43
The next morning I’m at the grocery store, leaning over the fresh chicken comparing prices, when I suddenly feel uncomfortable. I can see someone in my peripheral vision standing about ten feet to my right. I glance over and see a blond, overweight, middle-aged woman I vaguely recognize. She’s staring at me. I try to place her but can’t. The look on her face is one of contempt, and I turn back to the chicken, hoping she’ll go away.
I pick out a small packet of breasts, place it in the basket I’m carrying, and glance back toward her. She’s still there, and she’s still staring. I turn and start walking in the opposite direction. I’ve taken about five steps when I hear a voice behind me.
“We missed you at the execution.”
I keep walking.
“Hey, superstar lawyer! I said we missed you at the execution!”
I suddenly realize who she is, and my throat tightens. It’s Brian Gant’s wife, Donna. I’d read the cursory account of Brian’s execution in the newspaper a few days earlier with a deep sense of regret. With everything that had been going on, I’d forgotten about it completely. I remember mentioning it to Mooney the morning Judge Green was killed, but after that, Brian had faded from my consciousness like fog being warmed by the sun. I stop and turn to face her.
“I’m sorry, Donna. I’m truly sorry.”
She steps up close to me, her eyes filled with fury.
“You’re right about that,” she says. “You’re the sorriest damned excuse for a lawyer I’ve ever seen. How does it feel to be responsible for the death of an innocent man?”
“I can’t explain how it feels,” I say honestly. “I wish I could have done more.”
“Brian told me you came down to the prison a few weeks ago and tried to unload your guilt on him. He said you told him you were sorry. You’re just sorry all over the place, aren’t you?”
“What do you want from me, Donna? I did all I could.”
“You know what the worst part of this is? The only reason Brian ended up with you as his lawyer was because we were poor. Tell me something. When the judge appointed you to represent him, why didn’t you tell the judge you didn’t have enough experience to handle a death penalty case?”
“I thought I was ready.”
“You thought you were ready? You thought wrong, didn’t you? You got your ass kicked by a confused five- year-old girl. And now my husband is dead.”
I look at the floor in shame. The same thing has passed through my mind a million times. I was young, I was eager, and I wanted to make my mark. But she’s right. I wasn’t ready.
“Look at me, you son of a bitch,” she says.
I raise my head slowly and look into her eyes. There are no tears, only the stark face of hatred.
“My husband was innocent,” she says. “Say it!”
“Your husband was innocent.” The words come out weakly. I feel so ashamed, I’m barely able to speak.
“And you killed him. Say it!”
“And I killed him.”
She moves even closer to me, so close I can feel her breath on my cheek. Then she spits in my face.
“I hope you rot in hell.”
She abruptly turns and walks away.
44
At some level, I’m conscious that I’m dreaming, but my mind won’t allow me to wake up.
I jump from the door of the C-130 Hercules and tuck. The static line snaps me backward as it rips the cover off my pack and deploys the parachute. I take a quick look up at the green canopy and then look down. I’m dropping toward a narrow peninsula on an island, thousands of miles from home. An airstrip extends far out beneath me. The green ocean is beating against jagged rocks no more than thirty feet on either side of the strip.
Two hours earlier, I’d never heard of Grenada. All they told us when we left Georgia was that we were going to war.
During the long flight, they’ve given us a quick briefing. The Grenadian government has been overthrown by left- wing radicals. Russian, Cuban, and North Korean advisers have been spotted on the island. They’re completing a ten-thousand-feet-long airstrip. A military buildup is suspected. There are hundreds of Americans on Grenada, most of them students at the Grand Anse area’s True Blue campus of St. George’s University School of Medicine. President Ronald Reagan has issued an executive order. We’re going in.
Our mission is to jump from only five hundred feet above the airstrip at a place called Point Salines. We’re to neutralize any resistance and secure the airstrip so our planes can land. Once we’ve done that, we’re to evacuate the students from the medical school. They’ve told us that a small number of Delta Force operators are already on the island, along with a few Navy SEALs. A U.S. Marine amphibious force has been diverted from a mission in Lebanon and will be mounting an assault. The Air Force is sending AC-130 Spectre gunships and combat controllers. Two battalions of Rangers are going in, and fighters from the Eighty-second Airborne Division will land as soon as we clear the runway. They’ve told us that Grenada is roughly one hundred twenty square miles, but that the fighting will concentrate around a city called St. George’s. The entire country has a population of one hundred thousand. I remember shaking my head when the lieutenant said that. All this for a country with a population roughly the size of Knoxville?
I’m only twenty-one, and despite having been through Ranger school and feeling bulletproof, as soon as the sound of machine gun fire below reaches my ears, I feel fear welling in my stomach. Ten seconds later I hit the tarmac, roll, shed my chute, unstrap my weapon from my ruck, and make for a rally point just east of the airstrip.
I dive behind a berm as small arms and machine gun fire whizzes by overhead and kicks up sand near my feet. The steady thump of antiaircraft fire echoes off the hills beyond the airstrip. I belly crawl to the edge of the berm and shoulder my weapon. Other Rangers are running and yelling around me. I look for a target and am just about to fire when something falls on my back, nearly knocking the wind out of me. It’s a fellow Ranger. I push him off me, and when he rolls, I see that his face has been blown off. I scream, stand up, start firing, and run straight toward the enemy.
“Joe! Joe! Wake up! Joe!”
I open my eyes. Caroline is sitting up, shaking my shoulder.
“You’re screaming. Are you all right?”
I shake my head in disbelief. It seemed so real. “Yeah, baby, I’m fine. I guess it was just a nightmare.”
“ Just a nightmare? You’re soaking wet.”
I sit up on the edge of the bed as Caroline rubs my back.
“Why don’t you go dry off and come back to bed?” she says.
I look at the clock. Almost four in the morning. I stand up and walk around the bed to Caroline’s side. I tuck the comforter in around her and kiss her on the forehead.
“Go on back to sleep,” I say. “I think I’ll just stay awake.”
I walk out to the couch, turn on the television, and try not to think about the dream. But it won’t go away. A year after I jumped into Grenada, I learned that the U.S. State Department had issued a warning to the Grenadian government that we were coming. They, in turn, told the Russians and the North Koreans, who immediately left the island. All that was left were a few Cuban engineers and the People’s Defense Force, but they were armed to the teeth, and they were waiting for us.
That was the day I knew I would leave the army, and that was the day I knew I’d never trust my own government again.
