by Don Mann
“Grandpa’s on the phone. He wants to know time of the hearing tomorrow.”
“Ten.” He paused the TV, opened the door, and faced Jenny, who had recently added pink streaks to her long fawn-colored hair. He thought it cheapened her but refrained from commenting. At least it wasn’t a tattoo, though she already had at least two of them—a butterfly on her right ankle and what his buddies referred to as a “tramp stamp” on her lower back.
“Grandpa’s coming?” he asked. “Is he sure he wants to do that? Does he need a ride?”
“No, he said he’ll see you at the courthouse.”
Jenny went off to answer her grandfather’s question, and Crocker stood thinking that the trial would be uncomfortable enough without his father’s presence. He’d probably be so focused on the proceedings he wouldn’t notice.
When he looked up, Jenny was standing in the doorway again. “Dad, you gonna be okay tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yeah, yeah. You working tonight?” He wanted to change the subject.
“I’ve got to close up, which means I won’t get out until eleven. After that, Kenna and I are going to stop by a friend’s birthday party. So I’ll be crashing at my place.”
“Okay…” He reminded himself once again that she was eighteen now and semi-independent. “I’ll be in the DC area tomorrow. When will I see you again?”
“Wednesday night, I’m off. It’s two-for-one night at Outback. You wanna go?”
“Sure, honey.” It was her favorite restaurant.
“Cool, Dad.” She kissed him quickly on the cheek and left.
“Be good.”
Sweet kid, he thought. Despite her uninterested manner she knows I’m lonely and is making an effort to spend more time with me, even though she’d rather be with her friends.
Next morning he sat at the defendant’s table in Courtroom C of the Fairfax County Court sweating through his suit as the assistant district attorney read the charges: “Your honor, under the authority entrusted us by the State of Virginia, we believe we have sufficient evidence to prove that the defendant Thomas Michael Crocker is guilty of breaking and entering, and aggravated assault.”
Judge Doris Whitney looked like she was in her late forties, with a helmet of short brown hair and a pretty face. She asked her clerk to read through the police report on the incident. “On the night in question, the defendant, Thomas Michael Crocker, forcefully gained entry to the apartment of Carla Ruiz on 267 Mulberry Drive. Entering the bedroom, the defendant confronted Ms. Ruiz and Bill Atherton, who is a deputy sergeant with the Fairfax County Police Department. Deputy Sergeant Atherton identified himself and asked the defendant to leave the apartment, whereupon the defendant assaulted the police officer with a lamp and proceeded to knock him unconscious. He subsequently assaulted Ms. Ruiz and threatened to kill her.”
“Jesus, Tom,” Crocker’s father whispered behind him. “You lost control.”
Crocker half turned and whispered back, “Quiet, Dad.”
He was confused and annoyed that Captain Sutter’s letter seemed to have had no effect on the judge. His attorney, John Nestor, offered no explanation for the judge’s indifference except to say, “Each judge is different. Some consider mitigating factors like that; some don’t.”
What annoyed Crocker even further was the sight of Carla in a white dress sitting beside his father.
What the fuck is she doing there?
He was trying to remain calm and resist the powerful impulse to throttle Deputy Sergeant Atherton, who sat behind the prosecutor’s table in a freshly pressed uniform, looking like an altar boy.
Judge Whitney turned a stern face to Crocker and asked, “Does the defendant have anything to say before he enters a plea?”
Crocker’s attorney stood. “No, your honor.”
Crocker rose right behind him. “Yes, I do.”
“Proceed, Mr. Crocker.”
Nestor shot him a confused look that didn’t stop him. Crocker’s charcoal-gray suit felt like a straitjacket. “Your honor,” he said, “my father, Mr. William Crocker, seated behind me, is a military veteran and holds the position of commander at his local VFW. Several months before the incident, I had become aware that he was helping out a young Gulf War vet named Carla and her son. Your honor, he was helping them out financially to the tune of over twenty thousand dollars. I became concerned because my father is a man of modest means who basically lives off his military pension. He’s also a very empathetic man, and I suspected that Ms. Ruiz was taking advantage of him.”
The female assistant district attorney stood and asked, “Your honor, can I approach the bench?”
“Let the defendant finish his statement.”
“A day or so before the incident, I learned from my father that he had given Ms. Ruiz an additional ten thousand dollars to attend a private drug rehab facility to kick her dependence to Vicodin and other drugs. My father told me that she was attending the facility at the time. That night I drove by Ms. Ruiz’s apartment and noticed that the lights were on. When I rang the bell, she didn’t answer, despite the fact that I could see her in the apartment through the kitchen window. I saw her in the company of another man. When they left the kitchen, I entered through the open window.”
“You entered her apartment illegally?” the judge asked.
“I did, your honor.”
“You admit that?”
“I do. When I entered Ms. Ruiz’s bedroom, I found her and Officer Atherton sitting on her bed smoking crystal meth.”
“Objection!”
The judge pounded her gavel, then, turning to Crocker, asked, “How did you know it was crystal meth?”
“They were smoking it through a glass meth pipe, and it had that unmistakable smell like oven cleaner or burning plastic.”
“What happened next?”
“Officer Atherton identified himself as a cop and told me to leave immediately. When I didn’t, he assaulted me with his fists. I stepped out of his way, causing him to lose his balance and crash into a wall. While that was happening, Ms. Ruiz reached into a drawer by her bed and produced a pistol. She threatened me with it, and I disarmed her.”
“Did you threaten to kill her, Mr. Crocker?”
“I told her that if she took another penny from my dad under false pretenses, I’d break every bone in her body.”
“So you did.”
Both Crocker’s attorney and the assistant district attorney jumped to their feet and called for the judge’s attention. Just then a man in a shabby gray suit entered from behind them, spoke to one of the court officers, approached the judge, and handed her a document. As the people in the courtroom waited, she unfolded it and read it, then called both attorneys and Crocker into her chambers.
Crocker emerged thirty minutes later. Finding his father sitting on a bench in the hallway looking worried, he said, “Let’s get out of here and get lunch.”
He escorted his father out of the building and down the steps, and his father stopped and asked, “Tom, what happened with the judge?”
“It was pretty straightforward. She handed me a warning and dismissed the charges.”
“Gee, Tom, that’s terrific news.”
A very relieved Crocker opened the passenger door to his pickup and watched his dad climb in. Soon as he settled on the backseat, his father asked, “She dismissed the charges, just like that? No explanation?”
“Apparently Deputy Sergeant Atherton was caught on video this weekend selling meth to an undercover DC police officer,” Crocker answered. “I dodged a bullet.”
“Thank God.”
“From now on you’re not giving any more money to that Carla Ruiz piece of shit, are you?”
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that. I’m still your father.”
“Sorry, Dad. But what were you thinking, sitting with her in court?”
“Carla wants to talk to you. She feels badly.”
“I bet she does.”
As soon as Crocker started t
he engine, his cell phone rang. It was Jim Anders, deputy director of CIA operations. He put him on speaker.
“Crocker, you still in the DC area?”
“Yes I am.”
“Good. There’s someone I want you to meet, this afternoon at four. A safe house in Arlington. I’ll text you the address.”
“I’ll be there.”
Crocker hung up, shifted into first, and pulled out into traffic.
“What’s going on?” his father asked.
“You didn’t hear that, okay?”
“You need to lighten up.”
Chapter Eleven
When men speak ill of you, live so nobody may believe them.
—Plato
It was a ranch house off Wilson Boulevard with a white gravel driveway and a FOR SALE sign on the front lawn. Looked like it had been built in the late sixties. Two big Scorpion CIA private security guards checked Crocker’s ID through the half-open screen door.
“Come in,” one of them said gruffly.
He peeled off the suit jacket and set it on the back of one of the living room chairs. The air was stale and reeked of cigarettes.
“You think one of you guys could crack a window?” Crocker asked.
“You’re a guest here. Take a seat.”
Choosing the path of least resistance, he sat and checked his texts. One of them had come from Cyndi, wishing him luck in court.
He used his thumbs to text back “All good. Charges dismissed! Tnx.”
They talked on the phone practically every night. He was hoping to get an opportunity in the next week or so to travel back to Vegas and meet her daughter. She also had a nephew who was interested in going to BUD/S and wanted to meet him.
If all went well, he was thinking of flying himself, Jenny, Cyndi, and her daughter to Hawaii for Christmas. They’d stay on Maui, his favorite island. If he could afford it, he’d rent a house away from the hotels on the south shore for a week—windsurfing, exploring, eating fresh fruit and fish.
He was trying to imagine how Jenny would respond to the idea when Anders entered in a burst of energy. Broad-shouldered and clean-cut, he walked with a slight limp—the result of a bullet wound at the hands of Syrian agents in a Paris hotel elevator—and spoke into a cell phone. Behind him followed a short, thin Asian man wearing a porkpie hat, sunglasses, and Bermuda shorts even though it had barely cracked fifty outside, and two more large security men.
Anders was arguing on the phone with someone. “I know. I’ve heard that, but I don’t agree. Look, I’ve got to go now. Print it out and leave it on my desk.”
They clasped hands and bumped chests, military style. The two had gone through a lot together over the past three years. Adversity had drawn them closer.
“Crocker. Real good to see you. What’s with the suit?”
“It’s a long story. How’s the knee?”
Anders rolled up the leg of his khaki pants to show the fresh scar. “Bullet entered here and shattered the patella. Took four hours of surgery and pins, screw, and wire to put it back together. Rehab’s been a bitch. But the knee’s working again, so I can’t complain.”
“Glad to hear it.”
One of the Scorpions entered with bottles of water, which he placed on the table. He pulled the shades closed and left as Anders introduced the Asian dude who was scrolling through something on his iPhone.
“Crocker, I want you to meet Terry.”
“Konnichiwa,” Terry said in Japanese, bowing from the waist.
“Nice to meet you, too.”
He still wore the plaid hat, which clashed with his shorts.
“Terry is Japanese,” Anders explained, “but he’s spent a lot of time in Pyongyang and developed a close relationship with Kim Jong-il and his son Kim Jung-un.”
“Eighteen years altogether,” Terry said, nodding and removing his hat. His head was as smooth as a cue ball.
“Terry here served as the Supreme Leader’s fitness and karate instructor. He taught his son as well.”
“I first meet Jong-un…twelve years old. No shit.”
“You must have stories,” said Crocker.
“Oh yes. Many stories. Stories to curl the hair on your head.”
Without prompting, he described his first trip to Pyongyang for a karate competition back in the ’90s, how he had been approached by an aide to Kim Jong-il, and how the Supreme Leader himself enticed him with money and gifts to become his personal fitness instructor. He spent six years in North Korea, returned to the town he grew up in Japan, and was later lured back. He eventually became part of the Supreme Leader’s inner circle and participated in wild karaoke parties, orgies with teenage sex slaves, and feasts with delicacies flown in from all over the world.
“Off-the-hook shit,” he commented. “You can’t make this stuff up.”
Terry explained that while the majority of the twenty million residents of North Korea lived in abject poverty and others starved to death, the Supreme Leader surrounded himself with a carefully selected coterie of military and party officials who lived in extreme luxury. He basically bought their loyalty with apartments, houses, cars, special privileges, and gifts. Terry himself had been given hundreds of thousands of dollars, gold watches, fine clothes and shoes, jewelry, any pretty girl he wanted, and the wife of his choice.
In return, those allowed close to power first had to pledge absolute loyalty to the Supreme Leader. He was deified by state media and treated like a god. The slightest hint of disloyalty would result in one being tossed into a reeducation camp or one of the country’s 180 political prisons, or having to face some form of execution.
In December 2013 Kim Jong-hu’s uncle and top economic advisor Jang Song-thaek was abruptly removed from all official posts and dubbed “despicable human scum” by state media. A week later he and his top aides were stripped naked and fed to over a hundred dogs that had been starved for three days. Hundreds of top Kim Jong-un aides were forced to watch as the men’s bodies were ripped apart and eaten in a process that is reported to have taken over an hour.
North Korean citizens were routinely executed for routine offenses, including the possession of a Bible or watching South Korean–produced videos.
Crocker shook his head in disgust, despite that fact that he had heard much of this before.
Turning to Terry, Anders asked, “Tell us where Kim Jong-un gets the money to support his nuclear program, his million-soldier-strong military, and also to support his inner circle in luxury when the economy is dismal, most people are starving, and the country lives under a strict UN economic embargo that blocks practically all international currency from flowing into the country.”
“Illegal activities.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“The government has a branch that is a criminal enterprise to make money and accrue power to the regime by any means possible.”
“For example?” Anders asked.
“Killing people, torture, kidnapping for ransom, selling drugs, hacking into bank accounts, spying. All the things criminal organizations do.”
“How do you know about this?”
“I became friendly with the general who runs it. We call him the Dragon.”
As he lay on the bed Dawkins’s mind roiled with ghastly scenes of postnuclear Nagasaki and Hiroshima—buildings vaporized, people reduced to dust, mothers and children covered with oozing radiation sores and burns, wandering through rubble like zombies. Dawkins hovered over them like a giant bird. Hot, ionized air burned his feathers and skin. Ashes clogged his throat, causing him to choke.
The coughing pulled him into a level of semiconsciousness. He opened his eyes into darkness—just a glowing ribbon from under the door to his right and the hum of a ventilation system.
Something rustled nearby.
“Sung?”
He had trouble breathing and grabbed at his throat. Then felt warm hands on his chest.
“Sung, is that you?”
“Breathe, Mr
. Dawkin. You have bad dream. Relax.”
He turned and saw her sitting beside him, her shiny black hair falling over her eyes, her neck long and arched like a swan’s.
It all came back to him—his kidnapping, his family, the missile program he was being forced to work on, and his terrible moral conundrum. For the second time in his life, he thought of killing himself. Junior year in high school he had swallowed a bottle of aspirin after his girlfriend dumped him for his best friend.
He told himself that this time he would do it right, and considered the means at his disposal, the cord of the space heater in the corner, the sharp edge of the metal bathroom sink.
But even as he did, Sung’s hands and words soothed him. “You need…relax, Mr. Dawkin. Go to sleep. Clear you head. You work in the morning.”
“Sung, I can’t sleep.”
“You miss family. Family okay?”
“I don’t know.”
She leaned in until their faces almost touched. “I stay with you, Mr. Dawkin. You want pill for sleep? I give you pill.”
“No pill, please.”
“You good man, Mr. Dawkin. You love family.”
He pictured Nan and Karen in his head and sighed. “Yes, I do.”
“You sick in you heart.”
“I am.”
“I know, Mr. Dawkin. I know.”
It was reassuring to hear her say so. His week of captivity had caused him to partially shed his sense of self because his very existence had become a problem. Dangerous men wanted his mind and the knowledge it contained. He had gone to Geneva with a plan to help save the planet and had been lured away by an offer to put the plan into operation. Now he was being asked to help destroy it.
The irony crushed him.
He blamed himself and the choices he had made. And then he argued that this current situation wasn’t his fault. He was a scientist and an engineer with no desire to hurt others. Could he help it if his expertise was used for sinister purposes? Yes, he had trained to become an expert in missile guidance systems. Yes, he had benefited from the money he earned from working for the U.S. government. It’s true that he could have gone into another field of endeavor.
