Secret Justice Page 9

  “Good.”

  Jacobs walked into the conference room like he owned it. There were three FBI agents, and Christopher Vithoulkas, the CIA’s general counsel. They stood up quickly, surprised by Jacobs.

  One of the FBI agents extended his hand and introduced himself. “Morning. I’m special agent David Dominoff, and this is special agent Lauren Reynolds, and Brent Harvey.”

  “Don Jacobs. This is Kent Rathman,” he said, pointing.

  Rat stood on the other side of the table from the FBI. He made no move to be friendly or shake anyone’s hand.

  “What did you want to see me about?” Rat asked.

  Dominoff looked at Rat, surprised. “Well, I assumed you knew that we’re here to talk about the man that was captured, the one who died aboard the Belleau Wood.”

  Rat said nothing.

  “Before going further I must advise you that this is a criminal investigation. We’re here to investigate whether a crime has been committed, and whether any charges should be brought. You are the focus of the criminal investigation. As such, you are a suspect of a crime, although we have not yet decided whether a crime has in fact been committed. This is the investigation phase. Even though it is only the investigation phase, we want to ensure that you understand that you’re entitled to the presence of counsel to represent you even in this investigation phase. You do not have to answer any questions you do not want to. If you’d like to consult with an attorney, then let us know. If you say anything at all, it can and will be used against you. Do you want to have an attorney present at these questions?”

  Rat never thought anyone would ask him that question. He was numb. “No.”

  “Very well. As we were saying, you are aware that one of the men you captured in Sudan died aboard the Belleau Wood.”

  “I heard that. Last time I saw him, he was walking around and looked fine. Maybe it’s medical malpractice.”

  “Are you aware he died from pneumonia, caused by the ingestion of foreign objects—mostly vomit—into his lungs, which led to infection and death?”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “Do you know how he happened to have vomit in his lungs?” Dominoff stared at Rat with eyes that would intimidate most witnesses. Rat was not intimidated but he was acutely aware of the implications of what was happening.

  “No comment.”

  “The man—whose name is Mazmin—said you had tortured him. Did you?”

  “Define torture.”

  Dominoff was expecting another “no comment.” He looked at Reynolds, who was taking notes furiously. She looked up. Some kind of understanding passed between them based on a look he gave her. Dominoff spoke slowly, “Well, I’m not sure I can give you an exhaustive definition, but let’s just say it is the use of force or other means of persuasion to get someone to talk against their will. Do you agree with that definition?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you do anything like that to this man who is now dead?”

  “Other means of persuasion so they’ll talk against their will? Like asking a question twice?”

  “I wouldn’t think that would be torture.”

  “What about yelling at him?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. Let’s exclude those things from this inquiry,” Dominoff said. “Did you do anything else to Mazmin to get him to tell you things against his will?”

  “No comment.” Rat was annoyed. “Let me ask you something, Special Agent Dominoff. Have you ever interrogated a suspect that wouldn’t talk? Someone who had critical information? Did you ever work anybody over? Ever hit anybody?”

  Dominoff wasn’t biting. “What I may or may not have done is not at issue here, Mr. Rathman. What is at issue is what you may or may not have done in Sudan. If you don’t want to answer my questions, just say so. But if I’m going to spend my time here with you I hope that you will answer my questions directly. Are you willing to do that?”

  “Maybe. Let me ask you something else.”

  “Sure,” Dominoff said, perturbed.

  “Is it illegal, as in a violation of U.S. law, to torture a terrorist in a foreign country?”

  “It is a violation of the Geneva Convention. If the person dies, it is also a violation of the U.S. criminal code. Since you are active duty military as well, it is also a violation of the UCMJ.”

  Rat was startled. “Are you serious? You’re thinking of charging me with a violation of the Geneva Convention?”

  “I am simply conducting an investigation. I would not be the one making a decision about who is charged with what.”

  “A terrorist is entitled to the protection of the Geneva Convention when none of the countries where he has ever lived have even signed the damned thing?”

  “You can talk to the U.S. Attorney’s Office about that if they indeed bring charges. I’m sure they will look into all of that.”

  “So you’re investigating me for violating the Geneva Convention?”

  “Yes, among other things.”

  “This interview is over.” Rat stood up, pushed his chair back, and walked out the door.

  * * *

  “Talk to your detailer?” Rat asked as he kissed Andrea and took off his leather jacket.

  “Yeah. I was on hold for twenty minutes, but I finally got to talk to him. He says it’s up to me.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I thought we were going out.”

  “Nah, we’re staying here.”

  She frowned. “You said we were going to Occoquan, some seafood restaurant right on the water. I was really looking forward to it. What’s changed?”

  Rat was quiet. He sat on the couch and put his head back. “Just don’t feel like it.”

  “You don’t feel like seafood? Since when? You live on seafood. And you always like going out. You don’t even have dishes in your condo.”

  “Right.”

  “You suddenly start living on a budget? You don’t even know what a budget is.” She stood over him looking down at his face. His eyes avoided hers. She grew concerned. “What’s going on?”

  “Just don’t feel like going out. That’s all.”

  “Well, I do. You’ve been gone all week, you finally get back and you want to sit around? Get your jacket on,” she insisted.

  He stood slowly and grabbed his jacket. “You drive.”

  They drove in nearly total silence all the way to Occoquan, Virginia. She stole glances at the side of his face as she drove.

  He could tell she was beginning to worry about his demeanor. He was worried about it too. He felt surrounded by an enemy he couldn’t fight. No fancy night operation was going to make this go away.

  “I have no idea where this restaurant is,” Andrea said.

  “Turn right when you get to the river,” he said.

  She complied and he directed her to a large seafood restaurant that had electric signs advertising the fact that they served only fresh fish, nothing frozen ever. His spirits lifted as they got out of the car and he could smell the water. They made their way into the crowded waiting area. The hostess was taking names and handing out vibrating pagers rimmed with flashing red lights when activated. Rat slipped the pager into his pocket.

  “Let’s wait outside,” he said.

  “Isn’t it too chilly?”

  “Never,” he said. “Got to breathe the fresh air.”

  They walked onto a large wooden deck overlooking the river. It was a cool night with low-hanging clouds that completely blocked the stars and moon. It made for a closed-in, damp feeling. Rat put his arm around Andrea as they walked slowly.

  “So, do you have an opinion on what I should do?”

  Rat frowned. “About what?”

  Andrea was unimpressed. “About going to sea. About taking a job on a ship. I’m not even due to rotate, and the detailer called me to give me the first shot at this job. He said it would be good for my career. So what do you think?”

  “Go for it.”

 
“Just like that?”

  He glanced away from the river toward her. “Sure. Why not? Why wouldn’t you?”

  “How about ‘I’d sure miss you, it would be hard to not see you every week, but we could look forward to when you got off sea duty’ —something like that?”

  “That’s what I should have said. Brief me next time—”

  His pocket started vibrating. He pulled out the flashing pager. “We’re up.” They walked quickly back toward the restaurant.

  The hostess seated them in the back by a window overlooking the swollen river. They gave their orders to the waiter.

  Andrea didn’t wait. “So what’s going on? What’s eating you? You having second thoughts about me?”

  Rat looked into her eyes and smiled. “It’s got nothing to do with you.” He wanted to tell her all about it. But he couldn’t tell her about the things that would make it all make sense. He was sure to look evasive or stupid. “I got a visit from the FBI today.”

  Andrea’s face clouded. “What for?”

  “A mission. I can’t really go into it. It isn’t public.”

  “A recent mission?”

  He nodded.

  Her sharp mind scanned recent information, news, anything that would give her any hints. It hit her. “You’re the one who captured Wahamed Duar?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Of course,” she said, seeing several loose pieces suddenly fall into place. “Something happened?”

  “One guy died after the fact.”

  “From what?”

  “From pneumonia.”

  “What would that have to do with you?”

  “I may—they think maybe some things I did contributed to his problems. Maybe caused them.”

  “How?”

  “I was asking him some questions. He didn’t want to answer.”

  “Did you do anything wrong?”

  “I guess that’s the question.”

  “So what happened? What did they say? Did you give them what they wanted?”

  “I don’t think so. I didn’t really give them anything.”

  Andrea glanced up over Rat’s shoulder, toward the hostess station. She saw three men in suits. No one else in the restaurant was wearing a tie, let alone a suit. “Why would three men be here in suits?”

  “It’s them.”

  “Who?”

  “The FBI. They’re here for me.”

  “You know they’re here?”

  “I saw their reflection in the window. They’ve been watching us.”

  “Do you want to go to the rest room or something?”

  “I’m not going to run if that’s what you’re saying. If they came to get me, then they’ll get me. I’m not going to become some fugitive. They followed us all the way here from Maryland.”

  “You knew they were here?”

  He nodded. “Sure.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I thought they might just be following me. No problem with that. It’s like having your own bodyguards.”

  She looked at them again, then pulled her eyes away when they saw her. “They’re coming.”

  Rat was annoyed. “They wanted to pick a time to achieve maximum embarrassment. Couldn’t possibly have approached me when I was standing outside on the walkway. No, has to be in here, while eating dinner. Assholes.”

  The three FBI agents walked quickly toward Rat from the back. They stood around the table facing the window. “Kent Rathman?”

  Rat looked up at them. “Care to join us?”

  “Are you Kent Rathman?”

  “You know who I am. Don’t be stupid.”

  “Sir, you’re under arrest. Would you come with us please?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No, sir. I’m afraid you don’t.”

  Rat stood up and one of the special agents grabbed his arms from behind him. The others in the restaurant had now picked up on what was happening. The room full of people stared as the FBI agent put metal handcuffs on Rat and locked his arms behind him.

  Andrea was beside herself. She was on her feet. “What is the charge?”

  The FBI didn’t respond. They maneuvered Rat between the tables toward the door.

  * * *

  Rat never thought he’d find himself in a federal correctional building. At least not as a prisoner wearing a blue jumpsuit. He’d made a phone call to Andrea to encourage her to get a lawyer for him. He had no idea where he’d find the money for a decent lawyer. At least if he had gotten court-martialed he would be entitled to a military lawyer he would have some respect for. But here, who? A federal defender? Although he would qualify as broke compared to anyone with real money, he was quite sure he wouldn’t be poor enough to qualify to get a free federal defender.

  But Andrea had come through, or at least claimed to have. She assured him that his lawyer was on his way over to see him. He hadn’t even been there for four hours. She must have really jumped on it. He couldn’t imagine how she would find a decent lawyer who would be willing to come out on Saturday night and see him in custody.

  Rat waited as the guard pulled the metal door back and motioned for Rat to step into the room. It was an ordinary, small conference room. Not the kind of room in movies, where prisoners are separated by bulletproof glass from those there to visit them.

  He sat in a green folding chair with his hands on the table, still in handcuffs. The metal door slid open. An old man stepped through the door carefully. He sat in the chair across from Rat. Rat was speechless. The man had to be seventy years old. His thick hair was combed straight back from his forehead and was so white it had a tint of yellow to it. “Richard Skyles,” the man said gruffly, extending his hand.

  “Kent Rathman,” Rat said.

  As they shook hands Rat noticed that there was a catheter hanging out of the back of the man’s right hand. He was horrified. “What is that?” Rat asked before he could stop himself.

  “I was getting some medical treatment today. Ignore it.”

  Rat’s eyes raced over the man he was supposed to rely on to keep him out of prison. His tie was slightly crooked, and although Rat didn’t know one tie from another, this tie had seen better days. Tiny strings hung from it as if the cheap silk had been snagged a few dozen times. The white shirt seemed not quite as white as it should be. “So Andrea called you?”

  “Yeah. She told me you needed my help.”

  “I need somebody’s help.” He looked at Skyles hard. “But why should it be you?”

  Skyles returned his penetrating gaze. “You’re concerned about my age. Don’t worry about it. I can kick the ass of any U.S. Attorney in Washington.”

  Rat wasn’t impressed. He’d heard a lot of big talk. “Really.”

  “Yes. Really.”

  “How’d Andrea find you?”

  “I assume she got a reference from somebody. What the hell difference does it make?”

  “I guess I need to make sure you’re the right guy. I’m in deep trouble.”

  “I am the right guy.”

  “How do I know that?”

  He leaned forward. “I’ve tried more cases against the government, against U.S. Attorneys, than anyone in D.C.”

  “That means you’ve been doing it a long time. That’s all.”

  “And I’ve gotten more people off than anyone else. No doubt about it.”

  Rat asked, “How much do you charge?”

  “I’ll try to get myself appointed by the federal defender’s office and paid by the government. They pay more than I might get if I worked at McDonald’s—not a lot, but a little more—but it’s a hell of a lot more fun, especially when I get to go against the federal government.”

  “You don’t mind going against the federal government?”

  “No. It’s the thing I like to do. I hate the government, and every chance I get to oppose it in whatever they’re doing, it’s pure joy to me. Representing you will be a great joy.”

  “You know what the
charges are?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think you can fight these guys?”

  Skyles eyes narrowed. “I am going to be a shit-stick for the U.S. Attorney. Every time they rub up against me, they’re going to get shit all over them. They will be so annoyed they’ll spend half their time just trying to get rid of me. I’ll fight them every single step on every single issue. I’ll make their lives miserable. I’ll call them twenty-four hours a day. I’ll file motions they’ve never even seen. I’ll defend you to the death.” He sat back. “And we will prevail.”

  “You’re not talking about doing things that are across the line, are you?”

  “Never. Just annoying as hell, as obnoxious as hell, and as effective as hell.”

  Rat was unconvinced. “I’m a pretty straight shooter. I don’t like angles and agendas. I don’t mind a good fight, even when the odds aren’t very good. But I like going straight at it.”

  Skyles shook his head. “No such thing as a straight fight in criminal court. No such thing as a fair fight at all. Do you really think you can bring to bear the assets necessary to fight the United States Government? Seriously? You think you can put together an army of attorneys to fight whatever army they can put on the other side? You can’t get a fair fight when you go against the U.S. Attorney’s Office or the Department of Justice. When these guys turn their sights on you, you’re dead. They will get you. You’ll be convicted of one thing or another. And unless I’m here to protect you, you’ll go to prison for many years. But they hate me, and I hate them. When I come around the fight is as close to fair as you’re going to get. I’ve faced almost all of them. I’ve beaten every one of them. I’ve tried cases against the United States Government for forty years.” Skyles tried to force himself to stand up quickly but he didn’t have the strength. He got up slowly and stood behind his chair. Rat noticed that his suit was wrinkled. “I am a little off the wall, I admit. But that’s what makes me so damned effective.”

  “So assuming that I do ask you to defend me, what’s your plan? I’d like to keep this quiet. I don’t want it to get out that I’ve been arrested and am in jail, about to go on trial for some horrible crime.”

  “Keep it quiet?” Skyles asked, rubbing the back of his hand around the catheter. “Are you out of your mind? That’s exactly what the government will want to do. My guess is they’re schizophrenic about whether they should have even brought these charges. Somebody somewhere sure wants to bring them, but I’ll bet there are just as many people that said they shouldn’t pursue it. And for every U.S. Attorney who will charge ahead enthusiastically, there’ll be five or ten who would shy away from this case. The last thing they want to do is put some American hero on trial for doing something everybody in the country would say you should have done.” Skyles put his hands in his pockets. “They have to convince a jury, see.” He paused. “Did you really torture the guy?”