The whole point of law school is to study, dissect, and discuss issues of the law. Well, that’s what Katherine Carlson and I did. The problems came when we got to that “discuss” part because she and I never, not once, saw eye-to-eye on anything. If you want to know what it was like, think about what kind of philosophical discussion the Easter Bunny and Attila the Hun might have if they sat down to compare lifestyles. Katherine would be the bunny, of course. I wasn’t really Attila, though that’s what she spitefully called me whenever she wanted to get a rise out of me. And when I wanted to taunt her, I called her Moonbeam, because she was so damned liberal she’d fallen off the left edge of the earth.

By the second year of law school, it got so bad the dean actually decreed that Carlson and I weren’t allowed to take any more classes together. Then we weren’t allowed to eat in the school cafeteria together. Then we weren’t allowed to be in the same hallway, then the library, or even the same building together. I heard through the grapevine that halfway through our third year, the faculty committee was making arrangements for one of us to be forcefully transferred to another law school – one far away, like maybe Europe or Asia, where nobody could hear us screaming at each other.

We weren’t just different; we were wildly, inconsolably, antagonistically different. Carlson wasn’t even her real last name. Can you imagine that? It was some half-assed moniker she chose for herself, since her parents weren’t actually married. At least, not married in any traditional sense, like having stood in front of a preacher or a local magistrate. That’s because Katherine’s family thought names, and organized religions, and governments, and laws, were all useless anachronisms. Her parents were sixties flower children who never recovered, who still, to the day we were in law school, lived in one of those preposterous rustic communes in the mountains of Colorado. The name of the commune, I’d once learned, was Carlson. See why I taunted her with the nickname Moonbeam?

I, on the other hand, was sired by a United States Army colonel who slapped his name on my birth certificate the day I was born and made me keep it. He was a career soldier, a shoo-in to make general until he was forced to medically retire after he got shot with a crossbow in the Vietnam War. Where he got shot is something of a delicate subject, but if you really want to know, it was square, dead center, right in the ass. And as for his politics, suffice it to say my father would’ve been a John Bircher except the Birchers are a bit too wimpy and undisciplined for his liking. Plus, my father was never a bigot. That not-a-bigot thing, that was the only thread of liberalism in his entire being.

Spears was now looking at me inquisitively, I guess because my bottom lip was quivering and my eyes were bulging out of my sockets. “Major, I assume you and Miss Carlson are acquainted.”

I somehow choked out, “Uh… we, uh, we know each other.”

She calmly said, “Yes, Martin. I actually went to law school with Attila here.”

My ears winced, not because she’d called me Attila, but because she hadn’t called him General, or General Spears, or sir. She’d called him Martin. When you make your living in the Army, like I do, you can’t imagine generals have first names, except as distinguishing appendages to use on their signature blocks, just in case there is more than one of them and you can’t tell precisely which General Spears you’re dealing with.

Of course, a woman like Katherine Carlson would find military ranks absurd, a loathsome badge of an Orwellian, tyrannical society. That’s the kind of person she was. Please believe me about that.

Spears leaned back in his chair and I could see him staring at the two of us, struggling to sort through what might be happening here.

“Miss Carlson, this is the officer you requested, isn’t it?”

“He definitely is,” she assured him.

“Good. I was hoping we didn’t make a mistake and get the wrong damned Drummond.”

“No, he’s the right damned Drummond,” she mocked.

Then Spears bent forward and his eyes, which were menacing even when they were relaxed, stopped relaxing. “Major, is there a reason you’re dressed that way?”

“Uh, yes sir. Actually, I was in Bermuda, on leave, when I got called by the Pentagon and was ordered to get myself immediately to Andrews Air Force Base to catch a C-141.”

“And you couldn’t change into a uniform between Bermuda and here?”

“Uh, actually, sir, no. See, I didn’t bring any uniforms with me. To Bermuda, that is. Not to worry, though. My legal assistant pre-loaded a duffel bag in the cargo bay of the C-141. So I’ve got uniforms. Now I do, anyway. I, uh, I just didn’t have time to change.”

I was blabbering like a fool, because my composure had taken a leave of absence a few seconds ago. He sat back and absorbed my words, no doubt thinking I was some remarkably rare variety of idiot.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked in a very simple-minded tone, the way parents talk to small tots.

“No sir. Except what I just heard you and Miss Carlson discussing. I guess she’s requested me as co-counsel,” I said, trying without much success to mask my disbelief.

“Your guess is correct.”

“Might I be so bold as to ask the general: co-counsel for what?”

Spears began playing with the knuckles of his right hand. I heard one or two crack loudly, almost as though he’d just sundered the bone. “Have you been following the Lee No Tae case?”

Something in the pit of my stomach rumbled in a very ugly way. “I’ve heard about it,” I admitted. “Something about a Katusa soldier who was raped and murdered?”

“Right case,” the general said, “but wrong order. First he was raped, then murdered.” His mouth twitched with disgust. “Then he was raped again.”

Katherine said, “I’ve been retained by OGMM, the Organization for Gay Military Members, to represent one of the accused. Since military courts require civilian attorneys to have a JAG co-counsel, I requested you.”

I nearly choked with surprise. See, an accused in the military has the right, if he or she so desires, to be defended by a civilian attorney in lieu of a uniformed barrister, provided they’re willing to pick up the tab themselves. However, the Uniform Code of Military Justice, or UCMJ, which is the code of laws Congress passed especially for the Armed Forces, has some striking differences from your ordinary, run-of-the-mill civilian law. And since civilian attorneys aren’t expected to know the peculiarities of the UCMJ, or the ins and outs of court-martial procedures, they must have a qualified JAG officer by their side to advise them. That way, if the accused loses, he or she can’t appeal on the basis that their civilian lawyer didn’t know the difference between a 105mm round and a buck sergeant.

Spears’s hawklike face suddenly got real intimidating. He was glaring nastily at us both. “All right, listen up. The reason I asked you here is because I want to pass on a few warnings.” He then very pointedly looked at me. “I can’t begin to describe how sensitive or explosive this case is. Lee No Tae was the son of Lee Jung Kim. Minister Lee is not only my close personal friend, he is a man of legendary stature in this country. This story has been on the front page of every newspaper on this peninsula for the past three weeks. We have ninety-five American military bases here, and at this moment every single one of them is ringed with protesters and rioters. It’s been this way ever since we arrested and charged the three soldiers involved with this crime.”

I glanced at Katherine; she appeared to be absently paying attention, sort of half listening, half not.

The general couldn’t miss her studied indifference, but he went on anyway. “We’ve been on this peninsula since 1945, and frankly, the list of crimes our troops have committed against Korean citizens could fill libraries. They’re tired of it. They have a right to be. Murders, rapes, robberies, child molesting – you name it, we’ve done it. And more likely than not, we’ve done it at least a few hundred times. It’s bad enough when a Korean commits a crime against another Korean. It’s doubly bad when an American does it. We’re foreigners for one thing, and it contains a hint of racism for another. But this crime, murder, then raping a corpse… Christ, it would turn anybody’s stomach. It’s inflamed the Korean people like nothing I’ve ever seen. Do you understand what I’m saying?”