“Your call, Tony,” Monroney said.
“I have to run the duty roster,” Mucci said. “Good night, Major.”
“Good night,” Margit replied.
They watched him leave the club. “You, Margit?”
“Thanks, no. I’d better get back.”
“Just a quick one, Margit. Please. For old times’ sake.”
And so they sat in the lounge, he sipping a gin and tonic, she looking at an untouched Serrana.
“Glad you could join us,” he said.
“I enjoyed it. Your friend’s a funny guy.”
“Almost as funny as Tony.”
“Almost,” Margit said, enjoying another laugh.
“He’s a good officer. Loyal, conscientious, bright. He won’t win the Pentagon personality award, but he gets the job done. As for Lewis, the only problem is, he dominates a conversation. I’d hoped to have more time to talk with you.”
“I wouldn’t have had much to say.”
“You have a lot to say,” he said. “You know, Margit, I think a lot about Panama, about the time we spent together there.”
She was now uncomfortable, and wondered whether he sensed it. Panama was then, in the past, nothing to dwell upon. “I don’t,” she said, knowing she sounded nasty. It was also dishonest because she had thought about Panama many times, especially that aspect of the assignment that had brought her into a brief but close relationship with the handsome man sitting next to her. She hadn’t known he was married then; she hadn’t asked, nor had he offered the information. She’d found out later about Celia and their two children. It had upset her, although their relationship was over by that time. She’d resented him for not telling her that he had a family. She’d felt used, assumed she’d been just another conquest by a married man who’d undoubtedly conquered many.
As though reading her thoughts, he said, “You know, Margit, I meant what I said in Panama.”
“What was that?”
“That you represented something special for me. I’m not a womanizer. I don’t play around, take off my wedding band and apply tanning cream whenever I’m on TDY. There was a lot more to my feelings about you than a fling.”
She remembered the night he told her that. That was the night he’d admitted that he was married. She didn’t believe it then. Now, it wasn’t a matter of not believing. It just didn’t matter.
“Look, Margit, I’m not suggesting we rekindle what we had.”
“Thank you very much.”
“But I don’t see any reason why we can’t be friends now that you’re here in Washington. I’d like to feel we could get together and talk, laugh like we did tonight, enjoy each other’s company.” He smiled and held up his hands. “On a platonic level, of course.”
Margit said nothing.
“Is there someone in your life, someone special?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Military?”
“No, another lawyer. On Senator Wishengrad’s staff. We met in law school.”
“Senator Wishengrad. The bane of the Pentagon. Must make for some interesting dialogue between you and your friend.”
Margit laughed. “Well, we do come at the military establishment from different points of view.”
“That’s probably good,” said Monroney. “Keeps things from getting dull.”
“Sure does,” said Margit. “Look, Bill, I really do have to get back. This was a lovely evening, and I thank you for inviting me.” She stood.
He remained seated. “One of the things I wanted to ask you, Margit, was about the Joycelen murder. You’ve got yourself one hell of an assignment defending Cobol.”
“That is putting it mildly.”
“I assume you’ll be interviewing me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I was there—I went into the building afterward. Remember?”
“I have photos, and the statement you wrote. That should be enough. If it isn’t, I know where to find you.”
They walked to the club’s front door. “Can we get together again, just the two of us, to talk, a couple of air-force buddies?”
“Not for a long time, Bill. The Cobol case will have me tied up for the duration. Thanks again. I enjoyed it.” They shook hands.
It was too late to call the early-to-bed, early-to-rise Mac Smith. It would wait until tomorrow. Margit watched television until midnight, then climbed under the covers and lay awake for a long time. Things seemed to be getting out of control, a situation with which she was singularly unfamiliar, and that she didn’t like. Maybe that was what happened as you got older, she mused.
If so, who needs birthdays?
14
Margit came out of a long, dull Labor Day weekend revved up and rarin’ to go.
During a long, leisurely run on Monday that worked up a cleansing sweat, she came to the conclusion that she’d been acting wimpish, had allowed herself to become muddled with confusion and afraid to take the reins in the Cobol case. Her assistant and investigator would arrive on Wednesday. They would need immediate direction from her, definitive, sure supervision. She’d seen ineffectual leaders in the military who, because they weren’t confident in themselves and in their mission, transmitted weakness to those reporting to them. That wouldn’t be the case with her.
She was aware, however, that her newfound confidence was based, in part, on two hours spent on Sunday with Mackensie Smith. Their answering machines had finally caught up with each other and had put their respective human owners together.
Smith had agreed to work with Margit as an unofficial adviser. Yes, he would accept a modest fee from Mrs. Cobol, which would be shared equally with the Washington Humane Society and the Coalition for the Homeless. It didn’t matter to Margit who ended up with the money, as long as Smith was a paid adviser.
They agreed that Smith would review all materials gathered by Margit for the defense, and would help her structure a strategy to use during the court-martial. “But strictly in the background,” he’d said.
“But won’t the court have to be made aware that other counsel is involved?” she asked.
“Probably, but you’re the trial attorney.” Smith laughed. “Just the opposite from when I was practicing law in this city. The other people in my firm often wrote the script. All I had to do was deliver it before a jury, with feeling. In this case, I’ll support you the best I can, but you’re in the spotlight. You take the heat.”
“Fair enough,” she’d said.
They’d also discussed specific strategies, each keyed to how the court-martial might progress. As it stood, Cobol had pleaded Not Guilty, and the focus of Margit’s preparation would be to counter tangible evidence presented by the prosecution and to create a sufficient level of doubt in the minds of the court-martial board as to his guilt. If the investigation failed to turn up sufficient hard information to render the prosecution’s evidence questionable, they agreed that she would have to be prepared to go to another level, perhaps to attempt to point the finger of guilt in another direction if allowed to do so by the court or, as a last resort, to seek to save Cobol’s life through an insanity plea.
“That would depend upon whether there was some personal relationship between Cobol and Joycelen,” Smith said.
“You say Cobol flat-out denies a homosexual relationship with Joycelen. Believe him?”
Margit nodded. “Yes, I do, just as I’ve come to believe he’s innocent.”
“Based upon what?”
“A gut reaction. Being with him.” She held up her hands in mock defense. “I know, I know, Mac, I’m probably naive. But his answers to my questions have a ring of truth to them. Either he’s telling the truth or he’s a skilled liar.”
“Which would make him a credible witness on his own behalf,” Smith said.
“I’m not sure about that.”
Margit asked Smith if he would be willing to meet with Cobol. Smith said he would.
“Which takes you out of the shadows,”
Margit said.
“It can be done quietly. Set it up.”
“Okay.”
As she was getting ready to leave Smith’s house, he said, “You do know that you might be treading on thin ice, Margit, bringing me in like this. You say your boss didn’t like the idea. How are you going to appease him?”
“By telling him that the accused requested civilian counsel.”
“Which is not entirely true.”
“Not entirely a lie, either. All I did was make the suggestion to Cobol and his mother. They decided it was a good idea. I don’t think I’ll have any problem with Bellis. He’s tough, but fair.”
On Wednesday morning following the long weekend, Margit sat in her new office across the hall from Bellis. With her were marine warrant officer Peter Woosky, the legal assistant sent her from Quantico, and an investigator from the Army Military Police Operations Agency, Master Sergeant Matthew Silbert.
Margit judged Woosky to be about fifty, a man whose face said “weary.” Ashy jowls hung loose from the framework of his long face. His eyes were large, brown, and sad. His gray hair looked tinderbox dry, a brushfire in search of a match.
Silbert, on the other hand, was bright-eyed, intense, and quick to smile. He wore a classic crew cut and was spit-and-polish in his dress, as opposed to Woosky, for whom, rare among marines, uniform maintenance was evidently not a high priority.
“Well, gentlemen, nice to have you here. I can certainly use the help.”
Silbert smiled. Woosky did not.
“Have you been filled in on the nature of this case and the person I’m defending?”
Woosky shook his head, but Silbert said, “I know you’re defending Captain Robert Cobol in the murder of Dr. Richard Joycelen. Once I knew that, I learned a lot from reading the papers and watching TV. If you can believe them.”
“They have it right so far,” Margit said. “Captain Cobol denies the charges against him despite physical, if circumstantial, evidence to the contrary. The weapon used to kill Joycelen, according to the prosecution, belonged to Cobol. It has the serial number that was checked out to him, and his initials are carved in the butt. Less tangible, but certainly not insignificant, is that he was in the vicinity at the time of the murder. As you know, it was Saturday morning. And, the papers speculate, he was involved in a homosexual relationship with Joycelen.”
“Is that true?” Woosky asked.
“I don’t think so. Captain Cobol denies it. Joycelen was married twice, and was engaged to be married a third time.”
Sergeant Silbert sat back and shook his head, a small, knowing smile on his lips.
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“You never know. I’ve investigated a couple of cases where it turned out someone who’d been married started chasing boys.”
“Was that the purpose of those investigations, to ascertain sexual preference?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And …?”
“And, they both got bounced out under 1332.”
“I see,” Margit said. “I appreciate your experience, but I don’t believe there was a relationship between the two men.”
“What about Cobol?” Silbert asked. “Is he gay?”
Margit didn’t want to answer. Under ordinary circumstances she would have considered Cobol’s sex life to be his own business. Of course, had she been confronted with his homosexual acts as his commander, she would have been placed in the same predicament that the mysterious Major Reich had been—whether to allow Cobol his indiscretion and keep a good officer, or to go strictly by the book. She looked Silbert in the eye. “Captain Cobol has acknowledged to me that he is homosexual.”
“How did he manage to stay in so long?” Silbert asked.
“Discretion, I suppose,” Margit said. She mentioned Reich and his decision not to report Cobol.
“First name?” Silbert asked, writing “Reich” on a pad.
“I don’t know. I have to ask Captain Cobol about that. Reich was Cobol’s superior at the CIA, but he’s no longer there. I’d like to track him down and ask some questions.”
“Want me to do that?” Silbert asked.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Woosky, who’d said virtually nothing, now offered, “If this Major Reich didn’t report Cobol as a homosexual, he violated regs.”
“I know, and I’m not looking to cause him any trouble. On the other hand, I have an accused murderer to defend.”
“What could this Reich contribute to the defense?” Woosky asked.
“Background on Cobol. We don’t have much at this point to counter the prosecution. Any bit of information or insight might be helpful.”
Silbert asked, “Anybody you’d like me to talk to besides Reich?”
Many names flashed through Margit’s mind. There were Christa Wren and Joycelen’s two former wives. Cobol’s roommate; she’d forgotten to get his name. Anyone on the duty roster that Saturday morning who might have come in contact with Cobol, and who could establish that he’d remained on the floor above where the murder took place for a significant period of time. There were others. A cast of thousands. Everyone at the picnic. Joycelen’s coworkers who might have held a professional grudge.
As Margit formulated this list over the past week, it became increasingly evident to her that the best chance of saving Robert Cobol—assuming he was innocent—was to find the person who had, in fact, killed Richard Joycelen. That approach always worked for Perry Mason and Matlock during the final five minutes of their television trials. But this was real life. Forget it, Margit, she’d told herself. You’re a military chopper pilot and lawyer, not a Raymond Chandler gumshoe. There’s no romance in this. Down and dirty. Save Cobol’s life and consider that a major victory. At the same time, do a credible enough job to keep your own career in gear. Had she really thought that? Bellis wasn’t all wrong in asking her whether that was a consideration.
“Okay if I make a suggestion, Major?” Silbert said.
“Of course.”
“I think I should speak with Captain Cobol. I can find out more from him about Major Reich, and maybe identify others to talk to.”
“Go to it,” Margit said. “Cobol has lived on the economy with a roommate, another homosexual. I didn’t get his name, but he should be interviewed. I’ll arrange for you to meet with Cobol. Want me with you?”
“No, ma’am, that won’t be necessary.”
Margit scribbled a note to call Fort McNair as soon as the meeting was over.
“How would you like me to get started, Major Falk?” Woosky asked.
“First, find out everything you can about Dr. Richard Joycelen. There’s been a lot written about him since the murder, and I know stories have appeared over the years about his scientific work. I’d like to have as complete a picture as possible of this man.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What about Joycelen’s friends and family?” Silbert asked. “Should I start a rundown on them?”
Margit almost told him to go ahead, but hesitated. “No, not yet. We’ll talk to them later. Any questions?”
They shook their heads.
“I hope the office assigned to you will work out. Sorry you each can’t have your own, but space is tight.” An occupant of another office in the small suite had been moved out over the weekend, and furnishings had been moved in for Woosky and Silbert.
Silbert stood and hit a reflexive brace, like a pianist’s fingers automatically curling over a keyboard. “I think the office is fine,” he said. “I don’t figure to spend much time in it anyway.”
After they’d left, Margit sat back and sighed in relief. She’d been in command of other people before, including in wartime conditions. But those situations were clear-cut in the military sense. The job of military men and women was to fight, and to be prepared to fight. Chain of command. Rank. So easy to give orders, and to take them when doing what you’d joined up for in the first place. “Fuel that chopper.” “Assemble at zero-five-hundred
.” “All leaves canceled.”
But she was in a different milieu now, and she knew it. She was seated behind a desk like any civilian attorney, conferring with staff about a case. Sure, it was still the military; she could order Woosky and Silbert to do things. But in this setting—in this nonprimary military role—things were different—had to be different. They felt different … they were—off center.
The meeting had gone well, she decided. Woosky and Silbert had been just names until this morning. Now, they took on distinct personalities. They were real people, for better or for worse.
The differences between the two men were marked. Woosky, from Margit’s perspective, was a career military man content to be in uniform but to stay out of harm’s way, to sit in a small office and help other servicemen and women deal with mundane pressures of everyday life—writing a will, settling a bad debt with a car dealer or department store, maybe giving dry advice on how to amicably end a marriage. He wouldn’t initiate much action, but would do as he was told.
In contrast, Silbert appeared to truly enjoy what he did as a noncommissioned officer. He was energetic, impatient, and probably needed constant patting and praise. She’d give him that; issuing orders would not be enough to coax optimum performance from him.
She called Flo Cobol in New York and told her about her two military assistants, and that Mackensie Smith had agreed to the role of informal adviser.
“It’s nice that they would help Robert,” Flo said.
“Who?” Margit asked.
“The army. I thought they might abandon him because of what they say he did, but I guess they won’t. That’s one of the things Robert always liked about being in the army. People pull together and help each other, he always said.”
Murder at the Pentagon Page 13
