Wrongful Death: A Novel Page 9

  “Suspicious?”

  “Put yourself in her shoes. The claim lingered for months without a formal response, but when she finally hires an attorney and I try to talk to a witness, we’re told the claim has been reopened and he won’t talk to us. You indicated that doesn’t happen often.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Pendergrass interjected.

  “The family is anxious to move forward. They’ve authorized me to file a complaint in federal court.”

  Pendergrass smiled, smug. “Have you handled many military claims?”

  “My first one.”

  “Mind if I give you a suggestion?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You might want to consider doing some research on the Feres doctrine before you go to the expense of filing a complaint.”

  “The Feres doctrine?” Sloane said, playing dumb.

  “It precludes a soldier or his family from filing a claim against the government or military for his injuries. I don’t know the details of this case, but if Specialist Ford died in Iraq while in combat, I can tell you that Feres will apply.”

  “It sounds like a significant legal hurdle,” Sloane said.

  “Think the Great Wall of China.”

  Sloane already had.

  SLOANE DROVE NORTH on I-5. “He didn’t know the claim had been reopened. The computer still had it as closed.”

  “So the claims office didn’t make that decision,” Jenkins said.

  “And whoever told Kessler either didn’t tell them or didn’t get to Pendergrass in time. Before I got there, he’d been sitting in a dentist’s chair. He also said we’d never win in federal court, that we had no case under Feres.”

  “Which begs the question you asked earlier: Why reopen the claim? What are you going to do?”

  Sloane smiled. “Continue poking a stick at the tiger and see if I can draw its attention. Captain Kessler won’t tell me what happened over there. Maybe someone else will.”

  HIGHWAY 10, IRAQ

  THE RADIO CRACKLED, spitting a data burst of cryptographic information. Kessler raised a hand to quiet Cassidy’s story of killing the wild boar. “Hold that thought, Butch.” He spoke into the mouthpiece. “Alfa one-two, this is Charlie Tango Three. Say again. Over.”

  Ford asked, “You think it’s the convoy?”

  Kessler waited a beat before repeating his transmission. “Say again. Over.”

  More static, then a voice, the words intermittent and unclear.

  “Bravo three-sixteen…Any…get…sage?”

  Kessler waited for an “over.”

  “That isn’t the convoy,” Ford said.

  Kessler agreed. “This is Alfa one-two, Bravo three-sixteen. Say again. Over.”

  “We’re und…fire. Need reinf…Over.”

  Kessler looked to Ford. The three men in the backseat sat forward.

  “Who is it?” Ferguson asked.

  Kessler’s voice remained calm. “Bravo three-sixteen, this is Alfa one-two. Say again. Over.”

  From the radio they heard the distinct clatter of AK-47s and the rapid three-round bursts of M16s and M4s. Then the voice shouted, causing Cassidy to flinch and jump back in his seat.

  “Gun right. Gun right.”

  A series of explosions followed, what sounded like a hell of a firefight.

  “Red on ammo…MASSCAL! MASSCAL…Goddamn…need CASEVAC. Time: now.”

  Ford couldn’t tell if the soldier was responding to Kessler’s transmission or sending out a general transmission to anyone in the area.

  Kessler responded calmly. “Bravo three-sixteen. Send your nine-line. Say again. Send your nine-line. Over.”

  A nine-line alerted the tactical operations center to a squad’s location and advised that it needed immediate assistance.

  “We’re getting…every…all over.”

  “Bravo three-sixteen. Slow your transmission. What is your grid? Send your grid, over.”

  The soldier barked amidst the constant clatter of gunfire and intermittent explosions. “Grid…Echo. Hotel…five, one…zero, six.”

  Kessler pulled out his topographic map and handed it to Ford, who unfolded it in his lap. He traced the grid square, trying to map the coordinates.

  “Say again, Bravo three-sixteen. Over.”

  The radio crackled. “Grid Echo…Hotel…zero…six…zero…five…six.”

  Kessler repeated the coordinates to Ford. “Echo, Hotel, zero, six, zero, five, one, zero, six.”

  Ford scribbled them on a piece of paper, then went back to trying to map them. He knew that grids were usually eight-to ten-number sequences. “We’re missing part of the grid.”

  Kessler was ahead of him. “Say again, Bravo three-sixteen. Say again.”

  The radio spit more static, followed by what sounded like a loud explosion. “Shit…stat report: Red. Red. Red.”

  Three reds meant soldiers injured or killed, weapons inoperable, and the squad seriously low on ammunition and fuel.

  “Bravo three-sixteen. Send your nine-line,” Kessler repeated. “Send your grids, over.”

  “Grid: Echo, Hotel, zero, six, zero, five, one, zero, zero, six.”

  Kessler removed the protractor from inside his helmet and handed it to Ford, who used the black thread tied to it to mark the distance between their location and the grid coordinates. As he did, Cassidy’s arm protruded between the seats and pointed to a satellite image on the plugger mounted to the dash.

  “Look.”

  A blue square with an X through it had suddenly appeared on the screen in damn near the exact spot Ford had traced on his topo.

  “Captain?” Ford said.

  “Command must know,” Kessler said, confused.

  “But we can get there,” Ford said. “We can beat anyone else there.”

  But even as he spoke, Ford knew the radio was unsecured. Not only could they be driving into what sounded like a shitload of trouble, every insurgent listening had the same grid coordinates and could be rushing to kill the infidels. And visibility remained limited, perhaps twenty feet. Sand continued to blow across the road.

  “Fergie, get up there and see if you can see anyone in front of us,” Kessler said.

  As Ferguson hurried to put back on his goggles and face gaiter, Kessler tried to raise the rest of the convoy. “Alfa one-two, this is Charlie Tango Three,” he said, using his call sign. “Acknowledge, over. Alfa one-two, acknowledge, over.”

  No response. He transmitted again.

  Fergie dropped back down the hatch. “Can’t see anyone, Captain. I think they’re gone already. Maybe they heard it too?”

  “They’re in trouble, Captain,” Ford said. “We can get there.”

  “We have to try,” Ferguson agreed.

  Cassidy and Thomas remained silent.

  Kessler pulled the keyboard from beneath the FBCB2, which stored communications spoken or typed with their tactical operations center. If a squad was in danger of imminent capture or otherwise had to abandon its vehicle, the commander was to hit a destruct button and burn the hard drive. Ford knew they remained a questionable distance from their FOB for their TOC to be able to contact them, especially in the storm, which was what had him puzzled about the sudden appearance of the blue X.

  “Wolverine six, this is Alfa one-two. We have traffic from Bravo three-sixteen seeking immediate CASEVAC. Send guidance from higher, over.”

  They sat listening to the low howl of the wind.

  “Captain?” Ford asked.

  Kessler repeated the transmission. “Wolverine six, this is Alfa one-two. We have traffic from Bravo three-sixteen seeking immediate CASEVAC. Send guidance from higher, over.”

  No response.

  The soldier’s voice grew more urgent. The gunfire and explosions became more distinct. “We are…Need…Shit. MASSCAL…Evac. Now.”

  Bravo was out of time. Kessler need to make a decision. He looked to his men. Then he shoved the keyboard back under the dash.

  “Let’s roll.”
>
  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON, Sloane stood staring out the windows of his office sipping a mug of tea and listening to Tina on the speakerphone.

  “I’ll let you go,” she said. “You’re starting to give me the ‘uhhuh’ routine. I should have asked for a summer house in the San Juans.”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Just trying to tie up loose ends so I don’t have to worry about them,” he said, which was only partly true. He wanted to leave for Cabo with a clear conscience and not feel like the sword of Damocles was hanging over his head. But there was more on his mind, and while ordinarily he multitasked well, that afternoon he found himself distracted. His thoughts continued to drift to why the military had reopened Beverly Ford’s claim. Maybe they were just taking another look at it, as Kannin had suggested. And if true, that was a good thing, as Beverly Ford had concluded. After all, nothing had changed to alter Sloane’s opinion that this was a case he likely could not win, especially after learning that a Feres case was tried to a federal judge, and not a jury. In fact, after his meeting with Kannin, it seemed highly unlikely the military would even be interested in a settlement.

  “How’s Jake?”

  “Excited. I just dragged him in off the beach to pack.”

  “Did he actually catch something?”

  “No, but apparently he was using the wrong type of lure. A fisherman gave him a new one today and Jake is convinced he’ll be landing fish by the dozens.”

  “Tell him I said good night. Don’t wait up for me.”

  He told her he loved her and disconnected as Carolyn walked into the office.

  “I’ve completed the proof of service.” She placed a pleading down on his desk. When Sloane didn’t immediately sign it, she cocked her head. “Whatever you decide to do, it better be this century or I’m stealing your Dictaphone. The stack of tapes out there is liable to fall and kill me.”

  “Look on the bright side,” he said. “After tomorrow you’ll be rid of me for a whole week.”

  “I’ve heard that before. You attorneys do more work on vacation than in the office.”

  “Not this attorney.” He signed the pleading and handed it to her.

  She turned to leave, speaking with her back to him. “And fair warning, if you come back with one of those gorgeous golden tans, I’m liable to pummel you.”

  He smiled and picked up the stack of mail that had accumulated while he was in trial, continuing to separate that which could wait from mail that required a more urgent response. He tossed magazines and legal newspapers in a third pile. Having maintained his California bar membership, he continued to receive California’s periodicals in addition to the stack sent by the Washington bar. He was about to toss his copy of California Lawyer onto a toppling pile when the headline beside the face of a determined-looking attorney caught his attention. Intrigued, he flipped to the cover article, feeling his pulse quicken as he read. His eyes stopped reading when they came to an embedded box in the middle of the second page.

  “Carolyn. Carolyn!”

  She sauntered into his office with the bored expression of someone interrupted while doing her nails. “You bellowed?”

  “I need a plane reservation,” he said, continuing to read the article.

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow, as early as you can make it.”

  “You’re flying to Mexico on Saturday.”

  He handed her the magazine. “Look this guy up. Get me an appointment to see him tomorrow, any time. Tell him I’m coming from Seattle and it’s urgent. Do whatever you need to do to make it happen.”

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  CAROLYN HAD DONE as instructed, getting Sloane on a 6:00 AM flight to Los Angeles. During the flight he reread the article three times, making notes on a yellow legal pad. The article profiled a Los Angeles attorney named Ken Mills. Mills had instituted a civil action on behalf of several thousand Gulf War veterans claiming a debilitating series of ailments that included chronic fatigue, skin rashes, muscle and joint pain, and memory loss. Pentagon officials conceded that some veterans had likely been exposed to chemical weapons while serving in Iraq. They had little choice. Czech chemical-detection equipment, the most sophisticated in the world, had registered mustard and sarin nerve gas near American troop bases as many as seven times during the first week of that war. Mills’s suit went further, however, accusing foreign and domestic companies of supplying Iraqi president Saddam Hussein with the precursor chemicals used to create the Iraqi chemical warfare arsenal that ultimately injured the American soldiers.

  The suit had progressed slowly, largely because Mills had been unable to prove which companies were responsible. Though Iraq had provided a weapons declaration to the United Nations in 1997, the UN Special Commission kept that declaration confidential, trading anonymity for the companies’ voluntary cooperation. Iraq supplanted that declaration in December 2002 with an 11,800-page report to the UN Security Council, but the United States had insisted on examining that report before release, and promptly removed 8,000 pages. The four other permanent members of the council, Britain, Russia, France, and China, had also resisted revealing the extent of the foreign companies’ involvement. Mills was at a dead end. Then a former UN weapons inspector traveled to Baghdad and managed to obtain an unedited copy of the declaration, a German newspaper published a list of the accused companies, and Mills was in business.

  The lawsuit sought more than a billion dollars for medical expenses, lost wages, and pain and suffering, and the article indicated that figure could be just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Of the 567,000 American troops in the Gulf War, more than 293,000 had filed claims with the Department of Veterans Affairs, and the Veterans Administration had already paid more than $1.8 billion in disability benefits. Mills argued that the American and foreign companies that had, for years, profited from Iraq’s chemical and biological weapons program should share that financial burden, and their directors and officers should face criminal punishment.

  As the plane taxied to the gate at LAX, Sloane called Carolyn. Mills had been out the prior afternoon and his secretary said he could not see Sloane until 11:00 AM.

  “You told her it was urgent?”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered if I had said you were the King of England come to knight him to Arthur’s Round Table,” Carolyn told him. “It was eleven or nothing. His secretary was one of those perky types. If she said ‘I’m sorry, those are Mr. Mills’s rules’ one more time I was going to fly down there and steal her peroxide.”

  SLOANE KILLED TIME drinking a cup of coffee at an outdoor table in Santa Monica’s Third Street Promenade, a three-city-block mall, which was like sitting in the front row at a theater performance. Though raised in foster homes throughout the San Fernando Valley, Sloane had spent little time in Southern California since enlisting in the Marine Corps at seventeen. Coming back never felt like coming home. It felt like being a tourist at a theme park. Everyone, it seemed, had a healthy tan, toned body, and flashed the perfect smile for a chewing gum or toothpaste commercial.

  Growing up, Sloane felt something of substance was missing from his surroundings, but soon realized what was missing had nothing to do with the scenery. As he got older, a hole began to develop inside of him that he could not fill. He had never been abused in any of the foster homes, but he also had never been loved. No one tucked him in at night or gave him a hug. When he brought home his report card, nobody patted him on the back for a job well done. Athletic, he played both basketball and baseball in high school, but no one sat in the stands watching with pride and joy. No one waited for him outside the locker room. He had friends, and an occasional girlfriend, but he wasn’t often invited to homes and he sensed when he met parents that they were wary of him, like a stray dog. Not knowing his background, they had no way to judge his temperament, and he wasn’t of much help.

  “Where were you born, David?”


  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Did you know your parents?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t.”

  “No relatives? What about grandparents or aunts and uncles?”

  “No, sir, I’ve never met any.”

  “Rebecca says your parents died in a car crash.”

  “I really wasn’t old enough to remember it.”

  “Well, Rebecca says you’re a fine basketball player.”

  “I try, sir.”

  At that point the father would usually hand his daughter a quarter. “Call me if you need to. I’ll be up waiting for you.”

  Sloane had contemplated trying to find his biological parents, but when he was young, he had no money to pursue the matter, and when he did have the money, he decided he didn’t want to know. They had not wanted him and had made no effort to contact him. Sometimes it was best to let matters lie. At Foster & Bane he’d settled into a routine of work, taking comfort in his successes, and trying not to think too often about things he could not control. Then Joe Branick’s package turned everything inside out and upside down. Sloane could no longer sit back, passive. He needed to know why Branick had sent him the package, and his true identity. But meeting his father, Miguel Ibarón, had only widened the hole.

  “You used me, and your abuse killed my mother and all those people in the village that night. Because of me those men came and killed everyone, and they may just as well have killed me, because for the past thirty years I might as well have been dead.”

  “You had the power,” his father had said.

  “I was your son. You were supposed to be my father. You were supposed to protect me, to take care of me. But you used me to pursue your hatred and politics.”

  “God gave you a gift, a wonderful gift. You were the instrument to bring the people out of centuries of oppression and poverty. You were to deliver the Mexican people from so much misery, so much pain and suffering.”

  “And instead I’ve only caused them more.”

  AT QUARTER TO eleven, Sloane left a tip on the table under a saucer and walked through the Promenade to a black slate high-rise at the corner of Third Avenue and Wilshire Boulevard. He pulled open the glass doors and crossed the lobby. The guard standing behind a security console asked him for photo ID and slid a clipboard and pen at him. Then he picked up the phone.