attempt to try them for war crimes, we’ll be branded the biggest hypocrites there ever were.”
“Rules of evidence are rules of evidence.”
“You know that, and I know that, because we’re lawyers and knowing that’s a condition of our employment. Joe Sixpack doesn’t understand it, though. As for the rest of the world, they haven’t got a clue what our crazy legal system’s all about.”
“So the only thing that works for them is if I say Sanchez’s team acted responsibly and innocently?”
“Did they?” he asked a little too quickly, which was a good omen of where he was now coming from.
“I still don’t know. They’ve got a good tale to tell. It just doesn’t all add up.”
“Does it not add up a lot, or only a little?”
“Depends who’s listening. I think there’s some gaping holes and inconsistencies that might collapse the whole thing.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Not yet. Inconveniently, Sanchez’s team are the only living witnesses.”
“But their stories coincide?”
“Except for some details.”
“Then maybe they’re telling the truth.”
“I don’t think they are.”
There was a moment of awkward quiet before Clapper said, “Sean, do you know my one reservation when I recommended you for this?”
“Reservation? I didn’t know you had any reservations.”
“Your infantry background. I was worried that you’d start trying to second-guess what Sanchez and his men did out there, the decisions they made, the way they handled themselves.”
“What makes you think I’m doing that?”
“I’m not saying you are. I’m just warning you not to get all caught up in little details, like who held whose rucksack during the ambush.”
“Thanks, General, I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Uh… there’s another thing.”
“Another thing?”
“A decision was made to shorten the time line. It’s no longer twenty-one days.”
I said, “You’re kidding, right?” because I couldn’t think of anything more clever to say.
“No. The White House thinks this is dragging out too long. They’re taking ungodly political heat. They want it wrapped up in ten days.”
“Ten? That’s ten days from today, right?” I asked.
“That’s ten from when you started. Six days from today.”
“Any reason I should know about?”
“Sean, is this a problem? If it is, I can find someone to replace you.”
“No, it’s no problem,” I said, trying to sound reasonable.
“Good. I know you’re doing a great job, Sean. Just stay with it.”
I chewed on my tongue for a moment, then very briskly said, “Right, thanks.”
I hung up the phone. I took three deep breaths. I yanked the phone out of its socket, took careful aim, then flung it with great force against the wall. There was a loud, satisfying crash as the phone punched right through the wallboard and ended up with the base still in my office and the handpiece dangling through the hole.
One of Imelda’s assistants rushed to the door and stuck her head in. It was the one whose head looked like a big, mottled grapefruit with tiny glasses. She took one look at my face, blinked once or twice, quickly backed away, then frantically scurried from desk to desk and warned everybody to stay the hell away from me.
Either Delbert or Morrow had ratted me out. Hell, maybe they’d both ratted me out. I could just hear their two voices on the phone, competing to see who could outrat who.
It’s not that I expected loyalty, because most lawyers can barely spell the word. But there’s disloyalty, and then there’s something that flies unspeakably beyond those bounds. It was a really good thing neither of them were here at this moment. They’d look damned silly with a telephone sticking out their butts.
And why did I get this sudden feeling that Clapper had just subtly pressured me to declare these men completely innocent of all possible charges? I wanted to vomit-and I might have-except I’m too cool for that.
I had trusted Clapper completely. Worse, I owed him. This was the same guy who gave me my start in law, literally in a classroom at Fort Benning, then later when I needed the Army to sponsor me through law school. He was also the man who picked me for this job. Until now, I’d just assumed it was because I was the hotshot young lawyer he’d always wished he’d been. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but I at least thought he liked me.
Somebody at the White House must’ve really put his balls in an intolerable vise, because until this moment he’d been very high and mighty about seeking the truth. Or maybe he’d just been pumping me full of bullshit to prepare for this moment.
They say that the devil makes sure the wicked get more than their share of luck, and just at that moment there was a timid knock on my office door. It slowly opened, and another of Imelda’s assistants, the one who strongly resembled a saber-toothed tiger, cautiously stuck her long, narrow face in.
“Uh, Major… excuse me,” she kind of whispered, like she didn’t want to start an avalanche.
I looked up and tried to control my temper. “What?”
“There’s a man here to see you. A civilian.”
“Does he have a name?”
“I asked him, but he wouldn’t tell me.”
“Did you ask him nicely?”
She giggled a little too nervously, the way some people do when they’re placing blasting caps inside C4 explosive. “If you’d like, sir, I’ll tell him you’re busy.”
“No, show him in,” I said.
For some reason or other, nearly all reporters, when they’re in the field, like to wear those silly-looking tan vests. You know the type, the ones that have a dozen or so pockets, like bird shooters use, so they can have a handy place to tuck all that ammo they’re going to use against all those vicious ducks and geese.
This man wore one of those vests, only it was a really big one, more like a tent with pockets. He looked to be about three hundred pounds. He was a little shorter than me and about thrice as wide. The word “lardass” instantly popped to mind, and I instinctively looked around to see if there was any chair in my office that was sturdy enough to handle him. There wasn’t.
“Hi,” he said, real friendly-like, as his beady little eyes did a quick inspection, apparently also seeking a chair. “You must be Major Drummond.”
“Says so on my nametag,” I replied, pointing down at my chest.
“Hah-hah,” he laughed, waddling forward. “That’s a really good one.”
“Actually it wasn’t all that funny the first time you heard it, and it hasn’t improved with age.”
His laughing stopped. “You know who I am?”
“Mr. Berkowitz, right?”
He gave me this ingratiating smile. “Hey, no hard feelings, right?”
“Hard feelings?” I asked with an inquisitive frown. “Why would I have hard feelings?”
“Come on.”
“No, what?”
“You’re screwin’ with me, right?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Berkowitz, we don’t get the Washington Herald out here. Is there something I should know about?”
This sly grin crossed his lips. “Nah. It’s just that some military guys don’t like my writing slant very much. I always worry about it.”
“Well, don’t. I never read the papers. They make pretty good toilet paper in an emergency, but of course, then you end up with all this black ink stuck to your fanny, which is damned hard to explain to your proctologist.”
He edged over and planted his big ass on the corner of my desk. “Hah-hah! That’s a good one, too. By the way, call me Jeremy.” He stuck out his hand.
