by Don Brown
David recognized the men on either side of the president: the secretary of defense, the attorney general, and the secretary of the Navy.
“Thank you for coming, gentlemen, and welcome to the White House,” said the commander in chief as he walked from behind his desk and shook Joseph Stumbaugh’s hand. “I’m Mack Williams.”
“Thank you for the invitation, sir.” Stumbaugh spoke as senior officer on behalf of the group. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”
Then the president turned and extended his hand to David. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you, Captain. And we appreciate your good work on the sabotage case.”
“Thank you, sir.” It was all David could muster as the rest of the introductions were made.
“Gentlemen, please be seated.” The president gestured to three chairs directly in front of his. “Admiral, one of the reasons I called you here today is to personally thank you for the JAG Corps’ involvement in breaking open the case involving the three Muslim chaplains.”
“There’s ample credit to be spread around, Mr. President. But I appreciate your kind words.”
Mack Williams turned to David. “And I understand, Captain, that you made the initial recommendation to open this into a criminal investigation?”
David nodded. “As Admiral Stumbaugh said, I can’t claim a lot of credit. The NCIS took the ball and ran with it.”
“I appreciate your modesty, Captain, but I shudder to think where we’d be if not for your gut instinct on this one.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Admiral, there’s a debate that’s been raging within this office over how the government should prosecute these three Muslim chaplains. The attorney general here feels the Department of Justice should handle the matter. The secretary of the Navy wants to let the Navy JAG Corps handle it.
“This is no routine court-martial. The potential prosecution of these terrorists posing as military officers is a matter of utmost national security. My worry is that other Islamic terrorists may be planted in our armed forces, which is why I’ve placed the military on heightened alert until the completion of this trial. Frankly, the national security may depend on the outcome of this trial. I want you to level with me,” the president said. “Can the JAG Corps handle this? Or should we let the civvies get involved?”
“Mr. President, I assure you that the Navy JAG Corps is more than capable on this one,” Stumbaugh said without hesitation.
The president turned to David. “Captain Guy, what do you think?”
“Sir, I concur with Admiral Stumbaugh.”
The president fixed a serious gaze on Stumbaugh. “Admiral, if we leave this in the hands of the Navy, who would you detail to prosecute this matter?”
“Mr. President, the JAG Corps has a stable of experienced and talented trial counsel who could handle this. I would, of course, confer with some of our senior captains before making a recommendation.” It was obvious he didn’t know who to recommend.
David noticed an almost imperceptible smirk crawl across Attorney General Hutchinson’s face.
“Well, we have one of your senior captains right here.” The president turned his eyes squarely on David Guy. “What do you think, Captain Guy? You know the JAG Corps. Is there an active-duty JAG officer you’d recommend to prosecute this case?”
“Mr. President, before I came to Norfolk, I was the commanding officer of the Naval Justice School at Newport, Rhode Island.”
“Know it well.” The president smiled. “Spent about five months there myself.”
“Yes, sir. And if you will recall, the Justice School not only provides a very extensive trial advocacy program, but there is also a trial advocacy tournament sponsored by the New York City Bar Association.”
“Remember that too.” This time the president snorted. “Didn’t do too well in it.”
“Well, sir, in my three years as CO of the Justice School, there was one young officer who had an exceptional flair for trial advocacy. He was the only officer we’ve ever had win the trial advocacy award when assigned the role of defense counsel. The facts of that case are heavily weighted in favor of the prosecution.”
“You mean the Newcombe murder trial? With all those bloody pictures? You guys still using that?”
“Yes, Mr. President.” He grinned. “Your memory serves you well, sir.”
“Memory, heck. Who can forget all those bloody pictures? I got stuck on the defense side of that one too.”
“Yes, sir. The facts are deliberately slanted for the prosecution. The defense challenge is to put on a good enough show in the sentencing phase to avoid the death penalty.”
“My guy got fried.” The president leaned back in his chair, seeming to enjoy the memory.
“Most do, sir. But we had one officer, a young man from North Carolina, who played the defense role like a maestro and wound up with a not-guilty verdict. It was the first time in twenty years we had seen a clean defense verdict in the final round. I sat in on the trial myself. This kid was unbelievable. And he beat a very good opponent.”
“What’s this officer’s name?”
“Brewer, sir.”
“Why’s the name familiar?”
“Sir, Lieutenant Brewer is currently stationed in San Diego. You may have heard his name because he is the officer who is prosecuting the rape trial involving Senator Fowler’s niece.”
“Oh yeah.” A hint of recognition crossed the president’s face. “The case that’s got our good friend Reverend Barbour camped out in San Diego looking for a racist behind every bush.” He chuckled. “The guy’s enough to make even Roberson Fowler consider switching parties.” He laughed again. Obligatory laughter erupted from the secretary of defense and the attorney general.
“Yes, sir. That’s the case, Mr. President.”
“Admiral, what do you think?”
“Since I’ve spent the past few years of my career here in Washington, I don’t personally know Lieutenant Brewer. But I have spoken to his commanding officer, and he does come highly recommended.”
“Mr. Attorney General?” The president turned to Hutchinson.
The attorney general adjusted his bow tie and leaned forward slightly.
“I’m sure he’s a fine young officer, Mr. President. But I emphasize young. I’ve been following the assault trial with some degree of interest, and it appears that with the Reverend Barbour on the scene, this lieutenant has his hands full. My recommendation, sir, is let’s wait and see what happens.”
“Fair enough,” the president said. “Admiral, Captain, thank you for coming today. It has been a privilege. I will take your thoughts under advisement. Captain Hancock will see you out.”
Realizing that they had just been dismissed, David rose, shook hands with President Williams once more, then followed Stumbaugh, his aide, and the naval attaché out of the Oval Office.
CHAPTER 37
Defense counsel’s lounge
Navy-Marine Corps Trial Judiciary
Building 1
32nd Street Naval Station
San Diego
Lieutenant Diane Colcernian sat alone in the defense counsel’s lounge, sipping a Diet Coke. The chirping inside her purse signaled a phone call. She fished it out and read the caller ID flashing on the screen. She drew in a deep breath, hesitating for a few beats of her heart. “Hi, Pierre.”
“How is the most beautiful naval officer in the world?”
“Never met him.” Even as she said the words, she pictured Zack.
“The camera loves you,” Pierre said. “It always has.”
Something sad colored his usually buoyant voice, and Diane softened her tone. “I’m trying to avoid the television these days. Brewer’s the star. Not me.”
“It’s been reported you won your motion.” He paused. “I’m proud of you.”
She leaned back, picturing her dear friend, the kindness in his handsome face, the affection in his eyes. “Thanks. Honestly, I don’t know how much damage we did.”
/> “Is your client going to testify?”
“I can’t really say.”
Silence fell between them. Finally, Pierre said, “You finish this weekend. I’d like nothing better than to fly out, take you someplace special to celebrate . . . and start working on our wedding plans.”
Diane looked down at her bare finger. She couldn’t wait any longer to tell him her decision. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, gathering her courage. “Pierre . . . I—”
“Dearest,” he said, interrupting. “I have another call coming in. May I call you back?”
“And I think the bailiff’s calling us. We’ll talk later.” She hesitated, thinking of all he had meant to her through the years. “It’s important.”
She thought she heard him swallow hard, and then he sighed. “Of course.” He paused again. “I love you.”
“Pierre—” Diane began, but the line was already dead. She dropped her head into her hands, aching for this man, her friend, and his broken dreams.
Trial counsel’s lounge
Navy-Marine Corps Trial Judiciary
Building 1
32nd Street Naval Station
San Diego
Your cross-examination was magnificent.” Amy sat across the table from Zack. “So what did you think about Garrett’s testimony?” She scooted her chair forward and rested her elbows on the table, a stack of files on one side, Zack’s attaché on the other.
“Hard to say. I felt good about the cross, I guess. But that comment about her liking Navy SEALs seemed to get quite a reaction.” He hadn’t felt good about it then; he still didn’t.
“That was before you put him on the defensive.”
“We’ll see how well I can cross Blount when he testifies.”
“Think he will?”
“If the judge had let all three of those guys testify, then maybe not. But yeah, I don’t see how she can avoid putting him on the stand. I don’t think she got enough out of Garrett.”
“She’s good, isn’t she?” Amy’s little gold cross caught the light as she leaned forward, her gaze meeting his.
“Who, Diane?”
“Yeah.” There was a glint of knowing in Amy’s eyes. He almost chuckled. A knowing? What was he thinking? A knowing of what?
“She is,” he admitted reluctantly.
Three raps sounded at the door. “Lieutenant Brewer, the judge is ready.” The voice from the hallway was that of the legalman chief.
“Right there, Chief.”
They gathered their files, and he followed Amy to the door. He swung it open and stepped back to let her pass through. Then he rushed into the hallway, shifted his attaché case to the opposite hand, and glanced at his watch . . . only to look up and halt midstep before running into Diane Colcernian, who had just slammed out of the ladies’ room.
“Diane . . .”
She turned toward him and blinked. “Counselor.” She was pale, her eyes red-rimmed as if she had been crying. Through the years, he had seldom—if ever—seen such a vulnerable expression on her face. The look was so alien to the Diane he knew, it didn’t register at first. But that was exactly what he had seen in the depths of those wide emerald eyes: vulnerability. He had a sudden urge to gather her into his arms.
He shook away the image just as quickly as it appeared. Almost trotting, he caught up with her, matching her stride as they headed to the courtroom. “You okay?”
She shot him a flinty, fiery look and tossed her head. “Never better.”
He grinned. The old Diane was back. “Good.” He stood back to let her enter the courtroom.
Dirksen Senate Office Building
Office of Senator Roberson Fowler
Washington, D.C.
Excuse me, Senator.” Ed rapped lightly then pushed open the door. Senator Fowler, sitting at his desk, looked up as his aide entered the room.
“CNN is back on the air with the court-martial coverage. JamesOn Barbour is about to make a statement.”
The Senator frowned and leaned back in his leather chair. “Flip it on.”
Ed crossed the room, pressed a button to expose a plasma TV screen from behind a cabinet, and flipped the channel to CNN. Bernie Wood-son stood in front of the camera, talking into a handheld microphone.
“I’m standing just outside the main gate of the 32nd Street Naval station in San Diego, where things are developing rapidly in the court-martial of Petty Officer Antonio Blount, the Navy SEAL accused of assaulting a naval officer who is the niece of United States Senator Roberson Fowler. We’re waiting for a statement from the Reverend Jame-sOn Barbour, who’s just arrived here at the main gate. We’re told that the Reverend Barbour will criticize the Navy for Judge Richard Reeves’s decision not to let all three young men testify in the defense of the Navy SEAL.”
Woodson fidgeted with his earpiece. “I’ve just been told that the Reverend Barbour is on the platform at a location just across the street and is about to speak. And now, the Reverend Barbour.”
The CNN camera switched to Barbour with two elderly women, standing on a podium with a palm tree and the gated entrance of the naval station behind him.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Barbour said, wrapping his arms around the two frail-looking, gray-haired women in wire-rimmed glasses. “I’d like to introduce two very special people. To my left is Mrs. Annie Belle Jones. Miss Annie Belle is ninety-two years old, and she is the great-grandmother of Petty Officer Blount.
“And to my right is Mrs. Jamie Perry. Miss Jamie is seventy-three years old, and she is Petty Officer Blount’s grandmother.”
Barbour gave each woman a kiss on the cheek. The cameras zoomed in on each of them, their eyes beaming and sparkling as though they had been hugged by their guardian angel.
“What a grandstander.” Fowler exchanged an irritated glance with Ed.
As if reading Fowler’s mind, Ed turned up the volume as the cameras zoomed in on Barbour, who looked appropriately sincere for the camera’s sake.
“We are concerned, in this day of modern computers and modern weapons, that the Navy is becoming antiquated in its thought processes. Why is it, in this great nation, a nation that stands for equal justice for all people—not just for the kinfolk of the rich and famous, not just for the kinfolk of powerful United States senators, but for all people . . . why is it there is no justice for three simple young men, former Navy SEALs who wish to tell their story, who deserve their day in court?
“Why must this judge stifle their testimony and refuse to let two even testify? Why must he limit the testimony of the third? And why is it that a young hero of this nation, a Navy SEAL, who saved the life of his shipmate in a rescue operation off Libya, is not allowed to put on a full defense when accused of so serious a crime?
“Is it because this young man is so unlucky as to be accused by the niece of such a powerful member of Congress?
“I, as the minister to this family, call for a congressional investigation into the Navy’s conduct of this matter.”
“Thank you.” Barbour walked off the podium, ignoring questions being shouted at him.
“Good luck with the congressional investigation, JamesOn,” Fowler snorted as Ed flipped off the television. Ed went to Fowler’s humidor, took out a Monte Cristo, and handed it to Fowler. As the senator leaned back in his plush leather chair, circles of smoke rising above his head, he grinned at his right-hand man. “So what’s the latest dirt you’ve dug up on our young wunderkind? I want to know where we’re heading once he whips the tail off the defense—and gets this officious oaf away from the cameras.”
Ed chuckled, leaned back in his chair, and straightened his tie. The young go-getter’s eyes glinted, just as they always did when he was given a particularly surreptitious assignment. “Dirt?” he said, still laughing. “Hardly.”
CHAPTER 38
Courtroom 1
Navy-Marine Corps Trial Judiciary
32nd Street Naval Station
San Diego
&nbs
p; Diane turned and nodded to her legalman who was sitting just behind the defense table. At the signal, the legalman pulled a previously concealed manila file from her briefcase. The label affixed to the file read “Direct Examination of Defendant.”
Diane took the file, smiled a thank-you, and then stood. “Your Honor, the defense calls Petty Officer Antonio Blount.”
The announcement brought a chorus of whispers from the gallery followed by a shuffling of papers as reporters positioned their legal pads for the high drama about to unfold.
Antonio Blount, trim and muscular, walked with a confident stride to the witness stand. He wore the white jumper suit and gleaming black leather shoes of a Navy enlisted man, with his gold, pitch-forked SEAL medallion polished and pinned above the colorful row of thin service ribbons over his pocket. A momentary silence filled the courtroom. Then the witness was sworn in.
“You’re Petty Officer Antonio Blount?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re a Navy SEAL?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How long have you been in the Navy?”
“Five years.”
“And you are accused of raping Ensign Marianne Landrieu?”
“I didn’t do it!”
Diane tried to ignore Zack as he leaned back in his swivel chair, his fingers crossed nonchalantly over his stomach.
She glanced toward the members, trying unsuccessfully to read their expressions, then focused again on Blount. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“All right, Petty Officer. Tell us what really did happen on the evening of May twenty-fifth.”
“Sometimes I take a walk around the base. It helps me get relaxed. You know? That night, I was taking such a walk. I heard some music coming from the Officers’ Club, so I cut through the parking lot. You know? To check things out. And while I was walking through the parking lot, that’s when I saw her come out.”
“By ‘her,’ who do you mean?”
“You know, the ensign.”
“Ensign Landrieu?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And then what?”
