The Summer House

by James Patterson

  “I see,” Slate says, his hands folded over his belly. “You also had a Chinaman with you this morning, over at the Ralston jail. Where is he now?”

  Allen has never served overseas in either Iraq or Afghanistan, but he’s sure the hair rising on the back of his neck is coming from knowing he and the others are under constant surveillance.

  “He’s on other duties,” Allen says, still hating the coffee, wanting to correct this small-town, small-minded lawyer about using an ethnic slur to describe a fellow officer, but right now he needs information.

  “Well, what can I do for you? What do you need to know?”

  “I don’t know much about Georgia criminal law, so I’m looking for a quick guide,” Allen says. “I know it’s early, but do you anticipate indicting the four of them for first-degree murder or second-degree murder?”

  Slate has a cheery smile on his face. “Neither.”

  “Excuse me?” Allen asks, feeling warm, like the older man is enjoying putting him in his place.

  “I guess you do need some guidance after all,” Slate says. “In Georgia, we don’t have first-degree or second-degree murder. We have malice murder, felony murder, and voluntary manslaughter, among others. Of course, it all depends on the grand jury meeting after the official arraignment for your Rangers.”

  “When do you expect the arraignment?”

  “Thursday or Friday of next week. Grand jury will take a bit longer.”

  “On my flight down I read that most Georgia counties have grand juries that meet every Wednesday. True?”

  Slate shakes his head. “Haven’t you figured out yet, we’re not a usual county? In Sullivan County we meet every six months for a grand jury.”

  Allen is stunned. A half year wait for an indictment?

  “For real?” he asks.

  “Do I look like I’m joking, son?” Slate asks. “Nope. Six months is typical, though I imagine with a case like this one, we’ll be able to rearrange things, move it up some. In the meantime, those four fellas will have an opportunity to have a bond hearing, to see if they can be released prior to the indictment. Which I doubt. But any way you look at it, these fellas won’t be going to trial for a year to eighteen months. We’re a busy state down here.”

  “I see,” Allen says.

  Slate says, “Those four Rangers, they sure didn’t want to talk to you this morning.”

  “That’s their right,” he says. “Since they were arrested outside their post, they’ll have to arrange for their own civilian defense.”

  “But would you advise ’em if they asked?”

  “Not me personally,” Allen says. “But I’m sure someone in JAG could lend assistance. But JAG lawyers are trained to deal with the military justice system, not the civilian system.”

  “Sounds complicated,” Slate says.

  “It can be,” Allen says.

  Slate is still smiling, and then—like a flash of lightning illuminating a night landscape—the smile disappears and Slate frowns, his eyes narrowing and darkening, his fingers clasping tighter across his stomach.

  “But know this, and know this well, and tell your boss, son, whoever the hell he or she might be,” Slate says, his voice low and steady. “Sheriff Emma Williams is one tough and smart investigator, a real bitch on wheels. If she’s arrested those four Rangers so quick after all those boys and girls and that baby was killed, then she’s got a solid case that she’s gonna give to me when the time is right.”

  Allen stares quietly at the old man.

  The district attorney says, “So, son, I’m gonna tell you this. It might take a year, eighteen months, or even two years, but I’m gonna find those Rangers guilty, and I’m gonna make sure they end up on death row and someday get a needle in their veins. You got that?”

  “I got that,” Allen says.

  “Good!” The smile returns, and Slate moves his chair forward. “Anything else?”

  Allen stands up, reaches over, puts his barely touched coffee cup on the district attorney’s desk.

  “Just one more thing,” Allen says. “I’m a commissioned officer in the United States Army and an attorney admitted to the New York and Virginia bar. Unless you spent some time wandering around Long Island thirty or so years ago and had a brief affair with my mother, don’t call me son, ever again.”

  He turns and quickly walks out.

  Chapter 17

  LIEUTENANT JOHN HUANG is sitting on a park bench across the street from the Ralston Police Department, just waiting. It’s been several hours since he and Allen Pierce visited the police department’s jail and were turned away, and when Allen said he was going to visit the district attorney, John said he would stay behind.

  “And do what?” Allen asked.

  “Talk to the Rangers.”

  “How?”

  And John said, “By using my wily Asian ways. How else?”

  The day has been long, sitting here in the shade, reading articles on his iPhone from back issues of Journal of Psychiatric Practice, and once going into the nearby small convenience store to grab lunch. The young lady wearing jeans and a blue smock with ADDY on her name tag took his money and passed over a wrapped ham-and-cheese sandwich and a bottle of Lipton iced tea, then she said, “Mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Go ahead,” he said, knowing what was coming next.

  “What are you?” she asked. “Huh? Do you mind? Japanese? Korean? What are you?”

  He scooped up his lunch and change and said, “Californian.”

  Now he waits.

  Earlier and separated by thirty or so minutes, two different sets of dark-blue Ford vans pulled up across the street, with film crews and correspondents tumbling out and, nearly just as quickly, tumbling back in, having been turned away by the ever-vigilant jail attendant and bikini inspector.

  John sips from the now-warm Lipton tea.

  The guy was doing a pretty good job.

  A white Dodge Ram pickup truck comes down the road, turns into the lot, stopping next to the red Dodge Colt. A tall, thin woman gets out, wearing the same type of uniform as the male attendant, and she sprints to the rear door of the jail.

  John checks the time. It’s 5:10 in the afternoon.

  He’s thinking someone’s late and—

  There goes the bikini inspector, into his Colt, and his tires squeal as he gets out onto the main street, back into whatever Sunday afternoon life awaits him.

  John dips into his soft leather briefcase and pulls out a necktie, which he quickly secures around his neck.

  Now it’s time to get to work.

  It feels good to walk across to the jail, stretching his legs, and he goes up to the familiar door with the sign and rings the doorbell, and rings it once more.

  A shadow appears as before, but it’s the woman attendant now, red hair tousled, face flushed and perspiring, and she says, “How can I—”

  He grabs the door, opens it wider. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “I’m here to see Specialist Tyler.”

  “Hey, uh, what—”

  He pushes past her and says, “Is he ready? I won’t take long.”

  The woman steps in front of him. “Hold on. Just who the hell are you?”

  John lets her stand for a few seconds and then shapes his face into surprised anger. “You don’t know? Honestly? Before he went hunting today, Chief Kane told me it was going to be all arranged. Hold on.”

  He grabs his regular wallet, takes out his Virginia driver’s license, flashes it in front of the poor young woman, and says, “I’m Dr. John Huang of the US Army Medical Corps. I flew in a while ago from Washington, DC. I’m here to personally interview the four Rangers, starting with Specialist Tyler.”

  The woman bites her lower lip. John chose Tyler for a reason, for according to the briefing he received last night at the motel, Tyler is the youngest of the four.

  “Why are you here?” she asks.

  “Ma’am, that’s medical information, and that’s confidential,” he says,
putting an edge into his voice. “Now, will you bring Specialist Tyler to me, or are we going to have to wait here until Chief Kane returns from Sweeney’s Tract and have him order you directly? And then have another conversation with you later? Ma’am?”

  Her shoulders slump. “Hold on.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” John says.

  Ten minutes later, he’s in a small meeting room, with one-way glass built into the wall, a table bolted to the floor, and two black plastic chairs. He’s sitting in one chair and Specialist Vinny Tyler is sitting in the other, wearing an orange jumpsuit that says RALSTON PD JAIL in faded black letters on the back.

  John is smiling and gracious with the young man, who’s got a lot of muscles and strength under that jail clothing. His red hair is trimmed short, and there’s stubble on his chin and cheeks. His eyes look green. His face is pale, but he constantly looks around the room with suspicion, like he’s waiting for a net to drop from the ceiling or for the sprinklers to start spraying out water.

  John says, “Specialist, I’m Lieutenant John Huang, a psychiatrist with the Army’s Medical Corps. How are you doing? How’s the food? Are the staff treating you well?”

  His eyes continue to flick around the room. “Doing okay. Food sucks, but I’ve eaten worse. And the staff seems to be just one guy or gal, so that’s about it. Why are you here?”

  “Here to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  John shrugs, leans back in his chair, and relaxes his legs and arms in an open position, wanting the Ranger before him to see John not as a threat but as a possible ally or even friend.

  “About whatever you’d like,” he says. “Where you grew up. Why you joined the Army. Why you became a Ranger…I’ve seen the training courses you guys have to go through. Incredibly difficult, aren’t they?”

  The specialist doesn’t take the bait. His eyes have stopped flickering. They’re boring right into John.

  He continues. “Or you can talk about your deployments. The missions you were on. What you saw, what you did.”

  Tyler moves his wrists, like he still can’t believe he’s manacled.

  “Or why me and the team got arrested for what happened over in Sullivan,” the Ranger calmly says, like he’s reading out a map grid of numbers and letters. “You want me to talk about that?”

  Defiance, John thinks. He’s talking but there’s will and defiance there.

  “If you’d like,” he says.

  “Sure,” he says. “Then you’d use it against me. Right?”

  “Not exactly,” he says. “But I need to inform you, Specialist, that I’m here as a psychiatrist, attached to a special investigative CID unit. I’m not here to represent you as a patient.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that what I learn in talking with you will be part of the CID’s investigation into what might have happened that led to your arrest.”

  “A cop.”

  “No,” Huang says. “A doctor who’s looking for truth.”

  “To use against me.”

  “To be used in seeking justice,” Huang says. “To find out who you are, what you’re thinking, to see if there are any extenuating circumstances. To make this CID investigation fair and complete. You have my word.”

  The young man’s eyes continue to drill into him. John doesn’t yet know the specifics of his service, but he knows from experience the outline of what this hard young man has done. Rangers are the proverbial tip of the spear. They go in hard and fast and get the job done. They are sent into the hottest and most dangerous places, and even though in another life Specialist Tyler could have been an automotive technician or a home contractor, John is under no illusions.

  This young man before him has killed in the service of his country, and has seen friends of his wounded, maimed, and killed right beside him.

  “Your word…” Tyler says, dragging the two words out. “You think I’d trust the word of a pogue?”

  Pogue, John recalls—person other than a grunt.

  “I would hope so.”

  “What do you know about me, ’bout what I do?” he starts demanding. “You ever go overseas? You ever been in a pit in a forward base, hearing the mortars whistle in? You ever shove wads of combat gauze into a buddy who’s bleeding out? You ever been up against some sandbags, and all of a sudden sand pours down on your head and you hear the gunshot from the sniper who almost drilled one into your forehead?”

  John says, “I don’t think that really—”

  Tyler quickly changes the subject. “You a virgin, Doc?”

  “That’s something I’m not here to talk about,” he says.

  A jingle-jangle of the handcuffs as Tyler moves his hands. “Oh, yeah, it is. You know what I mean. There’s a whole lot of difference ’tween reading about having great sex with a hot chick and actually doing it. No books, no magazines, no porn videos, nothing is like the real deal. That’s the difference between you and me, although we’re both Army. You just don’t know what it’s like out in combat.”

  John has heard this before, and he says, “Then why did you agree to talk to me?”

  Tyler struggles, sits back in the chair, blinks his eyes, looks down at the dirty tiled floor, and then looks up again.

  “Sometimes the guilt just gets so hot and raw you need to talk to someone other than your team buddies,” Tyler says, his voice softer. “When things don’t go right…when innocents pop up…”

  His voice softly dribbles away to heavy silence.

  “Please tell me more,” John says, putting as much sympathy and empathy as he can into his voice. We’ve made progress, we’re opening him up, this is going to work. He’s looking forward to reporting back to Major Cook what he’s about to find out.

  “Please,” John repeats. “Talk to me.”

  Tyler gets up, chair scraping, cuffed hands before him.

  “No,” he says. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  Chapter 18

  TIME PASSES SLOWLY, but Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson is in no rush. Earlier, when Specialist Tyler unexpectedly left, he whispered quick orders to Barnes and Ruiz, the other members of his fire team, about what to do next, and like the good men they are, they followed his orders.

  A door opens up with a metallic clunk, and the woman jail attendant—Marcy—brings Ruiz in, putting him back into his cell, and Jefferson stands up.

  Marcy comes to the old-fashioned barred cell door and says, “Your turn, Sergeant Jefferson, if you wish.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You promise to be a gentleman, like before?”

  “Absolutely, ma’am.”

  “You know what’s next.”

  “I do, ma’am.”

  He puts his hands through a slot in the bars so Marcy can handcuff them, and after the shackles snap into place, he steps back, as she uses a large metal key on a wooden stick to unlock the door.

  With the cell door open, she gestures him forward, and he follows her direction. She and the other jailers seem in awe of him and his team, which is just fine, because they are widely ignorant of what he and they are capable of.

  Jefferson thinks that in under a minute he could hurt and disable Marcy, free himself, Barnes, Tyler, and Ruiz, and get out of this small town in under ten minutes, never to be seen again.

  It’s certainly something to think about.

  In the small interrogation room, he stares at the Army psychiatrist as he pulls his chair up close to the small table and lets his handcuffed hands and thick arms stretch across the tabletop, invading Dr. John Huang’s personal space.

  Jefferson knows a lot about shooting people, leading men, and blowing things up, but he also knows a bit of how an officer’s mind works.

  Huang is slim, well dressed, and of Chinese descent. To Jefferson, this means he’s come from the kind of strict Asian upbringing in which Mom and Dad force their children to be 100 percent at all times. Tiger moms and tiger dads. He, on the other hand, grew up in Gilmor Hom
es in Baltimore, living with his grandmother, Mom in jail and Dad gone, and the street education he got there was probably one hell of a lot rougher and to the point than what the good doctor experienced.

  “So,” Jefferson says, “what do you want?”

  Huang is leaning back in his chair, trying to look cool and inviting, and Jefferson will have none of that. His brown eyes are tight and intelligent, and the staff sergeant is going to be cautious with this bright man, even if he’s probably never picked up a weapon since Basic.

  “You came to see me,” the doctor says. “Why is that?”

  Jefferson says, “You came here and specifically asked for Specialist Tyler. That’s why I’m in this room with you. To see what you did to him. He’s the youngest member of my team. You trying to tempt him, break him?”

  The doctor says, “I just wanted to talk to him.”

  “How did it go?”

  “It went fine.”

  Jefferson smiles. “How did the other two interviews go? Not as well?”

  “They went fine,” the doctor repeats.

  Jefferson slightly shakes his head. “Oh, come on, Doc. It didn’t go well so don’t bullshit me. I’ve got one hell of a good bullshit detector, built and polished over the years, working with upstanding officers like you. Don’t tell me otherwise.”

  He says, “Fair enough. I won’t bullshit you. And I’ll say the other two men—Barnes and Ruiz—were quiet. And formidable. They barely went beyond name and rank. And said you were the best staff sergeant they’ve ever served with.”

  “Not surprised,” Jefferson says. “They’re the best I’ve ever led. Now. Back to the original question. What…do…you…want?”

  “To talk to you and your men,” Huang says. “You’ve been arrested. All four of you are facing serious charges.”

  “That’s like telling me the sun just set,” Jefferson says. “You’ve got to do better than that.”