and although I respected the hell out of Imelda, we’d never really conversed about the guts of any of those cases. I’d shuffled papers at her and given her chores to do, and she’d stayed busy supervising her clerks and making sure I showed up at court prepared and on time.
“You think they’re guilty?” she asked.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I suspect they’re guilty, but I seem to be the only one who holds that opinion.”
“I think they’re guilty as a cropa diseased whores in a nunhouse,” she said.
In case I haven’t mentioned it before, Imelda could get very picturesque at times. I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms. I hadn’t come here to have a long discussion with Imelda, but I had nothing better to do. If you’ve ever read a legal textbook, you’d know what I mean.
“Why?” I asked.
“’Cause I read all your statements. They’re lying. They’re lyin’ their asses right off their faces. That captain… uh, Sanchez, right?”
“That’s right. Terry Sanchez.”
“Yeah. What I think is that man didn’t have the balls.”
“I’m sorry. The balls for what?”
“That warrant and those sergeants ran all over his weak ass. Read those statements. Those men were dissin’ him bad.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but what if the Army doesn’t really want me to find out what happened out there? What if the Army believes it would be much more convenient to just find them innocent and move on?”
“The Army doesn’t always know what’s best for itself.”
She was sitting there on top of her sleeping bag, hair messed up, wearing a wrinkled army green T-shirt, faded old gym shorts, and white socks. Frankly, she looked like a pretty shabby font of wisdom.
I said, “Thanks, Imelda.”
“No problem. Now quit snivlin’ and get your ass in gear.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I went into my office and shut the door. I could hear the sounds of Imelda pulling open drawers and riffling through files. After a few minutes, she walked in with her arms piled high with folders. She carried them to my desk and dropped them unceremoniously into a large heap. Without saying another word, she left.
I looked down at the stack. She had gathered all the transcripts of the statements we’d collected back in Italy. I rummaged through and found Chief Persico’s, then started reading. Then I worked my way through each of the other team members’ statements.
By six o’clock I was done. Imelda was right. There was a common theme that ran through all the statements. It was a lack of respect for Sanchez. In Persico’s case, it was nearly imperceptible, but it was there. He had heaped praise on his team leader, but he continually referred to the KLA commander as Captain Akhan. Sanchez was always just Sanchez.
Sergeant Perrite had been more blunt. There was that comment about Sanchez not knowing how to wipe his own ass without Persico being around to help him. But there was more than that. When Perrite and Machusco detected the Serbs on the hill, it was Persico they reported that news to. And maybe this was why Sanchez didn’t have a clue how many flares had gone off or what his rear security element was doing, or what they were seeing. The sergeants in the team were bringing everything to Persico as though he were the team leader, as though Sanchez was only along for the ride.
Now that I knew what to look for, in one way or another, that same thread wound its way through every statement. Delbert and Morrow had not probed very deep in their interrogatories, but the same flavor was there. Here were the Moore brothers, the twins, saying that Persico told them where to place themselves in the ambush. Persico gave them the order to fire and ignited the star cluster that told them when to cease fire. Graves, the medic, saying it was Persico who’d put him in his safe position half a mile behind the ambush, and Persico who instructed him where the linkup site was, in case things went awry and they all had to scatter. Butler, one of the two heavy weapons men, who carried the machine gun, saying it was Persico who checked his aiming stakes, who told him where to tie in his fire, who supervised the laying of the claymores. More of the same from Sergeant Caldwell.
Several times during the interrogatories, I’d asked Persico and Perrite how various decisions got made. Both their responses had been vague or uncomprehending. I should have suspected something right then and there. Persico had assured me that all the operational responsibility was on Sanchez’s shoulders, but as I read through the statements there was barely a hint that Sanchez was even present.
Delbert and Morrow came in at six-thirty. I decided not to mention a word about this to either of them. For one thing, both would simply see it as yet another wretched attempt on my part to look for guilt when all the evidence screamed innocence. For another, I didn’t want word of this making its way back up the mole’s chain. But, more important, the entire progress of the investigation now rested on what NSA’s satellite photos indicated. If the pictures showed a team cold-bloodedly murdering thirty-five Serbs, then we now had a fresh line of inquiry. If the shots showed Sanchez’s team running for their lives and desperately trying to fight their way out of a deadly noose, then the interesting observation I’d just collected was about as useful as a jockstrap in a girls’ locker room.
At eight a woman called on behalf of Mr. Jones. She had a sweet, singsongy voice, and she invited us to the NSA field station for a private showing in one hour. I closed the door to my office and spent my time in the most productive manner I could. I paced back and forth. I walked from wall to wall, then corner to corner, until I got bored with that. Then I just stared at the walls.
I didn’t want Sanchez and his men to be guilty, but I had passed the point where I could afford for them to be innocent. Right now, my whole career rested on my being right. Clapper’s threat of an inquiry into my conduct was looming like a nightmare. Murphy had timed his attack perfectly. If the tapes showed that Sanchez’s team was innocent, then I’d have to pack my bags and be back in Washington. I might be able to procrastinate for a day or two, arguing I had to close up some unfinished business, but right now any official inquiry would be stacked completely against me. Delbert and Morrow would say I seemed obsessed with finding Sanchez’s team guilty, despite a screaming lack of evidence. Then there were all these statements from Murphy’s boys. I would look like a crazed Captain Ahab, whipping and snarling at everyone in sight, all for the sake of some nonexistent whale. I wouldn’t be court-martialed, but my odds of practicing any more law in the Army were about as good as betting on a three-legged horse at Saratoga.
At a quarter till nine I went and collected Delbert and Morrow. We found our way to the Air Force’s C3I facility, and a guard directed us to a small metal building off to the left. There was no sign to identify it as an NSA building, I guess because they didn’t want anyone to know they were here.
Two uniformed guards stood at the entry, which, if you think about it, kind of defeated the whole purpose, because if you were into practicing a little espionage and you saw an unmarked, heavily guarded building right near the C3I facility, well, that might tend to make you a bit suspicious about what was inside there. All that brainpower, and these guys couldn’t figure out how much smarter it would be to position the guards inside the building.
At any rate, the guards obviously expected us, so we flashed our identity cards, and I showed the fellas that obnoxious set of orders the Secretary of the Army had provided me, then they ushered us right in.
There was a second doorway inside, constructed of heavy-gauge metal, and we had to push a buzzer. There was a camera in the ceiling corner, and someone inside probably peered through at us before there was a humming sound and I pushed the door open.
A woman, I guessed the same woman who called earlier, was waiting for us.
“Hi, I’m Miss Smith,” she said with a perfectly wooden smile. She had precisely aligned, gleaming white teeth that indicated either magnificent genetic breeding or a wonderfully talented family dentist.
It struck me that everybody who worked at NSA was either named Jones or Smith, or some other monosyllabic name. I mean, why couldn’t they all go by Gwyzdowski, or Petroblaski? Then at least you couldn’t really tell if they were tossing off aliases. Unless, of course, you ran into a whole flock of them all at once.
At any rate, Miss Smith could give the ever-impressive Miss Morrow a tight run for the money in ye olde looks department. The difference was that Miss Smith was wearing a very short skirt and a nice clingy blouse that made it more amply clear what you’d be biting into. The lovely Miss Morrow had all her wares camouflaged inside a set of baggy battle dress, although I must say that greens and browns and blacks went quite well with her complexion.
