High Crimes

Why not, indeed. “They don’t allow kids there,” Claire lied. Probably kids were allowed in the visiting room.

Annie seemed to accept this. “Is he scared?”

“At first he was, but now he’s not. He knows they’re going to let him out soon, and then we’ll be a family again. Let’s read some books.”

“No, I don’t want to,” Annie said. Claire couldn’t tell if Annie was mollified or not. “I’m tired.” She turned over. “’Night, Mommy,” she said.

Claire fell asleep on the sofa in the sitting room, surrounded by case books on military law and packets of nonclassified discovery materials.

At around nine she was jolted awake by the doorbell. She ran to get it, before he rang again and woke Annie up.

Grimes’s face was solemn.

“The decision’s back, isn’t it?”

Grimes nodded.

“When are we going to trial?”

“Can I come in? Or do I got to stand out here on the porch?”

“Sorry.”

“The arraignment’s in six days,” he said, removing his fern-green overcoat and hanging it on the hall coat tree. “That means we got to have all our motions in by then, or we should, anyway. We probably go to trial in a month.”

“Why did I even allow myself to think otherwise?”

“Because, underneath all your been-there, done-that, cynical worldliness, you’re an optimist. A cockeyed optimist.”

“Maybe,” Claire said dubiously. “You want coffee or something?”

“Naw. Not at night.”

“So this is it,” Claire said when they were seated at their usual places in the library office. “We lose this, we’re fucked.”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this from the appellate queen of Cambridge. It’s like baseball. Motions is your first base. Trial is second base. Then you got the Army Court of Criminal Appeals. Then Court of Appeals for the Armed Forces. They get a single, the game ain’t over.”

“So now who’s the cockeyed optimist?”

“I’m just talking how the game is played. Lot of innings.”

“But this whole charade is ridiculous. The investigating officer’s finding tells any officer who might be on the jury that their commanding officer thinks Tom’s guilty. They’re not going to acquit after that! What’s that?” She noticed a piece of paper in Grimes’s hands.

“The convening order,” he said, standing up and handing it to her. “Take a look. You see who’s ordering the court-martial?” Grimes studied a fragile-looking porcelain urn on a white-painted wooden columnar pedestal next to the desk.

The letterhead said SECRETARY OF THE ARMY. The letter was signed by the secretary of the army himself.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Why is the secretary convening it? I thought it was done by someone lower down on the food chain, like the commander of Quantico or something.”

“Usually is. That’s what’s interesting. It’s like they’re ordering this from the very top to send a message — you know, We’re not fucking around, this is serious shit.”

“No,” Claire said.

“No what?”

“That’s not the reason. There’s a legal reason, I’ll bet. A really interesting one.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s because General Marks, the chief of staff of the army, is involved in this. Legally, that makes him an accuser against Tom. And according to Article 1 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice and Rule of Court-Martial 504(c)(2), a court-martial can’t be convened by anyone junior to an accuser. The only one senior to the general—”

“Is the secretary. Right.” He traced a pattern on the urn, nodded. “Right.”

“And what’s this list?” Claire said, still looking at the letter. “Is this the jury?”

“Yeah, only in a military court they’re called the ‘members.’”

“I want all these guys checked out for any glitches. Any biases. Anything we can use for voir dire. How come all these guys are commissioned officers? Tom was a noncommissioned officer, that’s lower rank. Don’t we want some senior NCOs on the panel?”

“If we want senior NCOs, we can request it. But I think we’ll get a fairer shake if we stick with officers. They’re more inclined to look at the evidence, in my experience.”

“I assume the most senior guy in rank automatically becomes the jury foreman.”

“You’re catching on. Everything is rank.”

“And how do we know these guys haven’t all been selected for their willingness to convict?”

“We don’t. Officially it’s unlawful command influence to try to stack the court, but good luck proving it. You can’t.”

The doorbell rang. “Shit,” Claire said. “That’s going to wake Annie up. She was just drifting off to sleep.”

“Expecting someone?”

“Ray Devereaux. My PI. Excuse me for a minute.”

Ray stood at the door like an immense statue with an improbably small head. He wore one of his good suits.

“Good evening,” he said with exaggerated courtliness.

“Hey, Ray,” Claire said. She went to hug him and ended up squeezing his stomach. He entered and looked around.

“I like this,” Devereaux said. “You’re living in the goddamned Taj Mahal and I’m staying in a roach motel.”

“It’s not a roach motel, Ray, it’s—”

“Fuggedaboudit, I’m making a joke. What happened to your sense of humor?”