The Trials (The Red Trilogy Book 2) (7 page)

What he says is true. We
were
forced to a foreign court, but if that foreign court allowed Thelma Sheridan to be murdered, then we will have failed to deliver her to justice—and after that, what defense do we have left?

Major Ogawa returns to his seat. I scan the panel of officers. A few faces look thoughtful, but most just present stonewall expressions. Everyone here is aware of the cameras
recording these proceedings, and these officers know that both the attorneys and the media will be analyzing their facial expressions to weigh the effectiveness of the arguments. So most give away as little as they can.

The media will also be looking at us, the defendants, hunting for signs of fear, outrage, denial, approval—any hint of human emotion. And why not give them what they want? It would be the smart thing. It might get us sympathy from their audience, get the public on our side. But none of us do. It’s not our way. We listen, wearing the same emotionless expression as two-thirds of the jury.

The judge is the only one on this side of the bar who looks at ease. She weaves her fingers together, rests her chin on them, and gazes out at her courtroom. “Well. It’s nearly lunchtime. Shall we break until the afternoon?”

•   •   •   •

Assistant trial counsel Captain Elise Bowen spends the opening hour of the afternoon session reading stipulations into the court record. These documents describe the basic sequence of events that took place during the initial hours of the First Light mission, ending at
0132
on November
19
, when our C-
17
lifted off from Alaska.

We have all seen the stipulations; we studied them, made our changes, and approved them weeks ago. As Bowen finishes each reading, the judge requires every defendant to stand up and verbally acknowledge that they accept these stipulations as fact, and will not contest them.

It’s boring as hell, but at least we won’t have to waste time and money arguing over the minutiae of the mission. At the end of it, Captain Bowen gets the bailiff to lower a projection screen from the ceiling. It’s positioned behind the court clerk, to Judge Monteiro’s right, which puts it at a distance from the jury box, but the screen is big, so it doesn’t matter.
Bowen projects an outline of the events. Then she expends another fifteen minutes going over it line by line, just to make sure everyone is clear on the sequence of our Alaskan adventurism. She reaches the last line and turns to the court. “Sixteen hours after fleeing Alaska, the C-
17
arrived in contested territory on the African continent, setting down at an airport in the city of Niamey, where Thelma Sheridan was transferred into the custody of a provisional government headed by Ahab Matugo—and there she remains.”

Captain Bowen really isn’t much of a storyteller. She’s left out all the exciting parts about our flight to Niamey. I scribble a note—
What about the fighters?
—and pass it to Ogawa. He looks at me like I’m a slow child who’s trying his patience.

“Defense,” the judge says, “I believe you have a response?”

Ogawa stands. “Yes, ma’am.” He signals the bailiff, and a new chart appears on the screen. This one details the incidents that occurred during our flight. “At twelve fourteen UTC—Coordinated Universal Time—two fighter jets approached the C-
17
. These planes then accompanied the C-
17
for many hours. We will be presenting evidence that these fighters belonged to the United States Air Force. Six and a half hours after they first approached, the pilot of one of the fighters ordered the C-
17
to land. When this order was ignored, the fighters began a campaign of intimidation and harassment, endangering the lives of all those aboard the C-
17
, including the three civilians. The aggressive actions of the fighters culminated at two minutes after midnight, UTC, on November twentieth, when one of the planes fired a missile in what we will show to be an attempt to shoot down the unarmed C-
17
along with the defendants and the civilian passengers. When this attempt failed, the air force fighters withdrew and the C-
17
continued to Niamey without further incident.”

I wait for him to say more, to ask the questions that are critical to our defense: Under whose command were the fighters operating? And who issued the order to shoot us down? But he’s done. He returns to his seat, and the judge calls for a half-hour recess.

•   •   •   •

The mood as we wait in the conference room is glum. “We look guilty as hell,” Tuttle grumbles. “Shit,
I’d
convict us.”

“We
are
guilty,” Harvey snaps. “If all you’re looking at is what we did, well, we fucking did it. But that’s not what it’s about. It’s about
why
we had to do it.”

I add, “And we get a chance to talk about that when the prosecution is done boring us with the facts everyone already knows. So when you go back in there, Tuttle, don’t look like you’re scared and don’t look like you’re worried. If we want to pull this off, we’ve got to believe in what we’re doing.”

If Matt Ransom were still alive, this little speech would have earned me an enthusiastic
Hoo-yah!
But the only response I get is a sort-of apology from Tuttle. “You don’t have to worry about me, sir. I’ll do my part.”

•   •   •   •

Back in the courtroom, lead trial counsel Fong takes over. “Your Honor,” she says, facing the judge, “I would like to enter into evidence a video deposition obtained from a witness in this case whose current circumstances do not allow her to be present.”

So our first witness is Thelma Sheridan.

I knew about the deposition, though I haven’t seen it yet. I lean over, intending to whisper to Major Ogawa, but he’s already on his feet, speaking my concerns. “Your Honor, the government has stated this deposition was recorded seven
days ago. I ask that the government read into the court record Thelma Sheridan’s current status and condition.”

Monteiro does not look like she approves of this at all. But if Sheridan is dead, it’s better if the court members hear about it now, instead of at the end of our defense. “All right,” Monteiro says. She turns to Fong. “Major, are you able to satisfy this request by the defense?”

Fong says, “I’d like to request a short recess before I respond.”

“How long will you need?”

“Fifteen minutes, ma’am.”

“Granted.”

So we file out again, to sit in stony silence around the table in the conference room. When we return, Fong stands again, grim faced. “Your Honor, the government is unable to report on the current status and condition of Thelma Sheridan. We request that we be allowed to proceed with the video deposition, which has been corroborated, and already reviewed by the defense.”

“Granted,” Monteiro says. “Proceed.”

•   •   •   •

Thelma Sheridan hasn’t lost any of her ferocity. Dressed in a gray cotton smock and gray pajama pants, she’s sitting on a steel chair in a concrete room with stained walls and no windows. The room’s light has a yellow cast. Her chin is tucked. She looks up from under her brow line, a fighter, a cornered predator, poised to spring.

“State your name for the record,” a woman’s voice says in crisp, accented English. Sheridan’s lip curls as if this is something to fight over. But she complies. “Thelma Han Sheridan. I am an American citizen, the victim of a kidnapping, and I am being held illegally—”

“I remind you, Ms. Sheridan, this is a video deposition
intended to cover the events of November eighteenth to twentieth. Your recorded testimony will supplement an extensive video record, and will be used in court-martial proceedings in the United States.”

“Yes, ma’am. And I would like to attend those court-martial proceedings, in person. As the victim in this crime, it’s my right.”

The interrogator’s voice is not British, but it reflects a British education, with every word crisply pronounced as she states in a matter-of-fact tone, “Ma’am, it is not presently possible for you to attend, as you are engaged in your own separate legal proceeding. But the United States values your testimony. So could you please describe exactly what happened the night of November eighteenth to nineteenth.”

Sheridan’s brows are not so well groomed as they used to be, her hair has lost its shiny, metallic polish, but there is still a staggering sense of power in the way she handles herself. She settles back in her chair, squaring her shoulders, and she speaks. “On the night of November eighteenth to nineteenth, a rogue squad of United States Army soldiers, under the command of US Army lieutenant James Shelley, along with a senior officer now deceased, trespassed on my private property, kidnapped myself and two of my employees, stole a two-hundred-twenty-million-dollar transport plane, and used it to convey me halfway around the world—endangering my life multiple times during the flight—before finally delivering me here, where I have been illegally and inhumanely incarcerated ever since. I demand my immediate release and restoration to my country of origin so that I may pursue this case in person, as is my right as an American citizen.”

“Ms. Sheridan,” the interrogator says in a tone of angelic patience, “you stated ‘a rogue squad of United States Army soldiers.’ How did you arrive at this identification?”

Her smile is thin and hungry. “Lieutenant James Shelley is no stranger to me. We had met and talked before the night of the assault. I knew him by his voice, even when he was still wearing his LCS helmet.”

“LCS?”

“Linked combat squad. Cyborg soldiers. Their wiring ties them together. Where you find one, you find more than one. Lieutenant Shelley had his squad with him. He led them in a criminal enterprise. I believe that’s called undue influence?”

Harvey growls under her breath, “Because the rest of us can’t think for ourselves?”

I swear Jaynie kicks her under the table.

Discipline in my squad is definitely slipping.

•   •   •   •

It’s late afternoon, but the judge is under orders to get this court-martial done with all possible speed, so there’s no talk of adjourning for the day. Instead, Monteiro turns to address trial counsel. “Government, are you ready to call your first witness?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Major Fong replies. “The United States calls Blaise Matthew Parker.”

For a second, I’m thinking,
Who?
Then I figure it out. Blue Parker, the pretty blond terrorist who blew up America. Thelma Sheridan’s fall guy.

There’s an angry murmur from the spectators as Parker is led in through a side door, a US marshal on either side of him. He’s wearing an off-white collared shirt, slacks, and dress shoes. He could be on his way to the office, except for the leg shackles and wrist cuffs.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him in person. At Black Cross, I only glimpsed him briefly through a video feed when Jaynie and Tuttle pulled him out of his spider hole. He looks
different now. His head is shaved to a stubble so pale it looks white. His face is thin, bony. He stares at the floor, his lips parted like he’s concentrating hard on every shuffling step as he makes his way to the witness stand. To me it looks like he’s on his way to God, and I wonder if he’s had a stroke. He pleaded guilty to the long list of charges compiled against him and is presently awaiting sentencing in federal court.

One of the marshals assists him to sit down. His blue eyes are not as bright as I remember. He glances at the judge, and then at the defendants’ table, as the bailiff chants the oath. “Do you swear that the evidence you shall give in the case now in hearing shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

Blue Parker turns to the bailiff and nods. “I do, sir. So help me God and Jesus.”

He sounds sincere.

Of course, he immolated an estimated ninety-three thousand people, wounded many times that number, and left the entire country in shambles. I imagine he spends a lot of time talking to God about all that.

Major Fong moves in. “For the record, you’re Blaise Matthew Parker of Dallas, Texas?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you are currently in federal custody awaiting sentencing?”

“Yes. Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“And what sentence do you expect to receive?”

“I expect to receive the death penalty, ma’am.”

“Have you been offered a lesser sentence for your cooperation in testifying in this court-martial?”

“No, ma’am. I have not.”

“Where were you at approximately zero four fifteen—that’s four fifteen a.m. on the civilian clock—on November twelfth of this past year?”

He stares down at his hands. “I was at Black Cross, ma’am.” He realizes his voice is too soft, and leans back, raising his head, speaking louder. “In the control room.”

Major Fong walks back to her table, where she picks up a printed photograph. “Your Honor, the United States would move to enter prosecution exhibit thirty-seven for identification into evidence.”

“May I see it, please?”

Fong crosses the floor and hands it to Monteiro, who looks at it briefly and hands it back. Fong then shows it to Blue Parker. “Have you seen this man before?”

Blue flinches back. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispers. Then he repeats it louder. “Yes, I’ve seen him before.”

“And where did you see him?”

“At Black Cross. That’s Colonel Kendrick. He was in command.”

“You mean Colonel Steven Kendrick, who was in command of the US Army soldiers who took initial custody of you at Black Cross?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mr. Parker, did you ever see, speak with, or otherwise communicate with Colonel Kendrick at any time other than the morning of November twelfth?”

“No, ma’am.”

“And on that morning, did Colonel Kendrick question you regarding your co-conspirators in the act of nuclear terrorism to which you have already pleaded guilty?”

“Yes, ma’am. He wanted to know if Vanda-Sheridan was one of us.”

“Are you referring to the corporation Vanda-Sheridan?”

“He wanted to know if Thelma Sheridan and Carl Vanda were part of it.”