The Price Of Power

by James W. Huston

  “No. You’re doing great. It’s just uphill.”

  “Yeah, it is. But the admiral’s relying on us. You never know what a jury’s going to do, and these admirals are probably as unpredictable as we’re going to get.”

  “You guys deciding how to spend all the money I’m paying you?” Billings interjected.

  “No, we don’t have that much time, that could take forever. Actually, we’re deciding whether to plead you guilty to a misdemeanor or to all the charges.”

  Billings was dumbstruck. His eyes narrowed. “You would do that without even talking to me about it?”

  “No, Admiral, we wouldn’t. We weren’t talking about that at all. I’m just pulling your chain,” Dillon said.

  “I’m not used to having my chain pulled. You should warn me next time.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  The spectators began filing in and the prosecutors entered the room.

  “Here we go,” Dillon said, sitting down.

  After the members of the court had taken their wooden chairs Captain Diamond said, “Call your next witness.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. The United States calls Mary Carson.”

  Molly realized she was up. Dillon got ready to take more copious notes on his white pad. He drew a line down the middle to keep track of Mary Carson’s testimony on the right and possible cross-examination questions on the left. Molly appeared calm and gave him a confident nod. Mary Carson entered from the back of the room, looking small in the cavernous gym. She walked to the witness box, took the oath, and was seated. An attractive blonde, she was dressed in a comfortable khaki skirt and short sleeved flowered blouse.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Carson,” Pettit began.

  “Mrs.,” she corrected him.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Carson. You’ve been called here as a witness in a case that arises out of the death of your husband. Are you aware of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” the prosecutor said, speaking slowly. “Would you please just summarize your educational background and a little bit about yourself.”

  “I grew up in Chicago and went to Wheaton College. I met my husband there, and we fell in love.” She paused and smiled slightly, remembering her college days. “We very much wanted to serve in the mission field. So after graduation, we both continued our studies. My major was German and his was Chinese. We moved to the San Francisco Bay Area, and he attended Berkeley to obtain his doctorate in Chinese, primarily Mandarin.”

  “Did you continue your studies as well?”

  “Yes, I received a master’s degree in German literature.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, after he’d finished his doctorate we still wanted to go into a mission field. We, of course, always expected that we would go to China. By the time he finished his doctorate, the Chinese were not receptive to American missionaries, so that door was closed. We considered Taiwan, but that didn’t have the same attraction for us. About that time, we encountered Wycliffe.”

  “And what is Wycliffe?” the prosecutor asked.

  “It’s an organization whose goal is to translate the Bible into languages of people who have not had the opportunity to have a written Bible in their language.”

  “Hasn’t the Bible been translated into virtually every language by now?” Pettit asked, encouraging some witness small talk to make her comfortable as he scanned his notes.

  “No,” she said, giving something close to a smile. “There are hundreds more. If you could count all the dialects and languages that have not even yet been written down—there are hundreds.”

  “Go on,” the prosecutor said.

  “Well, we were having discussions with Wycliffe, and they were very interested in my husband’s linguistic skills and our desire to work in the mission field. They asked him if he would consider coming on with Wycliffe, but we didn’t know where it would be or what would be involved. As we continued the process, we learned that they needed a missionary to go into the jungles of Irian Jaya.”

  “Where is Irian Jaya?”

  “It’s on an island, part of Indonesia—although it hasn’t been for that long. It’s the western half of New Guinea.”

  “Isn’t that where MacArthur had some pretty famous battles in World War II?”

  “Your Honor,” Molly interrupted, “this is irrelevant, World War—”

  “Overruled. Let’s get to the point, Counsel.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pettit said. “You may go on.”

  “Yes, exactly. But MacArthur was in New Guinea, the eastern half of the island, not Irian Jaya.”

  “So you went to Irian Jaya?” he asked, encouraging her to tell her story, to humanize her and her husband.

  “Sure,” she said, moving her hair away from her eyes unconsciously, her back perfectly straight. “Over time it was decided that we would go. We were Baptists, but members of an independent Baptist church, not a large denomination. That made it a little more difficult to raise funds, but eventually we were able to raise all of our support and go to Irian Jaya.”

  “And what did you do there?”

  “We lived with the native people and tried to learn their language. The first two years were spent simply trying to communicate with them and trying to write down in our own way what their sounds were, and what those sounds referred to. We developed a language that we could write down for them. And then we began translating the Bible into that new written language, or actually my husband did. I just helped him.”

  “And how did you do that?”

  “Well, my husband had a computer that he worked on and we had solar power that we set up in the middle of the jungle. We had a small hut in which we lived and in which my husband and I work … worked. We also gave birth to our daughter in that hut.”

  “Then what happened?” he asked, lowering his voice, using that knowing tone that alerted the spectators that something important was coming.

  Her face took on a pained expression. “We were about a third done with the Bible translation, and were continuing to work to finish it, when one day some men came into the jungle and kidnapped us.”

  “Did you have any warning that was going to happen?”

  “No.”

  “Did any of the natives who you lived with see you kidnapped?”

  “Yes … the natives don’t have guns. But they know what guns can do.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Well, we were taken to the seashore with bags over our heads, nylon bags, and we couldn’t see anything. They basically carried us to the coast, which took two days. At some point they put us in the back of a truck and drove us for several hours. I don’t know where to. Then we were put on an airplane—a plane that lands in the water—and were flown for a long time until we landed. When we landed, we were at the place where we were later found by the Marines.”

  “Were you harmed at all?”

  She shook her head gently. “No, not really. I was worried for my daughter more than anything.”

  “Was she harmed in any way?”

  “It was uncomfortable having a bag on your head for two days, and being dragged around. But we weren’t really harmed, just bruises and bumps.”

  “And then you were at the place where you were found, I think you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened there?”

  “In what respect?”

  “Sorry. I mean in terms of the last morning. When the Marines came ashore.” Pettit’s tone made it obvious he didn’t care about her, her husband, Wycliffe, or anything else about her story. He cared only that someone was killed and he could hang it on Admiral Billings. He asked about their background to elicit some sympathy from the court. If they didn’t feel any, no harm done.

  “We were in a kind of a buried house. Made out of cement. We slept there and spent most of our time there. We got up and were going outside. It was very stuffy in the underground.... Anyway, we were also going to eat breakfast. Rice, that�
�s all we got. Shortly after that, the three of us left the bunker. We got about a hundred yards away, then my husband went back because he forgot his Bible. We waited for him. Just standing there. He was there for just a moment, then the building just…” She stopped and closed her eyes as the image came back to her. The pain was visible in her body as her shoulders slumped forward. She was barely able to hold her head up. She continued. “The building blew up.”

  “And did you see what caused it to blow up?” he asked, his eyes now on Admiral Billings.”

  “I’m not sure, but I think it was a bomb.”

  The prosecutor’s head jerked back to her. “You mean a missile?”

  Molly leaped to her feet. “Objection, Your Honor, leading.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Are you sure it was a bomb?”

  “Asked and answered,” Molly said.

  “Overruled. You can answer that—are you sure it was a bomb?” the judge said.

  “Well, I saw something come down from the sky and I saw it go through the roof. Doesn’t that make it a bomb?”

  “You don’t really know the difference between a missile or a bomb, do you?” Pettit asked.

  “Not really, no.”

  “You saw something come out of the sky and go into the roof of the bunker, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s when it blew up?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know this is hard for you, but was your husband killed?”

  She tried to hold back her tears, but finally couldn’t. They rolled down her cheeks, but she fought not to make any sound. She sat silently, sobbing. At last she nodded.

  The prosecutor spoke softly. “I know this is very difficult for you, and I’m sorry to have to ask you this question, but in order for the court reporter to make a good record, she needs to have you answer that question verbally. Was your husband killed?”

  Finally a small sound came from her mouth. “Yes,” she said.

  “Your witness,” he said.

  Molly walked to the podium with a confident stride and placed her notebook in front of her with two pages of loose typed notes. She watched Mary struggle, and exchanged glances with the judge.

  “I’m very sorry for the loss of your husband…” Molly began softly.

  Pettit interrupted. “Your Honor, Ms. Vaughan’s sorrow for the decedent’s wife is in no way relevant to Admiral Billings having caused the death—”

  “Such an objection is argumentative and unnecessary, Your Honor,” Molly said loudly. “I was extending to the witness a common human courtesy with which the prosecutor is apparently unfamiliar. I request that the prosecutor be admonished and instructed not to make such unnecessary speeches in front of the court again.”

  “Commander Pettit, that comment was out of line. I expected better from you. Go ahead, Ms. Vaughan.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Mrs. Carson, are you aware that the Pacific Flyer, a United States ship, was attacked by several men—about twenty-five or thirty—hijacked out of Jakarta, Indonesia, and sunk in the Java Sea?”

  “No, I really wasn’t.”

  “You weren’t aware of it prior to your being kidnapped, were you?”

  “No.”

  “So I take it you’re not aware that they shot every single man aboard, except the captain, blew up the ship, and sank it?”

  Mary Carson stared with her mouth open, clearly confused.

  “Objection. What’s the relevance of this?” the prosecutor demanded.

  The judge’s upraised eyebrows indicated he wanted her to respond.

  “The relevance, Your Honor, is to show who her captors were, and how she and her family ended up where they did. Commander Pettit used the word ‘caused,’ a moment ago. Surely he is interested in the ‘cause’ of Dr. Carson’s death, with which Admiral Billings is being charged. It also supports the justification for what occurred later.”

  “Justification is completely irrelevant,” Pettit argued. “There was no authority. Whether an act is justified is relevant only if the act is conducted under proper authority—”

  “That’s not the case at all, Your Honor. What if there was an act of self-defense? We would need to know the circumstances before determining whether an officer acted properly, already knowing there was an order to do contrariwise. It could be the justification for disobeying the order in question.”

  “I’m afraid she’s right—” said the judge.

  “So now the defense is self-defense?” Petit interjected angrily. “How could this possibly be self-defense?”

  “I didn’t say it was,” Molly argued. “I was merely arguing that circumstances can be the foundation for justification for many acts. We haven’t even given our opening statement yet, so we’re entitled to explore all possible avenues of defense, whether the prosecutor can follow us or not. This is cross-examination, Your Honor,” Molly said. “We have to be allowed some leeway to tie it up—by law or other facts later on in the case.”

  “Overruled. Proceed, Ms. Vaughan.”

  “Thank you.”

  Pettit tossed his pencil on his pad in disgust as he took his seat again.

  “So were you aware that occurred?” Molly continued.

  “I had heard about it.”

  “Are you aware that it’s the same group that kidnapped you?”

  “Objection. Leading, exceeds the scope of questions asked on direct—”

  “We didn’t call this witness, Your Honor,” Molly said. “We have to be allowed to ask her relevant questions.”

  “Then she can call her back when she presents her case!” Pettit exclaimed. “This exceeds the scope of the direct examination.”

  “Overruled. I don’t want to make her come back. Continue.”

  “How would I know?” Mary Carson asked.

  “On the island did you become aware of whoever it was who seemed to be in charge of your captivity?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he call himself George Washington?”

  She squinted and hesitated. “I don’t remember that.”

  “What did he call himself?”

  “I don’t remember him calling himself anything.”

  “Was there one person who seemed to clearly be in charge?”

  “Yes, there was.”

  “Would you recognize him?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, cringing.

  “If I may, Your Honor…” She went behind the defense table, pulled out a display board about three by four feet, and put it on a stand to the side of the witness box. It was a blowup of a drawing of a face. “Now, Mrs. Carson—”

  “Objection!” Pettit exploded. “What is this? We’ve never seen this drawing before. She has laid no foundation and is showing it to the court. This is out of order!”

  “Ms. Vaughan? Do you not know how to introduce an exhibit?” Captain Diamond asked.

  “Of course, Your Honor. I was only asking her to examine the drawing.”

  “You must first show it to trial counsel, then give a copy to the bailiff for marking and my viewing. Then and only then, may you show it to the witness.”

  “Of course,” she said. She handed small copies to Pettit and the bailiff and tried to ignore the redness she felt rising up her neck to her face.

  “Is there some offer of proof?” Pettit asked after examining the drawing, having no idea who it was.

  “Yes, Your Honor. This is a composite drawing made by the U.S. Attorney’s office at the instruction of Captain Bonham before he was killed last week. He identified this man as the one who calls himself George Washington, the one in charge of the Pacific Flyer hijacking and the murder of the crew—”

  “Captain Bonham isn’t here to authenticate it, Your Honor! He is dead!” Pettit said, not liking the way this was going.

  “That’s true, your Honor, but if necessary I can call the U.S. Attorney to authenticate this—”

  “He can’t possibly! He never saw the man—”r />
  “Or if the court would prefer,” she said quietly, “I can call Mr. Dillon, who met this man on Bunaya, and was shot by him twice,” she said, pointing behind her to Dillon. “Once in the head, and once in the chest,” Molly said forcefully. She waited. No one said anything. She redirected her attention to Mary Carson. “Do you recognize this man?” Molly said.

  Mary studied the drawing momentarily. “Yes, I do. That’s the man who was in charge.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’ll never forget his face.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because he seemed nice. He was somewhat friendly, but there was a coldness in his eyes. A … cruelty.”

  “So the very man who took the Pacific Flyer and killed the sailors aboard is the one who kidnapped you, is that right?”

  “He wasn’t with the ones who came to Irian Jaya.”

  “I’m sorry?” Molly asked.

  “He was on the island when we arrived. Where we ended up. Where the cement underground thing was.”

  Molly indicated her understanding. “And was he there when the attack occurred?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw him the morning that my husband was killed.”

  “He was directing the defense of the island against the Marines, is that right?”

  “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said.

  “I want to show you another photograph, Mrs. Carson. You may have seen this one before, but probably not in this context.” She pulled out another board from behind the table and put it up on the stand. Pettit jumped up.

  “Objection, Your Honor. This photograph is completely irrelevant to this case! I ask that the court disregard it, and that Ms. Vaughan be instructed not to display it to the witness or the court at this time!”

  “What’s the relevance of this photo, Ms. Vaughan?” Diamond asked.

  “If you’ll allow me, I’ll lay that foundation,” Molly answered.

  “Please do it quickly,” the judge said.

  “Mrs. Carson, you’ve already recognized this man, who I’ll represent to you calls himself George Washington. Are you aware that two other Americans were kidnapped last week from Irian Jaya?”

  “Yes, I read about that in the newspapers.”

  “Are you familiar with the area from which they were kidnapped?”