Against All Enemies (32 page)

Again, the man laughed as the water knocked the boy down. He concentrated on the child, washing him toward a storm drain. “Open the mutha!” he shouted. One of the Bloods pulled the grillwork away and he washed the boy into the drain.

Down the street, two African-American men ran out of a house and pulled Marcy to safety inside. “You’ll be okay here,” one said. “Where’s your friend?”

“Jason? I don’t know.” She heard the back door open and the room filled with Koreans from the church.

“We’re saving who we can,” the man said. The house rapidly turned into an emergency room.

Marcy looked out a front window. The rioters were pulling the fire hose closer to the storm drain. A dark premonition pounded at her. “I’ve got to get this,” she said, moving toward the back door.

“Miss Bangor,” the man who had rescued her said, “When you report this, please tell the whole story. That isn’t us out there.”

“I know,” she said. “Jason showed me that.” She slipped past two Korean women being helped through the back door and ran up the side of the house. She worked her way closer to the gangbangers who had dragged the fire hose right up to the storm drain. The boy’s desperate cries echoed from the dark pit. The man played with the nozzle control and discovered he could choke the water into a much more narrow, cutting beam. He laughed as he directed the water into the drain. A blood-red spray ricocheted out in the half light of the burning church.

An armored car roared around the corner, its lights flashing. The gangbangers turned and ran as the car sped past Marcy. The Blood who had killed the fire crew and handled the hose slipped in the water and twisted his ankle. He hobbled after his buddies but the pain drove him to the ground. He crawled under a burned-out car as the armored car slammed to a halt. The side hatch banged open and a man in fatigues and wearing the distinctive red-and-black arm band of the First Brigade climbed out.

Marcy ran up. “Get the bastard!” she shouted. She staggered and almost fell. For a moment, she felt herself hover on the edge of total collapse as the crushing tension of the last three days bore down. With the last of her will, she held on. “Just get him.”

“Get who?” the armored car commander asked.

“Him!” she shouted, pointing at the burned-out car. “The bastard hiding underneath.” Automatically, Marcy’s instincts as a reporter kicked in and noted the armored car commander’s name tag: Alexander.

Alexander directed his flashlight under the car. “What did he do?” Without a word, Marcy turned her digital camera around and called up the scenes she had captured. “Freeze that one,” Alexander ordered. Marcy gasped. She had caught the Blood standing over the open drain, aiming the nozzle of the fire hose down. His face was clearly visible against the reddish spray of water shooting out of the drain, cascading down like a fountain. Alexander walked over to the drain and directed the beam of his flashlight down the dark hole. He pulled back and sank to his knees, throwing up, while two of his men crawled out of the armored car. “Get him out from under there,” Alexander ordered, pointing at the burned-out car.

The two men dragged the Blood out from under the car and stood him up. “Let him go,” Alexander growled. They did and the man almost collapsed. He tried to take a few steps but the pain was too great.

Without a word, Alexander walked toward him. Marcy jammed a fresh card into her camera and started to shoot. Her strobe light froze the motion in a series of surrealistic flashes as Alexander drew his sidearm, a 9mm Beretta.

“Yo, ain’t no way,” the Blood pleaded. “Nobody be hurtin’ prisoners.” Another flash as Alexander pulled the slide of his Beretta, chambering a round. “Pa’leese,” the Blood begged.

Alexander never broke his pace as he raised his Beretta and fired a single shot square into the man’s forehead. The flash from Marcy’s camera went off at the same instant and Alexander turned to her as he holstered his weapon. His hands were shaking. “Are you going to report this?”

She took a deep breath. The summary execution of the gangbanger in the midst of the looting and chaos was the story of a lifetime. “I’m a reporter. It’s my job.”

He snorted. “You’re a fool if you think a court in this town would have convicted that bastard. It’s time to choose sides, lady.” He climbed into the armored car and shut the hatch. She watched the vehicle as it rumbled down the street and disappeared around a corner. Jason came out of the shadows and stood beside her. She breathed deeply, thankful that he was safe. “Did you get his name?” he asked.

“Alexander. He’s from the First Brigade.”

“What are you going to do?”

Without answering, she walked over to the storm drain and threw the camera into the dark pit. The story was no longer about photos and sensationalism. Tears rolled down her face. “Why, why, why?” she moaned. A fierce resolve captured her. She was going to find the answers.

5:01
A.M.
, Monday, July 19,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

The courier plane landed before sunrise and ten minutes later, the package was delivered to the legal office. Sutherland was waiting and signed for it. His hands felt weak as he ripped it open. “My stomach went south hours ago,” Blasedale said. He nodded and sat down at his desk to read. Blasedale made no attempt to read over his shoulder and waited for him to hand her Diana Habib’s statement page by page as he finished. They read in silence. “Now I know why Toni wouldn’t discuss it over the phone,” Blasedale said when she had finished reading the last page.

“The Rock was right,” Sutherland replied.

“Only if this checks out,” she cautioned. “I don’t know why she did it.” She looked at Sutherland, tears in her eyes. “I do know why.” The two prosecutors sat in silence, each caught up in his or her own heartache.

According to Diana Habib, she had worked for McGraw as a practical nurse helping to care for her son Mikey. Once she had gained McGraw’s trust, she approached McGraw with an offer from her husband, Mohammed Habib. A student was doing research on the decision-making process in the military for a security studies seminar at Central Missouri State University in Warrensburg. The student needed an insider’s point of view and was willing to pay McGraw for her help. It was agreed that any help McGraw gave the student would not include classified information. Once the money started flowing, it proved helpful with the crushing expenses of Mikey’s care.

Then the student asked for information about the B-2. McGraw knew the magazine
Aviation Weekly
had printed a story on the same subject and simply repeated the article. But the trap had been sprung. The information in the magazine had been classified secret by the Air Force and she had confirmed it. Any revelation that McGraw had compromised classified information would result in her being kicked out of the Air Force, the loss of her retirement and benefits, and maybe even jail time. With Mikey hostage, it became a simple case of blackmail.

After that, Diana had relayed messages between her husband and McGraw. Occasionally, she would pass money to McGraw, always in cash. She did not know the content of the messages, how much money was involved, or where it came from. When her husband came home with an expensive Rolex watch, he admitted he was skimming from the payoff money. When her husband had been murdered, she ran out because she was afraid. She called Mohammed’s parents, who had immigrated to Brazil, and they sent her money for plane tickets to Rio de Janeiro. She was attempting to leave the country when the FBI arrested her. Under specific examination, she claimed that her husband knew Osmana Khalid, the Egyptian cleric. However, he did not know Capt. Jefferson and had never spoken to him.

“The money was too tempting,” Blasedale said. “Then she couldn’t escape without hurting Mikey.”

“And we almost convicted an innocent man because he was standing too close to Khalid,” Sutherland said.

“If Diana Habib is telling the truth,” Blasedale added.

“She is, Cathy. I’ll request a continuance the moment we reconvene.”

“Williams arrived last night. I think we need to give him a heads up. I’ll call Cooper.”

“God, he’s gonna love this.”

The judge’s chambers were crowded as Williams read the request for a continuation and Diana Habib’s statement. He folded his hands over the request and thought. “I will grant your request for a continuance when we reconvene. Further, I will order that Capt. Jefferson be released from the detention facility and confined to base. He can be housed in a VIP suite in the VOQ. Hopefully, proper security can be provided. Further, his wife may join him and he will have access to all base facilities.” He looked at Cooper. “Is that satisfactory?”

“No, Your Honor, it is not,” Cooper said. “I will submit a motion for dismissal of all charges.”

“I will rule on it accordingly,” Williams said.

“Further, I demand the Habib woman’s statement be made immediately available to the defense.”

“It will, Mr. Cooper. But as it contains classified information, it will be made available to the Area Defense Counsel, Capt. Jordan, not you. Further, it will be released to you only if the government decides to proceed with the case against Capt. Jefferson.” Cooper started to protest but Williams made a sharp cutting motion with his right hand, silencing him. “Have you apprised Capt. Jefferson of these developments?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Cooper replied. “I have.”

“Good. Let’s proceed.”

They walked out into the courtroom while Williams donned his robe. All seats but one in the spectators’ gallery were filled, people were seated, afraid they would lose their places. Only Sandi Jefferson’s seat was vacant. Silence hung in the air like electricity and the bailiff’s call of “All rise” rang like thunder. Williams walked in. “The court-martial will come to order.”

Sutherland remained standing. “All parties present when the court-martial recessed are present. The members are absent.”

Jefferson immediately came to his feet. “Your Honor, I wish to enter a Thirty-nine-ay session to address the court.” Cooper started to stand up, a stunned look on his face. Jefferson placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down. Hard.

“So ordered,” Williams said. “What is it you wish to say?”

“Sir, I change my plea to guilty.”

8:12
A.M.
, Monday, July 19,
Aspen, Colorado

“It’s on TV,” Rios said, drawing Durant’s attention away from the big window with the magnificent view of the valley. Durant nodded and spun his wheelchair around to face the big TV screen. It was the first time it had been on in years.

A reporter for CNN was standing in front of the 509th headquarters building as people streamed outside. “Within moments after reconvening this morning, Capt. Jefferson stunned this court-martial by changing his plea to guilty. Even his defense attorney, the legendary R. Garrison Cooper, was totally unprepared for the change in plea, and the judge, Col. William W. Williams, immediately declared a recess until Jefferson could confer with Cooper. At this time, we have no idea how long the recess will last.”

“That oughtta cool some fires in Los Angeles,” Rios said. He looked miserable. “Boss, is there anything we could’ve done to prevent that disaster?”

Durant sensed the turmoil coursing through the big man. He shook his head. “The pressure has been building for weeks and that riot was going to start no matter what happened with Jefferson. It wasn’t a question of if, only when. We were simply bystanders.”

“Meredith wasn’t. That bastard is exploiting it to the hilt. He’s made every person of color look like a traitor. He’s got a lot to answer for.”

“Indeed he does.” Durant locked the wheels on his wheelchair and stood up, taking a few hesitant steps. “Okay, Whiteman’s in play. Time to go get those pilots.” He walked slowly into the office built into the side of the mountain.

9:16
A.M.
, Monday, July 19,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

Hank Sutherland understood the silence commanding his office; it was the absence of sound. What caused the silence gave it meaning, and he had to dampen the conflicting emotions tearing at him. Catherine Blasedale reacted instinctively, sensing a. crisis in the making, and like him, was still stunned by Jefferson’s announcement. “Why?” she finally asked.

“Maybe he feels responsible for the riots in Los Angeles.”

“Even if he’s innocent?”

Sutherland shook his head. “Who knows what goes on in the human heart?” The phone buzzed and Sutherland answered. “Be right there,” he said, hanging up. “That was Williams. He wants us in chambers.” They rushed out of his office and took the few short steps to the judge’s chambers.

Williams was pacing back and forth, still wearing his black robe. “Cooper’s on his way.” They waited in silence until Cooper burst into the room. “Sit down,” Williams commanded. “Has he changed his mind?” R. Garrison Cooper, the magician of defense lawyers, was at a loss for words and only shook his head. “I’m reconvening at thirteen hundred to question Jefferson.”

“Your Honor,” Cooper said, “the defense is not ready to proceed at this point.”

“I seriously doubt if you’ll ever be ready,” Williams snapped. “Right now the biggest bomb on this base is one Bradley Jefferson, and I’m going to defuse it.” He turned to Sutherland. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but my sense of the matter tells me the government’s case has collapsed.”

“If Diana Habib’s statement checks out,” Sutherland replied, “that’s correct.”

Williams glanced at his watch and then stared at Cooper. “Does your client know this?” Cooper nodded. “Then we reconvene at thirteen hundred.” Cooper started to speak but Williams cut him off. “I expect you to counsel Capt. Jefferson accordingly; listen carefully to my questions, and object as necessary. But at this point I am above all else concerned with Capt. Jefferson’s rights and will not tolerate senseless grandstanding. Have I made myself clear?” Again, Cooper started to protest. “Save it for appeal, Mr. Cooper, if there is one.”

Sutherland and Blasedale walked slowly back to his office and stood in the hall talking. “Why do I smell a rat?” he asked, not expecting an answer. “Someone got to Jefferson.” His mind raced. “It had to be through his wife. Where was she this morning?”

“I heard the bailiff say she was in the ADC’s office,” Blasedale answered. She stopped and looked at him, her mouth slightly open. “She knew and stayed out of sight to avoid the reporters. They would have been all over her. This was planned, and she was part of it. Maybe she coached him on how to do it.”

“Well,” Sutherland replied, “we know it wasn’t Cooper who did the coaching.”

Linda came running down the hall. “It’s Toni. She’s on the telephone.” Sutherland hurried into his office and put the call on the speaker. “Where are you?” he asked.

“Refueling at Little Rock. We should arrive at Warrensburg about one o’clock this afternoon.”

“Have you heard—”

“Who hasn’t?” she said, interrupting him. “There’re motorcades all over town honking and cheering.”

“We need to speak to Harry,” Sutherland said.

“I can’t reach him,” Toni replied, worry in her voice. She gave them Harry’s phone number and told them she and Brent Mather were ready to take off. “It’s time to call Eighth,” Blasedale told him, dialing the phone number of the staff judge advocate at Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana. It took her three phone calls to track the colonel to the office of the three-star general who commanded Eighth Air Force, the convening authority for Jefferson’s court-martial. She handed Sutherland the phone and picked up an extension, not wanting to put this conversation on the speaker.

It took Sutherland thirty-five minutes to explain the situation to the colonel. It was strictly a one-way flow of information from Sutherland to the colonel updating him on the situation. Finally, the colonel felt compelled to offer some lawyerly advice. “Go with the evidence,” he said. Now they had to wait.

“What now?” Sutherland muttered. His voice trailed off as the constant whir of the air conditioner died away. “Not now,” Sutherland mumbled. He buzzed Linda on the intercom and learned the main air conditioning unit had broken down. “What was the weatherman calling for today?” he asked.

“The usual,” Linda replied. “Ninety degrees and ninety percent humidity.”

The big double doors leading from the courtroom into the main hall were wide open. A collapsible, bright yellow air duct snaked up the stairs from a portable air conditioner unit parked on the roundabout in front of the building to pump cool air into the room. Every seat in the audience was taken and spectators lined the walls behind the bar. Sweat poured down their faces and their clothes were almost soaking wet. But not one person had budged in over an hour, afraid of losing his or her place. The room was deathly silent when the bailiff called, “All rise.”

Williams walked in and took his seat. Sutherland repeated the opening lines and Williams said, “This Article thirty-nine-ay session is called to order. I want to keep the doors open to take advantage of what cooling we have and have ordered the security police to clear the halls outside. Does defense counsel or the government have any objections?” Both Cooper and Sutherland agreed, glad for whatever relief was available. Williams opened his bench book and started to read.

“Capt. Jefferson, your plea of guilty will not be accepted unless you understand its meaning and effect. I am going to discuss your plea with you now. If you have any questions, please say so. Do you understand?”

Cooper rose from his chair, ponderously and slowly. “Your Honor, I must object. This line of questioning is premature and—”

“Overruled,” Williams said, cutting him off. “I have warned you before, Mr. Cooper. Listen first, then speak. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor. That is most clear.” He sat down.

“Your Honor,” Jefferson said, “I understand everything you have said.”

Williams jotted down a note and continued. “Thank you. A plea of guilty is the strongest form of proof known to law. On your plea alone, without receiving any evidence, this court-martial could find you guilty of the offense to which you are pleading guilty.” Sutherland tried to concentrate on Williams’s words as the judge led Jefferson through the standard questions about pleading guilty. Williams’s voice was a drone in the background as the questioning played out with a predictable monotony.

“By your plea of guilty you waive, or in other words, give up certain important rights…. The right against self-incrimination…There will not be a trial…. Defense counsel, what advice have you given…” For some reason, Sutherland did not hear Cooper’s response. But he knew what it was. “Do you feel you have had enough time to discuss your case with your counsel?” Williams asked.

“Yes, sir, I have,” Jefferson replied. The questions droned on without objection from Cooper. Sutherland braced himself for Cooper’s explosion when they reached the factual basis for his plea.

“Are you aware that the government is investigating evidence that may exonerate you?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

Sutherland came alert. His instincts warned him that Williams was about to make a major departure from the script. “Lacking evidence of your guilt,” he said, “I am inclined to wait for the results of the government’s investigation before ruling on your plea.”

“I have the money. I was paid—”

Cooper was on his feet, shouting. “Objection, Your Honor!”

Jefferson never stopped talking. “—over two million dollars.”

“Holy shit,” Blasedale gasped. “Where did that come from?”

Sutherland shrugged off the coat to his uniform, pulled his tie loose, and collapsed into his chair. An oscillating fan sent a blast of humid air over his desk, stirring papers but doing little to cool him. “I think Williams made the Guinness Book of Records calling that recess,” he said. “At least he gave us until thirteen-hundred tomorrow afternoon to make sense of this mess.”

“We’ve got to get out of here until the air conditioner is fixed,” Blasedale said. “How about one of our rooms in the VOQ?”

“Sounds good,” he replied, starting to gather up his files. “I see it as a two-part problem: we got Jefferson on one side and McGraw on the other, and we need the bastard who’s really guilty to step forward.”

“Maybe they’re in this together,” Blasedale said.

“That’s not an unreasonable position.” Sutherland considered the possibility and turned it over in his mind. But it felt rough, out of balance. “That two million dollars Jefferson claimed he was paid—it’s too much. The forty or fifty thou they paid McGraw sounds right. The OSI and FBI have got to check her out again. Maybe they can trace that two million.” He looked at her. “Shit! We’re right back to square one. It’ll take months, maybe years, to sort all this out.”

Blasedale allowed a tight smile. “No problem.” She made an elaborate show of checking her watch. “We’ve got twenty-seven hours.”

The intercom buzzed. It was Linda at the front desk. “The commander of the OSI detachment is on his way over.”

“What now?” Sutherland groused, mostly to himself. Blasedale worked with him sorting the files they would take to the VOQ. They were almost finished when the lieutenant colonel crashed into Sutherland’s office and slammed the door shut.

“Waldon’s dead,” he blurted out.

“Oh, my God,” Blasedale said, her face white. “What happened?”

“We don’t know yet,” the lieutenant colonel replied. “Because of the Habib woman’s statement, DOJ decided they had enough to nail Ramar. The FBI went to the club to arrest him and they found Waldon and a stripper in the office. Both dead.”

“Are you sure it was murder?” Sutherland asked.

“A fucking bullet in the back of the fucking head looks like murder to me!” the lieutenant colonel shouted.

“The dancer?” Blasedale asked.

“Andrea Hall,” came the answer.

“Oh, my God.” This from Sutherland. “And Ramar?”

“Gone.”

8:00
A.M.
, Tuesday, July 20,
Midi Prison, Khartoum

Kamigami waited patiently while the guards cleared him through the series of steel doors and barred passageways that led into the maximum security block. Twice, the guards waved a security wand over his clothes searching for weapons. But the look on his face warned them not to touch him physically. Finally, after much discussion and a frantic telephone call, the prison commandant appeared and escorted him inside.

The stench of human waste, rotting garbage, and years of accumulated decay assaulted him as the commandant and two guards led the way down the dark passageway. They unlocked a heavy door and threw it open. The foul odor that washed over them like a tidal wave was even stronger man in the hall. One of the guards flipped on the light.

Inside the bare cell, Maj. Mark Terrant sat naked against the far wall. A canvas bag was pulled over his head and his wrists and ankles were tightly manacled. A chain shackled him to the wall. Kamigami stepped inside and almost gagged at the smell. He examined Terrant’s bleeding wrists and spoke softly. “Your trial has been delayed a week.” He looked at the commandant, wondering how much he could say since every word would be reported to Assam. “Your trial was scheduled to start today, but it has been postponed because of events at Whiteman.” He saw Tenant’s head nod underneath the hood.

“Is Capt. Holloway okay?” Terrant asked.

“He’s okay,” Kamigami answered.

“What day is this?”

“Tuesday morning, July twentieth. Remember, conduct yourself like an officer.” He gently lifted the bag off Terrant’s head and turned to the commandant. “Remove their shackles. Let them bathe and bring them clean uniforms. Have this pigsty scrubbed clean, inside and out.”

“My men are soldiers,” the commandant protested. “I will not degrade them by giving such an order.”

“You have over two thousand prisoners here,” Kamigami said. “Use them.” He gave the commandant a little smile. “Of course, I am only offering this advice in your own best interests. Do as you see fit.” He spun around and marched out, glad to escape the stench.