IT WAS HEATHER Masten who recommended to Hill that he hire a civilian attorney, someone who specialized in military trial defense. She explained that a nonmilitary lawyer had much greater latitude to capture the media and public attention in a case like his—and it was already plain to Masten that Hill needed that kind of support. Now, Hill sat, phone to his ear, the line ringing in Alexandria, Virginia.
“Neal Puckett here.”
“Hello, sir, this is Roger Hill. I think you’ve been expecting my call.”
“Roger, yes! How are you?”
“Well, things have been pretty tough here as of late. I think you might be able to help out with that.”
“I sure hope so. Let’s get right to it, I know this call is probably costing you.”
Hill reprised the fifteen-minute version of events that had led to his relief, finishing with “And then I took three of the detainees outside and fired my pistol into a berm.”
“And that’s it?” Puckett said.
“Yes, sir. That’s it.”
“Roger, first of all, I’m so sorry that this is all happening. It’s obvious that you care deeply for your men and wanted to accomplish your mission and ensure their well-being.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d like to tell you a quick story, if I may.”
Puckett began: On August 8, 2003, in the town of Saba al Boor, near Tikrit, Iraq, the commander of an artillery battalion learned of a plot to assassinate him and his soldiers. The commander didn’t believe the story until a convoy in which he was supposed to be riding was ambushed.
Intelligence developed the name of an Iraqi policeman who was known to have information about the plot. The commander had the policeman taken into custody. A trained but inexperienced female interrogator worked with the policeman for many hours, but he wouldn’t talk.
The interrogator then called the commander, who walked into the room, drew his pistol, and told the police officer, “If you don’t give us this information, I’m going to kill you.”
The policeman looked at the commander and smiled. “I love you,” he said.
At this point, the commander placed his pistol behind the policeman’s head but pointed it away. He counted to three, then fired.
“The outpouring of information was instant,” Puckett told Hill. “The Iraqi told the commander everything he wanted to know. The commander’s name was Lieutenant Colonel Allen West. I represented Allen back in 2003 and 2004. After the incident, he was given a choice. He could resign from the Army just shy of his twenty-year mark and forfeit all his retirement. Or he could face court-martial and potentially eight to ten years in prison. We went public with his case. We received hundreds of emails and letters of support from the American people. Congress circulated a letter of support and ninety-five Congress members signed it. The Army backed down, and West was allowed to retire with full benefits.”
At Salerno, Hill sat, phone to his ear and speechless. He had never heard of Allen West and was dumbfounded by that fact alone. If he had, he might have made different decisions back at the coffeehouse, maybe would never have taken it even as far as he did. And the parallels between West’s story and his own were, well… astonishing.
Puckett continued. By going public with West’s case, they had been able to raise money for a defense fund. “One thing we may have to do or consider soon is issuing a press release at Fort Campbell through the local media there with your wife as your spokesperson,” he said. “In your case, it’s public awareness that will help keep the command in check.”
This idea hit Hill like a gut punch. His whole command thought he was a criminal; now the whole country would. He wanted to throw up. Or crawl under a rock.
But Puckett’s confidence inspired trust and he kept his voice calm. “Okay, my wife and I will need to talk this over. And one more thing—my first sergeant. I want to know if by hiring you, his case will benefit as well. Whatever we do, I want it to maximize his standing in all this. And I want to pay for it.”
“Of course. I believe that given the similarities of your case, that they might actually pursue the two of you together. Regardless, though, your case and how I represent you does stand to have a direct impact on your first sergeant’s case. And if we can achieve any synergies, we’ll certainly do that and with no additional charge. How’s that sound?”
“I really appreciate that. We’ll get back to you soon.”
“Sure thing, Roger. Keep your chin up. It is ludicrous that we punish our men and women for doing their jobs over there, and again, I’m sorry this is happening to you and your family.”
Hill hung up and dialed Lauren back, sharing the good news. For the first time, they both felt a glimmer of hope.
Within days of Hill and Scott’s relief, FOB Airborne, the remote and desolate base that stank of diesel and human waste, became a bustling hub. Black Hawks bearing investigators buzzed in circuits between Ghazni, Bagram, and Wardak like an inexhaustible supply of carrier pigeons. The phenomenon triggered disgust in Dog Company’s new leaders: Just two of those flights could have moved the spies to Ghazni or Bagram for further processing.
They were discouraged, too, at the waste of Operation Nomad. The op had been a success, disrupting the Jalrez cell in both intelligence and matériel. For a moment, the fate of the province had seemed balanced on a fulcrum, perhaps even ready to tip toward the Coalition. But the moment vanished, plowed under in the churn of the investigation.
When the investigation was two weeks old, CID expanded its inquiry to FOB Salerno. On September 11, Special Agents Steven Geniuk and Christopher Moon spoke with the law enforcement professional (LEP) who landed at FOB Airborne with Captains Latino and Scragg on August 29. Geniuk and Moon were very interested in obtaining some evidence the LEP obtained when he and the captains visited the detainees at NDS.
At NDS, the three had interviewed Aziz Dalmar, the owner of the coffeehouse. Dalmar claimed that Hill and Scott had questioned him and struck him repeatedly. They also interviewed Sammy, who said he was beaten by Hill and Scott. Smith took a picture of Sammy. The terp’s nose appeared “swollen but not bruised,” the LEP reported, and more than a dozen splotches of bright red blood covered Sammy’s gray ARMY T-shirt. Dalmar, meanwhile, had a black eye and an abrasion on his lip.
The LEP photographed both men and provided copies of his shots to Geniuk and Moon. He also provided copies of statements obtained from the two Afghans, written in Pashto along with English translations, as well as the statement of the head interpreter, K.J.
K.J.’s statement was of particular interest. He said Sammy told him he was hit by “ten soldiers and warrant officers… from night until morning,” and claimed these assailants were Hulburt and Mo. K.J. also stated that one soldier “smothered the suspect [by] the name of Morcos and his mouth and nose have been closed for almost 25 through 30 seconds which was very dangerous.”
“I saw First Sergeant Scott… hit the detainees with a baseball stick the whole day” on August 26, K.J. said. Another detainee, Farid, was thrown in a muddy ditch and “kicked seriously.” The Dalmar brothers told K.J. that Dog Company soldiers tore from the coffeehouse’s accounting books IOUs in the amount of $1,400 U.S.
“This is what I have seen and heard by myself and I am truthful in my confession,” K.J.’s statement said. He later told investigators that he was applying for entry into the United States, and that he feared his visa would be in jeopardy because he had provided a statement.
Just before 4 p.m. on September 11, Special Agent Moon located Tommy Scott on FOB Salerno and advised him of his rights. Ten minutes later, Moon and Geniuk searched Scott’s quarters—possibly for a baseball stick—and found nothing.