CHAPTER
37
A DAY LATER PULLER laid aside the last page, sat back, and yawned. He was sitting at a spare office in a former CID building at Fort Belvoir. The trial record he had just finished for the third time had been tedious in nearly all respects, except when it was riveting. He had just had to read through it all to get to those parts.
He rubbed his eyes, drank the last of his lukewarm coffee, and stared out the solitary window where the rain had started to fall gently, although it was forecast to turn into a pretty nasty storm as a front pushed through on its way to the Atlantic.
The door opened and Knox poked her head in.
“They said you were in here. Up for some company?”
He nodded. “I was about to fall asleep. Got started before dawn. Don’t even know what time it is.”
She came in holding a white bag and a carrier with two coffees perched in it. “Actually, it’s almost noon, but I bet you’ve had nothing to eat yet.”
“You’d win that bet,” he admitted.
She handed him a coffee and then reached into the bag and pulled out a sandwich and set it in front of him. Next she placed a large box of steak fries between them as she slid a seat up to the desk on the other side.
He stared at the fries and then at her. “French fries? I thought you’d come in with carrot sticks and non-fat yogurt.”
She slipped a thick fry from the box, opened her mouth wide, and poised the fry between her teeth momentarily before chomping down on it, causing him to wince slightly.
“A girl can splurge sometimes, Puller. I ran five miles this morning and then did an Insanity exercise routine.”
“Then I think you might be entitled to the whole box.”
He unwrapped his sandwich and saw that it was a Philly cheese-steak. His smile was wide and immediate.
“Boys are so predictable,” said Knox, giving him an amused look.
“In some ways,” said Puller, taking a bite of his Philly and then a drink of the hot coffee.
She glanced at the stacks of papers. “So, anything good?”
He wiped his mouth with a napkin and drew a legal pad covered with notes toward him. “Shireen said they charged my brother with spying under Article 106.”
She put down her coffee. “Right, the one that carries the automatic death sentence.”
He nodded, sticking a fry in the small tub of ketchup. “But then it just went away and was replaced with the espionage charge.”
“Nothing in the court-martial record about exactly why?”
“No, not really. It was just there until it wasn’t.”
“Pretty big difference,” she noted. “Death for certain or life imprisonment.”
“Right. I’m sure if we asked why they would just claim national security.”
“They always pull that crap out when they don’t want to tell the truth,” said Knox.
“Well, I guess you would know,” he shot back.
She flashed him a scowl. “So why do you think they would have cut the charge down? Did your brother have some juice in high places behind him?”
“He was still convicted of espionage. He still got life in prison. How much juice could he have?”
“But still, Puller. They were originally going for the death penalty. And it seemed like his alleged crimes fit the requirements for spying.”
“The defense counsel and prosecutor Shireen talked to would know all about this.”
“But will they talk to us? I’m surprised they told her as much as they did.”
“She’s a fellow JAG. And they didn’t tell her everything.” He stopped and lapsed into thought for a few moments. “We could always ask them, in our professional capacity.”
“Yes, we could. And they could refuse. And we could press the point, go to court, get a subpoena, let the lawyers duke it out.”
“And all of that would take time, maybe a lot of time,” said Puller.
“Lawyers never work fast, at least that’s been my experience.”
“We need to work this out from our angle.”
“What about talking to the judge?” she asked.
Puller shook his head. “I doubt he’ll even see us. And even if he would, he’ll never tell us anything. Judges don’t talk about cases.”
“Well, then the trial lawyers probably won’t either.”
“I think we have a better shot with them.”
“Okay, so where are the lawyers?”
“The prosecutor’s in Charlottesville, Virginia, a couple of hours from here. He’s no longer doing trial work. He’s teaching at the JAG School there. My brother’s former lawyer is out of the Air Force and in private practice in North Carolina.”
“Okay, do we split up or do it tag-team?” she asked.
“Do you want to split up?”
“No.”
“Then let’s head to C-ville. Did you find out anything more about Robinson?”
“Your gut was right. His son was very sick. Terminal, actually. They went to Germany desperate for a miracle cure that fortunately worked.”
“And how did they pay for it?”
“There was a community fund-raiser that brought in some dollars. But I spoke with folks in Berlin familiar with the medical procedure and they said it easily would have cost a million-plus. I don’t think you could sell enough cookies and lemonade to raise that much cash. And Robinson’s insurance, good though it was, did not cover that sort of treatment.”
“And no one became suspicious?”
“Pretty touchy subject when you’re dealing with a sick kid. And it came after the trial was over. Maybe people just didn’t put two and two together.”
“Or maybe they didn’t want to. But we did it, pretty quickly. And I know the kid was sick and I’m glad he’s better. But my brother lost everything.”
“Preaching to the choir,” she replied.
“Yeah,” said Puller. “Too bad someone didn’t start preaching two years ago.”