The engines roar louder, and the large, lumbering C-17 maneuvers its way to take off. I’m ashamed to feel regret, regret that I wasn’t pulled from the aircraft.
It would have been the easier, and safer, outcome.
But ease and safety aren’t in my future.
Within a few more minutes, we’re airborne again, heading for Bagram.
Chapter 57
CAPTAIN ALLEN PIERCE is leaving the interior of a cluttered and busy restaurant called Four Corners BBQ—located at the intersection of Route 119 and a local country road—when his smartphone rings. He puts down the plastic tray holding cold drinks for the squad and checks the phone’s caller ID, sees the call is coming from SULLIVAN DISTRICT ATTORNEY.
“This is Pierce,” he answers. Most of the restaurant’s seating is outside on worn, splintering wooden picnic tables, and the Army personnel are sitting at a far table, underneath a large hickory tree. For once they don’t have the news media hovering around.
“Hey, Captain, glad I caught up with you. How’s your day going?”
“It’s going well, Mr. Slate.”
“I hear you and your folks might be leaving soon, heading back home to Virginia. That true, son?”
Pierce works his jaw as the old insult comes across his phone, said in a polite and soothing voice, a descendant of the master class establishing the correct order of things.
“First, we’re not leaving any time soon, Mr. Slate, and second, I told you not to call me son. Understand?”
Slate says, “Oh, sorry to offend you, snowflake. That’s what all you entitled members of society do nowadays is look for ways to be offended. Isn’t that right? Or is snowflake one of the forbidden words nowadays? Should I make a list, then? Make sure I don’t hurt your tender feelings?”
“What do you want?” Pierce says, struggling to keep his voice steady.
“Well, it looks like the head Ranger, Staff Sergeant Jefferson, has changed his mind. He wants to talk to me, and he demanded that you come along as well when we meet.”
It feels like a sudden hot wind is buffeting him. “Are you sure?”
“Damn, I’m not going to win reelection in a few days because I’m not sure of my work. ’Course I’m sure. He told Chief Kane over in Ralston that he wants a meeting as soon as possible with you and me. Now”—and Pierce hears the sounds of paper shuffling—“I’ve got a couple of appearances over in Chatham County Superior Court tomorrow, but I think I can manage to get over there this evening. Say…8:00 p.m. Does that work?”
Pierce could have had an appointment with the Georgia Lottery Corporation to receive a payout at 8:00 p.m., but there is no way he is going to miss this meeting.
“I’ll be there,” he says. “At the Ralston jail?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know what Staff Sergeant Jefferson is considering?”
“Not a clue, but I bet we’ll know soon enough, now, won’t we?” The district attorney chuckles and says, “See you then, son.”
Chapter 58
LESS THAN THIRTY MINUTES after Captain Pierce has told them the news of Staff Sergeant Jefferson’s change of heart, Special Agent Connie York and her squad are still at Four Corners BBQ, seated at an outdoor picnic table sipping way-too-sweet iced tea and thinking through options and strategy, when her smartphone rings.
The number is ANONYMOUS, and before she answers, York says, “It’s settled, then. Pierce, when you go to Ralston, I want Huang to go along. Another set of eyes and ears will prove helpful.”
Huang says, “Glad to be there, ma’am.”
Nodding, York turns around on the picnic table bench, accepts the incoming call, and says, “Hello?”
“Who’s this?” comes a suspicious-sounding woman’s voice.
“This is Special Agent Connie York, Army CID.”
“Oh,” the woman says. “Just wanted to make sure. I saw that you’d been calling me all day, leaving messages and such, but I wanted to make sure. This is Peggy Reese, Sullivan County Times.”
York gets up and walks away from the table where Pierce, Sanchez, and Huang are still sitting, wanting to focus entirely on this call.
“Mrs. Reese, I can’t tell you—”
She laughs. “Ah, hell, ma’am, I ain’t no missus. You can call me Peggy.”
“And you can call me Connie,” she says. “I would love a chance to talk with you.”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be nice,” she says. “I’m afraid I’m busy for a bit with my Walmart shift.”
“But you said you were from the newspaper.”
“I am from the newspaper,” she says. “In fact, I was out this afternoon trying to sell ads and I left my damn cell phone at home. I also do photo work and most of the typesetting, and with all that, I still can’t make a living. But I’m a damn good reporter.”
“I see,” York says. “Then let’s make an appointment. I’d be open for an interview if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“You know it,” she says. “How does tomorrow afternoon sound? Say, around this time?”
No, no, no, York thinks. We don’t have the time.
“Can’t we do it earlier? After you get out of work?”
A slight pause. “I guess we can, if you don’t mind meeting with me late. You see, my stocking job, it usually gets me off at about 2:00 a.m. Think you’ll be up to seeing me then, ’fore I go to sleep?”
“I’m sure I will be,” York says.
“Tell you what, we get off the phone here, I’ll send you a text with directions to my place. How does that sound?”
“Sounds great,” she says. “We’ll be there.”
The tone instantly changes. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who said anything about ‘we’? Who’s this ‘we’? Your boss?”
York quickly thinks and comes up with an answer. “No, he’s working the case elsewhere. I was planning to bring one of my other investigators along.”
“Nope,” she says. “Not going to happen. Either you by yourself or there’s no meeting. Got it?”
York looks over at her three men. “All right, then it’ll be just me. Alone.”
“Fine.”
A pickup truck pulls in, sending up some dust from the restaurant’s unpaved parking lot. York says, “May I ask you why you only want me there?”
Peggy says, “You may,” and then disconnects the call.
York goes back to the picnic table, sits down. The three men look at her, and she says, “That was the reporter from the local paper. I’m talking to her later tonight.”
Sanchez says, “What the hell do you want to do that for? I thought it was a mistake the first time you called her, back when you climbed out of the Dumpster. Dealing with reporters is always a mistake. They all have an agenda, and they always screw up the story.”
She picks up a plastic cup filled with sweet tea, takes a sip, and decides she’s never drinking tea, ever again. “Because the boss thought it would be a two-way street, me giving her a story, her giving us an idea of what the hell the local landscape is like. Right now we’re operating in a fog, only getting information that someone is tossing in our direction.”
Pierce says, “I think you’re right, ma’am. Even with Staff Sergeant Jefferson changing his mind, it’d be helpful to know the background of the players around here. Finding out our rooms were bugged, seeing how two main witnesses have fled, and having the kill house burn down…it all points to trouble.”
Out on Route 119, a brown-and-white Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department cruiser slows down and comes into the restaurant’s parking lot. It stops in the middle and sits there. A male deputy sheriff in the front seat looks at them.
Sanchez says, “There’s our trouble, right there. That sheriff and her staff. You know, maybe talking to that reporter is a good idea after all.”
York turns her head and stares at the deputy sheriff. A stocky, broad-shouldered young man, who locks eyes with Connie.
She stares right back and says, “Well, Age
nt Sanchez, so nice to have you on board.”
Huang says, “Should we leave?”
Connie says, “No. We stay. Let him leave first.”
Pierce says, “Might take a while. Huang and I need to get to Ralston eventually.”
She won’t break the stare. To the JAG lawyer, she says, “You two can head out. Me, I don’t have a bus to catch.”
The men stay put for the time being, and the wait goes on.
Then the cruiser slowly turns around and leaves the parking lot. York turns back to the three men and rubs her eyes.
“Looks like you won that round, ma’am,” Pierce says.
“Maybe so,” she says. “But I’d love to know how many more rounds are waiting for us out there.”
Chapter 59
IN A SMALL waiting area outside Chief Kane’s office, the chief comes from a corridor leading into the jail’s interior and shakes his head. “Sorry, Dr. Huang, the Ranger won’t see no one but Captain Pierce here and Mr. Slate.”
Huang just gives a slight nod of his head, but Pierce feels bad for the doc. Maybe it was the staff sergeant’s decision, but the tone of the chief’s message was that of the old voice telling those with a different skin hue in this part of the world to stay in their place.
“All right, Doc,” Pierce says, standing up and taking his briefcase with him. “I’ll be back shortly. Don’t do anything untoward and find yourself in one of these cells.”
Huang manages a smile. “Maybe the food is better.”
“Hate to say it, but you might be right.”
He walks down the short and narrow concrete-block hallway with Chief Kane and asks, “Any idea when the district attorney is arriving?”
Kane says, “Just a few minutes. He called me from his car. I’ll make sure he gets in with you and Staff Sergeant Jefferson.”
They’re outside a heavy metal door with a sign saying ALL CONVERSATIONS SUBJECT TO AUDIO AND VIDEO RECORDING. Pierce says, “Staff Sergeant Jefferson has requested me to be here. You’ll make sure that all recording devices are switched off?”
“They already are,” he says.
“You sure?”
His eyes flash with anger. “Positive.”
“Glad to hear it,” Pierce says as the chief unlocks the door. “Again, any idea what’s on Jefferson’s mind?”
“Not a clue.”
Pierce enters the interview room, and it seems the chief takes great satisfaction in slamming the door shut.
The small room is depressingly similar to others Pierce has visited over the years, although those were always at Army posts. But this one would fit right in, with its pale-green concrete-block walls, scuffed tile floor, and round table with four light-orange plastic chairs.
The door opens and Cornelius Slate comes in, smiling, wearing a seersucker suit with a white shirt and a red bowtie. He looks like the stereotype of a Southern lawyer, complete with sweat stains around his armpits.
Pierce so wants to punch that older man in the face, but he restrains himself, and after a brief handshake, Slate takes the seat across from him and drops his black leather briefcase on the table.
“Damn hot today, isn’t it?” he says. “Last week of October and Election Day is next Tuesday, but it still feels like the middle of August.”
“I didn’t notice,” Pierce says.
The district attorney opens his briefcase, smirks. “That makes sense, now, don’t it?”
It doesn’t make sense, but Pierce knows what the lawyer is driving at: Your ancestors worked the fields, so I’m sure you’re used to the heat. He says, “This is a bit of a surprise, the staff sergeant asking to see us both. Do you have any idea what he’s seeking?”
A shake of the head. “Nope. But I imagine we’ll find out—well, like, now.”
One more opening of the door, and Kane escorts Staff Sergeant Jefferson into the interview room. This is the first time Pierce has met with the Ranger, and he’s immediately impressed with his size and bearing. Even wearing an orange prison jumpsuit and with his hands cuffed in front of him, Jefferson looks like a man at ease, entirely comfortable with who he is and where he is.
Pierce wishes he had Huang next to him, looking and observing with his psychiatry skills.
Jefferson takes a seat.
Kane says, “Staff Sergeant, I’ll leave you be with these two gentlemen. Mr. Slate, Captain Pierce, if either of you wants to leave, just knock on the door. One of my folks is stationed right outside and they’ll take care of you.”
The chief leaves, closes the door behind him, and Jefferson says, “You’re Captain Pierce, the JAG lawyer?”
“That’s right,” Pierce says, taking out a yellow legal pad and pen. “Now, before we begin, I need to tell you, Staff Sergeant, that if you’re requesting me to represent you, then—”
Jefferson says, “I don’t want your counsel. I still plan to represent myself.”
Pierce slowly puts the legal pad and pen down on the dirty round table. “I’m sorry, Sergeant, I don’t understand. Then why did you want me to be here?”
The large Ranger nods in the direction of the district attorney. “Because I want you to hear what I’m going to say to this fine gentleman here and make sure there are no misunderstandings or future disagreements. You think you can do that for me, Captain?”
Pierce says, “This is very…unorthodox.”
Jefferson grins. “I’m an unorthodox Ranger. You’re Mr. Slate, right? The district attorney?”
“That’s right,” Slate says, and Pierce is pleased to see that the man looks as confused as he is. “What do you have in mind?”
Jefferson says, “Remind me, my guys and I are facing a judge in two days, on Thursday, right?”
“That’s correct,” Slate says.
“And what kind of hearing is it?”
“An arraignment,” Slate says. “You could also make a request for bail, but due to the circumstances of this case, you shouldn’t waste your time.”
“Then what?”
Slate says, “Next step will be a hearing before a grand jury, the indictment, and then the entire process gets going. I expect you and your fellow Rangers will face trial eight or nine months down the road. If not longer.”
Pierce knows all of this due to his research but wonders what the Ranger is planning. This is all straightforward, all by the book.
And in the next ten seconds, Pierce is stunned at what he hears.
Jefferson says, “Yep, I knew all that. But I also know that there’s a way to short-circuit this whole process.”
Slate says, “Sergeant Jefferson, I don’t have time for your amateur lawyering. I suggest you work with Captain Pierce here and—”
Jefferson says, “Nope. Not going to happen. But I will tell you what will happen this Thursday, when I appear in front of that judge. I plan to stand there and look him right in the eye and plead guilty to all charges.”
Chapter 60
STAFF SERGEANT CALEB JEFFERSON enjoys seeing the shock and confusion on both of these lawyers’ faces, even the Army one, who’s supposedly looking out for his interests. They may be high-priced and highly educated lawyers, and he might be an Army grunt and in handcuffs sitting in front of them, but he has the sweet, sweet feeling of being totally in charge.
Pierce says, “Sergeant Jefferson, I’m not your official legal representative, but that—”
Slate cuts him off. “Just like that? You want to plead guilty?”
“I certainly do,” Jefferson says. “In open court and in front of that judge and the world. But I want something in exchange.”
The district attorney still looks shocked. “Like what?”
This is it, and Jefferson recalls a time back in Afghanistan, early one morning, responding to a Taliban ambush on a narrow mountain trail, and letting the training kick in. Anyone else, facing the incoming AK-47 fire and RPG rounds, would run away or go to ground. But Jefferson did what he had to do, what was right, which was to charge straight at t
he attackers, not giving up an inch.
Like now.
“You’ll get a guilty plea from me, Mr. District Attorney, and in exchange, you’ll let my two guys go free. Completely and one hundred percent off the hook. Got that?”
The JAG lawyer says, “Sergeant Jefferson, you can’t do this.”
“Sure I can,” he says, smiling. “Mr. District Attorney here, give him some time. He can draw up all the legal papers and I’ll sign them. But you, Mr. JAG, I need you to look over them, cut through the legal mumbo-jumbo, and you tell me, in straight Army talk, that what I’m signing is what I want. I plead guilty to the murders, take my sentence like a man, and my two guys get freed, and nothing happens to them down the road. Not a damn thing.”
Slate says, “I can’t guarantee that the Department of Justice won’t want to look into it if there’s a public outcry. The other two Rangers might be charged with federal offenses.”
Jefferson says, “That’s out of your control. That’s okay. I’m a reasonable guy.”
The JAG lawyer turns to Slate and says, “You can’t be considering this! This isn’t justice!”
The district attorney doesn’t say anything.
Jefferson says, “Sure he’s considering it, Captain Pierce. Why not? He can say he got a conviction without the pain or expense of a lengthy trial, I take the fall, he looks good to the voters, and justice is done.”
“But the forensic evidence…” the JAG lawyer says.
Jefferson says, “I’ve heard some about the forensic evidence. All points to me, right? Nothing connecting the squad.”
The district attorney nods. “Seems that way.”
“Wait,” the Army captain says. “There was a witness, seeing you leave that place with at least one other Ranger.”
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