The Code

By Don Levin

A young US Army lieutenant, from a long and distinguished family line of soldiers, stationed in the Federal Republic of Germany, faces court martial charges of murder and of being involved in a black marketing operation that reach the higher echelons of the Division command. Rather than trusting his fate to a military lawyer, the family reaches across the sea to the United States, and retains the services of former Army officer turned civilian attorney Colt Donaldson. With links to unsolved murders in Vietnam and Korea, as well as insights into the CIA, the White House, and the inner workings of the officer corps, Colt must battle command influence and the subtleties of military justice, as well as a gang of ruthless criminals to refute the burden of proof that the Government has established, and fight the Code to secure his clients freedom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 13, 2006
• ISBN: 9781467080927

Don Levin

Don Levin is the President & CEO of USA-LTC, a national insurance brokerage, and has been in the long term care insurance industry since 1999. Don is also a former practicing Attorney-at-Law, court-appointed Arbitrator, as well as a retired U.S. Army officer with 23 years of service. Don earned his Juris Doctor from The John Marshall Law School, his MPA, from the University of Oklahoma, and his BA from the University of Illinois-Chicago. He is also a graduate of the U.S. Army Command & General Staff College and the Defense Strategy Course, U.S. Army War College. In his spare time, Don has published thirteen other books in a wide range of genre, as well as countless articles on leadership, long term care insurance, and personal development. Don is very active with his church and within the community, and remains focused on his wife Susie, their five children, nineteen grandchildren, one great-grandchild, and two dogs aptly named Barnes & Noble. A native of Chicago, Don and the majority of the clan now resides in the Boise, Idaho and Northern Utah area. Don may be reached at [e-mail].

Book preview

The Code

by

Don Levin

V00_1425936989_TEXT.pdf

AuthorHouse™

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www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

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www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]`

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2006 Don Levin. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 6/6/2006

ISBN: 1-4259-3698-9 (sc)

ISBN: 9781467080927 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Preface

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A Final Note to the Reader

About the Author

Preface

Saigon. 1966.

The sidewalks were crowded. The rain had finally stopped, and everyone was outside. Strains of music from the world being broadcast by Armed Forces Radio spilled into the street. The young captain in his freshly starched khakis was counting down his days… a double digit midget was he, meaning that in less than 42 days, he would be delivered from the hell hole that was Vietnam. Three hundred twenty three down….42 to go, and back to the world. The world of clean sheets, dry boots, and women with blonde hair and round eyes — his woman, and his baby. He was fresh from the jungle where he had led a bunch of scared kids — greenies they called 'em — through what God must have intended to be living hell. The flashing neon lights on the strip that was downtown Saigon promised everything that a man 10,000 miles from home could want, but it was not for him. He enjoyed just watching the greenies who survived the bush learn to survive the bush that walked around in halter tops and mini skirts. He had 6 men go on sick call this morning with various and sundry tropical ailments and fevers that required doses of penicillin. Even his driver, Hanson, caught a dose of it a couple of weeks ago, and was hanging from the pipes trying to take a leak without dying, when he found him. He couldn't help but laugh at the sight that big dumb old farm boy had made when he was trying to convince him that he was doing chin ups at 0300 because he couldn't sleep. Forty two days, and he could get the hell out of Dodge, and head for the world, and a new assignment. Nothing at the Point had ever prepared him for the life and death that he had seen in the past ten months. Even on the streets here in the rear, living and dying were only seconds apart. He would never understand how little life was appreciated by these people. Forty two days…and I am out of here.

Shut up bitch, you know you want it, so take it, said a drunken voice that snapped him out of his reverie. Where was it coming from?

Pleeease, don't, I give you all my money, you go away.

No way honey, you got somethin' worth more than money, right Astro?

Just save some for me man, don't spoil it all, responded the man known simply as Astro.

Great, forty two days, and forty two nights, and I have to find two of America's finest waiting for an all expense paid trip to hard labor at Leavenworth. Where the hell is an MP when you need one, and why the hell am I walking around here without my sidearm?

What is going on here? asked the captain.

Take it out of here man, this ain't your heat, said the man who had the girl by the hair.

Leave her alone, she is only a child for God's sake, said the Captain.

Take it out of here man, or I am going to cut you and your pretty little uniform.

I said, leave her alone, and that is an order.

The laughter should have tipped him off. He had stepped on a mine; had violated his own rule of always sending the point man out to check for traps before advancing with the main body. The third one, who had not said anything, that was hanging back in the shadows, and the two advancing hopheads with knives were going to be his downfall. Less than forty two days, and he was going back to the world in a damn box.

BOOK I

STORM CLOUDS

1   

May 1988.

From his vantage point behind the big oak desk, he could turn to his left and face the computer screen that was almost always glowing, throwing off light and heat into his office, calling to him to finish the latest draft of a document, or he could turn to his right and look out the window as the cars and trucks whipped by with as many destinations as there were cars. Straight ahead of him, over his sofa was the guidon from his command and assorted memorabilia from his other life, when the suit he wore to work every day was green, and cost considerably less than the $500.00 that he currently spent, or had spent, when he had people to impress downtown in the firm. Behind him, over the equally impressive oak credenza, was his power wall, chocked full with degrees, licenses, and announcements to the world that not only was he, Jeffrey Colt Remington Donaldson, Jr., an educated and celebrated attorney, but that he was worth every penny that people paid him for the time that Abraham Lincoln says is a lawyer's stock and trade.

At an even six feet tall, and 185 pounds, he still had the baseball player physique with which he had attracted his wife, and still received the occasional offer from a female client or over zealous courthouse clerk or law firm associate. His light brown hair now showed a hint of gray on top and at the temples, all of which he attributed to the demands of his growing family and practice. Fortunately, most people who commented on it said that it was flattering and very distinguished. More than one of his female clients had been attracted to his soft brown eyes, and his deceptively strong, yet delicate, pianist's hands, both of which were contributions from his mother no doubt. The hint of a stomach starting, the onset of Dunlap's disease, and his desire to remain a perfect 42 regular, was motivation for the three mornings per week that he worked out at the health club.

Despite a heavy 'five o'clock shadow' for which he was constantly being teased, he remained clean-shaven because his wife claimed that a mustache makes him look sinister, and she threatened to never kiss him if he even contemplated growing either a beard or a mustache.

Glancing around his office, he was pleased. This was his space, reflective of his personality or personalities and varied interests, the life that is, and the life that had been. The place where he spent the better part of his waking hours these days, seeing people with problems that ranged from the life threatening to the irritating, from the intellectually stimulating to the mundane. One room that traced his life from a teenager fresh on the ROTC fields in Bowling Green, Kentucky at the height of the crisis and national wound that was Vietnam, to his servitude in the downtown high-rise mausoleum of the Firm, to his latest challenge, that of being a small town lawyer out in the suburbs. Often was the time when he needed to catch his breath that he would sit back in the big leather chair that had been his great-grandfather's before him. Curious that no one wanted it after he died, except for his grandmother, Lady Sarah, as she was respectfully, and sometimes sardonically referred to as by his Grandfather. When he had become an attorney, and arrived to what his status and breeding dictated, Grandmother had insisted on having the giant leather chairs and oak monstrosities delivered to the firm, making him the instant envy of not only the first year associates but also of many of the more senior partners, more than one of which had offered him an obscene amount of money for these power relics of the past. From that day on, he decided maybe he liked them after all, if for no other reason than the effect they had on people, and the awe with which people gazed at them. Sometimes he would polish the mini aircraft carrier and credenza and other pieces himself, attempting to recreate the time and manner in which people had walked on the desk, or scrubbed it, when it was part of the quarter deck of a large New England whaling ship. This was history, this was Americana, this was heritage, this was the crap that amused him most about his ancestral family.

His eyes fell on the certificate hanging by the door, and the piece of Europe that it captured, and he was off in another time, and another place, when his days were measured in 24 hour time, and appointments and court dates were annotated as SP times and training events. As if he were a character in a Vonnegut novel, he was time warping, back to 1976.

The gravel crunched under his boots, as he walked up the road into the trees. The trees were shrouded in the early morning mist that hung only a foot off the ground, resembling more the moors of a Conan Doyle tale than a Bavarian forest. On the other side of the trees was the border… the border where so many great tales had been born in the past few years in this post-Vietnam peacetime army. The border…where today's cavalry roamed the last frontier saving the world and democracy from the ugly red menace which was starting to show some wear and tear itself.

1LT Colt Donaldson was the Border Camp Commander during his battery's turn up on the border. Twice a year, his unit was sent to this tiny six building outpost in the heart of the forest, to send out border patrols, ground surveillance radar (GSR) teams during the hours of darkness or periods of limited visibility, and other observation posts, just as the East Germans and Czechoslovakians did on their side. Colt always enjoyed his time on the border because it beat the boredom of garrison life, the chow was plentiful and outstanding, and since 'Nam, this was one of the last real life missions left to this man's army. After last year's debacle in Saigon, the Army needed something to take pride in. He always enjoyed the mystique of winding his way through the forest at night, his jeep's headlights off for security purposes, the only illumination coming from the moon as it attempted to penetrate the shroud of the forest. It was his job as the Border Camp Commander to inspect the patrols and observation posts, to insure that no one was asleep, and that they were doing their jobs for and in behalf of western democracy, and all that is free on this Goddamn earth. That phrase always made him and his men laugh when they mimicked the Regimental Commander as he stood up there in front of the Squadron, 1000 men strong, in his cavalry spurs and beret urging them on with hup, hup cavalry hooo… if you ain't Cav, you ain't shee-hit! Naturally, his response was the rhetorical, does being Cav, make you shee-hit?, which was always offensive to the West Pointers, fondly known as WooPooers, in the group.

The border was like a woman, full of mystery and intrigue. Unlike the straight lines of many states back home and countries elsewhere, farmers plowed their fields in often uneven swaths, tracing the borders between the Federal Republic of Germany (Bundesrepublik Deutschland), otherwise known as West Germany, and the German Democratic Republic (Deutsche Demokratishe Republik), otherwise known as East Germany, and Czechoslovakia, were jagged and often cut cruelly through towns, dividing families with fences, mines, and guard towers. Where the border cut across rivers and streams, bridges were cut in half at the midstream point, ugly, gaping wounds that reminded us of why we were here. This was reality, this was life at the iron curtain, this was man's inhumanity upon himself. This was why God shed tears for his children on earth. This was why he was proud of his father, and did not mind that he only knew of his father what his mother and grandparents had told him.

This morning's mission was to infiltrate his GSR site; to see if they had their perimeter guards out, and that the radar screen was directed towards the open East German farm fields below. His driver enjoyed this too, even if it scared him to follow him through the darkness and the underbrush. He didn't mind it this time, because it was actually getting a little light out to the east. Today they had parked the jeep about one kilometer down off the regular path, and were circling around from the border side to check on his boys. He enjoyed this part too, because it reminded him of all the army games that he used to play with his cousins at his grandparents home. When the ability to sneak up on somebody was the difference between winning and losing.

Freeze you mother, or I'll grow you a new asshole, was the challenge from the large man/boy from Detroit. Not only had he been seen by an alert albeit scared sentry doing his job, he might even get shot for his trouble. Alvin Robertson was big. At 6'5 and 240 pounds, when he spoke people listened. Today it was his turn to augment the GSR team and stand a lonely vigil in the woods.

Relax Al, it's me, LT Donaldson, and his faithful sidekick, Sleaze.

Hell, sir, do you know that you are coming in from the other side? You darn near gave me a heart attack, and got yourself killed, asked Alvin.

Yeah, well, no guts no glory. How goes it out here, asked Colt.

Hey, sir, if you don't mind feeling like the dog pissed on your clothes, you enjoy sitting in the dark, and don't mind having the crap scared out of you every time a branch snaps or cracks, its great, said the big man. This is what he enjoyed the most about Big Al, his armorer. When he wasn't making his arms room shine for the inevitable inspector, he could always be counted on to turn a phrase or to make you laugh with his gift to really put things in perspective. Al was a survivor. As Detroit's inner city got tougher, and the auto industry took a beating from the Japs, Al's parents made sure he stayed clear of the gangs, taught him to respect authority, and then hustled him right into the army after high school. Al was a great guy to have around, especially at first base when the inevitable spring softball competition came around. He was so blasted big, that he made a great target to throw at. Of course the time we put him at the plate as catcher, and the D Company Commander thought he was still at Clemson and tried to plow through him and ended up on his butt for his troubles, it was pretty funny. The guys still talk about that play. In fact it saved the game, and earned Al a lot of Maisel beer that night.

Well, my lionhearted friend, show me your lair, and I will be on my way back to camp so that the Sleazemeister here can change his u-trou — I am sure that he crapped his pants over your greeting — right Sleaze?

Aw common sir, you know I don't scare that easy any more. SGT Bob Sleaze Horton was one of a kind. Articulate and dependable, he was the natural choice for NBC (nuclear, chemical, and biological warfare) NCO. Like Al and his arms room, the Sleaze man could be counted on to keep a good shop, all of the gas masks and testing equipment all clean, and accounted for. In fact, it was the Sleaze that gassed him on his last day in country. A going away present is what he called it. In some ways the gas had been welcome, because it gave him an excuse for the tears that were in his eyes when they presented him with the custom porcelain and pewter stein with his name and rank and unit crest on it. He had learned loyalty was a two way street with these men, and had learned lessons that he would never forget.

His eyes fell back on the stein that now rested on his credenza, next to the telephone with all of its buttons, and flashing lights. Flashing lights, people, tales of woe, deals to be made, people, flashing lights. This was his life now, the way he made his livelihood, the means by which he remained a man of means without relying on his middle name of Remington.

2   

The firm of Colfax, Sweet, Baker & Anderson, is one of the three largest firms located in Chicago. Founded in 1873 by Seymour Colfax, fresh of Bidwell & Strong, itself one of New York's oldest and largest firms, and two young attorneys, William Sweet and Robert Washington Baker, it had weathered a century of innovation, industrialization, and the storm clouds of two world wars, the Great Depression, and the advent of the space and computer ages. From humble beginnings in a frame building on State Street, the rebirth of Chicago after the Great Fire of 1871 gave rise to a new city growing outward and upward, as well as a burgeoning young law firm.

Amidst all of the fanfare and glitter of the Columbian Exposition of 1893, Colfax Sweet established offices in the recently completed Monadnock Building on West Jackson Boulevard. From there they continued to grow and prosper, establishing a client list that read like Americana's Who's Who. Early clients included Potter Palmer and Marshall Field.

Palmer's switch from that of wealthy merchant to land baron began in 1867 when he purchased a three-quarter mile strip of State Street. By building feverishly, and enticing people like Marshall Field to come to State Street, Palmer was on his way. By the time Colfax Sweet came into existence, Palmer's holdings were quite extensive, and his legal needs great. Client Palmer encouraged his friend Field to join him as a Colfax Sweet man. They in turn were later joined by Philip Danforth Armour upon his moving his meat packing company headquarters from Milwaukee to Chicago in 1875.

As a result of their numerous ties to Chicago's wealthy, the principals of Colfax Sweet soon became part of the Prairie Avenue Set of Chicago high society, which included the Armours, the Fields, and the George M. Pullmans among others.

Baker's own friendship with Alexander Graham Bell and Thomas Edison led to Western Electric becoming a client. In 1903, Western Electric was the world's largest manufacturer of telephone equipment. It chose to locate its now famous Hawthorne Works on the boundary of the twin cities of Chicago and Cicero. The deal for the land, as well as the construction, was handled by Robert Baker. Millions of dollars flowed into the pockets of Colfax Sweet partners as a result of this relationship.

The practice flourished, and soon the offices were moved to the 38th floor of the recently completed Civic Opera Building at 20 N. Wacker, over looking the Chicago River. The names of additional partners and associates were added to the letterhead with each passing year.

The firm remained a force to be contended with by aligning itself with only the brightest and most influential politicians at the city, state, and national levels. From Bathhouse John Coughlin and Hinky Dink Kenna, the joint bosses of Chicago's First Ward, to Mayors Carter Harrison, Big Bill Thompson, Tony Cermak, Ed Kelly, and Richard J. Daley, Colfax Sweet was one of Chicago's own. Over the years, many an Illinois Governor, or hopeful, came to Colfax Sweet for counsel, contributions, and support. Democrats and Republicans alike, recognized the ability and influence of Colfax Sweet.

Partners grew old, they retired, and they died. Fathers replaced by sons, and then grandsons, and now even great-granddaughters. Names on the letterhead soon had dates in parentheses and asterisks after them, but through time, year after year, the ranks were replenished. With the prosperity of time and growth, the firm became an entity in its own right. A breathing, living being, to whom undying loyalty was required. Like moths to a flame, new associates kept coming. An offer from Colfax Sweet was not to be taken lightly. Careers could be made or broken with the wrong decision.

Old Man Baker, the oldest surviving grandson of any of the three founders, ran a tight ship. Adversaries over the years had largely referred to him simply as that son of a bitch, a title that he thoroughly enjoyed. Colfax Sweet & Baker (one never called it simply Colfax Sweet in his presence) was his firm. As the senior partner, and the chairman of the finance and partners' committees, he reserved the right to review any and all actions done in the name of CS & B. No large award or settlement offer in, and no large payment out, went unnoticed or reviewed by Robert Washington Baker III. His firm currently occupies four full floors in its LaSalle Street building, affording all of the partners great panoramic views of the city. Its lawyers command large hourly rates, and produce large annual dividends for those fortunate enough to have earned the status of partner. When Colt joined the firm immediately after finishing in the top five percent of his class at The John Marshall Law School, he was determined that he was going to achieve this status faster than anyone else had done in recent history.

Law school had been a snap, what with four years of the army behind him, a master's degree to boot, he had run rings around the kids who were there because they either did not know what to do with their lives, or because Daddy was footing the bill, or because they were trying to find themselves. Law Review and two plum summer internships had led to the very flattering and lucrative offer from Colfax Sweet, and once again, Colt was standing at the base of yet another mountain to be climbed. The 1900 billable hours required of him was not a problem, and while others sweat and died to generate these hours in something less than 80 hour work weeks, Colt was putting in no more than 50. His ability to analyze a problem and to attack it from all sides, often staging arguments by himself for the benefit of anyone willing to listen had earned him the nickname of the Commander. His diligence and discipline earned him four consecutive years as first Rookie of the Year and then successive honors as Top Associate and commensurate raises and bonuses. Opposing attorneys respected him for being tough but fair, juries loved him for his hominess, and judges were amused by his trial antics which were often described as brilliant, if not crazy. But through it all, he remembered the ethics class that he had loved to debate in. While winning was what he was paid to do by his clients, he would never compromise his principles or allow his clients to do it for him. As his self appointed mentors in the firm permitted, he tried more and more cases with each passing year. And he was a winner. And he played by the rules. Playing fair is good, but crushing their nuts is better, is what old man Baker had said to him after his first major league win. A products liability case, he had won by putting the severely burned defendant on the witness stand and then as a coup de grace, forcing the jury to use its collective conscience by taking pictures of each and every one of the jurors to an artist and having them retouched to show what the same disfiguring injuries would force them to look like, each and every day of their lives. A large award followed a rather short period of deliberation, for which the partners at Colfax Sweet received nearly 4 million dollars. At the reception thrown in his honor, old man Baker had been publicly complimentary, but in the privacy of the large mahogany paneled partners' library, had delivered a stinging rebuke; and gave him instruction on the fine art of going for the nuts, and squeezing for all your worth, in order to achieve even larger judgments. That had been at the end of the third year of Colt's association with the firm. When Colt asked the old man where justice fit into his physical analogy, the old man merely waved his hand, and said, "some day, when you are a partner, you will understand the relationships between mercy and justice, winning and winning, and the differences between being a good attorney and a great one."

One year later, at the end of his fourth year, when he was still grudgingly contemplating at least 2 to 3 more years of associate status, he was called into the Managing Partners' monthly meeting, to sit at the end of the long and ominous table. Often called the Lions' Den by the younger attorneys, Colt was there to be welcomed. Would he entertain an offer to be a junior partner? A larger office that would so much better suit his grand desk? Would he like to overlook the river perhaps? He had made it. He was being offered a partnership, financial security, and the means by which to remain forever free of his family and their industry — everything he always wanted. And yet, as if watching Jimmy Stewart's character George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, he heard himself saying no thank you. No, he did not want to be a partner. He did not want to be part of their fraternity. Firm life had lost it's luster over the past year. Bending the truth had become increasingly difficult for him, and the thrill of victory was now accompanied by the stench of all the corpses that lined his path to glory. It was the army all over again. He loved it as an institution, but those entrusted as it's caretakers had corrupted the system, and he had had to take leave of it. He had often thought that when he was a partner that he could change things at Colfax Sweet, but as with the Army, he realized that he was but a small spoke in the wheel, and could not make a difference. His choices back then had included going to work for a host of companies that were ready to welcome him as a recently returned military officer, accept a lucrative offer from his grandfather, or pursue another course, and head to law school, as he had done.

A lot of his friends at the firm were dumbfounded by his decision. The partners that he worked for directly were amazed; did he realize what he was throwing away? Did he need time to think about it? Maybe some time in the firm's Hawaiian condo perhaps? But he was not to be dissuaded. His course was not yet clear, but certainly did not include Colfax Sweet, and on New Years Eve 1985, he packed his briefcase for the last time, left directions on where to send his furniture and personal belongings, and said good-bye to Colfax Sweet.

The New Year's Eve gala at the Donaldson's had always been a blow out of a party, ever since the end of prohibition, and this year was no exception. The clan's patriarch, Jeffrey Edward Jed Donaldson, West Point '31, was a dapper man of 75 years, with the white hair and eyebrows that became a man of his stature. His glare immobilizing, and his back as ramrod straight as when he was Captain of Cadets, Jed Donaldson was still a soldier. He was a man of immense wealth in his own right after 45 years as a captain of industry. But what made him different was the twinkle in his eyes, the twinkle of idealism, and of chivalry long since vanished from Society.

These eyes had themselves been the subject of a Newsweek article, in which they had been described as ice blue with the killer's glint, seemingly capable of freezing molten lava, yet in an instant displaying warmth jollier than old Saint Nick himself.

Still within ten pounds of his West Point football playing weight, he cut quite a figure in his custom made suits. The annual pilgrimage to the garment district in New York City had been one of Colt's favorite times as a boy and he was permitted to accompany his grandfather.

The tanned face was now lined, and despite his humble beginnings, Jed Donaldson had a patrician's features, almost as if he were born to the position that he had created for himself as a captain of industry.

His hands may have softened, but the hard calluses formed as a youth remain as a reminder of his mining origin. The spots that speckle his hands are the only true indicators of his age. He could easily pass for a man approaching early retirement age as opposed to a man long since passed it.

Soft-spoken and always a gentleman, whether it was addressing a lady guest in the receiving line or methodically dissecting a rival corporate executive in a hostile takeover, he had retained the charms of a country boy, and refined himself into a Virginia gentleman. The Army and fifty years of business acumen had also instilled a keen judge of character behind those eyes.

Jed was a product of the West Virginia coal mines, his parents poor immigrants, who saw education and service to their adopted country as the means by which their son would obtain success and a better life than the lung killing coal mines had provided for them. So off he went to West Point in 1927, just as the country had reached its zenith of prosperity in the 1920s and was about to plunge into the great abyss that was the Depression.

June 1931 brought with it graduation from the Point, and at the head of the class, by sheer determination, was Jed Donaldson. The commencement speaker that day was the Army's Chief of Staff Douglas MacArthur, Class of '03. Accompanying him on the trip was a Major new to his staff by the name of Eisenhower, Class of '15, who had been directed by the Chief to find a captain and a lieutenant who would join their staff in the ever growing bureaucracy that was Washington. It seemed only logical that after a stint at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, and schooling as a Field Artillery officer, that the number one man in his class, Second Lieutenant Jeffrey Donaldson, report to the War Department for duty in the Chief of Staff's office.

It was shortly after Jed's reporting for duty that some twenty five thousand World War One veterans and their families gathered in, and around, the nation's capital. This ragged group later fashioned to call themselves the Bonus Expeditionary Force, or BEF for short, a play on the name of the American Expeditionary Force of World War One, which had been led by General BlackJack Pershing. It was their thought, that in light of the hard times that they, and the rest of the country, were experiencing, that a grateful government should award each of them a bonus for their service in the Great War. Viewing the growing mob from his office in the War Building, General MacArthur refused to believe that such a ragged bunch could ever have been soldiers. Jed was dispatched to circulate among them, dressed in old clothes, in an effort to gather information about their true identities.

His report that all that he had encountered were able to boast of service overseas was discounted due to his junior status, and obvious lack of discernment. A survey later conducted by the Veterans Administration confirmed the reports of Lieutenant Donaldson. Others were quick to support Jed, and attempted to dissuade MacArthur of his opinion that the ranks were full of criminals and thugs looking for a free handout.

By the end of July, 1932, the ranks were not only swelling, but were becoming restless. President Hoover was convinced that they needed to be evicted from Washington. On the morning of July 28, there was a squirmish between police and a group of veterans, which resulted in the shooting of two veterans. The President directed that the eviction should commence. Major Eisenhower and Lieutenant Donaldson attempted in vain to dissuade the Army Chief of Staff from becoming personally involved in the eviction, on the grounds that it would only serve to alienate the army from several members of Congress and their constituencies.

Washington life in the 1930's for a young staff officer was nothing short of challenging. The appropriations bills each year provided less and less for the Army, and so it became a part of War Department duty for all aides and strap-hangers to attend any and all social gatherings to which their bosses may be invited. The involvement of the Chief of Staff of the Army in such a decidedly unseemly action would only serve to make appropriations harder to come by for all elements of the Army. But the General had set his mind on a course of action.

Rising to his feet, and with a flourish of his arms, the General announced that he was going to assume command in the field, and lead the loyal forces of the United States against the rabble that dare to compare themselves to soldiers. Lieutenant Donaldson was dispatched to nearby Fort Meyers, and Quarters One, where the Chief of Staff lived by tradition, to pick up the General's full dress uniform. He also ordered that a contingent of infantry, tanks, and cavalry form up around the Washington Monument.

With his uniform emblazoned with all of the decorations earned in thirty years of service in peacetime and in war, General MacArthur led the charge against the veterans. The veterans quickly retreated to the tiny hamlets that they had established, but MacArthur was relentless, and ordered that all of the tents, packing crates, shacks, and other means by which the veterans were sheltering themselves and their families, be burned.

The tear gas that the regular army employed claimed the lives of two infants. The sight of their still tiny bodies was something that haunted Jed for years after that day. Despite that image, he supported his General, much to many of his superior's, to include Eisenhower's, amazement. Perhaps for this reason, after that day, Lieutenant Donaldson was one of the General's most trusted aides and confidants. A constant companion at all of the social functions, Jed soon became a regular at the White House and the Capitol, meeting leaders of government and industry, and establishing contacts that would serve him immeasurably later in life.

Jed's polite, backwoods manners appealed immensely to Mrs. Roosevelt, who always chose to talk with the young aide whenever the inevitable would happen, and either the President or the General would launch into a speech for all those assembled to hear. The glitter and the pomp was certainly something new to a poor boy from the coal mines. This was an entirely different side of life to Jed Donaldson, and he thrived on it. At one social gathering he met a major by the name of George Patton who was commanding a squadron of cavalry at nearby Fort Meyer. George Patton was rich — and did not need to work to support his family. His military career was the fulfillment of his own dreams. His uniforms were always well tailored, and rivaled those worn by the General himself. An accomplished horseman, and crack shot, Patton had represented the United States in the 1912 Olympics in Stockholm, placing fourth among the forty seven contestants in the Pentathlon's overall standings. Another friendship was established, and on many weekends, Jed was the house guest of George and Bea Patton. As a result of his wealth, George Patton in turn knew many wealthy men. One such man was Reginald Remington, a powerful and well connected man, the owner of Remington Steel, Remington Rail, Remington Power, Remington Motors, etc., and the father of Sarah Virginia Remington.

Sarah Virginia Remington was a belle of the old South. Her upbringing was one of propriety and exactness in the social graces. But even with these defenses, a dashing young lieutenant on the staff of the Army's senior, and most famous general, was able to capture her heart, and in the Spring of 1934, in a grand ceremony, with Major George Patton as the best man, Lieutenant and Mrs. Jeffrey Donaldson were married. Subsequent to a honeymoon in sun drenched Hawaii, the newlyweds took up residence in one of the old Custis mansions, a present from the bride's mother and father.

This was also the time at which General MacArthur's tenure was coming to an end at the War Department. Caesar's reign was scheduled to end in the fall of 1934, which would result in the subsequent reassignment of all of the General's staff, to include Jed. But each time the President was asked about a new Chief of Staff, he would equivocate, or offer up some other reason that a nominee had not been named. The truth of the matter was that all of the forces in and around Washington were lobbying Roosevelt for their own candidate or for the re-appointment of MacArthur to another term. MacArthur supporters and adversaries were everywhere. Finally, at the direction of President Roosevelt, the General's tour was extended for one year, and with it, all of his staff's, until a successor could be found.

In the Spring of 1935, a son was born, and in honor of his father, and of his mother's lineage, was named Jeffrey Remington Donaldson. Accompanying the birth of Jeffrey, or J. Remington as he was known around his mother's family, were orders assigning First Lieutenant Donaldson to the division artillery at Fort Riley, Kansas, a request that had been seen to by a newly promoted Lieutenant Colonel named Patton, also destined for the Kansas outpost. Jed was excited at the prospect of finally getting to soldier rather than being a uniformed gopher. But both General MacArthur, and his father-in-law, had other ideas.

General MacArthur was being posted to the Philippines as the head of the United States military mission in that country. Despite his reduction to the permanent grade of Major General, MacArthur could not imagine that the Army or the President would want him to begin this new assignment without those subordinates who had served him so admirably during his tenure as Chief of Staff. Eisenhower did not want to go. He felt as if he had done his time in Purgatory. Jed had mixed emotions. His desire to serve the General, and see another part of the world were tempered by his desire to truly soldier with George Patton.

Unfortunately, Reginald Remington also had other ideas. No daughter of his, and now a grandson, were going to gallivant around the country living in who knows what conditions, much less in the jungles of far off Manila, if he had anything to say about it. Jed was given a choice: resign his commission and enter the work world at a very comfortable entry level, or head to either assignment without his family.

In late 1935, Major James Ord, a friend of Dwight Eisenhower, joined the general's staff in Manila.

On January 1, 1936, a small notice in the Wall Street Journal paid for by Remington Steel announced the hiring of its new Vice President of Production, Jeffrey E. Donaldson, late of General MacArthur's personal staff.

But in spite of this disappointment, Jed was an exceptional business man, and attacked his duties with as much zeal as he had hit his tactical studies. Remington Steel prospered over the years, and Jed's fortune with it.

His son, Jeffrey Remington Donaldson grew and grew. Private schools and a life style only read about in magazines could not dissuade him. The Second World War as well as our little war in Korea had captured his imagination. He started talking about a military career, to which Jed could only smile, and hope that his son would have the courage to stay away from Remington Hell. At this point, Old man Remington was great — he promised the boy twice the money he would earn at any point of his military career, until he was making more than that, and then the sky would be the limit. But on July 13, 1957, Jeffrey Remington Donaldson became a candidate at Fort Benning's Officer Candidate School. With his young bride and infant son safely ensconced in a small motel near the post, he was happy. His bachelors degree already hanging on the wall, this was the vehicle by which he would become an officer, and lead them to glory. This naturally was to the delight of his father, and to the dismay to his mother who saw it as a vulgarity unnecessary to a young man of his stature and breeding.

Rachel's elbow in his ribs brought him back to the future. The old man was making a toast, to a brighter 1986, and to the success of Colt in his new law practice. A gentleman lawyer is what he called him, obviously proud that he had been able to withstand the temptations at Colfax Sweet, and was now pursuing another adventure, still safely apart from the Remington dynasty.

3   

The answering machine in his personal office was full of messages again, which meant that there were at least 20 phone calls that he would have to return. He hated the machine, but each phone call was money. Pure and simple, telephone, time, and trouble equated to money in his pocket, and food on his table. He truly hated some of his clients, so much so that when it came time to decide whether or not to take a case, he would often price his services so outlandishly in hopes that they would go somewhere else. Joanna Packard was one such case. Her divorce promised to be long and bloody, and would require an inordinate amount of time, and he really did not want to do it. So, he put a price tag of $15,000.00 up front, at $250.00 an hour. Surely she would go somewhere else. Who would have thought that she would have the audacity and flair for the dramatic to have his secretary show her into in his office while he was in court, and lay out over the entire surface of his great desk, 150 Ben Franklins — cash money. She had herself an attorney after that. Dick Williams wanted another set of merger documents for his corporation, and could he fly out to Akron, Ohio with him next week? A few more settlement offers to address, and as usual, there were plenty of real estate and other contracts to review. His was a very diverse practice, and he was happy. He was master of his own destiny, and had recently decided to go into partnership with another ex-Loop attorney who had also bailed out of big firm life. Donaldson and McHale, Chartered is what the letterhead said, and with the other 3 attorneys that now worked there, and the 7 secretaries, Colt could now almost understand what old man Baker had been talking about. His partner, James McHale, was a slightly crazed Scotsman, with big ruddy features, and a heart that said yes too often to clients down on their luck. Theirs had been an interesting marriage, but for the past year, they had each earned more money than ever before, and were having fun again.

He had been astounded at how easy the transition had been from solo practitioner to Managing Partner. When he had left the firm, he was ready to spread his wings and fly solo. His desire to be a team player had been sorely tested as a member of Colfax Sweet. It had been difficult to muster and maintain the level of commitment and dedication, nay maniacal dedication that was demanded by Baker. He had been happy on his own, and had done well for himself. Rachel's encouragement had not been misplaced. But as the practice had grown, so did the pressures. Many of the pressures that he had never felt back at the firm eventually came to hit him right between the eyes, making him reconsider the wisdom of having hung out his own shingle. The solo practitioner was a dying breed, much like the dinosaur. Hell, even Perry Mason found it necessary to take on an associate when he came back to television in those two hour movies. Now instead of a secretarial pool and a group of hungry young associates and paralegals to assist him on projects, and a group of senior partners available for consultation, he was all alone.

Vacation and time off would have become a thing of the past had he not started the practice with a tidy nest egg and the determination that he was not going to sacrifice his family any more than the Army and the Firm had already required of him. He owed them that much. He had made a go of it, and when he met Jim McHale, he was successful, and at the crossroads of expansion. As it was, in the course of a few hours over the luncheon table, the strategy that would give rise to the birth of Donaldson & McHale, Chartered, was devised, and he was no longer the lone man in the garden.

It was determined that based on personality and organizational ability, that he would be the managing partner of the firm, Jim the flamboyant rainmaker and thoroughbred in the stable. As such, it was Colt's responsibility to hire attorneys and staff, act as the dreaded Tax Matters Partner, and Professional Standards Partner. It was a match made in heaven everyone in the legal community began to say, and soon there were five attorneys laboring within the growing confines of D & M. He had assembled the team carefully, and despite the growth in attorneys and support staff, it was still a warm and friendly place in which to work. Cooperation and assistance were the watchwords, with no one looking over their shoulder guarding against the other, hoping to get a leg up in the race to make partner. Being generous with salary and benefits, all of the associates understood that they would someday become the equivalent of equity partners, without ever achieving the same status as their downtown compatriots. Effort and work would translate into dollars. It was a fair arrangement that everyone agreed worked for their band of warriors. Honesty and integrity were more than just words, they were the way of life at Donaldson & McHale.

I should be returning phone calls right now, but I can't get that telegram out of my mind. Telegrams are never good news. Historically they announced the death or wounding of a loved one in time of war, or were greetings from the draft board. He could not recall ever receiving a telegram that was good news, or had not led him into trouble. It had been a telegram that had told him and his mother of his father's death in Korea. Yeah, the Army sent a chaplain and a captain to tell them too, but it was that little sheet of paper crumpled in his mother's hand that had told him all that he needed to know. And now he had received a telegram from some old Regimental Command Sergeant Major who had known his father, and wanted to buy him lunch and to retain him. It was all so crazy.

CSM William Top Winters, sat in the restaurant downing his second beer. The now silver gray hair still worn closely cropped to his skull, is but one indication that Top Winters was a lifer. At barely 5'8, but some 180 pounds, he was built like a fire plug. The gnarled fists had seen more than their share of action both in and out of combat. The lined face with leather-like skin was what one would expect from a coal miner's son turned soldier.

More than one enlisted man, scared lieutenant, or even senior officer had found themselves the subject of those incredible ice blue eyes that were capable of freezing someone in their tracks. The nose was a mass of flesh in the middle of his face, the result of having been broken on at least nine separate occasions that he could recall. The teeth were long gone, but the dentures that the Army had provided him were comfortable, and looked relatively good. A tough old bird, he had been born in 1921 in one of the little towns that litter the West Virginia coal mining countryside, and he carries the scars from 3 wars and a tough neighborhood in New York City. Yet, despite this and the fact that he probably wears more medals than Patton, and all of his connections, his very own grandson needs the kind of help that only a man like Colt Donaldson can provide.

He had put a lot of miles on the body since he started working the mines back at the ripe old age of 11; but back where he came from, either you worked or you didn't eat. He signed up in '40, married out of basic training, and then spent the next five years chasing Nazis across North Africa, Italy, and then across the entire continent, from the beach at Normandy through the Ardennes (at the Battle of the Bulge). He crossed the Rhein with Patton, and then stayed on in Germany, seeing duty in occupied Berlin. He saw enough death and destruction to last a lifetime, or so he thought, and so in 1948, his latest enlistment up, he became Bill Winters, Civilian. For the first year, he drove a delivery truck for a newspaper, and then went to work selling insurance the next. By the next year, it was 1950, and he was back in the service, in time to head to Korea for two years of freezing winters and sizzling summer heat. But it was different this time, and he decided he liked the army, and after all, he had 10 years of service in.

His next assignment took him to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma, for two years, then it was back to Korea with duty on the DMZ with the 2nd Infantry Division where the damn North Koreans made it really dicey, by shooting up a lot of good boys for doing absolutely nothing. It was during this tour that he had met Captain Jeffrey Donaldson, one hell of an officer, and someone that he had become quite fond of until the day that Captain D. was gone.

And then it had been off to a new and rebuilding Germany for four years. The early 60's had him in the Midwest at Ft. Riley, Kansas for three years, and then the balloon went up again, and at the ripe old age of 43, he was in his third war, earning the second star to his Combat Infantryman's Badge, in the Republic of Vietnam. A year in that festering hell hole, and then back to Sill for three years of training babies to go off to fight, and then it was his turn to go back to 'Nam, this time as a Regimental Command Sergeant Major.

This tour was brutal; the Tet Offensive, My Lai, and finding out the truth about his son,and all the rest, told him that he had had enough. He put his papers in and retired with 27 years of service — 9 hash marks, as a CSM — top of the heap.

He had fought his wars, hell, the troops followed him out of the Ardennes rather than the Eltee, and he hadn't been much more than a kid himself — 5'8, a barrel chest, with a voice that allowed him to bellow with enough authority that when he said shit, the troops merely asked how much and what color. Vietnam had been a different type of war, not one that he understood, or cared to understand. Men died there for no good reason.

Troops killed their own officers, like some animals eat their young. It was a crazy, mixed up, dope crazed place to be.

Korea had been a different story — cold cruel winters, his platoon nearly froze to death on the Pusan perimeter — and would have if it hadn't been for Mad Mac, a real soldier's soldier. But that was a long time ago, and Billy needed help.

Colt didn't hate going downtown so long as he could beat the traffic in and out, or in the alternative, hop a train and catch a nap on the way into Union Station. Chicago, the Windy City, was a challenge to get around in during rush hour, but at lunch time, it was fun to watch the girls in their preppy walking shoes, trying to hold their hair from flying off, and their skirts from flying up. It was the inexperienced ones who usually failed at both and were the most amusing.

The Billy Goat Tavern on Wells street was in the shadow of the elevated 'L’ trains that moved people around this toddling town. An institution, the Billy Goat had seen it's share of power lunches, deals cut in back booths, and lives altered sometimes permanently. As Colt's eyes adjusted to the dimness and the smoke that hung in the air, he looked around to see if he could spot CSM William Winters by guessing. Well, the backslappers over in the corners were obviously political hacks, and the ones at the bar were too young. There, in a corner table, wearing a suit that obviously made him very uncomfortable, sat his erstwhile client. There is something about a true military lifer in civilian clothing — they may as well be wearing a dress, they are so out of place. At that instant their eyes met, and they both knew that contact had been met. Colt walked up to the table and the CSM stood up, his eyes being at about Colt's chin, the four inch advantage obvious.

Sergeant Major Winters? inquired Colt offering his hand, I am Jeff Donaldson.

Well of course you are, I could tell when you walked in that you were the Colt that Mad Mac described to me, and call me 'Top', everyone else does, said Winters.

You know Mad Mac? exclaimed Colt, all the while the veil of mystery of how he was coming to have lunch in the Billy Goat tavern with a complete stranger was lifting.

You bet your ass I know Mac. Served with him in Korea and again in Vietnam. Near froze our asses off in Pusan back in '52, said this colorful throwback to the old Army.

Major General Bernard Richard MacKenzie, USA (Ret.), was a good friend of Jed Donaldson, and was now a member of the Board of Directors of half a dozen companies to include Remington Tool & Die. Much decorated, Mac could have been Chief of Staff had he learned to keep his mouth shut, and drink a little less. More than once he had thrown up on the wrong person at a cocktail party. Back in Germany, the joke had been that being his aide had the prerequisites of being able to hold your own liquor, and for having a strong stomach, and at least two sets of dress blues. A brilliant tactician, Mac had been an enlisted man at the tail end of World War II, a brilliant company commander in Korea, a battalion and later a brigade commander and MACV staff officer in Vietnam, and finally earned his stars in Germany. A brilliant tactician, he had been an outstanding Assistant Division Commander, and would have gone on to be an equally brilliant Corps commander had he learned something in the charm school that all new general officers went to upon receiving their first star. As it was, he finished his career in a variety of logistical and staff positions, all designed to keep him out of harms way.

Okay, so you know Mac, but that doesn't explain the link to me, said Colt.

Come on son, keep your eye on the ball; I know Mac, Mac is a good buddy with your granddaddy, who is so proud of his Colt, that when we had lunch together last week, he insisted that I fly to Chicago and talk to you about my grandson and his problem. Jed said that if anyone could take on the U.S. Army and win, it would be you, said the Sergeant Major, taking a large swallow from his beer.

Before he could respond, a very buxom young waitress came to take their drink orders. She certainly smiled when she took my order, Colt mused, wondering what she would be like. My luck I would be unfaithful for the first time in my life and die of the clap!

Nice hooters, heh Kid? cracked the SGM, with a big grin on his face.

Tell me how and why I am to 'take on' the Army, and what I am expected to win, said Colt, embarrassed that a stranger could almost read his mind. Something that Colt insisted on in his attorney-client relationships, was the utmost of professionalism. He did not believe in having to become best friends with a client in order to do a good job. In fact, sometimes getting too close often clouded an attorney's judgment, and forced him to miss something that a detached observer would catch, and that is when a case is won or lost. He had almost learned that the hard way in his first year at Colfax Sweet when a client had manipulated him, and but for a quick recovery, would have blown the case.

Well, seems that my grandson, is in serious trouble. The Army in its infinite wisdom has decided to court martial the boy for something he did not do.

How do you know that he is innocent? asked Colt in his most placid voice, wondering why the family never believed that their son or daughter was capable of doing what they were charged with doing.

"How do I know, I'll tell you how I know. Because he is my grandson, because he has always been a good boy, and now is a good man. Because from the time that his father died in