Double Tap

CHAPTER THIRTY

Our mystery man, retired General Gerald Satz, has now disappeared. Two days ago a relentless process server, a friend of Herman’s working out of Washington, D.C., finally gained access to Satz’s outer office in the Pentagon, only to be told that Satz was gone.

According to the information, the general is out of the country on government business. They will not say when he left, when he will be back, or where he is. According to his staff, Satz’s location and his itinerary are confidential for reasons of security. What is clear is that Satz will not be available for the trial. The government is sealing off the last small fissures in the cover that might shed light on what happened between Madelyn Chapman and the Pentagon in the days before she died.

Friday afternoon, the end of the week, and Templeton is sitting at the cusp, right at the edge of the state’s case in chief. He is a master of timing, and the feeling is palpable as he climbs the stool to take the podium. You can almost smell it, like ozone in the air after a jolt of lightning: the packed courtroom seems to crackle with a psychic charge.

Like a pint-size philharmonic conductor, Templeton would like to end his case on a crescendo, some high note that he can leave ringing in the minds of jurors, for them to ponder as they kill time, sequestered in their hotel rooms over the weekend, waiting for the defense to begin its case.

“Mr. Templeton, do you have any more witnesses to call?” Gilcrest looks up only briefly as he makes a note on the blotter in front of him. The jury is in the box.

“One final witness, Your Honor.”

“Very well, let’s do it,” says the judge.

“People call Jensen Quinn to the stand.”

I glance over at Harry, who has already leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on the table as he turns to look at me. His face is an expressive question mark, a shrug of the shoulders. He has no clue.

Harry fingers through the separate piles of paper on the table in front of him until he finds a copy of the state’s witness list. This is nearly eighteen pages in length, names single-spaced and numbered along the left-hand margin. There are hundreds of names here, people Templeton thought he might want to call, long shots that in a pitched battle over some minute point could come in handy, others that would be called only if the factual sands underlying the case shifted beneath his feet. I suspect many of the names were grabbed out of phone books in the library and dropped on his list like chaff among the wheat to distract us, so that we would waste time checking them out.

I lean into Emiliano. “Do you recognize the name?”

He shakes his head. He is turned now, looking toward the back of the courtroom, toward the double doors where the bailiff has announced the name out in the hallway.

A second later I hear the whoosh of one of the swinging double doors at the rear of the courtroom as it opens and closes. Before I can turn to look behind me, I notice that Emiliano’s face has gone ashen. There is something in his fixed gaze that I have not seen before. It is the focused appearance of fear. A second later, when he snaps around to the front, his breathing is heavy, his eyes darting.

I turn to look behind me. At the back of the courtroom there is a man talking to the bailiff, who is directing him up the main aisle toward the front of the courtroom. He is of medium height with dark, wavy hair. He’s wearing a tan jacket, slacks, and a polo shirt. As he heads up the aisle I get a better look. His eyes are directed straight ahead, as if he is consciously avoiding any eye contact with the people at either table and instead is staring off into the ether.

I look over toward Harry. He has slid the state’s witness list toward the center of the table in front of Ruiz where we can all see it. Harry’s finger is on the page next to the name Jensen Quinn.

I cup a hand and whisper to Ruiz, “Do you know him?”

He nods quickly, twice, a kind of muted gesture. “I knew him as Jack. It’s what he went by in the military,” he whispers back.

“What’s he going to say?” I ask.

A little shake of his head, a shrug of his shoulders. Ruiz is telling us he doesn’t know.

“What is he going to say on the stand?” Harry is whispering through clenched teeth from the other side. He has picked up the same signal of panic from Ruiz that I have.

Emiliano falls silent, his eyes on the witness, who is now raising his hand to be sworn in by the clerk.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“Ah do.”

“Take a seat and state your name for the record.”

He sits in the witness chair. “Jensen Jonathan Quinn.”

He has a distinct accent. If I had to guess, I would say the southeast hill country, maybe the western Carolinas or Tennessee.

“Mr. Quinn, my name is Lawrence Templeton. I’m a deputy district attorney with the county of San Diego. We have met and talked to one another on one earlier occasion, have we not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sometimes known to your friends as Jack Quinn?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t have to call me sir. Just relax. All you have to do is answer the questions truthfully and we’ll get you out of here as quickly as we can.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry,” he says.

Several of the jurors are smiling.

“That’s okay, we all understand. It’s natural to be a little bit nervous. Let me ask you, Mr. Quinn, are you a member of the United States military?”

The witness shakes his head. “Not at the present time. No, sir.”

“But were you at one time a member of the United States Army?”

“Yes, sir.” The witness blushes, shrugs his shoulders.

“That’s all right. Old habits are hard to break,” says Templeton. “If it makes it any easier for you, you can just go ahead and keep on pretending I’m a sir.”

The jury laughs.

“Mr. Quinn, can you tell the jury what type of work you did when you were in the Army?”

“I was in the infantry, Army Rangers.”

“And where were you stationed?”

“Fort Bragg, North Carolina.”

“You’re currently out of the Army, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you been out?”

“Let’s see.” He thinks for a moment. “Fourteen, almost fifteen months now.”

“And you were honorably discharged, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long were you in the Army?”

“Eight years.”

“And during all that time, were you stationed at Fort Bragg?”

“Except for the times when mah unit was overseas, yes, sir.”

“Did you see any combat during this period of time?”

“Yes, sir. In the Middle East. Twice,” he says.

“And both times that you were in combat, were you a member of an Army Ranger unit?”

“Ah was, yes, sir.”

“And can you tell the jury, are the Army Rangers considered to be what is known as an elite unit within the military?”

“Yes, sir. They are.”

“And what was your rank or grade when you left the Army?”

“Ah was a staff sergeant.”

“Would members of the Army, enlisted servicemen or women, have to go through special training to become an Army Ranger?”

“Yes, sir, they would.”

“And can you tell the jury what kind of training would be involved in order to qualify to become a Ranger?”

“Well, besides basic training and advanced individual training, to get your MOS-”

“Excuse me. What is an MOS? Can you explain for the jury?”

“Oh. Yeah, sorry. MOS is short for ‘military occupational specialty.’ Mine was advanced infantry.”

“Thank you. Go ahead. What else is required to become a Ranger?”

“Besides that, you have to graduate from airborne school.”

“Become a paratrooper, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what else?”

“You have to complete RIP,” he says.

“What is RIP, Mr. Quinn?”

“Ranger indoctrination program.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would we be safe in assuming that all of this-the basic training, the advanced training, the airborne school, the RIP program-all of it involves fairly rigorous physical aptitude on the part of the recruit, the person trying to become an Army Ranger?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your Honor”-I interrupt Templeton’s flow-“I have to object. I’m sure all of this is very interesting, but it’s irrelevant.”

“Mr. Templeton, I’m beginning to wonder the same thing,” says Gilcrest.

“Your Honor, if you’ll just give me a couple more minutes, I think you’ll begin to see the relevance.”

“Very well, get to the point,” says the judge.

“Mr. Quinn, at one point after you became an Army Ranger, did you consider making the Army a career?”

“Ah did.”

“And what changed your mind?”

“I was passed over,” he says.

“You mean to say you were passed over for a promotion?”

“No, sir. Ah was turned down on assignment to another unit.”

“And what was that unit?”

“First Special Forces Operational Detachment. First SFOD, sir.”

“And is there another name that that unit is more commonly known by?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what is that name?”

“Delta Force.”

“And where is Delta Force located? Where is their headquarters?”

“You mean officially?” asks the witness.

“Yes.”

“Nowhere. According to the Army, they don’t exist.”

A few people in the audience laugh. They’ve seen the film or read the book, the bloody battle on the streets of Mogadishu. Delta is like Area Fifty-one out in the desert. Everybody knows it exists, but the government won’t admit it.

“Why is that? Why won’t the Army acknowledge Delta’s existence?”

“Because it’s classified. Everything about the Delta is off limits.”

“Where do they exist, unofficially?” says Templeton.

“At Fort Bragg, North Carolina.”

“The same place you were stationed when you were in the Rangers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And can you tell the jury why you were turned down, disapproved for assignment to Delta Force?”

I’m getting a sick feeling, the kind of sensation you feel just as Vesuvius erupts up the esophagus.

“Because someone said. . because I was found not to be qualified for certain live-fire exercises with small arms.”

“And can you tell the jury who made that determination? Who said you weren’t qualified?”

“He did.” The witness nearly comes up off his seat, reaching out to point toward Ruiz. Emiliano is just sitting there, his back against the chair, looking at the witness with a blank stare.

“And when you said ‘He did,’ who are you talking about? Can you identify this person by name?”

“Yes, sir. Sergeant Emiliano Ruiz,” he says.

“You’re talking about the defendant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And at the time that Sergeant Ruiz found you not to be qualified, was Sergeant Ruiz a member of the Army Rangers?”

“No, sir. He was a member of Delta Force.”

There is stirring out in the audience, the hum of voices. The judge cracks the gavel on the hard oak surface of the bench, and suddenly there is silence.

“Can you tell us a little bit more about Delta Force? What exactly does that unit do?”

“Counterterrorism, hostage rescue. . They’re the tip of the spear,” says the witness.

“What does that mean, ‘the tip of the spear’?”

“They’re elite, sir. Top of the heap.”

“I’m going to ask you to take a look at. .” Templeton nods toward the detective at his table, who gets up as if on cue and retrieves the murder weapon, Ruiz’s handgun, from the evidence table. “I’d like to ask you to take a look at this firearm.”

The detective hands the pistol to the witness.

“Do you recognize it?” asks Templeton.

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you tell the jury what the letters USSOCOM engraved on the side of that firearm, near the barrel, what those letters stand for?”

“They stand for United States Special Operations Command.”

“And what is the Special Operations Command?”

“They’re the command unit over Special Forces, Green Berets, Rangers, all of the elite units in the Army.”

“Would that include Delta Force?”

“Yes, sir. Especially Delta Force.”

It’s clear why Templeton didn’t use the army officer Major Ellis, his firearms training expert, to make the point. Ellis would have disclaimed any knowledge of Delta. He probably would have suffered terminal memory loss if Templeton had even whispered the name. Harry and I now know the answer to the mystery, why Ruiz had dropped off the edge of the earth for seven years, according to his military records. He had entered the shadow world of Delta.

Templeton slows down, checks his notes. He wants to carefully map out the final approach in his head. At this point, impact, vivid contact on all the high peaks for the jury, and the order in which they are touched is everything.

“Have you seen that pistol or one like it before?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you see it?”

“In training at Fort Bragg. The Delta Force training base,” he says.

“Can you tell us what was happening with the pistol when you saw it for the first time?”

“It was being fired.”

“Can you describe the circumstances in which it was being fired?”

“It was being used for a training demonstration in one of the shooting houses.”

“Can you tell the jury what a shooting house is?”

“It’s an indoor enclosure used for training. Live-fire exercises. Simulation training for insertions and hostage rescue.”

“And is there another name for a shooting house? Something else that soldiers sometimes call it?”

The witness nods. “Sometimes they’re called killing houses.”

The impact of the two words on the jury is almost palpable. I watch as at least four of them make a note of it on paper.

“And when you observed this demonstration, who was firing the pistol in question, the Mark Twenty-three forty-five automatic?”

“It was Sergeant Ruiz.”

“And do you recall, was he demonstrating anything in particular that day, the day you saw him with a pistol similar to the one in your hand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you tell the jury precisely what it was that he was teaching that day?”

“We were all inside the killing house,” says Quinn. “Sergeant Ruiz was showing us the proper procedure for target selection with the pistol.”

“The Mark Twenty-three?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go on.”

“He was showing us how to sweep each target so that we could hit it twice, so that we could put it down-what is known as a double tap.”

At this moment Harry would drop his head onto the table except that half of the jury is watching us. The other half is taking notes.

Templeton now has the detective deliver a photograph to our table. It’s an eight-by-ten glossy, black-and-white, a picture of a group of soldiers, none of them looking particularly spit-shined, some of them with mustaches and longer hair. Most of the soldiers in the group look like they are older; some of them in their early thirties. Sitting on the ground in the front row is Emiliano. In his hand, unmistakable with the long silencer attached and what appears to be a square block of metal under the barrel, the laser sight, is the Mark 23.

“Your Honor, I object. We’ve never seen this photograph before.”

“I only got a copy this morning,” says Templeton.

Gilcrest waves us forward to the bench and hits the white-noise button.

“It was delivered to me by the witness during the noon break,” says Templeton. “Outside in the hallway. He only found it last night among some old papers in his files. He had copies made this morning.”

“Your Honor-”

Gilcrest holds up a hand, palm out, to silence me as he studies his copy of the photo, delivered to him by the bailiff.

“Are you offering the photograph to show that the firearm depicted in the picture is the murder weapon?” asks the judge.

“No, Your Honor. Only to show that the defendant was familiar with and skilled in the use of the model of that handgun.”

“Your Honor-”

“I’ll allow it for that purpose,” says the judge. “And I’ll instruct the jury accordingly.”

“I object, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Madriani, a witness has already linked the murder weapon to your client. It’s been established that it was issued to him in the Army. I can’t see any harm in showing the jury a picture of him holding a similar firearm.”

A picture being worth a thousand words, I could split hairs with him all afternoon, but he slaps me down, and we step back to the tables.

Templeton has the witness identify the photograph, and less than a minute later it’s up on the visualizer in front of the jury. The judge can instruct them until hell freezes. The picture of the murder weapon in Emiliano’s hand, projected onto a screen the size of that in a small movie theater, has a transforming effect inside the jury box. If the weight of evidence means anything-if Harry, Ruiz, and I were sitting on a balancing scale at this moment-our heads would be jammed up against the courtroom ceiling.