A Just Determination ps-1

by John G. Hemry

  "Yes, sir."

  "So you're going to see things in a pretty black-and-white way. A dirtball's got to be guilty of something, right?"

  "You got it, sir."

  "But I'm seeing a lot of shades of gray, Sheriff."

  "Now, sir, don't you be turning into a lawyer on me."

  Paul smiled again. "Surely there's a middle ground between lawyers and cops."

  "I don't think so, sir. And if there is, you wouldn't want to be there because you'd be in the line of fire." Sharpe's own smile faded for a moment. "Mr. Sinclair, I think I understand what's bothering you. It doesn't bother me, but like you say, I'm a cop. And I'm not you. If there's something you think you ought to do, then that's up to you."

  "Gee, Sheriff, I'd hate to let you down."

  "Mr. Sinclair, as long as you're doing what you really believe is right, I can't very well think less of you. Not that you should necessarily care what I think. I might wonder why you did it, just like I'm wondering why anything about this is bothering you. But I'm just a cop. I catch dirtballs and let the justice system take it from there. You're the officer who has to worry about shades of gray."

  Paul smiled again. "Yeah. You're right. I just wish I knew what was right for me to do. If anything."

  "Seeing as I don't understand the problem, I can't help you there, sir."

  "No, you can't. Thanks, Sheriff."

  "For not helping you? This job gets easier every day."

  "Go away, Sheriff."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  Late afternoon found Paul in the office of Commander John Wilkes. Wilkes went over Paul's statement, asked for a few more details, told Paul he was on the list of witnesses to be called during the court-martial, then dismissed him. The brevity and coldness of the process left Paul feeling like a small cog in a steamroller aimed at Wakeman.

  Dinners in the wardroom had been less than festive ever since the encounter with the SASAL ship, and since Wakeman's removal from command had become even more somber. Paul left fairly quickly, going back to his stateroom to dig further into his backlog of work. Sam Yarrow eventually came in as well, smiling with the same self-satisfied expression he seemed to have worn constantly since being promoted to lieutenant junior grade. "Working hard, Sinclair? Or hardly working?"

  Paul glanced briefly toward Yarrow. "Working hard."

  "Good idea. You'll need the best record you can get coming off this tour."

  "What's that mean?"

  "You know. Wakeman. What he did. Do you think any promotion board will look favorably on a fitness report signed by him?"

  Paul took the time to glance at Yarrow again. "They did in your case."

  "No. My promotion board met before Wakeman screwed up. But you guys…" Yarrow let his sentence trail off meaningfully. "Too bad."

  Paul counted to five inside before speaking again. "I thought you liked Wakeman, Sam."

  "Huh? No. No way. He's not half as good a leader as somebody like, say, Commander Garcia."

  "Just to pick a name randomly, huh, Sam? Thanks for your sympathy, but I'm sure any promotion board will judge me on my merits."

  Yarrow chuckled. "Boy, are you still clueless."

  "Go to hell, Sam." Paul closed his work out and left the stateroom, standing in the passageway for a moment to cool off. At this time of day, in port and after the bustle of work had temporarily died down, the small stretch of passageway loomed empty in either direction. Carl's on watch. I can't bug him. If Herdez caught us chewing the fat while he was standing the quarterdeck watch she'd rip us both up one side and down the other. He glanced down toward the other ensign locker, thinking briefly of visiting there. No. Jen and Kris don't need me moping around. Especially Jen. I wish she understood what was bothering me. Hell, I wish I understood what was bothering me. He hesitated a moment longer, then headed for the wardroom for some coffee.

  Paul swung into the wardroom and made a bee-line for the coffee. He nodded in greeting toward Commander Sykes, who occupied his habitual place in his informal wardroom office. "Good evening, sir."

  "Good evening, Mr. Sinclair. Care to sit for a moment?"

  "You want to talk to me, sir? Sure." Paul sat down, eyeing Sykes curiously. "Did my supply petty officer screw up?"

  "Not at all. All is well in the world of supply. Which is as it should be. How are things in the world of ship's legal officers?"

  "Not too bad. Pretty quiet, really, except for the, uh, court-martial."

  "Ah, yes. The court-martial." Suppo took a drink from his own coffee. "My sources tell me that you have some misgivings on that count, Mr. Sinclair."

  "Who told you that?"

  "A good supply officer guards his sources, Mr. Sinclair. Care to talk about it?"

  Paul took a long drink of his own, then shook his head. "What's to talk about? Captain Wakeman is being hammered. You've seen the charge sheet, right?"

  "And a very long charge sheet it is."

  "Yeah." Paul grimaced, staring at the table for a moment. "Damn it, Suppo, why couldn't they have just charged Wakeman for the big stuff he did wrong instead of piling on everything they possibly could?"

  "This offends your sense of justice?"

  The simple question crystallized the growing misgivings that Paul had been battling. "Yes. It does. Not that I can figure out why."

  Sykes leaned back, placing his hands behind his head as he gazed upward. "Legally, as I'm sure you know, being legal officer, all of those charges can be justified in some way. But justice, well, that's another thing, isn't it, young Mr. Sinclair?"

  "And this isn't about justice, is it, sir? They need a scapegoat. Wakeman's it."

  "Not entirely correct. Scapegoats are often innocent of misdeed. I think we both agree that Captain Wakeman is far from innocent in this matter. But Wakeman is certainly to be made an example of for the purposes of satisfying those who wish to see someone pay for what happened to the SASAL ship."

  "Is that why we should be court-martialing Wakeman, sir? Because someone needs to be satisfied? Even though a lot of other factors contributed to Wakeman doing the wrong thing?"

  "What do you think?"

  Paul sat silent for a few moments. "I think that's wrong."

  "Ah. You've identified a wrong. Do you intend attempting to right it?"

  "What? Suppo, I don't even know what 'right' is in this case."

  "But you've said you do know what's wrong. So I'll ask my question a little differently. What do you intend doing about that wrong?"

  "What can I do?"

  Sykes raised his eyebrows as if surprised at the question. "You were on the bridge. You are the ship's legal officer. I assume you have been tapped as a prosecution witness?"

  "Yes. I have."

  "Where your testimony will serve to further what you have said you see as a wrong."

  "What else can I do?"

  Sykes smiled gently. "Your testimony is your own, Paul. What you do with it, what you say and how you say it, is yours to decide. If you so choose."

  "Suppo, I'm just an ensign. An ensign who's still new enough to still be learning how to tie my figurative shoelaces right so I don't trip over my figurative feet every time I try to do something. The senior unrestricted line officers making up the majority of the court-martial members don't really care what I have to say one way or the other."

  Commander Sykes shook his head. "There you're wrong, lad. They don't care what I have to say. I am a supply specialist, a limited duty officer with restricted responsibilities. Unrestricted duty officers such as the warfare specialists represented on that court-martial don't give a flying leap about whatever opinions I may have about the leadership or operational decisions of one of their fellow line officers like Captain Wakeman. But, you, Mr. Sinclair, are one of them. Don't interrupt one of your elders, son. It's a fact. You're unrestricted line. That one thing means that even though you are still a young and barely experienced ensign, you have taken on responsibilities that I will never face. Should we be in battle
or other peril and every other officer on the ship dropped dead in an instant, I would still not be in command. I can't. The Navy says so. But you would be. Even now."

  Sykes sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Trust me on this, young Mr. Sinclair. They'll listen to what you have to say, all right. They may decide after listening that you're an idiot and disregard your testimony, but until and if that happens, they will listen to you. You're one of them."

  Paul stared back mutely for a moment. "What would I say, Suppo? And why? Why risk my career or my neck or whatever for the likes of Captain Wakeman?"

  Commander Sykes shrugged. "What would you say? The truth as you saw it and know it. Whatever that may be. As for why… only you can answer that, Paul."

  Paul spent a restless night, waking finally with a sense of having tossed and turned the entire time and with no feeling of rejuvenation. The morning passed with routine tasks, none of which seemed to engage his mind. When noon finally came, he had no appetite and simply went to his stateroom.

  Paul find himself standing in front of the small acrylic mirror in the ensign locker, rubbing his face wearily. What do I do? I keep feeling like I shouldn't let them railroad Wakeman, but the guy's a jerk. And he's a marked man. That's obvious from the charge sheet. What difference will anything I do make? If our positions were reversed I know he'd let me twist slowly in the wind. Hell, Wakeman would help put the rope around my neck if he thought it would make him look better. But if I act like Wakeman would, what right do I have to condemn him? He looked up, meeting the reflection of his eyes in the mirror. Damn mirrors. When you look in one you don't just see your face, you also see everything you've ever done written on your face. Maybe Eve didn't offer Adam an apple. Maybe she made a mirror, and Adam looked into it and saw himself and knew he could never hide from himself again. So, Paul Sinclair, what are you willing to see when you look in a mirror?

  "Lieutenant Commander Garrity?" The walk from the Michaelson to the lawyers' offices hadn't been all that far, but had felt longer with uncertainty dragging at his feet every step of the way.

  Wakeman's defense counsel looked up from her work to see Paul standing in the doorway. "Yes. Ensign Sinclair, isn't it?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I, uh, I'd like to talk to you."

  "What about, Ensign Sinclair? You're listed as a witness for the prosecution."

  "I… I think… my testimony might be more appropriate as a defense witness, ma'am."

  Garrity couldn't hide her surprise, followed by interest. "You do?"

  "I think so, ma'am."

  Garrity smiled encouragingly. "Let's talk. Have a seat."

  Chapter Nine

  When Paul got back to the ship, Carl and Jen were sitting in the ensign locker idly bantering back and forth during the brief period left before ship's work resumed after the break for lunch. Jen took one look at Paul, then glowered at him. "You did it, didn't you?"

  "Yeah."

  Carl looked from Paul to Jen. "Did what?"

  "Something noble. And stupid. Right, Paul?"

  Carl laughed. "Oh, man. Did you change your statement or something?"

  "No." Paul sat down, avoiding looking at either of the others. "I just went to Lieutenant Commander Garrity, she's Wakeman's defense counsel, and got added as a witness for the defense."

  "The defense? Of what Wakeman did?"

  "No!" Paul almost yelled it, wondering why even he felt frustrated with himself. "Not of what he did. Of what he's charged with. Of why he did it. Of why we found ourselves in that position in the first place."

  Carl glanced at Jen. "Did you understand that?"

  "Not entirely. Paul, you did think this through, right?"

  "Yeah. I thought it through."

  "And you did it anyway? Why?"

  "Because I don't want to spend the rest of my life avoiding mirrors."

  Carl stared back, his puzzlement obvious, but Jen slowly nodded in understanding. "Mirrors can be real difficult. So did this Garrity tell you what Wakeman's defense is going to be?"

  "No. I gather she doesn't have much to work with."

  "Duh."

  "I just talked to Garrity about what I'd seen, what our orders were like, that kind of stuff. She's going to work that into her defense."

  "How?"

  "I don't know. It's not my place to know."

  "Then what is it you're going to say as a defense witness?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Paul Sinclair, you are the most exasperating human being I have ever met! What is this going to do to your career?"

  "I'm not sure of that, either."

  "Shouldn't you be?"

  He stared at the deck, then back up at Jen. "No. No, I shouldn't. Because if I didn't do anything that I thought might hurt my career, I'd be Sam Yarrow. I don't want to be Sam Yarrow."

  Carl looked over at Jen. "He's got a point."

  "Yeah. On his head." Jen stood up, eyeing Paul sourly. "What am I going to do with you? I've got some work that's going to keep me busy all afternoon. If you want to talk after that, look me up." She swung out through the hatch, the sounds of her movement through the passageway fading rapidly.

  Carl scratched his head. "Well, Paul, I'm not sure I'd have done what you did, but it took some guts. Do you think it'll matter?"

  "I have no idea. But I guess I finally decided that whether it mattered or not to everybody else, it did matter to me."

  "Another good point. Tell that to Jen when you talk to her tonight."

  "I'm not sure I should talk to her tonight."

  "She wouldn't have offered if she didn't want you to."

  "But Jen seemed real unhappy with me."

  "Nah. She's just a little aggravated. If Jen had been real unhappy with you, she would have ripped off your arm and then used it to beat you senseless. Oh, by the way, Commander Garcia was looking for you."

  "Great."

  "Where are you going?"

  "To find Jan Tweed."

  Paul discovered that word of his action was quickly circulating through the ship. He could track its progress by seeing how other members of the crew looked at him. Their questioning expressions and the wave of whispered conversations following him through the ship began to irritate Paul more and more. He finally found Jan Tweed, in a hiding place he'd have never imagined without a hint dropped by Chief Imari, then hauled her to see Garcia so they could both be chewed out at some length for the cleanliness of the spaces assigned to their division and the general appearance of their enlisted personnel. But after Garcia had finished his tirade he gave Paul a version of the look and hesitated before dismissing them. "Is there something else, sir?" Paul asked. I've about had it. Go ahead with whatever you want to say.

  Almost as if sensing Paul's defiance, Garcia eyed him for a long moment, then shook his head. "No. No, Sinclair. Don't embarrass me."

  "Yes, sir." Garcia didn't ask me anything, but he sure commented on the answer I didn't give.

  Jan Tweed stopped Paul before they separated. "What was that last thing about?"

  "I guess you're probably the only one on the ship who hasn't heard. I've agreed to be a defense witness at Wakeman's court-martial."

  Tweed seemed baffled. "Why?"

  "Because I thought it was the right thing to do."

  She stared at him a moment longer. "Why?"

  "I thought Wakeman was being railroaded, and-"

  "And whatever he gets, he deserves."

  For the first time since he'd met her, Paul saw flat disapproval in Jan Tweed's eyes. "I want him to get what he deserves. I just don't want him to get more than that."

  "Why not? It's the sort of thing he's been doing to us, isn't it? Doesn't Wakeman deserve the same sort of treatment he's given us?"

  Paul looked away, unable to bear her anger. "I'm sorry, Jan. I know what guys like Wakeman have done. I just don't want to end up like them."

  The silence following his last statement stretched so long that Paul looked back at her, finding Jan still watching hi
m, her face working with emotion. "I didn't want to end up like this, Paul. Wakeman can go to hell. And if you help get him off you can go to hell, too."

  "Jan, I don't want to help him get off scot-free. I want him called to account. There's no way anything I say can exonerate everything Wakeman did." Her face steadied, but remained unhappy. "Jan, you taught me a lot of good lessons. I mean it. I don't want you leaving the ship hating me."

  "I don't hate you, Paul. I don't understand you. I'm worried that you're doing something that will let someone I do hate literally get away with murder. But what do you care what I think? I'm Jan Tweed, object lesson in failure for new officers."

  "That's not true!" Paul shook his head, keeping his eyes fixed on hers even though she tried to evade them. "Jan, you taught me a lot of good lessons."

  Her face softened, falling back into its familiar protective mask. "Thanks. But there's more to being a naval officer than that." Tweed's face closed down and her shoulders went into their defensive hunch as she turned away. "I don't hate you, but if you let Wakeman get off free you'll have hurt me."

  "He won't get off free." Can I really promise that? It seems impossible, but what if he did? I don't want to be responsible for that. Paul watched Tweed leave. Is there any way I could have been true to myself without hurting Jan Tweed, who's already taken enough hurt? Should I have done what I thought was right even if I knew it would hurt Jan some more? Paul already knew the answer to the last question, but he didn't want to admit it to himself, not while he could still see Tweed making her dejected departure.

  Commander Herdez faced the officers of the USS Michaelson, who stood in two ranks on the pier just outside the quarterdeck. "Some of you are designated as witnesses in the court-martial of Captain Wakeman which begins today. Those witnesses will be required to be present each day in the court-room and are therefore excused from regular duty during the court-martial in order to ensure their presence. Since the court-martial is a public proceeding the rest of you are free to attend as spectators on your non-duty days. I expect every one of you to comport yourselves at all times in such a manner as to reflect credit upon the USS Michaelson. Are there any questions?"