When I meet my maker someday, I’m fairly confident I’ll be able to square all this up. I mean, I’m a lawyer. I’m a damned good one, too. I’ve defended weaker cases and prevailed.
What did I learn? I guess I learned that Murphy was right. Sometimes those principles of duty and honor and country clash against one another in pretty ugly ways. You can’t always make them fit together. You’ve just got to decide which one to throw overboard.
I went to Clapper and extracted one other tiny tribute in return for blemishing my previously pristine principles and integrity. My special legal unit had just lost one of our two defense counsels, a good one, too, who’d left the Army to seek his fortune and fame in one of those huge Washington firms that hibernate in those big, regal glass towers. I don’t know what got into his head. Well, actually I do. It was those damned unlimited expense accounts and mouthwatering bonuses. Just think of what he’ll be missing, though.
Anyway, we needed a replacement and I made Clapper agree to give us Morrow. Right at this moment, though, I felt a strong tinge of regret. I looked at the faces of the board members, all of whom still had their eyes glued on Morrow’s shapely gams. How am I supposed to compete with that? I mean, give me a break. The guy bought a car and clothes and a fancy camera and a full set of golf clubs, all so he could expose some of his officers for selling secrets to the enemy? Morrow’s been watching too many of those Oliver Stone movies.
But the last and final truth was that I kind of wanted to keep her around. I mean, she has those incredibly sympathetic eyes and occasionally they come in handy.
In any case, by now you probably have figured this out about me: I don’t give up easily. Someday soon, maybe right after I kick her ass in this trial, I’m going to prove to the lovely Miss Morrow that I’m not a Pudley. Maybe I’m no Humongo, but I’m no Pudley. Metaphysically speaking, of course.