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  "Good morning, Steve." Paine waved him in. "Take a seat."

  Nelson put his briefcase on the floor and sat down.

  "I've been thinking about the Jefferson case," Paine said.

  Nelson leaned forward in rapt attention.

  "I think we should hand over all the evidence," Paine continued. "Jefferson deserves a fighting chance."

  If the comment surprised Nelson, he didn't show it. From the start of the case, he had been advocating for full disclosure. Withholding evidence was always grounds for appeal. "Even the classified evidence?" Nelson asked.

  "Of course. Give him everything. Bury that prick O'Donnell with so much evidence he'll regret the day he filed a discovery request. Upload it to a new directory and name it 'Jefferson Evidence.'"

  Nelson agreed and went to work.

  By noon, the directory was created, and the files were uploaded. Then, Paine spent the rest of the day implementing his maniacal plan. He mixed evidence together, duplicated data, deleted files, and renamed hundreds of documents. He combined classified evidence with unclassified evidence. He even did some cutting and pasting. When he finished, the file was an indecipherable mess. Paine's eyes twinkled as he envisioned me trying to make sense of this mountain of garbage.

  Chapter 52

  I was suspicious when I received Captain Nelson's email. For no apparent reason, the prosecution decided to turn over the classified evidence, the same evidence they refused to give me at the preliminary hearing. I called Jules into my office and showed her the email.

  "What do you think, Jules?"

  "Probably a setup."

  I nodded in agreement.

  Nelson's email was straightforward. "Captain O'Donnell, The Government, in its continuing effort of full disclosure, and to ensure a fair trial for Sergeant Jefferson, is allowing the defense to review the classified evidence in a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility (SCIF). For access, report to Doolittle Air Force Base at 1130 hours on 1 December 2005. See Major Andrea Cooper for assistance."

  After reading the email, Jules said, "You better hurry, that's in two and a half hours."

  I thought for a few seconds. "You want to come with me?" I asked her. "You can be co-counsel at Jefferson's trial."

  Jules smiled. "Are you serious?"

  "Of course," I said. "I could use your help."

  "Hell yeah. Count me in."

  Before heading to Doolittle Air Force Base, we visited Steve Glendon's office. Glendon was the Chief of Operational Security at Fort Arnold. He also lived in my neighborhood. Glendon was a retired Army Colonel who had spent 26 years in Military Intelligence. When Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait in 1990, Glendon was an Army attaché in the U.S. Embassy in Kuwait City. He helped evacuate the embassy and received a Bronze Star for his efforts. After he retired from active duty, Glendon got a job at Fort Arnold to be near his grandkids.

  Glendon was a tall, sinewy man with reddish-gray hair and freckles. He reminded me of my favorite college history professor. He ushered us into his office the moment we arrived. "Max, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

  "I need help dealing with classified documents," I said. "I don't want to violate any rules."

  "Well, you came to the right place. Take a seat."

  Trinkets and war trophies adorned his walls. A photo of Glendon with General "Stormin" Norman Schwarzkopf sat on his desk. A glass-encased Arabian scimitar hung on the wall. After we sat, Glendon cut to the chase. "Bottom line, if a document is not marked as Classified, then it's not Classified." He picked up a Christmas card and slid it across his desk. "For example." He pointed at the card. "If I tell you this card is Top Secret, is it?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know."

  "It's not marked Top Secret, is it?" he asked.

  I picked up the card and examined it. "It not marked as anything," I said. "It's just a Christmas card."

  "Correct. It's not marked, so it's not classified. It's that simple."

  "What about documents on a classified computer network?" Jules asked.

  "Same rule," he said. "If I scan and save a bunch of restaurant menus on a Secret network, does that make the menus Secret?"

  "I guess it depends on whether the documents are marked as Secret," I said.

  "Exactly. If they're not marked, they're not classified," Glendon said. "Even if a document is stored on the CIA's most secretive network, that does not mean it's classified."

  "Why would a non-classified document be on a Secret network?" Jules asked.

  "Laziness, pure and simple," Glendon said. "People are too lazy to separate classified documents from non-classified documents. They often dump them all on the Secret network."

  At 10 o'clock, we thanked Glendon for his time and proceeded to Doolittle Air Force Base, just 30 miles north, near Chester, South Carolina. Our destination was Building #4125, a one-story brick building with no windows. Satellite dishes and odd metal antennas lined the flat roof. Ringed in concertina wire, the structure reminded me of a prison.

  Inside the building, an uptight guard with a hand-held wand searched us for contraband. "I need those pens and notepads." The guard extended his hand. "They're not allowed."

  "We're lawyers," I said. "How are we supposed to take notes?"

  "You're not," the guard said with narrowed eyes. "Nothing goes in. Nothing comes out."

  After we complied with his request, the guard handed us clip-on badges with the word "VISITOR" printed in bold red. A few minutes later, Major Andrea Cooper, an Air Force officer, appeared and led us down a narrow corridor to an office where a nerdy-looking sergeant sat behind a desk.

  "This is Captain O'Donnell and Captain Myers," Cooper said to the sergeant. "They're here to use our SIPRNET. They have access until 1300 hours."

  The sergeant nodded and scooted his swivel chair to a filing cabinet against the wall. He opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of papers. "Sign this," he said, handing me the papers.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "It's a non-disclosure agreement," he said. "You have to sign it before you can access the classified network."

  The 20-page document listed rules (too many to count) and penalties (decades in prison) for violating the rules. The font was so small, I had to squint to read it. I sped through the document and didn't understand half of it. Nowhere did it say, "If it's not marked, then it's not classified."

  Jules and I signed and followed Major Cooper down two flights of stairs. At the bottom was a hallway with metal doors on both sides. She led us to a door with the number "4" painted on it and used her badge to unlock it.

  Cooper motioned inside. "Here you go."

  The tiny room resembled a bomb shelter. The lighting was dim, and the air conditioning was on full blast. The room contained two plastic chairs, a small desk, a computer, a printer, and a shredder.

  "I'll be back at 1330 hours," Cooper said and closed the door behind her.

  I flicked on the computer. It booted as slow as a two-legged turtle crossing a highway. Finally, a login screen appeared. I punched in my password, and dozens of folders filled the screen. They had names like 536248HT-1 and AF329-200206031. The first folder contained hundreds of documents, images, and scanned files. Some of the pages were sideways and upside down. Others were illegible. Many of the papers were in foreign languages, perhaps Arabic, Farsi, or Pashto. I was not sure. All I knew is I couldn't understand them.

  We clicked and scrolled through the documents, but saw no mention of Nassar, at least not in English. Many of the documents were stamped SECRET. Many were not. One file was a scanned baseball box score with numbers scribbled at the top.

  "This is complete bullshit," I said.

  Jules nodded. "What did you expect? They dumped a bunch of worthless stuff in these folders, just to waste your time." We pressed on. After 45 minutes, we found nothing helpful. "Keep scrolling." Jules pointed at a clock on the wall. "We only have a few minutes before they kick us out."

  Two minutes later, something caught m
y eye. It was sideways - a little hard to read. It was an Army prisoner of war custody receipt. It wasn't marked Secret or Top Secret. It wasn't marked at all. I turned my head and carefully studied the document on the computer screen.

  "What is it?" Jules asked.

  "It's a form the Army uses to keep track of POWs."

  "Who is the prisoner?"

  "Prisoner 324, Faud Halbousi," I said.

  Jules shrugged. "Does he have anything to do with Sergeant Jefferson?"

  "I don't know, but according to this document, someone named Gregory Johnston, the Agricultural Attaché at the American Embassy in Kabul, signed Prisoner 324 out of Sangar on 8 August 2002, at three in the morning."

  "That makes no sense," she said. "Why would an Agricultural Attaché be in Sangar Prison?"

  "Don't know." I clicked the mouse, and another unclassified document appeared. It was the backside of the POW receipt. "Look at this." I pointed at the screen. "Prisoner 324 was transferred wearing a jumpsuit and an adult diaper."

  "Why?"

  "Maybe he was going on a long trip, and they didn't want him soiling his pants," I said as I continued scrolling.

  "Stop. Go back." Jules said, snatching the mouse from my hand and frantically clicking. "There." It was a preflight medical exam for Prisoner 324. At the bottom of the page, a box labeled "Aliases" listed four names. One of them was Hamza Nassar. "Prisoner 324 is Nassar," she said. Jules looked at me with wide eyes and smiled. "If Nassar left the prison on August 8th, then Jefferson couldn't have killed him in September."

  I motioned toward the printer on the floor beneath the desk. "Let's see if that thing works."

  "They warned us," Jules said. "We can't take anything out of here."

  "I'll say you tried to stop me if we get busted."

  Jules snorted.

  "What's so funny?" I asked her.

  "Why is there a printer in here if nothing can leave this room?"

  "That's the military for you." I clicked print, and the papers crawled out of the printer.

  "Give me those." Jules took the papers, folded them into a small square, and stuck it inside her shirt.

  Just then, we heard a metallic click, and the door opened. It was Major Cooper. "Times up," the Major said.

  We followed Cooper through the hallway and up the stairs. The front desk guard collected our visitor badges, and we walked out of the building. Halfway to the car, a voice yelled, "Halt." We froze.

  "Shit," Jules whispered. "We're screwed."

  I turned and saw the guard trotting down the sidewalk.

  "You forgot your pens and notepads," he said.

  I managed a weak smile. "You couldn't think of anything else to say besides 'Halt?'"

  "Sorry, sir," he said. "Habit."

  We double-timed it the rest of the way to the car. I had to remind myself not to floor it until we cleared the base gate.

  Chapter 53

  I went back to my office and spent the rest of the day looking for Gregory Johnston. I scoured the internet, combed through public databases, and searched online phonebooks from across the country. Johnston was a ghost.

  When I locked up the office at the end of the day, I noticed Jules's light was still on. I knocked on her door. No one answered. So, I turned the knob and pushed it open. Inside, Jules was at her desk, filling a cardboard box with personal items.

  "Jules, what's going on?" I asked.

  She turned and faced me. Her eyes were moist like she had been crying. "Someone outed me?"

  "What?"

  "Someone reported me."

  "Reported you for what?"

  "For being a lesbian, Max. Dill told me to clean out my desk. He said my Army career's over."

  Thoughts of driving to Dill's home and kicking his ass raced through my mind. This was a low blow, even for Dill. It was 2005, and homosexuality was still illegal in the U.S. military. Under the Don't Ask Don't Tell policy, the Army could discharge soldiers that "demonstrated a propensity or intent to engage in homosexual acts." This law was still on the books, though it was rarely enforced.

  "Max, Dill said they're going to kick me out of the Army."

  "You've got to fight this."

  "I don't know," she said and hung her head.

  "When I'm done with Jefferson, I'll help you take care of this." I helped Jules finish packing, and we walked out of the office together. My phone rang as I drove home. It was Annabelle's number. I answered, "Hi, honey."

  "Max," a male voice said. Sterling always sounded like he had something permanently lodged in his sphincter. "We need to talk."

  "Is Annabelle okay?"

  "No. Well, yes."

  "Which is it?"

  "Max, she's fine physically. The children are well, but that's not why I called. Martha and I don't think you should come home tonight."

  "What?"

  "Listen," he said, "I know you're in trouble with the Army. Given Annabelle's delicate pregnancy, I don't think she needs to know about your unfortunate incident with the lady of the evening the other night."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Max, I know about the Mexican woman." Sterling had obviously been sampling Speyside's finest Scotch.

  "What Mexican woman?"

  "The one you had dinner with the other night."

  "You mean Rose Sanchez?" I said. "She's a reporter doing a story on my case."

  "Well, she didn't look like Jimmy Breslin to me." He chuckled at his own joke. "I was young once. I know I don't look it now, but I piloted my way around some pretty, sassy fillies in my day. Yes, sir. Ole' Sterling had his share of fun. I quit all that when I met Martha. A man has to do what's right - even when he has urges. But enough about me."

  "Sterling, you're full of shit."

  "No, Max. You're full of shit. I saw the report."

  "What report?"

  "An Army investigative report, with lots of photos," he said. "I know everything you did out there in Texas. Your boss, Dick, a real nice guy, dropped it off this evening. As the head of the family, he wanted me to talk some sense into you before you ruin your career and lose your family. Honestly, fooling around is bad enough, but leaking classified evidence and hanging out at a strip club with that Negro - what were you thinking, son?"

  "I am not your fucking son, Sterling, and the investigation you are referring to is bogus. Put Annabelle on the phone, now."

  Sterling apparently liked long, awkward moments of total silence. "She's unavailable, Max. She had to be sedated."

  "Sedated? What for? She can't be sedated. She's about to have a baby for God's sake. What are you people doing over there?" I realized I'd been screaming into a dead phone for the past 20 seconds. I called back, and it went straight to voice mail.

  I was afraid that if I went home, the drama could harm Annabelle and the baby. This would have to wait. I decided to sleep at a hotel near the Columbia airport because I had an early flight to El Paso the next morning. Luckily, I had picked up my uniforms from the dry cleaner earlier in the day.

  Chapter 54

  When they hear the word "courtroom," most people envision a richly appointed marble hall with lustrous, hardwood furniture, a stately and expansive bench from where a judge issues rulings and a spacious jury box surrounded by a substantive and elegant rail. Or, they see the quaint, ceiling-fanned Alabama confines of Atticus Finch, as he holds forth in a vain attempt to save Tom Robinson in To Kill a Mockingbird.

  Neither of those images held anything in common with the courtroom at Fort Custer. The courtroom occupied the upstairs of a building that had been formerly used as a cavalry barracks. The men of the Custer Cavalry Unit, who battled the Native Americans for dominance of the area, lived above the horses. Years later, when the need for military justice began to outweigh the need for skilled horsemen, the Army converted the top floor into a courtroom. The courtroom's windows overlooked the parade grounds. A pleasant enough sight when the troops were on parade, but no one in the room would have time for ga
zing out the window.

  The last attempt at decorating the room had obviously taken place sometime in the 1970s. The appearance of the worn burgundy carpet was only made more forlorn by the egregiously cheap "paneling." About the same time disco balls, Donna Summer, and the Hustle submerged the country's good sense and musical tastes, middle-class homes all over America installed quarter-inch sheets of pressed wood foisted on owners by salesmen swearing, "No one will ever know it's not the real thing." Whether the panel shade selected for the Fort Custer courtroom was originally tan or was simply the washed-out result of years of West Texas heat and sun, no one could remember.

  The judge's bench was neither imposing nor particularly sturdy. It gave the appearance of having been built at one-half of the suggested scale. Behind the bench and to the left, a small door led to the judge's chambers. Any second-year karate student incapable of kicking a hole through the flimsy portal would have been laughed out of class.

  The jury was empaneled behind a wobbly rail 30 inches high. No lawyer arguing a case at Fort Custer ever leaned on it more than once. The jurors sat on bulky swivel chairs bolted to the floor. Six in front, and six on a twelve-inch riser, with barely any legroom and no area in which to rotate. No provision had been made for any juror to take notes on anything other than their laps.

  The prosecution's table appeared for all the world as if Grandma had left her dining room suite to the court in her will. Thick-legged and bulky, the table sat on what would typically be considered the wrong side of the room - the side farther away from the jury. About three in the afternoon on the first day of any trial, every new defense lawyer finally understood the arrangement. As the day wore on and phones and laptops ran out of juice, the only electrical outlets available resided on the prosecutor's side.

  On the defense side, sat a wooden card table. The small work surface created the appearance that the defense attorneys were disorganized and sloppy as stacks of papers piled up during a trial.

  The room was outdated, cramped, and substandard - 100% Army.