The Accused
Authors: Craig Parshall
HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the New American Standard Bible ®, © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. (
www.Lockman.org
)
The verses in chapter 61 are taken from the New King James Version. Copyright ©1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Cover by Left Coast Design, Portland, Oregon
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. It is the intent of the author and publisher that all events, locales, organizations, and persons portrayed herein be viewed as fictitious.
THE ACCUSED
Copyright © 2003 by Craig L. Parshall
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Parshall, Craig, 1950â
The accused / Craig Parshall.
p. cm. â(Chambers of justice ; bk. 3)
ISBN 978-0-7369-1173-3 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-0-7369-6040-3 (eBook)
1. Chambers, Will (Fictitious character)âFiction. I. Title.
PS3616.A77A64 2003
813'.54âdc21
2003004365
All rights reserved
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To the memory of my father, Richard Palmer Parshall, who served as a catapult officer in the United States Navy in World War II on the USS
Makin Island,
a Casablanca Class escort aircraft carrier, during the fierce battles in the Pacific theater.
And to my father-in-law, Vince DiFrancesca, who ably served as a PFC in the United States Army Air Force in the same war, on the Marianas and other Pacific islands.
And finally, to my brother, Richard Parshall, who served in Vietnam as a first lieutenant in the United States Army, and whose returnâas was regrettably true of too many of our brave soldiers in that conflictâwas greeted with far less honor than his dedicated service deserved.
Contents
Much like the first two novels in this series, this one is a legal thriller and a love story of sortsâas well as a spiritual odyssey. But unlike the others, it is a tale of war. It describes the journey of a military hero faced with enduring the personal, as well as the geopolitical, crucible that results from a tragic exercise of judgment during our War on Terrorism. As a result, I relied heavily on the expertise of men who have served our nation in the armed forces, and whose keen insights, I hope, have kept this tale within the bounds of realism. I am profoundly in their debt.
David Tanks, a 25-year military veteran and an expert in matters of missile and satellite defense, as well as national security, gave me superb pointers on overall military logisticsâas well as some great technology information. Thomas Rumping, a retired Marine Corps intel officer, combat pilot, and counterterrorism expert, and now a defense and security consultant (and an aspiring author in his own right), was incredibly helpfulâespecially in the operational aspects of the military assault that leads to the criminal case at the center of this story. And I also owe much thanks to Lt. Col. M.J.K. Maher, U.S.M.C., Judge AdvocateâMarine Corps HQ. My experience in criminal defense of U.S. Marines at Quantico has been, admittedly, very limitedâand Lt. Col. Maher filled in the numerous lapses when it came to the Article 32 proceeding. I have tremendous admiration for the U.S. Marine Corps, the other branches of service, and our intelligence agencies. I hope this story confirms that admiration. If there are any failures in military accuracy, they are solely mineâand are not the responsibility of these men who shared with me their time, expertise, and the fruits of their brave service to our nation.
Marilyn Clifton, as always, brought her Marine Corps experienceâand her paralegal acumenâto bear on this project, more, perhaps, than any other to date. I am in debt to her and to Sharon Donehey, who slaved on this manuscript under crippling deadlines. Lastly, thanks to Janet, my wife, for lovingly putting up with the life of a lawyer/writer. Our life together continues to inspire the most important things that are written here.
I
NSIDE THE BLACK HOOD
that was tied over his head, Frederick Kilmer, United States Secretary of Commerce, was sucking in the stale air. His face was dripping with sweat in the moist heat of the Mexican jungle. He was tied up in the back of a vehicleâthat much he knew. And it was moving fast over potholes and ditches, jarring his teeth together with each bump. Wherever it was, this road was not paved.
He also knew that two of his captors were with him as well. He could hear the two Middle Eastern men banging their automatic weapons on the metal surface he was sitting on and talking excitedly together.
In his dark, confused world, Kilmer was clinging to the image of his wife with her gentle smile, who was still back in their condo in Bethesda, Maryland. And the image of his two lovely daughters, who were attending collegeâsitting in the quiet safety of a classroom somewhere, listening to a lecture on Restoration literature or perhaps on the current theories of political science. The idea of never seeing his family again was almost too overpowering to comprehend.
But he was smartâand he knew the score. And he knew these terrorists had gotten this farâand they were not afraid to go further. To find some forsaken part of the Yucatán jungleâhaul him outâand then slowly torture him while one of them grinned behind the eyepiece of a video camera, capturing his gruesome death for all the world to witness. That was the worst partâthe thought that his wife and daughters might see that.
Kilmer did not know that the driver of the old, rusty pickup truck they were in and the man on the front seat next to himâseparated from the camper shell on the back by a windowâwere both heavily armed Colombians. Unlike the others, they were in it strictly for the
money. Speeding in front of the truck driven by the Colombians was a late-model Mercedes with four other Middle Eastern men.
In just a mile or so both vehicles would arrive at an even narrower dirt road that would lead them to a path through the nearly impenetrable Yucatán interior, within a canopy of jungle so dense that helicopters could not find them.
But before that, the Mercedes began slowing down unexpectedly. Up ahead, at the side of the road, there was a crumbling, deserted café with empty windows, sagging walls, and a faded sign that read “¡Mucho Gusto!” Beside the café there was something in the road. The pickup truck slowed too.
