High Crimes

“Grimes, it didn’t used to be admissible, but now it can be. It’s up to the judge. U.S. v. Scheffer, 1996, decided by the Court of Appeals for the Armed Forces. If it’s exculpatory and the accused’s counsel can lay foundation for it, it may be admissible.”

“And what if you’re wrong? What if he really is guilty?”

“He’s not.”

“You’re gonna take that chance? Plus, he could be innocent and fail because he’s nervous. Then we’re screwed, because people talk, you know. Word gets around. The jurors at the court-martial hear the water-cooler gossip. Everyone’ll know he failed. These guys, these examiners, are Chatty Cathys.”

“Not if he’s hired by us. That makes him an adviser to defense counsel. Falls under attorney work product, brings him within lawyer-client privilege. I’ll see what Tom thinks, but you know a good examiner?”

He sighed with resignation. “I know one. Does a lot of work for the military. You want another pitcher?”

“I couldn’t. Not a third. You shouldn’t either, if you’re driving.”

As they left, Grimes wove his way unsteadily between the bar and the tables. Claire made a mental note to insist upon driving him home. She could pick him up in the morning, but she wouldn’t let him drive now. They passed a large round table near the entrance where they heard a sudden burst of laughter. She reflexively turned to look and saw Embry surrounded by a bunch of other short-haired men, some in civilian togs, some in army fatigues.

“Grimes,” she said.

He turned with a beer-addled grin, saw where she was looking, who was sitting next to Embry. “Well, how do you do. Our own Captain Terry Embryo. Hoisting a few with our very own trial counsel, Major Lucas Waldron. Well, hell-o.”

Part Three

23

Not even four in the morning, and the sky was indigo-black with just a trace of pink on the horizon. Dew was on the grass on the forlorn little hillock in front of the “defense shop,” the low white temporary-looking structure that served as Judge Advocate General defense offices at Quantico. It looked like a dressed-up Quonset hut.

Grimes had arrived first, in jeans, a sweatshirt, a black leather jacket out of Shaft. Claire wore jeans and a green Shetland sweater and a suede jacket. They stood in silence. A pair of guys in identical gray sweats and army T-shirts jogged by, huffing in rhythm. A car pulled up, a dark-gray Honda Civic. Captain Terry Embry’s car. Grimes and Claire looked at each other. They hadn’t seen him since that night at the bar; they hadn’t said anything to him either.

Embry got out and sprinted over. “Sorry,” he said.

“No problem,” Claire said. “No one else’s here yet.”

“Morning,” he said with a nod to Grimes. He was wearing his uniform, neatly pressed as always. His complexion was clear with a ruddy flush. She could smell his mouthwash when he talked. “Claire, ma’am, bad news on the general. His office finally got back to me on our request and said the general won’t be able to testify or even give a deposition. There’s been a change in his schedule. He has to fly to CINCPAC, Camp Smith, Hawaii. So he’s going to be totally out of reach from now through the 32 hearing.”

“Ask for a continuance until he gets back.”

“Yeah,” Grimes said, “but you won’t get it.” He grunted. “Asshole.”

“The good news is, I reached Hernandez for you, and he’s all set for an interview with us.”

“Thanks, Terry,” Claire said.

“But...” Embry faltered. “You remember he works in the Pentagon?”

“Yeah?”

Embry unlocked the front door and switched on the lights.

“Well, he’s the senior administrative officer to General Marks.”

“What?” Claire said.

“Yeah. Turns out Hernandez is, like, the general’s aide de camp. His XO, his executive officer. Handles personal business, scheduling, all that. He’s followed General Marks around everywhere since ’85. Totally loyal.”

“I’m sure he’s gonna tell the truth,” Grimes said sardonically. “He won’t cover for the general, oh no, not Hernandez.”

They followed Embry to a conference room, where he also switched on the lights there. “Want me to stay for this, or no?” Embry asked.

“Best if you don’t,” Claire said.

“Okay, then, if you guys don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my office at Fort Belvoir.”

“That’s fine,” Claire said. “Thanks.”

The polygrapher arrived fifteen minutes later, a stout, squat, bearded man in his late fifties wearing aviator horn-rimmed glasses. He carried a silvery metal briefcase. While he set up the instruments, he chatted. His name was Richard Givens. He had a deep, soothing voice. He spoke slowly, carefully, as if to a child, and in a soft-edged Southern accent. He was from Raleigh, North Carolina. He had attended polygraph school during his service with the Naval Investigative Service and had been an examiner with the navy at Newport, Rhode Island, and San Diego.

“Do you think there might be some more comfortable chairs anywhere around?” he asked. “Comfortable chairs would be a very good idea, if you have them.”