Gallagher seemed to sense this, and realizing, too, that the sport was gone, his face softened. He said, “We were parked there for an hour waiting, but to tell you the truth, Tyson, I didn’t want to see you in this car.”
“Yes, sir.”
The dark staff car was clear of the crowd and had picked up a two-Jeep escort. They were rolling fast now up Lee Avenue.
Tyson noticed for the first time that the man in the front passenger seat was a civilian. The man turned in his seat and said, “We have some talking to do before they sentence you, ace.”
Tyson looked at Chet Brown. Tyson replied, “I don’t think so.”
Brown shrugged and turned back toward the front. He said, “We’ll see.”
Gallagher produced a hip flash and unscrewed the cap. “Let me buy you one.”
Tyson said, “Don’t need one.”
Gallagher, too, shrugged and put the cap back on. He hesitated, then shoved the flask in the side flap pocket of Tyson’s tunic. “Keep it.”
Tyson realized they were not heading off-post and knew they were not going to Fort Dix.
Gallagher watched him a moment and said, “Just the post lockup. Over the weekend. Until the sentencing Monday. Then . . . then . . .”
“Then,” said Brown from the front seat, “it depends on the stubborn son of a bitch where he goes next.”
Tyson ventured a soft “Fuck you,” and no one seemed to mind.
The car stopped at the provost marshal’s office, and Tyson found himself in a small cell whose walls were made of glazed beige block. Sergeant Larson removed the handcuffs and left, slamming the barred cell door. Brown stood on the other side of the bars as the MPs went into the office to do the paperwork on the prisoner. Brown said, “All we want is an assurance from you—in writing—that you will never speak of any of this ever again for the rest of your natural life.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Except, of course, for a few well-chosen words now and then regarding the positive side of your experience with the government and with military justice.”
“Take a walk.”
“In effect, you’ve lived up to your end of the deal so far without even agreeing to it. You haven’t said one word to the media about anything. We appreciate that. And your lawyer has been decent, too.” Brown pulled a folded sheaf of papers from his breast pocket. “You read this and you sign it.”
“Shove it, Chet.”
“One of the things this says is that you won’t bring up questions about your recall to duty or about the fact that the actual perpetrators of the crime are beyond the reach of the law. The government is very sensitive about that.”
“I’m a little sensitive too.”
Brown leaned closer, his hands on the bars, and his face between them. He kept a close eye on Tyson standing about eight feet away, as though acknowledging that Tyson, though caged, was dangerous. Brown said musingly, “Did you know, Ben, that of the twenty-five men originally implicated in My Lai, about eighteen never had charges brought against them because they had been discharged by that time? Well, the government has had ample time to plug that loophole but hasn’t. And of the men implicated who were still in the service, most were never charged because the local commander didn’t bring charges, such as General Peters brought in your case. Of course, Peters needed a little prodding. But the Army likes their system. And of the other men who were charged for My Lai, all were acquitted except Calley. That’s what we call the My Lai mess now. And after all these years, the system hasn’t changed. The government, the Justice Department, would like to change that system so that the United States is never again embarrassed by an inability to prosecute its servicemen for war crimes. That’s a noble goal.”
“It’s so noble that no one has thought about it for twenty years.”
“Well, it takes something like this, doesn’t it? The point is the Army doesn’t want its system changed. So there’s a fight on now. What we don’t need is you confusing the issues.”
“Who are we ? If I knew who you worked for, I might listen to you. You may be an Army man for all I know. You may be a JAG man.”
“I may be. I may be a civilian. Doesn’t matter.”
“Sure does.”
Brown ruffled the papers in his hand. “If you sign this, then no matter what sentence you are given, the President will give you a full pardon within thirty days. While you’re still at the Dix stockade. You’ll never see Kansas.”
“Where were you before the verdict, bozo? When I needed you?”
Brown smiled. “Oh, I couldn’t do anything about the verdict or even the sentence they hand you. I can’t get to a military jury. But I can get to the chain of command and see that you are released by . . . let’s say, Thanksgiving. Turkey in your dining room in Garden City. Tastes better than the turkey in Leavenworth.”
“You searched my house.”
“K and K Cleaning Service cleaned your house.”
“You’re a shit.”
Brown threw the folded papers through the cell bars, and they landed in the center of the concrete floor. “Among other things, you agree not to talk to the press, you agree the government has treated you fairly, you agree not to write, lecture, or utter any public statements, and so on. And I agree to make you whole again. Including your overpaid job.”
Tyson looked at the papers on the floor. “Okay, Chet. I’ll read it if you’ll beat it.”
“Right. Adiós, amigo. Get a good night’s rest. And, hey, you handled yourself well. I would have been shaking in my boots. And Monday, if you play ball, and they hand you ten to twenty, you can smile at them.”
“Right.”
“You’ll have no visitors tonight, so don’t think about giving that to your lawyer to smuggle out of here. I want it back at six A.M. tomorrow. Signed or unsigned.”
“How about my copy?”
Brown laughed as he turned and left.
Tyson looked around the cell, then sat on his bunk. He glanced again at the papers lying on the floor, then took off his hat and shoes and lay back on the narrow Army cot. “The quarters keep getting smaller.”
Sergeant Larson came to the cell door. He said, “You want dinner?”
“No thanks.”
“Okay. Your lawyer called. He said he’ll see you at seven A.M.”
“Okay.”
“He said to think about a statement you’d like to make in extenuation and mitigation before the sentencing.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Anything I can get you?”
“The keys.”
Larson smiled. “The evening papers will be full of this. You want the papers?”
“You read about one court-martial, you read about them all, Larson.”
“Right. Was everything okay?”
“What . . . ?”
“The lunch. I have to tell my wife.”
“Oh. Yes. Great veal cutlets.”
“It was chicken.”
“That’s right.”
“Hey, what was it like over there?”
“Where?”
“Nam. What was it like in combat?”
Tyson thought a moment, then replied, “I couldn’t tell you.”
“Weren’t you in combat?”
“I guess. But I’m home now. The war is over.”
CHAPTER
50
At five-thirty on Saturday morning Tyson was awakened by an MP and taken, in his underwear, to the latrine and shower room. The MP provided him with a standard-issue box of toiletries. The MP also gave him the rules and added, “You have twenty minutes.”
Tyson shared the small facility with two other prisoners, who didn’t have much to say, though one of them offered, “You got the biggest royal fuck I ever heard of.”
The other one only commented that he’d never shared a latrine with an officer. Tyson didn’t know if the man meant it was an honor or an inconvenience and thought it best not to ask.
Tyson shave
d and showered and folded his towel into a square as he’d been told, placing it on the sink. He helped the other two prisoners clean the latrine and was wiping the shower dry when the MP returned. “Back to the cells, men.”
Tyson was escorted back to his cell in his underwear. He dressed in his uniform but left the tunic in the metal wall locker. He combed his hair in a small polished metal mirror, an Army field mirror, that was hung too low on the wall and didn’t reflect his image well, which might be more of a blessing than a nuisance, he thought.
At 6 A.M. sharp, Chet Brown arrived with a container of coffee.
Brown looked at the papers still on the floor where he’d thrown them. He said, “This offer is not good after the sentencing. So don’t try to play it that way.” He offered the container through the bars.
“Keep it.”
Brown shrugged, peeled off the lid, and drank the coffee himself.
Tyson sat on the edge of his cot and lit a cigarette.
Brown continued, “Don’t think if you get off with a year or two you can do that standing on your head, Ben. Jail sucks. And people like you don’t do well in jail.”
“Who are people like me?”
“They could hand you ten to twenty. And I won’t be back with this offer. Because if they give you ten to twenty, then nobody has to worry about you becoming a public nuisance.”
Tyson flipped his ash into a tin can filled with water.
Brown added, “They could order you hanged, you know.”
Tyson yawned.
Brown said, “What’s the big deal about agreeing to do something that you’re already doing?”
Tyson looked at his cigarette as he replied, “Because, shithead, if I want to do something, then that’s all right. If I don’t, then that’s all right, too. But if you try to put a gun to my head to make me do something, then all I can do is say fuck you. Capice?”
Chet Brown looked annoyed. He said in a sarcastic tone, “You didn’t have all these scruples when you watched your men mow down nuns and babies.”
Tyson drew a deep breath. “No. No, I didn’t. That’s why I’m here. But that doesn’t mean I have to deal with you. Leave.”
Brown began to say something, then changed his mind. He looked at the papers on the floor. “I’ll take those.”
Tyson stood and kicked the folded papers near the bars.
Brown said, “Step back, killer.”
Tyson stepped back.
Brown squatted quickly and snatched the papers, spilling coffee on his trousers. “Damn it!”
“You’re a little jumpy this morning, Chet.”
Brown blotted the coffee with a handkerchief. He said to Tyson, “Look, if everything goes all right for you, maybe we can talk about government job opportunities. Look me up.”
“How do I look you up, Chet?”
“Just make a public statement I don’t like. You’ll hear from me.”
“Don’t threaten, Chet. It makes me mad.”
“Just trying to be helpful. I like you.”
Tyson said, “You wouldn’t know anything about the whereabouts of Dan Kelly and Sister Teresa, would you?”
“I might.”
Tyson and Brown looked at each other, then Brown said, “You may hear from them shortly. Then again, you may not.” He turned and walked through the door into the provost marshal’s office.
A quarter of an hour later, an MP appeared with a breakfast tray from the mess hall and a newspaper. The MP opened the cell door and set the tray on the cot and handed the newspaper to Tyson. “Last night’s final.”
Tyson looked at the copy of the New York Post. The headline in red shouted, GUILTY! Tyson said, “Get it out of here.”
The MP shrugged and left with the newspaper.
Tyson found he was hungry and finished the breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee. There were also grits, which the Army apparently still blithely served to soldiers, who stuck their cigarettes in them. “Typical.” He wanted another cup of coffee but didn’t ask. A radio in the provost marshal’s office was playing a sort of music, a hard screaming rock that he thought shouldn’t be allowed over the public airwaves until after 6 P.M. He decided he didn’t like prison life.
The cell was cold, and Tyson put on his tunic and tightened his tie. There was no window, and he didn’t know what the weather was like outside, but since he wasn’t going outside, it didn’t matter.
At 7 A.M., the door of the provost marshal’s office opened again, and Corva came into the small passageway between the three cells. The MP opened the cell door, Corva entered, and the MP closed and locked the door.
Corva took the plastic molded chair and pulled it up facing Tyson, who was sitting on the cot. He opened his attaché case and laid it on his lap. Tyson noted that the attaché case made a better prison lap desk than the briefcase Corva usually carried. Tyson observed, “You seem at home here. I guess you’ve visited a lot of your clients in jail. Like all of them.”
Corva ignored this and said without preamble, “Our goal now is to keep you out of jail.”
“I’m in jail, Vince.”
Corva produced a pint of Dewar’s from his briefcase and threw it on the cot. “Put that out of sight. They don’t mind if you drink, but they don’t want to see it.”
Tyson put the bottle under his pillow from which he took Captain Gallagher’s hip flask, which was empty. “Give this back to Gallagher.” He threw it to Corva, who put it in his attaché case. Corva said, “Is there anything else you need? Stamps—”
Tyson laughed derisively. “Writing paper, candy? Christ, Vince, I used to say that to the guys in my company who got locked up.”
Corva said coolly, “Well, you won’t be here long.”
“Will you come to Kansas to see me? We can have a reunion. Corva’s clients.”
Corva smiled unexpectedly, then laughed. “Corva’s clients. I like that. Corva’s cases. No, clients.”
Tyson regarded him icily for a moment, then leaned forward on his cot and said slowly and distinctly, “Get me the hell out of here.”
“Working on it.” He looked at Tyson and said pointedly, “Just for the record—you wanted a trial.”
Tyson didn’t speak for some time, then said, “No one wants to be tried. I may have thought I needed it. I’m not sure how I felt before Sproule said, ‘The court will come to order.’” Tyson added, “Also for the record, someone with brains would have convinced his client that a court-martial was not a good idea. Someone with brains would have gotten this thing dismissed before it got this far.”
Corva seemed to be counting to ten, then said, “There was a time, not so many years ago, when these charges might have been dismissed. But I don’t think that was so good a thing either. Point is, this is the new Army.”
“I’m old Army.”
“Good point. I’ll bring it up. Anyway. . . .” His eyes fell on the place above Tyson’s top left pocket where the service ribbons were worn. “I see you’ve undecorated yourself.”
Tyson nodded. “I couldn’t very well wear the Silver Star or the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry for heroism on 15 February 1968. Could I?”
“I suppose not.” Corva said, “Let’s do some work. Okay, if you were paying attention during the verdict reading, you might have heard Colonel Moore say, ‘Two-thirds concurring.’ The actual number tally of votes guilty or not guilty is secret, but they will announce an approximate fraction. With a six-member board, if the vote was five to one for conviction, Moore would have said, ‘Three-fourths concurring.’ But now we know what I suspected. Two people on the board voted for acquittal, which means there are two people on that board who will argue very strenuously for a light sentence. Follow?”
Tyson nodded.
Corva continued, “So, Pierce is pissed and a little worried. So he’s prepared to go into the sentencing session with a strong argument when they ask him for his recommendation for an appropriate sentence. But now that we’ve got him on the run a little, he
’s come to me with a proposition. To wit: If we don’t sit there for a week—offering extensive extenuation and mitigation—like everything from bringing in Levin and your wife to testify to your character and the reading of award citations and on and on—then he will recommend an appropriate sentence of five years. Now, understand, this session is very important in a court-martial. I’ve seen serious crimes extenuated and mitigated to the point where a board will hand out less than a year jail time. The Army is different from civilian life, as you may have noticed. A soldier can be reduced in rank, forfeit pay, confined to barracks, and all of that. So actual jail time tends to be less than you’d expect for some crimes. And the board will base the sentence not so much on what you did, but who you are, the sum total of everything you’ve accomplished as a man and as an officer. And even how you’ve behaved at the court-martial.”
“How about how you’ve behaved?”
Corva nodded. “Yes, that too. And that’s no joke, Ben. I couldn’t get away with my civilian theatrics with that bunch. There is a very famous case of a captain who hired a civilian lawyer who was not only obnoxious but insulting to the board, threatening them with civil suit over something or other. The captain got the max in Kansas. So if I didn’t seem like the lawyers you see on TV, that’s why. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“So what should I tell Pierce?”
“How about ‘Pierce, go fuck yourself ’?”
Corva smiled. “Okay. But I’ll put it a little differently. Next point. The board, as you noticed, changed the wording of the specifications. In other words, they didn’t believe Brandt or Farley that you, yourself, ordered your men to waste everyone or that you, yourself, engaged in any acts which were inherently dangerous to others or evinced any wanton disregard of human life. That was a slap in the face to Pierce, not to mention the fact that they called Brandt half a liar, and Farley, too. One of the commentators on a late-night news show last night said Brandt stands convicted as a liar. So you’ve got your Pyrrhic victory, and Brandt has a public relations problem. But you’re the one in the slammer. Worth it?”