One Less - Part 41
by joykatleen
They drove Ramey to the JAG office aboard the Navy Yard. At only 7:15 in the morning, the public entrance was still locked, so they went in through the rear using a door security code that hadn't changed in all the years Gibbs had been with the agency. The back hall lead into the lawyers' bullpen where there was usually an attorney or two hanging around. This morning, there was no one. McGee called out "hello?" and the NCIS liaison attorney, Will Taylor, appeared from one of the side offices.
"You're in early," Gibbs said.
"Been here all night," Taylor said. "What happened to you? Your ex going for the legs now?"
"He needs a defense attorney," Gibbs said, ignoring the question.
"You're looking at one," Taylor said. When Gibbs frowned, Taylor explained: "They were a little short-handed overnight. The Admiral asked me to fill in."
"On defense?" Gibbs asked. Taylor's job was to liaison between NCIS and JAG's prosecuting attorneys to help make sure criminals got everything coming to them. It would be way out of character for him to be representing those same criminals.
"You know how it is around here: JAG lawyers represent both sides with equal dedication. I might be a little out of practice, but lawyering is lawyering. So who's your friend?" He indicated Ramey.
"He's a material witness in a string of assaults we're working that ended with a homicide last weekend. An MC2. He's looking for a deal. I need a broker."
"Material witness needs a deal. This ought to be interesting. Come on back." He lead them through the bullpen toward the conference room, off the hall through which they'd come.
"Did you hear the latest on that case you had me check out last week? O'Sullivan?" Taylor asked as they entered the room.
"What about him?" Gibbs asked. He took a seat at the table, setting the crutches beside himself.
"The guy you got to look at it decided it was a bad deal from the start: O'Sullivan never should have plead to it. The attorney who advised him was apparently an idiot, running out his last couple months in the navy before joining Daddy's Wall Street firm. My name was on the case sign-out sheet, so I was notified as a party in interest."
"What're they gonna do for him?" Gibbs asked.
"They're going to send him home. It'll take a couple of days, maybe a week at the outside. He'll be discharged under an 'other than honorable' for now. He stays out of trouble and away from the booze for two years and does a few other things, it'll be upgraded to general and his benefits will be reinstated retroactively."
Gibbs nodded, impressed. "Good."
"Hey, you got the ball rolling. He'd have done his time and been gone if you hadn't gotten involved."
"His luck he had information I needed," Gibbs said.
"Sounded like he deserved a break," Taylor said. "So, tell me what the Petty Officer needs me for."
McGee gave an overview of their investigation, leaving out the motives. Taylor took notes. When McGee was done with the background, he laid out how Ramey had gotten involved, what he claimed to have and what he wanted for it.
"Alright. I'll talk to him, see what I can do. It'll be nice to hold your marker for a change," Taylor told Gibbs. Gibbs glared at him. With a grin, Taylor told them to give him an hour, he'd call when he had something.
It was actually an hour and a half later when Taylor called Gibb's cell. Gibbs and McGee had gone to their office to wait. There was paperwork to catch up on, reports to be written, and dozens of other inconsequential but oh-so-important-to-the-bureaucracy things they'd neglected to take care of during their week-long investigation. Typical Monday morning bull. Gibbs kept looking at his watch. They were so close to ending this thing, it was killing him.
After the call, they quickly returned to the JAG Office. It was busier this time, the day in full swing at a little after 9 a.m. Taylor brought them back to the conference room where Ramey was waiting. They took the same seats they'd had before. Gibbs noticed the addition of a digital recorder in the center of the table – not running – and a brown paper folder in front of Taylor's seat with Ramey's name written on one edge in black marker.
"So what does he have?" McGee asked.
"What he's got is your case, all wrapped up with a big navy-blue bow on top."
"Oh?" Gibbs asked.
"He's got concrete, admissible evidence on 14 assaults on members of the navy and Marines. First-person, eyewitness evidence on five of them, incontrovertible documentary evidence on the rest. You won't have any problems with hearsay, chain of custody, or sourcing issues."
"And he wants immunity?" McGee asked.
"Nope." Taylor shook his head. "He hasn't done anything criminal he'd need immunity for. You might be able to get him on obstruction, and you can likely build a case on conduct unbecoming, but not without the evidence. Which he will not give you without a deal."
"How about I pry it out of him, make the obstruction case, and send him to Leavenworth for a couple years?" Gibbs asked with more than a touch of annoyance.
"You can try," Taylor said. "But he's in possession of all the evidence you'd need to make the case against him, and nothing to lose by refusing to give it to you. He keeps his mouth shut, and you're on your own. Which I explained to him in detail. He will stand on his Fifth Amendment rights and you'll have nothing."
"He said he had nothing to do with the attacks. That still true?" Gibbs asked.
"He had no direct role in them," Taylor agreed.
"What the hell does that mean?" Gibbs demanded. He was rapidly approaching his limit for double talk.
Taylor glanced at Ramey. Ramey nodded.
"Until he left the Roosevelt, he kept the cruise books."
There was a moment of shocked silence from both agents. Gibbs broke it.
"They kept books?" Cruise books were kept by the crew of a ship, or the members of a unit, to commemorate their missions. Carriers on deployment produced them like high-school yearbooks for every member of the crew. In Gibbs' time, smaller units had hand-written them as they went, with photocopies available when the unit made it home. He'd seen some newer ones on computer CDs complete with photo slide shows and video.
"On every mission," Taylor responded to Gibbs' question. "You give him what he wants, he'll give it all to you, answer every question he can, and cooperate fully through your investigation and whatever trials result."
"And all you want for that is to stay in the navy?" McGee addressed Ramey, but it was Taylor who answered.
"That's all. I told him to go for something more, full immunity on any future prosecutions related to this event, just in case you guys decide to try something. But really, that's all he wants. He's willing to submit to an officers' panel at court-martial and serve whatever punishment they determine is appropriate, short of discharge."
Gibbs was still stuck on Taylor's revelation.
"They kept books," he repeated.
Taylor shrugged. "Apparently, they were proud of their work."
"Have you seen what he's got?" Gibbs asked.
"Some of it. It's audio, video, still photos, a written log. The whole nine yards."
"You've got it with you?" McGee asked. Again, Ramey remained silent.
"I've got it," Taylor said. "A copy of it, anyway. Right here on this flash drive." He pulled a small black thumb drive out of his shirt pocket and held it up. "He knew why you wanted to talk to him. He hoped it was something else, but he knew. He's been waiting to hear from NCIS for years. He drove home to Norfolk after he got your message last night, got the evidence, then came back to Washington to meet with you this morning."
"He was there, at every attack?" Gibbs asked. Taylor set the flash drive on the table between them.
"No. Some of them happened before he got involved. For some of them, he was elsewhere. He was witness to a few. But he has the records for all of them. Until he managed to get away last year, anyway. He doesn't know what's happened since then."
Gibbs heard the phrase 'until he managed to get away,' but ignored it. He wasn't ready to see this kid in an alternate light, yet. Instead, he stayed on point.
"He was in a position to be able to stop good men from losing their careers, and he expects to keep his own?" Gibbs asked.
"I know. It sounds bad," Taylor said. "But when you hear the whole story, you'll understand. He's not saying what he did was right. In fact, he knows damn well it was wrong. Which is why he's willing to pay for it."
Taylor could see he had some convincing to do. "Let me put my prosecutor's hat back on for a second. If it was me, my case, I'd take this deal in a second. You get enough good, hard evidence to put away a whole bunch of really bad apples, and it costs you nothing. He told me the whole story. He did nothing illegal related to any of the attacks you're investigating. He was just an unwilling, uninvolved witness. In a way, he had no choice but to do what he did."
Taylor paused. "He fell into this situation unintentionally, and he wants to get out of it with as much of his moral code intact as possible. He'll give you the evidence and tell you everything he knows about all of it. All he wants is keep serving his country. It's an honorable result. Take what he's offering."
Gibbs looked hard at Ramey. "You know you're not going to Canada tonight?" he asked.
"I know," Ramey spoke for the first time. His voice was rough.
"He's a good kid who got stuck in a really bad situation," Taylor said. "Make the deal. The navy could do way worse than keeping him around."
Gibbs thought about it. "You're willing to come with us? Answer all our questions? Waive your Article 31s?"
"He is," Taylor said. "I told him he could trust you. That your word was good. He hasn't committed any crimes, and as such, I told him you wouldn't screw with him. Too much." The lawyer smiled.
Gibbs shook his head, hardly believing he was doing it. There'd already been way too many deals in this case.
"Yeah, alright. If the evidence is solid, and if he had no direct involvement in any of the attacks, I'll make the deal. You got a prosecutor on board?"
Taylor nodded. "I do. Spoke with the Admiral, gave him the gist of it. He says if you're good with it, he'll make the deal."
"Your evidence better be damn good, Ramey," Gibbs said with a less-than-veiled threat.
"It is," Ramey said.
"So what's your next move?" Taylor asked.
"We'll review what he's got, and decide where to go from there," Gibbs said. "Ramey can come with us."
"No sneaky stuff, Gibbs. I told the kid your word is good."
"Long as his is."
xxxxXXXXxxxx
After securing Ramey in interrogation, McGee made a second copy of the flash drive and secured the copy Taylor had given them as evidence. In this digital world, it was hard to declare anything an 'original,' McGee had explained to Gibbs more than once. But Ramey had assured them the contents of the flash drive he'd given them was the complete record of the conspiracy, with nothing altered or removed. They'd have him sign an affidavit to that effect eventually, making it all nice and legal.
McGee carried the copy of the drive, a laptop, and two mugs of coffee to the conference room, Gibbs trailing behind. Gibbs took a seat facing the plasma while McGee hooked up the laptop and brought up the contents of the drive. There were 15 folders. Fourteen were labeled with an eight-digit number that didn't correspond to anything Gibbs and McGee could immediately relate to the victims. They contained a variety of files, some audio, some video, some photographs, and some text. The last one was labeled 'Operation Pride.' It contained one large file, which McGee said was a PowerPoint presentation that was either full of graphics-heavy elements, or really long.
Gibbs told him to show him one of the videos. McGee opened a random file.
The film quality wasn't bad. It started out a little shaky but quickly focused on a figure walking toward the camera from a distance. The only sound was the camera operator's slightly unsteady breathing. It was a dark street in what looked to be a commercial zone. They could see a few islands of light spilling from store fronts, their signs in several non-English languages, but most of the buildings were dark. It was hard to make out details of the figure until the camera operator zoomed the frame and the man walked under a street light.
"It's Hutchinson," McGee said, and Gibbs concurred. The young officer was having trouble walking a straight path. He kept drifting toward the street, at one point slipping off the curb only to catch himself with a few wild steps before returning to the sidewalk. He leaned against a street light to regain his balance.
"You're making this too easy," came a whispered voice, loud from being so close to the camera's microphone. The whisper made it hard to tell tone, but Gibbs thought the words were more of a warning than an expression of pleasure. Hutchinson started walking again, a little more focused now. Behind him, two figures entered the frame. They were coming from across the street. Both were dressed in dark clothing, and both carried blunt weapons: sticks, pipes or bats, it was impossible to tell.
"Careful..." came the cameraman's whisper as the two men closed in on Hutchinson from behind. The camera started to bounce again as the cameraman stepped into the street and moved closer to the action. The other two men were within a few feet of Hutchinson when he heard or sensed something and stopped walking. But he hadn't even turned when they rushed at him, shoving him bodily toward the opening of an alley. They had barely gotten him off the street when there was an explosion and the camera whited out for several seconds. They'd detonated a flash bang.
When the picture returned, the camera was looking down at the fallen sailor from above and just behind the action. Hutchinson was prone and the two men were beating on him with short lengths of pipe. They seemed to be concentrating their efforts on his back. He struggled at first, trying to get to his feet. He made it to his hands and knees a couple of times, but each time one or the other would kick him in the ribs or kick his arms out from under him to knock him back down. They were yelling at him, calling him names, imparting their message that fags didn't belong in the navy.
Finally, Hutchinson went down and didn't move. They paused, stepping back. Both men were breathing hard from the exertion. Then Hutchinson suddenly surged up and made a grab at one of them. The attacker kicked out at him, landing a boot hard against the side of his head. Hutchinson flew backwards, landing on his side facing away from them, and both attackers went after him. The one closer to the camera wound up and kicked him hard in the middle of his back, between his shoulder blades. Hutchinson's back arched away from the kick and he fell still.
"That's what broke his back," McGee said softly. Gibbs said nothing, his jaw clenched against a rising rage.
They hit him a few more times in the back and back of the head, then stepped away. The two men were panting, but their faces were celebratory. The camera zoomed in on each of them, and they gave big grins and thumbs up. It was the two sailors Radkoff had identified.
"Mission accomplished," one of them said, and they laughed, giving each other high fives. "Let's get out of here."
The camera turned to follow them away a few feet, then turned back to zoom in on the fallen man. The picture dipped down and sideways, and a hand came into the frame from behind the camera. Fingers pressed against Hutchinson's neck briefly. Taking his pulse, if Gibbs had to guess. Then it zoomed back out and showed a few final seconds of Hutchinson lying face down and unmoving before clicking off. The video ran black for a few seconds, then stopped. The whole thing had taken less than two minutes. Two minutes to end the career and forever change the life of a good man.
"What else is in that folder?" Gibbs asked tightly. McGee searched.
"There's a text file and some photos," McGee said.
"Show me the pictures."
McGee clicked a few times and the screen blanked out, then went to a slide show. The first few had been taken aboard ship: Hutchinson eating in the mess hall, watching TV in the rec room, working out in the hangar bay. They'd obviously been taken without his knowledge. The next few were of the young officer at a bar with a handful of others who had the navy look. He was wearing the clothes he'd been found in. They were taken the night of the attack. There were three pictures of him with other sailors, then another three of him at the same bar alone, then more than a dozen of what was clearly a different location. A gay bar, by the looks of it. They'd followed him around that night until they got what they wanted.
The last two photos had obviously been taken after the video shut off: Hutchinson lying sprawled on the ground in the alley, bleeding from the head, his back still arched unnaturally. He looked dead.
"There's another set," McGee said. He opened them. This collection was smaller: only three ID pictures complete with names and service numbers. The two sailors who'd been on the video, and Hutchinson.
"You think Ramey was operating the camera?" McGee asked.
"Could be," Gibbs said. He was working hard to control a sudden urge to go downstairs and beat the crap out of him.
McGee nodded and worked the keyboard again. "The text file is a mission log, organized by date and time." He paused. "There's a lot here. Whoever wrote it took detailed notes." He stopped again. "The first entry is a mission briefing, three days before the attack."
"Does it say who gave the briefing?"
"Uh, no name. It refers to him as 'Watcher.' Nothing else. It was him and the two sailors."
"What else?"
He scanned rapidly through the file. "It details what they discussed at the briefing, what their plan was. There was a second meeting that first day, another the next day, and a final meeting early the evening of Hutchinson's assault. It details the preparation for the attack, then there's an 'after action report' that describes in detail how they followed him until he was alone, and the attack itself. The last entry is a note that they were commended for their efficiency in getting it done in three days."
Gibbs took a breath. "Call DiNozzo."
McGee nodded. "I'll have an arrest warrant waiting for them when they land in Memphis. What about the other guy?"
"Draw up a warrant for him, too."
"You want me to have him arrested?" McGee asked. Gibbs looked at him.
"Of course you do," McGee said quickly. Then, "I don't think I have the authority to get him removed from a carrier."
"Use the director's name. Hell, use SecNav's name if you have to. I want him on the next helo off that ship."
"Yes, Boss."
"And send DiNozzo and David this file on Hutchinson. Tell them to see what they can get out of him before they arrest him."
McGee worked the computer for a minute, sending the files and an explanatory email to both Tony and Ziva. Gibbs stared past him, his mind replaying the video in all its reality. He'd seen a lot of horror in his career. The things people did to one another were often beyond his ability to comprehend. Gibbs had heard it said that of all the animals, only humans knew how to be cruel. And he'd seen enough to believe it.
Usually, though, he only got involved after the fact. He rarely saw cruelty in action. Witnessing a man get his back broken live on tape, for nothing more than the crime of loving another man... It was hard to wrap his head around. And to realize that those animals had celebrated their accomplishment, been proud enough of it to keep a permanent record. Gibbs clenched his fists and bounced his right one off the table. McGee looked up, concerned. Gibbs waved him back to what he was doing.
When McGee finished a minute later, he made to gather up the laptop. Gibbs told him to leave it. McGee headed off to work on the warrants. Gibbs got up and started a pot of coffee in the small machine the agency kept in the room for long meetings. He leaned against the credenza while it brewed, his mind involuntarily going over and over the final few seconds of the attack on Hutchinson. When the last of the drip was done, Gibbs walked the few steps back to the table with one crutch, the pot and a mug in the other hand. After pouring a cup full, Gibbs slid the laptop over in front of himself. He put on his glasses, took out his notebook, and turned to a fresh page. Noting Hutchinson's name and the number that was on the folder they'd opened, he opened another.
It took him more than an hour and three cups of coffee to wade through all the mission logs and view all the photos. It left him with a sick feeling in his stomach. They'd documented every step of their fanatical crusade in meticulous detail. There was no emotion in the narrative, just hard facts. Yet Gibbs thought he heard an undercurrent of... something... in the plain words as the number of casualties mounted and they continued to operate with impunity. As a group, they were clearly proud of what they were doing, but he thought maybe the writer was a little upset about it, too.
Gibbs was able to determine that with the two men McGee had written warrants on, they now had all the players involved in the attacks on Goetz, Brisbin and Hutchinson. They, and Ferrara, were the only victims whose cases were still within the statute of limitations. The others couldn't be arrested until they built the conspiracy case. And for that, they needed Thayer.
In addition to the players they already had, the logs named another three Marines and ten sailors. Ramey was not among them. Each mission briefing was run by someone referred to only as 'Watcher.' There was no indication of who that might be, or even if it was the same person each time. Maybe that was the role Ramey played. He probably would have considered that as having no significant role in the attacks.
It wasn't hard to figure out why they'd missed three victims: Comparing the log entries to the three sailors' SRBs told the story. According to official reports, two of them had been discharged after voluntarily admitting their sexual orientation to the Navy Office of Personnel. The third was seriously injured during a training exercise and discharged. All very reasonable, but the mission logs revealed the truth: The 'voluntary' admissions were made after the two sailors were repeatedly threatened and subjected to a pattern of intense harassment during ocean crossings. The investigation into the training accident revealed serious doubts that it had been an accident at all. Nonetheless, the investigator hadn't been able to prove it was intentional, so the two sailors involved in the mishap had been disciplined for carelessness and went on with their careers. It was the closest they'd come to getting caught. All three of those cases were beyond the statute of limitations for simple assault.
It was a ton of information, and if it was all true, it was as Taylor had promised: Their entire case wrapped up with a big bow on top. Except for one thing. Nowhere in the logs did it mention the priest by name. Not once. Maybe Thayer was the 'Watcher'?
Gibbs supposed there could be something on the videos. Unlikely, considering the lack of mention of the priest in the logs, but possible. He'd have to watch them all eventually. And look at the PowerPoint, which he assumed was the actual mission book. But not now. Now, it was time to talk to Ramey. He pulled the flash drive out of the computer and pocketed it, then went back to the squad room.
"The agent afloat on the George Washington took that sailor into custody based on our warrant 20 minutes ago," McGee said when Gibbs came around the corner. "The ship's on station in Japan. An MP escort will start him our way in the morning. Their morning.
"Tony and Ziva won't be in Memphis for another hour, but I got an email back from Ziva saying they got what I sent them and they'll be ready to interrogate that guy."
"Good. Here." He flipped the copy of the drive over to McGee. "Make an evidence log for the files on that. Print the photos, listen to the audio files, see what's in them. You can leave the videos. We'll get to them later."
"You going to talk to Ramey?" McGee asked.
"Uh huh," Gibbs said.
"Should I come?" McGee asked.
"No," Gibbs said. He understood McGee's desire to be in on the interrogation, but with his team split, he needed McGee working, not watching.
"You sure?" McGee asked. Gibbs looked at him strangely. This was unusual. It was the second time on this case that McGee had challenged him when he gave assignments. Gibbs wondered if the knee injury and the crutches were making him seem somehow less in his junior agent's eyes.
"Some reason I wouldn't be sure, McGee?" Gibbs asked with a small growl, just because. McGee swallowed hard, then straightened a little in his seat.
"You're not at your best, Boss. If Tony was here, he'd figure out how to weasel his way into interrogation, to back you up. I'm not as good at the weaseling part, but I'm good back up."
Ah. Now Gibbs understood. McGee didn't want Gibbs to think he wasn't up to the task of standing in as Gibbs' second when Tony was away. DiNozzo and McGee had always been like brothers, and as the little brother, Tim had a tendency to fall into Tony's shadow. Not that he belonged there, but the psychology of it was beyond Gibbs' ability to sort out. All he could do was give McGee the opportunity to prove himself apart from DiNozzo, and let the chips fall. Over the years, the younger man had shown himself capable, and worthy of Gibbs' trust. It wasn't something Gibbs worried about anymore, but apparently McGee still did.
It really didn't surprise Gibbs that McGee had a backbone. He'd seen it first hand, many times. What did surprise him was that McGee had chosen this manner, at this time, to use it. To stand up to Gibbs and push back. Even if it was just a little. That kind of nerve deserved a response.
"You're a good agent, Tim. If I needed back up, I'd trust you to give it. But I don't. Ramey needs to cooperate, and he knows it. I need to know what those audio files are, and if there's any mention of the priest in any of them. The Roosevelt is getting further away by the second." He paused, then nodded to himself. One more thing needed to be said.
"I appreciate the offer."
McGee nodded back, and Gibbs could have sworn he saw an expression of satisfaction on McGee's face before the agent turned back to his computer.
to be continued...
Sorry for the long delay, folks. I usually don't list my excuses (because it annoys me when others do it) but it's been a really terrible, horrible, no good, very bad bunch of days around here. My father was critically injured in a household accident two days before the moving trucks showed up, and he's been in the Intensive Care Unit ever since. I've been totally unable to string six sentences together, and totally uninspired to work on fiction. I usually like to keep a certain number of words ahead of you, but you've been so patient I decided to go ahead and publish this. I'll get back into it eventually, hopefully soon, but until then, I hope this holds you over. Thanks for reading. joy