"For Christ's sake, McCoy, you killed two people! You can't expect to get off scot-free!"
"Sir," PFC McCoy said, "no disrespect intended, but they gave me the court-martial manual to read, and in there it says I can have the defense counsel of my choice."
Banning felt his temper rise. The sonofabitch was a guardhouse lawyer on top of everything else.
"That is your right," he said, stiffly. "Who would you like to have defend you?"
"My company commander, sir."
"You can't have him, because he is your company commander. Neither can you have your platoon leader.''
"Then Lieutenant Kaye, sir, the assistant supply officer."
With a massive effort, Captain Banning kept his temper under control.
"McCoy," he said. "I'm going to give you twenty-four hours to think this over. I want you to carefully consider your position."
"Yes, sir," PFC McCoy said.
(Three)
On the way to his office from the infirmary, Captain Banning's anger rose. Among other things, he was going to look like a goddamned fool in front of the colonel when he had to go to him and tell him this knife-wielding PFC had refused his services as defense counsel. It was of course the kid's right, but Banning could not remember ever hearing of anything like this happening.
And PFC McCoy was not doing himself any good. If he went to trial and pleaded not guilty, he was digging his own grave. He was not being tried for stabbing the two Italians, but to make the point to the other Marines that they couldn't go around killing people.
If he went along with that, in three months he would be a free man at San Diego or Quantico, with only the loss of a stripe to show for having killed two men.
If he annoyed the court-martial board, they would very likely conclude that he was somebody who needed to be taught a lesson and sock him with a heavy sentence. If the colonel was annoyed, he would find nothing wrong with the sentence when it was reviewed. And if General Butler smelled that McCoy was a troublemaker, he wouldn't find anything wrong with the sentence, either.
PFC McCoy stood a very good chance of finding himself locked up in the Portsmouth Naval Prison for thirty years to life.
Captain Banning's rage lasted through lunch. And then he considered the situation from McCoy's point of view. The kid actually believed-since it was the truth-that he had acted in self-defense. It was therefore his own duty, Banning decided, to at least pursue that as far as it would go.
To prove self-defense he would need witnesses. The only witnesses right now were two Italian marines. They were prepared to testify that they were minding their own business when McCoy drew a knife on them, whereupon one of their number drew a pistol in self-defense.
When he went back to his office after lunch, Banning told his clerk to see if he could get a car from the motor pool. He had to go into town.
Banning hoped to find Bruce Fairbairn at the headquarters of the Shanghai Municipal Police. He knew him, and could explain the problem to him. But when he got to police headquarters, Fairbairn was not available, and neither was Chief Inspector Thwaite, who was the only other Shanghai Police officer he knew well enough to speak to with complete frankness.
He wound up talking to a Detective Sergeant Chatworth. Chat worth sat at an old wooden desk covered with papers. As Banning approached, he shuffled angrily through them, searching for something he had apparently mislaid.
Banning introduced himself and told him what he had come for.
"Right," Chatworth said, looking at Banning with a screwed-up face. He seemed surprised to hear Banning's story. "You Yanks always seem to have to wear white," he said after a moment while searching through his pocket for a near-empty package of vile Chinese cigarettes. "Fag?" he offered, holding one out.
"Thanks, no," Banning said.
"I mean, Christ," he went on, lighting up. "Don't you have any loyalty towards your own? For the sake of Italians? Really!" He inhaled deep, savoring it. Then blew out. "And besides, I know the boy. McCoy is a good one. Protect him. You don't find his class all that often."
"That may be." Banning shrugged, stiffening. He did not like Chatworth very much. "But Italian pride has been badly hurt. They've gone to the foreign service boys at the consulate. One thing has led to the other. And the consequence is that there is nothing we can do but court-martial PFC McCoy.
"And then on top of that," Banning continued, "McCoy is being difficult. He thinks he did it all in self-defense; and he simply refuses to understand that without witnesses, he can't possibly get away with that plea."
"So?" Chatworth said, beginning to understand.
"And so, Sergeant, I'm desperate. Could you people possibly help us and see if you can find some Chinese who (a) saw the fight and (b) would be willing to testify in McCoy's behalf at his court-martial?"
Rather abruptly, Detective Sergeant Chatworth turned his attention back to his papers.
"I'll look into the matter," he said, dropping the now-dead cigarette on the floor and snuffing it out with his heel. "And I'll be in touch with you in due course."
Banning saw that Chatworth did not like him any more than he liked Chatworth. And Banning also realized that Chatworth knew even better than he did that there was virtually no chance of finding a Chinese who would be willing to testify that he had seen the fight between the Big Noses. And it would matter to the Chinese not at all that the U.S. Marine Big Nose had clearly been the aggrieved party. Detective Sergeant Chatworth had abruptly dismissed him because he was wasting Detective Sergeant Chatworth's valuable time.
Banning did not go back to the office. He went to the apartment. Mil la was there, giving a Chinese woman hell because she had not ironed several of Banning's shirts to what Milla thought were Marine sartorial standards. She was acting wifely, and that upset him, too, and he got drunk.
And he told Milla about McCoy.
She was sympathetic. To him. She felt sorry for him that he had a problem with McCoy.
Later she consoled him in bed, which was usually enough to make him happy as hell. But not this time.
As he watched her get dressed to go to work, he tormented himself with fantasies of other men watching her naked, as she was now. And touching her naked flesh, as he had just done… which was sure as hell going to happen if he didn't marry her and get himself booted out of the Corps.
After she left, he hit the whiskey again, and ended up with some drunken ideas. He could go to trial and try to play on the sympathy of the court-martial board, paint PFC McCoy as a saint in uniform who was the innocent party in this whole mess. He could try to convince the court-martial that the reason PFC McCoy went around with a Fairbairn dagger in his sleeve was that he collected butterflies. He'd throw the fucking knife at them and-pin their wings. The poor fucking Wops had fallen onto the blade of the knife when they slipped on a banana peel.
(Four)
At eight- fifteen the next morning, as Captain Banning drank his third Coca-Cola of the day in a vain attempt to extinguish the fire in his stomach, his clerk came into his office with the first batch of the day's official correspondence from the message center.
Among the items which required his initials was a communication from Headquarters, United States Marine Corps: A promotion board having been convened to consider candidates for promotion to the grade of corporal had reached the end of its deliberations. There were thirty names on the list and there were twelve vacancies within the Marine Corps for corporals. Therefore, commanding officers of the first twelve names on the list were herewith directed to issue promotion orders for the individuals concerned. As additional vacancies occurred, authority would be granted to promote individuals on the list numbers 13 through 30.
The second name on the list was PFC Kenneth J. McCoy, Company "D," 4th Marines.
The Navy, and thus the Marine Corps, was governed by common law of the United States, and a pillar of that code of justice was that an accused was presumed innocent until proven guilty.