“It’s a paradox. But I know this: They’re tired of having American troops on their soil. They’re tired of being dependent on another country. They’re tired of being told what to do by Americans. They don’t trust our motives for being here, and frankly our motives
Allie leaned up against the blackboard. “And you think they’d kill Americans to drive us out?”
There was a television running in the corner and just at that moment CNN switched to a live broadcast of the Secretary of State climbing off a long, sleek U.S. Air Force 747. He looked like a former general as he came down the stairs, shoulders squared, back erect. He looked grim, too, like he wasn’t the least bit happy to be here.
At the bottom of the aircraft steps the president of Korea waited to meet him. Normal protocol would be for the foreign minister, his direct equal, to be there to handle the reception. This was a sign of how serious things were. He and the South Korean president pointedly didn’t shake hands. This was a sign of the mood.
The story cut back to a correspondent in Washington who was interviewing a florid, angry-looking gay congressman from Massachusetts.
“Representative Merrigold, do you really believe your troop withdrawal bill has any chance of passing?”
“Damn right I do,” he yapped. “I’ve already got enough support to get it on the House floor. And I’m picking up more support by the hour. Let me tell you something. Let me tell
There was another cutback to an attractive anchorwoman who was struggling to look appropriately severe and apprehensive. “And so the Secretary of State has been sent by the President to try to salvage whatever he can out of a situation that all commentators agree is virtually hopeless. The death toll in Korea has now reached fifteen. Four of the wounded are still listed in critical condition. The Republic of Korea continues to insist that its police officers were provoked by sniper fire from the protesters, while sources on the Hill say chances a troop withdrawal bill will pass are excellent.”
Imelda went over and turned off the television. We got back to work.
CHAPTER 29
What Katherine was attempting was actually very clever. And ballsy, too. Moran and Jackson were being held in the Yongsan Holding Facility and Katherine faxed a request for Colonel Barry Carruthers to issue a judge’s order to allow us to interview them.
Why was this clever? Because we now had valid reason to suspect Bales and Choi had coerced the two men into testifying against our client. I had courageously sacrificed my own body to make that discovery. See what a noble guy I am?
The reason it was a ballsy move was because they were both listed as witnesses for the prosecution, and thus, technically, our first chance to speak with them should come in the courtroom, during cross.
But Katherine slyly justified her request on the basis that Moran and Jackson, aside from our own client, were the only living witnesses to what happened inside that apartment, and we therefore deserved an equal chance to determine whether their testimonies might be beneficial to our client. This might sound specious at this late stage in the game, but speciousness is what American law’s all about.
Fast Eddie opposed the request in the strongest possible language. With the strength of his case, you’d think he’d cut us a little slack, but Eddie never took prisoners. Therefore Carruthers responded that he wanted to meet with Katherine to hear her logic. Protocol required me to accompany her.
Imelda actually wasn’t happy about that. Her game plan was to keep Katherine and me separated. She knew Katherine and I were hormonally destined to eternal conflict.
Anyway, the two of us were standing outside the door that led into Colonel Barry Carruthers’s office. We were both pacing nervously. Actually, Katherine was pacing, while she quietly rehearsed her logic. I was limping on a cane and quietly cursing, because my body was aching to be back in that wheelchair. I just didn’t want the judge’s first impression of me to be in that contraption, like I was crippled. I wanted him to see me with a cane, like I was only partly crippled. That’s how macho logic works.
The judge’s secretary, who’d flown over here with him, was strenuously buffing her nails and ignoring us. We were defense attorneys, after all – her boss’s well-known disdain for our breed was infectious.
She glanced up occasionally to inspect a small blinking red light on her telephone. Finally it died. This was the signal that the judge was free and Katherine and I could enter. She gave us a glacial nod, and we trod fretfully into the lion’s den.
The first thing I noticed was that the room was dark. Really, really dark. The shades were tightly drawn, as were the curtains, so that the only light came from a small desk bulb that illuminated only the figure it was directed at – the judge.
The second thing I noticed was that Barry Carruthers was what you might call a visually imposing man. He’d once been a left tackle for Notre Dame, and he’d gotten meaner-looking since then. He was Black, and by that I mean ebony black, with a big, broad face and thick, bushy eyebrows. Everything else was sharp angles – angled nose, angled eyes, angled lips. His face looked like it could slice you to ribbons. A human stiletto.
He was wearing an Army green short-sleeved shirt, and you knew the instant you laid eyes on him the man pumped some serious iron, because his sleeves were precariously tight around his brawny biceps. One flex and he’d have to make a hasty trip to the Post Exchange for a new shirt.
“Sit down,” he said. Not nicely. Not angrily. Just coldly.
Katherine sat in the chair to my right. I bent forward on my cane, then ungracefully collapsed into my chair.
Carruthers was staring at his right fist and kneading one of those rubber squeeze-me balls. I was damned glad I wasn’t the ball being pulverized inside that beefy mitt. You could see the sinews on his huge forearms tensing and untensing.
I stole a glance at Katherine; she was holding up okay. As far as I could tell, anyway. Between the eerie darkness and the man’s sheer size and appearance, I wanted the hell out of there. But Katherine was somehow managing to mask whatever anxiety she felt.
“You got my request, Your Honor?” she asked, firm but polite.
“You’re the young lady who arranged and led yesterday’s demonstration?” Carruthers responded, deliberately ignoring her question. That “young lady” thing, that was a nice touch. Very condescending. Very overbearing.
“I am,” Katherine admitted, trying to sound casual.
“It was designed to embarrass me, wasn’t it?”
“Not in the least. It was an expression of public outrage at the captivity of an innocent man. Thomas Whitehall did not murder Lee No Tae, and if I’m given a chance, I will prove that.”
Good so far, I figured. Katherine’s voice was cool, unemotional, detached. She was holding her own. It was one of those David-wrestling-with-Goliath moments.
Carruthers stared at his fist. “Fifteen bloody bodies in a morgue. A rupture in a fifty-year-old alliance that may not be reparable. A public embarrassment for both our nations. Not bad for a day’s work, Miss Carlson. Wouldn’t you say?”
Katherine’s face was static. “It was supposed to be a peaceful, legal demonstration.”
The judge was still staring at his hand, and it was squeezing the ball even harder. His forearm looked like a bunch of snakes slithering up and down in a slow dance.
“You were warned by General Spears, weren’t you? You were told things were brittle here, weren’t you? What’s the matter? Couldn’t resist?”
Katherine couldn’t answer that. There was no answer for that. His Honor was mad as hell and was putting her in her place. Frankly, he had every right to. Regardless of the awful consequences that neither Katherine nor anybody else could’ve foreseen, no judge likes to be taunted by press statements and public demonstrations. She’d
