Wrongful Death (33 page)

“You need ammunition,” Ferguson insisted.

“One to get me there.” Ford held up the second magazine. “One to get me back. If I don’t make it, I won’t need a third. You might.” He tapped Thomas on the shoulder and shouted into his ear. “I want you trained on those windows. Three-round bursts.”

DT nodded.

Ferguson stepped in front of him. “James—”

“We don’t have time to argue. Butch, get your ass up here!” Cassidy slid forward. “Either DT or Fergie runs out of ammo, you take their sector while they reload. You got that? I want sustained suppression on that building.”

Cassidy nodded. His nostrils flared. “Fuck it. Time to get me some Hajji.”

Ford tapped him on the helmet. “Good boy. Just don’t shoot me in the ass.”

Ferguson retook his position behind the big gun as Ford spoke into his handheld. “Captain, hang on. I’m coming to get you.”

“No,” Kessler responded, emphatic. “Ford, that is not approved. Have Fergie send up a flare and get everyone out.”

Ford dropped the handheld into the dirt with the captain still talking. “Ford? Ford?”

He released the bolt on the M16, hit the forward assist, and slid the selector to automatic. “When I get back with the captain, get behind that wall and get your heads down.” He paused, looking each man in the eye. “Then we’re going to go home. Do you hear me? All of us, we’re all going home.”

At the doorway he looked back to Fergie. “On my call.”

He took a breath, closed his eyes, and lifted the crucifix to his lips. “Dear Jesus,” he said. “My lord and my savior.” Then he tucked the cru
cifix safely back beneath his uniform, turned back to Fergie, and drew in a deep breath. “Go!”

The roar of gunfire deafened all other sound. Purple and green tracers crisscrossed the insurgents’ red. Though Ford knew it best to zigzag, there wasn’t time. He ran in a straight line, bulling his way forward, head down. Halfway across the circle he pulled back the trigger and unleashed three-round bursts. When he neared the building he threw his body down beside Kessler, rolled onto his back, pulled out the empty magazine, and slammed the second in place.

Kessler had his head up, firing his weapon, the rounds pinging off rusted metal drums inside the building. “Ford, I gave you an order,” he said, but for the first time in the seven months Ford had served under the captain, he saw fear in the man’s eyes.

“Sorry, Captain. Radio must not be working. Time to get you out of here. Can you stand?”

Kessler shook his head. “I can’t feel my legs, James.”

“Don’t you worry, Captain. I’m going to be your legs. But we have to go now. Air strike is on its way.”

“Who called in an air strike?”

“Don’t know, but it’s coming in hot.”

An insurgent jumped out from behind a barrel, hell-bent on seeing Allah. Ford shot the man twice in the chest, knocking him backward, but not down. He was set to fire another burst when a tracer passed overhead and dropped the insurgent. Ford looked back. Cassidy gave him a thumbs-up. Other insurgents also crept forward, using the drums as cover. Ford pulled a grenade from his vest, tore at the electrical tape holding down the spoon, pulled the pin, and hurled it inside the building. The explosion sent drums airborne. One exploded.

Using the diversion, he scrambled to his feet and lifted Kessler onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, setting his feet beneath him. Another explosion erupted behind him, and he allowed the force to push him forward, the M16 in his right hand.

Across the courtyard Ferguson and Thomas continued to lay down a firestorm of suppression fire. Cassidy beckoned to him from the hole in the wall, the young man’s mouth open, silently urging him on.

Kessler moaned with each step, his body bouncing on Ford’s shoulders. The tracers continued to light up the courtyard, but Ford shut out everything around him, focusing only on the building, on going home.

“You take us with you, James Ford,” his wife whispered in his ear. “And you bring us all home with you.”

He pressed on, one step after the next, then felt as if his body had suddenly burst into flames. He took one more step, and half of another before pain buckled his legs. He collapsed to his knees, breathing heavily, struggling to remain upright, the captain still across his shoulders. A searing heat filled his chest and enveloped his limbs.

Across the circle, Fergie, DT, and Butch screamed in silence, waving for him to get up, to keep moving, to make it back to the building so they could all go home. That’s what he had promised. He had promised to bring back the captain, and when he did, they would all go home.

Ford rose to one knee, but his body betrayed him. Turning his shoulders, he gently slid the captain down his back onto the ground. Kessler’s weight rotated Ford’s upper torso, pulling him down also, the back of his helmet coming to rest atop the captain’s body armor. He gazed up at the Iraqi sky and saw flickering shimmers of light, feeling at peace, and struck by the thought that he could not distinguish the starry sky from the one above his own backyard. How little he knew about this country or its people. So much history, he thought, thousands of years before the United States had ever become a nation. And he knew nothing about it.

The fire in his chest no longer burned, replaced now by a numbing cold. Ford removed his helmet. His hands shook as he slid the photograph from the envelope. He laid eyes on his wife and children, hearing her soft voice whispering again in his ear.

“Let us bring you back home.”

Hands gripped him about the shoulders. Ford looked up from the pho
tograph. Fergie stood above him, his face straining as he struggled to drag Ford and the captain across the ground to the building. Ford wanted to tell him it was all right. He wanted to tell Fergie that he could let go. But no words came, and the sky descended like a shroud just before everything disappeared in a brilliant burst of light. And at that moment James Ford smelled it, the sweet fragrance of his wife and children. He inhaled deeply, breathing in their beauty, allowing them to carry him home.

“YOUR FATHER SAVED
my life,” Kessler said, openly weeping. “He got me home. I’m so sorry I couldn’t bring him with me. I’m so very sorry.”

MAPLE VALLEY, WASHINGTON

T
his time Charles Jenkins did not stop to watch the cinder-block building from a distance. He didn’t care who was inside. He parked beneath the faded sign next to the brown truck and walked through the double-wide entrance. The pit bull sat up from her place beside the plywood counter, but did not bark or lunge at him. In fact, she cocked her head slightly as if to ask, Don’t I know you?

“Can I help you?” Chuck Kroeger’s son sat with his boots propped on the counter, a cigarette between his lips, a baseball cap perched on the back of his head.

“Mr. Johnson?” Kroeger senior emerged from the back of the building with an outstretched hand. “You finally back to get that house painted? Been a couple weeks, hasn’t it?”

Jenkins shook his head. “Actually, Mr. Kroeger, I don’t own any house, and I don’t need a painter.”

Kroeger’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. Who are you?”

“I’m just a guy who hates to see an animal mistreated.” Jen
kins directed the comment to the dull young man sitting at the counter.

“Come again?” Kroeger asked, looking to his son.

“The dog,” Jenkins said to the son. “I came for your dog.”

The young man lowered his legs. “Like fuck you did.”

“Let me ask you something,” Jenkins said, “because I’m always curious. Why bother? You don’t feed her. You mistreat her. You obviously don’t give a lick about her. Why keep her at all?”

Chuck Kroeger looked to Jenkins, then back to his son. A good sign it was a legitimate question.

“I keep her ’cause she’s mine,” the son said, defiant. “That’s why. So why don’t you take a walk.”

Jenkins knew the kid was just talking brave; his body language wasn’t backing him up. He twitched and avoided eye contact. “You know what I think? I think you keep her for security. You know, to guard something.”

Chuck Kroeger stepped forward, palms raised. “Listen, mister, I can guarantee you that dog does not guard this building. I don’t even like having it around here. So if it bit somebody or something, I don’t have any liability here. This isn’t my problem.”

“I know that.” Jenkins kept his gaze on the boy. “And I’m not here to cause you any trouble. Your son knows what I’m talking about. Don’t you?”

The boy shook his head, but the panic in his eyes and stutter in his voice again betrayed him. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. That little operation you and Michael Cassidy had going in that trailer in the mountains.”

“What is he talking about, Lloyd?” Chuck Kroeger asked.

The boy looked to his father. Then he turned to Jenkins. “Cassidy is dead.”

“I know that too,” Jenkins said. “He blew himself up in that
trailer according to the news article. Except the coroner has since said an autopsy revealed he had a bullet hole in his skull, which likely makes it a homicide. You were his business partner. I’m sure the police would like to talk to you in detail about that relationship.”

The boy dropped his legs and shot forward. “I didn’t have nothing to do with that.”

“Lloyd, what the hell is he talking about?”

“Maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t.” Jenkins held out the leash he’d brought. “Like I said, I just came for the dog.”

Lloyd Kroeger hesitated, thinking through his options, of which he had none. He tossed his cigarette and snatched the leash from Jenkins’s hand. “Fine. Take the bitch. What do I care? You’re right; I don’t even like the damn dog.” He snapped the leash on the ring of the dog’s collar and threw it back at Jenkins.

Jenkins gently coaxed the dog outside. Behind him he heard Charles Kroeger and his son begin what Jenkins assumed would be a protracted and heated conversation.

Though he had brought a muzzle, Jenkins didn’t think he’d need it. The dog wasn’t mean. She was scared. Still, he had expected her to at least put up a struggle, to be recalcitrant. She was neither. She padded forward without prodding, head low.

Jenkins opened the door to the Buick. It had cost a small fortune to get it cleaned and to get the engine running again, but some things you just didn’t throw away. He coaxed the dog in the driver’s door. She jumped up and padded across to the passenger seat, and sat on her haunches, watching him.

Jenkins slid in, closed the door, and backed out of the driveway. “You’ll be the third woman in the house,” he said. “Alex runs the show, but really the one you’ll need to win over is Sam. She can be aloof when you first get to know her, and I imagine she’ll be a bit jealous, but she’ll come around.”

The dog circled on the seat, then lay down and lowered her head to her paws, looking up at him with the same sad brown eyes Sam used to get what she wanted.

“Oh, boy,” Jenkins said. “You’re going to get me in a lot of trouble too, aren’t you?”

THREE TREE POINT, WASHINGTON

SLOANE WALKED THROUGH
the side door and hooked his keys on Larry Bird. Bud, like clockwork, jumped onto the counter, purring. Sloane picked him up and cradled him as he walked through the kitchen.

“Anyone home?”

“Out here.”

Tina knelt on the lawn outside the other door off the kitchen. Sloane pushed through the screen and walked to her. She had a shovel in her hand and several plants in plastic containers at her feet, lined up to be planted.

“Rhododendrons,” Sloane said, putting Bud down.

“Can you help me dig a couple of holes?”

He kissed her and took the shovel, driving the spade into the ground with the heel of his shoe. In the intervening month since the assault on Argus, Tina and Jake were continuing to recover. Neither liked being in the house without him, so Sloane had been working more from his home office. Jake had nightmares, and would awake screaming, but the last one had been four nights before, and the trauma not as intense. What bothered Sloane the most was the knowledge that he could not make the dreams stop, that he couldn’t push the rewind button and change the past.

Life was about coping in the present.

“Did you get everything done?” she asked.

“We’ll find out tomorrow,” he said in between jabs with the shovel.

Articles about Argus and Houghton Park had filled the local and national newspapers, and nightly news. The Tacoma Police Department and the U.S. Justice Department had each executed search warrants on the company, seizing documents that, as Kessler predicted, proved to be a veritable gold mine of information. Argus had covered its tracks well, using a maze of subsidiaries and illegal couriers to transport chemicals into Iraq through Jordan, Syria, and other Middle Eastern countries. It would make the task of tracing the end users more difficult, but not impossible. Sloane knew. He had been working closely with the Department of Justice.

As Kessler had also predicted, in a heavily regulated industry, Argus had been required to account for every ounce of every chemical it produced. With the help of Argus’s accountants and shipping personnel, granted immunity from prosecution, the Justice Department was confident it would ultimately get it all sorted out.

Defense Secretary Frederick Northrup had come under heavy fire for his involvement with the company. Many of the illegal shipments had taken place during his watch as Argus company president. Northrup had declined to comment, and his lawyers were predictably saying the defense secretary had no knowledge of the activities, but the pressure on Northrup to make a statement built daily.

Sloane had re-filed the complaint on behalf of Beverly Ford and her children. This time it did not lack for allegations. A sixty-six-page tome, he had written it with a lot of help from Ken Mills, who had become a nightly fixture on CNN, Fox News,
Larry King
, and other nationally syndicated shows. In it Sloane had detailed Argus’s illegal shipments, as well as allegations of a conspiracy involving
Northrup, Houghton Park, Colonel Bo Griffin, and unnamed others, to conceal those shipments, and to murder national guardsmen James Ford, Phillip Ferguson, Michael Cassidy, and Dwayne Thomas. Sloane alleged that on the night James Ford was killed, Argus had paid an as-yet-undetermined sum of money to Griffin to send a false radio transmission that ultimately led Kessler and his squad into an ambush. The transmission’s purpose had been to target a building filled with some of the illegally shipped Argus chemicals, as well as Iraqi records documenting those shipments. Sloane argued that, under the circumstances, Ford had not been acting incident to his service at the time of his death, since the order had been illegal and had no military objective.

The government had again responded with a motion to dismiss, and the hearing was set for the morning. It promised to produce still more fireworks.

Sloane built up a sweat digging the holes and helping to plant the rhododendrons, then put down the shovel and grabbed the hose to water them.

“This time next spring they’ll be in full bloom,” Tina said, gathering the plastic containers and her gardening tools. “I’ll finish here. You grab Jake. I’ll get dinner going.”

He kissed her, shut off the hose, and walked down to the beach. Jake had stayed closer to the house since his experience with Mr. Williams and remained leery of strangers. To Sloane it was sad that kids had to initially fear an adult, and that Jake had a better reason to do so than most.

“How are they biting, Hemingway?”

Jake smiled halfheartedly. “Nothing yet.” He cast out and waited for the lure to plunk into the water before clicking over the reel. “Mom says you have a big motion tomorrow. Are you going to be on the news again?”

“I don’t know.” Sloane smiled. “Probably.”

“Cool.”

“Your mom’s getting dinner ready. Better reel in.”

Jake began to reel. The top of his pole suddenly yanked forward, jerking him a step toward the water as the line on his reel whizzed. The big fish had struck quickly and was now running with the bait.

“I have one,” Jake yelled, eyes wide in disbelief. “Dad, I have one.”

Sloane smiled. “Play with him, son. Be patient. Let him tire himself out.”

U.S. DISTRICT COURT
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

JUDGE JO NATALE
looked down from her seat behind the bench.

“Mr. Sloane, you’re back.”

Natale spoke as if Sloane had simply stepped out of line at a bank and returned to make a deposit, seeming to ignore the overflow crowd in her gallery that included local and national news media, law enforcement, and attorneys from the Justice Department in Washington, D.C.

“I am, Your Honor,” Sloane responded, “and I’ve brought co-counsel.”

The man to Sloane’s right introduced himself in a deep baritone voice. “John Kannin, also appearing on behalf of the plaintiffs.”

When Sloane called to ask for Kannin’s assistance, he’d laughed. “I told you to kick up some dust,” he’d said, “not create a tornado.”

Beverly Ford sat between them at counsel table, Lucas and
his three siblings in the first pew behind them. Sloane introduced them.

Tom Pendergrass again stood at the table perpendicular to Sloane, wearing his dress-green uniform. This time he was far from alone. Although Rachel Keane had opted not to sit at counsel table, she sat in the pew behind the railing, and a chorus line of blue suits two rows deep stood next to Pendergrass. Lawyers from national law firms stated their appearances on behalf of Colonel Bo Griffin, Argus International, Houghton Park, and a number of other current and former Argus executives, including Northrup.

When the attorneys had finished, Natale looked to Sloane. “I’ve read your amended complaint, as well as the government’s motion to dismiss, joined and supplemented by each defendant. Does the government wish to provide any further evidence?”

Pendergrass had attached the four witness statements to his motion to dismiss. One of the designated blue suits stood and objected that the introduction of the statements was improper. The others joined.

Pendergrass looked chagrined. “Your Honor, I am perplexed by my colleagues’ objections. The statements are already a part of the court record. Besides, they unequivocally state that Mr. Ford was killed incident to his service, while engaged in a military exercise. They prove there is no basis for Mr. Sloane’s fantastical allegations of a civilian conspiracy.”

Although the blue suits vehemently objected that the admission of the additional information was improper, Sloane knew, and he suspected Judge Natale did also, that their real concern was not the witness statements, but the smoking gun Sloane was prepared to use: the taped confession of Colonel Bo Griffin that the statements were false.

Judge Natale listened to their objections before turning to
Sloane. “The real prejudice would be to you, Mr. Sloane. Do you object to the admission of these statements?”

“I do not, Your Honor, so long as the government will indulge me the same courtesy.”

Pendergrass looked to the bench. “The government has no objection.”

Again the blue suits objected. Again Judge Natale overruled them.

“Mr. Sloane, how many witnesses do you intend to call?” Natale asked.

“Two, Your Honor. We anticipate the testimony of the first witness to be lengthy. The second witness we don’t anticipate will take much time at all.”

“Very well, call your first witness.”

“Plaintiffs call Captain Robert Kessler.”

Every head in the room turned as the courtroom doors opened and Kessler wheeled himself down the aisle in full-dress uniform, the medals on his chest glistening. Jenkins and Alex, who had been protecting Kessler and his family, slipped silently into the room behind him.

The intervening weeks since Kessler had gone to the newspapers as an Argus whistle-blower looked to have taken its toll on him physically. Thin through the cheeks and neck, he had dark circles beneath his eyes, indicating he had not slept much. The Justice Department and FBI had subpoenaed him to testify before a grand jury, and Congress, too, had indicated it would subpoena him to appear at hearings. Sloane had agreed to represent him.

With Kessler positioned at the witness stand, Sloane moved to the podium and gently walked him through his background. Then he asked Kessler about the admissions made to him by Griffin. Concluding, Sloane asked, “Captain Kessler, these are rather incredible statements. Do you have anything to support your allegations that Colonel Griffin made them?”