The Night Crew (7 page)

He went on for a few minutes, offering us helpful tips and precautions we should follow. It was mostly the usual stuff a cautious person would do anyway, lock the doors and windows, close the blinds, pay attention to anybody paying you undue attention, or following you, but there was one additional precaution—always check the backseat of the car before you get in.

This is called the shutting the barn door after the cow escaped, but it wasn’t a stupid suggestion.

A two-man security team would trail us at all times. All travel arrangements had to be approved through his office. He or his people were to be notified in advance of all visitors. He was aware that Katherine had already set up shop in Highland Falls, New York—the small village outside the gate of the Military Academy at West Point—and a team was already en route to scope out the place and devise a security plan.

When he finished he looked at Katherine and asked, “What are your plans now?”

“My business here is finished. I’m driving back up to New York.”

He paused, then looked at me. “You understand, sir, that it would be very convenient if the two of you remained together at all times.”

I looked at Katherine. “Convenient for who?”

O’Reilly was a little slow on the uptake because he felt the need to explain, “Between five defendants there are a total of nine attorneys we have to protect and—”

I interrupted him to note, “Now eight.”

“Eight . . . right. But we’re still spread pretty thin. For now, the service can only spare three agents for the two of you.”

“Understood, Chief.” What I didn’t say, what I didn’t need to say, was everything else I now understood. He and his unit were going through the paces, providing the appearance of security in the event the killer had not filled his quota, and the shit hit the fan. He and I both knew, though, that effective full-time protection for a single party requires a team of at least six trained agents. Three agents for two targets is what they call in the trade a deterrent force, like using a perforated Trojan rubber; maybe you’ll get lucky, but maybe not.

He produced a sheepish smile. “What I’m trying to suggest is, why don’t you be a gentleman and drive the lady up to New York?”

I’d rather drive over the lady and drag her corpse to New York. But I nodded, then explained my need to drop by my apartment to pick up fresh uniforms, spare undergarments, shaving supplies, and one item I failed to mention—the pistol I kept hidden on the top shelf of the closet.

Chapter Six

Predictably, Katherine’s car was a leased Toyota Prius, what they call a hybrid, and, though I consider myself as sensitive to the assassination of our environment as anybody, Sean Drummond was not the least bit happy with this choice.

The car didn’t even require a key to get started, just this stupid button you push, then you can’t even hear the engine, so after the fifth time I punched the button, Katherine said, “Stop that, Sean. The damned car is already started.”

“Are you sure?”

“Unlike you, it doesn’t make a lot of noise. Yes, I’m sure.”

She can be very funny. We proceeded up 95 North, then the Palisades Interstate Parkway, cutting left just before the Bear
Mountain Bridge. Katherine napped with her head against the window for most of the drive. Thankfully, she didn’t snore and required no potty breaks, which was a treat. Men and women share an organ called a bladder, which serves roughly the same function, though theirs must be a quarter of the size and lacks an off switch.

During her few waking moments, she did share a few tidbits of relevant knowledge. She notified me, “Our court date is in one month. We’ll have to work hard, and fast.”

“You mean thirty days?”

“Like most months, yes, Sean. I know it’s short. But I’ve already done a lot of the preparation.”

“Have you interrogated the other accused yet?”

“No. I thought we’d do it together.”

“Filed any motions, yet?”

“None have been necessary, yet. The answer’s no.”

“Have you met with any witnesses?”

“I have not . . . no, not yet.”

“What have you done, Katherine?”

“I hired a capable staff and arranged an office.”

I shook my head. “Who’s paying for all this?”

It was obvious where I was going with this line of inquiry and she chose not to answer. But I wasn’t letting go and suggested, “Isn’t Nelson Arnold a bit old, even for you?”

“Why do you always see the worst in other people?”

“Because the worst usually applies.”

“You’re underestimating him, Sean.” She looked at me. “Don’t.”

“He’s also rich, handsome, and owns half of Manhattan. Some women find that an attractive combination. Shallow, I know, but please answer the question.”

“I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

“If he’s paying the bills, it’s very much my business. I want to know the extent of his involvement with this case—” And with you, though I didn’t say that, because obviously who Katherine sleeps with was no concern of mine. Right?

But apparently she found this topic tiresome, because Katherine put her head against the window and was instantly asleep. I think she had decided to avoid me for the rest of the trip.

Amazingly, we made it all the way to the small, sleepy village of Highland Falls on less than half a tank of gas. If they could manufacture one of these things in the size and shape of a Ford Bronco, I might even buy one.

Anyway, Highland Falls, as I mentioned, is, in the official lexicon, a village, a small, charming, but slightly depressed burg whose main purpose seems to be serving the needs of the military academy. The first foot was set here way back in 1609, according to local legend, but it wasn’t until West Point was established in 1802 that any feet stopped moving. Most army bases get the garrison towns they deserve and, for the large troop bases, this means plenty of whorehouses, gin mills, pawnshops, and these days, a smattering of fast food joints and tattoo parlors. In the case of the military academy, that means a drowsy village with plenty of souvenir shops and nice churches.

I gave Katherine a poke in the arm. “We’re on Main Street in Highland Falls. Where next?”

She stretched for a moment, and looked around. “Stay straight, then hang a left on Partner Lane.”

Partner
Lane? This sounded presumptuous, but I didn’t think I could convince them to change the name just to fit my sensibilities. So I stayed straight, and, a moment after I took the left, Katherine said, “Drive to the top of the hill. A surprise is waiting for you.”

I don’t like surprises and anyway, Katherine had already used up her limit for the night.

I pulled up to the only house with the lights still on, and Katherine confirmed that I had made the right choice. The house was a small, two-storied clapboard affair, perhaps eighty or a hundred years old, or fifty neglectful years, green or red or yellow in color—but who cares?

Another clue that this was the right house was the man in a cheap civilian suit waiting hospitably by the curb. Presumably, O’Reilly, who was somewhere back there, following behind us, had called ahead on his cellphone to alert the troops.

“Please get your stuff quickly and follow me inside,” the agent said by way of introduction and welcome.

I grabbed my duffel bag, Katherine climbed out her side, and he led us up the crumbling sidewalk to a small front porch.

The moment I stepped inside a voice from the back of the house yelled, “This here’s my office, so don’t you mess nothin’ up. Don’t you leave that damned bag on my floor, neither.”

I had heard that voice before, and I had heard that order before. I replied, in my most authoritative voice, “I’m a lieutenant colonel, now. I’ll put my damned bag wherever I please.”

Imelda Pepperfield appeared out of a room in the back holding a pot of steaming coffee, and wearing a scowl. “Oh no you won’t. I’m a civilian now, so I don’t care if you got ten stars on them shoulders. You’ll carry that bag up them stairs if I say so.”

I thought about crossing the floor and hugging her, but Imelda would probably reward such a display of warm bonhomie with an affectionate knee in the balls.

So instead we just stood and admired each other a moment. Imelda had been a sergeant first class, and my legal assistant, years before. Katherine and I had shared her services back in Korea, and I now had a fairly good idea how Imelda was spending her retirement. A legal assistant in the army is sort of a cross between a paralegal, an office manager, and a major domo. Though she was a sergeant and I an officer, the lines of authority often became blurred. But I can be difficult as a boss, and Imelda can be difficult as a subordinate, so it worked out okay. She was single, mean, frighteningly smart, sporadically warm-hearted, as knowledgeable about the law as many attorneys, and as the current conversation indicated, she tends to be a bit on the autocratic and pushy side.

By way of compliment, she noted, “You put on a little weight. Must be gettin’ lazy.”

“Thank you. You look great, too.”

“What’re you doin’ wearing that stupid suit?”

“It’s Brooks Brothers,” I replied with just the right whiff of a Brahmin drawl.

She shook her head. “If it belongs to them brothers, why’re you wearin’ it?”

I nearly explained, but of course Imelda was joking. I thought I even detected a hint of a smile.

Well, enough pleasantries and empty chitchat. Imelda pointed at a side room, apparently the dining room of this old house before it was converted into a legal office, and said, “That’s your office. Already put the discovery materials and dead lawyer’s files in there. Read through that first. And put it back together the way you found it. Don’t leave me no mess.”

“Thank you.”

“Already hung curtains over all the windows, too. You leave them curtains alone. Don’t want nobody shooting at us. And lock the doors whenever you leave.”

“I’ll also be sure to put the lid down on the toilet.”

I could tell she wanted to smile but didn’t want to break the mood. “Anything else you need, you see Imelda.”

She placed the coffee pot on the table, where there were already four mugs, backed away, and disappeared into the kitchen.

I carried my bag upstairs with orders not to be disturbed until eight.

I would never admit this to Katherine, but I was glad to get a break from my duties in the CIA. I missed the law, I missed soldiers, and yes, I even missed the army.

Indeed, most of all, I had missed Katherine. Bickering and sexual misunderstandings aside, I had always been strongly attracted to her. But army life is murder on personal relationships, and Katherine’s own causes and all-consuming dedication to her clients had left little time or opportunity for us to sort out our personal feelings for each other. She was a big unresolved issue for me; it was time to discover if I was one for her, as well.

But tomorrow I was determined to find out who had masterminded the worst scandal of the war, who had taken the pictures, and who had talked a group of fine young American ladies into such bizarre and depraved behavior. With a little luck, I would also get some idea of who had murdered the Iraqi in the sleeping bag.

But perhaps I was being overly optimistic.

In fact, had I known what lay before me, I wouldn’t have slept a wink. I would’ve climbed back in the car and raced as far away from this place as I could get.

Chapter Seven

I was up at eight, showered, shaved and, by quarter after, I had finished my morning ablutions. I was back in uniform for the first time in months, and seated in my office with a warm cup of coffee in my hand by 8:30. All was good with the world.

I’m a fast reader, and, as with most criminal lawyers, I have a long familiarity with the forms of military justice. Though I was a little rusty, by nine it was all coming back.

Coming into a case cold, and late in the game, I have found the best place to start is with the results of the Article 32 investigation, the military equivalent of a grand jury. In this case, as I suspected, given the seriousness of the case, the commanding officer of the accused, Major General Claudia South, had appointed a JAG officer to conduct the investigation. Typically, the commanding officer appoints a field officer wearing the branch brass of the unit where the crime occurred, but General South obviously understood from the beginning that this case was special, filled with legal minefields, and any procedural mistakes would come back to bite her in the ass.

So she made the wise choice of appointing a legal professional, Lieutenant Colonel, or LTC, Dan Philcher. I knew the name and I knew, as well, that Philcher had a fine reputation as an officer and as an attorney. As it reduced the chances of a mistrial or the opportunity to disqualify important evidence, this was good news for the army and bad news for our client. A Captain Perry Winters was the prosecuting attorney.

Article 32 investigations are less formal than general court martials, though the accused retains most of the rights afforded in the civilian world. Captain Bradley Howser, now deceased, had represented Lydia, and, as per procedure, he’d been allowed to cross-examine the witnesses with wider latitude than might be permitted in court, and his client was allowed to make statements not under oath.

A court reporter had been present, and, at first glance, everything looked in order. The principal witnesses included the captain who commanded the military police company in the cellblock where the crimes occurred, the lieutenant who led the military police platoon, all five of the accused soldiers, two military intelligence officers, three Iraqi prisoners to testify firsthand about the abuse, and Lieutenant Colonel Eggers, who both commanded the military police battalion and served as commandant of the prison.

There were various other witnesses, including the two army CID warrants who performed the initial investigation into the death of the Iraqi prisoner and a few members of Lydia’s chain of command, among others, but their testimony was tangential at best—what kind of soldier was she, who did she hang out with, and so forth and so on.

After thirty minutes spent surveying the case landscape and Lydia’s testimony, which largely accorded with what she had already told me, I jumped ahead to the testimony of Sergeant Danny Elton, Lydia’s presumptive beau, and the ranking soldier in the cellblock.

The conventional wisdom seemed to be that he was the ringleader of this sordid affair, the heavy hand, and the auteur responsible for the cinematography. But consensus, I had learned, is often just the first step into communal idiocy. Consider lemmings, for instance.

Captain Perry Winters, the prosecutor, as per tradition and procedure, had gone first and opened with the usual background questions. Full name and age—Daniel Boone Elton, 37. Marital status—divorced thrice, currently unattached. Hometown and military record—Dalton, Ohio, with fourteen years in the National Guard. Education—high school graduate, then two years in junior college, but no degree. Civilian employment—a long list of temporary, unskilled jobs from clerking in 7-Elevens, to yardwork, to being a waiter in a long list of restaurant chains. Notably lacking, it struck me, was any history at the managerial or leadership level.

I spent a moment thinking about this. Like Lydia Eddelston, Danny Elton’s socioeconomic status was somewhere down there, but given his age, thirty-seven, and his clear lack of professional success in the army or in civilian life, Elton seemed doomed to remain there.

My experience has been that some people lack the social aptitude, mental skills, influential parents, or luck, to break out of the pack and improve their socioeconomic standing. Others, and I sensed that Elton might fall into this category, remain stuck in low, unchallenging jobs because they prefer it. They are, in short, fugitives from success, more or less because they choose to be. According to his personnel files he had a fairly high IQ, roughly 120, and he was in the army, which indicated no serious drug or alcohol or health issues.

Yet, at thirty-seven, he still was stuck in the rut of menial work, and after fourteen years in the National Guard had only managed to claw his way up to E-5. I briefly surveyed the efficiency ratings in his personnel file and they confirmed that Danny Elton was regarded by his superiors as less than a stellar leader of men, or even of himself. There were recurring mentions of attitude problems, authority issues, and disciplinary problems. Strong-willed was mentioned several times, not in a context that was meant to be complimentary.

I returned to my reading and was struck by this passage:

Captain Winters: “You were the shift leader of Cellblock One?”

Sergeant Elton: “Yeah, that’s right. All the badasses were kept there. Jus’ say, I knew how to control ’em.”

Captain Winters: “How was that?”

Sergeant Elton: “How was what?”

Captain Winters: “How did you control them? Were special techniques required? Did you have unique operating instructions?”

Sergeant Elton: “Special . . . ? Look, let me clue you in about these guys. Only certain types made it to my cellblock. Career crooks, and by that I’m talking murderers, sociopaths, and . . . uh, what you might call fuckin’ incorrigibles. And the big-time terrorists. Not the gunmen or bomb throwers or street toadies. We’re talkin’ Hadjis who run the insurrection.”

Captain Winters: “And how were these people chosen for your block?”

Sergeant Elton: Laughter. “Sometimes they came straight in. The intel types identified ’em. Maybe they had a record under Saddam, maybe they got fingered by stoolies. Lots of ways, I guess. I didn’t ask. I really didn’t give a shit how they got there. Sometimes, they graduated to me from other blocks. The hard cases. Their block leaders were pussies, couldn’t handle ’em.”

Captain Winters: “So what did you do differently to control them?”

Sergeant Elton: “Attitude.”

Captain Winters: “Attitude?”

Sergeant Elton: “Ain’t that what I said? You kept your boot on their chest or they’d go wild. They’d throw shit and piss in your face. They’d kick and punch and bite you. They’d cut you. They’d throw riots and mess with you in a thousand ways. You lawyers got no idea what these people are like. Ain’t like nothin’ back here. It’s war, man. These people don’t think nothin’ of blowin’ up a schoolbus filled with little kiddies. They cut off heads. It was dog eat dog in there. You hadda work hard to be the big dog, or they’d fuckin’ bury you.”

I had the thought that Elton must’ve watched that court room scene of Jack Nicholson and Tom Cruise verbally fencing in
A Few Good Men
, and this sounded like his coarsened rendition of Jack Nicholson’s soliloquy, albeit replacing being “up on the wall” in the defense of democracy with his thoughts on “being the big dog.”

Just as obviously, LTC Philcher wasn’t buying it, because in reply to this oration, he said,
“Just answer the question, Sergeant. Did you have unique instructions or orders regarding prisoner treatment?”

Sergeant Elton: “Wasn’t like that, no. Wasn’t like anyone had time to sit down and type up some neat little book of instructions. You know, like you can do this, but just don’t do that. But my officers, they knew how I operated. And don’t you let ’em act like they didn’t. Hell, the whole prison knew. Whenever any prisoners got out of line in other blocks, the guards told ’em, quit fuckin’ round or you’re going to Elton’s hole. And you know what—the prisoners, they all knew what that meant.”

Captain Winters: “What did they know?”

Sergeant Elton: “Come to my house, you play by my fuckin’ rules.”

Clearly, Sergeant Elton was a man with some serious authority issues, and a mountain-size chip on his shoulder. A man needs to find his role in life—father, coach, priest, bully—and Elton had decided to be the all-knowing badass who set the rules. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely; and, in the dead of night, it can create monsters.

Then, a little later:

Captain Winters: “On December 21, the death of General Yazid Palchaci was reported in your cellblock.”

Sergeant Elton: “Sounds about right.”

I paused for a moment to consider this interesting exchange. It was the first I had heard that the homicide victim was an Iraqi general. I assumed that he had to have been one of Saddam’s generals, and further, I assumed that the idiots running the cellblock had picked the wrong victim. Rank doth have its privileges and, fair or not, when you kill a general, it doth generate a crapfest.

Captain Winters: “Can you describe the circumstances that led to his death?”

Sergeant Elton. “Nope. We discovered his body in his cell and called it in.”

Captain Winters: “In his cell? Did he have a cellmate?”

Sergeant Elton: “I don’t recall.”

Captain Winters: “Wasn’t General Palchaci what the intel people called a high value target?”

Sergeant Elton: “Why don’t you ask them?”

Captain Winters: “According to the records kept by the prison warden’s office, General Palchaci was in an isolation cell. He lived by himself under lock and key.”

Sergeant Elton: “Yeah? Well, that don’t mean nothing. Hell, them records was always messed up. Any given day there was, like, eight, nine thousand prisoners. Coupla hundred comin’ in, coupla hundred bein’ processed out. Fuckin’ clerks never kept it straight.”

Captain Winters: “He was in your cellblock, Sergeant. Under your direct supervision. You have no idea how anybody got the key to his cell, entered it, and beat him to death?”

Sergeant Elton: “Do you?”

I moved on to the testimonies of the other accused soldiers: Andrea Myers, June Johnston, and Mike Tiller. I spent another hour reading their statements until I thought I had the general picture. Andrea Myers and Mike Tiller struck me as both the least informative and least knowledgeable of the night crew. I had the impression both were followers and bit players, and I placed them low on my list of interesting people to get to know.

Moreover, all the testimonies of the night crew, in ways large and small, correlated and concurred. Nobody knew how or why or when General Palchaci died. None could recall how his body was discovered or, indeed, who found the corpse. All their actions were for the greater good, i.e., “prepping” the prisoners for interrogation. All agreed that Sergeant Elton got his marching orders from Captain Nate Willborn and Chief Warrant Officer Amal Ashad, the former, the MI team leader, and the latter, the MI linguist who served under the captain.

I was about halfway through Private Andrea Myers’s performance in the witness chair when Katherine entered the room and fell into the chair across from me.

She wore a shapely black pantsuit, crossed her legs, and asked, “What are your impressions so far?”

Well, she looked great but I saw no need to mention that. “My bed was lumpy.”

“Anything else?”

“Imelda’s coffee hasn’t improved.”

She smiled and seemed to enjoy my complaints. “Imelda was right. You’ve gone soft, Drummond.”

“Can’t you talk your billionaire buddy into throwing in a decent coffeemaker? A maid would be nice.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” She obviously wanted to avoid this subject, though. “I meant, any relevant observations on the case?”

“Tell me what you think.”

She made no reply for a while, then said, “I think the government jumped the gun.”

“You think the evidence is thin?”

“I think the public exposure and outcry forced the army’s hand. They needed to fry somebody, and I think they did a hasty investigation, quickly settled on the lowest ranking members, and now they’re praying they can get some convictions and that satisfies the public’s lust for a hanging.”

Rather than debate this point, I inquired, “What’s the current status of Captain Willborn and Chief Ashad?”

“I know neither has yet been charged with anything, if that’s what you mean. Willborn’s current status is witness for the prosecution. I don’t know Ashad’s status. Only the prison commander, Lieutenant Colonel Paul Eggers, has been punished.”

“How was he punished?”

“Relieved of his command.” She paused, then continued, “I understand that marks an undistinguished end to his career, but it seems fairly trifling compared to the general court martial these soldiers are facing.”

“Is that what you think?”

“For God’s sake, Sean, he still gets his military pension. He goes home to his wife and kids, and in a year, nobody remembers he was ever involved in this disgrace. The enlisted types face life in prison.”

I pointed out, very reasonably, “He wasn’t accused of murdering anybody.”

“Maybe he should have been.”

“He didn’t directly engage in torture, did not strip, did not pee in anybody’s face, nor was he stupid enough to have his face circulated in a revolting gallery of photos that give a whole new meaning to the word ‘celebrity.’ ”

She stared at me, and I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Eventually she said, “I want to be sure you have the right mindset for this, Sean.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a creature of the institution. A military lifer. You buy into the whole rank thing and all that comes with it. I think all of you, after enough time in uniform, come to accept certain institutional norms.”