We Were Beautiful Once (35 page)

“Sir, isn't it true that you were accused by the local district attorney, in your state of Georgia some years ago for holding yourself out as a physician of sorts?”

“Most of that was made up by him.”

“You ran an ad in your local paper, claiming you could cure rheumatoid arthritis, true?”

“Yes, sir, but that was 20 years ago, and—”

“Sir, the local district attorney had you investigated.”

“Yes, I think that I'd told him I had these cures I learned from my grandmother.”

Harris scored. “I have no further questions of this witness.”

Nick, slightly stunned, stood up. “Your Honor, the witness is free to go.”  

Lindquist announced that trial was being recessed until the following Wednesday because of an unplanned appointment. What he did not disclose was that the appointment was at the Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center.

 

As the crowd was leaving the courtroom for the day, Nick turned to Art Girardin. “Despite Harris's shots at Bradshaw, I believe that based on Bradshaw's testimony and the reports from the '53 Panmunjom interrogations, we've proven that Roger was a POW.”

“Yeah, but what about Jaeger?”

“Okay, contradictory, and the judge has to decide between Bradshaw and Jaeger. They each have their problems.”

“And O'Conner, what about him?” Art asked, skeptically.

“His testimony proved nothing, tangential maybe, to indicate a larger context to the story,” Nick attested, though inwardly he felt something had been “off” in the witness's testimony.

“You saying we should stop now? Is that it? But, what about my brother?” Art asked pointedly, his large, beefy face noticeably red as he leaned forward, both paws on the table.

Nick came back forcefully. “We've been through this before, Art. My aim, if you recall, was not to solve the mystery of your brother's fate, or why the goddamn government wouldn't acknowledge he was a POW. This suit only considered the narrow issue of whether Roger was a POW, period.”

“So what you are telling me is you want to throw in the towel,” Art badgered.

“I'm saying we can rest at this point, because I think that on the strength of Bradshaw's testimony we have your brother in Camp 13.”  

“Yeah, technically, you're right.  But what happened, Nick? Don't you want to know? We're talking about a person, a human being! My brother. Could have been
your
brother, anybody's brother. What the hell happened?” Art searched Nick's face.  

Nick knew Art was right, but he also knew that Art was unaware of what was going on behind the scenes. Even Nick knew that he himself did not know the half of it. He was just beginning to realize how far the government was willing to go to make sure some secrets stayed that way. And did Mitch's discovery about the symbols mean Hamilton Helicopters was involved, too?

“Art, we have gone over this before. How far do we take this?”

“Nick, if there is one iota of a chance in finding out what happened, now's the time,” Art implored.

“Yes, but at what cost? The money long since ran out.”

“That's the difference between this case and the Agent Orange ones, huh? As long as you got paid you worked until you made sure those guys were completely screwed.”

“Goddamn it, Art, I resent that. I've given you one-hundred percent, pay or no pay. And what I did for the VA is no business of yours.”

 Art now sounded apologetic. “You're right, Nick.  I'm sorry, you didn't deserve that. But if we can collect from the government back pay or whatever, it's yours. I'll pay what I owe, and sign whatever you want. I promise, you got my word. I just want an answer.”

Nick conceded that they were as close as they were ever going to get to discovering what happened to Roger—and hundreds of other soldiers like him—but he needed time to weigh up his next move. He was flat broke. “Let me think about it.”

 

 

WHEN NICK ARRIVED IN COURT AT 9:50 ON TUESDAY morning, Mitch was waiting for him beside Art Girardin. “Someone left you this on the table.” Mitch slid an envelope across the table:
For Attorney Castalano only
.

Nick wedged his finger under the lip of the envelope. Inside, a packet of black and white photos were tied together with an elastic band. He vaguely heard Mitch say something about similarities and topologies and something that sounded like glop, but his attention was focused on the photos. The first was of Nick lying on his back, his shirt unbuttoned, with Rachel, naked, porcelain body, one arm lying on his hairy chest, white leg over his, looking like what he imagined she would look like naked: not a day older than sixteen. There was no need to see the others.

At precisely 10 a.m., the marshal shouted, “All rise. Court's back in session.”

Nick slid the photo back into the envelope, looked over towards Harris, who refused to look him in the eye.  He had no choice but to collect himself and proceed.  Lindquist stood in the doorway behind the bench, looking exhausted. “Please be seated.” His eyes fell on Nick and Harris.

“Gentlemen, Judge Fox had an unexpected emergency this morning, and I have agreed to take over his motion docket for the next day or so. I will ask that these proceedings be... ” Nick hardly heard Lindquist because the blackmail was absorbing his concentration. Nick hurried out of the courtroom to the pay phone. “Seymour, Nick. Yes, fine, fine. I need to talk to you real quick, in person. Can we meet at five, say on the park bench in front of the Elias Howe monument at Seaside Park? Ok, good. Well, I need some help, and you're probably the only guy...  yes, has to do with the trial.”

 

 

LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, NICK MET SEYMOUR on a park bench adjacent to the ocean seawall.  Over the sound of crashing waves, Nick thanked Seymour for the impromptu meeting.

“To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure, Nick?”

“I'm in a jam, Seymour. Looks like someone got annoyed when I subpoenaed Trent Hamilton.”

He handed Seymour the envelope of photos of Rachel and Nick. “Little present waiting for me.”

As Seymour fumbled open the envelope, he asked, “Wonder why they're so goddamned concerned about this guy testifying?”

“I think it's because he might run for governor, and they don't want him exposed to anything that'll screw up his chances.”

“I see,” said Seymour, as he rifled through the pictures. He smirked. “Lovely as I remember her, or rather, imagined her.”

Nick grimaced, “You think it's funny, and I'm having nightmares.”

Freedman took a long drag on a shrinking Lucky, puckered his lips and smiled wryly.

“You know, there's probably not one clean defense contractor in these United States.    Every one of them has something buried. Hamilton could prove to be the exception, but I doubt it. Hell, recently they clipped Whitlsey Jet Engines for sending engineering drawings to Japan without clearing them through U.S. Export. Didn't get an export license. Not even the Reds. Deep shit. It doesn't take much to step in it.”

“You know, I was about to rest my case. I've taken this as far as I need to prove Girardin was a POW. But you know what? I'm pissed. Fucking pissed. And that they would go this far tells me there's something real big at stake here. How quick can you turn the screws?”

“How about I start cranking tonight?”

Nick was surprised by Seymour's enthusiasm. “Tell me what I owe you for this.”

“The Korea connection is the best thing that's happened to me since I left government. You owe me
nada
.”

“Then tuck in your shirt, and zip up your fly, for God's sake. What'll people think?”

Freedman smiled, stepped on his cigarette butt, stuffed in his shirt and fixed his pants.

***

That night Nick went home, and as had become routine, he could not sleep. Listening to Diane sleeping, he played out the possibilities. What if the photos were made public? How would he explain to Diane?  Over and again without discovering a new way out, until he began to doze. He remembered when Jamie had got lost on a field trip to the Grand Canyon the year before. As Nick fell into a deep sleep, Jamie appeared walking the floor of a canyon of maze-like wonder, a three dimensional world with circuitous trails leading to more trails folding back on its mysterious geometric beauty that had turned deadly. Together, they walked on one of a thousand switchbacks in a desert of brown dust and an ruby sun hanging high in the western sky. A buzzard screaming, “Jack, Mac,” flew over vertical crimson cliffs winding for miles from where they saw thousands of marching troops. Hexagons on an unfolding map, a river, that snaked into a blind canyon, wooing them into the canyon's umbilicus, penetrating her inner parts. Nick, his mouth cotton-dry, tried desperately to call out to his son, warn him of thousand-foot falls, of minefields, of errant slips, of one's fragile mortality, but each step sank deeper into a sandy earth, and the boy vanished, lost. The night skies twisted beneath a spiraled path in an endlessly alien world, until, finally, step by step, he reached a rim and Jamie turned and smiled, and the sun's rays showered Nick, himself prostrate as if praying to some pantheistic god.
 

 

 

 

Upended
 

 

 

IN THE SHORT TIME SEYMOUR WAS ON THE CASE for the Koreans, they were beholden: he'd managed to pry open doors in Washington that had been shut tight by their indiscretions, both “export and sexport” as he put it. “You don't work in D.C. for a score of years without knowing where the bodies are buried,” he told Nick when they met at Zorba's. “Now let's step back and see where Harris is going with these photos of yours. First of all, somebody out there doesn't want Hamilton testifying—probably the man himself.”

Nick interrupted, “And so... ”

“Let me finish.  If you don't call off the dogs, they're dropping the dime over the photos. You need to tell them what you know, and what you're willing to bury if they back off.”

“Well, what do we know that will get them to do that?”

“Not a lot, but remember: like blindfolded chess, they don't know how the pieces are arranged on your side. We can bluff our way out.”

“Don't keep me in suspense. What the hell'd you find out?”

“Big man Hamilton makes two or three trips a year to India. According to the export records, Hamilton Helicopters uses Mitchell Exporters out of Brooklyn to ship parts to Calcutta, which through an importer are delivered to Crawford, Singh and Sons. Assumption one, Hamilton sees Crawford when he's in India.”

“Not enough there,” Nick said.

“No, you're right, but my contact—none other than Colonel Park—tells me Crawford, Singh and Sons is a PRC front.” A Cheshire cat smile crossed Seymour's face.

“Un-fucking-believable! Hamilton's selling to the Reds?!” Nick could hardly contain his excitement. “Who's Crawford? I mean, who're the principles?”

 “Only thing we know is the guy that interfaces with the Chinese is out of Hong Kong, Cho Tat Wah.”

“Who?” Nick could not believe he had heard correctly.

Seymour  was ready. “Not who.
Wah
. Yup, rings a bell, doesn't it? Cho Tat Wah.”

“Wow.” Nick was flabbergasted. “Shit, Hamilton's in bed with Cho, commandant of Camp 13.” When he had recovered his composure, he asked, “And after this, there's a ‘second of all?' You said, ‘first of all.'”

“Oh yeah, right,” Seymour responded.  “Second of all, don't think this is just about protecting Trent Hamilton's political ambitions.”

Nick grimaced, “What're you saying, Seymour?”

“Think, Nick. Who risks most if it comes to light that Trent Hamilton has been cozy with Cho Tat Wah?”

“You mean since Camp 13?”

“Oh, that may have been the root, but no, I mean when Hamilton and Cho Tat Wah linked up in the late 60s, these despicable bastards needed a confederate right here in the good ole U.S. of A.—someone who knew how to turn the crank to make the wheels go round. Things don't happen like this unless all the parts are engaged. All at a price, I'm sure.”

“Have anyone in mind?” Nick asked.

“Not a clue...  yet.”  

Nick sat back, the enormity was beginning to sink in.

Freedman lit up a cigarette. His eyebrows moved nervously. “Nick, here's what I suggest. You call Harris, tell him you want to meet. Only the two of you. Do it off-campus. The coffee shop next to the courthouse. Get close to him. Whisper in his fucking ear. You tell him that you're about to subpoena records from Mitchell Exporters that will trace parts to Crawford. Since he knows you were in Korea, you tell him that you got a witness at the highest level of the Korean government that will testify or supply an affidavit that Crawford's a Chinese military front.”

Nick thought he saw the flaw in the strategy. “Yeah, but if I were to try and get into this at trial, he would have objected on relevancy grounds.  It's collateral...  presuming, of course, Hamilton would deny the connection between HH and Crawford. Harris'd know this.”

Seymour blew smoke in Nick's face. “Nick, you're missing the goddamn point. These guys can't risk it. The downside's fucking explosive. I know this is BS, but he can't take that chance. If they went through the trouble of tracking you down in Korea, they know you met with the ROK, they know I was there for Christ's sake. They know who I am. They're not going to risk it.”

He took a deep drag. “They know that they better not miscalculate what we can do.”

“Yeah, I suppose you're right.” Nick shook his head slowly.

“Even if you couldn't get it in at trial, they'd be afraid of
someone
raising the matter before the Commerce Department. The last time I checked, Red China's still on the “
Commerce Control List
” as a country that requires a license. And for military use parts?  Well, there're no such licenses I know of. This ain't a case of being de-listed at the defense department, it's jail time, espionage, all that shit.” Freedman scripted it like he was screenwriting for a James Bond movie.