Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

The Army lawyer steps up to the bar and says, “Your Honor, please, I beg for a few minutes’ indulgence. That’s all. I’ve just received an urgent text from Afghanistan saying there is evidence in that country that will be key to determining whether your sentencing should go forward.”

Judge Rollins’s already red face gets more crimson. “Are you telling me, son, that some judge over there in that Third World country is tryin’ to tell me how to run my courtroom?”

The JAG lawyer, leather bag in his right hand, shakes his head. “Not at all, Your Honor. Not at all. In the interest of seeing that the very best outcome is made today, sir, please, will you allow me to approach the bench for a few moments? Please?”

Williams stares at the judge in cold disbelief. What in the hell is going on here? Afghanistan? For real?

It was settled. It was buried. There should be no mention of Afghanistan at all in this sunny courtroom in Georgia. Not a word.

Rollins says, “I’ll allow it. No guarantees, you understand. But I’ll allow it.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” the JAG lawyer says. “You won’t regret it.”

Rollins barks out a laugh. “You better hope you’re right.”

The Army lawyer steps through the bar’s open gate, and as he approaches the bench, Williams stands up and violently gestures to get the district attorney’s attention. Slate spots her and slinks over like a student about to be disciplined in public by a teacher, which is pretty accurate.

She grabs a lapel of his suit jacket and gives it a good twist. “Corny, you go up there and stop this shit, right now. Got it? Shut it down, or I swear to God, I’ll make it hurt for you so bad you’ll still be crying ten years from now. Go!”

Williams pushes him away and returns to her seat, breathing hard, realizing that the courtroom has gone quiet, and that most people are staring at her.

Not the judge or the district attorney or that black Army lawyer.

Her.

She sits down, watches the huddle up there, the Army lawyer speaking, waving an arm around, and Corny doing the same thing, and the old fool Rollins listening to them both, rubbing at his face, nodding, and speaking loudly: “All right, I’ve heard enough. Mr. Slate, you may return to your spot. Captain Pierce…all right, then.”

Murmurs from the people around her, and even that big, tough staff sergeant over there, in handcuffs and wearing a Ralston jail jumpsuit, looks confused.

“Sheriff Williams,” the judge says.

She stands up, now confused as well. “Your Honor?”

He crooks a finger at her, and she nods, stumbles for a moment, and walks through the open gate of the bar and then up to the bench. The judge of course is sitting higher than her, and she feels out of sorts and exposed. She doesn’t like the feeling.

Rollins covers the bench’s microphone with his hand and in a low voice says, “Emma, just a bit closer. There. You know what?”

She shakes her head. “What’s that, Judge?”

He smiles, his teeth yellow and stained. “I heard what you said a while back, when I adjourned for a recess, and you said I needed a rise, too. Right?”

With horror she realizes she’s gone too far and says, “Judge Rollins, please, I apologize, I meant—”

He shakes his head, his greasy-looking smile wide and confident, close enough that she’s able to smell his peppermint-scented breath. “This may be your county, Emma, but this is my goddamn courtroom. I’ll run it the way I see fit…especially if it pisses you off. Now go sit your fat ass down so we can see what the hell Afghanistan has to say.”

Chapter 102

ALL RIGHT, CAPTAIN Allen Pierce thinks, standing nervously in front of the judge, let ’s make sure this happens. From his leather briefcase he takes out the Army-issue laptop, places it on top of the judge’s bench, powers it up. The screen pops into view.

He starts checking the icons, goes through the Applications folder, finds the one for Skype, double-clicks. The icon rotates, rotates, rotates.

“Counselor…” the judge says.

He feels himself warm with embarrassment, remembering the first time he argued a case before a military tribunal and realized ten minutes in that he had forgotten a key folder of paperwork back in his apartment.

“Just a moment, Your Honor,” he says, clicking on the keyboard, hearing the titters and giggles from the spectators, knowing the sheriff is probably enjoying his every painful moment.

Someone stands next to him. “If I may, Your Honor, I believe I can fix this,” comes Huang’s voice.

“And who the hell are you?”

“Dr. John Huang,” he says, gently pushing Pierce aside and going to the computer. “I’m an Army lieutenant.”

“Well,” the judge says, “I guess if anyone can fix a computer, it’s someone like you, huh? And this thing…Skip. You can actually talk to someone in Afghanistan?”

Huang says, “Yes, sir. Skype.”

Pierce feels sweet relief pour through him as the familiar log-on page pops up. He goes to his iPhone, copies the address onto the Skype page, and the tone of its ringing sounds. He taps a key and boosts the volume, and—

A screen pops up, dark but visible.

Sweet God, it’s the major.

And he looks horrible.

A tired-looking Major Jeremiah Cook peers at him, his face lined, worn, and with a growth of beard. Pierce maneuvers the laptop so his own face pops up within the screen.

“Captain Pierce,” Cook says, “is the hearing for Staff Sergeant Jefferson concluded?”

“Almost, sir.”

“Is the judge nearby?”

“Right here, sir,” he says, rotating the screen so Judge Rollins can see Major Cook. “This is Judge Howell Rollins.”

The judge leans in and says, “I’ll be damned…Who is this?”

The major coughs, grimaces. “I’m Major Jeremiah Cook, with the US Army Criminal Investigation Division, operating out of Quantico. I’m leading the team investigating the alleged involvement of the Rangers in the murders that happened last week in your county. Your Honor…thank you for allowing me to speak to you.”

The judge says, “And where the hell are you, anyway?”

Pierce looks back at the spectators, and those who can see the screen are leaning forward. It’s so quiet that besides the hiss of the computer’s speakers, the only thing he can hear is the gentle whir-whir of the large fans overhead.

The screen fades in and out. Cook says, “I’m at an observation post on a mountaintop somewhere in southern Afghanistan…pretty damn close to the Pakistan border. I’ve just interviewed a key witness who has vital information about this case.”

The video screen vibrates and then settles down, as a muffled boom is heard.

Cook looks up. “Sorry,” he says. “There’s a squad of Taliban coming up the north side of the ridge, and they’re laying down some mortar rounds. I’ve got to make this quick…”

Pierce sees that the arrogant and angry face of the judge has changed to something else entirely. “Go on, Major, go on,” the judge says. “Why are you in Afghanistan? What does anything over there have to do with Sullivan County and my court?”

Another boom, another shake of the screen, and Cook continues, voice tired and strained. “During the course of our investigation, we learned that the Ranger fire team that was arrested in Sullivan County had been accused of committing a similar crime in a small village in Afghanistan. It seemed to be too much of a coincidence. I flew here and found out that this charge was false, that it was a setup by the local Taliban to accuse the Rangers of war crimes.”

Rollins says, “Major, you’re not telling me that the Taliban came over here and tried to do the same thing again, are you?”