Against All Enemies (30 page)

Sutherland thought for a moment. “But she doesn’t know that. Try to cut a deal with her. Tell her the FBI will get the Department of Justice to offer her immunity if she cooperates with us.”

“But what if she’s not guilty of anything?” Toni replied.

“We’re all guilty,” Sutherland said, “or think we are.”

“Will the FBI go along with that?” Blasedale asked.

Sutherland made his voice upbeat and positive. “Sure, why not? One of their boys screwed up by arresting her and now they got to cover their backside. Give her the VIP treatment, put her up in classy hotel, stroke her ego, become her friend, white the FBI jumps through the hoops with DOJ. If it all falls apart, put her on the plane Monday and the problem, flies away.” Toni said she’d give it a try and broke the connection.

Sutherland shook his head. “She really screwed up.”

“She’s young and inexperienced,” Blasedale said. “It happens to all of us.”

“Surely,” Sutherland’s face was deadpan, “not you.”

“My first time out as trial counsel, I was a lieutenant, all alone, and they threw me to the wolves. It was a simple case—a drug dealer we finally nailed on aggravated assault. It should have been a breeze but the defense counsel made a run against the victim, a young, pretty, brainless little thing. Before I knew what had happened, he had her admitting to things that had nothing to do with the case. Suddenly, she’s on trial and the evidence is so muddied that no one could sort it out. I didn’t even have enough sense to call for a mistrial.”

“The judge would have never done that,” Sutherland said, letting her off the hook a little. “Mistrials are to protect the defendant, not our side.”

She nodded. “That bastard walked. The military judge called me in afterward. All he said was, ‘Don’t let that happen again.’” Blasedale stared at her hands. “It didn’t.”

Sutherland knew what those two simple words meant. Blasedale had sacrificed her personal life to ensure it never would occur again. How many hours had she spent in preparation, reading, and going over trial records? “Is that why you hate men?” he asked.

Blasedale looked at him, surprise on her face. “I don’t hate men. Just that one bastard defense counsel. Strange enough, he may have been the best teacher I ever had.”

“The courtroom is a tough classroom,” Sutherland said. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

Two hours later, Toni called back. “She bought it! But she wants full immunity.”

Sutherland tried to sound jubilant for Toni’s sake. But he was worried. Diana Habib might tie the money trail directly to Jefferson but they might be giving her a get-out-of-jail-free card. “You may have found the smoking gun.”

“Is the FBI going along?” Blasedale asked.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Toni sang. “But she is one shrewd lady and is dangling bits and pieces until she sees the offer in writing. She is Cassandra and met Habib while dancing at the club. When he flunked out of Central Missouri State, he lost his student visa. She was his green card to stay in the States. And there’s more. She also worked part-time at the Base Exchange on Whiteman. She continued to work there after she married but never bothered to change her name.”

“Keep on it,” Sutherland said before he hung up. He sank back into his chair and dangled the dead receiver from its cord. “Holy shit.”

“Why does it always hit the fan just before quitting time on Friday afternoons?” Blasedale muttered.

“It’s an immutable law of nature.”

9:00
A.M.
, Saturday, July 17,
The White House, Washington, D.C.

Art Rios pushed the wheelchair into the Oval Office and quickly withdrew. The last thing he saw as he closed the door was the President standing as his staff clustered around Durant.

“Nelson,” the President said, “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your joining us. Needless to say, we are deeply worried about the crisis in Los Angeles, and we need every bit of advice we can get.”

The acerbic National Security Advisor, Stephan Serick, humphed for attention. “The riot appears to be contained.” He passed around a small map of Los Angeles with the area outlined in red. “The governor refuses to call out the National Guard because of reports questioning the reliability of many of the units. They are demanding to stay in place and guard their hometowns. Meredith’s influence, no doubt.”

“How are the L.A. police doing?” Durant asked. He knew the correct answer but wanted to hear it from Serick.

“We have reports that the police are being reinforced by elements of Meredith’s First Brigade,” Serick replied.

“Is that legal?” This from the domestic affairs adviser.

The Attorney General answered. “As long as they are sworn in as deputies.”

Durant folded his hands in his lap and listened as the discussion went around the room. Finally, the President asked him for his thoughts. “The court-martial at Whiteman was only the spark that ignited the violence,” Durant replied. “It has turned into a gang-driven riot and should burn itself out Sunday night—without the National Guard intervening.”

“Thank God,” the domestic affairs adviser said.

“Thank Meredith’s First Brigade,” Durant said. “He’s the one who is going to benefit from it.” For once, the President’s staff agreed with him.

“There’s another problem,” Durant said. “Maj. Terrant and Capt. Holloway are going to be moved to Khartoum for trial. A rescue is still possible if we act now.”

From the look on the President’s face, the fate of the two pilots was the least of his worries. “Why do I get the feeling this is too rushed? We can’t afford a botched rescue on top of everything else.”

“We are ready to go,” Durant said. “And we still have a window of opportunity.”

The President gestured at his National Security Advisor. “Stephan?”

Serick looked pleased. “Any action now in regards to the hostages would be counterproductive. Put everything on hold.”

The President nodded in agreement.

9:30
A.M.
, Saturday, July 17,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

Sutherland jogged through base housing, enjoying the early-morning activity. The temperature and humidity had not started to build and cars were being washed and lawns mowed. It was a peaceful image of middle-class America on a summer weekend.
What a contrast
, he thought, recalling the vivid images on TV of the madness sweeping Los Angeles. But his overriding image was of Meredith calling for strength and resolve. He picked up the pace, missing Toni’s companionship on his daily runs. Still, he felt good.
Be honest, this is the best I’ve felt in years
. He reached Spirit Boulevard and headed for the main gate.

When he reached the guard shack, he could see the protesters and their signs that had become a permanent part of the landscape. As usual, they were on the opposite side of the highway and well clear of government property. He waved to the guard on duty as he turned back. “How are our friends this morning?” he called.

The young airman grinned. “About the same,” he called.

Sutherland had gone about ten yards when a single shot rang out. He fell to the grass and looked back. He couldn’t see the guard.
They shot him!
was his first thought. He jumped to his feet and ran for the guard shack, the closest cover. He saw the airman’s head bob up for a quick sweep of the area and then disappear. He was okay and had seen Sutherland. Sutherland skidded into the shack and fell to the floor. The airman had his weapon drawn and was speaking into his radio, much calmer than Sutherland felt.

“Cap’n Sutherland is with me,” the airman said. “We’re okay. The shot came from the other side of the road. I think someone took a potshot at the demonstrators.”

The Rock’s voice answered. “I’ll be on-scene in three.” Sutherland relaxed, knowing he was safe. Within three minutes, a phalanx of patrol cars and security police had arrived and The Rock was walking calmly across the highway to speak to the demonstrators. He spoke quietly with them and a few kept pointing to the state park. Satisfied, he ambled back across the highway. “No one’s hurt,” he announced. “The sheriff is on his way.” He motioned for Sutherland to join him. “Need a lift, sir?” Sutherland climbed into the patrol car. “This place is going crazy,” The Rock muttered.

“Except for on base,” Sutherland replied. “How’s Jefferson doing?” he asked.

“Okay. Watchin’ the riot on TV like everyone else.” The Rock never took his eyes off the road. “Where to, sir?”

“Wing headquarters.”

Blasedale was sitting at her desk when he walked into the legal offices. He told her about the incident at the main gate. “What is the matter with people?” she muttered. She handed him a stack of memos and a copy of the
New York Times
. “Read the editorial.” He opened the newspaper and, suddenly, the day got much better. The lead editorial called Whiteman Air Force Base an island of calm in a sea of chaos and described the military legal system as a solid rock of justice. “That’s as good as it’s going to get,” she said. “And call Toni.”

He used her phone and, as usual, keyed the speaker so Blasedale could hear. Toni’s voice was all business with none of the panic or emotion from the day before. “We haven’t seen the written agreement guaranteeing Diana immunity yet,” she told them. “Brent says it’s a combination of the riot in L.A. and the weekend. They’re only talking to the janitors at DOJ.”

“Some very high rollers have to sign off on an immunity agreement,” Sutherland said, “and they are definitely preoccupied with L.A. How’s Diana doing? Have you learned anything else?”

“She’s enjoying everything and is getting her hair done right now. I’m baby-sitting. She wants to go to the French Quarter tonight.”

“You’ll love Bourbon Street,” Blasedale said. “Especially if the government’s paying for it.”

“There’s something else,” Toni said. “At breakfast she said Mo, her husband, never met Jefferson. I didn’t follow up because I was afraid I’d scare her off. I let her talk, hoping she’d say more. But she didn’t.”

“You did the right thing,” Sutherland said. “How’s her credibility?”

Another long pause. Blasedale looked at Sutherland. So much rested on the shoulders of a young and untried agent eight hundred miles away and on her own for the first time. “She’s basically a nice person,” Toni finally said.

Toni hadn’t answered the question and Sutherland felt like shouting at her. Instead, he forced a calmness he didn’t feel into his voice. “Stay on top of it and get back to us the moment you learn something.” He broke the connection.

“What if Diana is in this up to her teeth?” Blasedale asked.

“We honor the deal and she walks. It’s a chance we’ve got to take.”

“When do we tell Coop?” Blasedale asked.

“The sooner the better and I’ve got to request a continuance.”

Blasedale’s fingers drummed her desk for a moment. “Any request for a continuance will have to come in a thirty-nine-ay session and Williams has gone home for the weekend. He won’t be back until Sunday night. So that gives us until Monday morning to see where this is going.”

“What about the riot in L.A.? It could make a difference.”

“No matter what we do, Hank, the timing is a killer. Think about it. The rioters will claim it as a victory, which may only throw more fuel on the fire, and Meredith will say we caved in to the rioters.”

“Justice really sucks,” Sutherland said. “Shit! Whatever made me go with a short trial date?” He reached for the phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Coop.”

She reached out and stopped him. “He’ll use this against you.”

“Like I said, justice sucks.” He dialed the number. He grinned at her. “Here goes the old career—whatever was left of it.”

“Why have you withheld this information?” Cooper asked. He was sitting in Sutherland’s office and was obviously hung over.

“I don’t recall withholding it,” Sutherland answered. “I seem to remember asking for a continuance when we submitted our motions.”

“You didn’t present enough detail for me to properly respond at that time.”

“You were more concerned with a government conspiracy to frame Jefferson,” Blasedale observed.

“You may have proven it,” Cooper shot back.

Sutherland shook his head in disgust. Cooper was a master of the mental cockamamie that gave lawyers a bad name. Facts and evidence were fodder to be discarded, twisted, embellished, or ignored in any way he chose—as long as he won. The first casualty was the truth, the second fatality was logic, and the last was justice. “I’ll immediately relay any information as it develops,” Sutherland said.

“You do that,” Cooper said. “I will be preparing a motion for dismissal.” He rose to leave. “Of course, I will have to file a complaint with the bar association’s disciplinary committee.” He smiled. “Against both of you.”

“Give it a rest,” Sutherland said. “You got caught out and had your feelings hurt yesterday.”

“Don’t read over my shoulder next time,” Blasedale said.

Cooper drew himself up in righteous anger. Then he thought better of the anger and turned it off. “You can’t prove a thing.” He marched out of the office.

“Lawyers,” Blasedale fumed.

Sutherland laughed. “I know what you mean. My mother thinks I’ve got a respectable job playing piano in a whorehouse.” She laughed at the old joke and they were back on track. “What the hell, half of our job is keeping the Coopers of the world honest.”

“Too bad we don’t get paid for it,” she groused. “Call Central Circuit and give them a heads up.” Sutherland picked up the phone and dialed the Chief Circuit Military Judge at Randolph Air Force Base outside San Antonio.

2:20
P.M.
, Saturday, July 17,
Los Angeles

Marcy stood in the street and snapped pictures of the burned-out store in Korea Town. She had slept only four hours in the last twenty-four. Yet she was exhilarated and more alive than she had been on any other assignment. With what she had seen, the notes she had taken, and the scenes digitally recorded, she could write the definitive account of the riot. She spoke into her microcassette recorder. “The riot is in its forty-eighth hour. My two escorts, Jason and Richard, are still with me, tired but determined to keep me safe.”

She looked up the street, searching for the right words to explain what she was seeing. Then she remembered what Jason, her young African-American escort, had said. She keyed the cassette. “South Central L.A. never recovered from the 1992 Rodney King riots and businesses never rebuilt. Increasingly, that section of town became characterized by liquor stores and churches. Perhaps that dichotomy—scratch
dichotomy—
that division is a perfect reflection of the strength and weakness in all of us. But this destruction around me demonstrates how thin the veneer of civilization really is and how close we all are to the dark side of our souls—strike
souls—
of our nature.

“But why has the black community focused its anger on the Korean merchants who gave a new life to this part of town? Perhaps it is because they must trade here. If they need a bank or a bed, a dentist or diapers, they must come to Korea Town. And here, the two cultures, one mercantile—scratch
mercantile—
one commercially and family based, the other socially and communally oriented, clash.”

She played it back, and satisfied it would do, transmitted the story and photos to the
Union
in Sacramento over her cellular phone. They drove norm, toward New Korea Town. A car skidded around a corner and almost broad-sided them. It flashed by and they caught a glimpse of five young Mexican-Americans wearing blue bandanas and matching plaid wool shirts. “Carmelos,” Jason muttered. “They shouldn’t be in this part of town.”

The car slammed to a halt in front of a shattered clothing store. Two young Mexican-American girls, barely fifteen years old ran out, their arms full of clothes. The young men piled out of the car and grabbed the girls, throwing one to the ground. One of the gangbangers jerked the clothes out of her arms as another one stomped her with his heavy shoes.

Marcy spoke into her cassette, describing the scene. “Protest has turned into pillage and the rioters are turning on their own.” The prettier of the girls shrieked in terror as a Carmelo cut away her clothes and threw her to the ground. He jerked at his fly and dropped his pants. Richard reached under the seat of the van and pulled out the sawed-off pump shotgun hidden there. “Don’t get involved!” Marcy shouted.

“I’m not a fuckin’ reporter.” He jumped out of the van, his face twisted in anger, and fired two shots into the air. The Carmelos jumped back in the car and sped off. Marcy ran up to the girls and bent over them. Both were badly hurt. Suddenly, the car skidded around the corner and accelerated, bearing down on them. Marcy jumped back as it sped past. A hail of submachine gun fire erupted, from the front passenger’s window and cut into Richard. Then it was gone.

Marcy ran over to him as Jason drove up in the van. “Get in!” he ordered.

“Not without them,” she shouted. He got out and helped her load Richard and the two girls into the backseat “They’re still alive,” she yelled. She jumped in. “Go!”

“Where?” he shouted.