Secret Justice

by James W. Huston

  Rat took in a deep breath. “Are we free to talk?”

  “They might be listening, but if they do it’s a violation of the attorney-client privilege and I can get them in a shitload of trouble.”

  “Well,” Rat began, “it depends on your definition. I did use some water, a little technique that’s been around for a long time, to . . . encourage him to answer a few questions. I’m sure he thought it was unpleasant, but there wasn’t supposed to be any long-term harm. I guess he got pneumonia.”

  “Too bad for him. Too bad the American public doesn’t know what you did, because you captured Wahamed Duar, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m prepared to bet that the average American would torture one terrorist to capture the most wanted terrorist in the world. I think they would make that deal. And that’s what’s going to be hard on the DOJ. When they drag you before a jury, the jury’s going to identify with you and not be sympathetic to the terrorist asshole who died.”

  “So now what?”

  “Say the magic words, that you want me to represent you.”

  Rat stared at Skyles. “You sure you’re up for this? You sure you’re not too old?”

  “I’m up for this.” Skyles looked down at the table. He spoke slowly. “I will not let you down.”

  “Can I think about it?”

  “Sure. But at least say you want me as part of your team. I have to jump in the U.S. Attorney’s shit right away. I have to get them on their heels. You can always fire me, tell them that I was a loose cannon, but let me start the fight for you. Let me chew on them a little.”

  Rat couldn’t believe Skyles. He was the opposite of what Rat had expected, especially from Andrea. She had good judgment, and good taste. She wouldn’t send him some loser. Rat had envisioned having a sophisticated, soft-spoken but effective attorney who would somehow find some magic way to get him off. Skyles was a maniac. But maybe a maniac was what he needed.

  Skyles grabbed his briefcase. “What do you say?”

  Rat stood. “Let me think about it. Do you have a card?”

  Skyles gave him his card. “Don’t think too long. You need to get the prosecutors playing defense right away. They’re not used to it. Give me a call and let me know what you decide.” He walked slowly to the door with a hint of a limp.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter

  7

  Elizabeth Watson stood silently in the wardroom, watching Commander Barry Little prepare his prosecution case. She was waiting for a helicopter to begin her long return flight to the Fifth Fleet. She considered helping Commander Little prepare his prosecution case, out of spite as much as anything, but that felt wrong. Still, she didn’t understand Duar’s animosity toward women. The world had seen the results of such fear, or animosity or whatever it should be called, with the fall of the Taliban in Afghanistan. But seeing it on tele-vision, hearing about the attitudes, was very different from personally experiencing it. She hadn’t been ready for it.

  She drank from a cup of hot tea and watched Little prepare outlines on his laptop. The wardroom door opened and a sailor came in from the communications center. “Commander Watson?” he said, walking toward her, a message in hand.

  She nodded to him and took the message. “Thank you.” She unfolded it and scanned for the location of her next assignment. When her eyes fell to the bottom of the message she felt a sense of panic. She couldn’t believe what she was reading. She crossed over to Commander Little. “Barry, you’re not going to believe this.”

  “Believe what?”

  She handed him the message without saying another word.

  He took it from her, recognized it as a Navy text message, and began reading. When he had gotten halfway, he glanced up at her in stunned disbelief. His eyes returned to the message and he read on. He examined the DTG, the Date Time Group of the message, which showed exactly when it was sent. He checked to see if it was April 1. It was not. He checked for the transmission authentication and the message number. All in order. “That’s their solution to your getting fired by Duar?”

  “That’s what it says. You’re now Duar’s defense attorney, and I’m the prosecutor.”

  “That’s nuts! We can’t do that,” Little said.

  “They say they don’t have anyone else they can spare. We’re here. I didn’t obtain any confidential information or establish any meaningful attorney-client relationship, so I’m free to prosecute him.” The idea had begun to settle in. She found it exciting.

  “Did you even interview him?”

  “As soon as I said I was defending him he looked like he wanted to cut my throat. I am a woman, and by definition, not qualified.”

  Little’s face was a sea of confusion. “The only thing I’ve been thinking about since I got here was how I was going to hang this sonofabitch from the highest yardarm. In fact, on my list of things to do was to check to see whether ships like this still have yardarms. I’m not even sure what a yardarm is, but I wanted to hang him from the highest one we could find—by his thumbs, then by his neck. Until dead.” Little paused. “I’ve got real bad feelings about this guy, and I’m not sure I can really give him a proper defense.” He closed his computer and stood up. He put his hands on his hips and his mouth formed a small, ironic smile. “But maybe my duty is to ensure he has a real shitty defense so he gets convicted and we can do our yardarm search. Maybe I’m just the right guy.”

  Watson frowned. “You will do your duty like any good attorney. I’m sure you will provide him with a good defense.”

  “You seem to be handling this pretty well.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “After meeting Mr. Duar, I can think of nothing I would rather do than prosecute his ass. See you in court.”

  * * *

  Sarah St. James sat alone in the back of the black government sedan as her driver skillfully weaved through traffic on the way to the Pentagon. She could not recall having been so angry. She prided herself on being calm, logical, analytical. It was one of her greatest weapons. When others got red and heated, she got calmer.

  She had not called ahead. She knew Stuntz was there and she was just going to walk in on him. She didn’t want to give him time to prepare his response. She got out in the underground entrance to the Pentagon and was quickly recognized and escorted into the building.

  “Good morning, Ms. St. James. Can we be of some assistance to you?” a Marine asked.

  “You can escort me, but that’s all,” she said without even slowing down. She knew how to get to Stuntz’s office.

  She reached the office and turned in. The receptionist was taken aback by the sudden appearance of the National Security Adviser. She stood up. “Good morning, Ms. St. James. May I help you?”

  “Where is he?”

  “Um . . . he’s in his office . . . in a meeting. He’s asked not to be disturbed. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “No.” She pushed her way into Stuntz’s office. He was surrounded by members of his staff. “Mr. Secretary, may I have a word with you?”

  Stuntz looked up at her. He was unsuccessful in his attempt to hide the shock on his face, shock mixed with concern. “Sarah! What in the world brings you to the Pentagon at this time today? Did we have a meeting that I’ve forgotten about?”

  “No. We’re going to have an unscheduled meeting.”

  “Could you give us a few minutes?” he asked his staff.

  When the last staffer had closed the door behind him, St. James sat down across from Stuntz. She leaned her fists on the top of Stuntz’s desk and looked into his eyes. “What did you mean by arresting Rathman?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “The FBI arrested Kent Rathman, the very man that seems to make you feel so threatened. You had a tantrum when you found out he was sending me information. When he went after the man who wanted to shoot down the Blue Angels.”

  “Arrested him for what?”

  “Torturing a terrorist.
Geneva Convention violation, manslaughter, I don’t know all of it.”

  “Who is charging him?”

  “Justice.”

  “Then why are you talking to me? Why aren’t you leaning on Dirks’s desk and asking him what the hell he is doing?”

  “Because Dirks doesn’t have anything against Rathman. Or me. This is your work. I can smell it.”

  Stuntz frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  Her voice grew softer and lower. “If this is your way to try and get to me it’s not going to work.”

  Stuntz leaned back in his chair, separating himself from St. James. “I have heard something about this—your boy tortured that terrorist. Killed him, they say. Are you saying he shouldn’t have to answer for it?”

  “I don’t know what happened. I’ll find out. If something went wrong, or he did something he shouldn’t have, I’ll do what I think is appropriate. All I’m saying is I want to know whether you had a hand in this. Did you start this? Did you make sure that he was arrested and charged?”

  “Sarah,” he said in a patronizing tone that he knew would penetrate whatever reserve of civility remained. “I’m in the Department of Defense. I have no control over the Department of Justice or the U.S. Attorney. If you want to find out why they did what they did, ask them. Now please, I have to get on with my meeting.”

  “You deny it.”

  “Deny what?”

  “You deny it was your idea to have Rathman arrested and charged?”

  “I had nothing to do with it, Sarah. You can take my word for it.”

  She leaned back, considered, then sat forward again. “I don’t believe you.”

  His eyes grew large. “You think I’d lie to you? You can’t be serious.”

  “Come on, Howard. I’m not stupid. You resent me and always have. You don’t think I belong here.”

  “You don’t. You’re way out of your league, playing secret government with all your little friends.”

  “Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t belong.”

  “Yes, well,” he said. “You’ve even told the President that you would make a better Secretary of Defense than me. Haven’t you?”

  She felt betrayed. “I don’t think I’ve ever said that. I have offered to take the position if it ever became available, true. But not at your expense. I haven’t ever said I’m better than you.”

  Stuntz laughed. “Don’t bullshit me, Sarah. I know you’re damned ambitious. We all are. But you don’t need to go to the President and stab me in the back when I’m not around.”

  “I didn’t stab—”

  “The hell you didn’t. And I’ll bet you were really pissed when the President didn’t do what he had hinted he would do. Weren’t you?”

  “It’s completely up to him.”

  “That’s why he came to me and told me all about it. He asked me how long I wanted to be SEC DEF. I told him at least through his first term. After that, we’d see. He said that was good enough for him. So, Miss Security Adviser, you’re just going to have to wait to see your little Machiavellian plan play out.”

  St. James hadn’t expected the President to tell Stuntz about their private conversation. “I want you to stop the prosecution of Rathman.”

  “Stop it yourself. They’ve already issued the indictment. And if we don’t prosecute him, the Europeans will. He’s now a war criminal, and they know all about it.”

  * * *

  The U.S. marshals led Rat out of the dark blue van and into the underground passageway of the Department of Justice building in downtown Washington, D.C. They moved to the elevator and stepped inside. As the door closed, one of the marshals took out a key and inserted it into the elevator panel where a button might have been for the top floor. He turned the key, the elevator lurched upward, and the marshal returned the key to his pocket. Rat didn’t even know where he was.

  The marshals were as surprised as Rat at their destination. In all the years these marshals had worked for the government they had never seen a defendant taken to trial in the secret courtroom they all knew was there. The DOJ did not acknowledge the courtroom even existed. It was the courtroom for the FISA Court. The court that heard applications for secret wiretaps under the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act on people suspected of committing espionage against the United States.

  The elevator stopped with a jerk and the marshals led Rat out into the area just outside the courtroom. There were no windows. To the right of the door was a small metal frame protruding from the wall. The marshal put his hand inside the frame and manipulated the rocker switches to release the cipher locks on the door. A solenoid snapped the steel bolt lock out of the way and the marshal pulled on the handle of the heavy door.

  Rat was surprised by the room’s opulence, its warmth. There were several large black leather chairs behind the massive bench in the front of the courtroom, and large tables for the attorneys. There was even room for perhaps twenty people to observe the court.

  Skyles was waiting for him at the defense table. He stood as Rat approached. Skyles grinned. “Got your call.”

  “I can see that. Don’t screw this up.”

  “You won’t regret letting me represent you. We’ll get these guys.”

  “Can I sit down?”

  “Sure. Until the judge gets here.”

  Rat sat in the hardwood chair. “Do I have to have my hands bound all the time?”

  “No. They should take those off.” Skyles motioned for the marshal, who unlocked Rat’s cuffs.

  Rat rubbed his wrists. “A judge is going to hear this?”

  “Right. Our trial judge.”

  “Know anything about him?”

  “Lots.” Skyles pulled a manila folder from his briefcase. It had been used before and Skyles had crossed out whatever had been written on the tabs and had written “U.S. v. Rathman” on the left, and “Judge Royce Wiggins” on the right. He opened the folder and brought out a report on Wiggins, including his picture. Rat looked at it quickly. Skyles turned toward Rat.

  “Our judge is a member of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act Court, or FISA court, the court that meets in this room. Eleven judges from district courts around the country, three from the D.C. area. They meet in secret and hear requests for surveillance and searches. Intel stuff, spy stuff. They all feel real important, and nobody ever gets to see what they do here. There are three other judges, appellate judges that hear any appeals from their rulings, but in the twenty-five years that this court has existed, only one or two of their decisions have ever been appealed. Anyway, they’ve got a lot of power. They give the FBI and the NSA—the National—”

  “I know who the NSA is.”

  “Right. In this court they don’t even demand probable cause. Suspicion is good enough. They authorize electronic eavesdropping on people they believe are involved in espionage, terrorism, that sort of thing. Recently, after 9/11, more of this stuff was going on. The ACLU got wind of it and started going bat-shit, and lots of suits have followed. But so far it’s all intact. This judge is one of the ones that hears that kind of thing, and has a clearance. The DOJ picked him to try this case.”

  “That’s kind of like one team picking the umpire.”

  Skyles nodded. “Kind of is. If we want to challenge him, we can.”

  “Does he know what he’s doing?”

  Skyles put the file back in his briefcase. “Don’t know. I spoke to some lawyers who tried cases in front of him in South Dakota, where he came from, and they sort of clammed up. Didn’t want to talk about him. I finally got one guy to talk, and he said the judge is very decisive and stupid.”

  Rat clenched his jaw. “Stupid? And that’s okay?”

  “Just one guy’s opinion. May just mean he lost a case. Hard to tell from one report. But for now, we’re stuck with him.”

  “This morning is just about bail, right?”

  “Just bail. We’ll try to keep the judge from setting some huge bail amount. I’m sure the U.S. At
torney will ask for a lot of bail and claim that you’re some sort of a flight risk. It will be total bullshit, but they’re going to try to rub your nose in this thing every step of the way.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “They’re not here to make us comfortable. They’re here to make sure you stay locked up. You don’t have any friends here except me—” He stopped as the judge entered the courtroom. “Stand up. Here we go.”

  The U.S. Attorney hurried through the cipher-locked door in the back and rushed to his table as the judge entered.

  “All rise,” the bailiff said as the judge took the bench.

  The clerk spoke. “The United States District Court for the District of Columbia is now in session, the Honorable Royce Wiggins presiding. Please be seated.”

  There were eleven chairs. The judge simply took the middle chair. He sat heavily, placed a file in front of him, and combed back the thin hair on his head. He looked over his reading glasses. “Call the case,” he ordered his clerk.

  Rat tried to evaluate the judge as the clerk rose to read something. The tops of his reading glasses ran through his sight lines causing him to move his head dramatically whenever he wanted to see something. His face was blotchy and unhealthy-looking. There was no humor in the judge’s demeanor whatsoever.

  The clerk read, “Case number one on calendar, United States vs. Kent Rathman. State your appearances.”

  “Good morning, Your Honor,” said the attorney who had rushed in at the last moment. “Assistant United States Attorney John Wolff on behalf of the United States.”