“This court will come to order in the case of United States versus Petty Officer David M. Ponder, United States Navy, at Marine Corps Base Camp Foster, Okinawa, Japan.” I’m a little nervous, like I am at the beginning of every trial, but I don’t show it. It’s just an arraignment anyway. We’re mostly here to arrange dates for trial and I’ve already talked to the prosecutor, known as the “trial counsel” in military parlance, a professional Marine Captain by the name of Chris Kolomjec, and we’ve agreed to push the dates out a bit on this case. Like me, he had another specialty in the Marine Corps before becoming an attorney, so we have a collegial relationship. Chris is going on temporary duty to an exercise in Thailand called “Cobra Gold” and I’m in the beginning stages of a plan to plead this case out under very favorable terms if I can get in to see the Convening Authority – my client’s Commanding Officer – while he’s out of town. In courts-martial, the prosecution has one-hundred twenty (120) days to be ready to go to trial and the arraignment stops that clock from running.

In David Ponder’s case, stopping the clock is mutually agreeable, but we have to coordinate our plans with the judge’s trial schedule.
I put on the required lawyerly mask of indifference, but inside, my guts still twist a little. A trial is like the start of a “big” game in sports, except the stakes are a whole lot higher. I am, as one might expect, extremely competitive, particularly in sports, but I’ve played and lost enough games to have perspective – at the end of a game, even after a loss, nobody goes to jail, gets busted, kicked out of the service, or loses their pay. On the other hand, as a defense counsel I also have a standard line to my clients: “At the end of the day, I’m not the one going to jail. I’m going home to my wife and four daughters.” Notwithstanding this shpiel, I’m a bit new at this and keenly feel the punishment hanging over my clients, the mythical sword of Damocles hanging there, waiting to fall. One mistake on my part…. On the Defense side of the courtroom, it is your intellect, initiative, imagination – and a ball point and legal pad – against the resources of “The United States of America.” While it can be a unique intellectual challenge, it is also daunting because I am gambling with another person’s liberty. Anyone who ignores that is either another class of lawyer than I am or a fool.

I edge a little closer to Petty Officer Third Class Ponder, a sailor who refused the controversial anthrax vaccine. My move closer might appear to outsiders as a sign of my solidarity with my client; and in David’s case, it’s got some truth. We’ve only just met, but I like him. In most cases, however, being proximate to my client makes me feel less alone. I am six months removed from Naval Justice School, nine months from passing the Bar, eleven months from law school graduation, and a lifetime away from my former occupation in the Marine Corps as a Cobra attack helicopter pilot.

Captain Kolomjec finishes reciting his bona fides and how the court came to be created by the Commanding Officer of Naval Mobile Constriction Battalion Seventy-Four, Petty Officer Ponder’s C.O. This part really was boring, scripted, and I waited for my turn to speak.
“Captain Saran?” the military judge, Lieutenant Colonel Tim Miller, looked up from his Military Judges’ Benchbook in my direction, my cue to do my part.

“Sir, I have been detailed to this court-martial by Major J.R. Woodworth, Senior Defense Counsel, Legal Services Support Section, Third Force Service Support Group, Camp Foster, Okinawa, Japan. I am qualified and certified under Article 27(b) and sworn under article 42(a) of the Uniform Code of Military Justice.” I don’t need to look down at my trial guide for this, which is a script for Navy and Marine Corps trial proceedings for the repetitive parts in the process. It keeps everyone tracking where the trial is, but the real reason for it is to make for better records of trial. Anyone who receives a punitive discharge in the military gets an automatic appeal up to their service specific appellate court. Given the number of courts-martial in the military, this helps the appellate courts do their jobs. Arguably, it also helps the accused get a better, cleaner trial. The familiar recitation helps my nerves dissipate; I suspect it has something to do with being raised Catholic.

“I have not acted in any manner which might tend to disqualify me in this court-martial and no other defense counsel, either military or civilian, have either been detailed to or are on this case.” I start to sit down and then stay on my feet in anticipation of my client standing up when the judge speaks to him for the first time – just as I instructed him to do.

“Are you Petty Officer Ponder, the accused in this case?” David Ponder stands up to the position of attention.

“Yes, sir.” Firmly, not too loud, perfect. He looks good in his uniform, as well. I know because I inspected him myself before we came into court. The defense shop keeps an extra set of uniforms, spare ribbons and devices, and whatever else we can scavenge for when our clients are brought in by the chasers – military escorts – from the brig. They come over in those ubiquitous orange jumpsuits in shackles; while their units are supposed to provide the uniforms for them, we always wind up with clients missing ribbons and sundry uniform items, so we have a small stock available.

“Okay, Petty Officer Ponder, you may take a seat, and you may remain seated unless I otherwise direct you to stand.” Lieutenant Colonel Miller nods gently from behind his glasses. I notice he’s still rubbing his hand as he continues, a habit since the pins were removed. The judge flipped over the handlebars of his bike and busted his wrist up pretty badly and I knew the scar must itch where the pins had come out. Reconstructive shoulder surgery at 15 left me with an intimate understanding of that feeling.

We finish with the preliminaries; I rattle off all of the awards which David Ponder had earned during his three years as a Navy Seabee. The judge goes through my client’s rights to counsel, military and civilian, and then his own qualifications. He then gives us a chance to challenge him or ask any questions if we think he might be partial for any reason, a formality at this point, because I’m pretty sure that Lieutenant Colonel Miller isn’t even going to hear this case if we go to trial. He’s likely to pass it to Major Eric Stone, the other military judge on Okinawa, because of some scheduling conflicts with other cases in the Pacific region, which includes mainland Japan and Korea. We all do a good bit of traveling because of the odd and disbursed units that have occasional courts-martial, but the bulk of the work is on Okinawa.

I look over at my client; David Ponder looks young to me – and I just turned thirty. He has the beginnings of a moustache, but it’s just that, the beginnings. The good thing is that he likes to keep his hair short by Navy standards, which helps in a Marine court. He’s also a genuinely squared-away sailor. I liked him, which is supposed to be irrelevant to attorneys, but it’s not. Everyone gets the same level of representation; it’s just a question of whether you like defending them or not and whether or not you’ll feel badly if they’re convicted. It also helps in generating the emotional energy to work late nights and long hours cheerfully, as opposed to drearily.

“Petty Officer Ponder,” the judge breaks into my thoughts, “I now ask you how do you plead, but before accepting your pleas, I advise you that any motion to dismiss or grant any other relief should be made at this time. Captain Saran?”

I stand up, my stomach now fully settled, which is great because we’re just about done; we have our dates for trial, but I’m thinking this gets pled to a Summary Court martial, where my client can get no more than 30 days in the brig and no punitive discharge, but he’s probably going to have to waive his right to an Administrative Discharge Board and they’ll kick him out with ‘bad paper’ – an ‘Other Than Honorable’ discharge, which is like being fired from the military.

“Sir, at this time Petty Officer Ponder requests to defer entry of pleas and motions in accordance with the schedule the court has already set forth.”

The judge goes through the dates Kolomjec and I have already picked for motions, responses, witness requests, and discovery. All parties are agreed.

“Anything else from either party before we adjourn?”

“No, sir,” both Kolomjec and I answer after glancing at each other.

“Then this court is in recess.”

“All rise!” Kolomjec intones. I’m already on my feet and David joins me as the judge passingly says “Carry on” and departs.

As my client and I walk out, we almost bump square into David Allen, a reporter from the Pacific “Stars and Stripes.” I’ve only been on the island for a few months, but my reaction is immediate – I step in and tell David Allen we’ll give a statement at some point and he’ll be the first to know. Blah blah blah.

The first thing any decent defense attorney wants regarding his client’s talking – to anyone, but particularly law enforcement and the press – is to STFU and let the lawyer do the talking. The cop shows and movies are dead-on in one respect: anything you say can and will be used against you. Plus, offhand I can’t remember either the Code of Professional Responsibility or the more stringent Navy Instruction for all Judge Advocates on speaking to the press. I know generally it’s frowned upon, if not outright verboten, to speak to the press. Add to that my natural aversion to the media as a military officer and I’m curt, but polite.

Oddly enough, this is one of the few times it likely won’t matter. It’s not as if David could say anything damning – he had refused a direct order to take the anthrax vaccine and even talked about it in interviews with local media in his homeport of Biloxi, Mississippi. There isn’t a whole lot of dispute factually. I don’t want to give the government any additional ammunition for sentencing, however, should we ever get there. A jury or military judge would probably not look kindly on someone who was bashing the military in the local paper. So, we pass on the “exclusive.”

Back in my office, I drop into my chair.

“Sir,” Petty Officer Ponder begins, “what happens now?”

“Well, you heard the dates for motions. That’s the next big milestone. It’s likely that the prosecutor will file a motion asking the judge to find the order to take the vaccine lawful. That’s been the standard in the few other anthrax cases that have gone to trial. The good thing is that Captain Kolomjec leaves for Thailand the day that our response is due. Likelihood is he won’t be around in the afternoon when I drop the response off on the prosecution. He also won’t be back until right before the motions session and I’m betting no one else is going to pick up our response and run with the ball. So, it may not win the day, but it will certainly limit his time to be ready to answer our motion.” David Ponder nods, but I can tell he’s nervous. I would be, too, if I were in his shoes.

“Sir, did you get in touch with Major Bates’s attorney, Mister Smith, at that number I gave you?” David Ponder put me in touch with an attorney in the States named Bruce Smith, an administrative judge in North Carolina and Major in the Air Force Reserve. He defended Air Force Major Sonnie Bates, the highest ranking officer to refuse the anthrax vaccine. He had been discharged with ‘good paper’ as a result of a plea negotiation.

“Yeah. I talked to him. Interesting conversation.”

When I spoke to Bruce Smith, he calmly asked me if I could consider that the order to take the anthrax vaccine was unlawful. Not quite expecting the question, I had said, sure, albeit hesitantly. In my own mind, I figured he was a loon, a conspiracy theorist, but he had gotten a good result for Major Bates, so what did I have to lose by listening to the guy? He told me to look up a particular federal statute and then said he would send me some other materials and asked if I would I please keep them “close hold.” His manner was so cordial, I casually agreed, thinking nothing of it.

My boss, Major John Woodworth, figured he had done me a favor by assigning me – a brand new judge advocate – three of the four anthrax refusal cases on the island of Okinawa. The assumption was that these were guys looking for an excuse to get out of the military and the units would likely agree to Summary Court deals with a Board waiver and these would be over in short order. Like Tom Cruise in a “Few Good Men” I came to David Ponder’s case with the goal to get him the best deal possible, and do it quickly and quietly. I also have several major cases pending, including a rape defense.

I got the first three of my anthrax shots just before coming to Okinawa. I took them somewhat reluctantly, as I had read an article in a major news magazine about the possibility of some experimental substance called squalene being in the anthrax vaccine given to soldiers during Desert Storm. I had sat in the medical clinic at Naval Justice School in Newport, Rhode Island, discussing the matter with another Marine attorney. Both of us had served previously as officers in the Fleet Marine Force and while we tended to think that squalene had been used in the anthrax vaccine, our leaders wouldn’t allow it to be used now. Quite simply, we trusted our chain of command, our senior officers.

David breaks into my thoughts.

“Do you think my CO might consider not court-martialing me or something if you explained this to him?” David Ponder’s question was laden with ethical implications that I was glad I explained to him. While the anthrax vaccine was getting a lot of attention in the press back in the States, and the issue was very interesting legally, I couldn’t let that interfere with my duty to my client, which is to advocate his interests. If he wanted to deal, to plead guilty, no matter how much I might like to litigate the issue, it was his ass on the line. I explained as much to him from the start. David Ponder didn’t have a Juris Doctor, but he was sharp and understood the bottom line.

“Well, I’m going to set up a meeting while Kolomjec’s away and see if the C.O. won’t listen to what we’ve got to say. I’ll get back to you as soon as I get out of that meeting, okay?” I smiled at him.

“Okay, sir. I’m going to change up. Where can I go to have a smoke?”

“Out on the stairs at the end of the building.” I nodded toward the general direction. When he left, I went back to work. I was concerned with the other fifteen other clients who were counting on me to keep them out of jail. At the time, I had no idea that David Ponder’s case would take us both from Okinawa to the highest military court of appeals, to the doorstep of the Supreme Court, and eventually to testifying in front of Congress. It would also eventually cost me my active duty career, but that was a long way off.