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  “I’m listening,” David said.

  “One: timing, as I mentioned before. The attack on our plane was one week after the attack on the ambassador, so there is a close connection in time.” He took another draw from the cigar. “Two: religion. Not only are all three suspects Muslim, but the targets of the attacks were, in the eyes of some people at least, anti-Muslim. In San Diego, the pastor at that church was teaching a course advertised in the paper, calling the Muslim religion a cult. At Pendleton, the target was the Israeli ambassador, for heaven’s sake.”

  He flicked more smoldering ashes into the nearly full ashtray, then took a big swig of beer. “Here, everybody knows that the squadron—and that jet—was headed to the Med to defend Israel against Arab forces. And that gets spun by radical Islamic groups to mean the U.S. is once again defending Jewish Israel against Muslim Syria, or Muslim Egypt or Muslim Jordan or whatever Arab state is involved.”

  David thoughtfully considered the agent’s words. “Okay, Harry. I still think it’s a stretch based on what we know right now, but I see where you’re going with this. What I don’t see is why this couldn’t have waited until Monday.”

  “Because I need your help, Captain. And I need it this weekend.” He leaned forward.

  “Shoot.”

  “A search warrant.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Al-Aziz lives off base. I need your connections through the U.S. attorney’s office in Norfolk to get me a warrant to search al-Aziz’s apartment. Over the weekend. The sooner the better. I want to get in there before evidence disappears.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “Obvious stuff. Plastics. Materials used in bomb preparation. Notes.

  Anything.”

  “Harry, we don’t have enough for a warrant. We’d have to persuade a federal magistrate to issue a search warrant based on probable cause that a crime has been committed. What are you going to do? Ask him to sign an affidavit because the guy is Muslim? I can’t go to the U.S. attorney with that.”

  “What about the coincidences? Captain, we’ve got to try. I’ll sign the affidavit. I’ll outline the connections. Who knows, we might get lucky.”

  “And even if we get a warrant from a magistrate, and find something, and get a conviction, we still run the risk that the evidence, and then the case, gets thrown out by an appeals court for lack of probable cause.”

  “So what, Captain? If this guy is the bomber, maybe he’s planning to attack another plane. Maybe we can save the lives of other American pilots.”

  David considered the request as images of Mark Latcher’s grieving family flashed through his mind. “Okay. We’ll try. I’ll advise the admiral and call our JAG officer assigned to the U.S. attorney’s office. We’ll try to see the federal magistrate tomorrow. But I can’t promise anything.”

  “Thanks, Captain.” Kilnap nodded and drained his beer.

  CHAPTER 21

  Navy-Marine Corps Trial Judiciary

  Building 1

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego

  Friday afternoon, 1630 hours (PST)

  Zack watched the Honorable Captain Richard Reeves, dressed in short-sleeve summer whites, take his place on the bench between the respective flags of the United States of America and the United States Navy. The judge tilted his head down toward the prosecutor’s table, peering through his wire rims.

  “What happened here, Trial Counsel?” Only Judge Reeves could deliver that devastatingly soft, monotone inquiry. That voice, combined with the icy stare, was far worse than any dressing down Zack had ever endured from more vocal judges.

  Zack wanted to slam his fist on the table. He’d tried that before with another military judge and was nearly thrown in the brig for contempt. All his diligent preparation for the biggest trial of his career, and now this.

  Amy never made mistakes. He glanced toward her and saw her hands trembling. She whispered, “Sorry,” then looked at the floor.

  She’d been far more than a military subordinate to him. He’d sensed she was a Christian. In the well-placed though subtle remarks she made about praying for him. In the gentle, soft spirit she carried with her. She wasn’t talkative about her faith around the office, but she kept a small New Testament open on the corner of her small working cubicle at all times.

  He’d always figured her faith was part of what made Amy so meticulous in her work. And now . . . this. One of the military jurors, known as a “member” in the military justice system, was absent and unaccounted for. It was the prosecutor’s responsibility to make sure all members were present. Zack had delegated the responsibility to Amy. Clearly, something had gone wrong.

  “Lieutenant?”

  Zack rose to his feet. “Your Honor, my deepest apologies to the court, the counsel, and the members already present. We’ve had an administrative snafu in my offices for which I take full responsibility. The government requests a brief recess to locate the missing member and have him transported here.”

  “Lieutenant Colcernian?” Judge Reeves glanced at Diane and raised his eyebrow. She jumped to her feet.

  “We object, Your Honor. My client has been incarcerated in the brig and has a constitutional right to a speedy trial. I’m going—”

  Reeves raised his hand, then turned back to Brewer.

  “You’ve got one hour, Trial Counsel, to straighten this out. Otherwise, I’ll give Lieutenant Colcernian the opportunity to make whatever motion she would like. Including a possible motion to dismiss for failure to prosecute. This court is in recess for one hour.” The single whap of the captain’s gavel sounded like a rifle shot reverberating through the courtroom.

  Ninety minutes later, the last missing juror, a lieutenant commander supply officer from the USS Inchon, marched into the courthouse and reported for duty.

  “All rise!”

  “Be seated.” Captain Reeves fixed a piercing gaze on Zack. “Lieutenant Brewer, I understand you now have all members accounted for?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Lieutenant Commander Emerson just arrived from the USS Inchon. Additionally, all member questionnaires are accounted for. I’ve supplied copies to Lieutenant Colcernian and to the court.”

  “And what time did Lieutenant Commander Emerson report for duty?”

  “Two minutes ago, Your Honor.” This was Diane Colcernian’s eager voice.

  “Is that time right, Trial Counsel?” Judge Reeves pinned Zack with a look.

  “That is correct, Your Honor.”

  Captain Reeves turned around and ceremoniously glared at the large, gold-laden clock on the wall behind the bench. Then he turned his gaze back to the gallery. “The record should reflect that the last of the members has reported for this case one and one-half hours after the prescribed time of 1400 hours.

  “Military justice protocol requires that the government, through the convening authority, in this case COMNAVBASE, and through trial counsel, in this case Lieutenant Brewer, must have all members present and accounted for at the appropriate time.

  “An hour and a half ago, I gave the government one hour to correct its ‘snafu,’ as I believe trial counsel called it. While the government has corrected its mistake, it has failed to do so within the prescribed time allowed by the court. Therefore, at this time, the court will entertain any motions that the defense may wish to make. Lieutenant Colcernian?”

  He’s not really going to do this, is he? Zack’s heart jackhammered inside his chest as his redheaded opponent jumped to her feet, cut her green eyes at him, threw him a quick smirk, then addressed the court.

  “Your Honor, the defense moves to dismiss all charges and specifications against Petty Officer Blount.”

  The judge frowned. “Grounds?”

  “Not only is Petty Officer Blount entitled to a speedy trial under the Constitution, but he’s entitled to an even more stringent right to a speedy trial under the Uniform Code of Military Justice.” Diane jabbed her right index finger in the air. “The government h
ad plenty of notification by the court about today’s start time. Not only has the delay subjected my client to additional incarceration as a result of the government’s ineptitude, but now I am at a severe disadvantage because I’ve just received the questionnaires and haven’t been able to study them.

  “And at this late hour, unless the court begins this case over the weekend, either I won’t have enough time to study the questionnaires, or my client will have to sit another two and a half days in the brig.”

  Colcernian seemed altogether too pleased with herself. “Your Honor, there’s a good reason we don’t play around with speedy trial issues in the military. It’s called operational readiness. Our forces must be ready for movement at a moment’s notice when called on by the president. These other officers who have been selected to serve as members will now be delayed for hours, perhaps a couple of days, from returning to their duties because of the government’s inexcusable mess-up here. What if war breaks out over the weekend?”

  The question brought the judge’s attention back to Zack, with yet another raised eyebrow. “Lieutenant Brewer?”

  Zack rose to his feet. “Your Honor, Petty Officer Blount is accused of rape. Lieutenant Colcernian raises a lot of hypotheticals here. What if we go to war over the weekend? Where did that come from? Of course, in the event of a national emergency, it might be necessary to relieve some of the members of their duties here. But there’s also a legitimate need—a paramount need—to maintain good order and discipline in the military. We cannot have a military in which an enlisted man commits a crime against an officer then gets away with it because an administrative foul-up causes a ninety-minute delay.”

  He studied the judge’s impatient expression. He took a deep breath. “The technical test under the UCMJ is whether the accused has been confined for more than ninety days. Today is day eighty-nine. Earlier today, Petty Officer Blount was arraigned. He pled not guilty. That stopped the speedy trial clock. The government is ready to go to trial,” he said with a finger jab, “and right now.”

  He glanced at his opponent, whose expression was unreadable, then looked back to the judge. “We can give Lieutenant Colcernian a few hours to study her questionnaires. We’ve got our witnesses lined up, and we’re prepared to try this case over the weekend, since Lieutenant Colcernian is so concerned about operational readiness. We can work tonight, tomorrow, and Sunday, as far as I’m concerned, and have these officers back to their posts early in the week.” He was tempted to shoot Colcernian a smug look of triumph, but resisted.

  Judge Reeves leaned back in his big, black leather executive rocker, studied his watch, then looked at Diane. “Lieutenant Colcernian, Lieutenant Brewer says he’s willing to give you tonight to study those questionnaires and then start this case tomorrow morning. Does your client really want to start this trial on a Saturday morning?”

  Zack looked at Diane, reciprocating the smirk she laid on him a few moments ago. “Your Honor, for the record, we object to the process, but no, we are not suggesting the trial begin tomorrow. I’m concerned that Petty Officer Blount may get the blame for taking these members away from whatever weekend activities they may have.”

  “Very well,” Reeves said. “Do you have any other pretrial motions?”

  “No, Your Honor, not at this time.”

  Zack sat up and took notice. No other pretrial motions?

  “Then we will reconvene at 0900 on Monday morning, when we will swear the members and proceed with opening statements. This court is in recess.” He slammed the gavel.

  The bailiff again said loudly, “All rise.”

  As he gathered his files, Zack couldn’t resist glancing at Diane. She gave him another haughty, raised-eyebrow smirk and turned away.

  Thirty minutes later, Captain Dick Reeves blasted a small white ball off the first tee at the North Island Naval Station Golf Course.

  CHAPTER 22

  Barnes &Noble

  Grossmont Center

  La Mesa, California

  Three hours later

  Zack headed to his favorite off-duty hangout, the Barnes & Noble bookstore in La Mesa, near the small, stucco house he had purchased using his VA loan eligibility three years ago.

  As he stood in line to order his Starbucks coffee, he thought about his conversation with Amy. She had been such an emotional wreck this afternoon that he had actually felt guilty even though she was the one who messed up.

  No, it had not been a good day for Legalman First Class Amy DeBenedetto.

  Technically, he could have reprimanded her or even worse, recommended captain’s mast for the flub. Maybe even busted her a stripe for dereliction of duty. Some bosses would have pressed the issue.

  But he couldn’t do it. Not for one mistake—albeit a highly embarrassing one. Not after all she had done for him for the past two years. And especially not after the uncontrollable cascade of tears that started the moment they stepped outside the courthouse.

  Besides, he had observed, more than once, her forgiveness of others, her generous, giving heart, her willingness to go the extra mile . . . her acting out of her faith. Also, more than once, he’d felt guilty that his own faith wasn’t very often evident to others. Zack thought of this often, how he had been raised by his grandmother, a sweet woman who had bathed him in prayer from the moment he was born until the day she died. The positive things in his life—his passing two bar exams, winning his law school’s moot court championship, then winning the Navy Justice School’s trial advocacy competition—were all blessings from God, he knew.

  He felt, even years after her death, that God’s blessings were on him still, the result in part of the thousands of prayers she had offered on his behalf when she was alive. There were prayers she had rendered even when she was crippled and on her deathbed. Still, in his professional life, he had sometimes slipped away from the faith. How could he have let her down like that? More important, how could he have let down God?

  Amy, in one sense, filled the role in his life that his grandmother once had. Her very presence was a check on his conscience, reminding him that Christians can’t survive without prayer and daily doses of God’s Word. Funny thing was, Amy was able to accomplish this without saying a word about it to Zack. Her prayers and his appointment to this case had stirred him back to daily Scripture study and prayer.

  “May I help you, sir?” A young woman behind the coffee counter smiled at him.

  “Regular coffee, please.”

  “Should I leave room for cream?”

  “No thanks. Black to the rim.” He slid a dollar bill across the counter, fidgeted in his pocket for three quarters, handed them to the girl, then wrapped his fingers around the warm, medium-sized cup, blowing lightly against the hot, roasted brew before taking a sip.

  After a couple of sips of the high-octane Brazilian brew, Zack meandered over to the biographies section. One book caught his eye as he walked in the store, and he spotted it again.

  Several dozen fresh, glossy hardback editions were prominently displayed. And just behind the slick display, and by no coincidence, a colorful poster had been tacked to the column announcing the most recent New York Times best-seller list.

  Just as he suspected, the book in front of him was listed as number one in the nonfiction column. It was the author’s second book, the most recent memoir to reach the pinnacle of the publishing world’s most prestigious list.

  Intrigued, Zack reached for a copy. Wells Levinson, pictured on the cover in a pink polo shirt, smiled out at the world, showing off his magnificently capped white teeth. He looked to be in his late fifties, tanned, silver-haired.

  Zack opened the book and scanned the inside cover.

  He’s been called the world’s greatest trial lawyer. And after his successful defense of Armani Sirhan, who was accused of gunning down New York Congressman Abraham Jacobs in broad daylight, if Wells Levinson is not the greatest trial lawyer in the world, he is certainly the best known. His first memoir, chronicling his not-gu
ilty verdict in the most-watched trial in world history, became the all-time highest seller of nonfiction on the New York Times best-seller list.

  Now, after Not Guilty: The Wellington Levinson Story, the irrepressible Mr. Levinson is back at the top of the publishing charts with The King of Defense, a captivating chronicle of his ten most renowned victories. In this spellbinding book, the man who has never lost a jury trial reveals, for the first time, his secret tricks of the trade that have truly made him “The King of Defense.”

  Zack turned two more pages, then thumbed through chapter headings, stopping at chapter 14.

  THE DEFENSE LAWYER’S BEST ALLY

  The Element of Surprise

  Lie low. Deflate the prosecutor’s guard. Pump his ego like an over-inflated beach ball. And then, when he thinks your client’s conviction will come easier than a hot knife through cold butter, AMBUSH!

  This has been a principle hallmark of my strategy for years. And it works. Boy, does it ever!

  I start with the premise that litigation is warfare. And whether we are talking Pearl Harbor, Little Big Horn, or the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York, a surprise attack is your best strategy. Ambush is your staunchest ally. Your bag of litigation tricks should be concealed until the last possible moment. A sudden surprise witness the prosecutor has never heard of, a last-minute motion filed with the court—these are the hallmarks of the most effective defense strategy.

  Zack closed the book, Diane Colcernian’s face dancing through his mind. She’s up to something. I know she is. The motion to dismiss today was Judge Reeves’s suggestion. But other than that . . . eerie silence.

  Why no motions in limine? Why no pretrial motions to suppress evidence? It’s not like her. What does she have up her sleeve? I bet she’s got a copy of this book on her nightstand. She’ll spend the weekend envisioning herself as Diane Colcernian “Levinson.”