The Price Of Power

by James W. Huston

  “After sending in fifteen hundred Marines to attack two hundred civilians on this island, the U.S. military brought these men back, transporting them in the brig of the USS Constitution. Then the Navy Intelligence folks decided they would question these men.” Marsh looked at Babb. “What did they think they were questioning them for? To gather additional intelligence? The attack was over! Admiral Billings was finally bringing his battle group home. And supposedly they extracted a confession from one of the defendants, which they now want to use against all the defendants.

  “Well, Your Honor, fortunately, this has happened before. In the case of the United States vs. Yunis, the FBI tried to get a confession on a slow boat ride back to the United States from a supposed hijacker. The court did not allow the government to use that confession. The facts were almost identical. The government should not be able to use this confession against these men. And without it,” Marsh said, “there is no evidence. None.

  “It’s certainly a tragedy that Mr. Bonham, the captain of the Pacific Flyer, was killed in a traffic accident recently. My sympathies go out to his family.... But it’s important to note that Mr. Bonham had an opportunity to view a lineup with every single one of these defendants and couldn’t pick one person out as having been on the Pacific Flyer at the time of the crime. These men were on an island in the country of Indonesia. They were attacked without notice by an American battle group operating contrary to the direct orders of the President of the United States. To then capture these men, bring them back to the United States, and charge them with a crime when we can’t even identify them as having been there is an outrage. There is not one piece of evidence that my client had anything to do with that crime.”

  He ran his hands through his hair as the judge watched. “We’ve said a lot more in our papers, Your Honor. There’s a lot more to be said. But I don’t want to just repeat myself. If you have any questions, I’d be happy to answer them. Otherwise I’m sure the court would like to hear from the prosecutor as to why these defendants should not be allowed to go home. Thank you.” He walked to the counsel table and sat down next to his client, who was seated there as a representative of the defendants.

  “Mr. Babb?” asked Judge Tanaka.

  Harry D. Babb’s face was full of conflict and unhappiness. His eyes were dark. He reached the podium and addressed the judge. “We’ve dealt with all the issues that Mr. Marsh has raised in our papers. I really have nothing to add to that. Thank you.” Babb returned to the prosecutors’ table.

  Judge Tanaka stared at Babb openmouthed. “You have no argument?” she asked.

  Babb replied, “I’ve nothing additional to my papers, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Babb, I’ve been on tins bench for ten years. I’ve encountered many U.S. Attorneys during that time. I’ve never seen one fail to argue a motion. You haven’t even mentioned the appellate opinion in Yunis that Mr. Marsh failed to mention.”

  Babb forced a shrug as everyone’s eyes focused on him. “I just don’t have anything to add, Your Honor.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Very well then,” said Judge Tanaka. “Based on the motion of the defendants to exclude the confession, having reviewed the opposition filed by the government, I hereby grant the motion. I assume the government will review whether to proceed with the prosecution based on this ruling. Court is adjourned.” She stood quickly and left the courtroom.

  The room erupted in noise as the spectators hurried to leave. The defendants listened as the translators worked their way from one to another explaining what had happened. The smiles on their faces as they learned about what had happened gave the others hope and reassurance.

  Babb closed his briefcase and walked over to Marsh. “Hope you’re happy,” he said curtly. “How does it feel to represent a bunch of murderers?”

  Marsh was amused. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t see any around here. I see people falsely accused based on no proof. How does it feel to have kept people in jail for no reason?”

  Babb turned to walk away, angry and disgusted.

  “Cat got your tongue, Mr. Harry D. Babb, ferocious prosecutor all the way from Washington?” Marsh asked. “I never thought I’d see the day when you didn’t argue a motion.”

  Babb stopped. “You think it was my choice?”

  “Whose choice was it?”

  “Think about it,” he said caustically. “Think about the picture that’s been in the paper. Think about who owns the U.S. Attorney’s office.”

  “You telling me this decision was political?”

  “I’m telling you that you work for terrorists who kill and murder and extort and kidnap.”

  “You don’t really believe that, or you’d have said it to the judge. If you can’t say it to the judge, don’t say it to me.”

  “I’ll say to you what I think,” Babb replied. “And that’s what I think. But you might tell these friends of yours, that some day, somewhere, when they least expect it, they’ll get theirs.”

  “Their what?”

  “Their just desserts,” Babb said as he pushed through the gate between the spectators and the attorneys’ tables, allowing it to swing freely behind him. “I promise,” he said softly.

  Dillon had tried cases before. Most had been as a prosecutor of criminal cases, in a program called “Rent-a-DA.” Many of the bigger law firms in San Diego sent their associates to the DA’s office for a month and kept them on the firm payrolls. The DA got a very competent lawyer for a month for free, and the lawyer got valuable trial experience he otherwise would never have gotten. He enjoyed the seven trials in the month he was in the program, but they were DUIs and shoplifting, not felonies. He had tried a few civil cases as well, mostly personal injury cases. He had been thought of in his firm as extraordinarily good, with a very bright future. But there wasn’t a partner in the firm who would have given him a million-dollar case to try or a felony case to defend based on his experience.

  Dillon lay awake and stared at the ceiling. His stomach churned and he was actually aware of his heart beating, which made him even more uncomfortable. It reminded him of the morning of his first mock trial in law school at the University of Virginia, when he woke up with diarrhea. He forced himself to breath deeply. He was out of his league. Admiral Billings’s trust was misplaced. He had tried to explain it to him, but the admiral was determined to have Dillon defend him. He trusted Dillon. Too late now. Billings’s trial started in a few hours.

  He squinted at the alarm clock again. Four-thirty was still an hour away. He threw the covers off and got out of bed. In the living room, he stared into the darkness over the ocean. Pulling open the sliding glass door, he stepped onto the balcony. He saw the surf below him and inhaled the salt air, hoping to clear his mind. Growing up in San Diego, he had always been renewed by the ocean. Whenever he was down or lonely, he would head for the beach, and feel refreshed. Hawaii gave him the same sense of comfort.

  He stepped inside and left the door open to let the sound of the rolling surf fill the apartment. He sat down at the dining room table and turned on his computer. He pulled up the pages he thought he would need on the first day, his pretrial motions, opening statement, and the cross-examination outlines for the witnesses he expected the prosecutor to call. His anxiety diminished as he sipped some coffee and channeled his energy into the unending preparation.

  He crammed, as if it were for an exam, until he had to rush to get ready. He was out the door by six-thirty and on his way to the Makalapa BOQ, where he was to meet with Admiral Billings, Carolyn, and Molly, their new boarder.

  Admiral Billings and Carolyn were watching for Dillon and went out to greet him. Molly was behind them. Billings was wearing his immaculate white uniform. Carolyn wore a rose-colored dress, which made her creamy skin look even softer. Together, they looked like the ultimate all-American couple. The quarterback and the cheerleader thirty years later. The admiral placed his cover on his head and pulled down the bill wit
h the imposing gold braid. He measured it to ensure that it was three finger-widths above his nose, as he had since he was a midshipman. “Good morning, Mr. Dillon.”

  “Good morning, Admiral, Carolyn,” Dillon said.

  “Morning,” Molly said.

  “You ready to go, Mr. Dillon?”

  “Yes, sir. Let’s do it.”

  “Roger that,” the admiral said and motioned them down the sidewalk.

  The admiral’s driver saw him and pulled up in front of the Bachelor Officers Quarters. The petty officer jumped out and opened the trunk where Dillon and Molly put their briefcases. Admiral Billings and Carolyn sat in the back with Molly, and Jim slid into the front next to the driver. It was the usual square American sedan that the government seemed to buy by the million.

  As they neared the gymnasium, they saw the satellite vans. Wires, cables, dishes, and mounted television cameras were everywhere, fighting for the limited space and access to the doorways. The same group that had been there to see the admiral led off in handcuffs was now lined up to see him led off in leg irons. The military trial of the century, it had been called. The Speaker’s boy against the President. That one particularly irked Billings.

  They made their way through the crowd to the door and into the gym. The base commander had seen this as an opportunity to show off Pearl Harbor. The old gym he had selected, Bloch Arena, built in 1934, had been the recreation center and the MWR facility—Morale, Welfare, and Recreation—for years. It was where you could play basketball or rent snorkeling gear. Needless to say, it was not your everyday courtroom. But the word had gone out. New palm trees had been planted where last week there had been pavement. The entire gym had been refurbished and painted. Carpeting had been put down and a huge wooden bench for the judge had been built of imported mahogany.

  A brand-new sound system was in place and hundreds of seats for spectators had been added by installing wooden pews, like a church. A wooden barrier, with an old-fashioned swinging gate, sort of a waist-high fence, had been erected between the counsel tables and the spectators’ gallery. Dillon, Molly, Admiral Billings, and Carolyn took in the scene from the doorway.

  “Wow,” Billings said. “I’ve been in this gym a thousand times. I never figured I’d have to get court-martialed to see it get painted.”

  Dillon was troubled. “Someone’s sure making a big deal out of this.”

  “When was the last time a President convened a court-martial?” Billings asked.

  “I don’t think it’s ever happened,” Dillon said, as they started down the aisle in the middle of the room. They went through the gate and Billings, Dillon, and Molly sat down at the counsel table to their right. Carolyn took a seat directly behind them.

  Billings sat in the middle of the table facing the bench. Molly was to his right. Dillon put his briefcase to the side of the table. He took out three blue notebooks and placed them in front of him, his hands shaking. Billings spoke to Dillon without looking at him. “Hands always stop shaking once the fighting starts.”

  Dillon didn’t say anything. He had barely heard Billings.

  Billings moved his chair back slightly to get comfortable.

  Commander Pettit came through the gate a few minutes later. He was carrying a briefcase and a woman following him, a lieutenant commander, was carrying two more. Dillon noted the insignia on the woman’s shoulder bars. JAG officer. He was beginning to learn the uniforms, but still didn’t have it down completely. Line officers had a star next to the stripes on their shoulder bars. JAG officers had a funny insignia that he now recognized.

  Dillon studied the lieutenant commander. Her dark brown hair was cut short in a boyish yet attractive haircut. She seemed completely calm, which annoyed him.

  Dillon got up and walked over to the prosecutor, putting out his hand. “Morning,” he said.

  The prosecutor looked at his outstretched hand and shook it quickly. “Morning. This is Rachel Annison. She’s going to be assisting me.”

  “Good morning, Ms. Annison,” Dillon said. “That’s Molly Vaughan over there, she’s assisting me as well,” he added, pointing to Molly. He motioned Molly over and she crossed to the prosecutors’ table.

  “Good morning, I’m Molly Vaughan.”

  “Yes, I heard,” Rachel said. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Mr. Pettit,” Molly said, greeting the prosecutor.

  “Good morning,” Pettit said. “And, Ms. Vaughan, only junior officers are referred to as ‘Mister’ in the Navy. Lieutenant commander and below,” he said slowly. “You address me as ‘Commander.’ ”

  “Okay,” Molly said, unimpressed.

  “All rise,” said a chief petty officer in dress whites. “United States Military Court is now in session, Captain William J. Diamond presiding. Please be seated and come to order.”

  Captain Diamond’s seat was in the middle of the large bench, with three admirals to his right and two to his left. They were impressive in their tropical whites—short-sleeved uniforms with ribbons and gold-laden shoulder boards.

  “Before we begin,” Captain Diamond said, “let me introduce the members of the court.” His voice boomed through the gym from the strategically placed speakers. He sounded like the Wizard of Oz. “To my right is Admiral Gross, the Deputy Chief of Naval Operations for Air. Next to him is Admiral Braynard, Commander Naval Air Forces Atlantic and Vice Admiral Hecker, AIRPAC. To my immediate left is Admiral Sorrell, Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet, and to his left is Admiral Whitacre, Commander of the Seventh Fleet.” He looked over at Dillon. “Since the charges have already been read, I take it, Mr. Dillon, your client will waive additional reading of the charges?”

  “That’s correct, Your Honor,” Dillon said, standing quickly.

  “Very well,” Captain Diamond said. He scanned the people seated in the gymnasium and spoke directly into the microphone in front of him. “I know you are all here to see this trial. Military trials are open to the public.... But if anyone abuses the privilege of attending this public trial in such a manner as to disrupt the proceedings or make it difficult for anyone else to hear or participate, he or she will be removed. I intend to conduct a full and fair hearing of all the allegations and facts. I expect cooperation from everyone in and outside of this room. Is that clear to everyone?” He watched as heads bobbed. “Are you ready to proceed, Commander?”

  “I am.”

  “Very well. You may make your opening statement.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Pettit replied, straightening his notebook on the podium. He adjusted the microphone as the crowd behind him quieted in anticipation.

  “May it please the court,” he said, his voice amplified throughout the cavernous room. “This is a very simple case.” He glanced briefly at Dillon and Billings. “It is difficult to conceive of a simpler one. It is remarkable that this case has even come to trial. Yet here we are. There are two charges. The first, disobeying a direct order of a superior. In this instance the superior is not simply a superior officer, but is in fact the President of the United States himself. To even get an order directly from the President of the United States is remarkable enough—to then disobey that order, is shocking. But that is exactly what Admiral Billings did.” He glared at Billings, who glared back at him.

  “Members of the court, you have before you an officer who has had nothing but glowing fitness reports, has been considered a golden boy since his graduation from the Naval Academy, and whose career is the envy of many in the Naval service. No one disputes that. He was a commander of VF-84 in the Mediterranean aboard the USS Nimitz. He was the commanding officer of the USS Constitution. He was the admiral in charge of Task Force 77. He’s married and has grown children. He has led what most believe to be an exemplary life as a Naval officer. But somewhere, deep in that psyche, is a man who was willing to disobey a direct order of the Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces. A man who was willing to put American lives on the line, to march directly into harm’s way, against the will of th
e Joint Chiefs of Staff and the President, and cause the death of over a hundred-fifty Indonesians and twenty Americans. Death. Permanence.

  “It is virtually inconceivable that this has occurred. It verges on mutiny.” The courtroom was full of murmuring and conversation at the mention of the word mutiny. Pettit surveyed the gallery and then turned back to the court. “It is shocking to think of mutiny in the United States Navy. It has never occurred. But that’s essentially what this is. The usurpation of the very power to engage or not engage the forces of the military.” He waved his hand. “But that is not what the admiral is charged with. His charge is much more simple, at least initially. Violation of a direct order of the President of the United States. That direct order was clear: To disregard the so-called Letter of Reprisal that Congress passed, and to return to Pearl Harbor.

  “Admiral Billings decided that he was above the law. He was above the order that was given to him by the President. He didn’t need to obey it because he’s Admiral Ray Billings,” the prosecutor said, directing his attention to the admiral, putting a bite in the B in Billings.

  “This court will have no difficulty at all in concluding that the order was in existence, and it has already been determined that the order was legal. That issue is, therefore, no longer before this court and that argument, that excuse, is no longer available to Admiral Billings.” His eyes moved once more to Billings.

  He turned then and made eye contact with each member of the court. “So there will be one easy decision. The next one, the charge of negligent homicide, will be a little more difficult, but the result will be the same. The court may be inclined to feel sympathetic to Admiral Billings, who was simply trying to do his job. How was he to know that an American missionary was being held in a bunker? How was he to know that his ‘Go’ order to attack this group of Indonesians, on Indonesian soil, I might add, would result in the death of an American who was not in the attacking force? Or nineteen Marines when their helicopter was shot down? If he had obeyed the order, the battle group would have turned and gone the other way and the deaths would not have happened. When one disobeys a direct order of a superior, without understanding the full implications, certain things follow. You bear the risk.