Ami was about to stand up when her intercom buzzed and Nancy told her that Dr. George French was on line two. She picked up the receiver.
“Hi, George. What’s up?”
“My friend tried to get Morelli’s army records. They don’t exist. No one named Daniel Morelli served in the Special Forces, or any other branch of the military, during Vietnam.”
Ami thought for a minute while Dr. French waited. “That fits in with his ID not checking out. If he served, it must have been under another name.”
“Or,” French added, “he never served and he’s feeding us a line.”
“I’ll confront him after the arraignment and get back to you with what I find out. Thanks.”
Television crews and shouting reporters took up most of the space in the lobby of the building that housed the hospital security ward. Ami mumbled “No comment” as she ran the gauntlet from the front door to the elevator. When the elevator doors closed, the reporters were still clamoring for something they could print. Ami leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and vowed that she would never take on another high-profile case.
When she arrived at Dr. Ganett’s office Ami found Brendan Kirkpatrick chatting with Ruben Velasco, the judge assigned to arraign Morelli. Velasco was a middle-aged Cuban whose parents had escaped from Castro’s clutches and migrated from Miami to Oregon to work in a cousin’s restaurant when their son was a teenager. Ami knew very few judges, and it was obvious that Kirkpatrick was not laboring under this disadvantage.
When Ami entered, Velasco stood and bowed slightly. He had dark curly hair, clear brown eyes, and an easy smile. When he welcomed her, Ami could hear traces of his Hispanic heritage. She shook hands with the judge and managed to look Kirkpatrick in the eye when she took his hand. His handshake was crisp and courteous but devoid of warmth. The judge introduced Ami to his court reporter, an elderly African-American named Arthur Reid.
“Arraigning Mr. Morelli in the hospital is a little unusual,” Judge Velasco explained, “but Brendan was afraid that there might be constitutional error if your client wasn’t arraigned as soon as Dr. Ganett deemed him competent to understand the proceedings.”
Ami had read enough law during lunch to realize that there could be constitutional consequences if an arraignment was delayed, but she couldn’t remember what they were, so she settled for nodding knowingly.
“We have one other issue to discuss before Dr. Ganett takes us down to see the patient. The press wants to cover the arraignment. Now I’m not about to let all the reporters you saw in the lobby into the security ward of this hospital, but Brendan suggested that we let the media designate one newspaper reporter and one television crew to represent everyone and we’ll require that all the papers and stations have access to their pictures and notes. Is that okay with you?”
Ami had no idea whether she should object, so she said she’d go along with whatever the judge thought was best. Judge Velasco’s brow wrinkled for a moment. He wasn’t used to defense attorneys being so reasonable, but he adjusted his features quickly and thanked God for small favors.
“Okay,” the judge said, “let’s get Dr. Ganett’s opinion of Mr. Morelli’s mental state on the record and we’ll do this.”
Twenty minutes later, Ami, Kirkpatrick, Judge Velasco, and his court reporter walked into the lobby outside the security ward, where a reporter from The Oregonian and a crew from Channel Four news were waiting. After the reporters agreed to the ground rules for covering the arraignment, Dr. Ganett led everyone inside the ward. The lights on the television camera flooded the corridor with a bright, artificial light as they walked to Morelli’s room. With the cameras rolling, Kirkpatrick made it appear that he and the judge were very chummy and ignored Ami. When the lights switched off and the camera stopped recording, the DA dropped back to walk beside her. He flashed a smug smile.
“I see you’ve got George French working for you.”
“Did your little snitch, Dr. Ganett, tell you that?” Ami asked.
“Now, now, don’t be catty. The policeman outside Morelli’s room is under orders to report the names of Morelli’s visitors.”
“I suppose he listens in on all the attorney-client conversations, too.”
“I’m surprised at you, Mrs. Vergano. That would be against the law.”
Ami scowled at Kirkpatrick. The DA grinned. He was enjoying himself.
“So, are you going with PTSD?” Kirkpatrick asked innocently.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Actually, the law requires you to tell me. You’ve heard of reciprocal discovery?”
Ami had heard the term, but she had no idea what the statutes required her to do. Before she could think of a witty rejoinder to cover her ignorance, the television camera started filming again and Kirkpatrick moved to the judge’s side. When he saw the group approaching, the officer guarding Morelli stood up and unlocked the door to the prisoner’s hospital room. Judge Velasco stood aside to let Ami in first. She walked to Morelli’s bed, and Kirkpatrick and the judge followed her. Morelli looked confused for a moment. Then the camera crew entered the room and started filming. Morelli froze like a deer caught in a car’s headlights. Then he threw his arm across his face and turned his head away from the camera.
“Get them out of here,” Morelli shouted.
Ami turned to the judge. “Please. He’s really upset.”
“The press has a constitutional right to be here, judge,” Kirkpatrick insisted. “If we were in court the press would be covering this.”
“Not with TV cameras,” Ami said, hoping that she was right.
Judge Velasco turned to the reporter from Channel Four. “You can stay but I want your cameraman to leave.”
“Our attorney told us…”
“I don’t care. The camera is causing a problem, so it goes,” Velasco said firmly. “You’ll have plenty of chances to film Mr. Morelli when he’s in a courtroom. He’s a patient in a hospital now, and I’m going to honor his wishes.”
The reporter saw that it would be useless to argue, and he told the cameraman to wait in the hall.
“Is that okay with you, Mr. Morelli?” Judge Velasco asked.
Morelli lowered his arm. “Thank you, judge.”
Kirkpatrick had given Ami two copies of the indictment. While the court reporter set up his machine, Ami gave Morelli his copy and told him what was going to happen during the arraignment. When Arthur Reid was ready, Judge Velasco read the caption of the case.
“Your Honor,” Kirkpatrick said. “There has been a problem verifying the defendant’s identity. We can’t match his prints, his identification is false, and he doesn’t show up in any of our databases. I’d like the court to ask the defendant if the name in the indictment is his true name.”
Ami fought down her panic. The arraignment was supposed to be easy. She wasn’t supposed to have to make any decisions that could affect Morelli.
“The Fifth Amendment, Your Honor,” she blurted out.
“What, Mrs. Vergano?” the judge asked, puzzled by her outburst.
“I’m advising my client to exercise his Fifth Amendment right to remain silent.”
Kirkpatrick was annoyed. “We need to know the defendant’s real name, Your Honor.”
“No you don’t,” Ami said. “What if he had amnesia? You’d prosecute him as John Doe. So you don’t need his name to go forward.”
The judge held up his hand before Kirkpatrick could reply. “Mrs. Vergano’s point is well taken, Mr. Kirkpatrick.”
The DA glared at Ami but held his tongue. The judge read the indictment, and the rest of the arraignment went along without any problems. When the brief appearance was concluded, everyone but Ami left.
“How is Ryan doing?” Morelli asked as soon as they were alone.
“He’s back in school. Being with his friends helps. He always asks about you when I get home from work.”
“He’s a good kid. He’s tough. He’ll be okay.”
“Yeah,” Ami answered, but Morelli could see that she was worried. He smiled.
“You know, for someone who says that she doesn’t know a thing about criminal law, you’re doing okay.”
Ami flashed an embarrassed grin. “I pulled that Fifth Amendment thing out of thin air. It’s what they do on TV. The lawyer always tells his client to plead the Fifth. Unfortunately, I haven’t been watching much TV lately, so I’d better get another lawyer in here pronto.”
“I don’t know if I want another lawyer. You’ve got Kirkpatrick so upset that he might dismiss my case just so he doesn’t have to deal with you.”
Ami laughed. “Whether you want it or not, I’m out of here as soon as Ray Armitage agrees to take over.”
“Who’s he?”
“Just one of the best criminal defense lawyers in the country. He’s in Colorado on the case of the Olympic skier. We’ve talked on the phone and he’s definitely interested in representing you. He’ll probably be on board early next week. Meanwhile, you’re stuck with me and we have to talk.”
“About what?” Morelli asked defensively.
“Just before I came over, Dr. French called me. He has friends in the military. They tried to get your records, but there is no record of a Daniel Morelli serving in the Special Forces or any other branch of the military during Vietnam.”
Morelli turned his head away from Ami.
“Look, Dan, your health is improving. They’re going to send you to jail soon unless we can get you bail. Someone like Ray Armitage can persuade a judge to set a low bail. You were defending Ben Branton when you stabbed Barney. Ben would have been hurt if Barney had hit him. And the policeman grabbed you from behind, so we can argue that you didn’t know that he was a cop. But the judge isn’t going to listen to those arguments if you’re using a fake name and fake ID. Kirkpatrick will argue that you’re a flight risk. How can we make an argument to refute that?”
Morelli turned back to Ami. He looked defeated and exhausted.
“If you knew my real name it would make matters worse.”
“Why?”
“I went AWOL from the Army in 1986. Everyone thinks I’m dead. You have no idea the shit storm you’d stir up if certain people discovered that I’m alive. That’s why I didn’t want my picture taken. That’s why you’ve got to figure out a way to get me out of here before I have to go to court. Once my face is in the news or in the paper they’ll know I’m alive. They’ll come for me.”
“Who will come for you?”
Morelli closed his eyes. Ami waited patiently. She couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. She could see that he was suffering.
“While I was in the army,” he said so quietly that Ami had to lean forward to hear him, “I was recruited by an intelligence agency.”
“The CIA?”
“No. The Agency for Intelligence Data Coordination-the AIDC-but I doubt there’s a record that I ever worked for them in any capacity. The agency’s charter does not permit it to employ people who did my type of work, and there is nothing on paper about this unit. I received verbal orders. As far as the army is concerned, the unit never existed.”
“Why the secrecy?”
“Murder,” he answered calmly.
“You murdered people?” Ami asked, not certain she’d heard him correctly.
Morelli nodded.
“Where?”
“Southeast Asia.”
“That was okay, wasn’t it? There was a war in Southeast Asia.”
Morelli looked Ami in the eye. “That wasn’t the only place. I’ve killed people in Europe and I’ve murdered Americans in the United States.”
“But if you were ordered to…to do that?”
Morelli smiled sadly. “I’m not going to justify my actions. It was murder. There’s no other way to look at it. And I did other things that were just as bad.”
“Like what?”
“How much do you know about the Vietnam War?”
“Just what I learned in school in history class.”
“Do you know what the Shan Hills are?”
“I’ve heard of them. They’re in Burma, right?”
“They’re part of the Golden Triangle, roughly 150,000 square miles of rugged mountain terrain in Burma, Laos, and Thailand. During the sixties and seventies about seventy percent of the world’s illicit opium supply came from there. When the Kuomintang-Nationalist Chinese government collapsed in 1949, groups of Kuomintang soldiers fled China and settled in the Shan States. Starting in 1950, the CIA began regrouping them for an invasion of southern China. That project failed, but the soldiers succeeded in monopolizing the opium trade.
“One of my jobs was to ambush mule trains carrying morphine base down from the Shan Hills. We would kill the guards and steal the product.”
Morelli laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“I was just remembering. We were such cowboys. The first time we ambushed a mule train we blasted everybody and everything. I mean we killed the guards and the mules.” He shook his head. “It turned out we’d also blown the packages with the morphine base all to hell and didn’t have a thing to show for the raid.”
Ami didn’t think that it was funny in the least to kill people and animals, but she held the thought.
“What did you do with the morphine base?” she asked instead.
Morelli sobered. “We brought it to Laos, where Meo tribesmen on the CIA payroll processed it into heroin. Some of the heroin was flown to Saigon on Air America, an airline financed by the CIA. In Saigon, the regime sold the heroin. Some of the people who bought it were American GIs.”
“Why would we help create GI addicts?”
“The CIA couldn’t ask Congress for money to pay off the Saigon regime, so they provided a commodity.”
“Didn’t that bother you?”
“Of course it did, once I found out what was going on. But I didn’t learn the full story until much later. I wasn’t in on the big policy decisions. I was a grunt, a foot soldier. They told me to ambush the train and bring the product to a certain person. That’s what I did. Then I went home. I didn’t question my orders.”
“You said that some of the heroin was sent to Saigon. What happened to the rest?”
“Some of it was traded to organized crime in the United States for favors.”
“You’re serious?”
Morelli nodded. “The rest was used to create a secret fund that financed the Unit’s operations. The money was kept in secret accounts in offshore banks. Only a few people knew the access numbers to the secret accounts.” Morelli got a faraway look. “I suspect those accounts no longer exist.”
Morelli’s story was growing more implausible with each new revelation, and Ami remembered what George French had said about the ability of people in a paranoid state to create believable stories that weren’t true. Ami was about to ask for some specifics that she could investigate when she remembered a piece of trivia she had read recently.
“Did you know General Morris Wingate?”
Morelli looked startled. “Why are you asking me about him?”
“He was the head of the AIDC during the Vietnam years. I saw that in a profile of Wingate in Newsweek. So, do you know him? Maybe he could help you.”
Morelli laughed. “He’d help me all right. He’d help me out of this world. I am Morris Wingate’s worst nightmare. He’s the man I’m hiding from.”
“I don’t understand.”
“General Wingate recruited me. He gave me some of my orders. Vanessa is his daughter. If what I did for Wingate became public knowledge, he would go to prison. Do you see why I can’t let my picture be published? Once the general knows I’m alive he’ll have me killed. He has no choice.”
Ami was stunned. She couldn’t believe that Vanessa was Wingate’s daughter or that Morelli had the power to topple the General. Then again she wasn’t sure that she should believe what Morelli was telling her. Everything he’d said sounded crazy. Still…
; “I think you’d better tell me everything from the beginning,” Ami said.
“What’s the use?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we won’t be any better off after I know everything. But I might be able to figure out some way to help you if I do. This is all between us anyway. I’m not going to tell anyone about it without your permission.”
“I don’t know.”
“Please, let me help you.”
“All right. I’ll tell you about Wingate and the Unit.”
“Why don’t you start by telling me your real name?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CALIFORNIA-1969 AND 1970
1
“Carl, hold up.” Carl Rice was packing up his books at the end of his calculus class, and Vanessa Wingate’s voice froze him like a direct hit from Captain Kirk’s phaser. “You’re pretty good with calc, aren’t you?”
Carl turned to face the attractive blond, fighting to keep his eyes from drifting to the floor. His attempt at a nonchalant shrug looked more like a spastic twitch.
“I do okay.”
“Well, Mr. Goody lost me again. I was wondering if you could give me some help sometime. I’m pretty sure the stuff he went over today is going to be on the final, and I don’t understand any of it.”
“Uh, okay. I have class now, but I’ll be at the library at three.”
“Great,” Vanessa said, flashing her biggest, warmest smile. They made plans to meet at the reference desk, and Vanessa walked off after a cheery, “See ya.”
St. Martin’s Preparatory School was situated on a sprawling pastoral campus a few miles inland from the Pacific Ocean. The school had been established in 1889, and the ivy on the buildings looked as if it had never been pruned. Though they were in the same class there, Carl Rice and Vanessa Wingate might as well have been on different continents. Vanessa was rich, beautiful, and the lead in Carl’s most intense sexual fantasies. She ran with a clique that drove the newest and fastest cars, wore the coolest clothes, and was into the latest fads before anyone else in America even knew that they existed. Carl was a scholarship boy who ran with no crowd and bought his clothes off the rack at JCPenny. Being able to spend two hours with Vanessa-even if they were only studying calculus-was the answer to his teenage prayers.
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