We Were Beautiful Once (30 page)

“What could you see? Could you see other land across the water?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Was it a lake, or was this water flowing?”

“Well, all I can tell you is t'was strictly a backwater. Don't know of any that you have up here. In Georgia we have Clark's Hill. It's a reservoir. And it's all water backed up behind the dam.”

“Mr. Bradshaw, while you were in the Army did you become familiar with map reading?”

“A fair amount,” he replied confidently.

“Can you tell the court what training and experience you had in map reading?”

“Well, I learned as part of my NCO training, early 1950. And I led a small platoon in Korea where you read maps all the time. Orientation and map reading, that's what got us from place to place.”

“Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”

Lindquist waved his hand. “Go ahead.”

Nick handed Bradshaw several 11 x 17 inch sheets of paper. “I'm going to show you some diagrams and ask you if you can identify them for us, please.”

Bradshaw reached into his jacket pocket for a pair of wire rimmed glasses and gingerly placed the temples over his ears before taking the documents and laying them on the small ledge in front of the stand. He leafed through them. A minute passed. He pulled off his glasses.

“You have several maps here, sir.”

Lindquist interrupted, “So that the record will be complete, why don't you have them marked for identification? Then when the witness refers to something, we'll have something in the record that he's referring to.”

Taking the documents from the ledge, Nick asked, “Clerk, can you please mark these separately?”

The clerk stuck small, yellow markers on each of the four sheets.

Nick handed the stack back to Bradshaw. “I'm going to show you Plaintiff's Exhibits B-1, B-2, B-3 and B-4 and ask you if you can identify any or all of these exhibits, please.”

Lindquist interjected himself again. “This is the first time you have seen these, Mr. Bradshaw?”

Bradshaw's sunken eyes turned toward Lindquist. “Yes, sir.”

The witness adjusted his glasses. His head moved over the paper. “Exhibit No. B-1 seems to be.” He paused, ran his hand over the paper to smooth it out flat, “Could be a rough schematic of Camp 13, though I see lots of differences from the way I remember it.”

“How long were you in Camp 13?” Lindquist probed.

“I left spring '52...  possibly changes took place after.”

“What else can you tell us, looking at Exhibit B-1?” asked Nick.

“Well, sir, the camp in Pyoktong had rolling hills like Georgia—was really part of a village cut in two to make the prison.”

With grit from his '59 Dodge embedded deep beneath his yellowed finger nail, Bradshaw pointed. “At the small area here that somebody must've tried scratchin' out...  this might be what we called ‘The Point' where we buried our dead.”

“Can you tell us what that arrow points to?” asked Nick, indicating on the map.

“That would head towards ‘Death Valley' about ten miles north, toward the east coast, the men of the 2nd Infantry named it ‘Death Valley' 'cause they'd lost so many guys there from starvation.”

“Mr. Bradshaw, please hand me B-2.”

Bradshaw leafed through the pile. “This map here looks like B-2 was.”

“The number again, please?” Harris asked.

“I'm sorry, I mean B-2 looks like Camp 13, and there's ‘Death Valley' again and the army escape route down the east coast. But Camp 13 had a, a main road coming down, like it showed on B-1.”

Nick made a mental note of a possible army escape route.

“Can I look at B-1 again?” Bradshaw requested.

“Yes, go ahead,” Nick replied.

The witness pulled up B-1 and handed it to Nick, who held it up for Bradshaw and Lindquist. Harris had to move to see the map. Bradshaw pointed to a strip on the map.

“This was the road that came through the camp and led down to the river. As you came into the camp here, you had the officers' company here.  Right next to the same side of the road you had the sergeants' compound. Across here was the place they took us for brainwashing. Down in this area here they had the colored, which are listed here, but actually it was all Turks.”

Lindquist turned to Nick. “Excuse me, if it's important, Counselor, anybody reading the record will simply see that he testified, ‘Here was so and so,' and they'll never know what the witness pointed to unless you describe it as you go along.”

Nick clarified the record. “Let the record indicate that the witness pointed to the lower left hand corner of Exhibit B-1. He described the middle, the third portion in the lower two quadrants of B-1. And then, finally, the right hand lower half portion of Exhibit B-1.”

Harris walked to the center of the well. “If I can be heard, your Honor? He seems to be testifying from these maps, which are not in evidence. They've been marked for identification, and I'm waiting for an offer, at which time I would object.”

“Mr. Harris has a point, Mr. Castalano.”

Lindquist moved his head around like his neck was stiff. He grabbed it and then looked over in the clerk's direction. “Gentlemen, let's take a five minute recess.”

Nick walked back to Mitch, “The maps are a problem. They have to be authenticated and considered relevant before they're allowed into evidence. The person who drew the maps might verify their authenticity but it might have been anyone, American, Chinese, North Korean... ”  

When court reconvened, Nick continued, “Your Honor, based on the stipulations with Counsel, whatever had appeared in the record before the Army Board for the Correction of Military Records would be considered an official government document and automatically admissible. But, Mr. Harris objects to the court considering new evidence, evidence he claims wasn't provided to the Army when Arthur Girardin first requested the reclassification. We claim that because the government had these maps in the government archives or in some other branch of the huge bureaucracy, the government must be charged with their constructive possession and therefore had imputed knowledge. Our position has been that Girardin wasn't required to collect every document in the government's files.”

Lindquist tracked Harris's moves to the center of the well. Harris parted his suit jacket and put his hands on his hips. “It's not fair to present evidence that Girardin failed to present to the Army Board. This has been our argument for the past year. I don't think they have been made part of the earlier record, your Honor. That's the basis for my objection. They clearly weren't presented to the Board when it entered its decision.”

Lindquist winced. “True, Counsel?”

“Yes, your Honor, but that's not the point... ”

Harris cut Nick off. “Mr. Bradshaw indicated that they might be this and possibly that.  He didn't prepare them. And it looks like because he didn't, he doesn't have personal knowledge.”

“Your Honor, it's because the Army Board for the Classification of Military Records was so deficient in their examination of the facts at the hearing stage that Girardin's rights to due process were violated and that the court should hear the case from the beginning. This is a
de novo
proceeding, as far as we're concerned. So that we can get it on the record, I offer B-1 into evidence as a full exhibit. If Mr. Harris still has an objection, I'd argue that the witness has testified sufficiently, in terms of what this map fairly represents.”

Lindquist twisted his mouth in one direction and the other, finally taking over. “Well, I suppose.  Mr. Bradshaw, do I understand B-1 is, as you testified, a rough sketch? In other words, you aren't vouching for whether it's one inch equals forty feet, or one inch equals sixty feet? Just a rough sketch that you're referring to for the purposes of giving a general picture of what you remember of the location where you were housed and restricted in this prison camp, Prison Camp No. 13?”

“Yes, sir. Rough sketch of Camp No. 13.”

“Mr. Bradshaw, does sketch B-1, depict a reasonable likeness of the layout of Camp Number 13 in October 1951?”

“Sir, this isn't, you know, a contour map. But, yes, generally I'd say this is a map of it. This road here... ”

“What road are you referring to?”

Nick held up the map so Lindquist could see what Bradshaw pointed to. “This one here that says ‘
To Company 2
.'”

“At the extreme left hand of the exhibit, diagonally drawn across the road,
Company 2
. You believe that is in the proper location and place?”

“Yes, sir, generally speaking. It says here, ‘
To NCOs
.'”

Lindquist turned to Harris. “If it were offered solely as a rough sketch, Counselor, would you still object? And he might identify it as actually depicting the layout of the camp as he remembers it, as a rough sketch? Would you still have the same objection?”

Harris lowered his voice an octave, “No, your Honor, but I strongly reaffirm that it was never before the Board. So what is its relevancy to this proceeding, which is limited to a review of what was in front of the Board?”

Lindquist responded, “I don't know either. However, I presume Counsel must have some reason. Counselor?”

“Several bases, your Honor. Number one, some maps were provided by Admiral Sturgen. It is our opinion...  ” Nick trailed off in his response.

“By whom?” Lindquist snapped.

“Art Girardin at the very beginning of his investigative efforts obtained them from Admiral Sturgen. That puts them in the hands of the Government.”

 Harris countered. “No, your Honor, that puts them in the hands of the UN Armistice Commission, which isn't the Government or the Army Board.”

Nick responded sarcastically. “He was an admiral in the U.S. Navy, for God's sake.”

Harris shot back. “Serving with the U.N.! I've been trying to make this point.”

“Gentlemen, let's calm down.” Lindquist's dizziness returned. His stroked the lump on his neck which began to throb persistently. “Technically you're correct, Mr. Harris.” Lindquist ran his hands over his scalp. “Look, we're in an unusual situation. Mr. Castalano, you started to state your claim. It was in possession of the admiral. For what purpose?”

That Nick did not know. “Your Honor, the maps are relevant because, through the Swiss emissary, we used them to communicate with the North Koreans, when I asked them if they might find Roger Girardin's remains. Their response was a little unclear, but it was taken as indicating that they weren't going to help.”

Beads of sweat formed on Lindquist's forehead. “So what, what does that have to do with relevancy, Counselor?”

Nick felt part of the case hadn't yet fully revealed itself; for instance, why did map B-2 have a route leading away from the POW camp with hexagon symbols marked along the way?  

“One, this witness will testify that he observed Roger Girardin at some point in time. It may help the Court in having some understanding as to where he saw him, because he did see him on several occasions around the camp.”

After nearly forty-five minutes wrangling, Lindquist thought he had heard the clearest statement on the usefulness of the maps, but it was also when the room began to spin. He brought his hand to his head until it stopped. “I'm inclined to let the maps in because it adds some tangibility to something that happened so long ago. All right. For the purpose of it being a rough sketch or a schematic of Camp 13 in 1951, identified as such by the witness, although he did not create or make it, it might help the Court to understand where the witness saw certain things.”

Lindquist turned to Harris. “You've been awfully quiet. Any objection?”

“Your Honor, I do think that they will prove to be superfluous. Exception.”

“Exception noted, the Court will allow it, then. Exhibit B-1, a full exhibit.”

Lindquist pressed against his neck, “Counsel, can you find an easel to put the maps on, so that we can all see what the witness is referring to. You know, in fact, this would be a good place to stop.”

Suddenly, as if catapulted by some demonic force, Lindquist jumped up from his seat and hollered, “What are we watching?”

The exclamation reverberated off every wall, the crowd watched in horror, stunned as the judge scanned the room side-to-side in a spellbound state. Had the judge lost his mind?  In the next second, Lindquist fell to the floor behind the bench. A woman in the back of the courtroom screamed. The stenographer jumped overturning the transcription machine.

“Oh my God!” A reporter yelled, “Call an ambulance.”

Lindquist's secretary Alice opened the door behind the bench to see the judge's body sprawled. Picolillo, having seen hundreds of boxers knocked out with their eyes wide open, knew the judge was in another world, one of seizure, clenched teeth and dilated eyes bulging out of their sockets. He turned the judge onto his back and started compression, two times each second. Mitch, who had put in hours as a lifeguard at the local pool, tried to find a pulse. Alice, seeing the whites of his eyes turn crimson, repeated, “Oh no, oh no... ” Ten minutes later, paramedics had pushed their way through the crowd, finding their patient spread-eagled—a clerk, two robed judges and a stenographer hovering covetously.

 

 

NICK FELT THAT THE DAY HAD SUCCEEDED in one respect: beating him to a pulp.
The administrative judge suspended trial indefinitely pending Lindquist's return
—
if he returned
—
so Nick had no way of knowing how much downtime there would be.  At least a few weeks, judging from the fiasco that had gripped the courtroom.
That night he went home feeling moody. Diane, in a flowered house dress, her long blond ponytail draping the nape of her neck, went unnoticed. When he told her about Lindquist's collapse, the pressure of getting the maps in, she understood. But Nick's funk did not end with the events in court that day.  It had occurred to him that his law practice was in limbo for the foreseeable future. This grand plan to switch to representing veterans wasn't working out as expected.