High Crimes

“Your Honor,” Claire said, “we’ve already made our position known on whether we are prepared. We are not. We are absolutely not prepared, because of assurances given us that this trial would not begin for another three weeks.”

Farrell jabbed a stubby index finger at her. “I said, are you prepared for voir dire?”

“If you’re going to force us to proceed,” Claire said acidly, “we will conduct voir dire to the best of our ability.”

“All right,” Farrell said. “I will give you two hours to frame your questions for the members. As the lunch hour is almost upon us, this would be an appropriate time to take that break.”

And he slammed down his gavel.

33

“Is the government prepared to make an opening statement?” Judge Farrell asked.

Waldron stood. “Yes, sir.”

This came after several hours of voir dire of the panel members. The jury. After several challenges for cause on both sides, and two peremptory challenges, it came down to two women and four men who would decide Tom’s fate. The most senior member, a lieutenant colonel, became the president of the jury, equivalent to the foreman. He was a light-skinned black man with steel-rimmed aviator glasses. He sat in the center of the front row of the jury box, the next most senior to his right, the second most senior to his left, and so on. They were an unremarkable group, and they watched the proceedings with rapt attention. Each of them had top-secret clearance, and could be relied upon to maintain absolute secrecy.

Waldron started softly, his voice almost incantatory. Claire had expected a booming, stentorian beginning. Waldron, however, was too clever.

“On 22 June 1985, in the tiny village of La Colina, not far from San Salvador, eighty-seven people were awakened from their sleep and slaughtered like farm animals.”

He had the jury members’ complete attention. They wrote nothing: the judge had instructed them that opening statements weren’t evidence and they shouldn’t take notes. They watched Waldron slowly approach the jury box and stand still in front of them.

“These eighty-seven people were not soldiers. They were not combatants. They were not rebels. They had nothing to do with the battles then raging in the country. They were men, women, and children — innocent civilians.

“And these innocent civilians were massacred not by some warring faction, not by soldiers of the El Salvador government, or by rebels or guerrillas.

“They were slaughtered by one American soldier.

“You heard me right: by one American soldier.

“One.

“And not in the heat of battle. Not by accident. But for the thrill of it.”

Claire looked at Grimes, who shook his head. Don’t object as to motive, he was saying. Not now. Don’t call attention to it. Not yet.

“How could this possibly have happened?” Waldron bowed his head as if in deep thought. He bit his upper lip. “Several hours earlier, a top-secret unit of the U.S. Army Special Forces, Detachment 27, was ordered to secure this village and determine whether the intelligence reports they had received were right — to see whether there were antigovernment rebels in hiding there.

“In fact, there were none. The intelligence, as often happens in wartime, was wrong.”

He shrugged.

“And Detachment 27, under the able leadership of Colonel William Marks — now chief of staff of the army — made this determination. They prepared to return to their base at Ilopango.

“And then, suddenly, without warning, someone began to fire his weapon. A machine gun. An M-60. To fire this machine gun on the innocent villagers.”

Claire turned to whisper to Tom and saw tears streaming down his face. She took his hand and squeezed it tight.

“You will hear from two members of the unit, Colonel James Hernandez, the executive officer, and Staff Sergeant Henry Abbott, who saw this man.” Waldron turned slowly and walked to the defense table. He pointed directly at Tom. “Sergeant First Class Ronald M. Kubik. They saw him raise his machine gun and point it at the eighty-seven villagers, who were lined up in four rows, and begin mowing them down.

“They saw the villagers, who had no weapons, beg for mercy. They saw them scream.

“And they saw Sergeant First Class Kubik, while machine-gunning these eighty-seven civilians, smile.”

Waldron turned back to the jury, a puzzled expression on his face. “He smiled.”

Tom shook his head. He was still weeping silently. He whispered to Claire: “How can he lie like that?”

“The commanding officer, General William Marks, was unable, despite his best efforts, to stop this atrocity.”

The panel members did not move. They watched in fascination. One of them had placed her index finger on her lips. The court reporter, a weary-looking middle-aged black woman with a floral shawl over her shoulders, softly ticked away at her machine.

“Two members of that unit will tell us about this horrible night. So will the commanding officer.