Gallagher bit his lip. “Yes, sir.”
Corva opened his door and slid out. Tyson followed. They stood in the crisp October morning sunlight, between the parked car and the door. Tyson looked over the roof of the car. “Why are all those people standing there?”
“Because they can’t get in. It’s by invitation only. But they’d like to say they were part of it. So they stand there.”
Tyson didn’t reply.
Corva added, “In fact, they must be military or military dependents, because this base has been off limits to all civilians as of last night. Except those who work here, of course, and those with trial passes.”
“We should have charged for the trial passes, Vince.”
“Right. Would pay my fee.”
Tyson realized the people on the chapel paths were looking at him. Some waved, some took pictures. They would have gotten closer, but there were about a dozen MPs cordoning this section of the lawn.
Corva said, “Enough photo opportunities. Let’s get inside.” Corva reached for the door, but it was pulled inward by an MP wearing a polished white helmet and a white pistol belt from which hung a holster and .45 automatic pistol. Corva waved Tyson through the door.
Tyson removed his hat as he entered the long white corridor. There were doors on either side, and above each door was a wall bracket from which hung red signs: CHAPEL ACTIVITY SPECIALIST; CAPTAIN SMYTHE; BLESSED SACRAMENT; and finally a sign that was marked RABBI ELI WEITZ, MAJOR, CHAPLAIN CORPS.
Corva stopped at the door. He said to Tyson, “When I drove in, there were literally thousands of people around the main gate with signs proclaiming everything from ‘Free Tyson’ to ‘Shoot the Bastard.’” He paused. “There are a lot of emotions running loose out there, Ben. Lots of old questions, but I don’t see anyone with any answers.”
“That’s because the questions are wrong.”
Corva knocked on the rabbi’s door, then opened it.
Rabbi Weitz, a heavyset man with gray curly hair, rose from his desk. He was wearing civilian clothing, a brown flannel suit. “Good morning, gentlemen.” He shook hands with Tyson and Corva.
Corva said, “It was good of you to offer us your office, Rabbi.”
“Offer? I didn’t offer anything. They said, ‘The court needs offices.’ We drew lots, and mine said ‘defense.’ So I’m saying good-bye. But I wanted to say hello first.” Rabbi Weitz picked up his attaché case. “How long will this last?”
Corva shrugged. “Can’t say. Today is Monday. . . . It may be wrapped up by Friday.”
“I need the office Friday night before services. That’s the Sabbath.”
“Yes, sir. I know that.”
Tyson asked, “Will you be in the spectator seats?”
Major Weitz walked to the door and turned. “They offered me passes as compensation for commandeering my office. But there is nothing here that I want to see. But good luck, and may the Lord bless you.” Rabbi Weitz left his office.
Corva put his briefcase on the rabbi’s desk, and Tyson threw his hat beside it. Corva said, “The physical layout here lends itself to a court-martial.”
“I still think it’s bizarre.”
“Where else on post could they do this? We didn’t want it at Dix.”
Tyson said, “What the hell difference does it make?” He went to the window and peered between the slats of the blinds. There were vehicles, including television vans, parked end-to-end along Roosevelt Lane. MPs were directing traffic.
Corva said, “They had to call in two MP platoons from Dix, and the city put on a hundred cops outside the gates.”
Tyson turned from the window. “I’ve never been the center of a public spectacle before.”
“Oh, you get used to it.”
Tyson asked, “Wasn’t there any way to do this in private?”
“I’m afraid not, Ben. I would have liked just enough press and civilian spectators to keep everyone honest. But once the Army bowed to pressure and announced an open trial, then the list of people who absolutely must be there seems to get bigger. The post commander’s wife, Mrs. Hill, asked for thirty passes.” Corva added, “The chapel holds about two hundred people, but out of common decency the Army is trying to limit the number of actual spectators to about one hundred.”
Tyson smiled grimly. “I never saw a hundred people at Sunday services.”
Corva commented, “The room they used for the Calley trial held fifty-nine people, and every seat was filled every day of the trial.”
Tyson saw that Major Weitz had brewed a fresh pot of coffee and helped himself to a cup. He said to Corva, “Want some?”
“No. You have to consider your bladder. Lawyers get windy.”
Tyson put the cup of coffee down untouched and lit a cigarette. He looked at his watch, then picked up a book and flipped through it for a few seconds until he realized it was in Hebrew.
Corva said, “Everyone has stage fright. Within ten minutes after you’re in there, you’ll be all right.”
“I’m all right now.”
“Good.”
Tyson said, “I keep waiting for someone to call this off.”
Corva didn’t respond.
Tyson looked at his watch again. He searched for an ashtray, couldn’t find one, and dropped his cigarette in the coffee cup.
Corva was flipping through a yellow pad of notes.
Heavy-booted footsteps sounded in the corridor. They stopped, and there were three knocks on the door. The door opened, and a tall young MP sergeant addressed Tyson. “Sir, will you accompany me, please?”
Tyson picked up his hat, and Corva picked up his briefcase.
The MP, whose name tag read Larson, said, “You can leave your cover here, sir.”
“What? Oh. . . .” Tyson put his hat back on the desk, straightened his tunic and tie, and walked into the corridor, followed by Corva. The MP, Sergeant Larson, overtook them with long strides and led the way.
They came to a cross corridor and turned left. Sergeant Larson opened the door at the end of the corridor, and Corva went through it, followed by Tyson.
Tyson walked behind Corva, across the red carpet of the altar platform. He was aware of the murmur of a large number of people in the pews to his left. Corva indicated a long oak table on the far side of the raised altar floor, and Tyson went around the table and sat in a hard wooden chair. Corva sat to his left.
The first thing Tyson noticed was that the altar table had been removed. Across the red carpet from the direction he’d entered sat the long table that would hold the members of the court-martial board—the jury. Seven empty chairs faced him. Tyson looked to his left. The rear wall of the chapel, paneled in light pecan wood, rose two stories to the arched cathedral ceiling. In the center of the wall hung gold drapes stretching from ceiling to floor. Behind the drapes, Tyson knew, was a large recessed area, the presbytery, where the high altar sat beneath a large cross. The drapes were closed for Jewish services and for nonreligious events such as this one. In fact, he noticed, there was no longer anything visible to make this altar area look sanctified; it could have been an auditorium stage, and no doubt designed to be transformed from religious to secular by the switching of a few stage props.
The wooden pulpit had been moved from its usual place and was now standing on a higher platform in front of the closed drapes, to be used, he assumed, as the military judge’s bench. To the left of the pulpit was an American flag on a stand. And, hung on the paneled wall above the flag, where a religious tapestry usually hung, was the prescribed photograph of the President, flanked by photographs of the Secretary of the Army and the Secretary of Defense. But why anyone present cared in the least what the chain of command was, was anyone’s guess. Tyson supposed that every institution needed its symbols, and the symbols of Army justice were less intrusive than those of the institution that normally used the premises.
To the right of the military judge, as he faced the pulpit, was a witness chair as in a civilian courtr
oom. To the left front of the pulpit was the court reporter’s desk, also as in a civilian court.
Tyson turned to his right. Toward the edge of the raised platform, near the communion rail, was the prosecution desk, its chairs arranged with their backs to the pews, facing the judge’s bench, or pulpit. Sitting at the desk were Colonel Pierce, Major Weinroth, and Captain Longo. Their table was covered with paperwork, whereas Corva had not yet opened his briefcase.
Corva checked the desk microphone to be certain it was off, then said to Tyson, “Looks like more than a hundred to me.”
“I haven’t looked yet.” He turned his head to the right and looked into the nave. The pews, which he’d never seen more than half full for services, were completely occupied now, and there were people standing in the aisles. “Somebody must be counterfeiting tickets.”
Tyson heard a subdued, almost somber murmur from the assembled court spectators. They’d come to see a play, but they behaved as though they were in church.
Tyson looked over the pews, above the front doors where the choir loft hung, running the width of the nave. At the rear of the loft were three slender lancet windows of stained glass that let diffused light into the dark loft. Corva had told him that the loft was reserved for General William Van Arken and his staff, other Army and government VIPs, including the Fort Dix post commander General Peters and a few local politicians and security people. By the light of the windows, Tyson saw figures moving around the loft. No doubt his old pal Chet Brown was up there too. He said aloud, “The night gallery.”
Corva followed his gaze. “No one is supposed to know they are there. That might be construed as command influence.”
“I saw the secret staff cars outside with flags and stars.”
“Right.”
Tyson looked along the walls of the nave. There were four tall stained-glass windows in each of the walls, and the morning sun poured through the south windows, casting a multihued luminescence over the pews. The depictions on the windows were somewhat abstract, designed like the rest of the chapel to satisfy all Christians and Jews, but ultimately satisfying no one. Most of the windows had patriotic or military themes, in red, white, and blue. Two windows had Old Testament motifs.
Tyson finally looked into the pews themselves. About three-fourths of the spectators were uniformed men and women. A whole block of pews had been reserved for a group of JAG students from Charlottesville. The civilian-attired people seemed to be middle-aged and well dressed. The type of people one saw at Wednesday matinees.
Marcy had made the arrangements for the Tysons’ friends and family to be present, and she had handled the challenge in a way that only a public relations person could. Most of the people he knew seemed to be seated in the left front rows, including John and Phyllis McCormick sitting with a few other people from Garden City.
Conspicuous by their height were Messrs. Kimura, Nakagawa, and Saito. Tyson had to look twice to be sure it was them. He knew he should be amazed, but nothing amazed him anymore. With the gentlemen from Japan was his former secretary, Miss Beale, looking like she’d lost some weight and found a decent dress shop.
He spotted Andrew Picard, who had somehow made the acquaintance of Phil and Janet Sloan and was chatting with them.
He saw Paul Stein, in whose apartment he had sojourned too briefly. He spotted Colonel Levin and a woman he took to be Mrs. Levin. They were sitting with Tyson’s boss of short duration, Dr. Russell. He saw Captain Hodges, who was looking at his watch. Tyson wondered who was running the post.
He kept scanning the pews looking for Karen Harper and finally saw her sitting in the last row. Beside her was a good-looking man in officer’s uniform, speaking to her in a way that led Tyson to believe they were more than professional acquaintances. In fact, he thought, that was probably the man that Brown had mentioned—Colonel Eric Willets. Tyson somehow suspected that Colonel Willets would like to see him draw a life term, and he was there to witness it, if it happened.
Tyson had received a letter a few days before, a letter of support and sympathy from Emily Browder, Captain Roy Browder’s widow. And she was out there in the pews somewhere, though there was no way for him to know who she was.
In the front left pew he saw his mother talking with the Reverend Syms, his minister and her former minister. It looked as if they were gossiping about the congregation, which was the only reason his mother used to speak to the man.
To his mother’s right were his sisters, Laurie, June, and Carol, without their husbands. And to his sisters’ right were Marcy and David. Marcy caught his eye, smiled, and blew a kiss. Tyson contrived a smile in return. He turned to Corva. “Is your wife here?”
“No. I get nervous when she’s in the spectator benches.”
“Really? Should I be nervous that everyone I know, including my sixth-grade teacher, is out there?”
“Not at all,” Corva assured him. “You don’t have much to say. Just watch me make a fool of myself.”
Tyson looked at the right front pews, which had been reserved for the media. You could always tell the members of the press, he thought; they looked like reluctant refugees from the sixties.
Corva poured water from a glass pitcher into two paper cups.
Tyson noticed a metal ashtray and lit a cigarette.
Corva said, “You ought to quit, you know.”
“Let’s see first if I’m going to be shot.”
“Makes sense.” Corva took some papers from his briefcase and began laying them out on the table.
Tyson looked down at a copy of the charge sheet and read: Jean Monteau, Evan Dougal, Bernhard Rueger, Marie Broi, Sister Monique, Sister Aimee, Sister Noelle, Pierre Galante, Henri Taine, Maarten Lubbers, Brother Donatus, Sister Juliette, Susanne Dougal, Linda Dougal.
Tyson did not think he was a man with any mystical leanings, yet somehow he felt the presence of the dead in this quasi-chapel, the presence of Captain Browder, the dead of Alpha Company, and the dead of Miséricorde Hospital.
Tyson looked at Corva. He thought his lawyer seemed a little anxious, which was understandable. But the bottom line was that if Corva lost the case, Corva was not going to jail. Tyson said, “I think I got the joke about the ziti and the shells.”
Corva smiled. He laid a row of pencils beside a yellow pad. He said, “An oddity of the court-martial procedure, as you’ll see, is that the prosecution performs some procedural functions that would be done by the judge at a civilian trial.” Corva glanced at Pierce. “That bastard tried to confuse me on procedural matters in that dueling case. Most military lawyers will give the civilian defense lawyers a little slack on military procedures. But Pierce plays it tough.”
Tyson said, “He’s playing to a lot of civilians this time, and to the press. That might throw him off-balance.”
Corva nodded. “I think it might. See how his hands are shaking?”
Tyson looked at Pierce closely, but all he could see was a picture of composure. “No.” Tyson drew a deep breath and stubbed out his cigarette. The spectators seemed to be getting restless. The door in the wing of the altar area opened, and a man in uniform strode across the red carpet. An expectant hush fell over the pews. Then the man, a middle-aged sergeant, took his seat at the court reporter’s desk. After everyone was satisfied that his appearance did not augur anything important, the talking began again.
Tyson commented, “Typical military. Hurry up and wait. Right, Vince?”
“Right.”
The side door to the corridor opened again, and an MP stood at attention beside it. The MP, Tyson noticed, was unarmed, no doubt so as not to give the civilians or the press the impression that Tyson was dangerous. Through the door filed the seven-member board, led by Colonel Amos Moore, who was the president of the board, a sort of jury foreman but with far more power.
Colonel Moore walked directly to the long table and stood at the middle chair, facing Tyson. The other six members of the board followed in descending order of rank and peeled off to
take their places. To Colonel Moore’s right stood Lieutenant Colonel Stanley Laski, Major Donald Bauer, and Captain Morelli at the end. To Moore’s left stood Lieutenant Colonel Eugene McGregor, Major Virginia Sindel, and the junior member, Lieutenant James Davis, who walked to the far left chair.
Tyson watched with some curiosity. He studied the faces of the seven members, but they had probably practiced impassivity in front of a mirror all morning. Corva knew something about each of them, but all Tyson knew for certain was that they were career Army officers. Some of them wore the branch insignia of the infantry and the combat infantryman’s badge. All of them, except Virginia Sindel and Lieutenant Davis, were heavily beribboned.
The unarmed MP walked to the center of the floor where the missing altar table had crushed the nap of the red carpet. The MP faced the spectator pews and announced in a loud voice, “All rise!”
Tyson and Corva stood as did the prosecution and the court reporter. The spectators rose noisily, and Tyson could now see the silhouettes in the choir loft against the lancet windows. Several people from the press section came forward and Tyson could see they were sketch artists. They came right up to the communion rail, but no one was passing out wafers.
Through the open door behind the board table strode Colonel Walter Sproule, the military judge. He wasn’t wearing robes, but wore the Army green dress uniform with colonel’s eagles, and the branch insignia of the Judge Advocate General’s Corps.
Colonel Sproule walked to the pulpit and took his place behind it. Tyson thought that the juxtaposition of Sproule, the high pulpit, and the gold drapes looked either magisterial or theatrical.
Colonel Sproule, a man nearing seventy, Tyson guessed, looked around briefly, noting that everyone was in place. There was no gavel, Tyson knew; and none was needed at a court-martial. Colonel Sproule didn’t bother to adjust the pulpit microphone, but his strong voice carried over the silent pews. “The court will come to order.”
CHAPTER
43
Colonel Pierce remained standing after everyone sat. Pierce adjusted his microphone and spoke. “This court is convened by court-martial convening order one-thirty-nine, Headquarters, Fort Dix, New Jersey, a copy of which has been furnished to the military judge, each member of the court, counsel, and the accused.”