Imelda and Allie stared at me, then glanced at each other, then started shaking their heads.

“Sean, look,” Allie said. “In the first place, nobody knew about the timing or nature of our protest. Katherine filed it under false pretenses.”

I said, “The police knew about the demonstration. The mayor’s office informed them. Maybe they figured out its real purpose.”

She said, “Second, the men who fired on the crowd were police officers. How could they be members of this anti-American group?”

I said, “Did you watch the ’88 Olympics on TV?”

They both shook their heads.

“The ’88 Olympics were held here, in Seoul. It was a grand moment for the Koreans, a coming-out party, an international tribute to everything they’d accomplished. So it’s the opening-day ceremony. The stadium is packed with a hundred thousand local spectators holding these tiny national flags in their hands. The American teams come marching out, and, I kid you not, nearly the entire stadium stood and booed. A while later, the Russian team marched out, and nearly the entire stadium got to their feet and cheered.”

Allie said, “I can’t believe that. We’re allies.”

“I know. Here’s the Russians, the same guys who put Kim Il Sung in place, who were completely responsible for the attack on South Korea, who fed and armed North Korea for fifty years, and they cheered them. And here’s our guys, representing the country that lost thirty-five thousand lives saving their asses, and then spent countless billions of dollars to protect them over the next fifty years, and they give us the Bronx cheer.”

Allie said, “It doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s a paradox. But I know this: They’re tired of having American troops on their soil. They’re tired of being dependent on another country. They’re tired of being told what to do by Americans. They don’t trust our motives for being here, and frankly our motives are damned hard to explain, even to ourselves. I mean, what does Korea offer the U.S.? Immigrants, and cheap electronics, and cars that American workers would rather manufacture themselves, right?”

Allie leaned up against the blackboard. “And you think they’d kill Americans to drive us out?”

There was a television running in the corner and just at that moment CNN switched to a live broadcast of the Secretary of State climbing off a long, sleek U.S. Air Force 747. He looked like a former general as he came down the stairs, shoulders squared, back erect. He looked grim, too, like he wasn’t the least bit happy to be here.

At the bottom of the aircraft steps the president of Korea waited to meet him. Normal protocol would be for the foreign minister, his direct equal, to be there to handle the reception. This was a sign of how serious things were. He and the South Korean president pointedly didn’t shake hands. This was a sign of the mood.

The story cut back to a correspondent in Washington who was interviewing a florid, angry-looking gay congressman from Massachusetts.

“Representative Merrigold, do you really believe your troop withdrawal bill has any chance of passing?”

“Damn right I do,” he yapped. “I’ve already got enough support to get it on the House floor. And I’m picking up more support by the hour. Let me tell you something. Let me tell all of America something. This is no longer about gays, ladies and gentlemen. Forget their sexual preference, those were Americans murdered on that street. If the Republic of Korea won’t protect our citizens, why in the hell should we protect theirs? If they continue with this cover-up, every last American soldier will be out of that country by the end of the month. We’ll send Federal Express to pick up our equipment later.”

There was another cutback to an attractive anchorwoman who was struggling to look appropriately severe and apprehensive. “And so the Secretary of State has been sent by the President to try to salvage whatever he can out of a situation that all commentators agree is virtually hopeless. The death toll in Korea has now reached fifteen. Four of the wounded are still listed in critical condition. The Republic of Korea continues to insist that its police officers were provoked by sniper fire from the protesters, while sources on the Hill say chances a troop withdrawal bill will pass are excellent.”

Imelda went over and turned off the television. We got back to work.

CHAPTER 29

What Katherine was attempting was actually very clever. And ballsy, too. Moran and Jackson were being held in the Yongsan Holding Facility and Katherine faxed a request for Colonel Barry Carruthers to issue a judge’s order to allow us to interview them.

Why was this clever? Because we now had valid reason to suspect Bales and Choi had coerced the two men into testifying against our client. I had courageously sacrificed my own body to make that discovery. See what a noble guy I am?

The reason it was a ballsy move was because they were both listed as witnesses for the prosecution, and thus, technically, our first chance to speak with them should come in the courtroom, during cross.

But Katherine slyly justified her request on the basis that Moran and Jackson, aside from our own client, were the only living witnesses to what happened inside that apartment, and we therefore deserved an equal chance to determine whether their testimonies might be beneficial to our client. This might sound specious at this late stage in the game, but speciousness is what American law’s all about.

Fast Eddie opposed the request in the strongest possible language. With the strength of his case, you’d think he’d cut us a little slack, but Eddie never took prisoners. Therefore Carruthers responded that he wanted to meet with Katherine to hear her logic. Protocol required me to accompany her.

Imelda actually wasn’t happy about that. Her game plan was to keep Katherine and me separated. She knew Katherine and I were hormonally destined to eternal conflict.

Anyway, the two of us were standing outside the door that led into Colonel Barry Carruthers’s office. We were both pacing nervously. Actually, Katherine was pacing, while she quietly rehearsed her logic. I was limping on a cane and quietly cursing, because my body was aching to be back in that wheelchair. I just didn’t want the judge’s first impression of me to be in that contraption, like I was crippled. I wanted him to see me with a cane, like I was only partly crippled. That’s how macho logic works.

The judge’s secretary, who’d flown over here with him, was strenuously buffing her nails and ignoring us. We were defense attorneys, after all – her boss’s well-known disdain for our breed was infectious.

She glanced up occasionally to inspect a small blinking red light on her telephone. Finally it died. This was the signal that the judge was free and Katherine and I could enter. She gave us a glacial nod, and we trod fretfully into the lion’s den.

The first thing I noticed was that the room was dark. Really, really dark. The shades were tightly drawn, as were the curtains, so that the only light came from a small desk bulb that illuminated only the figure it was directed at – the judge.

The second thing I noticed was that Barry Carruthers was what you might call a visually imposing man. He’d once been a left tackle for Notre Dame, and he’d gotten meaner-looking since then. He was Black, and by that I mean ebony black, with a big, broad face and thick, bushy eyebrows. Everything else was sharp angles – angled nose, angled eyes, angled lips. His face looked like it could slice you to ribbons. A human stiletto.

He was wearing an Army green short-sleeved shirt, and you knew the instant you laid eyes on him the man pumped some serious iron, because his sleeves were precariously tight around his brawny biceps. One flex and he’d have to make a hasty trip to the Post Exchange for a new shirt.