High crimes, p.16
High Crimes, page 16
“Yeah? So?”
“So now we know he was hiding from us. He’s got a different name, he has this creepy secret past—”
“Jackie—”
“No, wait. Whatever the truth is about these murderers, he was a member of this top-secret military unit that parachutes into places or whatever, into some foreign country where they’re not supposed to be, carrying false ID, shoots the place up, then pulls out. I mean, you want to talk about symbolic? He parachutes into your life out of nowhere, takes it over, carrying false ID—”
“Very clever.” Claire began scrubbing, with deep concentration, the detritus of Annie’s Alpha-Bits cereal encrusted on a bowl.
“And we don’t really know who he is.”
“Whatever they throw at him, he’s still the man I fell in love with.”
Jackie stopped and turned to look directly at Claire. “But you don’t know who that man is. He’s not the man you thought he was—he’s not the man you loved.”
“Oh, now, what does that mean, really? When you come right down to it? I wasn’t being fatuous or naïve when I said he’s the man I fell in love with. Whoever he is, I got to know him as he was, for what he was. I loved him—love him—for who he is, who I know him to be. Everyone has a past, everyone conceals something. No one’s ever totally open about their past, whether they’re hiding stuff intentionally or not, whether it’s their sexuality or—”
“And there you go, rationalizing it.” Jackie raised her voice. “You don’t know, bottom line, who he is and whether he did what they say he did—”
“I know he didn’t do what they’re charging!”
“You don’t know anything about him, Claire. If he could lie to you about his family, his parents, his childhood, his college, practically his whole fucking life, do you really think he couldn’t lie to you about this?”
Annie was standing at the entrance to the kitchen in her Pooh pajamas, sucking her thumb for the first time in years.
“Annie!” Claire said.
Annie removed her thumb with a liquid pop. She looked sullenly, suspiciously at her mother. “Why are you and Aunt Jackie fighting?”
“We’re not fighting, baby. We’re talking. We’re discussing.”
Accusingly, Annie said: “You sound like you’re fighting.”
“We’re just talking, kiddo,” Jackie said. To Claire she added: “I’m going to smoke a cigarette.”
“Outside, please,” Claire said. “I may well join you after Annie goes to bed.”
“I’ve created a monster,” Jackie said.
“No, you’re not tucking me in,” Annie told her mother. “Jackie is.”
“Oh, but can I? I hardly ever see you anymore—I miss you!”
“No,” Annie said loudly. “I don’t want you to tuck me in. I want Jackie to.”
Jackie turned back. “Kiddo, let your mommy tuck you in.”
Claire added, “Sweetie, your mommy—”
“No! You go work! Jackie will do it! Go away!” She ran out of the kitchen, her feet pounding up the staircase to the second floor.
Claire looked at Jackie, who shrugged.
“Go for it,” Jackie said. “You can’t blame the kid.”
Annie’s temporary bedroom was a guest room whose only personalizing touch was the toys she’d scattered about the floor.
Annie had already climbed into bed, looking at Madeline and the Bad Hat, sucking her thumb furiously. “Go away,” she said when Claire entered.
“Honey,” Claire said softly, approaching the bed and kneeling next to it.
Annie pulled out her thumb. “Go away! Go work!”
“Can I read to you? I’d really love to.”
“Well, I don’t want you to, so you can just go away.”
She replaced her thumb in her mouth, staring balefully at the book.
“Can I talk to you?”
Annie ignored her.
“Please, baby. I want to talk to you.”
Annie’s eyes didn’t leave the book.
“I know you’re upset with me. I haven’t been a good mommy at all, I know that. I’m so sorry.”
Annie’s eyes seemed to soften for an instant; then she lowered her brows, frowned. Still she said nothing. Claire had told her that her daddy was on trial, but how much did she really understand?
“I’ve been so busy trying to get Daddy out. I’m out of the house early, and I come home late, and I’m exhausted, and we haven’t done any of the things we always do. And I want you to know that I love you so much. More than anyone in the world. I do. And when this is all over, we’re just going to play together a lot, and go to the zoo, and get ice cream, and mostly just be together like we used to.”
Annie pulled the blankets up to her chin. Without moving her eyes from the book, she said sullenly, almost demanding: “When’s Daddy coming home?”
“Soon, I think. I hope.”
A pause; then Annie said grudgingly, “Jackie says he’s in jail.”
Claire hesitated. She was loath to lie to her anymore, and right now Annie, ferociously observant like all small children, appeared almost to be daring Claire to tell the truth.
“He is, but it’s a mistake.”
Annie frowned again. “What’s jail like?” She seemed to be demanding the details, as proof of Claire’s credibility.
“Well, they keep him in a room, and they give him his supper there, and they give him books.”
“Isn’t there bars and locks and everything?” Annie asked warily.
“Yes, there are bars.”
“Is he sad?”
“He’s sad he can’t be with you.”
“Can I go see him?”
“No, babe, I’m sorry.”
“Why not?”
Why not, indeed. “They don’t allow kids there,” Claire lied. Probably kids were allowed in the visiting room.
Annie seemed to accept this. “Is he scared?”
“At first he was, but now he’s not. He knows they’re going to let him out soon, and then we’ll be a family again. Let’s read some books.”
“No, I don’t want to,” Annie said. Claire couldn’t tell if Annie was mollified or not. “I’m tired.” She turned over. “’Night, Mommy,” she said.
* * *
Claire fell asleep on the sofa in the sitting room, surrounded by case books on military law and packets of nonclassified discovery materials.
At around nine she was jolted awake by the doorbell. She ran to get it, before he rang again and woke Annie up.
Grimes’s face was solemn.
“The decision’s back, isn’t it?”
Grimes nodded.
“When are we going to trial?”
“Can I come in? Or do I got to stand out here on the porch?”
“Sorry.”
“The arraignment’s in six days,” he said, removing his fern-green overcoat and hanging it on the hall coat tree. “That means we got to have all our motions in by then, or we should, anyway. We probably go to trial in a month.”
“Why did I even allow myself to think otherwise?”
“Because, underneath all your been-there, done-that, cynical worldliness, you’re an optimist. A cockeyed optimist.”
“Maybe,” Claire said dubiously. “You want coffee or something?”
“Naw. Not at night.”
“So this is it,” Claire said when they were seated at their usual places in the library office. “We lose this, we’re fucked.”
“I don’t believe I’m hearing this from the appellate queen of Cambridge. It’s like baseball. Motions is your first base. Trial is second base. Then you got the Army Court of Criminal Appeals. Then Court of Appeals for the Armed Forces. They get a single, the game ain’t over.”
“So now who’s the cockeyed optimist?”
“I’m just talking how the game is played. Lot of innings.”
“But this whole charade is ridiculous. The investigating officer’s finding tells any officer who might be on the jury that their commanding officer thinks Tom’s guilty. They’re not going to acquit after that! What’s that?” She noticed a piece of paper in Grimes’s hands.
“The convening order,” he said, standing up and handing it to her. “Take a look. You see who’s ordering the court-martial?” Grimes studied a fragile-looking porcelain urn on a white-painted wooden columnar pedestal next to the desk.
The letterhead said SECRETARY OF THE ARMY. The letter was signed by the secretary of the army himself.
“I don’t get it,” she said. “Why is the secretary convening it? I thought it was done by someone lower down on the food chain, like the commander of Quantico or something.”
“Usually is. That’s what’s interesting. It’s like they’re ordering this from the very top to send a message—you know, We’re not fucking around, this is serious shit.”
“No,” Claire said.
“No what?”
“That’s not the reason. There’s a legal reason, I’ll bet. A really interesting one.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s because General Marks, the chief of staff of the army, is involved in this. Legally, that makes him an accuser against Tom. And according to Article 1 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice and Rule of Court-Martial 504(c)(2), a court-martial can’t be convened by anyone junior to an accuser. The only one senior to the general—”
“Is the secretary. Right.” He traced a pattern on the urn, nodded. “Right.”
“And what’s this list?” Claire said, still looking at the letter. “Is this the jury?”
“Yeah, only in a military court they’re called the ‘members.’”
“I want all these guys checked out for any glitches. Any biases. Anything we can use for voir dire. How come all these guys are commissioned officers? Tom was a noncommissioned officer, that’s lower rank. Don’t we want some senior NCOs on the panel?”
“If we want senior NCOs, we can request it. But I think we’ll get a fairer shake if we stick with officers. They’re more inclined to look at the evidence, in my experience.”
“I assume the most senior guy in rank automatically becomes the jury foreman.”
“You’re catching on. Everything is rank.”
“And how do we know these guys haven’t all been selected for their willingness to convict?”
“We don’t. Officially it’s unlawful command influence to try to stack the court, but good luck proving it. You can’t.”
The doorbell rang. “Shit,” Claire said. “That’s going to wake Annie up. She was just drifting off to sleep.”
“Expecting someone?”
“Ray Devereaux. My PI. Excuse me for a minute.”
Ray stood at the door like an immense statue with an improbably small head. He wore one of his good suits.
“Good evening,” he said with exaggerated courtliness.
“Hey, Ray,” Claire said. She went to hug him and ended up squeezing his stomach. He entered and looked around.
“I like this,” Devereaux said. “You’re living in the goddamned Taj Mahal and I’m staying in a roach motel.”
“It’s not a roach motel, Ray, it’s—”
“Fuggedaboudit, I’m making a joke. What happened to your sense of humor?”
In the library he was introduced to Grimes and refused to sit down. “I wanna know why you guys don’t drop a dime to the Post or the Washington Times,” Devereaux said. “Only thing that’ll derail this express train. Open the door and let in the light of day.”
“No,” Claire said urgently, shaking her head. “Then Tom becomes William Calley. No matter if we get him off or not. For the rest of his life, he’s a mass murderer, and my daughter has to live with that.”
“But if you change your mind,” Grimes said, “just don’t use your phone. Don’t even talk about it on your phone.”
“You think they’ve got an illegal tap on my phones?”
Devereaux laughed the laugh of the man who’s seen it all.
“Lady,” Grimes said, “I put nothing past ’em.”
“Okay. Field report,” Devereaux announced. “Of the men in Detachment 27 I’ve been able to locate, there’s Hernandez, who probably salutes General Marks’s bowel movements. Two are in the private sector. Two I can’t find. That’s all of them.”
“Including Tom, that’s six,” Grimes said. “There were twelve in the unit. Where’s the other six?”
“Dead.”
“That’s what Tom told me,” Claire said.
“There seems to be a high mortality rate in that unit, wouldn’t you say? Six of the men have died since 1985.”
“How?” Claire asked.
“Two in combat, but there’s nothing available about the circumstances of their deaths. Three dead in car accidents. One, who lived in New York City and never owned a car or had a driver’s license, died of a heart attack.”
“Because they couldn’t plausibly engineer a car accident for the guy,” Grimes said, nodding. “But heart attacks can be faked, with the right chemicals.”
“Tom was right,” Claire said. “He said they were going to go after him, too.”
“They didn’t figure on losing him the way they did,” Devereaux said.
Claire heard a small noise at the doorway and saw Annie standing there, thumb in her mouth, dragging her blanket behind her. Another regression. “What are you doing up?”
“The doorbell woke me up,” Annie said in a small voice. She looked around the library, blinking.
“Annie!” Devereaux sang out. He strode over to her and put his arms out. “Want an elevator ride?”
“Yeah!” Annie said, reaching up.
Devereaux lifted her up almost to the ceiling. “Tenth floor! Going down.” Lowering her in stages, he said, “Eighth floor! Sixth floor! Third floor! Lobby!” She screamed with delight. Then, catapulting her upward, he said, “Whoops! Going up! Tenth floor!” And, plunging her to the floor: “Going down! Express! Basement!”
“Ray!” Claire scolded. “This little girl has to go to sleep, and you’re getting her all riled up.”
Annie giggled. “More!”
“No more,” Devereaux said. “Your mommy says it’s sleepytime.”
“Can I play in here for a little while?”
“It’s bedtime, babe,” Claire said.
“But I don’t have school.”
Claire hesitated but a moment. “All right, for a little while. Do you guys mind? She never sees me these days.”
“Is she bound by attorney-client confidentiality?” Grimes asked.
“You’ve got to be real quiet, okay?” Claire said.
“Okay.”
Annie began walking around the library, inspecting the objects, playing with a paperweight.
“We’re going to have to replace Embry,” Grimes said. “Or they’ll replace him, more likely. But we definitely need someone inside the system.”
“You really think he leaked our plans about the polygraph?” Claire asked.
“You got any other candidates?”
“No. But, just judging by his character—I find it hard to accept.”
Annie had both of her hands around the porcelain urn.
“Be careful,” Claire said to Annie. “This isn’t our house.” But Annie didn’t remove her hands. She stared at her mother with defiance.
“You’re such a good judge of character?” Devereaux gibed.
“It’s a different world, the military,” Grimes said. “Different rules. Different loyalties. Different values. Different morality. He may be a moral guy, but his loyalty is to the system, to protecting the military. Not to us.”
“If you really believe that,” Claire said, “why not try to get him disbarred? Annie, honey, I mean it. I want you to go to bed now.”
“Ah, I was just talking trash. How am I going to prove it? Never happen.”
There was a sudden movement, and the urn toppled to the hardwood floor with a sickening crash.
“Annie!” Claire shouted.
Annie gave Claire a ferocious look and stared at what she’d done. The urn had smashed into tiny pieces, scattered far and wide over the polished floor.
“Oh, God,” Claire said, jumping up. “Annie! All right, you, back to bed.”
“No, I don’t want to go to bed!”
“Bedtime, miss.” Claire lifted her up.
Annie wriggled, swung her body to either side, protesting angrily, “I’m … not … going … to bed!”
“Hey,” Devereaux said.
“What?” Claire said as Annie managed to free herself from Claire’s arms and landed neatly on the floor. She ran out of the room. “Annie, come back here, baby!”
“Check this out.” He pointed at the shards of porcelain scattered on the hardwood floor.
Claire and Grimes approached. “What you talking about?” Grimes asked.
“This,” Devereaux said.
“Oh, man,” Grimes said.
“What is it?” Claire asked. She stared at a tiny black object she’d never seen before.
Devereaux picked it up. It was oblong, no more than an inch long, half an inch wide, trailing a long thin wire.
“Transmitter,” Grimes said, his voice hushed.
“Oh my God,” Claire said in a high-pitched whisper.
“Man oh man,” Grimes said.
Claire suddenly grabbed a ceramic foo dog on the cluttered table next to Grimes’s chair and flung it to the ground. It shattered, another small black transmitter among its shards. “Oh my God,” she repeated.
“Claire,” Grimes called warningly.
She lifted the spherical black lamp from the library table she used as a desk and hurled that, too, to the floor. It split jaggedly in half, revealing another black transmitter.
“Cool it, Claire,” Grimes said. “You’re going to have to pay for all this shit.”
“Enough, Claire,” Devereaux said. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll locate the rest of them.”
“This place is loaded with them!” Claire gasped.
“I told you,” Grimes said, grabbing her arms to restrain her, “I put nothing past them. Now you see what I’m talking about.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The house crawled with FBI agents—crime-scene investigators, fingerprint and forensic people. They’d arrived with astonishing speed after Ray Devereaux, one of their own, had put in the call the following morning. He’d done so after he’d finished his own cursory inspection, which turned up a dozen more miniature transmitters, in the library, in Claire’s bedroom, in the kitchen. And more to come, no doubt. In the ceiling of an empty guest-room closet one floor above the library Devereaux had located a large black box, which he said was used to gather the signals, amplify them, and broadcast them for miles to whoever was listening.
