High Crimes

“You’d be second chair, you know. If I hire you.”

“Second to the fetus?”

“Second to me. He’d be third chair. If I even keep him on. I don’t know if I can trust someone from the army.”

“Nah, you want to hold on to the assigned co-counsel. He’s got the power to order military witnesses to appear for an interview; we don’t. Plus, you need him around to cut through all the administrative bullshit. I’m telling you, the army has a reg — a regulation — for everything, including how to wipe your ass.”

“Okay.”

“No offense, Professor — you want to be lead counsel on this, go right ahead, it’s your money, your husband, your case. You’re the boss. But I don’t get the feeling you know too much about court-martials.”

“You just said it follows civilian law pretty closely.”

“You want to be gettin’ your training wheels when your husband is facing the death penalty?”

“I’d expect you to do a lot of backseat driving.”

He shrugged. “Hey, you’re Claire Heller Chapman. You want to do it that way, fine with me. You got clearance?”

“Why?”

“I promise you, they’re going to close this courtroom, shut it tight as a drum. Plus most of the statements and evidence will be classified top secret. That’s how they’re going to play this.”

“I’ll get clearance. You think that’ll be a problem?”

“Shouldn’t be. You’ll have to fill out a bunch of paper. Standard form 86. They’ll do an NAC, that’s a national agency check. Background check by FBI and the Defense Investigative Services. Clear you up to ‘secret.’”

“And if they don’t give me clearance?”

“They have to. Now that you’re counsel. They have to give counsel clearance, otherwise your husband doesn’t have to talk.”

“How fast can I get it?”

“They can grant it overnight if they want. Now, we’re going to need a good investigator.”

“I know a really good one.”

“Army background? CID?”

“Boston PD and FBI.”

“Good enough for me.”

“He’s in Boston, but he’s worth the added expense. Really good investigators are rare.”

“Tell me about it. In this case, they’ll be vital. This case is going to be brutal. So what’s the deal here? Am I hired or not?”

18

On the way from the airport, Claire stopped first at Arthur Iselin’s law firm, just off Dupont Circle, to pick up the keys. Annie and Jackie waited in the rented Olds. The house was on Thirty-fourth Street, near Massachusetts Avenue, a very short walk to the Naval Observatory. It was a Federal-style town house, cream-painted brick front with black shutters, quite handsome. It belonged to one of the senior partners in Iselin’s firm, who had recently retired and moved to Tuscany for six months. He was asking a lot for the short-term rental, but Claire decided, as she walked up the front steps, that it was worth it.

“Do I get my own room?” Annie asked.

“I’m sure you do,” Claire replied.

“How ’bout me?” Jackie asked.

“Hey, you get your own wing,” Claire said.

As soon as Claire had the door unlocked, Annie bolted ahead into the house. She squealed as she ran, “Mommy, this is so cool!”

Claire took in the spacious and elegant foyer, the beautiful old Persian rugs, the antique furnishings, the linen-white wainscoted walls. “We’re in trouble,” she said to Jackie. “She’s going to destroy this.” The air was musty — the house smelled as if it had been empty for months — yet laced with furniture polish. Someone came in and cleaned once a week or so, she decided.

Jackie set her duffel bag down and looked around, eyeing the graceful staircase that wound around upward from the left of the foyer in a fan of white balusters. “Cool,” she said. “You did good.”

She’d taught her last class and instructed Connie to turn away all requests from potential clients. There would be final exams, but she’d have the completed exams FedExed down to her here. She told her students she was available by telephone and gave her number in Washington. Two of her pending cases she turned over to a friend at a downtown Boston firm. That left her with one appeal before the Supreme Judicial Court, which would involve a quick flight to Boston and back. Their house would stand empty, but Rosa — who had kids of her own and certainly couldn’t come down to Washington to work — would stop in every couple of days to make sure everything was all right. Jackie, who paid the rent doing what she called “boring fucking technical writing,” could do her work down here and was willing, saint that she was, to take care of Annie.

She placed a couple of calls to friends in Boston, told them she’d be in Washington for a while, perhaps even several months, working on a case she wasn’t supposed to talk about. A few hours later, while Claire and Jackie were still unpacking and settling in and Annie was discovering new rooms and new hiding places, the doorbell rang.

An army courier, a young black man wearing a nametag that said “Lee,” was carrying a large carton. “I need your signature on some forms, ma’am, but first I’m going to need to see a driver’s license.”