“Boss, it’s a chain of evidence thing. Only in this case, I’m not allowed to even touch the evidence. You know the rules. You’ve got to establish the chain of evidence.”
This was an entirely specious line of legal reasoning, but it sounded proximate enough to the real rules of evidence that it might be true.
At any rate, Clapper blew right through it. “If you’re going to recommend against court-martial, it’s irrelevant. It won’t be tested in court. Damn it, Sean, just use Foster’s name.”
I said, “Sir, I’m the investigating officer. I don’t care if it won’t be tested in court. I don’t do shoddy work. You can advise me on this, but you can’t order me.”
There was the sound of a set of lungs being emptied on the other line. Clapper was ordinarily a very even-tempered fellow, but major generals don’t generally take it kindly when junior officers remind them of their limits.
“You’re already facing an inquiry into your professional conduct. Let’s not make this any worse.”
“Sorry, General, but I have to do what I think is right.”
“Have it your way,” he said before he hung up, sounding very pissed off.
I hung up the phone myself, then pushed the stop button on the tape recorder I had turned on the moment he identified himself. Recording a phone conversation without the willful consent of the other party is a moderately serious violation of the federal statutes. I really didn’t care, though. I didn’t plan on using the tape in court, where it would be inadmissible anyway. But I knew the boys in the editorial office of the Washington Herald would love listening to it, if things came to that. Besides, they-whoever they were-weren’t playing fair with me. So why should I?
On that note, I slept soundly until I felt a rough hand shaking my shoulder. I blinked a few times, until I was able to get my lids to stay up. Not up very far, but enough that I could squint and just make out vague shapes. Martie whatever was hunched over beside my cot and peering into my face. Behind him were two real big shadows that I guessed were military policemen.
“Please get dressed and come with me,” he said.
I struggled out of my sleeping bag and sat up. “Are you going to explain what this is about?” I asked, searching around for my battle dress and combat boots.
“When we get to my office.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“I’m taking you into custody.”
I felt very groggy, and decided not to speak again until I had a cup of coffee in my hand and the caffeine was doing its magic. I got dressed quickly, then stood up and staggered along behind Martie. A military policeman walked on each of my flanks. I noticed that Martie was dressed in the same cockeyed checkered outfit he’d worn the day before. He must’ve worked through the night.
The time was three in the morning, so the streets were still dark and empty as we headed to his office. I kept a wary eye on Martie and his escorts. For all I knew, they were working for Tretorne or Murphy. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more this seemed like a perfect pretense to perform one of those nasty “sanction” things on me. They’d take me to some dark, secluded part of the compound, then pop me in the back of the head. On the other hand, they hadn’t handcuffed me, and I took that as an encouraging sign.
It wasn’t until we got to the MP station that I relaxed. I shouldn’t have though. What Martie had in store for me was better than taking me into the woods and shooting me.
“Sit down, please,” he ordered once we were gathered around a table in an interview room. He then read me my rights. This was something I’d done to suspects a number of times, but you get tight in funny places when the words are recited to you.
I heard him out until he asked, “Do you wish to retain counsel at this time?”
This is always the critical question. I had no idea what I was charged with. I had no idea if I was even going to be charged. I decided that a lawyer probably wasn’t going to do me any more good than I could do for myself. I mean, I’m a lawyer, right? Of course, it’s exactly that kind of solipsistic thinking that gets a lawyer in deep shit. When it’s you the police are questioning, you lose the ability to make the kind of cold, disinterested, dispassionate decisions a hired barrister provides.
Regardless, I said, “Not at this time.”
Martie looked at the two military policemen and nodded for them to leave. They closed the door behind them. He then spent a moment just staring at me, I guess to make me nervous. There was a big mirror on the wall, like there is in most interrogation rooms. I figured it was probably one of those two-way jobs with somebody on the other side. Maybe Murphy. Maybe Tretorne. Maybe both of them.
“You have a serious problem,” Martie finally said. “Your running shoe matches a print we took from the latrine where Jeremy Berkowitz was murdered.”
I said, “That’s impossible.” Of course, those were the first words out of the mouth of every suspect. So much for my brilliant legal acumen.
He shrugged, then leaned across the table. “Look, Major, if you were in the latrine that night, it would go better if you’d just admit it. Maybe you met him there?”
“I didn’t go near the latrine that night.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that somebody else borrowed your running shoes, murdered Berkowitz, then put them back under your bunk?”
“I don’t expect you to believe any damned thing. I didn’t go near that latrine, and unless my running shoes grew legs, neither did they.”
“Then how do you explain the fact that your shoe prints were there?”
This was a standard technique. God knows, I’d defended enough clients who’d fallen for it. Get me to start building excuses, then tear apart my alibis and try to chase me into a confession.
“I’m not here to explain any damned thing. I never went near that latrine.”
He leaned back and began playing with his pen. “There’s more,” he said.
If this was supposed to make me more nervous, I wasn’t biting. I sat patiently and coolly watched him.
He began tapping the pen against his chin. “Among the notes we found in Berkowitz’s room was one where you asked him to meet you in the latrine at one o’clock.”
My coolness suddenly dribbled away. I now knew I was in very serious trouble. The running-shoe prints could be challenged in a courtroom. There was always the possibility of the crime scene being contaminated by poor procedure or even of contamination at the lab back in Heidelberg. Poor police and lab procedures had bollixed more than one case. There was also the chance that someone with my exact same shoe size and taste in running gear did the crime. An outside chance, admittedly, but I’d built defenses on weaker arguments and prevailed. I mean, I knew I’d never gone near that latrine, so somebody, somewhere, had made a bad mistake. The note, though-that was a slam dunk.
I blurted out, “That’s impossible.” Oops! There I went again.
“We’ve had two experts examine the handwriting. It’s yours, Major. For Chrissakes, you’re an attorney. Do I have to spell it out for you?”
No, he didn’t have to spell it out for me. I was being framed. Actually, I was being framed for the second time, if you want to get perfectly technical about it. I didn’t know how, but there was no other explanation. I knew I’d never made an appointment with Berkowitz. And I knew I’d never been in the latrine.
I was surprised how tight my lips were when I said, “Martie, I’m done talking without counsel.”
He stared at me a few seconds, then stood up, walked over to the door, and knocked. The two MPs came back in, and he ordered them to book me and put me in a cell. They did. First, I was dumbly led to another room where I was fingerprinted, although for the life of me I didn’t know why. The military keeps copies of the fingerprints and dental X rays of all personnel in the event they’re needed to identify remains. Maybe they just wanted to humiliate me. It worked, too.