The Night Crew Read Online Free PDF Page B

month from deployment, every little pop puts a lump in your throat.
    Unfortunately, with two wars raging, those echoes are again rampant—and for the senior generals who live here, the sounds of death are omnipresent, inescapable, sobering. This might not be exactly what the army intended when it placed its premier cemetery next to this base, but neither is it a bad idea.
    Katherine and I walked in silence for a while before I inquired of her, “How long has Lydia Eddelston been your client?”
    “A little over two weeks.”
    “But it’s been, what, three months since her arrest. Right?”
    “Two, to be precise. She had a military attorney, initially. Captain Bradley Howser. Do you know him?”
    I shook my head.
    “A good lawyer from what I gather. He was pressuring her to plead out. He told her he had arranged a good deal.”
    “Charges?” I asked.
    “Conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to obstruct, multiple counts of making a false statement, multiple counts of assault and indecent acts, maltreating detainees, dereliction of duty, conduct unbecoming . . .” She paused, then confessed, “Without the full written script, I’m afraid I can’t recall all of it.”
    I stared at her a moment.
    “I know.” She gave me a knowing glance. “They’re throwing the book at her.”
    This was a fairly common practice, especially whenever conspiracy is involved or suspected. To get one of the coconspirators to turn evidence on their colleagues, you pile up a smorgasbord of charges, from the profoundly serious to the drolly inconsequential, from those where the evidence is flimsy and guilt nearly impossible to prove, to those—such as dereliction of duty and/or conduct unbecoming—that are so broad and encompassing that a fart in a public place virtually assures a guilty verdict. The prosecutor then has a high-probability conviction, along with an arsenal of charges he or she can barter for a deal; the defense attorney has a mountain of shit piled on his lap.
    As a prosecutor, I’ve done this myself, and, as a defense attorney, I’ve been on the receiving end; I’d rather play Russian roulette with five and a half rounds in the chamber. I asked Katherine, “How good a deal?”
    “Five years in Leavenworth. Reduction to Private, E-1. Bad conduct discharge.”
    “Depending on which charges are waived, that doesn’t sound like a bad bargain.”
    “Maybe not. She would have to admit guilt, cooperate, and give testimony against the others, of course. This wasn’t what she wanted.”
    “I don’t see the problem, Katherine. Even military lawyers don’t overrule their client’s wishes.”
    “She understood that, Sean. As did he. She didn’t fire him . . . unfortunately, Captain Howser had . . . well, he experienced an unfortunate accident. About three weeks ago.”
    “How unfortunate?”
    “He died.”
    “I see. What was the nature of this . . . accident?”
    “Automobile. Driving in the mountains of Colorado along a narrow twisted road, he got sideswiped, and went off a cliff.”
    I remained silent.
    “The police classified it a hit and run,” she felt it necessary to explain.
    “And they’re sure it was an accident?”
    She stared at me. “You know, I asked the same question.”
    “And . . . ?”
    “Okay, so here’s what I was told. Captain Howser owned a Porsche—a not particularly well-maintained old one that he bought used—was a bachelor, and for extracurricular fun he did high-altitude, black slope skiing, and paragliding off mountain tops.” She concluded, “A life in search of an accident.”
    “Don’t generalize, Katherine. Those who live fast, sometimes die of old age in their beds.”
    She rolled her eyes at this questionable wisdom, and clarified, “From the skid marks the police estimated he was doing sixty on a bend marked for thirty.”
    “Got it.”
    She nodded.
    “The normal practice, Katherine, is for the army to appoint a replacement attorney and, if