“I’m going to look for the soft spots,” she said, “and plunge in the knife.”
Devereaux looked at her for a moment and turned back to the road. He gave a crooked smile. “Why do I get a feeling you’re gonna plunge in the knife even if there isn’t a soft spot? You get a call this morning, around two-thirty?”
She nodded. “The FBI boys got something?”
“Nope. Me. See, there’s only two entrances to the Pentagon that’re open twenty-four hours a day. There’s the Mall entrance, and there’s the River entrance. I gambled, and staked out the Mall entrance. At around twenty after two in the morning-ten minutes before you received a call-guess who’s striding into the Pentagon, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?”
“I can’t guess,” she said.
“The good soldier. Colonel James Hernandez. He’s your caller. And probably behind that car ‘accident’ in Maryland. Nice guy, huh?”
Waldron’s direct examination of the general was crisp, professional, and respectful. It lasted most of the morning, and the court recessed for an early lunch.
When Claire, Grimes, and Embry returned from lunch they noticed that the prosecution table was empty, which was unusual. Waldron and Hogan were punctual men who liked to confer at their table with plenty of time to spare before Judge Farrell returned.
The two men returned with just seconds to spare, talking in low voices with evident excitement. Waldron was accompanied by a CID investigator Claire had seen from time to time, whose name she’d forgotten.
“What’s going on?” Tom whispered, grasping her shoulder.
She shook her head.
“Something’s up,” Grimes muttered under his breath. “Waldron looks like the cat that ate the canary.”
Claire introduced herself to the general with extravagant graciousness, emphasizing for the jury something she might, at another time, be inclined to downplay: General William Marks’s august rank.
Another attorney might well have chosen to treat the general as just another witness, silently communicating to the panel members, This witness is really no different from any others, and don’t you forget it. And that wouldn’t have been an incorrect strategy.
But she noticed that the jurors seemed on their best behavior while the general was in the courtroom. They sat up straight, they refrained from chewing pencils or cradling their chins on their hands or any of the little gestures of inattention or boredom. Even Judge Farrell, she noticed, hadn’t brought a can of Pepsi to the stand. So she slathered on the deference, knowing that in a matter of seconds she’d be treating him with all the disrespect he actually deserved.
“General Marks,” she said once the dull preliminaries were out of the way, “you have been granted immunity in exchange for your testimony here today, is that correct?”
“Yes, it is.” His response was frank and confident. With his silver hair and his aquiline nose, he looked resplendent in his dress uniform.
“There are two types of immunity, General. One covers just your testimony here in the courtroom. Another kind covers the events you’ve been testifying about-specifically, the events in El Salvador in June of 1985. Which kind of immunity have you been given, sir?”
“The latter. Transactional immunity,” he said with a nod.
“And why is that, sir?”
“War is sloppy, counselor. Mistakes are inevitably made, and often the commander is held responsible for them.”
“Oh? And were we at war with El Salvador in 1985, General?”
Judge Farrell interrupted. “Madame Defense Counsel, I’m not going to countenance your taking that tone with the general. I don’t like that disrespect.”
Claire dipped her head agreeably, not inclined to quarrel just yet. “Certainly, Your Honor. General, when you use the word ‘war,’ do you mean to say that we were at war in 1985? I wasn’t under the impression that Congress had declared war against El Salvador at the time.”
General Marks gave a wry smile. “Any time a unit of the army, including the Special Forces, conducts operations downrange against a potentially hostile force, we operate under the conditions of war.”
“Ah,” she said. “Now I see. That certainly makes sense. And do you agree with the notion that the commander is responsible for the actions of the men under him?”
“It’s not just a notion, counselor. It’s the way the army operates.”
“So you have no quibble with it?”
He gave a small snort of amusement. “No, I have no ‘quibble,’ as you say, with the way the army operates.”
“So, as the commanding officer of Detachment 27, you were ultimately responsible for all of the actions of your men?”
“Yes, indeed,” he said, nodding his head vigorously. “Even actions over which I had no control-”
“Thank you, General-”
“-which is why I’ve been granted immunity to explore the tragic actions of your client.”
“Thank you, General. Now, sir, Detachment 27 was sent down to El Salvador to take reprisals for the Zona Rosa bombing, isn’t that correct?”
A rueful smile. “No, counselor, that’s not correct. We were sent to locate the murderers, the so-called urban guerrillas who murdered four marines. Not to take revenge.”
“Thank you for that distinction, General. And would it be correct to point out, sir, that you had a personal stake in that mission?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Really? You weren’t a close friend of one of the marines killed in the Zona Rosa bombing on 19 June 1985, a Marine Force Recon, Lieutenant Colonel Arlen Ross?”
“Well, there’s another important distinction to make,” he said, quite reasonably. “I was indeed an acquaintance of Arlen Ross-”
“No, sir,” she interrupted. “Not an ‘acquaintance.’ A friend.”
The general shrugged. “If you wish. A friend. I have no quarrel with that. Lieutenant Colonel Ross was, sadly, among those killed in the Zona Rosa. But make no mistake, counselor. I was there at the direction of the President of the United States. I most certainly did not use the might of the United States Army Special Forces to carry out my own personal vendetta.”
“I certainly never implied such a thing, General,” Claire said, feigning astonishment. “Merely that you might have had a personal stake in the mission, as anyone might have who’d had a close friend killed a few days before by antigovernment rebels.”
But the general was too shrewd for that. Not for nothing had he advanced as high as he had, and as quickly. “That’s very generous of you, counselor,” he said brusquely, “but I operate at the behest of my commander-in-chief. Not as some Mafioso out for blood.”
Never lose control of the witness, Claire reminded herself, and here she was doing just that. This line of cross-examination was clearly a mistake.
“General,” she said, “when we met for a pretrial interview at your office in the Pentagon, did you warn me not to pursue this matter because it might be damaging to my career?”
General Marks regarded her for a few seconds with an indecipherable stare. He had been briefed. He knew about the secret tape recording of Henry Abbott. “Yes, I did,” he replied at length. “I was quite frankly concerned that you were on some sort of self-destructive kamikaze mission, counselor, because the client is your husband.”
There, it was finally out. She had no doubt that all of the panel members already knew that Tom was her husband. But now the fact, in all its complexity and ambiguity, lay out there on official display.
“I was concerned,” he went on, “that if you continued to pursue this case without knowing all the facts, you’d end up looking foolish in the extreme. You are, after all, married to a man who may be a murderer. You’re not exactly objective.” He smiled sadly. “You are the same age as my daughter. I can’t help but take a fatherly concern.”