by Don Brown
“Perhaps I should inform al-Akhma and the Council through our back channels and seek their guidance on what to do in this situation.”
“No! Please, Commander. Do not bother al-Akhma with this. I beg of you, let me try again with the boy. I can assure you, it will not be necessary to bother the Council with this.”
“Lieutenant Commander Reska, I have spoken with Commander Sehen about the problem. He agrees the situation is potentially grave, our entire core network is at risk. Unless the problem is dealt with immediately, we must inform the Council.”
“Please, Commander. I beg of you. Give me until midnight; I will have the problem eradicated.”
“Very well, Commander Reska. You have until midnight tonight.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Reska says he will have the problem eradicated.” Zack made quotation marks with his fingers. “He certainly did that, to say the least.”
Zack stared, unblinking, at the defense attorney. “No, Mr. Levinson, we don’t have a body. Maybe Petty Officer al-Aziz just went for a long swim.” He turned back to the members.
“Magic might be great for the stage, Mr. Levinson, but it won’t work in a court of law. Not in this court anyway. Not when the cold, hard evidence against the defendants is so compelling, so condemning.
“You know, Reska referred to the NCIS as the enemy. He’s right about one thing. The Navy is his enemy, and he is ours. He is an enemy agent.” Zack pointed accusingly at Reska, who simply looked down. “They are all enemy agents. And Reska and his cohorts are guilty of treason. And murder. And conspiracy to commit murder.
“Let me close by briefly responding to a couple of accusations made by my opponent.
“Mr. Levinson claims that we are asking you to condemn freedom. That we are putting religion on trial.
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen. We do ask you to condemn freedom.” He paused and walked down the banister separating him from the jury. “We do place religion on trial here today.”
He paused, meeting the gaze of every member of the jury. “But not freedom as we in America know it. And not the religion we practice. No, the freedom we ask you to condemn is the perverse and inexcusable freedom to commit murder.
“And the religion we condemn is nothing more than a perverted philosophy that seeks to maim, kill, terrorize, and intimidate as means of advancing its goals. A perverted philosophy—in the name of religion—the defendants have adopted and put into practice by taking the lives of American servicemen and innocent civilians.
“Send a strong message that murder, terrorism, and treason will not be tolerated. Not in my Navy.
“Return with a verdict of guilty.
“Thank you.”
Zack turned, walked back to the counsel table, pulled out his chair, and sat down.
Judge Reeve’s voice thundered through the courtroom. “Court will be in recess for thirty minutes.”
“All rise.”
CHAPTER 62
The Oval Office, The White House
Washington, D.C.
Twenty-six hours later
What’s his calendar?” Wally Walsh, slightly out of breath, stood in front of the president’s appointments secretary.
The graying, middle-aged woman looked up, adjusted her glasses, and flashed him a no-nonsense smile. “Right now he’s working on tonight’s speech to the Teamsters Union, and then he is to see the British ambassador. Shall I tell him you’re here?”
“Yes. Please do.”
She pressed a button
She pressed a button on the intercom. “Mr. President, Mr. Walsh is here.”
“Send him in.” The president’s voice boomed through the intercom speaker.
Walsh rushed into the Oval Office, surprising two Secret Service agents who instinctively reached for their weapons. “Mr. President, we have a verdict.”
The president looked up from his desk. “Has it been announced yet?”
“No, sir. The networks just now reported that the members have sent word to Judge Reeves. They’re calling in the lawyers now.”
Navy-Marine Corps Trial Judiciary
Building 1
32nd Street Naval Station
San Diego
Day 4, 1315 hours (PST)
Diane watched the jury file in. The members were stone-faced as they sat down in the jury box, making no eye contact with anyone. They were focused, it seemed, on the empty chair on the bench, waiting for the occupant of that chair, Captain Richard E. Reeves, to arrive. This jury had been out twenty-six hours.
“All rise.”
“Please be seated.” Reeves looked at the senior officer of the panel.
“Mr. President, I understand the members have reached a verdict?”
“We have, Your Honor.”
“Very well. Bailiff, will you please take the verdict sheet from the president of the members and hand it to the court for my examination?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Reeves unfolded the sheet and studied it. “The verdict appears to be in order.” He handed it to the bailiff and then turned to Levinson and the defendants. “Will the accused and counsel please rise?”
As the chaplains rose to face the members, Diane’s heart pounded, and she thought she might pass out. Briefly, she thought about grabbing Zack’s hand; then she chided herself for considering it.
“Mr. President, you may publish the verdict.”
The president, a Navy captain wearing the insignia of a surface warfare officer, stood from his chair on the first row of the jury box and stared down at the verdict sheet.
“In the case of United States versus Commander Mohammed Olaju-won, Chaplain Corps, United States Navy; Commander Charles AbdulSehen, Chaplain Corps, United States Navy; and Lieutenant Commander Mohammed Reska, Chaplain Corps, United States Navy, on the charges of murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and treason, this court finds you . . .”
The president stopped reading and looked up, staring for a moment into the eyes of the defendants. “Guilty.”
Pandemonium broke out in the back of the courtroom. Captain Reeves banged his gavel. Marines, shore patrolmen, and masters-at-arms stood watch around the inside perimeter, but Captain Reeves made no effort to call them into action to quell the uproar.
Diane reached over and gave Zack a quick hug. From the corner of her eye, she saw Levinson. Defeated for the first time in his career, he was standing off to one side with a stunned look on his face. He seemed oblivious to the commotion in the courtroom.
“Don’t get too excited,” Zack whispered to Diane. “We’ve still got sentencing to do. And you’re going to ask for the death penalty.”
The Oval Office, The White House
Washington, D.C.
Thank you, Lord!” The president of the United States, a wide grin on his face, pumped his fist into the air. “And God bless America!”
“Congratulations, Mr. President.” Wally Walsh grinned and stepped forward to shake the president’s hand. “It looks like you made the right call.”
“I had my doubts for a while there, but these young officers were incredible.”
“Yes, they were, sir.”
“Look, Wally, when sentencing is announced, I want you to issue a statement that the White House is pleased with the results and that we especially commend the professionalism of Lieutenants Brewer and Colcernian.”
“Yes, Mr. President. Anything else, sir?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Check my schedule. I want you to invite Brewer and Colcernian to the White House. I want to personally thank them for what they’ve done.”
“I’ve already started working on that one, sir.”
Dirksen Senate Office Building
Capitol Hill
Washington, D.C.
Four hours later
From the moment the closing arguments had begun, Senator Roberson Fowler had canceled all of his constituency appointments for two days to watch coverage of his handpicked political protégé at
work on television. He said it was because the court-martial was highly relevant to his work on the Armed Services Committee.
Those close to the senator knew better: Life was about politics. The world revolved around it.
The opportunity to bring the hero of the court-martial of the century on board as the newest recruit in the Fowler-Landrieu machine was a salivating thought that the senator could not put aside.
His favorite niece had been less than enthusiastic about the presence of Lieutenant Diane Colcernian on the prosecution team, but she’d get over it. The magnificent political drama and political capital now generated by this conviction couldn’t be ignored.
Besides, when Brewer got out of the Navy and moved to Louisiana, then Washington, Colcernian would be left behind in San Diego. Or he could arrange for her transfer to Adak, Alaska. His niece’s prosecutor and possible rival for this man would be out of the picture.
The trial couldn’t have gone better if he’d scripted it himself. He couldn’t stop grinning—or toasting his protégé’s success—with clinks against the wineglasses of Ed, his aide, and Sally, his special assistant. During a commercial break, Fowler sent Sally to the staff kitchen for more merlot. The toasts had only just begun.
She returned minutes later with the wine, sat down, and crossed her legs primly on the red leather sofa beside him. The screen switched from the commercial to CNN’s Tom Miller, standing in front of the San Diego skyline.
“I’m Tom Miller, as we continue our wrap-up of today’s dramatic conclusion of the court-martial of United States versus Mohammed Ola-juwon, Mohammed Reska, and Charles Abdul-Sehen.
“Now to recap, just about four hours ago, Pacific time, a Navy jury returned with a verdict of guilty on all charges and specifications, convicting all three chaplains for murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and treason. It was the first jury defeat, ever, for the internationally acclaimed defense attorney representing the chaplains, Wells Levinson.
“From that point, things moved from bad to worse for the defense. With Levinson looking stunned, the trial went into the sentencing phase, with Lieutenant Diane Colcernian arguing that the Navy must send a message to terrorists who would seek to infiltrate its officer corps by imposing the death penalty. Levinson, who had the last word, claimed it was an overreaction and the death penalty would only fuel more terrorism. ‘Stop the killing now,’ Levinson said, pleading for life in prison or an even lesser sentence for his clients.
“But the jury didn’t buy it. And just one hour ago, the military jury—the members, as they are known in the military justice system—came back with a sentence which reduced the defendants to pay grade E-1, the lowest rank in the military, gave them a dishonorable discharge from the naval service, and ordered them to be executed for the crimes they had committed.
“Reaction coming in from around the world has been sharply divided along political and religious lines. In the Arab capitals of Riyadh, Amman, Teheran, and Damascus, massive protests have started erupting on the streets. In London, the British government issued a strong statement of support for the United States, although reactions from Paris and Moscow were less enthusiastic. We will cover international reaction in more detail tonight on NightWatch and in the days ahead.”
The screen switched, one last time, to the former federal prosecutor Jeanie Van Horton.
“Wow, Tom, what can I say? Four days ago, during opening statements, I commented that the prosecution might have won a moral victory because Levinson did not blow Lieutenant Colcernian out of the water. But to be honest with you, I expected a defense verdict on this case.
“But yesterday, Tom, I’ve got to tell you, I’ve never seen a prosecutor handle Wells Levinson like Zack Brewer did. I mean, Brewer gives him a gift on a silver platter with the whole Kilnap thing, then turns around and literally bloodies Levinson’s nose in closing argument. A twenty-seven-year-old prosecutor coming in here and whipping the world’s greatest trial lawyer.
“Tom, this is the stuff legends are made of.”
The camera switched back to a nodding, smiling Tom Miller.
“Bernie Woodson, if you believe Jeanie, we just watched David beat Goliath all over again. What are your thoughts on all this?”
A nodding, almost smiling Bernie Woodson took Miller’s place on the screen.
“Tom, Jeanie and I have been your guests in high-profile cases for a number of years, and you know that we don’t always see eye to eye. This time, though, I have to agree with my colleague. David versus Goliath? I don’t know about that. But certainly a stunning and impressive performance by both these young officers.”
“So, Bernie, what does the future hold for them?”
“Good question, Tom. Of course, they are both on active duty in the Navy JAG Corps. But to be honest with you, we’re already hearing leaks out of Washington that Brewer has been approached by some very powerful people around the Beltway about running for political office, and we’ll just have to wait and see in the next few weeks how it pans out.”
“Thanks, Bernie. We’ve got to take a break now. But when we come back, we’ll take a look at the death penalty in the military. When and how might it be imposed in this case?”
“Good job with the leak, Ed.” Senator Fowler lifted his wineglass to his chief of staff, took a sip, then clicked off the television set.
“Think he’s still coming, Senator?”
Fowler draped his arm around Sally’s shoulders. “I would just about stake my life on it. When he said yes to my offer, the gleam in his eyes told me I’d just offered him his life’s goal.” He chuckled. “The boy’s smitten with a flair for politics. Reminds me of me when I was his age.” The senator sighed, smiling, and reached for the corkscrew. “And he’s smart. He knows now’s the time to act.” The cork popped, and he poured another round of merlot. “You know what they say. Strike while the iron’s hot. Right now the boy could get elected president of the United States if he wanted. I believe he knows it. He also knows how to capitalize on his moment of glory. Oh yes. He’s still coming.”
He lifted his wineglass. Sally and Ed did the same. “To Congressman and Mrs. Zack Brewer.”
CHAPTER 63
Mount Helix
East San Diego County
The large, thirty-six-foot white cross on the top of the mountain took on an orange glow as the sun started its downward trek toward the Pacific. Dressed in blue jeans, a white golf shirt, and sunglasses, Zack sat on the stone wall at the base of the cross and looked to the west.
The ocean, just eleven miles away, was magnificently blue, and the Pacific breeze, cool against his face, was the perfect catharsis to the high-stakes courtroom drama he had finished just three hours ago. He needed to get away, to think, to chill out. And if there was one place in San Diego County that would provide him the best opportunity, Zack figured it would be Mount Helix.
He was right. Not a soul was up here this late afternoon. That might change. In fact, he hoped it would. But for a few minutes anyway, he could reflect on what just happened.
The media said he had just beaten the world’s greatest lawyer. Okay. Great. So why wasn’t he feeling giddy about it?
The courtroom, in a sense, had been like a grand, four-day, intellectual chess match against Wells Levinson. But when he saw those Marines escorting those three convicted officers out at gunpoint, the hard realization struck him that three men were going to die as a direct result of his professional abilities.
Did they deserve it? Sure. He tried consoling himself by remembering the children and families who were victims of the murderous acts. It gave him little solace. He felt no vengeance in his heart toward the Muslim chaplains, only pity. They had missed out on the truth, and now, they were going to pay.
He turned his eyes away from the ocean and looked up at the cross.
If my actions have been sinful in any way, forgive me.
His thoughts returned to a simpler time, long ago, when he was a boy in Plymouth, North Carolina. H
e had been blessed by a grandmother who was a mighty prayer warrior. When he was a baby, she had dedicated his life to God. Her prayers for him were manifold—hundreds, perhaps thousands over his lifetime.
She had written her prayers in notebooks, on the back of church bulletins, on napkins, and on plain white typing paper. She wrote them when he was sick, when he was taking tests in school, when he was starting to date—asking God to bring him the right kind of Christian girlfriend and a Christian wife someday. Her notebooks were discovered in her bedroom and kitchen when she finally died after a long, losing bout with osteoporosis.
“Use my grandson for your glory,” she had written, hundreds of times, “and protect him from the temptations of this world.”
Zack’s eyes watered as he considered how his grandmother’s faithful prayers were still being answered. Even this day, they had given him the strength and fortitude to fight for justice and, in some small way, to perhaps stem the tide of terrorism in the United States Navy.
What had happened here was something larger than life. It was a divine appointment, he now realized. Like the prodigal son, Zack had wandered from his roots and sought the things of the world. No more. He may have wandered from the Father, but the Son had never left him nor forsaken him. Just as he promised. And now, Lieutenant Zack Brewer was coming home.
“Hi.”
The familiar voice turned his attention to the empty outdoor amphitheatre just under the cross. She was wearing a denim skirt, a green blouse, and large, almost camouflaging sunglasses. If it weren’t for her trademark red hair, he might not have recognized her.
“You came.”
“You thought I wouldn’t?”
