Mortal Allies

CHAPTER 22

I hit McDonald’s again and picked up four Big Macs to go with the medicinal necessities I’d already bought, which included another six-pack of Molson and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue, which, if you don’t know, is the best brand of Johnnie Walker money can buy. And in case you don’t know, it cost a fortune. I almost cried because I wasn’t going to get a drop.

The guard at the desk instantly recognized me, so I didn’t have to pantomime or otherwise act like an overanimated clown to make him understand I wanted to see Whitehall. He went and got the big brute, who walked in grouchy-faced, not the least bit happy to see me.

He ordered me over to a side room, and once we were there, said, “No more contraband may be smuggled in to Whitehall. Open your briefcase so I can search it.”

I did and the odor of the Big Macs poured out. He grinned, then bent over and reached his big paws inside. What he pulled out was the Johnnie Walker Blue, which he stared at like it was the Holy Grail.

“That’s yours,” I announced. “And two of the Big Macs.”

His eyes fixed on mine, he tilted his head sideways, and his shoulder muscles got all bunched up. I couldn’t tell if this was moral indecision or preparation to punch me for so blatantly trying to bribe him.

I quickly said, “You got any idea what a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue costs?”

“Two hundred and twenty-two dollars,” he murmured. Somewhat passionately, too. When it comes to a man’s taste in booze, my prescience can be uncanny. Of course, anybody who looked like him had be a scotch man. He was too damned ugly to sneak up on any other kind of hooch.

He eagerly stuffed the bottle down his shirt, crammed the two burgers in his side trouser pockets, and closed the lid on my briefcase. He handed it to me, then slyly hooked a finger.

When we got to Whitehall’s cell, he opened it and waved for me to enter. “One hour,” he said.

“Thanks,” I replied, and he locked the door behind me and disappeared. I turned around. “Hi, Tommy.”

Whitehall didn’t get up. He lay on his back. “Hello, Major.”

I kicked my briefcase in his direction. “Open it. I brought you more treats.”

My eyes still weren’t adjusted to the near-darkness, but I heard him rustle around. The clasp clicked open, and the disruptive odor of fast food again permeated the cell. It was a good thing, too, because once again Whitehall’s cell smelled like human dung, the consequence, I guess, of my earlier visit.

Then I heard him wolfing down that first hamburger. Then a pshht as he popped open a Molson, and another as he opened one for me. I accepted it and leaned smugly against the wall listening to the bestial sounds of him devouring his treats. I needed him in a good mood. I needed him pliant. The time had come for our most important discussion yet.

Finally done with the burgers, Whitehall said, “You seem quiet. What’s the matter? Things aren’t looking up?”

“No, Tommy, they’re not.”

He said, “Ummmh,” which was either a statement of hopeless acceptance, or bland acknowledgment. I couldn’t tell which. Maybe there’s no difference between the two.

“Did you look for the key?” he asked.

“I found it. I went to Minister Lee’s house and discovered it among No’s sealed possessions.”

He fell quiet again. Then, “What’s he like?”

“Minister Lee?”

“Yes, No’s father.”

“An impressive man. Tall for a Korean, maybe five-ten, slender, silver-haired, strong-featured, calm, and uh… I guess stately is the best word.”

“Sounds like No,” Tommy said.

“His mother’s no slouch, either. I’ll bet she was an incredible beauty. She’s still damned attractive,” I said, then added, “the old man’s hanging together, but his wife’s brittle. When we went in No’s bedroom I thought she was going to crumble.”

I wanted to see how he reacted to this, but in the dimness I couldn’t tell. I thought I heard a sigh, but maybe I was just imagining things.

Finally he asked, “But No still had the key when he died?”

“He still had it. The apartment management company still had all their copies, too. Know what that means, Tommy?”

“I didn’t do it,” he said, although in a very resigned tone, like he was tired of saying it and he knew I wouldn’t believe him.

“Katherine and I met with the prosecutor today. He offered a deal.”

“And what was his deal?”

“Plead to all charges and there’ll be no death sentence. You’ll get life.”

“That means no trial, right?”

“There’ll be a quick hearing, followed by a sentencing hearing, but the verdict will be predetermined. We’ll be allowed to present extenuating circumstances and beg for mercy, but the sentence won’t change. The key issue’s this: By pleading, you lose the right to appeal on the basis of flawed procedure, or an unfair trial, or an overly harsh sentence. An appeal will take the discovery of new evidence.”

“And what are the chances of that?”

“It happens sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. Occasionally the real perp feels guilty and comes forward and confesses. Sometimes a detective investigating another case stumbles onto something tied to your case. We can look into hiring a private detective to keep digging around. That takes money, though. Lots of it.”

“More money than I have, right?”

“You’ll be dishonorably discharged, so your pay will stop. A really good PI, you’re probably looking at a few hundred thousand a year.”

“And once I’m sentenced, OGMM will forget all about me?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On Katherine. She’s been with them eight years. She’s their top gun. Maybe she has influence.”

He sipped from the beer and considered all this. I’m sure he’d thought about it already, because it wasn’t long before he asked, “And if we go to trial?”

“Our only hope is that the prosecutor or the judge makes a calamitous blunder.”

“And what are the odds of that happening?”

I stepped over and sat down right beside him on his sleeping mat. I pulled two fresh beers out of my case, opened them, and handed him one. We were getting to the raw, nasty truth about the rest of his life. My bedside manner could be key here.

“Most judges have a bias. They’re supposed to be impartial, but they’re human. Maybe they spent their lawyer years as defenders or prosecutors, and that leaves them looking at the law from that angle, or maybe they just interpret the Constitution a certain way. This judge is very pro-prosecution. He’s also antidefense. That might sound like one bias, but it’s not. They’re two very distinct bents.”

“So I drew a bad straw?”

“The Army drew the bad straw for you.”

“Can Katherine handle him?”

“Katherine’s legal tactics are shaped by the fact that the majority of cases she’s handled are military gay cases, where the laws are written against her. Her strong suit is theatrics. She’s a showman. She’s very expressive and can be fatally caustic. She has a reputation for judge-baiting. You know what that is?”

“Please explain it.”

“A judge is responsible for everything in the trial. He’s got to maintain proper decorum and he’s got to temper the behavior of the attorneys. Depending on the complexity of the case he might have to make dozens of tricky judgments – about evidence, about the limits of examinations and cross-examinations, about the tone and conduct of the lawyers. He can sometimes recess and go to his chambers and contemplate a particularly thorny issue. Usually, though, he has to make his judgments spontaneously, on the bench. Katherine’s forte is trying to get the judge to dislike her, to get overheated. She taunts them. She provokes them. It might sound crazy, but she actually tries to prejudice the judge against her. She raises lots of empty objections to get the judge in the habit of overruling her, then she slips in a valid one and hopes he responds on autopilot. Maybe he allows a piece of evidence he shouldn’t. Maybe he sustains a lawyer’s statement that’s prejudicial. She throws lots of empty motions at him, and somewhere tucked in the middle of the stack and vaguely worded is something applicable. Her whole aim is to bombard an angry judge with rulings, to force him into a biased procedural error. That error later becomes the basis for an appeal. Katherine’s forte isn’t winning cases, it’s getting them overturned.”

Whitehall said, “Sounds like smart strategy to me.”

And I said, “Most lawyers think it’s sleazy because it’s a way to try to circumvent the law. I mean, if a lawyer gets his client off because he got the judge overtorqued at a critical moment, has justice really been served?”

“So you think Katherine’s sleazy?”

“That’s not what I said. Her specialty’s defending folks accused of breaking a law she believes is morally reprehensible. She’s fighting a wrong with a wrong. To her, I’m sure it all balances out.”

“But you don’t think it’ll work with this judge?”

“Not with this judge and not with this prosecutor. Colonel Barry Carruthers has been known to throw defense attorneys in jail. He’s a real badass, Tommy, and he’ll be expecting Katherine’s game, because she’s known for it. As for the prosecutor, he’s probably the best in the Army. You need to know this. Eddie Golden’s never lost a murder case. He’s tried maybe seven or eight and he’s gotten four death sentences.”

“You think he’s that good?”

“I’ve faced him twice. I lost both times.”

“That why the Army brought him out here?”

“That’s exactly why Eddie’s here. The Army’s taking no chances.”

“Are you afraid of this Golden?”

“Scared shitless. He’s the perfect lawyer, with the perfect case, and perfect witnesses, and the perfect judge. The moons aren’t lined up right here, Tommy.”

He chewed on this a few moments without touching his beer. He was hunched over and his jaw muscles were working like a pair of furious pistons.

Finally he said, “Why are you here telling me this? Why isn’t Katherine here?”

“You remember I warned you that she and I share different philosophies on some things?”

“I remember.”

“This is one of those things. I believe in open disclosure with my client. She doesn’t. Another thing – but this stays between you and me, right?”

“Okay,” he said, sounding hesitant and unsure.

“Katherine and I have different agendas. She’s employed by OGMM. She’s pushing the gay agenda. This is her life’s work. If something jeopardizes that cause, I don’t know how she’ll come down.”

“And what are you pushing?”

“I’m career Army, Tommy. I’m pushing truth, justice, the American way. I’m opposed to bending the rules or trying to beat the system. I don’t judge-bait. I don’t play games. If you’re innocent, we try to prove that. If the prosecution makes a procedural mistake, that’s fair game. We’ve got the best and fairest legal system in the world. You pay your nickel, you take your ride. Don’t try to cheat the turnstile.”

“Let me see if I have this right. She’ll sell me upriver if I harm the movement, and you’ll sell me upriver if I threaten your principles?”

“No, Tommy. Nobody’s selling you upriver. But just like all judges are predisposed, so are us lawyers. There’s one other thing I have to warn you about, too. Katherine’s emotionally entangled in your case. She’s taking it personally. Don’t take that as a good thing, either. Lawyers are supposed to operate from cold hard logic.”

Tommy stood up and began pacing his cell. Given the size of the room, he could only go three steps this way, three steps that way. But even in such a compressed space, he still moved like a caged panther, sleek and muscular, with long, graceful strides.

“So I’ve got one lawyer who’d do anything to win and one who’s afraid to step on cracks. I’ve got one who’s emoting and one who could care less about me. I’ve got one who’s a fanatic for the gay cause and one who hates gays.”

I didn’t want to admit this was a fair summary, but it was damned close. Except for that last crack, anyway.

“Tommy,” I said, “I don’t hate gays.”

“Don’t kid yourself. We gay people, we can smell homophobia. It’s got a real nasty odor.”

“I’m not a homophobe, Tommy. I’ll admit it makes me uncomfortable, but that’s as far as it goes.”

“Okay,” he said, not like it was really okay, not like I was telling the truth; more like he wasn’t willing to argue about it. “So I make you uncomfortable.”

“Look,” I said, “it’s no big thing. Christ, my own mother makes me uncomfortable. Combat boots on a hot day make me uncomfortable.”

“But you don’t think your mother or your combat boots murdered and then raped somebody.”

“No, you’re right,” I told him. “But I don’t think you did, either. And that’s the thing that makes me most uncomfortable.”

He stopped dead in his tracks. He turned and stared at me. “You believe I’m innocent?”

“I didn’t say innocent, Tommy. You’re an officer who was having an affair with an enlisted soldier. And it happened to be a gay affair. I said I don’t think you killed and raped him.”

“Okay, why?”

“Call it instinct. I mean, every piece of evidence screams it was you, except one.”

“And what would that be?”

“You.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you don’t fit the crime. Because you’re too smart to have let it go down the way it did. Because I think you’re probably a pretty decent guy. Because the key in No’s possession proves you were lovers, and maybe, if you’re telling the truth about that, you’re telling the truth about everything.”

“Then what do you think happened?”

“I haven’t got a clue. But Katherine was right about one thing.”

He chuckled at that, which was the last thing I expected him to do. “And what could Katherine possibly be right about?”

“You were framed. You were set up. Not by a rookie, either.”