Murder at the Pentagon by Margaret Truman Page A

conspiracy you seem to be reacting to.”
    “You’re right, Margit. You’re a lawyer, just like me. The difference is how we apply our legal training.”
    She thought he was referring to the fact that he was in the civilian sector, while she was military, that he applied his legal training and mind to what he considered more worthwhile social issues. But then he said, “I can’t believe it, Margit, that you’d defend that fag.”
    She sat back and frowned.
    “That doesn’t sound like the Jeff Foxboro I know.”
    One of the many things that had attracted her to him was his concern for, and commitment to, social justice, especially for what were called society’s disenfranchised and minorities.
    He knew he’d gone too far. His emotions had run away with him. He drew a deep breath and smiled. “Sorry, Margit, I know we were having dinner to let you get this thing off your chest. I also know that you don’t want this assignment but that you don’t have a choice because you’re in the military. You take orders. I guess that bothers me a little because I don’t believe anybody should have to blindly follow orders when what they’re being told to do runs contrary to what they believe.” He held up his hands. “But I understand. I even know the cure. Feel like some ice cream?”
    She tried to match his sudden turnaround in mood but had difficulty. He’d deflated her, and she was resentful. Still, sheput on a smile. “I would love some ice cream,” she said, “but not tonight. I really have to get back and dig into this reading.”
    His car was parked a block away. She hadn’t been so lucky; hers was three blocks away.
    “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said.
    “No need, but thanks for offering. I may take a roundabout way. I could use some exercise after that meal.”
    He pulled her to him, and they embraced. She realized she was on the verge of tears but also knew she would not allow them to flow. They kissed, and she felt a physical yearning for him—and dismissed it.
    “Sure you have to do all this reading tonight?” he asked.
    “Afraid so.”
    “We need some time together, Margit. Quiet, personal time.”
    “Yes, I know. I was thinking maybe we could arrange to get away for a few days, a long weekend, maybe go down to the shore.”
    “From the sound of this case, you’re not going to see leave time for quite a while.”
    “I promise I’ll find time.”
    “How about this weekend? It’s Labor Day.”
    She hesitated. “All right. We’ll try. Let’s put it on our calendars, book the time. I’d better stay in town, though. Saturday night, Sunday? Just hang out?”
    “Sounds good.” He kissed her again, then watched her walk away, turn the corner, and disappear.

9
    Margit stood on the platform next to Bellis. On her other side was the Joint Chiefs’ staff judge advocate, Colonel Thomas Detienne, whose responsibility, among others, was to act as legal adviser to the command. Detienne was a tall, pudgy man whose uniform bowed out in front, yet who carried himself well. His curly hair was the color of pewter. He wore horn-rim glasses. Margit had noticed during their first meeting that he had a slight stammer. Detienne was an inveterate golfer; his large, carpeted office included a long felt putting green. He almost had room for nine holes.
    Margit judged the number of press present to be in excess of fifty, although she hadn’t taken a head count. She was too nervous.
    Detienne spoke first, confining his short remarks to his role in the proceedings. He announced that a general court-martial would be convened in the near future, and that trial counsel for the command and defense counsel for the accused had been chosen. He turned the podium over to Bellis.
    Bellis spoke from a neatly typed script: “As you all know,a commissioned member of the armed forces has been charged with the murder of Dr. Richard Joycelen. His name is Robert Cobol, captain, United States Army. He is currently being