It was a beautiful, warm morning even though the sun wasn’t yet up. Cars were traveling over the bridge to Ford Island and an occasional tourist wandered up to the doors of the National Park Service visitors’ center for the Arizona Memorial. Dillon and Molly were on the sidewalk waiting for Admiral Billings. They were five minutes early.
“Still have that tight feeling in your gut?” Molly asked.
“Yup,” Dillon said, stretching. “Like a cannonball.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s only the most important court-martial in a hundred years. Now to be handled by two fifth-year lawyers who have never tried a court-martial in their lives.” She pulled on the sides of her ponytail to tighten the rubber band. “We don’t even understand military procedure. Does Admiral Billings have any idea what he’s doing?”
“Sure,” Dillon said. “He’s taking a big risk. Experience doesn’t count for everything. Just because you’ve done something a lot doesn’t mean you’re good at it.” Dillon raised his arms over his head. “I’ve seen a lot of people try cases who’ve done it hundreds of times. And they’re terrible.” He saw a car come toward them. It wasn’t Billings. Dillon continued, “It’s like playing golf. You can absolutely groove a horrible swing.”
“I like this Hawaii in March thing,” she said. “It’s warm here. Back in Washington they’re freezing and here we are running in our shorts!”
A silver Mazda Miata wheeled off the highway and drove into the Arizona Memorial gravel parking lot. They could see Admiral Billings’s distinctive profile. As soon as the car came to a stop, he jumped out. He reached under the wheel well, placed his keys on top of the left rear tire, then jogged over to where they were waiting for him. “Morning,” he said. “Right on time. You guys stretched?”
“We’re ready,” Molly said.
The admiral put his hands on his hips. “Did you see the headlines this morning?” he asked, bending over to stretch his legs.
Dillon answered, “What headlines?”
“In the Honolulu Star-Bulletin.”
“What did it say?”
“ ‘Admiral charged with killing American released.’ Friendly, huh?” Billings continued his stretching movements as he spoke.
“Not very helpful.”
“You know how newspapers are. They love to stir things up. You saw all those—well, actually you didn’t—but you should have seen the parasites on the pier when the Constitution pulled in and they led me off in handcuffs. A circus. Journalists are like barnacles. They can’t do anything by themselves. All they can do is attach themselves to you and go where you end up.”
Dillon raised his eyebrows.
“Bunch of assholes,” Billings murmured. “Come on, let’s go,” he told them, starting his watch and taking off. Dillon and Molly fell in behind him. They ran through the parking lot, across a gravel road, and onto an asphalt path that curled down to the waterfront, where the waters of Pearl Harbor lapped against the reedy grass. The sweet smells of the lush foliage were intoxicating. For a few minutes, Dillon felt better than he had in a long time—free, secure, and excited. Then he remembered the burden he now shouldered—defending an admiral who had openly disobeyed the President. And he was broke.
“So what’s the plan?” Billings said, swiveling his head around so they could hear him.
“For what?” Dillon said, panting.
“For my defense.”
“Well, Molly and I were talking about that last night. I think we’re going to divide it up. I’m going to concentrate on the defense for disobeying an order, and she’s working on the manslaughter charge. We’re basically on target for the disobeying the order charge, Admiral. The question is going to be whether it was a legal order and whether you were justified. I’ve got the arguments ready.”
“What about manslaughter, Molly?” the admiral asked. “Where are you on that?”
“I just started thinking about it hard last night, Admiral. I’ve got a lot of ideas I want to work through. I don’t really want to bore you with them until I’ve checked to see if they have any validity.”
“Give me a hint, I’d like to hear how your brain works.”
“Well,” she said, “first, in reading the statement by Mary Carson, the missionary’s widow, I don’t know how she could possibly say what caused her husband’s death. How can they prove that it was our missile that hit that bunker?”
The admiral waved his hand dismissively. “It was our missile, all right. From an F-18. No doubt about it. I’ll admit that. What’s your next argument?”
Molly wondered if she should go on. For a few minutes the only sounds were made by their feet pounding against the path and the water lapping gently to their left, as the sun began to peek above the horizon. Finally, Molly continued. “Well, even though the missionary was killed, you had no way of knowing he was even there. It isn’t reckless disregard for the safety of other citizens if you have no way of knowing they’re there. There was no intent to put him in danger—”
Dillon said, “In military cases, you don’t have to have intent—”
Billings chimed in, “I knew somebody was going to get killed. Hell, I’m surprised they aren’t charging me with a hundred fifty murders for all the bad guys who got killed in the attack. That’s probably next. Anyway, go on.”
Dillon struggled for something wise to say, something that would impress the first client he’d ever had. At last he gave up. “There really isn’t anything else right now, Admiral. We’re just getting into this.”
Billings glanced at them, running beside him. “So far, I’m not very impressed. You’re smart enough, but you don’t have a plan.”
“We’re working on it, Admiral, we just haven’t come up with some magic idea guaranteed to get you off.” Dillon was breathing hard. “We plan to argue that the order was illegal because it went against a direct provision in the Constitution.”
Billings flicked his head again. “We need more. Maybe I was expecting too much from you too early, but I don’t think so. I want a plan, and I want it by noon. I want you both to spend the morning unscrewing your brains and trying to think straight. How you’re going to get me off and on what basis. It’s got to be legitimate and honorable. None of this technicality bullshit.” They ran on in relative silence for several minutes. Finally the admiral slowed. “Let’s turn back here,” he said as he turned around and headed back down the path the way they’d come. “Did you notice the restaurant where we started, the Marina?” Both Dillon and Molly said they had. “Meet me there on the second deck at noon exactly. I’ll have a table, we’ll sit by the window overlooking the Arizona Memorial, and you’ll tell me your plan. Agreed?”
Dillon replied, “Sure, Admiral. Fine. Nothing like a little incentive to get your plan together in a hurry.”
Billings didn’t smile. “I’m asking a lot of you two. I should pay you.”
“No, Admiral. This is on us. We came out here to do it for you. Don’t deprive us of that.”
“I’m not depriving you of anything. You’ll starve to death.”
“We’ll make it.”
“Okay, I won’t force you. Come on, let’s pick up the pace.”
“I could get used to this lifestyle,” Dillon said, tucking a small three-ring binder under his arm as he and Molly neared the Marina restaurant.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve worn shorts to work,” Molly said, gazing past the restaurant to the aqua-colored harbor beyond. The halyards of the moored sailboats clanged against the aluminum masts lending a distinctly nautical sound to the scene.
They climbed the wooden stairs to the second-floor restaurant. Dillon stood in front of the hostess and marveled at their surroundings. The restaurant wasn’t particularly attractive in its design or furnishings, but it had open walls instead of windows. Tropical trees and plants outlined the view of the harbor. He turned his attention back to the hostess, a Filipina woman in a flowered dress. “We’re here for Admiral Billings. I believe h
e reserved a table.” The woman checked her reservation list. “Yes. Right here. Four people. Are all of you here?”
“Four?” Molly asked. “Well, we’re here. Can we sit down?”
“Fine. Please follow me,” she said, and led them to their table. They sat in the two chairs that offered the best view, feeling a little guilty about taking them before the admiral had even arrived. “This is just gorgeous,” Dillon said appreciatively as he took in the scene before them. “See the Arizona Memorial out there?” he said, pointing. “And the USS Missouri. A real battleship. The bookends of the war—it started with the Arizona and finished with the Missouri.”
“Finished?”
“It’s where the surrender was signed.”
“We should go out there before we leave,” she said.
Dillon agreed. He studied the different shades of blue in the bay and the green on the hills. Today it was peaceful and soothing, but Dillon hadn’t forgotten the attack that had taken place here. It didn’t take much effort to visualize the Japanese Zeros sweeping down from the sky over the hills, heading for the ships moored there on a sleepy Sunday morning. Hundreds of unsuspecting men killed without warning, without a declaration of war or even of hostility.
Molly picked up her menu. “Thanks for letting me help.”
“Help with what?” He was pulled back to reality.
“With Admiral Billings. I was afraid you’d still think of me as an enemy.”
“I never did. Even when you were trying to sabotage what I was doing. Plus, I need all the help I can get in this deal—I don’t really know what I’m doing. I came out here to help, not run the trial. I can’t decide whether to declare my incompetence now or wait until it’s obvious.”
“Here comes the admiral.” They stood up together. Admiral Billings and Carolyn approached the table. Billings shook Dillon’s hand and Molly’s.
“You made it. I’ve brought Carolyn, I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” they both said. They sat down, the admiral and Carolyn facing the restaurant.
“Let’s decide what we want, then I’d like to hear about your plan,” Billings said, as he waited for Carolyn to examine the menu. He always ordered the same thing.
Dillon tried to suppress his anxiety. “Do you come here a lot?” he asked.
“Since I was first stationed in Hawaii,” the admiral replied. His glance took in the restaurant. “Lots of Navy and Marines here. Always are. We’re close to Pearl Harbor and Makalapa and CINCPAC.”
The waitress came and took their orders and returned in a few minutes with glasses of iced tea for each of them. “Okay,” Billings said, “now, tell me what you have in mind.”
“Well—” Dillon waited as the hostess seated four Marine officers at the table next to them. He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “This morning we went through things that have to be done, things that ought to be done, and some additional things. We’ve prepared a notebook which summarizes each of them.”
“Let me see it,” the admiral said, reaching out his hand.
“I’d like to walk through it with you.”
“Sure, go ahead.” The admiral saw the waitress approaching. “Hold on. The food’s coming. Let’s wait until after we’ve eaten.”
Dillon placed the notebook under his chair.
Molly spoke. “How are you taking all of this, Mrs. Billings?”
Carolyn’s face was weary. “It’s not what I had in mind when my husband became an admiral. It’s all rather scary. I don’t see that he’s done anything wrong.”
“This is a power struggle between Congress and the President. He just got caught in the middle.”
“Molly worked for the President until two days ago,” the admiral said, biting into his BLT.
Carolyn was impressed and curious. “What did you do for him?”
“I was the Deputy White House Counsel.”
“Oh,” Carolyn said, not quite sure what to say next.
A small man in a Hawaiian shirt approached the table. “Are you Admiral Billings?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Billings said. “What can I do for you?”
The man held a small blue package in his hands. “I was asked by a friend of yours to congratulate you on your release and deliver this to you.”
Billings put out his hands and took the package. “What friend?” he queried.
“A Mr. Washington.”
Billings’s forehead wrinkled. “I don’t know anybody named Washington. Is this some kind of a joke?”
“Open the package,” the man said.
Dillon and Molly watched the admiral unwrap the package. Too late they saw the man reach under his shirt and pull out a gun. He moved away from the table and pointed the weapon at Billings. The admiral tried to push his chair back to stand up. Carolyn screamed, “No!”
The man fired once and Billings was thrown back against the low wall. The gunman stepped forward to get a better angle on Billings, who was now lying on the floor. At the next table the Marine officers jumped to their feet. The nearest Marine grabbed the gunman’s arm and pushed it up. The gun fired again. The bullet slammed into the wooden railing above Billings’s head. The man with the gun turned and leveled it at the Marine who had hit his arm. He fired and the Marine fell to the floor in agony. The other Marines pushed the table and chairs out of the way, trying to get at the gunman, who was backing away rapidly from Billings’s table. Dillon and Molly stood frozen. The gunman, still moving backward, turned to Dillon. The Marines stayed back as the man waved his gun back and forth at them before focusing on Dillon. “You Dillon?” he asked.
Dillon didn’t answer.
“Mr. Washington said to give you present too.” He aimed at Dillon but the three Marines rushed him before he could get a clear shot. The fourth ear-shattering bang echoed through the restaurant as the bullet raced by Dillon and hit the wooden post behind him sending splinters into his back. The gunman fired wildly again and then dashed out of the restaurant. He raced down the stairs with the three Marines right behind him. A black KX-11 motorcycle was at the bottom of the steps with another man on it, its engine running. The man jumped on the bike and they tore out of the parking lot and sped up the hill hitting sixty miles an hour in two and a half seconds.
“Call the police!” one of the Marines shouted as he saw the motorcycle accelerate out of sight. He watched it turn on to the main road.
Inside, Carolyn and Dillon were examining Billings.
“Call an ambulance!” Carolyn screamed. Billings lay on the floor with his eyes half closed. Blood oozed from the left side of his chest. “Call an ambulance!” she screamed again.
Dillon looked around frantically for a phone. He suddenly realized Molly was sitting against the wall holding her arm, blood running through her fingers.
Chapter Sixteen
It was probably just to humiliate him. They knew he couldn’t identify any of the prisoners, but they had insisted he come down and look at the photographs they had taken of each one of them. As if he would be able to tell from the pictures what he couldn’t tell in person. What a waste. Still, there was always the chance. Maybe this would be the breakthrough.
Clay Bonham climbed out of the rental car and locked the doors. He fished in his pocket for two quarters and put them into the parking meter. He unfolded the envelope on which he had written the address of the U.S. Attorney’s office, checked the number on the building across the street, and stepped off the curb. He waited behind his Taurus for a break in the traffic so he could cross the busy four-lane street. A white van was double-parked on the other side of the street. He took advantage of the van’s position and trotted across three lanes quickly. He headed between two parked cars as he approached the other side of the street.
He didn’t see the white van start to move. It accelerated quickly. The sound of its engine was lost in the general street noise. Bonham looked to his right just in time to see the white van bearing down on him. He was in the mid
dle of the lane when the van caught him. It had only been moving for fifty feet, but it was enough.
The bumper of the van hit him in the knees, taking his legs out from under him. His shoulder hit the top of the grill and his head cracked against the windshield like an egg falling on a tile floor. He was hurled onto the street and lay motionless as the white van slowed to the speed of surrounding traffic and disappeared around the corner at the next intersection.
“Now we both know what it’s like to get shot,” Dillon said to Molly, staring at the bandage circling the top of her arm, remembering his two bruises from where Washington had shot him on Bunaya.
“But I didn’t have a bulletproof vest on,” she replied. The bullet had cut a path through the skin on her arm down to the muscle about a quarter inch deep and two inches long. Deep enough to hurt like hell but not enough to deprive her of the use of her arm for even a day. Molly stroked Carolyn’s shoulder in the waiting room of Honolulu General Hospital.
Dillon leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets. He sucked on a Life Saver. Carolyn eyed the clock. “He’s been in surgery for an hour and a half.”
Dillon tried to lighten her mood. “Probably didn’t have an anesthetic bottle big enough to make him lose consciousness. They had to get an extra one.”
Carolyn didn’t smile. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked Molly.
“I’m fine. It just hurts a little.”
“Weren’t you afraid?”
Silently, Molly bent her head and nodded, unable to talk about how frightened she had been.
The door slid open and Billings’s surgeon came in. They all looked at him anxiously.
“He’s going to be fine,” he said quickly, taking off his green surgical cap.
A low sob escaped Carolyn and she closed her eyes. “How bad is it?” she added, after she’d regained control.
“Not bad at all. You’re not going to believe what happened. The bullet hit your husband in the left chest, Mrs. Billings, just above his left breast, but it didn’t penetrate very deeply.”
The Price Of Power Page 18
