The Trials (The Red Trilogy Book 2) (9 page)

Behind the bench, the judge is standing up, her expression furious. “No one leaves this room without my permission!” A squad of MPs pours in. She gestures at their sergeant. “Secure the public door. Assign someone to guard the witness.” Then she turns to the officers in the jury box. All of them are on their feet. “Members of the court, you will form a perimeter around the spectators. See that everyone remains in their seat until they can be searched and interviewed.” Master Sergeant Chudhuri appears fully rigged at the side entrance, catching the judge’s angry eye. “Master Sergeant! You are the prisoner detail?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Ensure there is a perimeter guard, and then return the defendants to holding.”

So we leave. I catch my dad’s eye before we file out. He’s furious with the MPs yelling, telling everybody to remain seated, to be quiet—“No talking!”—and to put their hands on their heads. But he nods at me and mouths,
Be careful
.

Then we’re out the back door. Chudhuri doesn’t bother with cuffs. Omer, Vitali, and Phelps fall in around us as we walk fast past the judges’ offices. We get on the elevator and the doors close.

In a voice low with fury Jaynie says, “Goddamn it, Shelley, that bug was aimed at Carl Vanda.” And with a surreal sense of shock, I know she’s right. “They got Sheridan already, and today they came for Vanda. That bug had to be carrying a poison payload. You just fucking saved his life.”

“Quiet in the ranks, Vasquez,” Chudhuri warns.

But there isn’t anything left to say.

•   •   •   •

Am I too paranoid?

A degree of paranoia is a healthy thing, but ever since we returned from First Light, I’ve expected to be murdered . . .
assassinated
might be a better word.

On Sunday, I was sure the president’s visit would be followed by a visit from his special-ops soldiers, but it didn’t happen.

On Monday, I never questioned that the mercenaries who came after us had come to kill me, but I was wrong.

Today, I was certain the toy drone was aimed at me because I’ve come to think of what’s going on around me as
my
story—but there are a lot of stories, there are factions in this drama that I’m not even aware of. One of those factions tried to murder Carl Vanda today. It would have been a public service, but I got in the way.

I wonder that the Red didn’t warn me. It’s not on my side, I know that. And it’s not always present. It’s operating around the world, allocating resources to affect the lives of millions, maybe billions, hooking in at critical moments and then disappearing again.

If the Red had hooked into my head before I reentered the courtroom, if it had given me just a hint, a suggestion to stay the fuck out of the action, then Carl Vanda would be dead now.

But I sensed nothing. It’s been months since the Red was last inside my head, steering me, offering me guidance. All that’s left is the automated nightly upload of my experiences. I’ve been left on my own. I need to accept that it’s going to be that way.

And yeah, when it comes to Carl Vanda, I’m okay with murder. A surviving whisper of conscience tries to make me squirm. It doesn’t work.

•   •   •   •

In the morning, Major Ogawa brings the news that no one was arrested for launching the robo-bug. “No one got into that room without a background check, a full-body scan, and a reason for being there. Afterward, everyone was searched again, and interviewed, but emotional analysis couldn’t pick out a suspect.”

We’re in the cellblock. It’s early, and no one is in their Class A’s yet, but at the major’s request Chudhuri has opened all the cell doors so we can assemble to hear what he has to say.

“So someone planted the device,” I say. “Meaning whoever it was, they knew Vanda would be there, even though he was a last-minute witness.”

Ogawa doesn’t agree with me. “They only had to guess he
might
be there. A microdrone is like a land mine—a cheap
and easy weapon. Even something as complex as the robo-bug couldn’t have cost more than a few thousand dollars in parts. Make it look like a tube of lipstick or an insulin monitor, drop it in someone’s pocket or purse—potentially very effective.”

There’s a derisive snort from Nolan. Harvey chuckles. Jaynie just crosses her arms and glares at me. Sure—the robo-bug might have been effective if I hadn’t gotten in the way.

Moving on to other things, I ask, “Are we on today?”

“Oh nine hundred. Judge Monteiro wants this circus over.”

“And Vanda? Is he going to finish testifying?”

“My guess? We won’t see him again. Fong put him on the stand as a stunt, but it was a mistake. He doesn’t play well with others. But we’ll find out for sure when court’s in session.”

Flynn is still dressed in only shorts and a T-shirt when she stands on her toes to see past Nolan’s shoulder. “When do we get to tell our side?” she asks.

“Friday, if we’re lucky. Otherwise, next week.”

“I fucking want this to be over. I swear I’m going to kill somebody if I don’t get laid.”

•   •   •   •

Ogawa is right. Carl Vanda does not reappear in court, and the judge strikes his prior testimony.

Despite yesterday’s security breach, the spectator seats are full. I don’t see Lissa’s parents, but my dad is there, right behind the defendants’ table. He’s sitting next to a fiftysomething woman who looks like an older, darker-skinned version of Harvey—if Harvey were to put on thirty pounds, grow out her hair, and style it in a neat perm. When Harvey nods to her, I know it’s her mother, come down from Pittsburgh.

The morning discussion turns to skullcaps and the neural enhancements of LCS soldiers. Before the weekend, trial counsel was willing to let us argue that the skullcaps interfered with our mental processes to the extent that we could not be held responsible for our actions. That story has changed. Three expert witnesses do their best to portray us as efficient, rational soldiers, fully responsible for the decisions we make. Ogawa asks a few questions on cross, all aimed at enforcing this conclusion.

So by the end of the morning session on day two, we have conceded that we did what we are accused of doing and that we were responsible for our actions.

This has to be the easiest case Major Fong has ever prosecuted.

•   •   •   •

The afternoon is more interesting.

On the witness stand is General Brittney Ahmet, a two-star in the Pentagon’s intelligence hierarchy. She’s tall—over six feet—and rail thin, with steel-gray hair, dark eyes, and a grim expression.

Major Fong presents to the judge a paper document in a plastic sleeve. “Your Honor, the United States moves to enter prosecution exhibit fifty-six for identification into evidence.”

“Prosecution exhibit fifty-six for identification is admitted.”

Fong shows the document to General Ahmet. “Could you tell us what this is?”

“It’s a printed facsimile of a classification report.”

“Could you explain what that means?”

“Yes. When a document is designated as classified national security information, a report is issued indicating the classification level of that document, the reason for classification, and the duration of that status. The report
takes the form of an electronic document, but it can be rendered in hard copy, as in this case.”

“And who prepared this classification report?”

“I did.”

“And what document does this classification report refer to?”

“I cannot name the document or its author in open court, but in a general sense it’s a document describing preliminary findings at Black Cross.”

“According to your classification report, you designated this document as top secret, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why top secret?”

“As stated in the classification report, the document includes facts and information that already carry a top secret classification. In addition, much of the evidence cited in the document is uncorroborated, and may well have been misinterpreted. As I said, this was a preliminary document, and as such it contained extensive errors. I determined that the release of such sensitive misinformation would create a serious security breach.”

“General Ahmet, did you classify this document as top secret to conceal a violation of the law?”

“I did not.”

“Did you classify this document as top secret to prevent embarrassment to a person or organization?”

“No, ma’am, I did not. I classified the document as top secret for reasons of national security, and for those reasons alone.”

Major Ogawa undertakes his cross-examination, polite as always, but he shows no sign of being intimidated by the rank of the witness. “General Ahmet, what led you to conclude the document contained extensive errors?”

“I am not at liberty to talk about that, Major.”

“Did you arrive at this decision on your own, or were you advised that the document contained errors?”

“Again, Major, I am not at liberty to discuss classified matters.”

Major Ogawa turns to the judge. “Your Honor, the role of the chain of command is material to our defense. With all due respect to General Ahmet, the statement that the document ‘contained extensive errors’ is insufficient without some indication of how that conclusion was reached.”

To her credit, Monteiro accepts this argument with a nod. “General Ahmet, please answer Major Ogawa’s question. Were you advised the document contained errors?”

The general scowls. Maybe she’s thinking she doesn’t want to take this all on her own shoulders, because she concedes to Monteiro’s request. “Yes, Your Honor. I was advised of that fact.”

“Thank you, General.”

Ogawa is too smart to gloat. Keeping his expression carefully neutral, he asks, “Who advised you that the document contained extensive errors?”

“I am not at liberty to reveal that.”

Ogawa turns again to the judge. This time Monteiro punts. “I’m not going to compel an answer at this time. You may call the witness again on defense, and we’ll decide at that time if there is sufficient cause to conduct a closed session.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ogawa says. “Thank you, General. No more questions.”

•   •   •   •

“The United States calls Special Agent Eve England.”

I know her name from the witness list: the FBI agent who conducted the initial investigation of Black Cross. She looks to be in her early thirties. The business suit she
wears—charcoal slacks and coat—is fitted perfectly to her lean, athletic figure. She pauses as she enters, her gaze surveying the courtroom, lingering on those of us occupying the defendants’ table. She looks to be of pure European descent, her fair skin lightly freckled and her dark-red hair smoothed and confined in a short ponytail.

Eve England was Kendrick’s contact in the FBI, the agent who warned him that all evidence pointing to Thelma Sheridan had been locked up in a top secret file.

Kendrick knew her. How? Did he use his network of contacts to get in touch with her? Or did he know her already? Was she—
is
she—part of the organization, that network of anonymous conspirators who planned and financed the First Light mission carried out by my squad?

Kendrick told me almost nothing about the organization. I don’t blame him for that. He knew the Red was inside my head and that no secret was safe with me. I wish like hell he were still with us, though. He knew about a hundred times what I know about people, about how power is distributed, about who gives a shit for their oath of office and who’s just playing the power game to climb up over the fallen bodies and get above the blood.

Eve England is a witness for the prosecution. I wonder what Kendrick would have made of that.

•   •   •   •

“Special Agent England,” Major Fong says, “could you please describe your role at Black Cross.”

“I was never at Black Cross, ma’am.” Her voice is low and smooth, each word crisply pronounced. “Army Intelligence did the initial on-scene investigation at Black Cross. My assignment was to inventory the evidence for the FBI case file.”

“And where did you perform this function?”

“At a secure facility outside of San Antonio, ma’am.”

“What sort of evidence did you have access to? That is, what form was this evidence in?”

“The evidence included documents, photos, audio recordings, and video, including video interviews of survivors. Fingerprints. Biological samples of the deceased. Air samples. Weapon inventories—”

“Is it fair to say there was an overwhelming amount of potential evidence collected at Black Cross?”

“No, ma’am. A large amount of evidence was collected, but I would not describe it as overwhelming.”

“What was your relationship with Colonel Steven Kendrick?”

“Colonel Kendrick visited my work site on November fourteenth. He had full security clearance, and I was told by my supervisor to answer his questions. He wanted to hear my interpretation of the events leading up to the nuclear terrorism of November eleventh, based on the evidence I’d been examining. I provided him with a verbal summary, and on November fifteenth, I used a secure connection to transfer to him a preliminary report packaging key digital evidence, interviews, and my conclusions based on the same.”

“Were you aware, Ms. England, that other investigations relating to November eleventh were under way?”

“Yes, ma’am, of course I was aware of this.”

“Was this ‘preliminary report’ you provided to Colonel Kendrick a sufficient explanation of the events leading to November eleventh?”

“Sufficient, ma’am?”

“Sufficient to prove the guilt of the involved parties, Ms. England. Did this report include evidence to prove without doubt the identities and the roles of those who participated in the terrorism of November eleventh, evidence
so profound there was
no
possibility of your conclusions being contraindicated by further evidence that might have come to light by virtue of any of the hundreds of other ongoing investigations?”

England lowers her chin. She leans forward, just a little. “I felt that to be the case, ma’am.”

Eve England does not rattle easily, a fact that has Fong deeply annoyed. She paces a few steps away, then turns and asks, “What is your current status with the FBI?”