“’Bout a half mile. Maybe a little more.”
“How do you know they were watching your patrol base?”
“Because they was staring in that direction.”
“Staring with binoculars? With the naked eye?”
“Just staring.”
“Were they wearing uniforms?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of uniforms?”
“Camouflage.”
“Who did you report that to?”
“Chief Persico.”
“Why him? Why didn’t you report it to Captain Sanchez?”
“Because.”
“Because why? Sanchez was the team leader, wasn’t he?”
“Because I couldn’t find Sanchez.”
“Wasn’t he in the base camp?”
“I just told you I couldn’t find him,” he said, grinning like I was a simpleminded idiot. “How the hell do I know where he was?”
I grinned back. “Persico testified that when you told him about the Serbs, you admitted you didn’t get a good look at them. His impression was that you only got a fleeting glance. Are you sure they were watching your base camp?”
“I didn’t walk up to them and say, ‘Yo, you assholes, you wouldn’t happen to be staring at my base camp, would you?’ But that was sure as shit the direction they was looking at.”
“Okay. Now while your team was escaping and evading, what were you doing?”
“Machusco and I handled rear security, like always. We hung back, ’bout half a mile behind the team, puttin’ down trip wires along our route.”
“How many did you set?”
“I don’t know. A lot.”
“How did you happen to have so many flares with you?”
“Because we’re the security team. We always bring lots of ’em wherever we go.”
“Like how many?”
“Like about ten or fifteen each.”
“Doesn’t that take up a lot of room in your backpack?”
He gave me this mocking look. “Don’t all them law books take up a lot of room in your office?”
“I don’t have to carry my office around on my back.”
“And Machusco and I get the whole team killed if we don’t bring the right equipment.”
“That’s a good point. Now while your team was moving, were you being followed?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because the Serbs kept setting off trip flares.”
“How many times did that happen?”
He seemed to hesitate a moment, then gave me what I’d call a screw-off grin. “I don’t rightly remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Give me a ballpark. Was it once? Was it ten times?”
“I told you I don’t rightly remember.”
“Captain Sanchez said it happened five times,” I lied.
“Okay. Sounds about right to me.”
“Persico said it happened eight times,” I lied again.
“Well, Persico’s miles smarter than Sanchez, so make it eight. Yeah, it was eight,” he said, obviously lying right back at me.
“I’m sorry. Persico’s smarter than Sanchez?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Smarter how?”
“Smarter like he’s been in lotsa tight situations and knows what he’s about. Sanchez couldn’t wipe his ass without Chief’s hand back there scraping away.”
A very interesting observation, I decided, and one I would definitely file away for later. I wasn’t going to delve into Perrite’s personal likes and dislikes at this moment, however, because he struck me as the type who had lots of dislikes and rather enjoyed talking about them. He disliked lawyers, for instance.
I moved on to the next field of inquiry. “How was the decision made to execute the ambush?”
“I dunno.”
“Weren’t you involved?”
“No, I wasn’t involved. I guess it happened sometime after we drew into a perimeter that night. Sanchez and Chief huddled together for a while, then the word got passed around to check weapons and ammo, because we were gonna ambush some Serbs. That’s all I know.”
“Was there anything specific that triggered that decision?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“What? Man, ain’t you been payin’ attention? We was being tracked by a bunch of pissed-off Serbs who wanted to friggin’ rip our guts out.”
“Did more flares go off that night?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Come on, Sergeant. You were in charge of security for the team, and you’re trying to tell me you don’t remember if any more flares went off?”
“That’s right.”
I opened my briefcase, withdrew a yellow legal pad, and acted like I was reviewing some notes. After about twenty pensive seconds, I said, “Captain Sanchez reported that three more flares went off, and Persico agreed with that number.”
“Okay, that’s right,” he said. “Now that you’ve refreshed my memory, it happened three times.”
And now that we’d confirmed he was still lying his ass off, we continued.
“Who provided the security element for the ambush?”
“I did.”
“Where were you positioned?”
“I put myself about half a mile east of the ambush site. I picked a place on a hillside where I had visibility for about a mile.”
“So was it your job to notify the team which column to hit?”
He nodded.
“Did you have any instructions to follow?”
“Yeah. They wanted me to pick a nice big fat column without any armored vehicles in it. I let three or four minnows pass through before I found one that was just right,” he said. His eyes were lit up, the way most people would get if they were remembering the taste of a thick, cold milkshake on a hot summer’s day, or their first roll in the hay with that big-bosomed high school sweetheart.
“Did you participate in the ambush itself?”
“No. I stayed in my position, watching to see if any more Serb columns or vehicles was coming. If that happened, I was supposed to warn the team that it was time to disengage and pull out.”
“Then I guess you don’t know what happened at the ambush site itself?”
He gave me a sharp shrug of disappointment. “I heard shots and explosions, and I heard stories afterward, but I didn’t see nothing. When the ambush was over, I rejoined the rest of the team at the designated rally point,
