The Price Of Power

by James W. Huston

  There was a sharp knock on the door and Billings turned quickly in his chair. A small Asian man in his mid-fifties walked in. “I am Thomas Chung,” he said smoothly. He crossed the room to stand in front of the table and directly in front of Billings. “You must be Admiral Billings.” He extended his hand.

  Billings shook his hand. “I am.”

  Carolyn stood up. “Good morning, Mr. Chung, I am Carolyn Billings. We spoke on the telephone.”

  Chung moved his attention to Carolyn and extended his hand again. “I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Billings,” he said, giving the slightest hint of a bow with his head. “May I sit down?” he said, indicating a chair.

  “Of course. Please do,” Billings said.

  Chung pulled out a chair and sat down, putting his briefcase on the table. “I deeply regret what has happened to you, Admiral Billings. I am personally offended at the actions the President has taken.”

  “So am I,” Billings replied.

  “I am also honored by your having called me to assist you. What can I do to help you?”

  “May I speak freely?” Billings asked.

  “Absolutely, this is an attorney-client consultation and therefore no one can ever learn what is said in this room.”

  “Okay. Do you know the basic story?”

  “Yes. I know that you were in command of a battle group in the Java Sea, and that Congress had hand-delivered to you a Letter of Reprisal, which it said was a power directly out of the Constitution. Of course, the Constitution does provide that Congress can grant letters of Marque and Reprisal, so they certainly had the power to issue such a letter. The real question is whether they had the power to grant it to a U.S. Navy battle group, and whether you should have followed it. Is that about it?”

  “That’s most of it,” Billings said. “But the real issue is not only whether I should have followed it, but whether I should have followed it after having received an order from the President and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, a direct order, ordering me to ignore the Letter of Reprisal and to return immediately to Pearl Harbor. I chose to follow the Letter of Reprisal and attacked the terrorists—or pirates, or whatever they are—who killed the American sailors on the Pacific Flyer.”

  “Yes,” Chung said.

  “Do you know Lieutenant Commander Lynch?”

  “We have met,” Chung answered.

  “Well,” Billings said, “he is the one responsible for appointing a JAG officer to defend me in this case. In my court-martial.” He winced saying the words “court-martial.” “He appointed himself.”

  “I see,” said Chung. “And why have you called me?”

  “Because I don’t know if he’s … the right guy.” Billings’s eyes narrowed.

  “So I assume you’ve had the IRO hearing. You’ll be released soon?”

  “Commander Lynch represented me.”

  Carolyn was confused. “What’s an IRO hearing?”

  Chung replied, “An Initial Review Officer hearing. It’s conducted at the brig. There’s a command representative, usually a staff judge advocate”—he looked at Billings—“where was he from?”

  “Joint Chiefs.”

  “And they look for probable cause, determine whether it’s proper to hold someone in pretrial confinement. In this case it should have been fairly routine to get Admiral Billings released.” He asked Billings, “What happened?”

  “Lynch was unimpressive. He was intimidated. He was sweating.”

  “That is a bad sign. Did they set the Article Thirty-two hearing?” He turned to Carolyn. “Where they determine whether there’s good reason to continue with charges—”

  “Whatever it is, I don’t think Lynch is the right guy to do it. He’s out of his league. The worst part is he doesn’t know it.” Billings paused, listening to his own words. He asked Chung, “Have you tried many courts-martial?”

  Chung sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “After I went to law school at UCLA, I went into the Marine Corps for four years. I was stationed at Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station here on Oahu. I tried many courts-martial, both as a prosecutor and as a defense attorney. Many.”

  “And what have you done since being in the Marine Corps?” asked Billings.

  “I have been practicing in a private firm, primarily as a civil litigator, trying civil cases, until I was appointed as the U.S. Attorney. Since leaving there, I have done a lot of criminal defense work as well, and an occasional court-martial.”

  “What kinds of cases?”

  “All kinds. Many of them are drug-related.”

  Billings’s face wrinkled as if he had just smelled something unpleasant. “What do you think about my case?”

  Chung sat silently for what seemed like a long time. “This is a battle for power, Admiral. It is a battle between Congress and the President. They both have legitimate claims to the powers being asserted. You are the one caught in the middle. But you had a choice to make. If you had chosen the easy way—to follow the President’s order—you wouldn’t be here right now. The only thing Congress could have done, at least theoretically, would be to hold you in contempt of Congress. But I don’t think they would have had the nerve to do that. So you chose the more dangerous course, probably because it’s what you wanted to do. Probably because you thought that the terrorists who attacked the Pacific Flyer deserved retribution. Perhaps they did. But that choice has put you where you are.”

  Billings was annoyed. “You make it sound like I chose to be court-martialed.”

  Chung stared at him. “You certainly did choose the course that has led to this court-martial and the result was fairly predictable. Whether or not you were entitled to make the decision you did, well, that is what remains to be decided.”

  Billings leaned forward, his voice growing more intense. “I don’t hear you saying you believe my position is defensible. Sounds to me like you think I should be convicted.”

  “I said nothing of the kind. I am simply trying to give you the perspective of someone who is not involved. Personally, I sympathize with you, and hope that I would have done the same thing. But sometimes even courageous acts are punished.”

  “Well,” Billings said, “I need help. I feel like I’m a political prisoner.”

  “In many senses you are.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Do you want to?” Billings asked.

  “Yes, I would very much like to help you.”

  “Thank you,” Billings said, standing.

  Chung, taking the hint, stood and picked up his briefcase. “Before I leave, I should tell you that I had a conversation with the prosecutor about the charges.”

  “What did he say?” Billings asked.

  “The convening authority is considering adding charges.”

  “The President,” Billings said, his face reddening. “What additional charges?”

  Chung replied, sorry he had brought the subject up, “Negligent homicide. For the men killed in the attack. I think nineteen Marines—who died when their helicopter crashed in the attack—and two sailors. I think it was two.”

  “That figures,” Billings said, glancing at Caroline, who was horrified.

  As Chung prepared to leave, another thought occurred to him. “Did Lieutenant Commander Lynch mention anything about sending out discovery for the Article Thirty-two hearing?”

  “The what?”

  “I guess not. Well, we’ll see. I’d want to call all the witnesses. Or at least consider it. Stir it up.”

  Billings struggled to wrap his mind around all the legal proceedings that lay ahead. “What witnesses?”

  “For the Thirty-two hearing. Sort of a preliminary hearing. They check for enough evidence to charge you.”

  “We can call witnesses?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “They have to bring them here?”

  “Yes. Unless they’re unavailable.”

  “Get the President here.”

 
; “Right idea, but we couldn’t force him. For him it would only be a request.”

  “And who controls the determination of whether the other witnesses are reasonably available?”

  “Guess.”

  “He’s stacking the deck.”

  “He most certainly is.”

  Billings tried to imagine Chung in front of a court. He wondered if he was the right lawyer, the one to defend him and keep him from humiliation and prison. He had no idea, and couldn’t imagine how to make such an evaluation. “Would you be willing to attend the Article Thirty-two hearing? Watch Lynch? Maybe give me your opinion?”

  “I would be happy to attend at your request. I’ll talk to him to make sure he understands what needs to be done, and what you would like to have happen.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.” Billings extended his hand. “Welcome aboard.”

  Dillon stared at Molly as if seeing an apparition. He studied her black, long-sleeved cocktail dress. It was snug, but not tight; above her knees, but not short. The neckline was just enough to hint at what lay beneath, but not low. It was perfect. She wore very little makeup. She didn’t need any. Her complexion was startling, marred only—at least in her mind—by her subtle freckles. Dillon loved her freckles. He thought they made her look mischievous.

  “Hello, Jim,” she said, reading his face with a smile. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “Hello,” he said, meeting her eyes. “You are gorgeous.”

  “Thanks. You haven’t said that since law school.”

  “I haven’t seen you dressed up since law school.”

  “You see me in my suits all the time.”

  “That’s not dressed up, that’s a uniform.”

  “Well said,” she replied.

  “Thank you.”

  “Let’s go,” she said, closing the door of her Arlington town house. Dillon helped her put on a short black wool jacket. It had something of an Austrian flavor with a band of red embroidery along the edge of the button line.

  “You want to drive or you want me to?”

  “I’ll drive, I parked right out in front,” Dillon answered.

  He held out his hand as they stepped off the porch. She thought of trying to avoid it at first, but finally took it, awkwardly.

  “How long is this reception thing going to last?” he asked.

  “We’re not even there and you want to leave?”

  “I just wondered how late a deal it is.”

  She waited for him to open the car door. “I don’t know, we can leave whenever we want, I suppose.”

  He disarmed the alarm on his gleaming white BMW M3, his pride and joy, and opened the door for Molly. He walked around to the driver’s side, climbed in, and took the anti-theft bar off the steering wheel with a quick practiced manner, putting it in the backseat.

  “Why didn’t you wear an overcoat?” she asked.

  “I didn’t think we’d be outside that much.”

  “Aren’t you cold?”

  “Freezing my butt off.”

  They drove to the French embassy in comfortable silence. He wanted to avoid bringing up the Letter of Reprisal, the one thing guaranteed to cause conflict between them. He also knew he’d probably have to talk about their relationship. He smiled inside as he caught himself making a “to-do” list for the night’s conversations. Open discussions. Check. Express regret at past halting attempts at a relationship. Check. Indicate expectation/willingness to continue to agree to disagree politically. Check. Disguise lust for her body. Check. Say warm, engaging things to put her at ease. Check. Avoid insulting the stupid President. Check.

  Dillon downshifted to second gear and moved into the left lane to pass a slow sedan. His turn was a little sharper than it needed to be.

  “Check out the moon rising over the Washington Monument,” Dillon said.

  “I never cease to be amazed by the beauty of Washington,” she said.

  “At least at night,” Dillon replied. “ ’Cause at least at night, for the most part, you can’t see all the people in Washington trying to do you harm.”

  “The criminals?”

  “No, the politicians,” Dillon said, laughing.

  “That’s what you told David Pendleton, isn’t it?”

  “Huh?” Dillon said, glancing at her quickly.

  “At the Supreme Court. You told Pendleton that it wasn’t the structure of the government that was fragile, it’s the people who run it.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “I hear things,” Molly said, gazing out her window.

  “No, really, who told you that? Only one person who could have.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “Grazio.”

  “David Pendleton couldn’t have told me?”

  “Well, he could have, but I can’t imagine you having a civil conversation with him.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” Molly said. “Do you really believe that?”

  “What?”

  “That the structure of the United States government is sound, and that it’s the people who cause the problems?”

  Dillon thought for a minute. “Yeah, I do. The structures were designed to limit power. When people rub against those limits, they chafe at them. Then they find tricky ways to get around them.”

  “That’s what Congress did.”

  “Don’t start—” Dillon said.

  “Sorry,” Molly replied.

  Dillon downshifted as they got off the bridge and started working their way into the city traffic. “Look, Molly, I don’t want to get into the whole Letter of Reprisal thing. I was kind of excited when you asked me to escort you to this thing. Can we just be together, and not get into it? ’Cause if we can’t, I don’t know if I want to do this.”

  “Sorry. I had no intention of getting into it. I have no intention of going into it. That’s behind us.”

  He really didn’t want to say what was about to come out of his mouth. He truly wished he didn’t have to. “It won’t be for long,” Dillon said finally.

  “Why not?” Molly asked.

  “Speaker’s going to ask the chairman of the Judiciary Committee to start impeachment proceedings.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t want to hide it from you.”

  Molly put her head back on the headrest and said nothing for what seemed like hours. Dillon didn’t know whether to try to make it better or just wait. “I don’t believe this,” she said at last. Her eyes were closed. “I should’ve seen it coming.” She rolled her head toward him. “This is about Admiral Billings isn’t it?”

  “The Speaker and the President had a truce. The one they made at the Supreme Court after the hearing on the letter. The Speaker thinks the President broke it by going after Billings.”

  Molly’s voice softened. “It surprised me too. It seemed like a cheap shot. I guess he had to.”

  Dillon slowed to a stop at a red light as they entered Georgetown. “Had to?” He controlled himself. “What do you say we lay off that subject for the rest of the night, Ms. Vaughan?”

  “It would be a pleasure,” she said, putting her hand on his as he shifted gears.

  They pulled through the gates of the French embassy, where valets waited in front of the main entrance. Dillon jumped out quickly. A valet opened the door for Molly and she climbed out gracefully.

  Dillon bent his right arm and she slipped her hand through it. They walked up the stairs into the brightly lit continental foyer. A man in tails approached them, and bowed. “Bonsoir, monsieur, mademoiselle. May I take your coat?” he asked with a very noticeable French accent.

  “Yes, thank you,” Molly said, removing her wool jacket. The Frenchman handed Dillon Molly’s claim ticket and disappeared carrying her jacket. They moved into the large crowded room. The room had beautiful hardwood oak flooring that had aged through decades of use. It was partially covered with a tightly woven rug that hinted of oriental origin, but blended perfectly wit
h the French tapestries on the wall and the Monet over the fireplace. Four sparkling chandeliers hung from the ceiling.

  The room was full of people talking loudly, but the string quartet to their right could still be heard clearly. A fire burned brightly in the fireplace. A man approached them from their left. “Mademoiselle Vaughan,” he said with a smile.

  Molly smiled. “Good evening,” she replied.

  Dillon could tell by her face that she had no idea who he was. She turned toward Dillon. “May I introduce Jim Dillon?”

  The man examined Dillon quickly. “Very pleased to meet you, monsieur, my name is Jean DeSalle. I am the assistant to the French ambassador to the United States.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  DeSalle’s attention moved back to Molly. “You do not remember me,” he said in his charming accent. He was of medium height, slim, and had dark brown hair combed back carefully. He was very handsome, slightly dark, and had riveting brown eyes.

  “I’m afraid I don’t. I’m sorry.”

  “That is all right. It is easier for me to remember a beautiful woman, than for her to remember me.” He continued, “We met at a reception at the State Department held for the French ambassador. When he presented his credentials to the Secretary of State.”

  Molly remembered going to a reception for the French ambassador, but certainly didn’t remember him. “Yes, I was there.”

  He laughed, a warm engaging sound. “Oh well, quickly forgotten once again. Won’t you please come in. There is some wonderful French wine available. Please help yourselves.”

  “Thank you,” Molly said.

  DeSalle was about to walk away when he turned to Molly. “Would it be possible for me to call you at some point?” he asked.

  “You mean professionally?” she asked in her usual direct way.

  He pulled his head back very slightly. “Of course professionally. Do you think I would approach you and ask for your phone number when you are with this gentleman?” he asked, smiling.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, opening her small purse to look for a business card. She handed one to him. He examined it.

  “Ah, yes, Deputy White House Counsel. Very impressive.”

  Molly didn’t answer.

  “Well,” DeSalle said. “I will speak with you later. Please make yourselves at home,” he said, as he moved toward the crowd.