Treason

by Don Brown

  “Well, when she came out, she looked drunk.”

  “Why do you say that, Petty Officer?”

  “She was stumbling around and all.”

  “And then what?”

  “I was worried about her. We SEALs take care of our officers. So I volunteered to help her get to her car, or if she needed help getting home, I was going to help her.”

  “What happened next?”

  “She wanted to know where I was from. I told her I was from Mississippi, and she said she was from Louisiana. And then we started talking, and one thing led to another.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I could tell she liked me. She said she liked Navy SEALs. And then we started kissing, and next thing I know, the shore patrol was pointing flashlights at us.”

  “This is very important, Petty Officer. Did Ensign Landrieu agree to what happened between you two that night?”

  “Absolutely. It was consensual.”

  “Any doubt in your mind?”

  “No doubt, ma’am. On my word as a SEAL.”

  “No further questions.”

  “Cross-examination?” Judge Reeves turned to Zack.

  Zack stood, taking in a deep breath. “Yes, Your Honor.” He stepped to the podium between the counsel tables. “Petty Officer Blount, as I understand your testimony, you claim that Ensign Landrieu allowed you to do what you did?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And of course, you went along with her, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Petty Officer, you’re not an officer, are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re enlisted, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Petty Officer, what is fraternization?”

  “That’s when an officer isn’t supposed to socialize with an enlisted person.”

  “And so, if what you’re saying is the truth, that you and the ensign voluntarily did this act, then that makes you guilty of fraternization, doesn’t it?”

  “Objection.” Diane Colcernian sprang to her feet like a red-furred cat. “Relevance!”

  “Overruled.”

  “You’re guilty of fraternization, Petty Officer?”

  “The witness will answer the question,” Judge Reeves said after Blount hesitated.

  “If I’m guilty of fraternization, then the ensign is too.”

  “But you are guilty yourself, aren’t you, Petty Officer?”

  “I guess.”

  “And so you admit to violating the Uniform Code of Military Justice because of your attraction to this woman?”

  “Objection.” Diane slammed her hand down on the table and glared at Zack.

  “Overruled.”

  “Yes, sir.” Blount’s words came out in a sputter.

  “So when you’re attracted to a good-looking woman, you’re prepared to throw the law out the window?”

  Diane jumped to her feet again. “Objection! Argumentative.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Petty Officer, you testified that the ensign was drunk, and you just happened to be walking around near the Officers’ Club—which, since you’re not an officer, you can’t enter—when you saw the ensign?”

  “Like I said. I like to take a walk sometimes at night.” Blount squirmed on the stand.

  “And you testified that you were so concerned about the ensign being drunk that you wanted her to make it home safely?”

  “Like I said, we SEALs are trained to take care of our officers.”

  “And this drunk officer, as you have described her, was stumbling around?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So it’s fair to say she did not have total control of her faculties?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you’re saying she was so drunk she could not have consented to what you intended, isn’t that true?”

  “She wasn’t that drunk.”

  “What’s it gonna be, Petty Officer? She was so drunk she was stumbling around, or she was lucid enough to have an ongoing conversation about her being from Louisiana and you being from Mississippi?” Zack stood back and crossed his arms.

  “Objection!” Diane’s face was red as she leaped to her feet again.

  “Overruled.”

  “What’s it gonna be, Petty Officer?”

  “She was drunk.”

  “As a Navy SEAL, you’re trained to kill with your hands, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’re bigger than Ensign Landrieu, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And stronger?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You could easily overpower her, couldn’t you?”

  “I didn’t overpower her.” Blount glared at Zack.

  “Petty Officer, if you get convicted of raping an officer, you could go to prison for the rest of your life, couldn’t you?”

  Blount met Diane’s eyes for a brief moment; then he shifted his gaze back to Zack.

  “The witness will answer the question,” Judge Reeves said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you don’t want to go to prison for the rest of your life, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Tell the truth, Petty Officer. Wouldn’t you tell one little white lie if it kept you out of prison for the rest of your life?”

  “Objection!” Diane stormed to her feet.

  “What is your objection, Lieutenant Colcernian?” Judge Reeves leaned forward intently.

  “That’s a trick question.” Diane’s face matched her hair color.

  “Want to explain that, Lieutenant?” The judge sat back and peered at Diane over his glasses.

  “It’s unfair to require the witness to answer, Your Honor.”

  “Why?” Reeves persisted.

  “Because if he answers ‘yes,’ Lieutenant Brewer will argue that he will commit perjury to stay out of prison. If he answers ‘no,’ Lieutenant Brewer will argue that he’s lying, that most people will tell a white lie to stay out of prison. This is a trick question and should be disallowed, because under Rule 403 of the Military Rules of Evidence, the danger of unfair prejudice substantially outweighs any probative value.”

  Judge Reeves whipped his glasses off, wiped them with a handkerchief, carefully repositioned them on his nose, then crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Lieutenant, the defendant was not compelled to testify. But he decided to do so. And aggressive cross-examination in cases such as these is not unexpected. Furthermore, a witness’s motivation to tell the truth or to fabricate is always relevant. Your objection is overruled. The witness will answer the question.”

  Blount slumped. “I forgot the question.”

  “Repeat your question, Lieutenant Brewer.” Reeves adjusted his eyeglasses again and peered at Zack.

  “Petty Officer, you said you didn’t want to go to prison for the rest of your life. My question is, wouldn’t you tell a little white lie to keep from going to prison for the rest of your life?”

  Blount sat up straight and stared at Diane, whose face was still bright red. Then he glanced back at the judge. Finally, he turned again to Zack. “Yes, sir.”

  “So you would tell a lie to stay out of prison?” Zack asked this slowly and forcefully, his words echoing through the courtroom.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No further questions.”

  Judge Reeves broke the deathly silence. “Court is in recess.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Base chapel

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego

  Zack stepped into the empty chapel, moved by the solitude of this quiet place, an inauspicious escape from the bustling activity of the huge naval base all around. In the chancel, a silver chalice and simple gold cross, positioned on the table, sat beneath a bar of sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows.

  He sat down in the first row of pews, bowed his head, and prayed silently for wisdom. When he raised his head, he felt a
hand on his shoulder and turned to see a trim, African-American naval officer, wearing working khakis, standing in the aisle just beside him. The officer wore the silver oak leaf pin of a full commander on his right collar and the cross of Jesus Christ on the left. Zack recognized the commander as a member of the United States Navy Chaplain Corps.

  “Deep in thought, Lieutenant?” The commander’s voice was gentle, his accent slightly Southern.

  “Right now, I feel pulled in a thousand different directions.”

  “So even the famous Lieutenant Brewer is not immune from the mundane struggles of life.”

  The chaplain’s eyes seemed kind. “My face is that recognizable, sir?”

  “I guess our friend the Reverend Barbour has seen to that. But I wouldn’t let that guy bother you. He’s a publicity hound.”

  “Why do you say that, sir?”

  “Barbour calls himself a reverend, but how many times have you ever heard him actually preach the gospel? With him, it’s all about politics.

  The guy doesn’t speak for most African-Americans. He certainly doesn’t speak for me. Anyway, I didn’t mean to ramble, son. I’ll be back in my office if you need anything.” The chaplain turned and started walking toward the entrance of the chapel.

  Zack watched him go, but before he reached the door, he called out, “Chaplain?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “It’s this trial, sir. My job is largely over. We finished yesterday with closing arguments, and now it’s in the jury’s hands.”

  “From what I’ve read in the papers and seen on television, you seem to have done an outstanding job, regardless of the outcome.” The chaplain walked toward him again. “You worried about it?”

  “What I’m worried about, sir, is the truth. Based on the evidence I’ve seen, I think the defendant is guilty. But even as the prosecutor, you can never know for sure. I worry about sending an innocent man to jail. That’s all.”

  “You think this man might be innocent?”

  “No, sir. I don’t think so. But I could be wrong. Only God knows for sure. I came here to pray that the right decision would be reached.”

  “‘Justice is mine, saith the Lord.’ And the Lord directs the hearts of kings and judges. I’ll join you in a prayer for truth and justice here.” The chaplain put his hand on Zack’s shoulder. “You’re a believer?”

  “Without a doubt. I gave my life to the Lord when I was thirteen. But my Bible study and fellowship have not been what they should have been for the last few years.” He paused, looking up at the cross, the colors flooding the altar from the stained-glass windows. “There’s something missing, though.” He moved his gaze to the chaplain’s compassionate face. “I suppose it’s, well, a sense of unworthiness to come to the Lord. Too often I go off in my own hardheaded direction—with the best of intentions to draw closer to him, to seek time alone with him, study his Word . . .” He paused, shaking his head slightly, then shrugged. “Life goes on, gets busier, frantically busier, and before I know it, I’m here where I am today, wondering why God feels so far away. Trying to pray, only to have the words, the thoughts, die inside me.”

  The chaplain sat down beside him. “You know, son, God hasn’t changed. He loves you as much as he did when you gave him your heart as a child. He hasn’t moved away from you.”

  Zack smiled. “Like the old saying, ‘If it seems like God is far away, guess who moved?’”

  The chaplain didn’t smile with him; instead, he nodded solemnly. “He’s here, son, with you this minute. Waiting to fellowship with you. Waiting to listen. Waiting to let you know he cares.”

  Zack felt a sting at the top of his throat and swallowed hard.

  “Let me lead us in prayer.” The chaplain bowed his head.

  Zack studied the cross for a moment, remembering the sacrifice his Lord had made for him. Feeling ashamed, he couldn’t look any longer and bowed his head.

  As the chaplain began to pray, the timbre of his voice was deep, his soft Southern accent, comforting. “Our Father, who art in heaven, we come to you this day in the almighty name of Jesus Christ our Lord, and your only begotten Son. Forgive us, Father, when we sin against you by allowing our lives to become so busy with the mundane that we forget and neglect our relationship with you. Forgive us for forgetting that you gave your life for us—the ultimate sacrifice one Friend makes for another.

  “You have promised us that you will always hear us when we pray. And here, this day, in this, your house, I join this officer, my brother, in asking for wisdom. Thank you that he is seeking justice, even though the flesh would want a victory. Lord, I join him in praying for the jury, even as they deliberate right now, that justice, your justice, would be accomplished in the verdict.

  “Draw my brother close to your heart, Father. May he sense your presence this moment, this hour . . . this day. And may he recognize your voice even in the midst of his busy life.”

  He paused, and Zack swallowed around the lump in his throat.

  “Thank you for hearing us, Father. For we trust these things to you in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.”

  “Amen,” Zack breathed in response.

  “I’m glad I found you here today, Lieutenant.” The chaplain stood and gave Zack a friendly squeeze on the shoulder. “You will be in my prayers.”

  Zack sat in wonder for a moment, listening to the chaplain’s footsteps as he walked to the entrance door. He turned, realizing he hadn’t even asked his name. But the door had closed, and the man was gone.

  His cell phone rang, and he flipped it open. “Lieutenant Brewer.”

  “It’s Amy. The members have a verdict.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Navy-Marine Corps Trial Judiciary

  Building 1

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego

  The members have a verdict, ma’am.” The voice of the legalman chief carried through the closed door followed by a light knock. “Captain Reeves wants the attorneys in the courtroom in fifteen minutes.”

  Fifteen minutes. Diane took a deep breath. Fifteen minutes until the verdict was announced that would make or break her career as a JAG officer. Had her gamble paid off?

  It was hard to say.

  Zack ripped her client in his closing argument. It was vintage Brewer: driving his points home with emotion and drama. Raising and lowering his voice to build suspense. Flailing his hands like a maestro conducting an orchestra. Of course, her argument had been effective, too, earning nods from a few members. And that’s all she needed to do, really, just plant enough seeds of doubt.

  Maybe there was reason for hope.

  She grabbed her briefcase, left the counsel lounge, and headed down the stairway to the first deck. Like vultures, reporters swarmed in the hallway; they came at her, microphones and cameras extended.

  “No comment.” She pushed through the press, entered the back door of the courtroom, and walked confidently up to the defense counsel’s table, where the accused sat, waiting for her.

  In a moment, Brewer walked in with his paralegal at his side. She bristled when Zack shot her a brief cocksure smile.

  “All rise.”

  The jury entered the courtroom slowly, ceremoniously, each member looking somber and avoiding eye contact with anyone but the judge.

  “I understand the members have reached a verdict,” Judge Reeves said.

  “We have, Your Honor,” the president of the panel said.

  “Please hand your decision to the bailiff.”

  Reeves unfolded the paper, studied it for a moment, and then handed it back to the bailiff. “I have examined the verdict, and it appears to be in order. Will the accused and counsel please rise?”

  Diane’s knees shook as she rose from her chair to stand with Blount.

  The judge turned to the clerk. “Madam Clerk, would you publish the verdict of the members?”

  “In the case of United States versus GM3 (SEAL) Antonio Blount, United States Navy, we the me
mbers find the defendant, on the charges and specifications of rape . . .” The clerk paused.

  “. . . guilty.”

  A roar rose from the gallery.

  Five solid raps of Captain Reeves’s gavel echoed through the courtroom. “Order! Order!”

  Diane’s gaze swept to Brewer, then to the chaos behind him.

  Reporters and observers shuffled papers, buzzing like bees surrounding a honeycomb.

  The gavel pounded harder. “Order in the court, or the bailiff will remove spectators.” Judge Reeves looked squarely at Diane. “Does the defense have evidence in mitigation before sentencing?”

  Her gamble had failed. Brewer had won. Again.

  CHAPTER 41

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  The president and the ambassador of France were chatting over tea, served by two white-jacketed Navy stewards, when Wally Walsh, the president’s chief of staff, entered the Oval Office.

  “Mr. President, Mr. Ambassador, please pardon the interruption, but I need just a moment, Mr. President.”

  The president was seated in a navy blue wingback chair in front of the marble fireplace just a few feet from his desk. The ambassador sat in an identical chair at an angle from the president. A third chair, making the vortex of a triangle between the president and the ambassador, was occupied by a female translator from the State Department.

  “Can you excuse me for a moment, please, Mr. Ambassador?” Mack Williams spoke in French, bypassing the translator.

  “Certainment, Monsieur President.” The ambassador sipped his tea as the president stood and, with his cup of tea in hand, walked over to Walsh.

  “What’s up, Wally?” Mack Williams frowned at his chief of staff.

  “Sir, a verdict’s coming in right now on that SEAL court-martial in San Diego,” Walsh said.

  “We got a live feed?”

  “Yes, sir. In the secretary’s office.”

  “Let’s go.”

  The two men, followed by two dark-suited Secret Service agents, stepped out of the Oval Office, through the anteroom, and into the secretarial spaces. The president’s unannounced presence caused a stir, as it always did.