Ghost Watch

Verdict

It was six-fifteen am before I jogged past the main gate, having run five miles by then, my head no clearer than it was when I climbed out of bed, a headache throbbing in my left temple and keeping time with every footfall. I had a late night with Macri and Cheung to thank for that, though maybe it was the midnight visit from my old buddy Jack that did the real damage. Out beyond the gate, the daily demonstration in support of moi was ramping up. I went in for a closer look and caught sight of a few of the placards. ‘Free Cooper!’ said one. Another said, ‘America needs heroes!’ Yet another proclaimed, ‘#12? Cooper deserves better!’ That last one threw me — what was that all about? The rest, and there were quite a few, were variations on those themes, except for the ‘We love Leila!’ placards and one that said, ‘Twenny — feel me!’

Today’s circus would be bigger and better than usual and, indeed, there were more than a dozen trailers out there, parked among network vans, all of which were present for the biggest show in town. This was the day when witnesses would be called, and that meant Twenny Fo and Leila, now officially his fancée, would be making an appearance. The networks were salivating.

Outside the wire there was plenty of support. Inside, where it counted, it was a different story. All the legal maneuvering and wrangling was done and dusted and none of it favored me. Cheung and Macri had tried to convince the court that my assault on Lockhart was provoked, and that I therefore acted in self-defense. After hearing counter mumbo jumbo from the USAF prosecutors, Major Vaughan Latham and his hot captain assistant, Colonel Fink ruled that, as Lockhart was unaware that I was in the camp, it was ridiculous to claim provocation on his part and that therefore the charges stood. In short, only the circumstances around the assault were admissible. Every thing that transpired over the previous eight days, including my testimony that I’d observed Lockhart shoot French Armée de l’Air Lieutenant Henri Fournier dead in cold blood — among many other crimes including rape, kidnapping, extortion, and slavery — were deemed to be outside the court martial’s purview. My problem was that we had no evidence, hard or otherwise, produced in disclosure to support my counter claims.

Though Ryder had been with me at the time of Fournier’s murder, he hadn’t actually seen Lockhart at all, let alone witness the shooting — the murderer having disappeared into one of the tents by the time I’d handed the scope over to the captain. At the village, when the baby had been thrown into the bushes and Lockhart had pulled up in a Dong, it was a similar story. I saw him, but no one else could corroborate. Same again at the mine, when we were escaping in the truck with Francis and his people and Lockhart had tried to stop us with some FARDC troops. I’d seen him, but it seemed that everyone else had had their heads up their asses at the time. Francis had noted Lockhart at the mine when the gold nugget had been found, but Francis was lost somewhere deep in the Congo rainforests, if, indeed, he were still alive. And even if he were breathing and could be contacted and his video testimony delivered to the court, Cheung believed that Fink and his co-judges would not have accepted Francis’s word over Lockhart’s.

Of course, there was Twenny Fo’s belief that he smelled Lockhart in the FARDC camp. When they heard about it, Cheung and Macri laughed.

So, basically, I was screwed.

I ran back to my rooms, trying to work out what #12. Cooper deserves better! might mean. When I got there, a man was waiting in ambush for me by the front entranceway to my accommodation: fortyish, balding, tall in a faccid way that suggested no exercise and too much booze, and jowls that reminded me of a bloodhound’s. His name was Rentworthy, the New York Times reporter. I slowed to a walk to throw off his targeting. It didn’t work.

‘Vin. Can I call you that?’

‘What else you got in mind?’

‘You’re a hard man to catch.’

I remembered Cheung’s advice: play nice with this guy. ‘You’ve written some interesting stories about what happened out there.’

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘Mind telling me who your source was?’

‘Sorry, can’t reveal that.’

‘Then how about narrowing it down a little — one of my principals, or one of the PSOs?’

‘Does it matter?’

It only mattered because whoever the source was had selectively edited the facts to make me out to be some kind of hero, which I wasn’t. ‘No, I guess not.’

‘Our readers don’t want you to go to prison, Vin.’

‘I’m not so keen on it either.’

‘You mind if I ask you some questions?’

‘You’ve got me cornered. Shoot.’

The guy took out a tape recorder and showed me the red light.

‘I got a bad memory,’ he said, a half smile compressing one of his jowls. ‘I want to know whether you had sex with Leila. There are allegations…’

‘No.’

‘The first night you were down on the ground, when it was your watch. Leila didn’t pay you a visit? Make an offer that was too good to refuse? Was it true she wanted to cut and run, leave her fancé behind?’

I remembered the night and I remembered Leila down on her knees in front of me and I remembered that nothing happened. Where was this coming from? ‘This doesn’t sound like a story the New York Times would be interested in,’ I said.

‘Till an earthquake bumps you off, you’re the big news at the moment, Vin; do you realize that? The media is chewing on the same information, presenting it different ways, digging up people who know you; people who know your principals. You could make a lot of money. Our readers just want the full story.’

‘And sex sells.’

‘Indeed it does.’

‘Can’t help you, I’m afraid. Nothing happened.’

‘Not according to People.’

He handed me a rolled-up magazine. Leila was on the cover, dressed in an Army battle uniform, her shirt undone and her breasts looking like they were trying to punch their way out. She was in a jungle setting and a large snake was coiled around a nearby branch. Plenty of symbolism. The cover announced that it was the ‘Sexiest People On The Planet’ issue. Another headline read, ‘Sex on the run. What really happened in the Congo — an insider tells.’

‘This your source?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘I’ve been the go-to-guy on your story, but not on this chapter.’ He held up the magazine. ‘I wanted to see if someone else got the drop on me. And I figured only you’d know.’

‘Nothing happened.’

‘Shame. She’s hot.’

And loopy.

‘There’s a story in the paper tomorrow. It’s not mine either. Twenny Fo and Leila want to adopt two orphans from the DRC — girls; twins. They’re also hoping to build a school in some village you passed through. Maybe you know which one.’

I thought of a baby girl caught upside down in the bushes, a driver ant biting her toe. I shrugged.

Rentworthy clicked off his tape recorder, handed me his card. ‘I can write your story, Vin. It’s a good one. There’s a book in it somewhere and it’ll sell. Think about it. You’ll need the money when you get out.’

‘Nice to hear you’re thinking positive on my account. Okay, I’ll think about it,’ I told him, pocketing the card, but I already knew what my answer would be.

‘Oh, I see you made number twelve. Congrats. And today in court — break a leg, eh?’

I said thanks and see you later and jogged up the stairs with the magazine. Number twelve? I had a shower and shave, dressed, ate breakfast and flicked through the magazine while I waited for Cheung and Macri, who were escorting me to court. I opened the mag at its halfway point, found the story pertaining to the coverline and read it. The inside source wasn’t named. The story insinuated that Leila and I were eating each other’s forbidden fruit in the Congo’s primordial Garden of Eden while everyone else slept. I could see a lawsuit heading People magazine’s way from Leila’s team. That aside, the story would be good for my bar cred, if I ever managed to get to a bar while this edition was still on the newsstands, which didn’t seem likely. I skimmed the rest of the rag and stopped at a page showing the photo Fallon had taken of me on his iPhone that day back in Afghanistan. My jaw went slack. The headline on the photo said, ‘#12. Special Agent Vin Cooper, OSI’.

‘Shit,’ I muttered. I flicked forward and back. There I was, number twelve in People magazine’s list of the World’s Sexiest People. Leila was number one and Twenny was number seven.

A knock on the door. It was Cheung and Macri.

‘You’ve read it, I see,’ said Macri as he walked in, nodding at the magazine dangling from my hand.

‘Congratulations,’ Cheung added.

‘The poster was right — number twelve is an insult,’ I said.

‘What poster?’ asked Macri.

I let the question hang, exchanging it for my blouse dangling from a hook on the back of the door. ‘What can I expect today?’

‘You’re gonna see your friend,’ Macri told me.

‘Lockhart?’ I asked, though I knew who he meant.

‘Word just came from Latham’s office. He’s going to testify in person,’ said Cheung.

‘He knows we’ve got nothing on him,’ I said. ‘That’s why he’s here. He knows we can’t touch him.’

‘He’s come to gloat,’ Macri concluded.

I closed the door and we walked in silence down the stairs to the blue Ford Explorer parked out front.

‘This is how it will go today,’ said Cheung, opening the front passenger door for me. He drove and Marci took the back seat.

‘I know how it will go,’ I said before he could get started. ‘I’m in the same game, remember? Who’s our first witness?’

‘Duke Ryder.’

‘Why Ryder?’ I asked.

‘He’s an OSI agent and his eyewitness testimony differs from the prosecution’s eyewitness testimony in a key area. We can amplify the difference and perhaps throw some doubt on the flames.’

‘What key area?’

‘Leave it for the courtroom,’ said Macri.

‘What about Cassidy, Rutherford and West?’

‘They’ll also be called.’

The courtroom was inside 1535 Command Drive, a red-brick rectangle façade with a rotunda built off the back, like the architect couldn’t quite make up his mind. The eighties were a confusing time. Milling in front of the building were at least a couple hundred folks hoping to get a seat in a courtroom that could seat less than a quarter that number. Several reporters were doing live feeds, the network trucks I’d seen out beyond the main gate now parked along Command Drive. There were no placards.

‘We’ll go round the back,’ said Cheung, taking a detour.

The back turned out to be every bit as crowded as the front. Reporters swarmed over the Explorer once we’d stopped. A couple of security police managed to get themselves between the reporters shouting questions at me, and hustled Macri and me up the stairs and into the building, leaving Cheung to field the questions. He threw them a few bones and then came up the stairs that were blocked by more security forces. We made our way to the courtroom, which had yet to be opened to the public, and took our seats at the desk reserved for the defense, facing the members of the board.

Major Latham and Captain Pencilskirt, whose name I’d since discovered was Polly Blinkenspiel, took their places at the desk opposite the military judge.

Latham caught me looking in his direction or, rather, in Blinken-spiel’s, and gave me a shrug that said, ‘No hard feelings, hey.’

He was just doing his job. If it wasn’t him it’d be some other trial counsel and it was unlikely his or her assistant would be nearly as hot as Latham’s. While I was considering all this, allowing my thoughts to wander to the aforementioned assistant, the doors at the back of the room opened and people poured in. I saw a few familiar faces — Arlen’s, for example. We acknowledged each other and he gave me an it’s-gonna-be-okay nod, the kind of nod I imagine they give you when you go into surgery with a minor leg wound and come out an amputee. A familiar face was beside him — Summer from Summer Love, the vegetarian restaurant on the ground floor of my apartment. She wore a yellow hat and a long lemon dress pulled in tight under her smallish breasts, accentuating them. She looked good. I was surprised to see her, vegetarian food not being high on my favourites list. She waved and I gave her what I hoped was a smile. There were a few other people I knew, agents I’d worked with and so forth. Lockhart was somewhere close by. I was sure I could smell him.

The bailiff, in this instance an Air Force lieutenant colonel, closed the doors and walked to the front of the room, and everyone settled down, the talk dying to a low murmur and then ceasing altogether. ‘All rise,’ he said and everyone stood.

The side door opened and Colonel Fink came in, still short and bath plug-like, and climbed up on his stage to take his seat in front of the Air Force seal hanging on the paneled wall behind him. One colonel, one lite colonel and seven majors — more males than females — came in. They all took the seats behind the mahogany desk panels, each wearing a stern Mount Rushmore-like face.

Fink cleared his throat, shuffed a stack of loose papers in front of him and held a black fountain pen poised above them. Without looking up, he read through the usual script, outlining the defendant’s rights to counsel, followed by a series of oaths that counsels had to take, followed by the charges I was facing, followed by my plea — which was not guilty — followed by instructions to the court outlining, for example, what reasonable doubt meant. Then followed challenges — whether either my counsels or the trial counsel believed there might be any bias or competing interests amongst the members of the court that could leave justice short changed. The script Fink went through was forty pages or more in length. There were no challenges, the right people said ‘yes, sir,’ and ‘no, sir,’ when they were supposed to, including me. Eventually, Colonel Fink gave the stack of papers in front of him a big tick, shuffed them into order, then called on Latham to outline the United States’ case against me.

‘Yes, your Honor,’ said Latham. He got up, buttoned his coat, and walked to the dais in the center of the room with his cheat notes. He then read through the charges, repeating much of what Fink had already said, the court reporter putting it all down again. There was fdgeting from the bleachers. This was a long way from a Grisham novel.

‘Excellent,’ said Fink when Latham had concluded, adding another famboyant tick. I wondered if maybe the guy was going to introduce himself to the audience and take a bow. The courts martial I’d attended in the past hadn’t been in the least theatrical. Fink was enjoying himself.

‘I note that several members of the media have taken up the commander’s offer to attend this trial and are in the room today, this case having attracted more than its fair share of public attention,’ he said. ‘But I would remind you that you are here at the pleasure of the United States Air Force. This is a military court martial, and you are on a military base and you must conduct yourselves accordingly or your privileges here will be withdrawn.’ Fink took his stare around the courtroom. ‘While we’re on the subject, if I see tomorrow the scenes I witnessed out front of this building this morning, I will end public access to these proceedings and you will have to satisfy the cravings of your listeners, readers, watchers and bloggers with an Air Force-approved press release the morning after the previous day’s hearings. Do I make myself clear?’

I heard a pin drop.

‘Then, without further ado, gentlemen,’ he continued, turning his gaze on Latham. ‘If you please, Counselor…’

Latham stood, buttoned his coat, went to the dias and recalled the scene at Camp Come Together, Cyangugu. As far as I could tell, he had it pretty much squared away with the facts. From the way it was recounted, I’d have found me guilty.

Then it was Cheung’s turn. He expanded on my not-guilty plea, told the court that I was innocent of the main assault charge, that I was just going my duty, and that there were witness who would back me up.

Not even I was convinced.

Fink then invited Latham to call his first witness. A procession of US personnel who had been present at Cyangugu took the stand and recounted the events of the afternoon that had led to me sitting in this courtroom. The two MPs who had pulled me off Lockhart began the parade, starting with the big redheaded Army sergeant with the badly busted-up nose. They all told identical stories, well drilled. Cheung had no questions for any of them and neither did the court board members, who were within their right to ask them if testimony had been unclear.

After the seventh witness went over exactly the same ground as the six before him, Fink interrupted the show. ‘Counselor,’ he asked Latham. ‘How many more broken records do you intend playing the court?’

‘If it pleases the court, sir, thirteen more,’ said Latham, buttoning his coat as he stood.

‘Any of them have anything fresh to add?’

‘Only one, sir. The prosecution’s case rests on consistency. I have twenty witnesses who can swear that the events that took place at Cyan-gugu happened as we say it happened, and not the way the accused and his witnesses will claim.’

‘Is it necessary to get every one of those witnesses in the box, Major?’

‘What does the court president say?’ Fink said, motioning at the colonel, who then conferred with his board members.

‘We don’t think there’s a need, your Honor,’ said the colonel.

‘And the defense sees no need to cross-examine?’

Cheung stood, buttoning his coat. ‘No, your Honor, not at this time.’ He then unbuttoned it, and sat.

‘Very well, then, Counselor,’ he said, waving at Latham. ‘I think we get the picture. No need to gild the lily.’

‘Sir,’ said Latham.

‘Then call the witness who can add to our understanding rather than our desire to take a nap.’

Arlen caught my eye and signed ‘okay’ at me.

‘I call Mr Beauford Lockhart to the stand,’ the prosecutor announced.

‘Now it starts,’ Cheung whispered under his breath.

‘Yeah, this is when I jump over the table and finish what I should have finished back in Rwanda.’

‘Sit still, don’t say a word,’ Cheung said in a voice so low I could barely hear him.

Lockhart entered, wearing an expensive navy blue suit and red silk tie, the black locks of his hair glistening with product. I could smell his cologne, the same smell I remembered from Cyangugu, Twenny’s ‘Guilty’. I could have smirked at the irony, only I was all smirked out. The bailiff accompanied him to the stand. He looked at me and smiled, enjoying the moment. The muscle fbers in my legs twitched. I felt Cheung’s hand on my forearm.

‘So, Mr Lockhart, would you tell the court what you do?’ said Latham.

What followed was five minutes of gratuitous turd polishing — about how, through Kornfak & Greene, he’d helped deliver peace to a troubled region, working with indigenous populations to bring about a brighter future for communities that had been ravaged by war and so forth. Latham then asked whether we’d had any contact prior to the incident between us, and Lockhart told the court that we had met during Twenny Fo and Leila’s concert. Latham then guided the witness to the events being examined. The guy had a perfectly reasonable account of my unreasonable — as he saw them — actions. At the end of this, Latham turned to Cheung and said, ‘Your witness.’

Cheung buttoned his coat, stood, said, ‘No questions,’ unbuttoned his coat and sat.

‘What?’ I whispered.

Both Macri and Cheung shot me a look that said, ‘Quiet!’

‘The prosecution rests, your Honor,’ said Latham.

Fink glanced at his watch. ‘Is it that time already? We’ll recess for an hour for lunch. See you all back here at one. Perhaps we can get all this wrapped up in the afternoon session.’ He directed this comment at Cheung, raising a bushy eyebrow at him.

I wasn’t sure I appreciated the bench’s keenness to get this over and done with.

Over a toasted ham and cheese sandwich, I asked Cheung what he was doing. I’d been in enough trials to know that I was sunk.

‘Laying the foundation,’ he said.

I asked what foundation. He told me to have another sandwich, but I’d lost my appetite.

Back in the courtroom, Fink asked Cheung to call his first witness.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Cheung as he stood, buttoning his coat. ‘I call Captain Duke Ryder to the stand.’

The word went out and Ryder was brought forth. He satisfied the usual requirements oathwise and Cheung asked him to remember the day we arrived back at the camp.

And then a ruckus outside the court halted proceedings. The doors swung open and in walked Twenny, Leila, Ayesha, and Boink, towering over them, a bowler hat in his hand, gold bling in those giant earlobes of his. The public twittered and hushed, and looked around and craned their necks to get a better look at the celebrities. Twenny wore a purple suit. Leila wore a snakeskin dress cut high above the knee and as tight as a… well, as a snakeskin. I took an educated guess about where she’d acquired it. Ayesha wore a purple stretch cotton dress and was obviously pregnant. She looked good. All four of them did. Ayesha urged everyone to squeeze up and room was made for them at the end of the row.

Fink tapped his benchtop a couple of times with the point of his pen — something I’d never seen a military judge do. The guy was pissed. ‘Order!’ he shouted. ‘No one arrives flashionably late to my courtroom. I don’t care how famous you are. Are we clear?’

I saw Twenny raise his hand, fingers spread wide in a gesture of apology, and this appeared to appease the judge.

With an imperious wave, Fink said to Cheung, ‘Continue.’

‘Your own words, Captain,’ Cheung reminded Ryder.

‘We’d been eight days in the rainforest. We were all a little sick — not enough food, some bad water. Some of the PSOs had minor wounds caused by engagements with elements from the—’

‘Objection,’ said Latham. ‘What happened before the incident at Cyangugu has been deemed beyond the court’s purview.’

‘Sustained,’ said Fink. He turned to the witness. ‘This court martial is solely interested in the charges and specifications established, Captain Ryder. And I remind you about this too, Counselor. I don’t want to hear about what you may consider to be justifcation. The court wants to know this: did Major Cooper assault a Department of Defense contractor or not? Simple. Establish that one way or the other and we can all go home.’

Or straight to Leavenworth, if you happened to be me.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Ryder.

Cheung changed tack and took the straight-in approach. ‘Did Agent Cooper assault the defense contractor named Beau Lockhart?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And what makes you say that, when the prosecution has paraded a large number of witnesses in front of the court who’ve assured us that he did?’

‘Because Agent Cooper was merely trying to arrest the contractor and he was resisting.’

‘And why was he trying to arrest the contractor?’

‘Objection! Irrelevant and immaterial,’ Latham said, standing and buttoning his coat. He unbuttoned his coat and sat.

‘Sustained,’ said Fink.

‘Judge, I am attempting to establish that an assault never took place. Cooper merely used justifable force in the pursuit of his duty. I understand that the court has no desire to know why Cooper was trying to arrest the contractor, but the fact remains that that’s what he was trying to do, and is therefore innocent of the charges against him.’

‘As Major Latham correctly states, there were no charges against the assaulted party. I don’t believe any facts — facts supportive of your point of view, at least — have been established. The objection remains sustained. Try a different way.’

Cheung looked up from his notes. ‘Captain Ryder, you’re with OSI. You’re a special agent — police.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

‘As a policeman, you keep a notebook?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do you have here the notebook you used on that day?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Please go to the notes you made on the incident over which the accused stands charged.’

Ryder flipped through the book.

‘Please read your notes to the court.’

‘Arrived Camp. Cooper sees Lockhart. Goes to him, draws gun. Cooper says, “You’re under arrest.” Lockhart moves. Cooper restricts further movement, hits Lockhart with gun. Lockhart says, “Damn, Cooper. You still alive, motherfucker?” Sergeant Cassidy says, “Cooper! C’mon!” Lockhart attempts to evade capture and Lockhart reaches for his side-arm.’

‘Objection,’ said Latham, leaping to his feet, forgetting about buttoning his coat. ‘I have twenty witnesses who can testify that the victim of Cooper’s senseless attack never reached for his side-arm.’

‘Your Honor,’ said Cheung. ‘I have a number of witness who will state otherwise. We’re going to end up in one of those “he says she says” dead ends.’

‘Your Honor,’ Latham countered, ‘the testimony from his witnesses is surely cancelled out by the prosecution’s witnesses on this point.’

‘But, sir,’ said Cheung, ‘the issue of Lockhart reaching for his weapon underpins the accused’s innocence.’

‘The objection is sustained,’ said Fink. ‘Can’t help you on this point, Counselor. Got anything else?’

I hoped like hell that we did but from the looks of Cheung — frowning, hands on hips, glaring at the floor — probably not.

My attorney looked up. ‘Continue from your notes, please, Captain,’ he told Ryder.

Ryder read from his notebook. ‘Cooper strikes him again. Lockhart further resists arrest. Rwandan and American security forces arrive, detain Cooper.’

‘Thank you, Captain,’ said Cheung. ‘So, Cooper was merely trying to detain the contractor; that is, perform his duty.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know why he was attempting to do that?’

‘He thought Lockhart was dangerous.’

‘Did you agree with that judgment, Captain?’

‘Yes, sir, I did.’

‘Did the words, “Damn, Cooper. You still alive, expletive deleted?” have something to do with that belief?’

I glanced over at Latham. He was itching to jump to his feet.

‘Yes, sir. I believe so.’

‘Is that notebook dated and signed by you?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Do you need it?’

‘No, sir, I have no further use for it.’

‘If it please the court,’ said Cheung, ‘I’d like to enter the captain’s notebook as defense exhibit A.’

The bailiff stepped forward, took the notebook from Ryder and delivered it to the bench. Fink opened it, checked the entries, then handed it back to the sergeant, who took it to the colonel to flip through and pass on to the other board members.

‘Your witness,’ Cheung said to Latham and Blinkenspiel before he sat down.

Latham buttoned his coat. ‘Did you keep this diary the entire time you were in-country, Captain?’ he asked, standing up behind his bench.

‘No, sir.’

‘When did you acquire it?’

‘Around an hour after we arrived back at the camp.’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘From the infirmary.’

‘Someone in the hospital gave it to you to record your recollection of the, er, incident?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So the notes you just read out to the court were made at least an hour after the fact?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I also have some notes,’ Latham said, holding up a couple of loose sheets of paper. ‘This is the medical record of your treatment at the Camp Come Together medical center.’ He waved the sheets in the air above his head. ‘They treated you for cuts, abrasions, mild exposure, mild dehydration… and concussion.’

‘I was over the concussion by then,’ said Ryder.

‘Not according to this report. It says here that your brain was signif-cantly bruised. It’s a wonder that you could remember anything, given your state, let alone details of events and conversations that occurred more than an hour before you were able to write them down, don’t you think?’

Ryder looked like someone was about to step forward and offer him a blindfold and a cigarette.

‘Well, Captain?’ said Latham.

Ryder glanced at the judge. There was no refuge there.

‘Answer the question, Captain,’ Fink directed him.

‘What was the question, sir?’ Ryder asked.

A ripple of laughter filled the spectator benches.

Latham unbuttoned his coat. ‘I think he just has, your Honor. Your witness.’ He sat and gave Captain Pencilskirt a winning grin, which she returned. Someone was going to get lucky tonight; maybe someone in the Leavenworth shower block.

‘Any further questions?’ Fink asked the court, addressing the court president.

No one had any, except me. ‘That the best we got?’ I whispered to Macri as Ryder left the stand.

Macri shushed me, annoyed by my lack of confdence, as Cheung stood and called Sergeant Cassidy to the stand. Cassidy, followed by Rutherford, backed Ryder’s account, including the fact that Lockhart went for his gun. This horse was well and truly fogged, but then he called West and extracted yet another laboriously detailed account of the same few minutes in the mud of Cyangugu that had everyone, including Fink, yawning. Latham declined to cross any of these witnesses, clearly believing that he’d discredited our account at its heart with the cross-examination of Ryder, the only person who had kept a record of the incident. I found myself wishing that I were Latham’s client rather than Cheung’s.

‘It’s four pm,’ said Fink. ‘Before I decide whether to break for a short recess, any more witnesses, Counselor?’ he asked Cheung.

‘Just one, sir,’ said Cheung.

Fink sat back and gestured with his hand for Cheung to get on with it.

‘I recall Beau Lockhart to the stand.’

The bailiff went off to fetch him. The asshole swaggered in a dozen seconds later, and made his way to the witness box. He took his seat and turned to face the gallery and, suddenly, Leila screamed. Or maybe it was a shriek. Whatever, it was loud and piercing and it belonged in the front seat of a rollercoaster. The courtroom went nuts. My former principal stood and pointed at Lockhart in the witness chair, her voice breaking in her throat. ‘It’s him, him…!’

‘Silence,’ Fink boomed. ‘Remove this woman from the court,’ he demanded, galvanizing the bailiff into action.

‘It’s him. I can show you,’ said Leila, holding a gold iPhone high above her head. ‘I have photos. It’s him.’

I recognized that phone.

Fink hammered his pen on the edge of his bench like he was doing a drum solo. ‘Get that phone!’ he commanded, pointing at the bailiff. ‘And both counselors — in my chambers. Now!’

‘What’s going on?’ I asked Macri.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, but the curl of his lips told me something different.

I glanced over in Arlen’s direction. A couple of security police were on the doors. Lockhart was looking increasingly like a trapped animal, unsure whether he should, or even could, get up from the chair. He made the decision to stay put. Everyone in the courtroom was standing, talking, yelling.

The bailiff reappeared and took the members of the board and the court’s president to the judge’s chambers.

A couple of minutes later, Fink, purple-faced, returned with Cheung and Latham and the members of the board. He took his pen and attempted to tap some silence into the gallery. It wasn’t working. ‘Bailiff and security forces! Detain this man.’ He pointed to Beau Lockhart.

Bedlam reigned. People stood and shouted at each other while Lockhart was surrounded. The court had no jurisdiction over the DoD contractor, but the judge could detain him for the folks at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I wondered what had happened behind closed doors.

Fink roared, ‘Silence!’ When he got some, he pointed at me and said, ‘You! Were you aware of the existence of this phone?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said. I had seen Leila trying to raise a signal on it when we first came down in the jungle.

‘Were you aware that she was using it to keep a photographic diary while in the Congo?’

‘No, sir, though I was aware that the phone’s owner held the Air Force responsible for the situation we found ourselves in.’

‘I see,’ said Fink, his nostrils faring. He glared at Cheung. ‘You and I know what happened here today, Counselor. Pull a stunt like this in my courtroom again and I will personally see to it that you’re discharged and disbarred.’

Cheung took the blast without acknowledgment, which was wise, and said, ‘Your Honor, the defense moves for the dismissal of all charges.’

Fink’s nostrils fared grandly. He went into a huddle with the board members as the bailiff and security police hustled Lockhart from the room. After two solid minutes of discussion with his fellow officers. Fink and the members of the court resumed their seats. Fink then did that thing with his pen on the edge of his bench until everyone stopped talking.

When he could make himself heard, he said, ‘Court President, how do you find the defendant?’

The colonel stood. ‘We find the defendant not guilty of offenses punishable by court-martial, but recommend that he be remanded to his commanding officer for Article 15 non-judicial proceedings.’

‘Thank you, Colonel,’ said Fink. The judge turned to me and said, ‘Will the defendant rise?’

I stood and buttoned my coat.

‘Major Vincent Cooper. The charges are dismissed.’ Fink then threw his pen into an empty trash bin at his feet, slipped off his seat and stomped out.