Huston, James W. -2003- Secret Justice (com v4.0)(html) (10 page)

Little spoke. “Commander Barry Little, Captain. I’ll be the chief prosecutor.” He said it with a little more pride than called for. “The date hasn’t been set yet, but it won’t be long. We’re trying to move as fast as we can. We’re here to get it set up, gather the evidence together, and get underway. When we are ready, they’ll send the court members and the military judge who is going to preside over the trial.”

“Do you know the name of the judge yet?”

“No, sir. As of this morning it hadn’t been decided.”

“Fine,” Hogan said. “The interrogation is ongoing. Will you be involved? I must say it hasn’t been very productive.”

“All of which was done outside the presence of counsel, I assume?” Watson said with a sharp tone.

Hogan looked at her with disapproval. “And you are?”

“Sorry. I’m Commander Elizabeth Watson. I’ll be heading up the defense team.”

“Lucky you.” Hogan smiled, trying to break some of the tension he had just created. “You get to defend the most wanted terrorist in the world.”

“Yes, sir. I do. Either we do a trial and he gets someone to represent him, or we just tie him to a post and shoot him. Which would you prefer?”

Hogan’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need any of that, Commander. You might do better to hold your tongue a little.”

“Yes, sir,
sorry
,” she said, not meaning it.

“In answer to your question, yes, I think the interrogation was done outside the presence of counsel. Is there a problem with that?”

“That may depend on whether anyone intends on using any of it in this tribunal.”

“I don’t know anything about evidence, or who’s going to use it. I just know that the men who were here to do the interrogation have left and will be back. I get the sense they’re going to keep going.”

“When can I see him?” Watson asked.

“In due time. I thought first we would go over the procedures, the location for the trial, the instructions we have received from the Secretary of Defense, and other matters.”

Little spoke. “Thank you for allowing us to do this aboard your ship, sir.”

“Frankly, I wish this were aboard a naval station somewhere—perhaps in Italy, or Spain, or Guantánamo Bay, which seems to me ideal. But in any case, it is to be here, so we’ll need to make accommodations.”

“Where are we going to hold this tribunal?” Watson asked.

“Right here,” the captain replied, looking around the wardroom. “It’s big enough, private, and secure enough. Is it okay with you?”

She looked around. “Yes. It looks fine. Is there an office that I can use to prepare his defense?”

Captain Hogan fought not to say what he wanted to say. He paused just long enough to let her know he could do as he wished. “Of course. We will provide you with whatever you need.”

“So, Pat, what do you think?” Stuntz asked

Patrick Cleveland, the general counsel to the Department of Defense, breathed in deeply. He wasn’t ready to have the discussion yet. His staff hadn’t completed the research. But the Secretary of Defense, his boss, had insisted. He loved his job, but Stuntz was a very hard man to work for. He didn’t care much about the subtleties of the law; he saw it mostly as an impediment. “I don’t have final answers but do have some idea of where we’re going to end up, so if you’d like—”

Stuntz looked like a hunter who had spotted a buck. “So can we?”

“Prosecute him?”

Stuntz nodded.

Cleveland nodded reluctantly. “Yes. Have you seen the report from that doctor on board the
Belleau Wood
?”

“The autopsy?”

“Well, it’s more than an autopsy. It contains information in it about the raid itself, about the Navy officer’s conduct—he tortured the man, and it resulted in the man’s death. It would be manslaughter, almost certainly. And a violation of the Geneva Convention, because the man was in custody and no longer resisting. We could definitely court-martial him.”

Stuntz leaned back in his squeaky leather chair and pondered the implications. “I don’t want to court-martial him.”

Cleveland was confused. “I thought that was the whole idea.”

“
Prosecuting
him is the idea. Not court-martialing him.”

“But he’s a naval officer. He would need to be court-martialed.”

“Couldn’t Justice do it?”

Cleveland hadn’t thought about it, nor had he asked any of his staff to research it. “I’m not sure,” he said cautiously. “There may be concurrent jurisdiction . . .”

“Well, make it so they do. That’s why I brought you here. You’re the big smart New York trial lawyer. Let’s see some of that magic.”

Cleveland was unimpressed. “I don’t have the ability to make the law something that it isn’t. I can’t just confer jurisdiction on a court that hasn’t been granted that juris—”

“Don’t give me a bunch of legal bullshit. Get over to Justice and
tell
them to prosecute him. The last thing we need is for the ICC to stick their noses into this.”

“I’ll see what I can do. If we send it to Justice, if Rathman has a lawyer that has any brains at all, he’ll move for a dismissal. My guess is that it should be granted.”

“And what lawyer will he get? If it’s in federal court, he won’t be entitled to an attorney, will he?”

“He’s probably not poor enough.”

“Exactly. So he’ll hire some second-rate lawyer from Washington—he’ll have a lot to choose from—and the guy will be overworked and miss half the things he’s supposed to do. Don’t worry about it.”

Cleveland rose and prepared to leave. “I’m not confident this will work.”

Stuntz didn’t say anything.

Cleveland looked into Stuntz’s eyes for the political reason behind what he had been told. He was sure it was there somewhere. “Why do you care where he gets tried? What difference does it make?”

“I don’t want to look vindictive.”

“Because he works for Sarah St. James?”

“He doesn’t
work
for her, but he talks to her. Gives her information. He and others give her sort of a leg up in the intelligence world. Aggravates the hell out of me.”

“So you actually are being vindictive, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I am. I’d love to string him up by his little neck. But this is just as good. Anything to maker her holiness look worse is okay by me.”

Elizabeth Watson walked down the passageway behind two sailors. The hard heels of her shoes were loud on the shiny tile. She sort of liked that, having an audible presence just by walking. She also happened to be the senior woman on board. There were two lieutenant commanders, but she was the only commander. She always checked when she was at a command.

The lead sailor, a burly first class petty officer who was a Master at Arms opened a hatch and led her down two ladders to the brig. Before he opened the last hatch, he turned to Watson and said, “This isn’t the friendliest guy you’ve ever met, ma’am. I’d use some caution with him.”

They went to the window outside the brig where a senior chief petty officer was waiting for them. He stood taller when he saw Commander Watson approaching. The first class petty officer tried to give him a look, a caution, but he didn’t see it. “Good morning, ma’am. You’re here to see the prisoner?”

“Yes. Mr. Duar. Where is he?”

“He’s in a private cell. I’ll be happy to take you there.” He stepped around the thin bulkhead and brought the keys with him. He unlocked the main door to the brig and stepped through. “Right this way,” he said. The two petty officers stayed back and only Watson and the chief stepped through. They stopped in front of a thick steel hatch that was dogged and padlocked. The chief inserted a key, noisily took off the heavy padlock, and looked at Watson. “If you need anything, please just let me know. I’ll be right outside. If I hear anything I don’t like, I’ll come in immediately, whether I’m interrupting something or not. Okay, ma’am?”

“Fine. Open it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, turning the key.

Watson stepped through and the chief closed the door behind her. Her bravery seemed to fall away from her and land outside the room. She was exposed. She felt a cold chill on the back of her neck as she stood face-to-face with Duar. She was surprised by the depth of anger in his dark eyes. It suddenly struck Elizabeth that she had forgotten something very important. “Chief!” she yelled.

He opened the door immediately. “Yes?”

“We need the interpreter.”

“Yes, ma’am. He was waiting at the office. I should have brought him along. Sorry.”

Watson took the time to evaluate Duar. He leaned against the far bulkhead eerily motionless. His hair was longer than it appeared in the grainy black-and-white photo she had seen, and his complexion was darker than she had expected. He was almost handsome. She was five six, and he was much taller, perhaps six feet.

The hatch opened again and the interpreter stepped into the small room. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Good. Let’s do this.” She spoke to Duar in English, looking at him the entire time. The interpreter quickly converted her words to Arabic.

“Good morning. My name is Elizabeth Watson. I have been assigned to be your attorney. I’ll do my best to defend you—”

“My what?” Duar asked, frowning.

“Your attorney. Your advocate. You’re going to be put on trial, and I’m going to defend you.”

“What am I being charged with?”

“Murder of Americans, conspiracy to murder Americans. Conspiracy to commit terrorist acts. Did you not receive the charges against you?”

“I’ve seen nothing.”

“I’ll bring them today—a written copy of charges. But that is the heart of the matter. In any case, I’ll be defending it.”

“You will be my attorney?”

Elizabeth warmed. “Yes—”

Duar said loudly, “And who pays you?”

“The United States Government.”

“A
woman
, paid for by the United States, defending me in a trial? This is an insult. It is against Islam, it is against my tradition and my culture.”

“Why?” Watson asked, unable to control the redness climbing up into her face.

“You are a woman. You’re not qualified to defend me from anything. I would rather go without an attorney than be defended by you.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a lot of choice. I’ve been assigned to you by the American government—”

Duar clenched his jaw. “I will
never
speak with you, I will
never
tell you anything, and if you are there to defend me I will not participate in the trial. Get me someone else.”

The translator completed his translation and looked at her sheepishly.

“Fine,” she replied. “Then I will ensure you get a different attorney. You’re also entitled to a civilian attorney. I do not know how you would pay for a civilian attorney, nor do I know how you would contact one. But if you want a civilian attorney, you’re entitled to one. I would also, if I were you, contact the press. That’s going to be your best bet for a fair trial in this setting. Good-bye.” She turned and banged her flat hand on the heavy hatch. The chief opened it immediately and she and the interpreter stepped through.

She was furious. It would have been the biggest case of her life. She had looked forward to defending Duar, to bleeding for him. He had no idea how much she would have sacrificed for him, how hard she would have worked for him. But he didn’t care a bit. To him it was impossible because she was a woman.

But if she were honest with herself, she knew, she would have to admit it was as much about her as it was him. Defending him in the first big tribunal in the War on Terrorism would have made her a household name. It would have been her chance at fame and notoriety. When she retired in two years, this case alone would have made her marketable as an attorney. She could get a good, high-paying job in the private sector. But Duar had changed all that.

She stepped over one knee-knocker after another as she hurried down the passageway toward the ladder. She headed directly to her stateroom. She would pack her things, get the next helo off the ship, and get back to her office at Fifth Fleet. The hell with Duar anyway. What an
asshole
, she thought. She would love the opportunity to stick it to him; but vengeance wasn’t a praiseworthy instinct. She was ashamed she felt as she did, but only slightly.

Rat walked into Jacobs’s office. He had been paged and had no idea what it was about. Jacobs sat at his desk talking on the telephone. He glanced up and saw Rat. He motioned for him to sit down. “I’d like to be with him—I don’t care. I understand.” He looked at Rat as he listened angrily to the person on the other end of the line. “I’ll tell them what I would do, and he can do what he wants. Okay, fine. Five minutes.” Jacobs hung up the phone. He was drained. “Rat, how you doing?”

“Fine. What’s up? I got your page.”

Jacobs sat silently. He seemed lost for words. “Rat,” he said in a tone and with a look that Rat didn’t like at all, “there are times in our lives where things happen beyond our control. In my experience, it’s those times that determine our character. Maybe it’s better said our character determines how those times come out. I think this is going to be one of yours.”

Rat stared at Jacobs, wondering what he was talking about. “I’m not following you, sir.”

“The FBI is here.”

Rat hesitated. “For what?”

“To see you. To interview you.”

“About what?”

“About that terrorist who died. The one with the vomit in his lungs. The one who started screaming he’d been tortured as soon as he got aboard the ship.”

“Why would the FBI want to talk to me about him?”

Jacobs scowled at him. “Why do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because somebody thinks you dicked up. Somebody thinks you may need to be charged because somebody thinks that torturing prisoners—or whatever one calls them—is a bad thing. Shit, Rat, what were you thinking? You can’t throw someone like that on the water board . . . and let him survive to talk about it.”

“Just trying to find Duar, sir. And we did.”

“Roomful of witnesses? They’ll all have to testify against you.”