“Then whose decision was it?”
“Officially, the secretary of the army’s-the only one senior to the general. Who never much liked Marks. But I’ll bet there were others who persuaded the secretary to convene the court-martial. Rivals of the general’s. We’ll see who they are when we see who succeeds Marks as chief of staff of the army. He had some powerful enemies.”
“So his enemies wanted a court-martial,” Claire said, staring into the middle distance, “in order to bring out, even within limited circles, the fact that General Marks probably gave the order to massacre the entire village, even though he didn’t know-not being there-that they really were innocent. A horrible mistake. And his enemies knew that a court-martial would bring out the fact that he lied to Congress about it, even had his memorandum destroyed. Lied about the massacre for thirteen years. They knew they’d expose his high crimes.” Now she faced Waldron directly. “And yet, at the same time, the court-martial had to be secret, closed to all but military observers…”
“Because, if the word got out that the U.S. military had massacred eighty-seven innocent civilians and covered it up for thirteen years, the worldwide ramifications would be incalculable.”
She nodded. “And now the pieces begin to fall into place.” She handed him a sheet of paper.
“What?” Waldron said, looking it over. “This is a medical record of some sort… What’s the point?”
“Read it,” she said.
“It’s Hernandez’s-what, it’s about some eye injury or something?”
“You know that scar under his eye? He got it in 1985. At La Colina.”
“Okay,” Waldron said, still baffled. “He had it treated at the infirmary at Fort Bragg-”
“Right after the massacre. There’s a note there from an ophthalmologist and surgeon.”
“‘Burn and laceration to soft tissue inferiolateral to right eye not involving lid margin’…” Waldron read. “Why is this important? He got wounded at La Colina. So?”
“In his sworn statements he says he never fired a gun in the village,” Claire said. “Now read what the army surgeon wrote there. He recorded exactly what Hernandez told him. We’ve contacted the surgeon, and he’s prepared to back that up.”
Waldron read the sheet closely, and looked up after a minute. His eyes were wide with astonishment. “Hernandez was hit just below his right eye by a red-hot ejected shell casing while firing over two hundred rounds with his M-60. His barrel may have overheated, or he swung it a little too wildly… Jesus fucking Christ. Your husband really is innocent.”
Claire nodded.
“My God,” Waldron breathed. He gestured to Hogan to come over at once. “Contact CID,” he called. “They’ve got an arrest to make.” He turned back toward Claire. “I-I don’t really know what to say.”
“Just get the guy who did it,” she said, and headed back toward Tom.
They walked out of the courtroom in a daze. The early-summer sunshine was blinding. They blinked owlishly, Tom and she. Tom was still in his chains, but that was how the military worked. They sat on the steps of the building, near the white van, the guards standing by at a discreet distance. Tom was weeping again.
Grimes approached. “Hey, you guys,” he said softly. “I guess this is where I say goodbye.”
Claire and Tom got to their feet. Claire put her arms around Grimes and pulled him close to her. She hugged him hard, the way a man saved from drowning might hug his rescuer. “I’m going to miss you,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
“Hey,” Grimes said, “I ought to thank you. I finally got the fuckers.” He noticed Claire crying, and added: “Don’t get so emotional. You’ll be getting my bill soon. Then you’ll really cry.” And he gave one of his unique, trademark cackles.
Once Waldron had returned with the document they needed, the report of results of the trial, she and Tom got into the white van and were taken to the brig. The next hour was a blur of bureaucratic procedures. The release order was prepared. Tom was escorted to his cell to pack his items. He was sent to sick bay to get his medical records, then to the mailroom to fill out a change-of-address card-the mundane things that had to be done!-and then to the control-center supervisor to hand in the checkout sheet. She sat in the confinement-release area and waited. She tried to think clearly, but her mind continued to reel. Then Tom was brought in. His brig uniform was removed, his brig items were taken from him, and his civilian clothes-including a good, freshly pressed suit that Jackie had brought up from Cambridge-were handed to him.
In about an hour, handsome in his charcoal Armani suit and a green tie, Tom was free.
They walked out together hand in hand. She felt the sunshine warm her face. The air was sweet and heavy with the chlorophyll scent of new-mown grass.
“Hey, honey,” he said.
“Hey.” She turned her face upward and kissed him.
His voice was low and sultry. “You saved my life.”
“Aw, it was nothing.” She smiled. “And I’ll tell you something else. Even better than being acquitted. We’ve got proof that Hernandez was the shooter.” She explained.
For a moment he seemed not to understand. Then his face lit up. “I’ll bet Waldron wants to bury it.”
She shook her head. “He’s already in touch with CID. They’re going to bring Hernandez in for questioning, but I’d say he’s headed for Leavenworth in six months.”
“Or less, if Farrell’s on the bench. I love you.” He leaned over and kissed her again, this time a serious kiss. “We’re going to be a family again.”
She squeezed his hand. “We’ve got some packing to do,” she said. “And some celebrating.”
For the first time, she dared to believe that they might finally have their life back.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
“Who’s for more paella?” Tom called out, looking around the crowded dinner table. He brandished a large silver ladle over an immense crockery bowl heaped with lobster, mussels, littleneck clams, chicken, shrimp, and innumerable other kinds of seafood mixed with rice, onions, garlic, and about a dozen other things. He made the finest, most delicately seasoned paella Claire had ever tasted. Of all Tom’s specialties, this was the one he most liked to prepare for guests.
Around their dining table in Cambridge sat Ray Devereaux and his on-again, off-again girlfriend; Tom’s chief trader, the darkly handsome Jeff Rosenthal, and his latest bimbo girlfriend; Claire’s closest friend on the Law School faculty, Abe Margolis, gray-bearded, pudgy, around sixty, and Abe’s wife; and Claire’s good friend Jennifer Evans, very thin, deeply tanned, mid-forties, straight dark hair cut in a highly stylized bob like the silent-film star Louise Brooks. She was unaccompanied, because she was in one of her frequent antimale phases. Next to Claire sat Jackie, who seemed tired, moody, and remote. Annie, in a white sailor dress already stained with saffron-yellow paella drippings, sat on Tom’s lap while he sang to her. She looked little and achingly pretty.
“No more for me,” Ray said. “This is my fourth bowl.”
“I’ll take some,” Jeff said, reaching for the ladle to serve himself.
They were all gathered to celebrate Tom’s return from an extended business trip to the Canary Islands to explore a potentially enormous venture-capital project, a cover story that none of them seemed to question.
“Wanna switch to red?” Claire said to Abe Margolis’s wife, Julia, a large and still very beautiful brunette in her late fifties, who was just finishing a glass of white wine. “Or are you still working on that?” She gave Tom a quick, undetected wink.
“Fill ’er up,” Julia said, extending her glass. “If they mix, what the hell, it’s rosé.” Claire, who’d had a lot to drink, poured unsteadily. “In the glass, if you don’t mind,” Julia Margolis said.