Brian Haig - Secret sanction

There were a few coughs and a bit of awkward foot-shuffling because this lieutenant colonel was suddenly being told right to his face that he might be a suspect. He might have been dimly aware of that possibility before that moment, but nobody had actually confirmed it. Nor was it too hard to extrapolate that General Murphy, the walking accolade, also might become a suspect.

This silly, oversize frown instantly erupted on Murphy’s big-jawed, handsome face. He said, “You think that’s necessary?”

“In my legal opinion, absolutely.”

“Then I’ll appoint a new man.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome,” he said. It didn’t sound real sincere though. In fact, by the time he said it, he had turned about and was halfway through the door. Actually, he kind of mumbled it. In fact, it might not even have been “You’re welcome.” It was two words though. And there was a “you” in there somewhere. I’ll swear to that. I did have the impression he wasn’t going to invite me over for drinks anytime soon.

My two legal colleagues wore befuddled expressions as a result of this swift display of one-upmanship, but this was neither the time nor the place to make my explanations. We got up and left the building and, after a short humvee ride, were deposited at another wooden building. This one was somewhat smaller than General Murphy’s headquarters. Actually, it was considerably smaller, since the military places a high premium on symbolism.

We strolled in and there were indeed five clerks frantically buzzing about, moving a desk into this or that corner, setting up computer workstations, testing phones, and hefting large boxes of legal-size paper to be positioned at strategic locations throughout the four rooms that constituted the interior of the building. Legal clerks are known for being brainy but not overly industrious, so somebody had evidently scared the crap out of them.

A female soldier wearing the stripes of a specialist seven, which is a very high rank in the specialist field, immediately dropped two boxes of paper and rushed over to greet us.

Her name was Imelda Pepperfield, which is a pretty odd name for a Black, female, noncommissioned officer who was short and squat, had tough, squinty eyes that peered out from a pair of gold wire-rimmed glasses, and who made it clear from the opening shot exactly who was in charge of this legal compound.

A finger popped up and began waving like a fencing foil. “Keep them duffel bags out of my entry. Store them in your offices, or carry them back out to that damned humvee. Doesn’t make a damn to me, just don’t trash up my entry.”

“Good day to you, too,” I said. “You might find this hard to believe, but I’m actually supposed to be in charge of this investigation.”

The finger instantly shifted to my face. “Nope! You’re in charge of doing the legal work of this investigation. I’m in charge of the investigating team, and the building, and every damn bit of work’s gotta get done. And don’t any of you forget that.”

“Perish the thought,” I said, brushing past her. “You wouldn’t happen to have been kind enough to allocate a little space for us useless officers, would you?”

Captains Delbert and Morrow were standing with their jaws hung a bit loosely, so I figured the time had come to do a little explaining. I swung my arm through the air in a gesture for them to follow me. Specialist Seven Pepperfield interpreted that to mean her, too, so she trailed along as we filed into one of the offices. A desk had already been set up, with five chairs arrayed around the front, and we all picked our seats. I took the chair behind the desk, of course. Rank doth have its privileges.

“Imelda,” I said, “I’d like you to meet Captain James Delbert, and Captain Lisa Morrow.”

She stared fiercely at both of them.

I turned to the other two. “Imelda and I have worked together about a dozen times the past few years. She’s the best there ever was. She runs a tight ship and demands that we all be at work every morning at six o’clock sharp. She’ll make sure we’re fed and bathed and coffee’d and carried out to our cots at midnight, after we’ve all passed out from sheer exhaustion at our desks. She is remarkably resourceful. Her only requirement is that we work our asses off and do everything she tells us to do.”

Imelda was glaring at me and nodding furiously. I’d been trying for years to ingratiate myself with her, which was a little like Napoleon trying to knock that guy Wellington off his hill.

She smacked her lips once or twice, straightened her glasses, and announced, “You got that right.”

She then got up and stomped out of the room.

Captain Delbert was staring at me like I was getting things all wrong. You’re not supposed to be rude to generals and take guff off of sergeants. As for the expression on Morrow’s beautiful face, well, as a highly polished defense attorney, she was used to being around scoundrels.

Now that we had our own office, with a little privacy, and without the roar of four big C-130 engines in our ears, I figured the time had come for us to get better acquainted.

I leaned back in my chair, folded my hands behind my ears, and plopped my feet on my desk. “Congratulations to you both. You’ve been selected to make legal history. What we have here are nine good, clean-cut, wholesome American soldiers accused of murdering thirty-five men. Against orders, no less. They were led by an Army captain, with a chief warrant officer as his assistant, and the rest were all noncommissioned officers of varying grades. This was no group of youngsters, but a team of hardened professionals. Now, most Americans want to believe that this was just a mistake, a mix-up, or that these were just some group of green, frightened soldiers who simply broke under pressure. That ain’t so. What we have here is mass murder under very questionable circumstances.”

“You’re talking like they definitely did it,” Morrow said, instinctively jumping to the defense.

“They did,” Delbert politely corrected her.

“The odds are they did,” I corrected them both.

“Why us?” Morrow logically asked.

“Well, that’s an interesting question. I was selected because I’m very good at what I do, but I don’t exactly fit into the system real well, if you hadn’t already guessed. I think the powers that be looked at me and said, hey, this guy Drummond, he’s perfect. He’s a great lawyer, but he’s also a bit of an odd duck. Pick him. He’s expendable.”

This was a pretty frank admission on my part, but I believe in getting everything on the table.

“Then why us?” Delbert asked, by which he really meant why him, because he obviously believed the handsome piece of meat stuffed inside his combat boots was not the least bit expendable.

“Well, Delbert, in your case, because your record says you’re maybe the best prosecutor in the Army. And Morrow, you just might be the best defense attorney. It’s a yin and yang kinda thing.”

“There’s lots of good defense attorneys,” Morrow said, which was true and, no doubt, left her suspecting that her sex and looks had something to do with her being picked. She must’ve had some bad experiences before. That, or she was reading some of the seamier corners of my mind, which was a disturbing thought. I willed myself to think, of course, that her sex and looks had nothing to do with it.

What I said was, “Yes, but I don’t believe the Army considers either of you expendable and so, frankly, I was hoping to bask in your protection.” Oops, another bald admission on my part.

“How very noble of you,” she said, and at this point even Delbert was looking at me askance and wondering what he’d done to deserve this.