Free Murder at the Pentagon by Margaret Truman Page B

military post in America, it was where, on July 7, 1865, four men were hanged for their conspiracy in the assassination of President Lincoln, and where the body of John Wilkes Booth was secretly buried until removed two years later. These days, its stately grounds housed the National War College, the armed forces’ most prestigious training center for senior military officers.
    “Will I have a chance to talk to Captain Cobol before tomorrow’s press conference?” Margit asked.
    “That was part of the plan when the announcement was to be made—on Thursday. I don’t want to rush you out there. If you’re asked whether you’ve conferred with the accused, say that you will be doing that within the next forty-eight hours.”
    Margit said, “I’ll have to take a close look at what evidence against Cobol Command has accumulated. By the way, who is Command in this case?” She was referring to the concept under the Uniform Code of Military Justice in which the commander in whose jurisdiction a crime has been committed assumes ultimate responsibility for the prosecution and defense of an accused.
    Bellis said, “The chairman himself.”
    “If the chairman of the Joint Chiefs is the commander under which this court-martial takes place, that creates a conflict of interest for me.” She waited for a response. When Bellis said nothing, she added, “Doesn’t it?”
    “How so?”
    “Well, the UCMJ spells it out pretty clearly that defense counsel is not to be drawn from the command in which the crime took place.”
    “Right, Major, but you aren’t assigned to the Joint Chiefs. You’re assigned to SecDef.”
    “I suppose you’re technically correct, Colonel, but it does seem to be splitting hairs.”
    He shook his head. “No, I’ve run this past the Chiefs’staff judge advocate. He’s overseeing this for the chairman and sees no conflict.”
    “I just thought I’d raise it,” Margit said.
    “That’s why we’re sitting here. Raise anything and everything you want. Let’s just make sure we’re not cutting each other’s legs off at the conference.”
    Margit asked, “To what extent am I to participate in tomorrow’s conference?”
    “As little as possible. I’ve prepared a statement that includes you in it, your military background, legal training, qualifications to undertake the defense of Cobol, all the things the assembled will want to hear.”
    She hesitated before saying, “Including the fact that I am a relatively new military attorney and have never tried a murder case before?”
    “I don’t intend to make a point of that. No need to. You have defended in military courts. Period. If the question comes up, answer it truthfully, but keep in mind that while you’re the attorney-of-record, you’ll have the support of my entire staff. If you need more than that, we’ll arrange for you to go out and get it.”
    They spent the next hour forecasting and examining every detail that might arise at the conference. Bellis handed Margit a folder containing Cobol’s military records. “Familiarize yourself with what’s in there before tomorrow,” he said.
    That meant some heavy reading that night. She’d already packed into her briefcase as much legal background as she could find to help prepare a credible defense for an accused murderer in the military system of justice. What she really wanted to do was to bolt from Bellis’s office, from the building itself, and run to Mackensie Smith, sit at his feet, and soak in his wisdom as she’d done so many times as a student. But she knew she couldn’t do that. He’d been generous with his time on Saturday, listening mostly, asking questions, probing her feelings, assuring her that she had what it took to face the challenge of defending an accused murderer. When she was leaving, he encouraged her to talk things outwith him at any time. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—take advantage.
    It was quarter to three. Fifteen more minutes with Bellis, then back