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Henry David Thoreau, so I changed the subject. “Where will the court martial be convened?”
    “West Point, New York. It has a large population of officers who have seen combat from which to create a fair board, and a secure facility for the proceedings. Lydia is being held there.”
    “Then what’s she doing here?”
    “She was flown down for a deposition concerning one of the other defendants.”
    I nodded again. Five soldiers had been charged with whatever happened at Al Basari, so it sounded like two or more of their defense attorneys had cooked up a cooperative witness arrangement of some sort. By inference, Private Eddelston and her attorney had agreed to testify on behalf of one or more of her codefendants, and probably that meant a quo quid pro; and, probably, prior to his untimely demise, that deal had been worked out by Captain Howser. Obviously, Katherine was going with it.
    I hate walking into cases where somebody else has already decided on the trial strategy. I prefer to make my own mistakes; usually they’re smart mistakes, because they’re mine.
    But also, if you read between the lines of what Katherine was saying, she and her financial backers intended to use this case to prosecute the army and the administration for their lenient rules on torture and interrogation, if not for the overall flawed execution of the war. This had been Katherine’s modus operandi in gay cases where it was a foregone conclusion that most of her clients would lose, but she exploited the court martials to show the public the cruelty and farcicality of the laws banning openly gay soldiers from serving.
    Her gay clients were sacrificial lambs to get the laws overturned, and consequently, Katherine’s legal tactics and strategies were more offensive than defensive, directed less toward disproving the case against her clients and more toward proving the government’s guilt. But, I thought, what worked for the gay cause would not work in this case where the court martial board would be composed of seven professional soldiers who might not take kindly to an attorney attempting to convict their own service of ineptitude and, as combat veterans, might not share Katherine’s squeamishness about torture and interrogation techniques that were intended to save soldier’s lives and win battles.
    I could see another battle brewing between her and me over how to approach Eddelston’s defense.
    In that light, I asked, “And what’s your impression of Private Lydia Eddelston? Guilty or innocent?”
    “We’ll trade opinions after you’ve met her.”
    Which was a good note to end on because we were standing on the stoop of the military police station.

Chapter Four
    In character with the rest of the post, the building was a neat-as-a-pin, red brick, faux colonial-style affair, with close-cropped shrubbery and a precisely handpainted sign announcing its purpose. Compared with MP stations at larger military bases, this building was small and definitely looked sleepy.
    But, as the residents on this post were either senior officers or handpicked soldiers from the Old Guard, a big sheriff was neither needed, wanted, nor, probably, all that good an idea. I mean, generals don’t really like their kids getting busted for dope, or their wives getting pulled over for speeding tickets.
    We entered and moved straight to the good-looking staff sergeant behind a desk who glanced up and asked in a polite but firm tone, “How can I help you?”
    I identified myself, flashed my military ID, and introduced Katherine. He appeared to be expecting us and, glancing at his watch, informed us, “The prisoner is waiting in an interrogation room. Follow me, sir.”
    He led us down a narrow stairwell to the lower level and stopped beside the second door on the left. There was no guard posted, so Lydia Eddelston was apparently not regarded as a danger to herself or to others, nor was she considered a flight risk, which I guess I understood.
    Given all the