you think.”
She made no reply for a while, then said, “I think the government jumped the gun.”
“You think the evidence is thin?”
“I think the public exposure and outcry forced the army’s hand. They needed to fry somebody, and I think they did a hasty investigation, quickly settled on the lowest ranking members, and now they’re praying they can get some convictions and that satisfies the public’s lust for a hanging.”
Rather than debate this point, I inquired, “What’s the current status of Captain Willborn and Chief Ashad?”
“I know neither has yet been charged with anything, if that’s what you mean. Willborn’s current status is witness for the prosecution. I don’t know Ashad’s status. Only the prison commander, Lieutenant Colonel Paul Eggers, has been punished.”
“How was he punished?”
“Relieved of his command.” She paused, then continued, “I understand that marks an undistinguished end to his career, but it seems fairly trifling compared to the general court martial these soldiers are facing.”
“Is that what you think?”
“For God’s sake, Sean, he still gets his military pension. He goes home to his wife and kids, and in a year, nobody remembers he was ever involved in this disgrace. The enlisted types face life in prison.”
I pointed out, very reasonably, “He wasn’t accused of murdering anybody.”
“Maybe he should have been.”
“He didn’t directly engage in torture, did not strip, did not pee in anybody’s face, nor was he stupid enough to have his face circulated in a revolting gallery of photos that give a whole new meaning to the word ‘celebrity.’ ”
She stared at me, and I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Eventually she said, “I want to be sure you have the right mindset for this, Sean.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a creature of the institution. A military lifer. You buy into the whole rank thing and all that comes with it. I think all of you, after enough time in uniform, come to accept certain institutional norms.”
“Thank you for telling me how I think, Katherine.”
“Well . . . it’s hardly a challenge.” She smiled to indicate this was a joke; the smile looked forced and insincere. “I’m just saying that our best defense at this point might be one that makes you squeamish.”
“You make me squeamish.”
We seemed to be at an impasse here. We had had this discussion many times before, starting as law students at Georgetown and on through all the years I’d known her, and we had never settled it yet. Katherine, to put it mildly, was a power-bashing leftie. I had never been accused of anything close to that.
But I wanted to go on record, and said, “Hard as it might be for you to accept, the army is not a machine and the uniform is not a mental straightjacket. A lobotomy does not come with the oath of service. The concept of free choice is alive and well. Illegal or immoral orders can be refused, and, in fact, the army expects, even encourages you to do so. It doesn’t matter if you’re the lowest ranking private in the army, if anybody of a higher rank tells you to do something morally or legally repugnant, you have the right and the obligation to tell them to fuck off.”
“Did you check Lydia’s IQ yet?”
“I wasn’t aware she has one.”
“Ninety-two. So here we have a young girl with a lousy education, below average intelligence, a backcountry rural upbringing, poor self-image, possibly a few impulse control issues, thrown into something much bigger than she could possibly understand.”
“Are we talking about her or you?”
“Screw-off, Drummond.”
Two points for me. “Katherine, I understand what you’re saying but those fall under the heading of extenuating and mitigating circumstances, issues you raise after a conviction. Base your defense on those concerns, and Lydia’s going to spend her old age crapping granola in Leavenworth latrines.”
“Please expand on your reasoning.”
“According to the testimonies, these activities spanned over a month-long period of fun and games—a full month of Lydia, June, and Andrea entering the prison at night and playing hide-the-willy with the prisoners. It wasn’t a one-night splurge fueled by alcohol or drugs, or a bout of temporary, collective insanity, nor was it some sudden emotional lapse. It was premeditated, prolonged, deliberate.” I looked at Katherine and noted, “The only relevant issue was whether they knew right from wrong.”
“And you believe they did?”
“I believe all young girls are taught not to pee on men’s faces. They are taught that penises are not toys. They are taught to keep their clothes on in front of males, except when in the presence of lovers and gynecologists. Now imagine, if you will, that these were male guards in a female prison, and they engaged in the same kinds of kinky, degrading, sexually aggressive behavior. In that instance, do you think you could convince seven reasonable men and women that a slightly below average intelligence and a low self-image justified acting out such impulses?”
“Is that what you think?”
“What matters is not what I think, what matters is how it will be pitched and received in a courtroom. And I believe we’re going to discover even more interesting perversities, more fantasies indulged in the dead of the night. Unless you have some reason to believe that Lydia fails the M’Naghten qualifications, I suggest you drop that line of defense.”
