Learning To Walk - A Soldier's Story by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 22

Within only a few days, the facts of my arrest had reached the media and became a high-profile case. This meant that my parents’ entire social circle would become aware of my circumstances. Knowing these people as I do, I was sure that they'd form their own opinions and judgments. After all, the jury of public opinion can often be far harsher than any court and, of course, the media would run it into the ground. By the end of the week, my parents had arrived at Norfolk with an attorney who specialized in military law from one of the top firms in Manhattan. A guard came to my cell to tell me I had visitors. This was not the way I wanted my parents to see me, dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit and hobbling out in chains. I stood up as the guard opened the door. His name was Allen. We had talked a bit over the last couple of days, and he quickly got the impression that I wasn't the kind of person who would give him a hard time. He instructed me to face the back wall as he entered the cell and as he walked up behind me, he spoke quietly.

"Your family's here," he said. "I'm not going to put the ankle chains on you this time, okay? I don't think you'd want your folks to see you like that." I turned my head toward him slightly.

"You have no idea how much I appreciate this," I replied. So instead of ankle chains, he wrapped a heavy leather belt around my waist and looped the handcuffs through a large 'D' ring in the front.

"This is the best I can do for you'," he said. "Thanks, Allen," I said. "I owe you one."

He walked me down a hallway lined with private rooms and stopped at the third or fourth door from the end. I would rather have been killed horribly in battle than face my parents like this. Allen opened the door. Its hinges made a creaking sound that filled the hallway with an almost unearthly shrill. The room was lit by a single fluorescent ceiling light. A wooden table sat beneath it, bolted to the floor with several chairs placed around it. I entered the room with several short steps, as had become my habit, given that my legs had grown accustomed to being shackled. Sitting directly across from the door, my mother suddenly brought her hands up, cupping them over her mouth. Her eyes welled up immediately as her expression fell into one of shock and emotional pain. My father, who always seemed to be in control over his emotions, sat looking at me with an expression that I can only describe as 'grave'. Allen closed the door behind me as I sat in the remaining chair. I had no idea where to begin and stared down at the table for a moment while slightly shaking my head. My eyes filled with tears as I looked up at my parents. There are moments in life that exist beyond what any words can express. The moments of birth and death are certainly among them, but the agonizing depth of shame is, without a doubt, an experience that seems to lay beyond description, much less any words of apology. "I'm sorry."

My voice choked as I quietly began sobbing. Unable to raise my hands, my head began drifting toward the table as my mother placed a hand on my shoulder in an attempt to comfort me. I had no more words. There was only despair that struck me with the suddenness of a tidal wave. My father reached over and put a hand on the back of my neck. "Clarence," he said. "We're going to get through this, alright?”

I could only nod my head as I continued sobbing. The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt my parents. Now, I had deeply scarred them and the pain they were being left with would never release them, and I had caused it.

My father continued to talk to me and eventually, I calmed down enough so I was able to think straight. "Clarence," he continued.

He motioned toward the man across from me. "This is Randall Oliver. He's going to be representing you." He stood up and leaned over the table, extending his hand. "Just call me Randall, okay Clarence?" he said. I stood and put my hand out as far as the handcuffs would allow.

"Thanks," I replied. "I'm sorry you have to go so far out of your way."

He shook my hand firmly.

"It's not a problem, Clarence," he said. "I'm going to do everything I can for you."

I found both his words and confidence comforting. I just wasn't sure his best effort would be enough. My mother still had her hands over her face and had begun slightly rocking back and forth. Her formidable qualities had been replaced by the pain at seeing her only child brought down to such an agonizing existence. In her mind, things couldn't possibly get any worse as she feared that my life would ebb away in an eternity behind bars.

Randall had obtained a copy of my case file and opening the folder, he skimmed over the charges as well as the list of items and reports being held as evidence. "They want to charge you with a war crime?" he said. "That's a bit extreme. We can have that thrown out for lack of evidence."

He continued reading the evidence list. "Let's see," he said. "What else are they trying to get away with?"

He turned back to the list of charges. "Murder one? I don't see how they can prove that."

"I don't understand," I said. "If you kill someone, isn't that murder?"

He looked up at me with a slight smile. "Actually, murder is a legal term. Bringing someone to trial for murder requires proof of intent. They have to prove it was carried out according to some predetermined plan. Without witness statements, the only evidence they have is circumstantial at best. I'm going to file for a mental competency exam."

My eyes widened in disbelief.

"I'm not crazy!" I said.

“Clarence,” my father said. "Just listen, okay?" How do you respond to the words 'mental competency exam'? I found myself deeply threatened by these words. Wasn't it enough that my life had spun out of control? Would I now have to deal with the possibility that I had lost my mind as well?

"Clarence," Randall said. "That's not how it works. You have to be competent to stand trial. Now, it's possible that we could plead not guilty by reason of insanity. They can't try you if your actions were the result of some kind of mental lapse. The problem is that it's almost impossible to prove."

"Alright," my father said. "What's the next step?" The only person who seemed to know what was going on was Randall. The rest of us had become observers to a process we would never begin to understand. "We can plead down to involuntary manslaughter and try to avoid a life sentence,” Randall began. “I know that twenty years is a long time, but you're young enough that you'll be able to get your life back on track." I couldn't believe what I was hearing; twenty years in prison? How would I survive that? I looked at my father, as though he might have some brilliant solution that would clear all of this up.

"Clarence," he said calmly. "You'll have your inheritance. You'll be able to start over."

I fell back in my chair with a deep sigh of resignation. "So, if I'm going to prison anyway," I began. "What's the point?"

Randall looked up with sudden concern. "Clarence," he said. "The military court system tends to be a lot harsher than civilian court. My job is to protect your rights and make sure that you get the lightest sentence possible. On paper, military law is very fair, but just like the government, damage control and image seem to be their biggest priorities and I don't want to see you turned into a victim of the military's 'good ole boys club', alright?" He closed the folder and slid it into a black leather bag. I had run out of words. The idea of spending the next twenty years of my life behind bars had effectively robbed me of my ability to understand it in the first place. I felt the floor tilt suddenly as the reality of my situation began to sink in. My father stood up and called to me. "Clarence?"

He put a hand on my shoulder in an attempt to steady me. "Clarence, are you okay?"

"Yeah," I answered.

I was far from okay and felt as though I was witnessing the end of the world. Or, maybe, it was the end of my world. "I'm fine."

Randall dug into his inside breast pocket and fished out a business card.

"If there's anything I can help you with, or if you just need to talk, call me," he said. "And reverse the charges, alright?"

I reached out and took the card from his fingers and stared at it for a few moments. It seemed odd that, at any point in my life, I would be in need of a criminal defense attorney. It just didn't seem real.

"Okay," I answered quietly.

I knew I wasn't a murderer, but would the military try to cover up what really happened in that settlement? Would they try to turn me into someone who had simply snapped? I suppose that many people crack under the stress of war, but most of them don't start shooting people in the head just because their principles had been violated.

My father looked at him with a puzzled expression. "So, that's it?" he asked.

"For now," Randall answered. "His pre-trial hearing has to be scheduled. The important thing is to keep this from going to trial. So, we have to come up with a plan for a plea agreement. The Army isn't going to want to spend a lot of time on a lengthy trial, especially when they don't have a witness."

My father nodded his head as I sat at the table, my mind still spinning from the reality that continued to tighten its grip on me.

"So, what's the next step?" my father asked. "Well," Randall began. "I have to file some paperwork and I'll have to get access to the evidence. It's going to take at least a couple of weeks to prepare for pre-trial, but I can do all of that from my office."

My father stood up and shook his hand. "Thanks for doing this, Randall."

"Hey, no problem," Randall replied. "I'll get back to you in a couple of weeks."

He turned to me, speaking in a reassuring tone. "Clarence, try not to worry, alright? And don't talk about your case with anyone, got it?"

The door creaked again as he left. My father was very confident of Randall's legal skills and described him as someone who could present any argument as though it was the word of God. The door closed behind him, leaving the room filled with an ear-shattering silence. I was so tired. The last ten minutes left me physically and emotionally exhausted and all I wanted was to sleep. Maybe I would wake at home and realize that this was all just a bad dream. I would get up, go to class and try to impress Gloria at the next dinner party. But, the feeling of cold steel against my wrists pulled me back from the doorway of denial. My mother's face had drawn itself down into an empty, lost expression. In truth, I’d never seen her look so old. My father was still at a loss for words and his expression had shifted from one of deep concern to one mixed with a degree of hopelessness. My mother reached out and grasped my hand. Her grip was gentle and warm, but there was something else I hadn't noticed before. Her skin had become thin and fragile, leading me to think that she might be getting old before her time. I had no doubt that my situation was doing neither of them any good, and I started to believe that I had failed my parents. There would never be a chance to make this right, to turn back the clock and start over, to make a different decision. While grasping my hand, she glanced down at the handcuffs. "Can't they take these things off for a little while?" she asked.

My father looked at her with deep concern. He didn't like to see her in pain and knew what my incarceration might do to her.

"No, mom," I answered. "They can't take them off." She began weeping again. She couldn't stand seeing her only child chained up like an animal and I wasn't about to tell her that my ankles were normally shackled as well. I held her hand as she continued crying. "Mom," I said weakly. "Everything's going to work out, alright?"

She sat looking down at my restrained hands while hopelessly shaking her head. None of us could be certain of the outcome of my case, but it was certain that I was not going to simply walk away. Every act carries consequences, but not knowing what those consequences are is the hardest part of going through the criminal justice system and waiting for those consequences can be as brutal as it is lengthy. But, I had plenty of time to wait.

As I tried unsuccessfully to comfort my mother during what was certainly the most painful moment of her life, my father interrupted with a gentle voice. "Clarence," he said. "I should your mother back to the hotel. I think a little rest would do her some good."

She slowly began to stand as I did my best to help her up. But as distraught as she was, she refused to leave and clutched my arm with both hands. "Mom," I said. "You have to let go, okay?" I looked up at my father helplessly, unable to release her grip. Leaving as I remained in custody violated her deepest maternal instincts and my father was forced to gently pull her away as she continued sobbing. "We'll be back tomorrow," he said.

He opened the door and slowly walked her out and down the hallway. I stepped through the doorway to watch them leave, only to be stopped by the guard. As they continued walking, I could hear my father trying to calm her. "Randall knows exactly what he's doing. He's the best there is."

The only thing I could do was watch. There wasn't anything that anyone could say to console her. If you think that being behind bars is hard, let me tell you, it's a lot harder for those on the outside - the people who care.

I slept for the rest of the day as well as that entire night. Not that I was that tired, I just needed to escape. As important as sleep is, being asleep for so many hours a day does not afford one any measure of existence and blotting out the world, regardless of how troubling it is, allows only for the symbolic reflection of dreams, the hazy mirror of the tragic reality that had become my life. But, dreams do not bring amnesia from intolerable circumstances. They hold us captive in the theater of our minds, playing out our wrongdoings and misguided deeds, turning our brains into a far more permanent prison, one that is truly inescapable. Rarely are things as bad as they seem. At other times, however, they can be unimaginably worse. It was this I was trying to hide from.

My parents arrived the next day. Randall had flown back to New York to begin working on my case. My mother was a bit more collected this time, but she clearly had not yet accepted the reality of my situation. I was, again escorted to one of the private rooms where my parents were already waiting. Allen had, once more, spared me the humiliation of shackled ankles. All the rooms seemed to be the same; one ceiling light, one table, bolted to the floor, and three or four wooden chairs. There were no windows and the walls were light beige. I sat down to, again, face my parents. I turned to my mother with a concerned expression. "Mom, are you okay?" I asked.

What a stupid question. She wasn't okay and chances were pretty good that she would never recover from my probable imprisonment. By this time, it was safe to say that we all had a good idea about how this would end.

There wasn't much in the way of conversation. We just sat there saying nothing.

"I've been doing some thinking about this," my father said. "If there were no witnesses, how could they prove that anything actually happened?"

There's a common saying in the military: If it didn't get documented, it never happened. I wondered if that might happen here. Maybe Randall could find a loophole or a precedent, something that might cast enough doubt on the military's case to warrant an acquittal. At this point, walking away on a technicality would be just fine with me. I looked up at my father curiously. "That's true," I replied. "What do you think they'll do?" My father gave it a few moments’ thought. "I don't know, Clarence," he answered. "I don't know a lot about the legal system."

I had a friend in college who was studying pre-law. He once told me that trial law and the real world rarely have anything in common and that anything can be made to seem true. An argument can be complete bullshit and yet be flawlessly logical. He said that this was called 'good lawyering'.

My mother raised her head and looked at me through reddened, tired eyes.

"Clarence," she began. "What happened over there?" Her words were quiet and conveyed a continued degree of exhaustion. My father's eyes suddenly shifted to her. "Katheryn," he said cautiously. "We talked about this, right?"

Her quiet tone suddenly turned to a piercing, yet muffled anger.

"Don't patronize me, Donald," she said. "I have the right to know what happened!"

She was never one to raise her voice, but the look in her eyes was as frightening as it was demanding. The thought then occurred to me that my mother may have reached an emotional tipping point. It would be tragic to see someone as strong and willful as my mother suddenly fall over the edge. My father, trying to contain his frustration, said, "Randall told us not to talk about it - especially here. If someone hears that conversation, it could jeopardize his case."

My mother wasn’t happy to hear this, but she knew he was right.

"Katheryn, we could have the upper hand here. We have to be careful and do exactly what Randall says, okay?"

My mother looked away toward an empty corner in silent protest. I understood how invested she was, but there are some things even a mother has no right to do. Interfering with her son's criminal case is definitely one of them. And in a military detention center, one never knows who else might be listening. My father looked back at me while trying to maintain his composure. "Is there anything we can send you?" he asked. "Yes," I began. "Did the Army send my things back to you?"

"Yes," he answered. "We got them about four or five days ago. Was there something specific you wanted?" The Army had sent everything back to the states except my dress uniform. I would have to wear that when I appeared in court.

"Can you send the books back to me?"

"Sure," my father answered. "Which ones?" I wasn't so much interested in reading all of them, but the note from Gloria was stuck between the pages of one of them and I couldn't remember which. "All of them," I answered.

"Sure," he said. "Will they let you have books?" Up to this point, all they allowed me to have was a few magazines, but with good behavior comes rewards and allowances. I could now read anything I wanted. However, all incoming mail was x-rayed for the presence of 'restricted items'. Not that I was expecting to get a file disguised as a book, but the rules are in place for a reason. "Yeah," I answered. "I can read whatever I want now." I tried to stretch things out by asking a few trivial questions, anything to get them to stay, but the room had grown quiet to the point of being painful. We spent most of the time we were given glancing down at the table. My father, at some point, looked up at me and said that Gloria had been asking about me. This was before I had been taken into custody.

"Please, dad," I begged. "Please don't tell her about this."

"Well, what should we tell her?" he asked. I hadn't thought that Gloria might start asking questions, given that I really didn't know what her feelings were. "Tell her that what I'm doing is classified," I answered. Yes, what I had been doing was largely classified. I just wasn't doing it anymore.

"Tell her I'm fine. I don't want her to know what's going on."

Gloria wouldn't be asking about me if she wasn't thinking of me, to some degree. I guess it was nice to know that, but she would eventually find out that I was likely on my way to prison. I had no idea if she should know now, or find out on her own. If the media ran my case into the ground -- and I was certain they would -- it would be all over the internet and was probably already being picked up by news stations. It wouldn't be right to let her find out that way. I just didn't know how to tell her.

Time dragged on as my father glanced at his watch, then over at my mother who looked back at him with tired eyes. "Clarence," he began. "We have a plane to catch in the morning, so we should probably go." I swallowed hard and tried to hold back my emotions, but my eyes gave me away as they welled up, sending tears down my face. I just wanted all of it to go away.

A philosopher once asked, 'Are we the dreamer of our dreams, or merely the dream of another?' I don't remember who said it, but I was beginning to question my sanity. The only thing that seemed to anchor me to the real world was books. But, sometimes that wasn't enough and occasionally, I'd feel my thoughts become cloudy. Maybe my mind was simply looking for a dark corner to hide in, far from the cell I was forced to occupy. Now, just as the day before, my parents left in a state of emotional ruin. My father looked back as though he would never see me again. My mother was, once again, beyond consoling. They promised to write often, although I was certain they would be at a loss for words. After all, what does one say to someone who's spending time behind bars? The words 'Hope you're doing well'seems ridiculous under the circumstances, but they tried, nonetheless, to keep their words light and brief.

During the following week, I contacted Randall by phone asking him to send me a copy of everything connected with my case. Not that I was planning on representing myself, but my mind needed something to do other than reading books and I thought that being a bit involved might help to keep me grounded to reality. Up to this point, everything taking place, legally speaking, was being done by phone, but it wasn't long before my arraignment date arrived. I stood next to Randall in my dress uniform as my case was called by docket number. I was not aware of it previously, but in spite of having a private attorney, courts-martial proceedings required that I have a military defense team assigned to my case. However, Randall was the one who made the decisions. I was not to say a single word or express any emotions. My parents had also arrived and sat directly behind me as the charges were read. A plea agreement was expected and Randall asked the murder charge be thrown out in exchange for voluntary manslaughter. The military prosecutor would have nothing to do with it and wanted me tried for murder on the grounds that the gunshot wounds that killed the two marines resembled an execution. It was, however, discovered that the round found in the sergeant's body had come from one of the marine's sidearm. I guess I wasn't being blamed for everything. A trial date was set and I would be brought before courts-martial and charged with first-degree murder, manslaughter, conspiracy to commit murder as well as several assault charges. Randall contained his reaction until we could meet privately. I was terrified.

We sat across from each other in a private room back at the detention center. My parents sat listening intently. "I don't know what they think they're doing," Randall said. "Clarence, they can't prove any of this." He sat studying my case file.

"The best they can hope to do is manslaughter."

"What does that mean?" my father asked. "Manslaughter means that there isn't the intent to kill," Randall answered.

"I'm going to file another petition for evidence. There's something about this that doesn't make sense. Realistically, based on the evidence, you should be released." Randall was beginning to wonder if the prosecution was withholding critical evidence and planned to petition directly to the judge.

"I'll bet they're holding something back," he continued. "The prosecution knows that we can only build our case on the evidence we have. You'd think they'd know better."

"I don't understand," I said.

Randall paused and looked up at me from the pages of my file.

"Okay, let's say that they're holding back evidence," he replied. "They could bring it up at the last moment and use it to manipulate the jury into a guilty verdict. Now, we can't call evidence into question if we don't have access to it and if they present it without giving us a chance to examine it first, then we can move for a mistrial. That would mean a retrial and the military doesn't like to have its time wasted." My parents tried hard to understand, but none of us knew anything about the legal system, much less trial law. "So why would they do that?" my father asked. Randall let out a deep sigh as he considered the possibilities.

"Maybe they just want a conviction. Reputations are built on success and any lawyer wants to have a good track record. Or, maybe it's political. Our fearless leader just got us into a war. They may be trying to make an example of you in order to keep everybody in check, as a means of control. The military overseas has internet access too and they're going to read about this. Who knows? Maybe the military wants to use this case as a warning, to scare people into following the rules. All they need is a guilty verdict and 'murder' is a very strong word."

"What do his military lawyers think of this idea?" my father asked.

"Well," Randall answered. "I'm in charge of his defense team, so I have to confer with them. But, I'm going to handle the petition for evidence myself. They won't like being kept in the dark about this, but I don't want to end up doing damage control because one of them might not be able to keep their mouth shut. I guess I just don't trust these guys."

Later that day, Randall met in chambers with the judge as well as the lead prosecutor. His plan was to appeal directly to the judge, forcing a confrontation with the prosecution in order to prompt them to share any evidence they may be withholding. His instincts were right on target. The prosecution had been holding back evidence they planned on presenting to the jury. What they had could have changed the entire direction of my case and each member of the prosecution team received a documented reprimand for attempting to subvert justice. The judge was furious and warned them of the consequences of a mistrial. Randall was able to secure a photograph taken at the settlement shortly after I had been taken into custody. A forty-five caliber round had also been recovered from the skull of one of the dead marines. The rifling marks on the round matched the barrel of my sidearm. The photograph showed a row of Afghani settlers lying dead along the back wall of the stone building. It was exactly as I remembered it. One of the marines lay stretched out on his back, a stream of blood running away from his head and across the sand. The infant, its skin having turned a dingy yellow, lay half clothed with its eyes staring lifelessly at a cloudless blue sky. In the background were a few survivors cowering against the wall, their faces etched with terror and grief. I only saw the photograph at a glance during my meeting with Randall. It's amazing how much detail you can see in such a brief period of time. But, it still wasn't enough for a murder charge. There was no escaping a conviction, but what Randall wanted was a conviction on the less serious charge of involuntary manslaughter and redesigned my defense, accounting for this new evidence. A trial date was set. All I had to do was wait. My parents would undoubtedly be there for moral support, but in the end, it would be between Randall and the jury. He would have to convince them that I had no plans to kill anyone.