15 AUGUST

OFFICERS’ HOUSING

QUANTICO MCB, VIRGINIA

“Military police,” a voice shouted through the closed door over the loud pounding on the door.  “Open up in there!”

The solitary man sitting at his desk stared down at his hands, his expression blank, acting as if he didn’t even hear the demands to open the door, the pounding on the door.  He didn’t even flinch, showed absolutely no sign of visible reaction as the door was broken in, armed MPs fanning out.

“Drop the weapon,” one shouted, aiming his gun at the man’s head.  When there was no response, he motioned to his partner to cover him as he slowly inched forward until he was close enough to reach out and lift the gun from the man’s opened hands without so much as a look.  “Malloy, check upstairs.”

“Aye, Sergeant,” Malloy called out as he headed up the stairs, his weapon held at the ready.  The upper floor was quiet; the thud of his foots against the hardwood floor the only sound.  Cautiously, he approached the first door, easing his gun through the partway-open door.  Slowly, he followed, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.  It was a child’s room, filled with stuff animals and toys.  A small girl lay, apparently peacefully, close to one edge of the bed in the center of the room, the covers kicked off.  Noticing no visible sign of injury, he sighed inwardly in relief as he made out the steady rise and fall of her chest.

Slowly, he backed out of the room and made his way down the hall to the other room, his grip tightening on his gun as he looked into the room through the wide open door.  At first glance, the woman in the queen-sized bed appeared to simply be asleep, until Malloy’s eyes adjusted and he noticed the dark splotches on the light colored sheets.  Easing forward, he already knew what he would find, but he pressed his fingers to her neck anyway.

Unclipping his radio from his belt, he turned it on and said in a quiet voice, “Sergeant Jones, this is Malloy.  I’ve got a dead woman up here – one, maybe two gunshot wounds, probably shot while she slept.  Estimate about thirty years of age.  There’s a young girl in the other room, maybe eight to ten years of age, who appears to be unharmed.  She seems to be sleeping peacefully.”

Jones removed his handcuffs from his belt and, holstering his gun while another MP covered, he yanked the man to his feet, handcuffing his wrists behind his back without the slightest hint of resistance.  He passed the man off to two MPs to be taken out to the car.  “Radio HQ,” he ordered.  “Inform them we need an ambulance to transport a victim to the morgue.  And we need to arrange for a foster family for a young girl.  Mother deceased, father being taken in on suspicion of murder.” 

16 SEPTEMBER

JAG HEADQUARTERS

“Let’s get started people,” AJ ordered as everyone settled back into their chairs.  He dropped several files on the table in front of him and took his own seat at the head of the table.  “Shelly Donaldson was found shot to death in the on-base quarters at Quantico she shared with her husband.  The husband, a Major Jefferson Donaldson, called base police to report the crime covered in his wife’s blood and was holding the murder weapon when the MPs arrived.  The staff judge advocate’s office at Quantico is a little overwhelmed due to all those drug cases they’re trying to process, so I said we’d take this one.”

He glanced around the table before settling his gaze on Lauren.  She tried not to look too expectant.  She suspected she was being watched closely and had tried to take what Harm had said to heart.  It wasn’t easy going against instinct, but AJ had seemed considering her more and more for higher profile cases, especially after whatever had happened with Sturgis.  She wasn’t sure of all the details and had tried to tell herself that it wasn’t any of her business, but her curiosity had gotten the best of her after Harm had shown up for work a while back looking like he’d gone 10 rounds with both Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield. 

But instead of being glad that Sturgis’ problems had led AJ to lighten his caseload – which led to a few extra cases for her as well as Harm and Mac – she found herself thinking about what he had done.  She might have been in the military and she’d received her expert rifleman and pistol ribbons, because she wouldn’t let herself achieve any less, but she couldn’t imagine actually holding a gun in her hands, pointing it at another human being and pulling the trigger.  Even during the mess in Norfolk, she’d been content to let Harm and Mac be the ones with weapons in their hands.  While a part of her was disgusted at the sudden introspection, another part was patting herself on the back for trying to think about others.

“Lieutenant, I want you to prosecute this one,” he said, sliding a folder across the table towards her.  She took it and set it on top of the stack already in front of her.  “Commander Turner, I want you sit second chair.”

Sturgis nodded.  As much as he was being assigned to provide a guiding hand for Lauren, he knew that AJ still had concerns about him taking on too much while he was still dealing with the events surrounding the transport of Commander Connor.  In a way, he was even grateful.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to sit first chair in the prosecution of a man alleged to have shot his wife to death.  It still hit a little too close to home.

Another folder was pushed towards Harm.  “The civilian attorney Donaldson had retained had a family emergency come up, so he and his client mutually agreed that Donaldson would request military counsel, so Commander, you’ll defend,” AJ ordered.  “Your client is sitting at the brig at the Navy Yard.  No room at the inn in Quantico.”

Finally, he turned to Mac.  “I’m going to be in and out of the office this week,” he said, passing over the rest of the folders in front of him.  “The Pentagon wants JAG input on the legalities of possibly going to war with Iraq.  In the meantime, you’ll be in charge when I’m not here.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, accepting the folders with an inward groan.  She hoped they wouldn’t be anything more than reports that needed to be signed off on.  She already had her own pile of cases on her desk.

“That will be all, people,” AJ said in dismissal.  Lauren quickly cornered Sturgis to begin working on their prosecution while Harm and Mac walked out together.

“We still on for dinner tonight?” Harm asked quietly as they walked towards the bullpen.

“You sure you still want to cook?” she replied, just as quietly.  Although they weren’t really hiding it, they didn’t go out of their way to broadcast their still-new romantic relationship.  If asked, they weren’t going to lie.  They just weren’t going to announce it at staff call either.  “You’ve got a big case to prepare, if what I’ve been hearing on the news is any indication.”

“If what I’ve been hearing on the news is any indication,” he countered, “it’s a slam dunk case – for the other side.  The man was covered in her blood, holding the gun when the police arrived and claims not to remember what happened that night.  Unless I find something in mitigation, the trial is probably simply a matter of the members determining how long he goes to Leavenworth for.”

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up already,” she teased.  “I wouldn’t want to have to call you on the carpet for not vigorously defending your client.”

He leaned closer, his mouth near her ear.  “As I recall, you have a fondness for the carpet,” he whispered, delighting in the pink color tingeing her cheeks before he strolled off to sign out a government vehicle from Harriet, whistling ‘Anchor’s Away.’ 

1 HOUR LATER

WASHINGTON NAVAL YARD BRIG

Harm studied the man in the grey jumpsuit being escorted in by two Marine guards, his hands shackled in front of him.  Major Jefferson Donaldson.  Academy graduate.  Went the Marine route because that’s what his grandfather had done.  A distinguished career in Force Recon, including a Bronze Star during Desert Storm.  Every fitrep ever written on the man had spoken of a dedicated Marine who never caused trouble and looked out for the officers and enlisted serving below him.  A man who had never given any indication that he was even capable of pumping two bullets into his wife while she slept.

“As you were, Major,” Harm said, taking a seat the one end of the table in the center of the room, snapping open his briefcase, pulling out a legal pad and pen while one of the guards removed Donaldson’s shackles and pushed him, not exactly in a gentle manner, into the other chair at the table.  Harm gave the guards a hard glare.  His client was hardly acting in a threatening manner.  “That will be all.”

Harm took a moment while he was getting organized to surreptitiously study the man in front of him.  He looked, while not exactly the stereotypical picture of the rough, cigar-chomping devil dog Marine, physically fit enough to hold his own in battle.  His blond hair was trimmed in a buzz cut, the light color a stark contrast to his tanned skin tone.  But his clear blue eyes were what struck Harm the most.  Donaldson looked confused, for lack of a better term.  His expression held the look of a man not entirely sure where he was or how he got there.

“Major, I’m Commander Harmon Rabb,” Harm introduced himself, holding out his hand.  Donaldson took it, surprising Harm with the weakness of his grip.  “I’ll be your defense attorney.  I’d like to start by getting your version of what happened the night of 15 August.”

“I’m not sure how much I can tell you, Commander,” Donaldson said wearily, rubbing his forehead.  “I don’t remember a lot of that night.”

“Just tell me what you can remember,” Harm encouraged him, making notes on his impressions of his client.  Confused, as if not sure of anything.  Seems weary and tired.   He wasn’t angrily defending himself, nor was he throwing himself on the mercy of the court.  If Harm didn’t know better, he’d swear the other man didn’t care what happened to himself.  “The day was a Thursday.  Were you at work during the day?  What time did you arrive home?”

“I spent half a day at work,” Donaldson recalled, searching his memory.  “I had a doctor’s appointment that afternoon.”

“For what?” Harm asked, making another note on his pad – Medications?  He underlined it twice, remembering seeing the Early Bird briefs on the situation at Ft. Bragg.  He glanced at the case file, noting that Donaldson had returned from Afghanistan at the beginning of the summer.  Look into that malaria drug with possible ties to the Ft. Bragg case.

“My back,” he replied.  “I was involved in an truck accident while I was deployed and I have a herniated disk.  It doesn’t look that bad on the MRI, but it is causing a lot of pain, so the doctor has been trying some different medications to try to dull the pain.”

“I’ll need a list of any medications you’ve been on in the last couple of months,” Harm said.  He stole another look at the file.  A blood sample had been taken the night of the shooting, but the report only made a note that there was no alcohol in Donaldson’s system.  It didn’t say anything about being screened for drugs, legal or otherwise.  Check with lab on whether blood screen for drugs.  If so, get complete report.  If not, have blood screen for drugs and compare to the list of prescription drugs.

“I can give you the name of the doctor at the clinic,” he said.  “He can tell you what he’s prescribed.  I don’t remember all the names.  I didn’t think to ask to bring the medication with me to the brig and my back hasn’t been bothering me, so I didn’t see the need.”

Harm took a form out of his briefcase, filled in some information and passed it to Donaldson.  “I need you to sign this release to authorize my obtaining your medical records and talking to your doctors,” he explained.  Donaldson barely glanced at the form before signing it, his hand slightly trembling, and passing it back to Harm.  Harm noticed and noted his theory on his pad.  Possible withdrawal from medication?   He needed to get that list of medications. 

Then Harm began having second thoughts.  Donaldson had been in the brig for a month, more than long enough to get over any withdrawal from his medication.  There was something he was missing, but how much of an impact it would have on his case, he couldn’t begin to say.

He looked at his list of interview questions to orient himself, then continued.  “What time did you get home from your doctor’s appointment?” he asked.

Donaldson thought for a moment, then replies slowly, “Around 1700, I think …. no, I’m sure.  My daughter has Brownies after school on Thursdays and Shell returned from picking her up a few minutes after I got home.”

Harm checked the file – Stacey Donaldson, age nine.  Home at the time of her mother’s death, but in bed when the MPs arrived.  He looked further and discovered there was no report of a silencer on the gun, nor any indication a pillow had been used to muffle the shots.  Did she actually sleep through her mother being shot twice or did she hear and was too scared to leave her bed?  She was old enough that if she had heard something, she might have feared for her own life and burrowed into bed until she deemed it safe – or until the MPs got her out of bed.  According to the MP report, she had been placed with a foster family on base when her father was arrested.  He made a note to arrange a time to talk to her, perhaps with the assistance of a psychologist. 

“So you arrived home about 1700 and your wife and daughter a few minutes later,” Harm repeated.  Donaldson thought for a moment, then nodded.  Seems unsure, as if he’s forgotten what he just told me.  “So what happened next?”

“I went to lie down ….” he replied, pausing.  “Yes.  I was sore from the doctor’s poking and prodding and the physical therapy.  I told Shell to go ahead and fix something for herself and Stacey for dinner, that I would get some leftovers later.”

“Did you get up at some point?” Harm asked.

“No,” he said.  “At some point, Shell came upstairs.  Wait …. Stacey was with her.  They wanted to see how I was.  Stacey started bouncing on the bed and I yelled at Shell to get her out of there.  The shaking of the bed was making my back hurt more.”

“Did you take any medication for your back at any time that evening?”

“Yes,” he said without elaboration.

“What did you take?” Harm pressed.  “Something over the counter, a prescription, what?”

“A prescription,” Donaldson replied, rubbing his forehead.  “But I don’t remember the name of it.  My doctor had rattled off some technical explanation when he prescribed it a few days earlier, something about depressing neuro …. something or another in my brain.  Something about increasing my tolerance to pain.” 

“So you took some pills,” Harm said.  “Did you get up or did your wife bring them to you?”

“Shell brought them,” he recalled.  “We argued …. well, not really argued.  Shell is very much into herbs and natural healing.  She would have to be on death’s …. on ….”  He broke off, turning his head away as he struggled to compose himself.  After a few moments, he turned back around, his eyes obviously red.  “She would have to be really sick before she would go to a doctor.  And she thought I was taking too many pills for my back.  I told her, I guess you could say I snapped, that she had no idea how much pain I was in.  She got me a glass of water and a pill then said she was going downstairs to watch TV.”

“Did you go to sleep?” Harm asked.

“I guess I fell asleep at some point,” he said, “because I don’t remember Shell coming to bed.  But I couldn’t fall asleep right away.  I felt like I was going to crawl out of my skin.  I couldn’t get comfortable ….”

Could the pain have caused him to snap?  Donaldson had never denied that he had committed the crime, had just said that he couldn’t remember doing it.  Harm was beginning to see the beginnings of a case for mitigation taking shape.  Although he had no doubt that his client had killed his wife, he had a feeling that he hadn’t meant to kill his wife, and not in the sense that he wanted to kill her at the time and was remorseful only after the fact.  Something had pushed him to it.  Harm felt it in his gut and his gut was seldom wrong.  Just to make sure, he’d do a search for any reports of domestic incidents between the Donaldsons, but he didn’t think the answer would lie there.  It didn’t feel like truth.  See about a psych consult.

“What’s the next thing you remember?” Harm asked while making himself a list of things to do in the case.

Donaldson’s gaze took on a dreamy, faraway look.  “It was dark outside,” he said as if in a trance.  “I could hear a dog barking outside somewhere.  There was something warm and sticky and wet on my hands and my pajamas felt like they were sticking to me.  Then I looked down and I saw it.  I realized that it was so cold, so heavy in my hands.  It was just there, in my hand.”  He looked down at his hands, as if he was seeing the events of that night again in his mind.  “I picked up the phone and called 911.  I didn’t know, but I knew it had to be bad.”

Harm took the moments while Donaldson composed himself again to read the initial response report from the MPs.  When they had arrived, Donaldson had been sitting in a desk chair in one corner of the living room, staring at the gun in his hands.  He hadn’t even looked up when the MPs had broken down the locked front door, their guns drawn.  He hadn’t resisted when, after an MP had gone upstairs and found Shelly Donaldson lying in bed in a pool of her own blood, handcuffs had been slapped on him and he was read his rights.  In fact, according to the reporting officer, the only words Donaldson had spoken that night were to ask one of the MPs if they were going to find someone to look after his daughter since he and his wife had no family in the area.

“Commander?” Donaldson asked quietly.  Harm jerked his head up, his gaze settling on his client.  “Sir, I want to know what happened to Shell.  The MPs tell me that I took my service weapon and fired two bullets into my wife.  But sir, I don’t remember and I can’t think of a single reason why I would do that to Shell.  She’s …. Commander, she could light up a room just by walking into it.  She was the one who kept everything organized when I would come down on orders.  We’ve lived in six different places in three countries in the ten years we’ve been married and she never once complained.  Why ….?”

Harm decided to conclude the interview, sensing he wasn’t going to get anything else useful out of this interview.  But he did have enough questions whose answers might help him formulate a strategy and find the answers that Donaldson sounded so desperate to find.

Part 2