Black Ops #1 Read online

  “Neither was Scott Peterson before his trial. Believe me, your son is a celebrity.”

  “What about it, Asa? Will you defend him?”

  “Yes, of course I will.”

  “About your fee—” Cal started, but Asa cut him off.

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “I don’t expect you to defend him for nothing. I know you are a high-dollar lawyer. I mean, at least you are famous. I see you on TV all the time, commenting on trials and such.”

  “It won’t cost you or Art anything,” Asa said. “But it is going to cost a great deal of money in order to take my billing away from the firm. So, if you don’t mind, I’m going to have our people construct a Web site, soliciting funds for Art’s defense.”

  “What will we have to do?” Cal asked.

  “Nothing,” Asa said. “I’ll take care of everything at my end. You are going to have to take care of things at your end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t you say that Art didn’t know you were going to contact me?”

  “That’s right, he doesn’t know.”

  “You are going to have to convince him to let me defend him. And I don’t think it’s going to be that easy.”

  Cal sighed. “I know,” he said. “If you and I didn’t go back a long way, I don’t think I would stand a chance in hell of convincing him. But, given our connection, I think I can.”

  “All right,” Asa said. “You get started at your end, and I’ll get started at mine.”

  Asa finished the game, then went home. A note from his wife told him that she was attending a flower and garden club meeting.

  I assume you ate at the club, the note said. If not, I’m sure you can find something.

  Asa took a shower, then looked around for something for his supper. Opening the pantry, he found a can of pork and beans. In the refrigerator, he found a package of wieners. He chopped up a wiener in a bowl, mixed it with the beans, then went into the study.

  There are some things, smells, sights, and sounds, that bring on instant recall. Asa had just such a moment when he took the first bite of his supper.

  Near Parrot’s Beak, Vietnam, 1967

  “Damn, Kinnamon, I’d sure like to go to Las Vegas with you sometime. You’re the luckiest sumbitch I know. Your last four meals have been beans and franks,” PFC Morris said. “How do you do that?”

  “You’ve got to run your hand over the box before you choose,” Kinnamon replied as he dipped a spoonful of beans and franks from the olive drab can.

  “What do you mean? What do you do that for?”

  “Beans and franks give off a special vibration,” Kinnamon said.

  “Ha! You’re as full of shit as a Christmas goose.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, I’m eating beans and franks, what are you eating? Ham and scrambled eggs?”

  “Is that what it is?” Morris asked as he stared at the pale gray congealed mess in his can. “I thought it was dog puke.”

  “Here comes the LT,” one of the other men said.

  First Lieutenant Cal Jensen came up to join the others in his platoon.

  “Where are the Cs?” he asked.

  “There’s a whole case of them over there,” Morris said. “But Kinnamon’s already got the beans and franks.”

  Cal picked up a box, opened it, and examined the contents.

  “Hey, no fair, LT. You can’t peek,” Morris said.

  “Sure I can,” Cal teased. “I’m an officer. We’ve got special privileges.”

  Using the little P-38 hand-operated can opener that hung from his dog tag chain, Cal opened a can of ham and lima beans. He fished a spoon from his shirt pocket and began eating before he spoke.

  “Be ready to go in half an hour,” he said, almost casually.

  “Go? Go where?”

  “Up there,” Cal said, pointing to a nearby hill. “We’re going into a blocking position.”

  “Holy shit. Did you piss off General Westmoreland or something, Lieutenant Jensen?” Morris asked. “I mean, has he got it written down somewhere? Any time there is a shit detail, give it to the good ole third herd. They’ll handle it.”

  Cal nodded. “That’s right, but how’d you figure that out, Morris? That’s supposed to be a military secret.”

  They were taken up in three Hueys and put out along the trail, just before nightfall.

  “Kinnamon, you and Morris set up a listening post just down the trail,” Cal said.

  “How far?”

  “Don’t go any more than fifty yards,” Cal said. “I don’t want you so far that you can’t get back.”

  “I like the way you think, LT,” Kinnamon said. “Come on, Morris, let’s go.”

  Cal watched the two men go down the trail; then he checked all the other men, getting them in position. After that, he set up his platoon CP, and the waiting began.

  It was after midnight when Cal heard a whisper over his radio.

  “Papa Three, Papa Three, there are people coming down the trail,” Kinnamon called.

  “I’ll send up a flare,” Cal replied. He put in the call, and a moment later a large flare, launched by a distant 105 howitzer, popped overhead. It floated down slowly, under a parachute, bathing the area below in a very bright, very harsh light.

  “Holy shit! There’s hundreds of ’em!” This time Kinnamon’s voice wasn’t a whisper, but a frightened shout.

  Almost immediately thereafter, the gunfire started. It continued after the flare had burned out, the orange-red tracer rounds of the American weapons mixing with the green tracer rounds of the North Vietnamese troops.

  The firing continued unabated for several moments.

  “Kinnamon, Morris, if you can, get back here with the rest of us,” Cal said.

  “Morris is dead,” Kinnamon’s voice came back. “And I’m hit pretty bad. I’ll hold my own down here.”

  “The hell you will. I’m coming for you,” Cal said.

  “Don’t try it, LT. You’ll never make it.”

  Back in his study, Kinnamon set the now-empty bowl of beans and wieners down. Pulling up his pants leg, he examined the scars in his leg. There were four purple puffy marks where the bullets had gone in. Two of them had severed his shinbone and he walked with a limp, until this day.

  Cal Jensen had made it. He braved the enemy fire and came down the trail to Kinnamon, then, picking him up, threw him over his shoulder and carried him back to relative safety. The platoon was relieved the next morning, when an entire company was inserted by helicopter. Dust-off came in with the insertion helicopters and Kinnamon and Cal, who was also wounded, were medically evacuated.

  The two had gone to Third Field Hospital back in Saigon where they were assigned to adjacent beds. That was the beginning of a friendship that had lasted until this day.

  After the war, Kinnamon went to college, then law school. His flamboyant style and his natural ability combined to make his career take off. Now viewers of Court TV knew him very well. In his most recent case he had defended the son of a United States senator. The young man was being charged with vehicular manslaughter. Kinnamon got his client off by so discrediting the administration of the sobriety test that it became inadmissible. What made that a particularly stunning victory was the fact that the senator’s son was so drunk at the scene of the accident that he could barely stand.

  Ironically, had he not been drunk, the wreck would have been the fault of the driver who was killed. Tire marks indicated that the head-on collision had happened in Kinnamon’s client’s lane, meaning that the driver of the other car had crossed over the center line. Those same tire marks also indicated that Kinnamon’s client was the only one to apply his brakes. Clearly, the other man was asleep at the time of the accident, but the law is such that being drunk is a worse offense than being asleep.

  Fort Meyers, Virginia

  “It’s not exactly the Waldorf, is it?” Cal asked as he examined the transient BOQ room Art was occupying. The room had one sing
le bed, a brown chest of drawers, a table with two hard-back chairs, a small, green, cloth-covered sofa, and a matching chair.

  Cal had come out to Fort Meyers to visit Art. Art had bought a pizza, and the box and a few rims of crust were all that remained.

  “It could be worse,” Art replied. He poured a cup of coffee, then handed it across the table to his father. “I’m not in jail and I don’t have guards posted outside my room. I am released to my own recognizance. It’s just that I must occupy quarters on the post.”

  “Yes, I guess so,” Cal said, taking a drink of his coffee. “So, who is your lawyer? Has he been assigned yet?”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Clayton Barnes,” Art replied.

  “Have you met him?”

  “Yes. He’s a good man. A graduate of Duke. Very intelligent.”

  “Has he ever seen combat?”

  Art shook his head. “Not many JAG officers have seen combat.”

  “Colonel Nighthorse has.”

  “Colonel Nighthorse is an anomaly.”

  “He’s also a damn good lawyer,” Cal said. “The army is coming at you with their best, son. You need to meet them with the best.”

  Art chuckled. “I don’t have a lot to say about it,” he said.

  “Sure you do. The UCMJ allows you to hire a civilian lawyer.”

  “What civilian could I get who could do battle with Colonel Nighthorse?”

  “Asa Kinnamon.”

  “Sure,” Art said. “Like Asa Kinnamon is going to defend me. What’s wrong? Are there no Hollywood stars, or football players, or congressmen in trouble right now?”

  “Don’t worry about that. He will defend you. I’ve already spoken to him.”

  Art was silent for a moment. “Dad, you didn’t call on your friendship with him, did you?”

  “Yes, I did,” Cal admitted unashamedly.

  “Well, even if he would agree to defend me, I can’t afford him.”

  “You don’t have to pay him.”

  “You can only take friendship so far, Dad. I’m sure he’s not going to do it pro bono?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What do you mean, ‘something like that’?”

  “Asa has already raised three million dollars for your defense fund.”

  “What?” Art gasped. “How the hell did he do that?”

  “He did it by using the Internet. You would be surprised at how many people support you in this.”

  Art shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I refuse to be a poster boy for some political agenda. I’ll go with Colonel Barnes.”

  “You can keep Colonel Barnes,” Cal said. “In fact, I’m sure that Asa would want you to keep him. But, Art, you are in a battle for your life. Not to fight with every tool at your disposal would be foolish. It’s your call, but I urge you . . . no, I’m begging you, let Asa defend you.”

  Outside, there was a rumble of thunder, and Art got up from the small table and walked over to separate the blinds so he could look through the window. In the parking lot he could see his dad’s Ford Explorer SUV sitting next to his own three-year-old Lexus.

  “Looks like it’s going to rain,” Art said. “Will you be all right going home?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Cal said.

  Cal’s unanswered question hung between them like another presence in the room.

  “All right,” Art finally said after another long moment of silence. “Call your friend. Tell him . . . tell him I am grateful for his help.”

  Fort Leslie J. McNair, Washington, D.C.

  One of the oldest military installations in the United States, Fort McNair was, for many years, called the Washington Arsenal. It was renamed Fort Leslie J. McNair after the lieutenant general who was the highest-ranking American officer to be killed during World War II.

  Ironically, General McNair was killed by friendly fire when American bombers, off-target because of bad weather, dropped bombs on his location.

  As Asa Kinnamon’s Jaguar rolled toward the gate at Fort Leslie J. McNair, he saw a military policeman hold up his hand to stop him. Kinnamon lowered the window.

  “What is it, Sergeant?” he asked, as the MP approached him. “Did I not signal my turn or something?”

  “You have no military registration,” the MP explained patiently. “I’ll have to give you a visitor’s pass.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot about that.”

  The MP recorded Kinnamon’s name and purpose of visit on a clipboard, then handed Kinnamon a card that said VISITOR, with instructions to put it on the lower right-hand corner of his windshield.

  “Thanks,” Kinnamon said. “Oh, where is the Headquarters Building?”

  “Straight ahead, Sir. You can’t miss it,” the MP said, pointing.

  For all his notoriety, even Kinnamon’s fiercest fans would have trouble recognizing the man who exited the Jaguar in front of the Headquarters Building. Normally Kinnamon let his long, gray-blond hair hang loose. Today it was pulled back and tied behind his head. On his TV appearances, his favorite mode of dress was a fringed buckskin jacket, a black turtleneck shirt, and black trousers. He generally accented his outfit with several ropes of gold chain. Now he was wearing a dark gray suit, white shirt, and maroon tie.

  Kinnamon started toward the big redbrick building, but stopped when someone got out of a nearby Lexus and called to him.

  “Mr. Kinnamon?”

  The man who accosted him was in the class-A green uniform, complete with tunic. There was almost insufficient room to display all the ribbons above his left breast pocket. Shining, silver oak leafs were on each epaulet.

  “Colonel Jensen,” Kinnamon greeted, starting toward him with his hand extended. “How are you doing today?”

  “I have to confess that I’m a little nervous,” Art admitted.

  “I mean, I am not unaware of the results of the most historic trial ever to take place here.”

  “Oh? What trial was that?”

  “The trial of the conspirators in the Lincoln assassination. They were tried here . . . and executed here.”

  “Whoa,” Kinnamon replied with a little chuckle. “That’s a disturbing thought.”

  “So, how does it look?” Art asked.

  “I won’t lie to you, Colonel, it doesn’t look good. But I don’t think you’ll be joining the Lincoln conspirators hanging from a gallows,” Kinnamon said.

  “I’m still a little hesitant about using—” Art started, then stopped.

  “About using a civilian lawyer?” Kinnamon asked, finishing the comment for him.

  Art nodded. “Yes. No offense meant, but I am in the army, after all. It seems, somehow, dishonorable for me to use civilian counsel.”

  Kinnamon laughed out loud. “No offense taken. You are a hoot, Colonel,” he said. “Here you are, on trial for your life, and you are concerned about the army’s sensitivities.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Art said. “After all, my father did recommend you.”

  “Your father and I go back a long way, Colonel. We were in Vietnam together,” Kinnamon said. “Only I was a private then and your father was a lieutenant. I am happy to report, though, that he wasn’t a pain-in-the-ass lieutenant. And, truth to tell, I probably wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for Cal Jensen.”

  Art was already aware of the relationship between the two men. He knew that his father had gotten a Distinguished Service Cross for his action on the night in which he and Kinnamon were both wounded.

  Their relationship had not ended with the war. Cal left the army and became an FBI agent and Asa Kinnamon went to law school. Over the last thirty-five years the two had worked together on several cases. It seemed only natural that Cal would go to his old friend when he needed a lawyer for his son.

  CHAPTER NINE

  JAG Court Building, Fort Leslie J. McNair, D.C.

  The General Court-Martial convened with a board of five male and two female officers. The two female officers and two of the male officers were lieute
nant colonels. There were also two full colonels, and a major general who was acting as the board president.

  These officers would serve as the jury, so it was not necessary for any of them to be members of the bar. As a matter of principle, the convening authorities tried to make the ranks of the members equal, or superior, to that of the charged, though the regulations required only that when a commissioned officer was being tried, all the members of the board would be commissioned officers.

  The last to enter was the law officer, Colonel Nelson Brisbane. Unlike the members of the board, the law officer, or military judge, did have to be a member of the bar of the highest court of a state. The military judge would have no vote in the final outcome.

  At the defense table sat the defendant and his defense attorneys, the civilian, Asa Kinnamon, and the JAG officer who had been assigned to the case, Lieutenant Colonel Clayton Barnes. Lieutenant Colonel Temple Houston Nighthorse was the prosecutor, and he and Barnes greeted each other with a silent nod. Nighthorse did not look at Art.

  “By whom will the accused be defended?” Colonel Brisbane asked.

  Colonel Barnes got to his feet. “Please the court,” he responded, “the accused has retained civilian counsel, Mr. Asa Kinnamon. The accused has further asked that I continue as military counsel to provide Mr. Kinnamon with any assistance as may be needed, with regard to the peculiarities of military law.”

  “Very well,” Brisbane replied. “Mr. Kinnamon, would you state your qualifications before the bar?”

  The civilian lawyer, who was tall and ruddy-faced, stood. He made the slightest nod toward the military judge.

  “I am Asa Kinnamon of Kinnamon, Turner, Goodson and Watts, with offices in New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Norfolk. I work out of Baltimore and have been admitted to practice before the state bars of Maryland, Virginia, New York, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Missouri, Texas, and California. I am also admitted to the bar of the United States, the Supreme Court of the United States, and the International Court of Justice in The Hague, as well as the International Admiralty Courts.”