“What have you got there?” Claire asked.
“You asked about Hernandez’s medical records a couple of days ago,” Embry panted. “I had a buddy of mine check around-they were at the Pentagon dispensary, like I thought. He just faxed this over.”
“You got his shrink records?”
“No,” Embry said. “Better.” He grinned, then broke out into laughter. “Much, much better.”
The forensic tape expert, Leonore Eitel, was a petite and dignified-looking woman, slight to the point of tiny, silver-haired, with oversized round black spectacles. She wore a perfect dove-gray suit.
“If you would please stand in front of the witness chair, raise your right hand, and turn and face me,” Waldron said. The attorneys and the judge were meeting in a separate evidentiary hearing, a 39(a) session. “Do you swear that the evidence you shall give in the case now in hearing shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.”
Claire then took Leonore Eitel through her credentials, which were extensive and impressive. Then Eitel stated her findings: that the voice on the tape was indeed that of Ronald M. Kubik, a.k.a. Thomas Chapman.
“And what else, Ms. Eitel, can you tell us about this tape recording?” Claire asked.
“Well, to begin with, using a spectrum analyzer, I detected a sixty-cycle hum on the recording.”
“What’s the significance of that?”
“That’s the sound made by line power. That tells us that the voice was recorded on an electrical, plugged-in tape recorder, as opposed to a battery-operated one.”
“But couldn’t that hum have come from the tape recorder used by the Signal Corps, the people who allegedly taped the broadcast off the air?”
“No. If the speaker’s voice had been broadcast over a field radio and then recorded off the air, I wouldn’t have picked up that hum where I did. I can demonstrate precisely what I mean.”
“Thank you, but for now, let’s move on. Could this hum have been caused by copying the original?”
“No. I’ll explain-”
“In a few moments. What else did you observe?”
“The band width was different from what you’d expect to see from a voice broadcast over the air. The range of speech and microphone characteristics was markedly different, in terms of frequency response, from what you’d see in a radio transmission.”
“Is that it?”
“Oh, no. There were things missing that should have been there.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the keying of the microphone on the field radio, the button you push to transmit or receive. That sound was missing.”
“Anything else?”
“There were digital artifacts that shouldn’t have been there in an analog tape. That’s a real red flag. There were inverted V-shape figures in the upper frequencies, unexplained spikes in there, half an inch apart. Acoustic marks that aren’t associated with either speech or an analog tape recorder, but with a computer.”
“A computer?”
“That’s correct.”
“So what are you telling us?”
“That this tape was created on a computer, using editing software to splice together words and phrases. I would speculate that the subject did in fact speak all these words, but in a different order. Perhaps in an interrogation or an interview. My conclusion, and I state it with ninety-nine-percent certainty, is that this tape is a fake. A very, very skillful one-really, a beautiful job-but a fake all the same.”
The courtroom exploded. Farrell pounded his gavel. “Order!” he bellowed. “I want order! Trial counsel?”
Waldron’s eyes flashed with anger and shame. Both his hands flew up, palms out. “Your Honor,” he said, “we had no idea this tape was a forgery, we submitted it in good faith, and we hereby withdraw it-”
“You had a duty,” Farrell thundered, “to ascertain if it was real before throwing it into this court.”
“Sir, no one is as surprised as we are,” Waldron protested. “We had no reason to believe-”
“Sit down, trial counsel! I am appalled. I warned you there’d be no prosecutorial misconduct, and here you’ve had a general officer lie to this court, then he takes the Fifth like some drug dealer. Now you introduce this tape, and you didn’t even ask for the time to have it tested! You leave me no choice. Ms. Chapman, do you have a motion for a finding of not guilty on these charges?”
Claire stared at the judge, momentarily speechless. She got slowly to her feet. “Uh-yes, Your Honor, yes, I do.”
“Your request is granted,” Farrell said. “I find Sergeant First Class Ronald Kubik not guilty of all charges and specifications.” He gave a loud wallop of the gavel. “Trial counsel is instructed to prepare the results of the trial, after which the accused is to be returned to the brig for processing out of confinement. This court is adjourned.” And with another slam of the gavel, he rose.
Time slowed virtually to a standstill.
All around her was turmoil, yet everything seemed slow, quiet, muffled. The light seemed to have been refracted through a clouded lens. Her suit was soaked through with sweat. She moved slowly, as if underwater. She hugged Tom, then Grimes, then Devereaux. She smiled, laughed, then wept. Devereaux almost crushed her in his immense embrace, then shook Tom’s hand, too. Tom was also weeping. Embarrassed, he tried to shield his tear-strewn face from the gaze of others with a splayed hand. As she hugged Tom again, she saw Waldron storm past, then stop, then circle back to her. He stood and waited while Tom patted her on the back and said, “You saved my life, Claire. You saved my life.” She felt strange: relieved, of course, and mortally exhausted; but more-mildly depressed, and oddly tense.
“Counselor,” Waldron said sharply. He held out his hand, but his countenance was unsmiling. “Congratulations.”
She extricated herself from Tom’s embrace, held out her hand. “Thank you,” she said. She feigned geniality. “You did an impressive job. Apart from all the discovery stuff, which I’d like to believe wasn’t your fault.”
“It wasn’t. Can I call you Claire?”
She shrugged.
“You were a fearsome adversary, Claire, and one I hope I never have to face again.”
“Believe me,” she said, “I hope I never have to face you again, either. Let’s talk in private for a minute, okay?”
Waldron hesitated, puzzled. “Sure.”
They found a quiet corner of the courtroom where they could talk undisturbed.
“I hope you don’t believe I was behind that forged tape,” Waldron said.
She avoided his eyes. “Let me put it this way,” she said. “I don’t think it was necessarily your idea to put bugs in my rented house, but you didn’t exactly shy away from using whatever information you were given, right?” Waldron’s face was a mask, neutral and inexpressive. His eyes narrowed. “I just think there are a lot of people behind you who wanted to see you succeed. Such as General Marks.” She gave him a saccharine smile.
Anger flashed in his hawklike face. “The tape was given to me,” he said. “Believe me, I would never have used it if I had the slightest inkling it was fake. And by the way: he killed himself, did you hear?”
“Who?”
“General Marks. About two hours ago. Bullet through his head with his service revolver. Dressed in his Class A’s. In his office at the Pentagon.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. “What?”
“He knew his career was destroyed, and he’d be facing criminal charges,” Waldron said. “He didn’t want to go down that way.”
“I’m sorry he’s not around to see the acquittal,” Claire said.
“It wasn’t his decision to court-martial your husband.”