Late afternoon. Like any other winter evening, yet different. He was sprinting all out, pushing it as hard as ever he could. Leaning into the uphill, weaving between heaped-up snowbanks as salt and sand grated beneath his trainers. His thighs burned. His calves felt like they were wrapped with hot wire. The wind rasped his throat like a chilled-steel file. But he kept going, pumping his fists, swerving to skirt the onyx gleam of black ice. The only way to build stamina was to slam yourself flat against that invisible wall, again and again.
And maybe, if he spent every bit of energy, he’d feel less angry and scared.
The honor hearing was tonight. And he’d be the chief, and possibly the only, witness for the prosecution.
Cemetery Hill still rose ahead. The asphalt snaked between ranks of tombstones. Skeletal oaks arched over it. Their winter-stripped branches swayed and clicked in the wind like the knitting needles of unrelenting Fates.
Deep winter, and he was finishing his workout with repeated sprints up the only real elevation the Yard offered. This was his tenth set. Dusk was falling and he was out of oomph. Just a few more yards … He grunted, digging deep, pushing through the exhaustion, fighting for the top.
At last the salt-gritty road leveled and he slowed, easing to a jog. Panting and coughing through the breath- and snot-wet scarf as the shadowing Yard below opened between the trees. The old green wooden bridge over College Creek. The power plant. The Isherwood complex. Beyond that, Mahan and then the brooding granite octopus of Bancroft. A chill dark-smelling wind hit full force as he came over the top. It sliced through the baggy sweats, the uniform gloves, the wool watch cap, the blue-and-gold scarf over his face.
He’d started running alone, since no one else would work out with him. Or answer when he spoke to them.
Coventry wasn’t dead after all.
He slowed to a loose-limbed amble, shaking out his arms. Glancing at the tombstones. Admiral this. Lieutenant Commander that. Captain and wife. Names he remembered from Reef Points and plebe indoctrination.
One huge cairn was topped with a cross draped with stone carved into snow and icicles. He stopped to read the inscription. USS Jeannette. An Arctic expedition in the 1870s. What had happened he didn’t know, but it had obviously been tragic.
The wind clicked and rattled in the bare branches, moaning like an incoherent voice. He turned slowly beneath the trees, shivering, studying the stones. Some were weathered, eroded, their granite or marble stained black with mold. Others gleamed pristine white, freshly carved.
Each stone recorded a life. And doubtless many marked empty coffins. Lost, buried at sea … He hesitated between awe and mindlessness, and the world seemed to rotate around him while he stood, for a moment, on the other side of Time.
He shook away reverie, suddenly angry at himself. Dreaming again, Lenson? Dusk was falling. Lamps popped on, buzzing salmon light over the snow. Pushing weary shaking legs once more into motion, he slogged downhill, back toward the Yard. The last place he wanted to go, or be.
But only those who lay still and quiet behind him were beyond the call of duty.
No one spoke to him at evening meal. Nobody had since he’d turned in the honor report on Davis. He occupied a seat, but he was invisible. No one met his eye, though the plebes darted surreptitious glances, as at some horrific, freakish malefactor. Even Teddy Scherow was giving him the cold shoulder in their room. A few days earlier, when he’d gone into the company lounge, his classmates turned off the television and sat mute, stone-faced, until he left.
He’d anticipated something like this. But it still felt … unjust. He wasn’t the one who’d pushed a plebe to suicide, maybe even murdered him, then tried to cover it up.
He picked at his meat loaf, brooding. Maybe he should resign. Serve out his obligation in the Fleet. Or maybe in the Corps? The thought of going into a hot war as a foot grunt was both attractive and frightening.
“Pass the butter down, please,” he said.
But not one hand moved at the table.
He’d anticipated tonight’s hearing with dread like Jupiter-grade gravity weighing in the pit of his stomach. The honor board convened late, after taps. In the dead of night, as if such deliberations were best shrouded in darkness and anonymity. As if no one wanted to be held responsible for destroying a reputation, career, and future.
Davis wouldn’t be the only one on trial tonight.
The board convened in a warren of low-ceilinged, sparely furnished, badly heated, and nearly inaccessible cubicles high above the Rotunda. Dan climbed the narrow steps slowly, up and up, above the empty echoing chill air of the vast space, until the inlaid mosaics dwindled far below and the world seemed to reel around him again. He paused on the fifth deck, steadying himself, right hand to the railing. Felt in his pocket with the left, to make sure what he’d prepared was still there.
Maybe it would work. Maybe not. But it was all he could think to do.
A second class met him at the door. “Name?” Dan scribbled it on a form, and she seated him in a small, bare anteroom without another word. It was very cold. Crap, he should’ve brought a reefer, or at least a sweater. She closed the door, leaving him alone with a side table, a wall clock, and his thoughts.
“Fuck,” he muttered, shuffling his feet on the worn carpet to warm them.
The Brigade policed itself in terms of false reporting, theft, lying, and cheating. As a company rep, he’d served on juries, and as usher and recorder. One case had been open and shut, a guy from 18th Company accused of fondling, fingering, or raping—the testimony was contradictory—a third class during a drunken snake-house party out in town. The rape charge was a police matter. It was the accused’s lie about not being at the party that brought him before the board. The verdict, after the jury examined photos of him in the drag house: unanimous for expulsion.
Another case. A second class stole a copy of a chem final from the prof’s desk and circulated it to her buddies in the Glee Club and Gospel Choir. That board had taken weeks to interview everyone. In the end, Dan’s jury had cleared two, reprimanded eight, and recommended three to the supe for discharge.
Yet another charge had been against a third class for copying movies, then selling the videotapes room to room in Bancroft. Instead of waiting to be disenrolled, he’d resigned. Last Dan had heard, he was in prelaw in Albuquerque.
Every defendant came in on a hair trigger: angry, cowed, defiant, frightened, occasionally fighting tears. And each case consumed many hours, and often multiple sessions—probably why they were scheduled for after taps.
The accused had the right to remain silent. He, or she, had the right to counsel, though not a civilian attorney. Usually his own company rep sat beside him. The stumbling block in most cases was proving intent to deceive. Intent wasn’t necessary to convict, but most jurors saw its lack as an extenuating circumstance. One defendant had filled out a false muster, but insisted he’d misread a note from the mate of the deck and thought the missing man was sick in his room. After pondering the scrawl, the board had acquitted on reasonable doubt.
He’d seen up close what worked and what didn’t. Admitting guilt or error right off the bat seemed to help. Juries also tended to give plebes more leeway, recommending reprimands or warnings instead of discharge. They came down harder on second and first class.
Now and then, through the heavy varnished door that led into the hearing room, he could hear the murmur of voices. Never clearly enough to make out what they were saying, though. He hugged himself, shivering. Thought again of going back to his room, getting a jacket. But they could call him at any minute.…
He flinched, coming awake. Dozing off any, Lenson … The hands of the clock ticked over. 2340. So much perfectly good rack time wasted. What the fuck, over? Were they ever going to call him in?
At midnight the inner door cracked an inch. He started out of the seat, but the latch clicked again. He sank back, then rose and stretched, pacing back and forth. A worn trail in the carpet testified he wasn’t the first.
The door opened again and the usher stuck her face in. “Mr. Lenson? They’re ready for you now.”
The layout was like that of a court-martial. Five mids, three of whom he knew, at the battered and rickety wooden table he remembered from his own jury duty. He nodded to them, but no one met his gaze. Outside the one small bull’s-eye window, the night was black ink.
“Please be seated,” the chairwoman said. A short, oval-faced blonde, with the four thin gold bars on her collar of a midshipman lieutenant commander. Her name tag read CHUGH.
Ionet Chugh, the Brigade honor rep, was an Olympian-level gymnast on the parallel bars and a Masqueraders drama lead. She wore the collar stars of an academic standout. She was a fast burner everyone figured for a Rhodes Scholarship, admiral’s aide, and eventual flag officer material.
To Dan’s left, Easy Davis slumped at another smaller table. His counsel sat beside him, back straight, jotting something on a yellow legal pad with a black Skilcraft. Davis glared at Dan, arms folded. Yeah, he’d be one of the defiant ones.
The chairwoman said, “Mr. Lenson. First, as you may be aware, we are not bent on punishment here, although we will recommend it if deemed necessary. Our first duty is to establish the facts. Only then can we consider what if any action may be necessary.
“Let’s start with your version of the events following the discovery of Midshipman Patterson’s body.”
His version? He eased himself into the witness chair, across from Davis, who looked away. A gust rattled the panes of the bull’s-eye, and a cold draft iced his cheeks. There was no swearing of oaths before the board, since mids were presumed to tell the truth. Dan bit his lips to force himself awake. “I covered it in my report.”
One of the jurors, an Asian, nodded. “We read. Of course. But we want to hear from you.” Dan made him as a Korean or Japanese exchange, there were a few in each class, from allied countries.
“It was after taps. I was asleep. Muff, I mean Midshipman Fourth Class Herzog, reported the … discovery to me. When I got to the head, Patterson’s roommates were already there. They handed me a klax, a b-robe belt, and a note. Cotton bond, like what you use to type term papers. A half sheet.”
Chugh tapped something on the table. “This note. The one you submitted with your report of violation. Typed, but with a handwriten addition.”
“Uh, correct. But the corner wasn’t torn off that night.”
Expressionless gazes. No telling what they felt. “Go on, please,” one juror said.
“Uh, I looked out the window. Mario … Midshipman Patterson was lying down there, on the bricks of T-Court. My first action was to make sure someone called sick bay.”
He shivered again, both from the chill in the high little room and from images he couldn’t help seeing all too vividly. An angel’s outline, in the snow. Splayed bare, hairy legs, one foot twisted inward. Clawed, bloody hands. He forced out, “I set everything they gave me on a sink shelf and went down. When I got to him I checked his pulse, cleared his airway, and administered CPR. But he was already dead. The corpsmen got there a few minutes later.”
Another juror, a guy Dan recognized from his European history classes: “Why’d you conclude it was suicide? Initially, I mean, the way you reported it to Main Office?”
“Mainly, from the note.”
Was Chugh frowning? Another juror lifted a finger. “Was there any blood on the sill, any sign of struggle?”
“No. Just the kicked-off klax and the belt. The body was pretty … banged up. His fingers were bloody, but I figured that was from scratching at the bricks. At the time, anyway.”
Davis snorted, shifting in his chair. His counsel shot him a reproving look.
The Asian mid again. “What else you see?”
Dan went over it. How when he’d come back up to the company area, the note was gone. “The plebes said they didn’t see who took it. A corpsman had been there; I assumed he had it. I only found out later he didn’t.”
“And no one saw it again,” Chugh asked, “until these same two plebes found it in their room?”
He had to admit, it sounded fishy. But that was what had happened. “That’s correct, ma’am,” he said. Why the hell was he calling her ma’am? Anyway … “That’s how it went down. His roomies’ll back me up. If you want to call them.”
Davis’s counsel cleared his throat. He said mildly, “Mr. Lenson. I’d like to give you the chance to reconsider your testimony. Isn’t it the case that you typed this note yourself, and brought it forward to settle a personal grudge against Mr. Davis?”
The jurors looked to him. Dan said carefully, “No. The plebes will testify to the sequence of events. I was in my bunk when they came to get me with the news. I only held the paper for a moment. But they both saw it. And if I typed it, why would I add something that incriminated me?”
Chugh resumed. “Just to clarify. Your interpretation is that someone other than Patterson actually typed it, then removed it from the crime scene, and later added the note at the bottom and resurfaced it again.”
“Except in between, someone tore off the part at the top. The salutation.”
“And to your recollection, what was on it? The part that’s missing?”
“It said, ‘Dear Mom and Dad.’”
The defense counsel said, “The plebes say they caught you typing something. In their room. On Midshipman Patterson’s typewriter.”
Dan blinked, taken aback. He’d thought they were headed down the right avenue, but now … yeah, that looked bad. “I was trying to find out whether or not it was written on that machine. They should also have testified that I came to their room, to do that, after they’d already found it and turned it over to me.”
He thought that was a decent answer, but the defense counsel sat back, looking satisfied, as if he’d delivered some kind of telling blow. And two jurors nodded, as if they agreed.
To his relief, Chugh got them back on track. “So, if we believe the missing piece said something about his parents, and we know Patterson had no one living to address such a note to, who do you think actually wrote it? And why?”
“He wrote it.” Davis glared at Dan. “The plebes just said so.” His counsel laid a hand on his shoulder.
“No, I’ll answer.” Dan shifted in his seat. Despite the chill, he was starting to sweat. “Over time, thinking it out, I came to believe Patterson didn’t jump. He was in the habit of going in the head after taps, to smoke, by an open window. He was forced, or pushed out that window. Or beaten up, then pushed. Leaving a forged suicide letter meant it was a premeditated action.”
He expected the defense to object, but he didn’t. So he went on. “Davis showed up right after we found the body. He was in the head when I left. I believe he typed the note, before either cornering, or maybe even inviting, Patterson into the head that night.
“But then he remembered, or realized, the mistake he’d made.” The counsel raised a hand, started to object; Dan hurried on, speaking over him. “So he fixed it, or thought he did, by tearing that first part off. Then added the line at the bottom and slipped it onto the plebes’ desk, while they were out, for them to find and turn in.”
No one said anything. In fact, no one met his eye. Dan sagged in his chair. What was going on?
Unless they’d backed down, or been intimidated, into a don’t-rock-the-boat, don’t-bilge-your-upperclass denial.
In which case, not only would Davis get off, but Daniel Valentine Lenson, midshipman first class, would be subject to prosecution himself, for uttering false statements and submitting false reports.
He swallowed with a dry mouth. Rubbed his lips with the back of a hand. Fuck it, he’d told the truth.
He fingered the scrap of paper in his pocket. Maybe he wouldn’t get the chance to drop his little bomb after all.
Right on cue, the defense counsel said, again in a friendly tone, “Is it fair to say there was history between you and Mr. Davis? That you’d argued before over this plebe?”
Argued over him? Was that an insinuation? Dan said, “I coached batt lacrosse. Patterson came to me as his coach, seeking guidance. Davis was riding him. Pushing the boundaries of the indoctrination system.”
One of the other jurors: “Hazing him?”
“He didn’t get specific … but it was clear the kid was under a lot of pressure. Sure, that’s what the system’s for. But then Davis turned him in for sexual activity.”
The jurors turned their gazes away; some looked down at papers, which he assumed was his investigation report of the encounter in the shower room, Davis’s accusation of homosexual activity, and Patterson’s denial. The Korean, or Japanese, grunted something under his breath.
Yeah, it was messy.
Still, the kid had died, and Davis had been involved. Of that, he was sure.
One of the jurors glanced at his watch. He muttered to Chugh, who nodded. “Let’s go back to this suicide note,” she said.
A heavier gust rattled the panes of the bull’s-eye, making everyone glance that way. Dan shivered as a new draft made the room even more frigid. He said, “May I show Mr. Davis something?”
They regarded him doubtfully. Finally Chugh said, “Defense counsel?”
The straight-backed guy shrugged. “No objection.”
Dan got up. He pulled the scrap from his pocket, holding it on the right side of his body, shielded from the defendant, but visible to the jury. Their gazes followed as he crossed the room. He set the torn-off corner in front of Davis, then stepped to one side, so the jurors had a clear line of sight.
And asked, “Is this the missing piece?”
Davis barely glanced at it. His lip lifted in a sneer. “No,” he said. “That’s not—”
He halted in mid-denial, mouth still open. Beside him, his counsel drew an audible breath.
Silence. After a moment Davis added in a rush, stumbling over the words, “You typed this. Those … words. But it doesn’t fit the note. Try it. You’ll see it doesn’t—”
“How would you know it won’t fit?” Dan glanced back at the jurors. Chugh was already nodding, as if she got it, so he aimed his words at the Asian guy. “Yeah, I typed this scrap. And no, the edges won’t match the original. But how does Mr. Davis know that? Because he tore it off. He flushed it, or burned it! And put the rest of the note where somebody would find it, and turn it in.”
He could see them struggling with it. He understood why. How much neater, simpler, if there were no questions left. Just some poor fucking plebe who’d cracked under the weight of the system. Not the first, not the last. Just another … failed part, broken during manufacture.
But he couldn’t say any of that. Or sound off about what a waste it was. That would just sound bitter. It wasn’t a fact.
The pane rattled again, sounding as if it was going to break. But probably it wouldn’t. The glass had held for nearly a century. Dan waited a moment more, then went back to the too-hard chair. Shit, he could see his breath now.
“He’s lying!” Davis sounded desperate, addressing not Dan but the jury. He flicked the scrap to the deck. “He just admitted he typed this—this forgery—himself. He’s lying to get back at me because he feels sorry for the pussy who killed himself. Or maybe for some other reason, I don’t know. The two of them were pretty fucking chummy. Think about that.”
Beside him his counsel sat silent, gazing at the floor, bent, as if all the starch had leached out of his backbone.
Chugh tapped a pencil on her notepad. “Thank you, Mr. Lenson. That will be all.”
Dan hesitated, frozen. Had he convinced them? If not, they’d be calling him back. To face charges himself.
“You can wait outside,” Chugh said to Davis. She turned to the secretary. “We’ll be going into closed session now.”
He forced his legs to push him upright, inclined his head to the jury, and walked out.