Mortal Allies

CHAPTER 23

I heard the church bells pealing over the pounding on my door. I peeked angrily at the clock: 5:15 A.M., Sunday morning. If I had a pistol I would’ve shot the bastard at the door. I’d fallen asleep only two hours before, because there’s nothing I hate more than an innocent client who hasn’t got a chance in hell of winning.

I threw on my pants and, since one punch in the nose was already one over my weekly allotment, cautiously spied through the peephole till I saw the top of Imelda’s head. In case I haven’t mentioned it, Imelda’s only five foot one and maybe 140 pounds, although a hell of a lot of cordite is packed inside that tiny shell.

When I opened the door, she stomped in without asking. Another damned thing about Imelda: She thinks she owns the world. Somebody, someday, ought to disabuse her of that notion. It certainly won’t be me, though.

“Okay,” she spat out by way of introduction, “Keith Merritt.”

“Right. Keith Merritt.”

“This guy ain’t named Keith Merritt.”

Having already ably established that verity myself, I said, “Right. Keith Merritt is not the name of the guy in the hospital bed.”

“Passport’s phony, too.”

“His passport’s phony, too,” I repeated. Now, how the hell did she know that?

“I checked at the embassy. There’s a Keith Merritt with that passport number, only he’s a lawyer down somewheres in Florida,” she quickly added, accurately reading my thoughts, as she usually did, which I found incredibly disarming.

“So who’s this guy?”

“Nothin’ too hard ’bout that.”

“No?”

“Boy’s got fingerprints, don’t he? Fingerprints can be checked, can’t they?”

“Of course,” I said. “And have you done that?”

“ ’Course I’ve done that. The man’s in a coma; what’s so hard? Go into his room, roll his finger in ink a few times. Not like he noticed. Only hard thing was getting a friend in CID to run the check.”

“So who’s this guy calling himself Keith Merritt?” I asked again, playing along, but of course I knew what she was up to. It was the old sergeant’s trick of making me go through a lengthy disposition to find out exactly how clever and resourceful she was, how many strings she had had to pull. That way I wouldn’t get any dumb ideas, like maybe I didn’t need her or something idiotic like that.

“Name’s Frederick Melborne.”

“Uh-huh.”

“As in Melborne and Associates.”

“This is not a brokerage house I take it?”

“You take that right,” she frostily announced. “It’s a private detective agency in Alexandria, Virginia.”

“So he’s a PI?”

She drew in her chin and stared down her nose at me. “Well he probably ain’t the receptionist.”

It struck me the reason she was busting my balls might be because she was still sore about this gay thing. I’m very perceptive that way.

“And does Melborne have a license?”

“ ’Course he’s gotta license,” she barked, withdrawing a slip of paper from her pocket and reading from it. “Number AL223-987 issued by the state of Virginia in the year 1995.”

“So he’s real.”

“Ex-Army, too. Used to be a lieutenant in the MPs. Penn State, ROTC grad, three years at Fort Benning, got out and went into private business. Should know his way around.”

“Imelda, you do very impressive work,” I said, offering her my most suave grin. I was trying my utmost to mend whatever little problem we were having here. That suave-grin thing works wonders for Eddie Golden, right? Why can’t it work for me?

“I’m not done,” she grimly replied, stubbornly oblivious to my charms. “Melborne got here before Miss Carlson even. Two weeks before.”

“Interesting. Do we know what was he snooping around for?”

“ ’Course we know,” she announced like it was the stupidest question in the world. “Some friends say he was askin’ around about where gays go to party, that kinda thing.”

“So it looks like he was either out for a little fun or he was trying to infiltrate the local gay community?”

“Ain’t that what I said?”

“Why would he be doing that?”

She blew some air through her lips. “Want me to go back there and ask him that? He’s in a coma. Not like he’ll answer.”

I went over and sat on the edge of the bed as Imelda studied me from behind her tiny glasses.

What I wanted to say was, “See, Imelda, just like I told you. That bitch Katherine’s been sandbagging me, uh, you… uh, us.” That’s what I wanted to say. But she was tapping her hand on the side of her leg in a pent-up way, so I controlled myself.

What I said instead was, “I’ll tell you what I think. OGMM hired Melborne and gave him the names of some local gays so he could come over here and infiltrate the local rings. Katherine was using him to run discreet background checks on Lee, Moran, and Jackson.”

“Might be that,” Imelda noncommittally replied.

“And I think Melborne found something, or got close to finding something.”

Imelda indifferently said, “Maybe.”

“So who used him to buff the front of that car? Some gays who got bent out of shape that he was looking into their affairs? Some fanatical antigay group that decided to make an example of him? Or somebody else?”

Imelda was still tapping the side of her leg. I could tell by her expression I wasn’t getting her full cooperation here.

It was starting to distract me, so I said, “You got something you want to say?”

She lowered her glasses down the bridge of her nose, an apocalyptic sign, like a battleship raising its colors to signal it’s ready for combat.

“You sure you wanta hear it?”

I wasn’t, but I’d brought it up, so I said, “Sure.”

“What I think is you and Miss Carlson oughta have your sorry asses kicked. That’s what I think.”

“Huh?”

“You oughta be ashamed of yourselves. Playin’ all these games with each other, while you got a man facing the executioner. How’d you like to be that boy? How’d you like to see the two lawyers who’re supposed to be savin’ your ass running about pissin’ on each other’s backsides?”

Now, I could’ve told Imelda she was exaggerating, only that’d be splitting hairs. Or I could’ve tried telling her this was all Katherine’s fault – which, believe me, it was – except Imelda Pepperfield was a throwback to the old Army. And in the old Army, there were only two colors, black and white, and any attempt to find cover in the middle could prove lethal.

So all I said was, “Okay, okay. I’ll work on it.”

“You better,” was all she said before she stormed out.

She was obviously in a gnarly mood, partly because she’d just spent the entire night on the phones tracking down Melborne’s true identity, and partly because, well… I guess, just partly because. You gotta know Imelda.

I got cleaned up and went downstairs and had breakfast. When I got back to my room, an envelope had been slipped under my door. I tore it open. In a tight scrawl it said I had an eight o’clock appointment in the office of General Spears. This time, “8:00” was underlined about ten times in thick marker, like, Don’t be late again, Drummond.

It was already seven, so I killed thirty minutes spit-shining my boots, combing my hair, and meticulously pressing every square inch of my uniform. Although actually that’s not true; that’s what I should’ve been doing if I was an earnest, ambitious officer. Instead I watched some inane Sunday morning sitcom before ambling over to the big cheese’s office.

The same colonel was seated at his desk, only this time he was the one wearing civilian clothes and I was the one in uniform, because it was Sunday morning.

Remembering our last tepid encounter, I ripped off a salute. It was an awesome salute, too. It left a smoke trail in the air. The most incurably fussy drill sergeant would’ve swooned.

I said, “Major Drummond reporting as ordered, sir.”

I said it loud and crisply, too, and just knew the man would be impressed as all get out. West Pointers are so damned easy to please.

He shook his head and gave me a scowl ugly enough to melt tulips. “Drummond, you’re a lawyer, right?”

“Yes sir. JAG Corps all the way, sir. Hoo Rah!” I popped off. I was Johnny Gung-ho this early Sunday morning.

“Then you should know that when inside a building, you don’t salute a higher officer who is not in uniform.”

My hand was still stuck to my forehead, and I all of a sudden started scratching a non-itch over my right eye.

I was frostily instructed to go to the general’s door and knock twice. The colonel even quizzed me to make sure I understood it was knock twice – not once, not three times, but twice. He was a real sweetheart. We were getting along famously.

Spears glanced up from some papers after I knocked twice, not once, not three times. I walked straight to his desk and noticed he also was wearing mufti on this grand Sunday morning.

Knowing military etiquette like I did, I merely nodded and politely said, “Good morning, General.”

He pushed aside his reading materials, got up, and walked around his desk. “Please, sit down,” he said, gesturing at a couch group near the door.

We quickly positioned ourselves so I was sitting across from him, while he eased into his chair, hoisted up his trouser leg, and studied me.

After a moment, he said, “How’s it going?”

“Fine, General. Couldn’t be better,” I lied.

He awarded me a nice grin. “We’ve got a long week ahead. The judge arrives tomorrow. Press people have been flying in by the planeload. By Wednesday there’ll be more reporters in Korea than soldiers.”

“It’s the big show,” I said, which was a needless remark, obviously, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“You ever handled a case this big, Drummond?”

“Like this? No sir.”

“You feel like you’re under a lot of pressure?”

“Like a bicycle tire that’s been placed on a ten-wheeler.”

He chuckled briefly. “And how’s your client doing?”

“Could be worse, General. Not a lot, but could be worse.”

He nodded. “Korean prisons aren’t for the fainthearted. But they’re good people, you know. The Koreans. This is my third tour over here. I was here as a new lieutenant, back in the early sixties. And I commanded my brigade here, back in the late eighties. It’s miraculous what the Koreans have accomplished. Really miraculous. They’re incredible people.”

“Yes sir, they’re admirable folks.”

Then came a quiet lapse, because we’d obviously exhausted the let’s-pretend-we’re-comfortable-with-each-other chitchat and it was time to tend to the nuts and bolts. Whatever that was.

He went right for the jugular. “Drummond, I have to tell you, I’ve been very unhappy with the way your defense team has conducted itself. And I mean, very unhappy.”

“Anything specifically?” I asked. Like I didn’t know.

“Start with Miss Carlson’s infomercials. I told you I didn’t want this case carried to the press. This is not the time to be fanning the flames.”

In my most humble tone, I said, “Look, General, telling a civilian defense attorney not to prattle to the press is like telling an addict not to go near a needle. It’s compulsive. They can’t stop themselves. It’s also perfectly ethical.”

I had the sense this was a throwaway conversational point, because I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know, plus his face suddenly got more grave, or suggestive, or something.

“Then let me tell you what I really don’t appreciate. Your visit to Minister Lee’s home.”

“I have an obligation to my client to follow every avenue to prove his innocence. I wasn’t there for a social call or to harass them.”

I wasn’t going to disclose any more than that, because the existence of the apartment key in No’s possession was the only surprise we had for the prosecution. Besides, it was none of Spears’s business.

But, like I mentioned before, the general has these grittily intense eyes, and he was giving me a full-up dose. I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat.

He said, “Did you know I served with Minister Lee in Vietnam?”

I shook my head. How the hell would I know that?

His expression altered a little, maybe even softened. “I spent six months as the American liaison to the ROK First Infantry Division where Lee was a battalion commander. Most Americans don’t even realize Korean troops were in Vietnam. But the ROKs, you know, they earned a reputation as tough fighters. The Vietcong were scared to death of them, so the ROKs didn’t see as much fighting as most American units. The Vietcong made an effort to avoid them.”

“I’ve heard stories,” I said, which was true. And they weren’t pretty stories, either. Maybe they were exaggerations, but there were rumors of South Korean troops collecting ears for trophies and putting Vietcong heads on stakes to discourage sympathizers. On the other hand, maybe they weren’t exaggerations.

Anyway, Spears stared out the window, caught up in his reverie. “One day an ROK battalion was on a sweep, and before they knew it, they were attacked by two full brigades of North Vietnamese regulars. They were outnumbered nearly ten to one. What we guessed later was the North Vietnamese wanted to show the Vietcong, who were all southerners, that the ROKs could be beaten. Or maybe they wanted to try to knock the ROKs out of the war by inflicting a bloody defeat on them. They sure as hell weren’t happy that another Asian country was involved in their war. Anyway, the battle developed quickly. I flew in on a helicopter and landed at the battalion command bunker maybe twenty minutes after it began. Lee was the battalion commander. You probably guessed that?”

I nodded again.

“The ROKs didn’t fight like Americans. They didn’t have fleets of jets and helicopters and thousands of tubes of artillery. They didn’t rely on all that firepower. They just slugged it out, soldier to soldier, and the North Vietnamese knew that, so they threw everything they had at them. God, I never saw such a fierce, desperate fight.”

“So what happened, General?”

“Usually, in battle, there are pauses and lulls as the two sides regroup or stalemate, then go at it again. Not that time. It was one long, relentless attack. Lee’s troops were formed in a hasty perimeter, and several times the North Vietnamese broke through. There were bands of North Vietnamese running around inside the perimeter, shooting and throwing grenades. Some had bombs strapped to their bodies, trying to get to the command bunker. The North Vietnamese were smart that way. They knew that if they killed the head the body would follow. Within ten minutes after I’d flown in, I wondered what the hell I’d gotten into.”

He turned away from the window and stared back at me. But I didn’t have the feeling he was actually looking at me. His mind was in another place, another time.

“It was an inferno. I saw Lee rush out and kill three men with an entrenching tool. Can you imagine? He’d emptied his pistol so he literally ran at three armed men with nothing but a short shovel. That’s how desperate the fighting was. It took three hours for the ROK division to borrow some helicopters from a nearby American division and bring in reinforcements. A quarter of Lee’s men were dead. The medevac helicopters spent four hours pulling out the wounded. There were maybe four or five hundred North Vietnamese corpses strewn around, from outside the perimeter to the assault teams that made it inside.”

I said, “I heard he was a great soldier.”

He shook his head. “Great? No, great’s not an adequate word. I knew your father, too, Drummond. Did you know that? Now, your father, he was a great soldier. A real bastard to work for, I hear, but a great soldier. Lee was more than that. I saw two of his officers throw themselves in front of bullets to protect him. Think anybody would’ve thrown themselves in front of your father to save him?”

Knowing my father as I did, I could see people shoving him in the way of bullets to save themselves. I mean, I love and adore my father, but the man has some serious warts.

The general had made his point, so he continued. “If there was any chance in hell your client was innocent, I’d have no problem with what you did. Hell, I’d lead the assault on Lee’s door. I’d help ransack his attic. But Whitehall’s guilty. A thorough Article 32 investigation was conducted before I recommended this court-martial. I’ve never seen a more airtight case.”

An Article 32 investigation is the military’s version of what would be called a grand jury in the civilian world, only instead of a closed jury, the Army appoints a major or a lieutenant colonel to determine if there’s enough evidence and grounds to convene a court-martial.

Anyway, I opened my lips and started to say something, but he sliced his arm through the air for me to keep my mouth shut. He was one of those daunting men who, even in civilian clothes, had an air of authority that brooked no disagreement.

“I’ve checked on you, Drummond. Everybody says you’re a damned good lawyer and an ethical officer. So ask yourself this. We offered you a deal where you’d save your client’s life in exchange for avoiding the character assassination of one of the finest men I’ve ever met. What’s the point of destroying Lee’s reputation, and maybe this alliance, just to try to keep a murderer out of jail? You’ve got plenty of courtroom experience, right? How do you gauge your odds in this case? This wouldn’t even be a Pyrrhic victory; it would be a Pyrrhic defeat. Your client’s the one who created this situation, not us. How far are you willing to go? How much damage are you willing to inflict in his name?”

These were profoundly worthy questions, and it was obvious the general was well-grounded in the kind of ethical issues that bedevil us lawyers. The problem was there was a new fly in the ointment.

I tried to keep my voice and eyes steady. “General, my client is innocent.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious. He was framed.”

He closed his eyes, a sign of weary resignation.

Finally his lids came apart and he frowned at me with an expression of bottomless disappointment. “So that’s how you’re going to play it?”

“General, that’s how I have to play it.”

He abruptly stood up, so I stood up, too. He just stared at me until I got tired of being stared at and headed for his door.

“Drummond?” he called before I made it out.

I turned around and faced him.

“Just be sure you can still look yourself in the mirror when this is done.”

I nodded and left.

I have to tell you that among the many mischaracterizations perpetrated by the media and Hollywood is the one that depicts Army generals as plump, cigar-chomping, ego-inflated morons who are so busy spit-shining their own asses they can barely find their way to the eighteenth hole of the golf course. There’re some of those, to be sure, and if Spears’s legal adviser ever made general there’d be one more. But General Spears was more redolent of the larger breed – serious, thoughtful, sharply intelligent, the kind of person you just can’t help respecting. The kind of person you want to respect you, too.

Spears had commanded a unit in the Gulf War that tore the hell out of two of Saddam’s best divisions, and, although he was unaware of it, I was there, and I witnessed it, and he was a hell of a soldier. And he was now sitting on top of an explosive situation. With less than a few minutes’ warning, he could be entangled in the biggest war to hit the planet since World War Two.

The worst of it was, I possessed not a single shred of evidence that Thomas Whitehall was innocent. I had a hunch. And as anyone in the legal profession will tell you, when you act on a hunch it’s like playing Russian roulette with five bullets in the cylinder. And Spears was right; when this was over, I’d better be able to look in a mirror and not have it shatter.