“Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know,” Tracy said. “I think it’s possible the defense attorney might try to attack the video somehow and keep it out of evidence. It’s the only thing I can think of for why Mr. Trejo hasn’t pled.”
“I keep thinking, if he was going to accept some plea deal, he would have done so already,” Miller said.
Miller’s mother raised her eyes and stared at Tracy. That had apparently also been on her mind.
Miller, no longer trying to hide her distrust, said, “I mean, he’s seen the video, hasn’t he? So why hasn’t he admitted he’s guilty? Why do we have to go through this hearing?”
“I don’t know,” Tracy said, and she didn’t. In her experience, in a situation such as this, the defense counsel would be seeking a plea for her client. Maybe Leah Battles was waiting until after the Article 32 hearing. Or maybe she did have an argument to keep out the video and wanted to give it a try. There was no harm in waiting, hearing all the evidence, especially if her client was actually being recalcitrant.
“Cho said this is a big case for the defense attorney, that she may want to push her chances of defeating him,” Miller said. “Did he tell you that?”
“He did,” Tracy said.
The grandmother shook her head. Miller bit back a bitter grin. “It’s all just a big game, isn’t it?”
Again, Tracy had no words to console them. And, unfortunately, she knew firsthand that the judicial process would not bring them any satisfaction or relief. It wouldn’t bring back D’Andre.
She only hoped Shaniqua Miller would find some closure from the proceedings.
Leah Battles had resisted the urge to sleep in her office, and thereby set a dangerous precedent for a profession that lawyers could so easily wed. She’d once known an attorney who took great pride in telling others he frequently slept in his office, seemingly oblivious to the fact that, at forty, he was also still single. Given her own ring-free left hand, and the lack of anyone even remotely considering adorning that finger, Battles didn’t need any further help fueling the rumor mill inevitable for a woman in the military.
And no, she wasn’t gay.
Not that there was anything wrong with that—to quote a famous Seinfeld proverb.
She’d caught the 11:40 p.m. ferry home, slept a few hours, then caught an early ferry back to the office. Now, at just before 9:00 a.m. it was show time, and she was dressed for it. Lopresti had let it be known that he wanted counsel in dress blue uniforms, no doubt to impress the crowd, including the press. As a result, Battles was as spit shined, though hopefully not as incompetent, as a young Demi Moore in the movie A Few Good Men.
She made her way out of her office carrying notes in the event that she opted to cross-examine any of the witnesses, and a few other materials. The evidence to be introduced was kept in the custody of the court reporter, and today was largely going to be Brian Cho’s show.
She didn’t have a long walk. The courtroom was one floor above, through metal detectors. This morning, with the anticipated crowd, several MAs would also be present, as well as brig chasers, or prison guards. It would make for a tight fit. The courtroom was not like some of the grandiose state courtrooms adorned with marble and mahogany and lit beneath hanging chandeliers. Far more functional than ceremonial, the Naval Base Kitsap courtroom consisted of a gallery of just four benches, two on the right and two on the left, which accommodated all interested spectators—with room to spare, in 99 percent of its cases.
Battles pulled open the door and stepped inside.
Not today.
The gallery overflowed, despite extra chairs, and the crowd made the room even smaller. With no exterior windows, the courtroom could quickly feel claustrophobic.
African American faces turned and considered Battles as she made her way to the railing separating the gallery. She caught sight of D’Andre Miller’s mother, and, presumably, relatives and other supporters. They did not look happy to see her. The detective, Tracy Crosswhite, sat with them, as did Joe Jensen. Battles had seriously considered excluding both from the hearing until after they’d testified, just to screw with them, but she didn’t see the point. She had the benefit of their official reports to keep them honest.
She walked the short aisle, pushed through the gate, and placed her materials on the desk to the right—dark wood but certainly not mahogany. Cho already sat at the desk on her left, his second chair occupied by Lindsay Clark, his assistant prosecutor and, according to rumors in the office, his latest conquest. They too were resplendent in their dress blues. Clark’s job would be, no doubt, to hand Cho evidence and otherwise look competent. As Battles stepped past the lectern between the tables and settled at the table on the right, Cho glanced up, as if surprised to see her. Then, as if to say, So be it, he shook his head and refocused on the task at hand.
What’s not to love about the guy?
Battles glanced at the empty jury box to her right. Today it would remain that way. At the front of the room, direct center, was the witness box. For some reason, the light oak chair, unadorned, always reminded her of Old Sparky, the electric chair in Stephen King’s novel The Green Mile. To its left was the judge’s bench; if elevated, it was a matter of inches, not feet. Recessed lighting spotted the United States and Navy flags, as well as two blue-and-gold disks hanging on the wall, the emblems of the Department of the Navy and the Judge Advocate General’s Corps.
Battles continued to arrange her materials, not that she had much. She did not intend to call any witnesses or introduce any evidence. This was Cho’s show. She was happy to just take it all in.
Free discovery. Never turn it down.
At minutes before nine, everything orchestrated, two brig chasers escorted Laszlo Trejo in from a door to the right of the bench. The murmurs in the gallery sounded like a low rumble. As instructed, Trejo seemingly took no note of them. He wore his work blues and looked like he’d slept little, bags beneath bloodshot eyes. Trejo, however, did not appear nervous, but that could have been because Battles had told him this was just a show for the court-martial, unless he pled.