Detained, page 17
“There is no ‘we,’ Matt. You are the detailed defense counsel.”
“All right then. Is there anything I can do?”
“Look,” Petronio said, “they’re basically telling you that you can’t see your own clients until they’re ready for you to see them. The same thing they’ve tried with every lawyer they’ve brought down here. So they’re going to force you to file a motion with the Military Commissions to gain access to them, like they have with every other defense counsel. Mind if I sit?”
“Please, sir.”
Petronio walked around in front of Matt’s desk, pulled up a chair, and sat.
“Sounds like they toy with defense counsel right from the get-go,” Matt said.
“You said it.”
“Almost like a rite of initiation.”
“You said it,” Petronio said again.
“So what tactic have other defense counsel used with this initial round of motions? Claiming that the delay amounts to ineffective assistance?”
“You’re on it.”
“So what can I expect the Military Commissions to do?”
“Well, you can expect a vigorous challenge from the government. Then, eventually, the Commission gives in. You understand how the process works?”
“About as well as I can after cramming on two days’ notice.”
“All right. Here’s some background. The secretary of defense appoints the chief judge of the Military Commissions Trial Judiciary. Right now, that’s Colonel Bob Kinsley, an Air Force guy. The chief judge, Colonel Kinsley, then details a military judge to each case referred to trial.
“So each military commission consists of a military judge and at least five members, so from that standpoint, they’re constituted like the military courts-martial that you’re familiar with. Of course, in a case in which the accused might be sentenced to death, which is the case for both of your guys, there’s a minimum of twelve members, and unanimous agreement is required.”
“Of course,” Matt said, “I take it it’s going to be judge alone for the motions.”
“That’s right,” Petronio said. “All preliminary matters before trial are just you, the government’s lawyers, and the military judge.”
“Well, at least it sounds like a format I’m familiar with.”
“You might think you’re familiar with the format,” Petronio said, “but when you get in there and realize they’re not applying the Constitution or the Rules of Evidence, you might think you’re in Russia. By the way, are you familiar with the case of Boumediene v. Bush?”
“You mean the Supreme Court case that held these guys are entitled to habeas corpus?”
“I see you’ve done your homework, Matt.”
“I try.”
“Well, you’ve got that as an option, I think, especially with the kid they plucked off duty.”
“No kidding. If Nidal Hasan could get a military court-martial for mass murder at Fort Hood, it seems like an active-duty Navy guy should at least be entitled to the same.”
“Agreed,” Petronio said. “I think their argument is that this guy has vitiated his enlistment contract. Their calling him a terrorist is a bunch of malarkey.”
“Agreed, sir.”
Petronio’s cell phone rang. “Hang on a second.” The chubby officer punched a button on his cell phone. “Lieutenant Commander Petronio.” A pause. “What?” Another pause. “Where?” Another pause. “Okay, I’ll be right there.” Petronio ended the call.
“Something wrong, sir?”
“Looks like a coordinated terror attack in the States.”
“What? Where?”
“Bombs in civilian malls. DC area. Dallas. San Diego. The chief wasn’t clear.”
Matt wanted to get up. To go somewhere. To do something. He remembered where he was on 9/11 all those years ago. Now the feeling of bricks in his stomach returned.
But what could he do?
Amy!
His mind rushed to her. “Any military facilities hit?”
“No. Just malls. I gotta go, Lieutenant.”
“Do we have any orders, sir?”
“GITMO and all naval facilities are on high alert. But you have your orders. Those orders are to defend these two individuals about to be prosecuted. If I were you, I’d stay here and concentrate on that. Get those motions prepared. You can file them today. All you have to do is walk in the courthouse and file them. I’ll have Rusotto drive you over. Then you can make an appearance in the morning.”
Matt stood up. “You’re right, Commander. I’ll get started right away. You’ll let me know if my orders change?”
“You bet, Matt. Good luck.” Petronio stepped out of the office and into the hallway, then stuck his head back into the office. “Matt.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Watch your back.”
CHAPTER 9
SOUTH HAYES STREET
PENTAGON CITY MALL
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
“My friend’s still in there! She’s in the kitchen! I’m going back in!” Emily yelled as an Arlington EMT and three police officers pulled her by the arms out the front entrance of the mall, onto the sidewalk, to a wall of flashing blue lights from police cars barricading the street.
Several helicopters roared overhead, making it almost impossible even to hear her own voice.
“You don’t understand! She went into the kitchen! Into the kitchen at Harry’s! We were in the basement! Where’s the captain? The waiter? He stayed with me!”
“Ma’am,” the police officer said loudly enough to be heard over the hovering helicopters, “nobody can go in there. Not now. If your friend is still in there, our firemen will find her. Please let the EMTs check you out.”
“I’m fine!”
“Please, let us check you out, ma’am!”
“No! I’m fine. Just swallowed a little smoke. Please. Find my friend!”
“Emily!” She heard a man’s voice that sounded familiar to her. She looked over her shoulder. Two United States Navy admirals, a three-star vice admiral and a two-star rear admiral in summer whites, were crossing South Hayes Street.
Unlike others who were being kept away by police, the admirals were waved through the barricades.
“Admiral Brewer!”
“Emily? Where’s Diane?”
“Inside!”
“Where?”
“In the basement. I was pinned down. Diane went to the kitchen to find something to pry me loose.”
“What kitchen? Where?”
“Harry’s Smokehouse. I was pinned under a chair. The bar fell on the chair. My leg was pinned at an angle. I couldn’t get it out. Smoke filled the basement. Di went to the kitchen to find something to pry off the chair. The firemen came. I told the firemen. They said they would look for her.”
Zack took off.
“Admiral, where are you going?”
“To find my wife!” Zack yelled back.
“Stop! You can’t go in! Orders of the Arlington Fire Department! There are backdrafts in there, Admiral!”
“You wanna stop me?” Zack said as he ran to the entrance of the mall. “Shoot me!” Zack darted into the smoke and was gone.
The second admiral, whom Emily recognized as the chief of Navy chaplains, took off, sprinting toward the entrance.
“Admiral, stop!” the policeman yelled.
“I’m going with him!” the admiral said. “He needs prayer.”
“Ma’am, let me check you,” the paramedic persisted.
“No. I’m fine. Please. Go help those who need you.”
The paramedic looked at the fireman, who nodded and said, “Go.”
“This is the FBI!” a voice boomed from the helicopter overhead. “By orders of the secretary of Homeland Security, you are ordered to evacuate the premises. Evacuate the premises!”
Most people standing around the outside of the mall ignored the order.
A loud siren came blaring up South Hayes Street. Then another.
A red ladder truck rolled up and parked on the street.
“If you’re going to stay here, you have to stand back, ma’am.” The policeman pushed Emily back several feet as a platoon of firemen wearing oxygen masks dismounted and rushed with a long fire hose into the mall.
Paramedics and police were hauling people from the mall out on stretchers. Some were in body bags. The first four bodies were lined up on the cement in white body bags to the left of the Hayes Street entrance. Emily just stared at them in shock. “Dear Jesus, please save Diane. Please save Zack. Keep them safe. Please don’t let that be Diane.”
Paramedics rushed out of the mall with two more filled body bags and laid them down on the sidewalk beside the four already there.
The wail of more fire trucks arriving.
More squealing police cars.
More helicopters overhead. Military helicopters. Police helicopters. The chopper from WUSA Channel 9.
More orders from an FBI chopper. “By orders of the secretary of Homeland Security, evacuate the premises. There may be poisonous gases in the area.”
Screams and panic from civilian bystanders followed the announcement about poisonous gases, sending a mad, sprinting horde scrambling back on 12th Street, toward TSA headquarters, to get as far away from the mall as possible.
The sight of stampeding crowds reminded Emily of the people running from the collapsing debris in the streets of New York when the World Trade Center towers collapsed.
But poisonous gas or not, and fire and smoke or not, Emily wasn’t going anywhere. Unless someone forcibly removed her. Not until she knew the fate of Diane.
• • •
HEADQUARTERS
US TRANSPORTATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
Billy McNamara sat at his desk, watching the flat-screen televisions mounted on his office wall, all showing live aerial images of smoking, smoldering shopping malls.
The live shots were being beamed from helicopters flying over four American cities. One screen contained a subscript proclaiming, “Fashion Valley Mall, San Diego.” Another stated, “Live Aerial Footage of the Shops at Legacy, Dallas.” One read, “Arlington, Virginia—Terrorist Attack on Shopping Malls.”
McNamara shifted his eyes back and forth, from one screen to another. Special Agent Bob Nolan was sitting in a chair, leaning forward, also focused on the TVs.
The desk phone rang.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Mr. Director, Secretary Strayhorn is on the line, sir.”
“Punch him through.”
“Yes, sir.”
McNamara picked up the phone on the first buzz. “Yes, Mr. Secretary.”
“You watching all this on TV, Billy?”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary. Special Agent Nolan and I are watching it right now.”
“Y’all got everything under control?”
“Yes, sir. I’m going to take a squadron of ELITE Force guys to Pentagon City to inspect the operation.”
“That’s fine,” Strayhorn said. “But the White House called. They want to release a statement, and they’re asking us for some information. What do you think, Billy?”
“Mr. Secretary, I’d suggest that the White House issue a statement that the nation is under a coordinated terror attack, and that TSA, working under the auspices of the Department of Homeland Security, is warning all Americans to return home, wait for instructions, and if given instructions by TSA agents or other federal authorities, to follow those instructions without questions. Then I think we should do another press conference at three this afternoon after the initial statement by the White House.”
“You think the White House should issue a statement? Or should the president address the country?”
“Good point, Mr. Secretary. On second thought, it wouldn’t look good if I am the first government official speaking to the country after a terrorist attack. The president doesn’t need to look like he’s been upstaged. So let’s suggest that the president go on air at two o’clock from the Oval Office and read the statement I suggested. Short. Sweet. He looks presidential and directs the nation to follow our lead. Then at three o’clock, we have our presser to assure the nation that everything’s under control.”
“Now you’re thinking like a politician, Billy.” Strayhorn snorted.
“Think the president will go along with it?”
“Oh, I think so. I’ll speak with him about it. Plus, if he speaks from the Oval Office, he doesn’t have to take any questions. He leaves the details to us. Hey, are you going to make sure there’s press coverage of our on-site inspections at Pentagon City?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve alerted our PR people to contact the networks.”
“Good. Stay in touch. Sounds like you’ve got a busy afternoon. I’ll be watching the coverage of your on-site inspection in a few minutes.”
“I’ll do you proud, sir.”
“I know you will, Billy.”
• • •
SOUTH HAYES STREET
PENTAGON CITY MALL
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
Paramedics, firemen, policemen, and members of the Virginia National Guard were rushing into the mall. Some firemen and paramedics wore gas masks as they rushed in.
But others, Emily noticed, had no gas masks, which seemed odd. Just moments ago the FBI chopper had warned of poisonous gases.
And if that was true, that poisonous gases were in the area, then those brave emergency workers without any protective masks were signing their own death warrants. Was it because of a shortage of gas masks for an emergency of this magnitude?
Emily knew, by remaining, she might be signing her own death warrant. But she wasn’t going to leave. Not without Diane. She realized that she had become unnoticed in the midst of the chaos, with rescue workers and law enforcement scrambling to deal with the smoke and fire and to help those who were actually hurt.
She was standing out of the way, away from all the commotion, and none of the rescue teams noticed her. They had more important things to do. Any sane person had already evacuated this hellhole. Anyone left remained at their own risk.
Overhead, a small fleet of drones had joined the sonorous helicopters. One drone circling bore the inscription “NSA.” Another had painted on it “Homeland Security.”
Movement from the mall.
Two firemen emerged, rolling a body bag out on a stretcher.
Then another.
Followed by another.
Altogether, within a period of thirty seconds, paramedics had rolled eight more body bags out onto the sidewalk.
Police and paramedics unloaded the body bags from the stretchers, laid the bodies on the sidewalk, then returned with gurneys into the mall.
“Dear Jesus. Please not Diane. Please not Zack. Not the chaplain. Please.”
She heard a rumbling to her right, coming from 12th Street, down toward TSA headquarters. A man’s voice boomed from a loudspeaker.
“TSA ELITE. Stand aside! Stand aside.”
A mob of lights and cameras, carried by cameramen, sound engineers, and reporters, was walking in a moving circle up 12th Street, headed toward the mall entrance.
The man’s voice from the bullhorn. This time louder. “TSA ELITE. Stand aside! Stand aside!”
The cadre of reporters, with their bright camera lights, walked straight toward the mall entrance. Their cameras and lights were aimed inward, not toward the mall, but at someone in their midst.
Surrounding the reporters and camera crews were fifteen or twenty blue-shirted TSA ELITE Force agents bearing M-16 military rifles, walking in precision military marching style. They wore shiny black storm-trooper military helmets that glistened in the sunshine. They resembled something that could have come from a World War II movie about the Gestapo.
On the front of the black storm-trooper helmets, painted in white, was the phrase “TSA ELITE Force.”
“Stand back! TSA ELITE!”
A TSA ELITE agent with a bullhorn, over on the far right, yelled various renditions of his “step aside” order even though the ones “in the way” were emergency workers fighting the fire and rescuing victims. Emily was amazed to see some of the Arlington firefighters and police officers step aside as the federal contingent, representatives of the very agency that employed her, marched down the street. Others, however, ignored the federal “step aside” order and kept rushing into and out of the smoking mall.
The TSA ELITE Forces and the press contingent stopped near the entrance to Pentagon City Mall, about fifty feet from Emily.
The bullhorn guy barked another instruction: “All state and local rescue workers. Continue your operations until further order by federal TSA or Homeland Security officials. Repeat. To all rescue workers. Continue your operations until further order by federal officials from TSA or Homeland Security.”
After the announcement, the horde of reporters converged into a tight circle, their microphones and bright lights aimed at one man in the middle.
Emily squinted her eyes and did a double-take.
Was the guy in the middle . . . Billy?
Her boss, the director of the TSA, was staging a photo op right at the heart of ground zero!
She inched in closer. Billy McNamara, without any gas mask, stood at the center of the semicircle of press reporters and photographers. Two flagpoles had been set up, one flying Old Glory, the other flying the navy-blue flag of the Commonwealth of Virginia.
As she slipped in a bit closer, a TSA ELITE guard wearing aviator shades to match his black storm-trooper helmet stepped in front of her. “Sorry, ma’am, but I cannot let you breach this perimeter.”
“I’m Emily Gardner, TSA general counsel’s office. I work for the director.”
“Do you have any identification, ma’am?”
“Of course.” Then she remembered that she had left her purse, containing her identification badge, in the restaurant. “I left it in the mall after the explosion . . . I . . . Billy . . . Director McNamara knows me.”
“The director is busy at the moment, ma’am. I’m sorry, but with no ID, you can go no farther.”
“Well, can I at least stand here and listen?”
“No. You can’t stay. Unless you consent to a field search.”
