We Were Beautiful Once (36 page)

“So, I tell Harris I have this info. He'll be shit-faced when he figures his own skin's in the game. He'd have knowledge of possible criminal activity, espionage...  he's a federal fucking lawyer working for the Justice Department. He's going to have to deal with that. Second, he'll figure that if they continue to hold the pictures over me that this thing can blossom into something that might bring Hamilton and his company to their knees.”

Freedman lit another cigarette. “Checkmate, as we say.”

 

 

 

IN '67
JOHN PARKERSFIELD, CONNECTICUT'S JUNIOR senator,
met Tracy Hamilton, by then an attractive, thirty-seven-year-old, unmarried socialite. Parkersfield found her lovely, charming and well informed about business and politics. Despite being married, Parkersfield often invited Tracy to dinner when he visited Palm Beach alone. The following year he filed for divorce. Six months later, he and Tracy married. The year was 1969. Parkersfield followed his young millionaire wife back to Fairview, and in 1972
Parkersfield left politics and went to work for HH as a lobbyist, helping
the Defense Department put Hamilton into foreign markets. Meanwhile, Tracy remained, together with Trent, co-chair of Hamilton's Board of Directors.
 

 

After Harris met with Nick, he called Russell to tell him that the attempt to intimidate Nick had failed. In fact, it had backfired—big time. Russell called Trent about the scenario Nick had painted for Harris.  Trent, in turn, called a meeting to prepare Tracy and her husband for any potential blow-back if he could not keep things from mushrooming. What Tracy and Parkersfield knew about Crawford was that it was the company's agent throughout Southeast Asia, nothing more. Trent had intentionally kept it that way. What Parkersfield and Tracy did not know was that Russell pulled the strings, allowing the technology to fall into the hands of Crawford. Russell had his own special password to a sub-account at Disraeli Bank of Zurich, for those occasions when a deposit was made on behalf of an Indian subsidiary by a Hong Kong limited liability corporation.

Trent knew Russell had no limits when it came to stopping anyone dead in their tracks if it threatened him or his account. If the Girardin case continued to draw Hamilton closer, Russell himself might be dragged in. And he was still considered a dark horse for the Secretary of Defense. As he said to Trent, the entire matter was “... spinning dangerously out of control,” adding, “something extraordinary might have to be considered.” Russell's protection of Hamilton only ran as deep as the protection the man afforded himself. If anyone, including Hamilton, was a liability, then he needed to be separated out, and he would move swiftly to do so.

 

 

 

LINDQUIST HAD NEVER MET TRENT HAMILTON but knew him by reputation in state politics and as a Yankee patrician whose pockets were lined with old money. Such a man was consulted before anything politically important happened, such as who ran for high state office. Certainly Hamilton would be a factor in which district court judges were nominated for the Second Circuit Court of Appeals. Yes, Lindquist knew well how much a judge was willing to exercise his power in the face of forces that influenced the course of a career.  

Nick looked at his watch. It was nearly 2:30 p.m. The afternoon crowd streamed into the courthouse. Harris sat, head on his chest, hands alternately pulling on his fingers until they snapped—resigned to the inevitable blowback from Hamilton's appearance. Lindquist called the afternoon into session and instructed Nick to proceed.

“Your Honor, plaintiff calls Mr. Trent Hamilton to the stand.” Nick had never laid eyes on Hamilton until now, following the 6'4”, steely-blue eyed, big headed man with the thinning crop of light brown hair as he opened the gate between the gallery and the bar. He wore an Armani gray tailored suit, French cuffs, gold links and a smooth, red silk tie with a perfect Windsor knot. He strode across the well, the sounds from his fresh leathered soles snapping off the walls like a drum roll announcing the man about whom people spoke in the same breath as ‘our next candidate for governor.' He assumed the stand and stoically faced the crowd. The clerk swore him in. Nick began in a moderately cordial tone. “Mr. Hamilton, thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to help us with this matter, the matter regarding Roger Girardin.”

Hamilton stiffened his jaw. “I will help where I can,” he answered, barely able to contain his rage.

“Mr. Hamilton, can you tell the court your occupation?”

“I'm the CEO of Hamilton Helicopters,” he snapped, staring menacingly at Nick.

“Located where?”

Hamilton's face showed a tinge of red. “Our main location is here in the south end of Bridgeport.”

“And how long have you been with the company?”

With a slight lift of his jowl, he answered. “Since, well, since my family bought it around 1950.”

“Sir, you are a veteran of the Korean War, are you not?”

Trent sat back in the chair. “Yes, June '50 to October '53.”

“Mr. Hamilton, I am going to ask you some questions about your service. You should know that I've had an opportunity to review your impressive service record, which I mention because if you need to refresh your memory on a point I have the record here.”

Hamilton's face relaxed, the redness disappeared. “Thank you, I do not think I will need it.”

“What outfit were you with?”

“The 8240th Army Unit Headquarters X Corp Intelligence. I also was with a unit that did special forces type work.”

“Weren't the special forces started in'51 or '52?”

“Yes.  In 1950, we actually were part of a program that later on, in '52, was formalized. I believe, but don't quote me here, part of the program became the Psychological Warfare Center at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. I was with CIC, or the Counter Intelligence Corp.”

“Were you part of any Army division?”

“The 8240th combined with command recon activities, which assumed responsibility for behind-the-lines activities, that is intelligence and special operations.”

“What did special forces—or I guess CIC—do, exactly?”

“We had different kinds of missions. For example, training partisans in sabotage or laying anti-personnel mines behind the lines.  Other missions included operations to contact prisoners in POW camps, establishing escape and evasion routes from the camps. In some instances we worked with the CIA in covert ops.”

“Were there any other assignments, such as unusual investigations, covert activities against insurgents?”

Harris inserted himself into the proceedings. “Your Honor, please remind the witness that he is not to offer testimony regarding any confidential or secret military operations or information.”

Lindquist understood, the government having stressed this in the early days of the litigation. “Yes, Mr. Hamilton, if you believe that any question will require you to divulge any state secret, please tell me in advance and we will retire to my chambers for further inquiry.”

Hamilton nodded. “Yes. Well, sir, I was about to say, ‘nothing comes to mind.'”

Nick continued. “So you worked behind the lines?”

“Yes, we had various missions, mostly behind the enemy lines.” Hamilton answered.

“There came a time when the enemy captured you, is that not true?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell the court what led up to your capture?”

“Yes, it happened on my second mission behind the lines. August '52. A squad of about ten paratroopers parachuted in near the Yalu River Estuary, a bunch of islands there. Raining. We were to surveillance what we could of troop movements and supervise the ROK laying of minefields on a road of strategic importance to the enemy.”

As with all the previous witnesses, the room became eerily stilled when the subject turned to the events leading to a soldier's capture. “We worked laying mines for a few days. But, apparently, one of the chutes wasn't buried well after we'd landed. The Chinese spotted it. The area became infested with NK. One by one, we were captured. I held out for a day or two but was eventually found.”

“What happened next?”

“Tied my hands behind my back, marched off a few miles north to what I later learned was Camp 13.”

“When you got there, did you see anybody from your unit?”

“No, the men were segregated—officers in one place, noncoms and grunts in another.”

“Did you not find it odd that you didn't see anybody from your squad?”

“At first, but after a while you don't think about it.”

“Did you consider that maybe they were killed?”

“Yes, I suppose things like that go through your head, but I would've heard that if it were in the minefield area.” Hamilton no longer showed signs of his earlier outright fury.

“You joined the service with a man named Jack O'Conner, is that not so?”

“Yes, that's right.” Hamilton looked at his hands.

“And did you go to Korea with Mr. O'Conner?”

“No, sir. Jack and I joined up as ROTC officers. But Jack was, well how'd you say it?  Washed out.”

“Did you see Jack after that in either the U.S. or in Korea?”

“Yes, sir, in Korea.”

“Where and under what circumstances?”

“We were POWs in the same camp, although we rarely saw one another. I was an officer and being that he was enlisted...  well, I saw him from a distance, and we'd wave, but that was it.”

“Did you see Mr. O'Conner after the war?”

“Yes, I gave him a job after we got back from Korea. Maybe 1955.”

“Does he still work there?”

“No, he left several years ago. Think he quit in '72–'75 timeframe.”

“Do you maintain any connection, now?”

“No, when he left I lost touch.  Actually I hardly ever saw him even during the years he worked for Hamilton.”

“Sir, you were in Camp 13 from the time of your capture through your repatriation in September 1953?”

“Yes, sir, I was one of the last to get out of the camp,” Hamilton answered, a hint of snootiness in his tone.

“Why is that, sir?”

“Because I was, informally at least, the administrator of the Americans."

“What do you mean informally?”

“The Chinese put me in charge.”

To provoke Hamilton, Nick asked, “I would have thought the highest ranking officer would've been in charge?”

“Well the highest rank was in charge of the troops, but I was in the dayroom. I spoke Chinese,” he answered smugly. Then with an air of accountability he continued, “They'd funnel various things through me. I'd communicate them to Colonel Levine. He was the highest ranking officer among us, until he was transferred. But for most purposes, you might say I was the lead man.”

“And when was he transferred, if you know?”  

“Don't recall.”

“But you stayed, did you not?”

“Yes.” Hamilton looked at his watch.

“Who precisely put you in charge.  What was his name?”

 “Don't remember.”

“What was his position?”

Hamilton offered little. “Commandant, maybe.”

“What was his rank?”

“Not sure, equivalent.  Colonel maybe.”

“Again, do you know why they selected you to remain?”

Not intending to be overly cooperative, Hamilton remained brusque. “I could only speculate.”

“Speculate then.”

“Objection,” yelled Harris.

Nick came back quickly, “Strike that. Why did you believe that they kept you?”

Irritated now, he answered. “I spoke Chinese, and in that way I could act as a go between.”

“Did you get to know most of the troops in the camp?”

“Well, some, but there were too many.  But I've always been good with names, and even if I don't remember them now, if you were to mention someone I might recall.”

“Roger Girardin.”

Hamilton looked into the crowd, past Nick. “No, not him, not at Camp 13.”

Nick waited for a second to see if the witness blinked, but instead Hamilton reached for his pitcher, poured a glass of water and turned the glass around—inspecting the water's clarity.  
Nick slowly turned to Harris, but he refused to return his look or to see Nick's raised eyebrow.    But there wasn't much Nick could do about it.
 

“Sir, if you saw Roger in Camp 13, you would've recognized him?  Is that true?”

“Objection, your Honor, speculation.”

“Strike that.”

Nick handed Hamilton a photo. “Sir, here is a picture of Private Girardin just before he shipped out to Japan taken the summer of 1950. Do you recognize that man?”

Hamilton studied the picture. “I have never seen this man.”

“Sir, did you not know that Roger Girardin dated Jack O'Conner's sister before the war?”

“He may have, but that was thirty years and two wars ago. I can't be expected to remember that far back, and in any case I did not socialize with Jack's family.”

“Mr. Hamilton, did you know any men named Girardin while you were in the service?”

“There was one, his name was Milton. Pronounced his last name Jerdin, but I think he spelled it with a soft “G.” I'm not absolutely sure on the spelling. Ran into him. I do not have a clear recollection of which it was.”

“Mr. Hamilton, did any government lawyers brief you on this point?”

“Mr. Harris may have mentioned the name, but that's it.”

Harris reached for his glass, tipped it over and spilled water on his paisley tie. He quickly brushed it off . Nick and the judge looked in his direction. He stood up and pulled out his silver pocket watch. “Your Honor, defendant would ask that we take a short break at this time.”