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  Paine stopped to bask in his moment of glory as cameras clicked, and flashes popped. "Any American soldier caught mistreating prisoners will be investigated and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. As part of our commitment to these principles, we are announcing the arrest and impending courts-martial of several U.S. Army soldiers suspected of war crimes at the Sangar Prison in Afghanistan."

  A hand shot up from the front row, accompanied by a female voice. "Colonel, Rose Sanchez, Independent Online Press."

  Before Paine could respond, Rose pressed a question. "Colonel, what are the names of the accused soldiers?"

  "Their names will not be released at this time."

  "How were the detainees tortured, Colonel?"

  Paine's eyes narrowed to slits. "No one used the word torture."

  Rose's voice sliced toward the podium again. "Were these soldiers acting independently or following orders?"

  Paine stopped and glared at her. His inability to control the rising color in his cheeks irritated him. "These guards were acting as rogue agents. Our policy is clear: All prisoners, no matter their background, will be treated humanely and in accordance with international law."

  Unflinching, she followed up. "Are you saying that superior officers had no knowledge of these abuses? How is that possible?"

  Paine had not planned on interruptions. He was an Army man, and, in the Army, no one interrupts when a ranking officer is speaking. Paine ignored her and took a breath to calm himself.

  Rose continued, "Why did it take so long for charges to be filed? This sounds like a cover-up."

  Paine gestured in a sweeping motion around the room. "Does this look like a cover-up to you?" His voice snapped like a bullwhip. "With God as my witness, these men will be brought to justice." Paine stood at attention, made a right face, and exited the stage.

  Chapter 13

  Back at my Fort Arnold office, I opened the case file and read it page-by-page. It contained a Charge Sheet, a document that listed the accusations against Sergeant Tyler Jefferson, some photographs, and one sworn statement. Jefferson was accused of abusing several detainees and murdering a prisoner named Hamza Nassar.

  After scrutinizing the allegations, I flipped the page and flinched. A bruised, bloody face leered at me, the prosecution's opening salvo. Behind it were eight more photos in ascending order of gruesome. Behind the images, I found a sworn statement made by Sergeant Jefferson. He reportedly told investigators that Nassar had "struck him in the groin and had to be subdued by force." Jefferson went on to explain that "Nassar was a violent man who had repeatedly attacked guards. I helped teach him some respect."

  The file had no other information about Jefferson, so I Googled him. I found more than a few listings for Tyler Jefferson and T. Jefferson, but nothing about the Army, much less about prisoner abuse. Then, I typed in Hamza Nassar and my screen filled with articles that detailed how Nassar masterminded dozens of terrorist attacks across the Middle East, Africa, and Europe.

  Well, I thought, if this Nassar guy is involved, at least I may get a sympathetic jury.

  A half dozen years ago, this case might have gone under the nearest rug - the Army likes a clean image. Abu Ghraib changed everything.

  Before the 2003 Iraq invasion, few Americans had ever heard of Abu Ghraib. In early 2004, the military announced an official investigation of improprieties at the 280-acre prison located 20 miles west of Baghdad. By and large, the mainstream media yawned. Then, on April 28, 2004, 60 Minutes stunned the world with photographs of Iraqi detainees being humiliated and abused by U.S. Army soldiers. Unforgettable images of American troops taunting naked Iraqi prisoners led to international outrage and headlines about "the shaming of America."

  In one photo, a female private and a male specialist posed beside a pyramid composed of naked prisoners piled on top of each other like slabs of bacon in a buffet tray. The two soldiers, standing arm-in-arm, grinned while giving the thumbs-up sign. In another photo, the same female, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, pointed at the genitals of a naked, hooded Iraqi being forced to masturbate. One of the most infamous photos showed a hooded and robed prisoner standing on a box with wires attached to his fingers and toes.

  The shocking details were contained in a devastating, 53-page report written by Major General Antonio M. Taguba. The report, though never intended for public distribution, found the light of day with alarming speed. Throughout 2005, charges were brought against 14 soldiers amid relentless media coverage. Most soldiers received minor sentences, but one drew 10 years in prison, and another eight. A colonel was relieved of his command. Brigadier General Janis Karpinski, commanding officer at Abu Ghraib, was demoted. Secretary of Defense, Donald Rumsfeld, later revealed he had twice proffered his resignation as a result of the scandal. Still, President George W. Bush refused the proposition.

  Though the Abu Ghraib cases were high profile, and the prisoners had been humiliated, harassed, and sexually abused, no one died. Then, the Sangar abuses went public, with dozens of victims of physical abuse, multiple dead bodies, sleep deprivation, and stress positioning. The torture seemed reminiscent of a medieval dungeon.

  Afghan President, Hamid Karzai, demanded accountability and retribution. After the uproar over Abu Ghraib, the United States Government decided to accommodate him. Loudly proclaiming the United States did not condone prisoner abuse, the blame for Sangar Prison landed squarely on "unruly guards," most of whom were Army reservists.

  Chapter 14

  The voice sounded enthusiastic and loud. "Chop-chop, buddy." It was Captain Ryan Williams, an office colleague, standing at my door wearing shorts and a polo shirt. "We have a one o'clock tee time," he said, "and I want some more of your money."

  I flicked off my computer and grabbed my clubs. On my way out, I poked my head into Jules' office. "Hey, I'm on the links," I said. "Keep the nation safe."

  "Cool." She gave a thumbs up. "By the way, what did Dill want?"

  "He assigned me a prisoner abuse case out in Texas," I said. "It'll be a quick plea deal."

  Jules grimaced. "Good luck with that one."

  "Thanks," I said, and walked out the door.

  Ryan drove us in his red Mustang, the short distance to the course. The Fort Arnold Golf Course is one of the better Army tracks. Military personnel got preferred tee times and lower prices. The course is a little short for outstanding players. Still, the average GI isn't going to leave the military for life on tour, so playing 5,829 yards from the white tees provides a pleasant distraction.

  Not so much that afternoon. The general sloppiness of my iron game was exceeded only by my miserable putting, and my total lack of accuracy off the tee. I lost three balls, which is hard at Fort Arnold, and shot 94, my worst score of the year. To make matters worse, because we rotated teams every six holes, I was the big loser and owed six beers by the time we finished the last hole.

  Annabelle did not care for my weekly outing: "Those boys are so immature," she often reminded me. Well, so was I, at least every Friday afternoon.

  After the game, I took a quick shower, changed back into my uniform, and headed home. I stopped at a mini-mart on the way for gum and a Powerade. Any whiff of alcohol would lead to a weekend-long argument about responsibility, drinking, fatherhood, respect, her parents, and who knew what else.

  Chapter 15

  We lived in Irmo, once a quiet little South Carolina town encircling one stoplight and a small general store, now a prosperous bedroom community of Columbia with easy access to the big city via I-26. Irmo offered affordable housing, safe neighborhoods (by anyone's standards), and excellent public schools (by South Carolina standards). On my drive home, I chugged the Powerade and chewed three pieces of gum to cover the Miller Lite scent. I figured all was well.

  Annabelle and our children were waiting on the front porch when I got home. I hoisted the kids in my arms and hugged and kissed them as they giggled. For an instant, I felt guilty about playing and not telling her.

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sp; "Hey, Max," said Janet Grigsby. Janet, the neighborhood buzz-kill, reared her overly coifed head over the front rail - a prairie dog with a hair helmet. She sported an endless wardrobe of colorful Spandex that had never seen the inside of a gym.

  "Hi, Janet," I said.

  "Sorry I'm late." I kissed Annabelle's forehead. "I was working on a case."

  Annabelle's return gaze told me she wasn't buying it.

  "I bet you were," Janet said. "Bless your heart." Everything Janet said sounded cynical. Whenever I ran into her, I always felt a little dumber and a little closer to death.

  "Work was fine," I said.

  "Paul and I don't understand the whole being in the Army and being a lawyer thing," she said. "We just don't get it." Paul was Janet's husband. He went to law school but never passed the bar exam. After four attempts, he decided he was happier teaching paralegal studies at the local community college.

  Janet held a real estate license but did not sell much. Annabelle and I suspected it was Paul's inheritance that kept the Grigsby family afloat. Mostly, Janet spread neighborhood gossip. We had known them since we moved to the neighborhood. Every time we met, which was too often, they asked me to explain, "Why are there lawyers in the Army?" and, "When are you going to get out of the Army and get a real law job?"

  I ignored Janet and turned to Annabelle. "I'm starving. You want to order pizza?" Code for "time to ditch the stalker."

  "I made chili," Annabelle said.

  "I love chili." Janet flashed a fake smile. "Paul won't be home for dinner. He's working late, again. Would you like me to bring a salad?"

  Yeah, right, I thought. We both know Paul's probably screwing one of his paralegal students at the Red Roof Inn. In Irmo, South Carolina, no secret lasted long.

  "Gee, Janet. Another time," I said. "I've got something a little delicate to discuss with Annabelle tonight. Sorry about that."

  Janet lumbered off the porch with a slightly bruised ego. "I understand," she said. "You two lovebirds need to talk about the new arrival."

  Inside the door, I kissed Annabelle. "Ewwwww," Eva disapproved.

  "It's okay, Eva," Ethan said. His voice was calm and confident. "That's how they get babies."

  "Ethan!" Annabelle almost fumbled her sweet tea onto the floor.

  I knelt. "Buddy, where did you learn that?" I asked.

  "Disney, Dad." Ethan's face reflected actual innocence. "The king and queen always kiss, and then there is a princess."

  "Well, where do little boys come from?" I asked.

  "Don't know, Dad." Ethan was already headed for the kitchen. "They just show up and listen to the princess sing."

  I smiled and stood. Annabelle's expression wiped the smile right off my face. "Tastes like you had a rough day at the office," she said. She turned and walked briskly into the kitchen. I followed her and changed the subject.

  "I got assigned a new case today," I said. "It's in Texas."

  "That's a long way, Max." Annabelle stared at the pot of chili.

  "They ran out of lawyers."

  Annabelle hated the Army. She hated my commanding officer, and I felt sure I might be inching my way onto her list. "Major Dill knows the baby is coming soon," she said. "I told him about the due date at the family picnic last month. Why didn't he assign someone else, like Jules?"

  I agreed with her. Dill was an asshole. He consistently encountered "emergencies" requiring the cancellation of my leave. The last catastrophe was a PowerPoint presentation he delayed until the last minute and then delegated to me. I missed my brother's Army promotion ceremony as a result. "It'll be a quick plea," I said. "If not, someone else will have to replace me."

  "You don't need to be going anywhere." Annabelle's blue eyes narrowed. "I need you here until the baby comes." She cut her eyes at the kids.

  "Annabelle, I don't have a choice. I go where the Army tells me. You know that."

  "I know, Max." Now she was checking her manicure. "We've lived in the middle of nowhere for almost four years."

  I wanted to say, "You grew up here, and we chose Fort Arnold because you wanted to be close to your parents. I had wanted to be stationed in Germany or Hawaii, not South Carolina," but her lip started to quiver.

  "I put my life on hold for so long," she said. "You've been promising we'd have a normal life. That's why I put up with this Army mess. They treat you like crap. You deal with scum. Worse, you deal with scum who don't pay you." Ah, the speech - the weeping, whining catalog of my sins and shortcomings. Annabelle failed to recognize that by Army standards, we were lucky. She lived near her parents, I was in a non-deployable unit, and I was home every night. "You could have asked Daddy to pay off your Army contract," she said. "He would have done it, you know."

  That's not how it works, I thought.

  "But no, you had to do it on your own. You could be on a partnership track by now with Uncle David's firm. We could be living in Shandon instead of Irmo."

  God, I could do this from memory. I started to tune her out.

  She suddenly changed tactics. "Max, you're not listening to me."

  "This is a quick case. Piece of cake."

  "Why can't Jules handle it?"

  "It's a sensitive case, Sweetie. They want the best."

  She finally made eye contact with me. Not a trace of affection in her face. "That's right. Sounds like a job for Jules."

  Chapter 16

  "Flight 239 to Atlanta now boarding at Gate 12," a muffled speaker announced at the Columbia airport.

  Traveling on military orders was a hassle. The Army regulated my flight, hotel, and rental car. They used a contracted travel agency to book economy flights with multiple layovers and low-budget hotels in seedy areas. For some unknown reason, the travel agency charged the Army three times the commercial rate.

  I was not looking forward to this trip to Texas. It didn't help that Annabelle was angry at me again, because of the Army. "I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow, Max." She rubbed her belly. "You promised you would go."

  Orders are orders. Life in the military isn't fair, and it is, undoubtedly, not family-friendly. Dill had been crystal-clear. "I want you on the first flight out on Monday," he said. "Some General in Washington got a stick up his ass about this Jefferson case. The news coverage is not helping. Go shut this down. Then, you can go on leave and prepare for the baby. You got that?"

  I boarded the first flight out of Columbia and found my seat in the back row, right before the rear galley and the bathroom. I opened the case file and flipped through the photographs. That was a mistake.

  The man to my right let out a gasp. "Oh, my God. Is that guy dead?" He covered his mouth with his hand.

  The full-color photograph showed a swarthy, dark-haired man, laid out on a concrete floor. Greenish-purple bruises covered his torso, arms, and legs. Dried blood, the color of wine, stained his swollen cheeks.

  I covered the picture. "Sir, do you mind?"

  "Oh, sorry," the man said. "What happened to him?"

  "What does it look like?"

  "Like someone beat him to death."

  "Sure does," I said, and closed the file.

  Chapter 17

  When I landed in El Paso, I headed to Sunshine Rent a Car and picked up my ride. At 6 feet 2 inches tall, squeezing into the Toyota Yaris presented a challenge. After I'd left the rental car office, I realized that the air conditioning didn't work. For November, it was unseasonably warm. So, I hit the 4/60 temperature control. Four windows down at 60 miles an hour. In 15 minutes, I arrived at Fort Custer.

  Fort Custer lies on a flat desert, flanked on one side by the Franklin Mountains. The Rio Grande and the Mexican border lie three miles south. On the other side of the border sits Ciudad Juárez, or Juárez to the locals. On my drive to the fort, I passed a billboard that said: "WARNING - Beware of kidnappers!" I had lived in some rundown places in my life. Even when near abject poverty and violent crime, I'd never seen a sign about people disappearing within the United States.


  Juárez had become one of the deadliest cities in North America. The drug war between the Sinaloa and Juárez Cartels racked the city with violence. In 2005, the city averaged about 16 homicides a week, including many women, children, and police officers. The only thing separating El Paso from Juárez was a broken fence, a shallow river, and the Border Patrol.

  After I cleared Fort Custer's gate, I drove past buildings that dated to the early 1900s, when General Pershing led an unsuccessful expedition into Mexico to destroy Pancho Villa, the Mexican revolutionary and guerrilla leader. Before the Civil War, Fort Custer guarded the area against Apache attacks.

  Colonel Paine's office was located near the parade field and easy to find. I parked my car and entered the building. Inside, the building appeared recently remodeled and well-equipped, with new computers and modern furniture. In comparison, my office at Fort Arnold had a copier that had not worked since I arrived, and my laptop was at least seven years old.

  I approached a sergeant sitting behind a reception desk. "I'm Captain O'Donnell," I said, handing him my JAG business card. "I'm here to see Colonel Paine."

  "Is he expecting you?" the sergeant asked.

  "Yes. I have an appointment."

  The sergeant picked up a phone and dialed. No one answered. "He's not available," he said in a flat tone. "Can you come back tomorrow?"

  I'd flown from South Carolina to the Mexican border, and now some sergeant was busting my balls. I leaned closer to him. "I want to speak to him. Now."

  "He's - not – here - sir." His voice was slow and accentuated.

  "Where - is – he – Sergeant?" I responded in kind.

  "He's training for an ultra-marathon." He let out a long exhale through his mouth as if he was annoyed. "Today is his long run day."

  "It's the middle of the duty day." I glanced at my watch. "What time do you expect him back?"

  "Can't say."