attorney; that, unlike with nearly every other type of criminal case, his chances of defending himself were crippled by security rules and stubborn bureaucrats and the government's very strong desire to burn him at the stake.
I mentioned none of this to him--yet. He was already on suicide watch, and I didn't want to send him hurtling off the ledge into eternity. I stood up and said, "I better get going. I'll stay in touch."
He looked up at me with tortured eyes. "Drummond, listen, I'm completely--"
"Innocent . . . right?"
"Yes. Really, this whole thing is--"
I held up a hand to cut him off.
I wasn't his attorney of record and had no business getting into any of this yet. Later he could tell me as many whoppers as he could dream up, and I would patiently sort the exceptionally unbelievable from the barely credible, until we settled on exactly which pack of lies we'd use for his defense.
But in retrospect I should've walked out and never returned.
CHAPTER TWO
THE PENTAGON ISnot my kind of place. The many people who work there do many invaluable things, such as making sure Congress sends enough money every month to pay me. However, the building is huge, dreary, and depressingly impersonal. Stay in uniform long enough, and you'll inevitably end up assigned there. Along the same lines, live long enough and you'll end up crinkly and farty, with a leaky bladder. I don't spend a lot of time thinking about old age. I visit the Pentagon only when I have to.
I made it up to the third floor office of the Judge Advocate General, Major General Clapper, where his secretary insisted he was in avitally, vitally important meeting that couldn'tpossibly, possibly be interrupted. Her name is Martha, and it has not escaped my attention that she often repeats things when she speaks to me.
I replied, "Well, Martha, why don't I take a seat, seat while I wait, wait?"
She said, "Shut up . . . just shut up."
After a brief but chilly wait, Clapper's door flew open and a long line of glum-faced men and women in dark business suits came filing out. For some unfathomable reason all spooks have that look. Maybe all those deep, dark secrets weigh down their facial features. Or maybe they're all foul-humored pricks. What do I know?
Anyway, the instant they were gone I approached Clapper and handed him Morrison's request.
We then walked together, he and I, into his office. The door closed somewhat less than gently, and why did I suspect that an outright "Yes, you're the perfect guy for the job" was out of the question?
He jammed the request in my face. "Drummond,this . . . What is it?"
"Morrison's requesting me as his counsel."
"That's pathetically obvious. What isn't, is why?"
"Because he thinks I'm a great attorney, I suppose."
"No really, Drummond . . . why?"
Truly, you have to love a guy with a sense of humor like that. I don't actually love him, but I certainly respect him, and occasionally I even like him. As chief of the JAG Corps, he is akin to the managing partner of the world's largest law firm, with lawyers and legal assistants and judges strewn literally around the globe, involved in a mind-boggling array of complex cases and legal duties. It is the kind of job that breeds irritability, impatience, and bossiness. Or perhaps it's me.
My tiny piece of his vast empire is a small, highly specialized cell that focuses on what are called black crimes--which have nothing to do with racial issues and everything to do with units and soldiers whose missions are so staggeringly secret that nobody even knows they exist. It's a bigger part of the Army than most people realize, and the job of my unit is to handle its legal problems under a blanket so dense that no sunshine sneaks in, or out.
This sensitivity explains why we, including me, work directly for Thomas Clapper. We are a very troublesome bunch and quite proud of it, and I have been told on more than one occasion that I am the most troublesome of the troublesome. It's damned unfair, but nobody gave me a vote.
But, back to Clapper, I said, "I really don't know why he wants me, General. It doesn't matter--an accused man has the right to pick his own representation."
My intuition or, more likely, his expression told me that being lectured on this overriding point of law hadn't improved his mood. He asked, "Do you know who those people were that