High Crimes

She signed with a sense of anticipation and anxiety far different from her customary feelings about documents provided to her during litigation. These were documents about Tom and his life before he met her, his concealed life.

They were copies of his enlisted-evaluation reports — DA Form 2166-6, photocopies of what she imagined were old, yellowed pieces of paper from deep in files somewhere in North Carolina (Special Forces trained at Fort Bragg). They were stamped FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY and included ADMINISTRATIVE DATA and PERFORMANCE EVALUATION — PROFESSIONALISM and PERFORMANCE AND POTENTIAL EVALUATION. She settled down in the room that she’d chosen as her office — a comfortable library on the first floor, far removed from the living quarters — and examined copies of Tom’s service-records books. Most of them were boring and anodyne, but she forced herself to read closely. She discovered his file photo, attached to a copy of his personnel file, taken when he was sent to Vietnam. He was almost thirty years younger. A kid of nineteen. Younger, yes, but also a very different face — a different nose, more bulbous; hollow cheeks; a receding chin. If she hadn’t known it was Tom, she wouldn’t have recognized the photo. It surprised her that the plastic surgery that had altered his appearance so dramatically had also improved his looks considerably.

Then she read something that made her blood run cold.

Charles Grimes met her at the entrance to the Quantico brig. This time he was wearing an ill-fitting jacket and tie. In addition to his briefcase, he was carrying a large portable radio.

“What’s that for?” Claire asked.

“Tunes,” Grimes said and didn’t elaborate. “Bad news.”

“What,” she said vaguely. Nothing surprised her anymore. They stopped at the sentry and opened their briefcases.

“The battalion commander’s ordered the Article 32 investigation and hearing,” Grimes said. “Docketed for a week from now. They normally take thirty days between preferring charges and the Article 32 hearing, but they’re really moving this one along.”

“English, please.”

“It’s the pretrial investigation. Required by Article 32 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. To weigh all the facts, the issues raised in the charges. And decide whether to go ahead with the court-martial.”

“Sort of like the grand-jury investigation in the real world.”

“But better. We get to be there. Question witnesses, impeach stuff. No jury, and it’s run by an investigating officer, not a judge. It’s a good discovery opportunity — see what evidence they got, what kind of case they got.”

“But they’re not going to really drop the charges, are they? They’re going ahead with the court-martial.”

“Look, we got the right to waive the hearing. But we want it. We want to scope out their case.”

“The hearing’s in a week?”

He nodded as they walked along the echoey corridor, accompanied by an escort. “Not much time for us. They’ve had years to put this together. You get the documents?”

“I read them.”

They talked briefly. Grimes told Claire about his brief meeting with Tom in the brig yesterday. Tom had approved of hiring Grimes.

They stopped at the long conference room before the entrance to Cell Block B. “We’re going to meet here,” Grimes said to the escort. “Can you get the prisoner now?” He turned back to her, told her he’d spent hours going over Tom’s case file. “Your husband’s had quite a life. Interesting experiences.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say. Instead, she talked about the Article 32 hearing. Concentrate on the legal proceedings, she told herself. This you can do. “You want to try to get the court-martial knocked out?” she asked.

“Do I want to?” He put the radio down outside the conference-room door and switched it on to some rap station. “Notorious B.I.G.,” he said. “Life After Death. I hate this shit. Yeah, sure I want to. Ain’t gonna happen, but I’m willing to try. Long as you’re paying me.”

“You were serious about tunes, weren’t you?”

He smiled. He had an endearing smile, perfect white teeth. “No, it’s to keep ’em from listening in. Old Quantico brig trick.” He entered, set down his briefcase, took a seat at the head of the long Formica-topped table. She looked around the long, narrow room, noticed there was no camera in here. “See,” Grimes said, “I told you they’d give you clearance. I’m surprised you accepted the conditions, though.”

“Why?”

“Famous civil-liberties lawyer like you, I woulda thought you’d refuse. They investigate you, you had to sign that gag order, now you can’t speak out about the classified evidence in the case. Kinda like selling your soul.”

He was right. “I didn’t have a choice,” she said. “Not if I wanted to defend Tom.” She sat down next to him.

“True, but still. You call him Tom, huh? His assumed name?”

“That’s how I know him. I don’t know him as Ron.”

“You still think he’s innocent, huh? After what we both read?”