In related news, the St. Deicolus Children’s Foundation in New York announced today that its CEO, Ian Mortimer, is missing and presumed dead. Mortimer, a longtime supporter and personal friend of President-elect Colson, was sailing with Terrance Finley, a business associate, on Tuesday afternoon when the boat capsized. The Coast Guard continues to search for Mortimer and Finley’s bodies, but after forty-eight hours, given the depths and temperature of the water and the distance from land, it is improbable that anyone could survive this long.
Mortimer is survived by his wife, Nicole, and son, Robert. They could not be reached for comment. Of Mortimer, Colson remarked, “He was a magnanimous man, devoted to the betterment of children with terminal illnesses. In the twenty-five years of our association and friendship, I have yet to meet someone with his level of integrity and competence.”
90
XANDRA CARRICK
It takes a great deal of faith to believe that, as Jake prophesied, I’m not alone. Standing before a jury of uniformed officers and a judge who reminds me of General Patton, I couldn’t feel more alone than I do right now.
It’s difficult to concentrate during the opening statements. My thoughts are weighed down with grief. Dad, Kyle, Mom. They’re all dead. Does it really matter what happens to me?
If God gave me a gift of clairvoyance, then I have to ask, to what end? All it did was get people I cared about killed. The truth has not set me free at all. On the contrary, it’s imprisoned me and condemned me to death, and all the while the perpetrator of mass murders and the deception of our nation creates his version of the facts surrounding my arrest.
The list of charges is absurd. When Lieutenant Colonel Nevins, the prosecutor, gets to the portion of his opening that asserts that he will prove to the court that I spent a year in Iraq establishing connections with al-Qaeda, I can’t help but laugh aloud.
Colonel Hardings, the judge, scowls. “Mr. Morgenstern, you will advise the defendant to refrain from disruptive outbursts.”
“I apologize, Your Honor.”
Morgenstern chastises me, but only in a written note: Watch it!
The prosecution calls a telecom expert from Homeland Security to testify about my so-called communications with terror cells in Iraq. While he speaks, the browser screen on Morgenstern’s cell phone draws my attention. It’s CNN.com. The headlines mention that Dad’s body has been found. It’s finally confirmed. I want to cry out, weep, scream. But I have to cover my open mouth, trying to control myself from another disruptive outburst.
At some point, the telecom expert concludes his testimony. I haven’t heard a word he said.
Colonel Hardings addresses Morgenstern. “Counsel, would you like to cross-examine the witness?”
“No, thank you, Your Honor.” A quiet stir can be felt throughout the room. He’s still thumbing through his notes. I’m so numb, it doesn’t bother me like it should. I really have lost hope.
Hardings: “Lieutenant Colonel, your next witness?”
Nevins: “The prosecution calls FBI Assistant Director Sharon Maguire.” She’s sworn in and takes a seat. Our eyes meet briefly, and she seems a bit reticent. But I’m glaring at her, as if the scorn in my eyes could strip her bare before the tribunal so that all can see her for what she is. A murdering, traitorous thug! You killed Kyle … you killed him!
Nevins walks up to her. “Ms. Maguire, would you describe for the court the conditions under which you found the defendant on that night in question at the Comanche Hotel?”
“We were following a tip on Kyle Matthews, one of my field agents who at the time had gone AWOL and was traveling incognito with Ms. Carrick. Upon arrival at the hotel room, I found Ms. Carrick standing over Agent Matthews’s body. She’d shot him in the head point blank.”
This launches me to my feet. “That’s a lie! She’s the one that—”
“The defendant will remain seated and quiet, or be removed!”
John pulls me back down into my chair. “Yes, Your Honor.” He puts a finger as a bookmark in his notes. “My client apologizes.” I did no such a thing.
“The witness will continue,” says Colonel Hardings.
“Shortly after, President-elect Colson and a Secret Service detail arrived. It is my belief that he wished to interrogate the defendant. Before I could secure her, Ms. Carrick got a hold of my gun—”
Nevins looks surprised. “Your gun?”
“I’ll admit it. I was distraught to see one of my top agents, a person I considered a friend, dead on the floor of that hotel room. My professionalism slipped for just a moment, and … I suppose when someone is as desperate as Ms. Carrick—”
John objects.
Hardings sustains the objection. “Move on, Ms. Maguire.”
“The defendant pointed the gun at the president. She was swearing and threatening to shoot him. But President Colson—likely because of his military experience—remained calm and disarmed her.”
Nevins returns to his chair. “Nothing further.”
Finally, John decides to do his job and cross-examine a witness. He looks at his watch, then gets up and approaches the stand. “Ms. Maguire, at what point did my client become a suspect for the FBI?”
“The moment she fled the jurisdiction of her original incarceration.”
“Meaning New York. The Dellafina case.”
“Yes. Agent Matthews had been working on a case involving the deaths of several veterans of the Vietnam War. A connection to the defendant was found and he … As Agent Matthews had an outstanding record, I am loathe to say anything that would dishonor his nine years of service.”
Colonel Hardings nods to her from the bench. “Noted. Please continue, Ms. Maguire.”
“Matthews had been working on a case in which various Vietnam veterans of the same unit were dying. He believed there was a pattern to these seemingly natural deaths, or accidents. The connection led him to the defendant. It came to my attention at some point that he had become romantically involved with her. That was his mistake, and he paid for it.”
“I see. Thank you, Ms. Maguire.”
So far, I’m not terribly impressed by Morgenstern’s cross-examination. Judging by the faces of the uniformed officers in the jury box, neither are they.
“Is it true, Ms. Maguire, that Agent Matthews was shot and killed with a twenty-two caliber round from a Beretta Bobcat?” He picks up the gun from the other exhibits on the table. “This very gun?”
“Yes. And I’d like to add that this gun had been registered to retired Corporal Hank Jennings, whom the defendant also killed.”
“Allegedly.”
Morgenstern returns to the desk and picks up a large Manila envelope. From it, he pulls out a photograph, a close-up of the gunshot wound to Kyle’s forehead, and clips it on the whiteboard just left of the witness stand. It takes a good deal of willpower not to react. “Defense enters this photograph subpoenaed from the FBI forensics laboratory as exhibit four. Ms. Maguire, take a good look at this picture. Do you recognize it?”
“Of course, it’s the gunshot wound to Agent Matthews’s forehead.”
“Do you notice anything unusual about it?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Anything else would take a trained medical examiner or ballistics expert.”
Morgenstern takes the photo down and hands it to Maguire. “Sure you don’t need another look?”
“I’m sure.”
“You went on record stating that the gun was fired near point-blank. Didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Sure you don’t need another look?”
Nevins objects. “Asked and answered.”
She glances down and back up. “I don’t see anything unusual.”
“Well, I’m not so sure. You see, at so close a range, there should be some gunpowder residue, don’t you think?”
“Academically, yes.”
“I’m not seeing any dark stains that resemble gunpowder re
sidue around the wound. And there’s no explanation offered in the ballistics report as to its absence. Ms. Maguire, isn’t it true that such an absence of residue is consistent with the use of a silencer?”
“I don’t know.”
“Isn’t it true that the FBI uses silencers, or more accurately, suppressors?”
“Objection. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is not on trial here.”
“But the veracity of the evidence is crucial to my case.” Morgenstern faces Maguire. “Doesn’t this report raise more questions than it answers?”
She puts the photo down and gives him a patronizing smile. “You’ll have to take that up with the pathologist who wrote the report.”
Without taking his eyes from her, he takes three steps back and reaches over the rail to retrieve a stack of papers from the desk. “You mean this report?” He enters it into evidence and hands it to her.
“This is the report.”
“Please tell the court who prepared it.”
She cranes her neck a bit to examine the cover. “It says Avijit Singh.”
Morgenstern rests his hand on the rail of the witness stand. “Are you aware that Mr. Singh resigned from his position the day after this report was filed?”
“I don’t keep track of anyone’s career outside of my own direct reports.”
“Why do you think he’d do that, after working in the Bureau for fifteen years?”
“Objection,” Nevins says. “Relevance.”
“Sustained.”
A stir rises up from the jury.
“If I were to call him as a witness, Ms. Maguire, what do you think Mr. Singh would say, under oath, about this report that fails to mention the lack of gunpowder residue?”
“Objection!”
Before Hardings can rule, Morgenstern plows through the next set of questions. “Isn’t it true that this report has been falsified and that the actual murder weapon was a Glock twenty-two, standard FBI issue?”
Maguire’s eyes dart quickly between the jury and Nevins. She’s unaware of her appearance until she notices the report shaking in her hands and puts it down.
“A Glock twenty-two with a suppressor, Ms. Maguire. Standard issue for the FBI, isn’t that true?”
Nevins: “Your Honor!”
Hardings: “That’s enough, counsel.”
“Isn’t it true, Sharon Maguire, that you did in fact shoot and kill Special Agent Kyle Matthews?”
“Counsel, you’re to stop this line of—”
“And that you’re part of an elaborate—”
“Mr. Morgenstern! Chambers!” Hardings is pounding his gavel repeatedly now; each rap rings in my head like a gunshot. John finally stops. Maguire’s eyes are blazing, her teeth clenched. For a moment, it seems no one dares breathe. Then the judge addresses the courtroom. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning at 0-eight-hundred hours.”
91
“You’re insane.” Which is a bit easier to say to John when I’m locked in a guarded conference room in the brig. “What were you thinking?”
“Desperate times.”
“I didn’t think you’d go on the offensive like that.”
“Reasonable doubt. That’s the strategy. I saw an opportunity.” John shrugs. “Colonel Hardings chewed me out real good in his chambers. He’s under the impression that I got my law degree from FoxTV University.”
“Can’t say I blame him.”
“We need to stay focused. This is just day one. Tomorrow Nevins will call Loran Stevenson, Homeland’s National Cyber Security Director. I have to tell you, the evidence they’ve prepared—”
“Concocted.”
“It’s pretty tight.”
“Is there any hope?”
“I believe so.”
“I’m having a hard time believing in anything now.”
“Even with that pastor’s pep talks?”
I put my head down and let the grief and frustration pour out onto my sleeve. My words evaporate into a whimper. “I don’t know.”
Warm sunlight pours in from the window and bathes my shoulders. Small comfort, but I’ll take what I can get. Reflecting on the past few days in prison, I realize that I haven’t had any appetite, can’t sleep well, and I’m probably losing weight.
John has been thumbing through pages upon pages—no doubt briefs, affidavits, and evidentiary documents. Then the rustling of paper stops. All is silent save for the soft buzzing of the white flourescents overhead. “Hey.”
I barely answer with a soft grunt.
“It’s not over till G. Gordon Liddy sings. And even then, it ain’t.”
“You’re naive.”
“And you need to have some faith.”
“You’ve been talking to Pastor Jake, I see.”
“What?”
“I just can’t make any sense of it. If there really is a God, a God who gave me those visions, then He’s either incompetent or He’s a sadist.”
John puts his papers down and sits up, his eyes a bit wider. “I once saw a bumper sticker that said: If you’re an atheist, you’d better pray that you’re right. Couldn’t help but laugh. But you know, we often laugh at things that make us uncomfortable.”
“Are you an atheist?”
“Always thought I was. Then I realized that it takes the same kind of faith not to believe, you know?”
“Never thought of it that way.”
“People always say, ‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ right? But I’m starting to think that faith isn’t about seeing. It’s counterintuitive because, well, it goes beyond human perception.”
“As in supernatural?”
“Possibly. The way I see it, faith says: I’ll see it when I believe it. And true faith is something you’re willing to act upon, especially when under stress.”
That makes me lift my head. “Wow. This from an atheist.”
“I think we atheists have to have the strongest faith of all. Because if we’re wrong …” He smiles and points a thumb at the ground. “Look, I don’t know about these visions you’ve had, whether they’re some kind of psychic phenomenon or a supernatural gift. All I know is that you’re innocent until proven guilty. And I’m having a hard time believing in the evidence the prosecution’s presenting.”
“That’s because it’s all fabricated.” I pick up a bunch of papers and start looking through them. “These so-called facts about me are unbelievable when you know the truth. But if you don’t, it actually looks credible.”
He tries to take the papers from my hand, but I’m still reading them and grip them tighter. I motion for him to come close, so I can whisper in his ear. It’s risky, because I know we’re being monitored, but it’s the only chance I have to speak with John about the case. “Look at this one. This is evidence that I had conspired to assassinate Colson in January at his inauguration with a dirty bomb. Look at these receipts—I can’t even tell you what these items are.”
“It’s difficult to prove these documents are fakes. I’ve checked them thoroughly and their purported sources all corroborate them. You know, you don’t get the same stringent chain of custody for evidence in a tribunal as you would in a civilian criminal case.”
“There’s got to be a weak link in Colson’s machine, someone who’ll bring the truth to light about the atrocities in Vietnam, the cover-up, the murders. Someone who’ll testify.”
“Would you?”
“Would I what?”
“Testify against him, if you worked for him?”
I let that question sink in as I flip through to the final page of this dirty-bomb brief. It looks so official that even I’m almost convinced. “I see your point. Anyone who was that involved would know the dangers of speaking out.”
“It’s an unholy matrimony.”
“Till death do you part.”
“Yeah.” Now, in a normal voice, John says, “Hey, you mind?” He tries again to take the document I wouldn’t relinquish. “I need that.”
“Oh, right.
Sorry.”
John takes a deep breath and gathers his things. “Well, anyway. I just thought I’d fill you in on what happened today.”
“Going after the prosecution’s witness like that? I wonder how Nevins took it.”
“Oh, he’s ticked. But these military lawyers like a good fight. I was just doing a little punching below the belt. He’ll get over it.”
“Hope you haven’t flushed your career down the toilet.”
A shrug, and he stands. “If I have, it’s okay. I’m just placating my parents. They put me through school and hoped I’d come back to the East Coast and become a partner in my father’s firm. But truth be told? My real passion is surfing.”
“Hold fast to dreams.”
“Right on.” He knocks on the door, and the guard lets him out.
Not a lot accomplished in this meeting. Because of the strict intelligence monitoring and lack of attorney-client confidentiality, John can’t really tell me much about strategy. He’s asking me to put a lot of faith in him.
He’s crazy.
But it just might be a lunatic I’m looking for.
92
Day two of the tribunal.
I’m disturbed by the similarities between my case and that of José Padilla, who was arrested by federal agents at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport in 2002 on terrorism charges and subsequently declared an enemy combatant working to construct a radioactive dirty bomb. Only, his case was eventually moved to a civilian court. With all Colson has at stake, it’s impossible he’ll permit that to happen with me. After all, if the truth ever came out, what kind of faith could our nation ever have in our governing leaders again?
We all looked to Colson as the hope of the nation after eight years under the Bush regime. God only knows where Colson will lead the country after he’s sworn in.
These are the thoughts that run through my mind while Loran Stevenson of Homeland Security is sworn in. He’s a formidable man with a silver crest who looks like he could have been an NFL linebacker in his prime. Even now, he’s not the kind of person with whom I’d get into a disagreement. When he speaks, his voice booms throughout the courtroom.
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