The Accused (8 page)

Such was the information that the attorney was permitted to read. The details of many of the other training programs had been deleted or crossed out with black marker. He could only imagine the harrowing survival experiences that lay within the classified—and unrevealed—records.

The last group of documents was the only one that had direct relevance to the current charges. But Will shook his head in disbelief as he leafed through page after page of blank documents, with all but a few sentences here and there on each page concealed as “classified.”

Most of the records were from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, which had done a preliminary investigation into the Mexico incident. There was a shorter report from the DIA. The only portion of that report not excised was a brief geographical description of the area where the attack had taken place. The house that had been the site of the military operation was located near a small village called Chacmool, less than five miles away from the ancient Mayan ruins at Chichén Itzá. The house itself was isolated within a section of the dense Yucatán jungle.

There was also a CIA report. However, every word within the body of the report had been redacted.

After reviewing everything Will was able to piece together only a few basic details of the incident at Chacmool.

Marlowe had been leading a small unit of commandos who were in pursuit of a group designated only as AAJ. However, the events leading up to the nighttime attack—and indeed, information about the strike on the house itself—had been deleted from the documents produced to the defense.

Will turned to the autopsy protocol. Four bodies had been recovered from the site. One male adult, one female adult, and two children, ages ten and seven.

There was a knock at the door of his office.

Jacki Johnson, the senior legal associate in Will's office, stepped in with a smile. An attractive black woman, she had long been a part of Will's legal career—including a few ups and numerous downs. Her husband, Howard, taught history at Capitol College just north of Washington, DC.

“I just wanted to make sure you saw my memo on the Sudan case—the one about the defector from General Nuban's regime.”

“You mean the PhD?” Will asked.

Jacki nodded and began to explain. “His name is Dr. Ibrahim Agabba. He was part of the administration before Nuban's military coup. They kept him on for some reason. But Agabba must have stuck out like a sore thumb—he actually had a seminormal human rights record. He finally escaped from Sudan and relocated down in North Carolina. He just got appointed to a teaching post at Duke University in Durham. I think he might be a valuable source of information in the lawsuit. Oh, and I will be taking two weeks off with my hubby starting next week.”

“Why don't you do some of the groundwork in setting up a deposition of Dr. Agabba?” Will said. “Give him a call down there at Duke. Start furrowing the ground. When you get some more information about his current situation, let me know. And then we can schedule this deposition down there.”

Then Will paused.

“What was that last thing you mentioned?”

“It's called a
vacation.
It's also called a
marriage.
These two things do go together. You ought to try it some time!”

Jacki smiled and then closed the door behind her. Will wanted to find some humor in that, but couldn't—so he turned back to the stack of files from Quantico. He stared for a minute at the pages of documents consisting mostly of blank spaces where information, details, and facts had once been located—but which had now been removed beyond his reach.

Will felt as if he were wandering in a jungle with no sense of direction. In order to effectively defend Colonel Marlowe there was something he needed. He had to get his hands on some kind of legal compass so he could figure out where it was he was wandering, and what minefields might lie ahead.

11

S
ENATOR
W
AYNE
O'B
RIEN
, a wide and tall man with a full mane of gray-and-white hair, was seated on the couch of his spacious Senate office. He smiled broadly as his secretary poured coffee for him and for Jason Bell Purdy, who was seated in the chair across from him.

After the secretary left, O'Brien took a sip of his coffee, put the cup down on the china saucer, and leaned back on the couch and looked at Purdy. O'Brien was a ruddy-faced man with an easy manner with people. But during his long career representing the state of Georgia, he had also acquired the fine art of knowing when and where to address an issue with the force of a blunt axe.

“Jason, I appreciate you coming over here to talk this through. I did get your e-mail. And I got the follow-up phone call from your staffer. The fact is, though, I have no intention of giving you a chairmanship over any of our subcommittees. I've made up my mind, and there's very little use discussing it.”

Purdy's foot bobbed nervously as he pursed his lips and squinted slightly at the older man.

“I'm very sorry to hear that. But I do not intend to let it rest there. I was led to believe, when I was appointed to fill out the term in this seat, that I would get at least one committee position of distinction. I've been waiting. And I'm still waiting.”

“Well, perhaps I need to remind you,” O'Brien intoned in his deep Georgia drawl, “that I did not favor you as the appointment to fill the term of Senator Hartley. That decision was made against my recommendation. Nevertheless, you and I are United States senators, representing the same state. As such, I want a good working relationship. In addition, we're supposed to be part of the same political party. That also ought to bring us together and give us some common
ground. There's a lot you can learn. Just be patient. Expend your energies being a good senator. A good
freshman
senator. Do a lot of watching and listening. Represent your constituents. And the rest will take care of itself.”

“With all due respect,” the younger man said with clear agitation in his voice, “that is not the way things happen in politics. Not in the statehouse in Georgia. Not inside the Beltway in Washington, DC. And I'm sure you're smart enough and experienced enough to know that. So—let me just say this—I do plan on pushing this. And pushing it hard.”

“Look, Jason,” O'Brien said, trying to reason with him, “you bring no military or intelligence experience to the Senate. There is no good reason under the sun why I ought to appoint you as chair of that committee. Besides, that incident down in Chacmool is far too sensitive for a freshman senator to investigate. When you've been around the block a few times, you'll get the chairmanship of
some
committee, I can promise you that. As it is, I told you that I will make you a
member
of the Subcommittee on Counterterrorism. That in itself is a real honor for a freshman senator like you.”

“I am not going to let this rest. I am going to challenge you on this,” Purdy countered with his jaw slightly cocked.

O'Brien was now seething.

“Well now, Jason, why don't you go ahead and challenge me? Why don't you go to the party leadership? I'm sure they're gonna put a lot of stock in the whims and fancies of a freshman senator. Or better yet—why don't you air your grievance at the next party caucus? I'm sure they're going to want to hear what you have to say.”

Now Purdy's face was flushed. The older man had just touched on a sore nerve. Jason Bell Purdy had been chastised soundly at the last caucus for arriving ten minutes late.

“You and I do come from the same state,” Purdy replied with icy deliberation. “That means you need voters and you need money. And I have a lot of control—a lot of power in our state—and you know it.”

“Don't threaten me, Jason.” O'Brien chuckled. “I know the way your family used money. I know the favors you've done folks—and the favors you expect to collect. I don't like the way you play the game. I surely don't. But I really don't think you want to cross me, Jason. If this
becomes a political blood feud I can guarantee you I will pin you to the mat in less than five seconds. Jason, you're a lightweight.”

Purdy had heard enough. He rose quickly, not extending his hand to the older man.

“I am sorry for the direction this is heading,” he snarled as he headed for the door.

O'Brien rose slowly and watched Purdy's back as he exited. In the corridors of the diplomatic and courtly Senate, Purdy's threatening conduct would normally be considered the unforgivable sin. On the other hand, the older senator knew that, like any other rogue bull, his younger colleague could do some damage.

O'Brien's goal now was simple—to use his cunning to lead the bull out to pasture without getting gored.

12

I
N THE PROSECUTION SECTION OF THE OFFICE
of the Staff Judge Advocate at the Quantico marine base, Colonel Ronald Stickton was conducting a strategy session with his chief investigator. The subject was the Chacmool deaths. Stickton was the assigned trial counsel, who would prosecute. The case promised to be one of the more closely watched court-martial proceedings in Marine Corps history. Stickton flipped through his massive file with the confidence of a man who had a good grasp of the obvious—that this one case could make his military career.

Special Agent Fred Brooks of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, a middle-aged civilian in a suit and tie, had a cup of coffee in his hand, and he was aimlessly searching the drawers and cabinets of the conference room for some sugar.

“Fred, did you get a chance to get an update from the federal police down in Mexico?” Stickton asked.

Brooks discovered a lone packet of Sweet 'n' Low. He tore it open, dumped it into his cup, and turned to the other man.

“They told me they were shipping off the bullet fragments so we could do our ballistics. Not exactly critical, considering the other evidence we've got.”

“True,” the colonel answered, “but it's important to tie that up. Even though we've got overwhelming proof that Marlowe and his unit were in place, shooting the victims to the point of death. We've recovered at least—what is it?—one of the weapons used by the AAJ?”

“Actually two. We've got the Uzi—that's ironic, isn't it? Arab terrorists from al-Aqsa Jihad using an Israeli-made automatic weapon? So we've got that, and we also found the semi-automatic pistol the bad
guys left behind. When I was down there, it didn't look likely that any of the wounds to the four victims were tied to those weapons.”

“All the same, we need to finish the ballistics matchup of the bullet fragments in the bodies with the weapons fired by Marlowe and his unit.” Stickton tapped his pen on the table, then added, “You know my mama—when she cooks the Thanksgiving turkey, after she stuffs it, the last thing she does is sew it up. This ballistics will be the last sew-up we need to do on this turkey.”

“Who are you calling a turkey? Colonel Marlowe? Or this assignment?” Brooks asked, stirring his coffee slowly.

“You didn't hear me call anybody a turkey,” Stickton snapped back.

“Colonel, I thought you marines always stuck together—even when you're prosecuting each other in a general court-martial.”

“I'm trial counsel—not defense counsel. My job is to do my duty for the corps and for my country. The way I see it,” the colonel continued, “this is going to be a wake-up call to DOD about these Rambo groups.”

“Speaking of that,” Brooks responded, “when are we getting some identifying information on who Colonel Marlowe's guys were actually taking orders from? When can we stop calling it ‘the unit' and find out the actual military designation and configuration of that group?”

“DOD has a gag order on defense counsel and trial counsel as well. Theirs is more severe than ours. The only limit on us involves evidence relating to the background and military identity of the special forces unit. The only other requirement is that we send the DOD legal liaison a preview of all the evidence we're intending to introduce at the Article 32 hearing. We have to tag everything we suspect may be sensitive. Then they screen the summary themselves and make their own independent determination on any evidence too sensitive to present.”

“Well,” Brooks said, glancing at his watch, “we need to get cracking on this. I've got an investigation off base at eleven hundred.”

Stickton turned back to his discovery file. He glanced at the paper on top. “Okay. Here's the checklist,” he said, running down the memo. “Number one. We've got the statements from the four other members of the unit. Colonel Marlowe refused to give a statement. Did you get anything from him down in Mexico besides the perennial name, rank, and serial number?”

“Actually,” Brooks noted, “I didn't do the interrogations in Mexico. Remember? I finally got a crack at them on the USS
Nathan Hale
. It was being used as the command post for the operation.”

“Yes, that's right,” the colonel said. “They flew Marlowe and two of his men back to Isla Holbox so the Mexicans could see me serving the charges and apprehending him—I suppose that was to calm the international tensions. Then they dispatched the other two—Rockwell and Baker—back to the ship.”