January 22
Strickland, ignorant to the deception, awoke eager and ready to go. She liked getting out of the motor pool now and then.
She assumed she was going to design a maintenance program for the company, having designed two training programs for other units in the recent past. Or better yet, maybe she was getting an award for those successful programs. This last thought made more sense. Maybe the commander and her boss wanted to surprise her, though she couldn't imagine why she had to report to commander's office so early. Awards are usually handed out at formation, in front of everyone. This just didn't add up.
She leaped up the front steps of the headquarters building two at a time. It was still dark outside when she poked her head into the commander’s empty office. The lights were on but his chair was empty. She glanced around his office and rolled her eyes. She had stood in this exact spot several times before, and each time his office amused her.
It was obvious at first glance this was an infantryman's haven. His walls were wallpapered with dozens of wooden and metal frames showing off his school diplomas, achievement awards and letters of appreciate. Bronzed bullets and shell casings adorned his desk. A large infantry logo encased in a clear plastic box hung from a small nail on the inside of his door. These things were testimony to many years of playing soldier. It was clearly a warrior’s domain.
Taft was a fairly young, premature-balding, southern man who was known to take his position as the leader in the company very seriously. He demanded respect. Superiority oozed from his pores, yet, unbeknownst to him, and he probably wouldn’t care if he did know, none of his followers liked him, including Strickland.
As she glanced around his egocentric office, she guessed he wouldn’t be a captain much longer. It was no secret he was bucking for major.
When Taft finally walked into his office, he went directly to his chair and sat down. Then he looked hard at her, like he was studying her or something, and he didn't return her smile. Strickland stood at attention in front of his desk for what seemed like five minutes, wondering why he was being so serious, why he hadn’t given the order of at ease yet.
“The Provost Marshall’s Office needs training with their new vehicles,” he said in his usual slow southern drawl.
“I want you to go to the PMO and ask for Ralph Ralstein. Then immediately report back to me after he’s finished with you. Is that clear?”
That’s it? Strickland wondered. That’s all he has to say to me?
She thought he was being awfully mean. She definitely didn’t like the way he said finished with you, like she was about to be punished.
“No problem, sir. Do you want me to go to the Provost Marshal's Office right now?" she asked.
“That's what I said. Ralstein's waiting for you. You’re dismissed, Strickland.”
Strickland paused, half-expecting at least a few words of gratitude for being a good mechanic. When none came she offered a salute, but after a few seconds she realized he wasn’t going to return it. He was clearly disregarding her. She quickly did an about face and scurried out of his office.
Taft’s frown transformed into an evil smile as soon as she closed his door. He felt like he had just won a small battle for mankind. He played his part to perfection, he thought, and thoroughly enjoyed doing it. It wasn’t every day he got to help oust a pervert from his army.
Taft had sent her to the CID office without feeling any remorse, not caring at all what was to become of her. They were an abomination to his Christian beliefs, and they spread AIDS. They disgusted him. He was delighted to be involved in Strickland’s investigation. He was happy to send the dyke straight to Special Agent Ralph Ralstein. She was uninformed and unprepared. He thought the tactic of the element of surprise was brilliant.
Strickland tried to remain upbeat on her way to Ralstein’s office, but a small knot was developing in the pit of her stomach. She tried to ignore her internal warning signals. Something's not right, she thought. She didn't like the way everyone was acting.
As she approached the PMO, she glanced at the entrance sign and nervously took a deep breath. In small print on the bottom of the sign were the letters CID. Criminal Investigation Division; the army's equal to the FBI.
Oh God, this is way too close to the enemy. Strickland had heard horror stories about this agency, about its reputation for being ruthless in gay witch hunts, but she knew both agents who worked out of this office and neither one of them acted weird lately.
Strickland, you’re being paranoid, she mumbled to herself.
She grabbed her briefcase, heavy with training manuals and program outlines, and slowly trudged into the building. She stopped an MP and asked if she had ever heard of Ralph Ralstein.
“Nope. Never heard of him.”
Strickland tried to hide her panic. It was a small base. Everybody practically knew everybody. This isn’t good. She continued down the hall to the Military Police office, where a private was busily sifting through a filing cabinet.
“Excuse me, have you ever heard of Ralph Ralstein? I was told to report here to meet him.”
The private looked up for a moment. “Yeah, I saw him earlier. Try the CID office.” Then he went back to filing.
She stood frozen in the doorway, wanting to run but her feet wouldn’t budge. She could just turn around and walk out. Simple as that. Stop it, she told herself. You’re being ridiculous. This is the 90s, for Christ’s sake!
“Are you Specialist Strickland?”
Strickland jumped. She turned around to face a tall, lanky man in his mid-50s with thick black-rimmed glasses and an expansive forehead. He was standing close behind her.
“Oh, you scared me,” she nervously laughed as she clutched her chest with one hand.
“Sorry about that. I’m Special Agent Ralph Ralstein. I believe you’re looking for me.”
“Yes, sir. I'm supposed to help you out. I hear you have new vehicles coming in, or are they already in?”
“Neither. But we'll discuss that in a moment. Why don’t you follow me.”
Strickland obediently followed him into a conference room down the hall. It was sparingly furnished with a small square table and two empty metal chairs. On the table were a notepad, a tape recorder and a thick folder. In the corner of the room sat a woman in civilian clothes.
Strickland’s suspicions were immediately confirmed when she saw her own name typed on the small tab of a manila folder stamped Confidential.
“Would you like something to drink? A soda or water?” he asked.
When she shook her head no, he gently shut the door behind him. She couldn’t believe this was happening.
Strickland's mind went haywire. How could I have been set up like this? Was I actually sent here on false pretenses? Can they be this conniving? No wonder everyone was acting so weird. There’s no training program. I was turned in.
She fought to hold back the tears. Sweat began beading on her forehead as she stood in place, wishing she could flee from this room, from these people. But she was trapped, like an animal in a cage, held captive by two CID agents. There was nowhere to escape. Her body started to tremble.
Ralstein glared at her with more intensity as she tried to stand still, holding her heavy briefcase in front of her with both hands.
She looked nervously at the woman agent, hoping for a visible sign of kindness, but the woman wouldn’t return her panicked glance. It was two against one. She didn’t like the odds.
Ralstein took a seat and gestured for her to sit.
“I bet you’re wondering what this is all about,” he said.
Strickland nervously shook her head. No shit, she thought. Her arms were getting tired from holding the briefcase, but she clung to it, as a protective barrier, and continued to stand.
“Well, I'll get straight to the point. We have to discuss some allegations that’s been made against you. It would be in your best interest if you cooperated with me," he said.
"Allegations? What are you talking about? I don't do drugs or anything like that. What could I have done wrong?" she asked.
"Please sit down, Cindi. May I call you Cindi? I'm not going to play games because I don't have all day. There are no new vehicles, which you've probably figured out by now. You're actually being investigated for crimes of a sexual nature. To be specific, you're being charged with committing crimes of lewd and indecent acts with the female gender. Now, we don’t want you to get into any more trouble than you're already in. Do you understand what I’m saying?"
Strickland nodded yes.
“Good. Now, I'm going to ask you a few questions. It's only natural you might forget exactly what you've told me later on down the road, so, for your protection, and mine as well, I'm going to tape this conversation. But first I have to advise you of your constitutional rights before we begin the interview process."
Strickland had heard about these interrogations before, through friends who knew someone who knew someone who had gone through them. She tried to remember if they had to answer the agent's questions on the spot. Could she ask for a lawyer? But her memory was foggy and cluttered. She couldn't remember a damn thing.
"Do I have to do this now? Don't I get a lawyer or something? Isn't that my right?" she muttered.
Ralstein remained calm. He leaned over and looked her square in the eyes.
"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Cindi. I'm just saying that if you cooperate with me now, I'll do my best to see that you're treated fairly. You never know what could happen. So if you help us out now it will only benefit you in the end. If you want my opinion, I'd say be as honest as possible now and get it over with. Why delay the inevitable? You have to tell the truth sooner or later. Know what I mean?"
Strickland looked at the woman in the corner, who nodded her head in agreement with Ralstein.
"I guess you're right. I have nothing to hide."
"Well, all righty then. I'm going to read you your rights. Please listen carefully. You ready?"
Strickland took a deep breath and nodded her head.
He called her to attention, then recited the Miranda Rights by memory.
“Specialist Cindi J. Strickland, you have the right to remain silent…”
Strickland watched Ralstein's lips move as he recited her rights. She saw his lips move, heard his voice, but she could hardly believe what he was saying. The Miranda Rights were written for criminals. Bad people. She had heard it countless times on TV: a tough cop catches his prey after a long, drawn-out chase. The cop's panting and pissed off and practically twisting the perp's arms off his body as he angrily recites the old saying of remaining silent and shit being held against you and all that. Hell, even she practically knew it by heart.
Tears rolled down her cheeks and her chin quivered as she tried to think of something that would make her appear innocent. But she had never really lied before. She was programmed since a little girl to tell the truth. Honor thy mother and thy father and thy country and thy army. That was the Strickland way. She figured she never lied to her parents about her sexuality, she just didn't volunteer any information.
Ralstein finally shut up. He could tell she was visibly shaken and on the verge of losing it.
“Are you okay?" he asked.
"Yes, considering the situation."
"Please, have a seat," he said.
"Well, I can tell you more if you’re willing to talk to us. All you have to do is waive your rights to an attorney and we can settle this thing right now,” Ralstein explained.
He slowly slid the rights waiver form in front of her.
Strickland stared at the form and contemplated the consequences of signing it. What good would a lawyer do when they had their mind set on kicking her out? She figured if she cooperated now, they might give her an honorable discharge. It was a gamble, but one she was willing to take. So she grabbed the form and signed it.
“Good, Cindi, good. I’m glad you’ve decided to make things easier for yourself,” he said, his voice laced with condescending tolerance.
“Let me start by saying you’re under investigation for committing illegal sexual gratification as defined in the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”
“Can you say that in English?” she said flatly, knowing exactly what he meant.
“Sure, I'll gladly explain it. Like I said before, you're being accused of lewd and indecent acts with someone of the same gender. Lesbianism, to put it bluntly. Do you know Specialist Wendy Phillips?” he asked.
Strickland paused for a moment, easily recalling the last time she had seen Wendy.
It was on a Sunday afternoon more than a month ago. Images of them making love on Wendy’s military bunk quickly sprang to mind. She remembered it well because they were paranoid that they would be caught by Wendy's roommate, Gwen, who kept a Bible on her bedstand. So they had put a desk chair under the doorknob just in case. And when their moaning began to get loud, Cindi buried her head in Wendy's pillow to muffle her groans as her body shook with an intense orgasm.
She didn’t see Wendy that often because they were stationed more than two hours apart, at separate army posts. And they weren't committed to each other, so it didn’t seem strange that she hadn’t heard from her in a while.
“I haven’t heard from her in a long time,” she whispered.
“It says in her sworn statement you two were intimately involved, that you’ve been having sexual relations for about eight months. I know you know this kind of relationship is not acceptable in the military."
Ralstein remained calm as he watched his suspect mentally search for lies. He had been a CID agent long enough to expect immediate denial.
“How would you describe your relationship with her?” he asked.
“Relationship? Wendy and I were just friends, that’s all.”
Strickland nervously watched him as he methodically pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tapped one out from the pack. He struck a match against the wall and it ignited in flames. He took a puff, slowly blowing smoke into the air.
“Well, according to her sworn statement, you were more than just friends. We know you were lovers. We have the letters you wrote her, so you might as well quit playing games with me and admit it. We’ll get your hand writing analyzed if we have to.”
Strickland stared at her callused, oil-stained, shaky hands, unable to stand his accusing glare any longer. She was terrified. She had been in the army for three years now; excelled in her job; was up for promotion; was planning to reenlist in a year; wanted to retire. All ruined because of a casual fling.
“What did she say, exactly?” Strickland meekly asked.
“That you both had a sexual relationship. Your love letters and her confession are all we need. We have the proof.”
He let a few moments of uncomfortable silence fill the room. He took another puff.
“I know this is hard on you,” he said. “Why don’t you make it easier on yourself and tell me about your relationship.”
She nervously glanced at the woman in the corner, who hadn’t said a single word the entire time. The woman shot her a quick look of distaste, and then looked away again.
Ralstein offered Strickland a cigarette.
“No thanks. I don’t smoke.”
“Good choice,” he muttered.
Ralstein seemed to soften a little then. He took off his glasses and placed them gently on the table. A big hairy hand rubbed his eyes and traveled down his face in a sign of boredom.
How he used to love this kind of shit, he wearily thought. He could remember the days when he enjoyed evoking terror in a person. Now he just wanted to get it over with so he could go back home to his own bed in Munich.
He hated to admit it, but it just wasn’t fun anymore. It seemed the older he grew, the softer he got. The joy in making people frightened out of their wits wasn’t there anymore. He believed in the old adage that when it’s not fun anymore, it’s time to move on. If the army ever offered him early retirement, he’d take it in a heartbeat.
This homo shit was just routine to him now. Going through the motions. He figured he must have done half a dozen of these interrogations since he'd been in Germany, and they were all pretty much the same. He really didn’t mind the women much. They were more emotional, timid and more willing to confess. He even felt sorry for many of them. But the men. Well, that was different. He hated how some of them acted like little pansies, a few even crying like girls.
But all of the suspects squawked once they were threatened with prison if they didn’t cooperate. He banked on them not knowing that their chances of jail time were very slim. A few even got out with honorable discharges.
Ralstein was used to the initial denial. That didn’t bother him. He liked to play the game as much as anyone. But he only let it go so far. Strickland hadn’t pushed his buttons yet, and he hoped she wasn’t going to try.
“Please don’t consider me your enemy,” he sighed. “I can help you, but only if you help me.”
Strickland wondered if he really believed the crap coming out of his mouth. You are the enemy! she wanted to scream. But she kept her mouth shut and her head down, too afraid he would see the fear in her eyes.
“Let’s make a deal, okay? If you give us names, and I know you know what I mean, then we’ll make sure you’re discharged under honorable conditions. You have my word, Cindi. That’s what Wendy did, and she’s back home basking in the California sun, I’m sure. And guess what? She took an honorable discharge home with her. Her life is not over. She can find a job almost anywhere.”
The room was growing more hot and stuffy by the minute. His cigarette smoke was starting to fill her lungs, causing her to cough. They had been confined in the small interrogation room for nearly an hour now. Sweat dripped down her back.
Ralstein had just played the nice card. But he was tiring fast, and he was starving. He pulled out a couple of her letters from the manila folder and shoved them in her face.
“See? So quit being so damned stubborn. Playing martyr will get you nowhere!”
Strickland remained silent, hating him for acting so fucking righteous, for pointing fingers and making accusations, for condemning things he possibly couldn’t understand.
She didn’t want to give this asshole a thing; didn’t want to appease him for a second. But here he sat, a real live threat who had positive verification she was a lesbian. She had written more than half a dozen letters to Wendy, and now they were thrust in her face as dirty evidence. She cursed herself for being so stupid.
“Do you realize you could go to prison if you don’t cooperate with us? Mannheim Prison!” he threatened. “Think of your own future. Wouldn’t you rather walk out of here with an honorable discharge?
“Your friends will have the same opportunity as you do now. We’re not here to hurt anybody, but you know the DOD policy, Specialist Strickland, and you have violated that policy. It’s your responsibility to assist us in finding other policy offenders. So I'm telling you for the last time, cooperate with me or I'll stop being a nice guy."
A nice guy? Strickland couldn't believe he actually thought he was being a nice guy. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that she didn't want to be responsible for getting her ex-lovers kicked out of the military. They would lose their jobs, their military college money. They would be branded as a homosexual on their DD Form 214 forever, and nothing could be worse than that.
No, her ex-lovers didn't deserve to be outed this way. But then again, someone had done this to her.
Feeling betrayed and defeated, Strickland apprehensively took the pen Ralstein handed her and scribbled down the names of three women she had dated in the past two years. Two of the women were enlisted, the other an officer. But, she feared, all three would undoubtedly suffer the same fate.
“And one more thing. I know it’s going to be embarrassing for you, and I'm sorry for that, I really am, but I need you to write down a detailed statement describing the sex acts you performed with your female sex partners.”
“Of course you do," she said sarcastically.
She could no longer hide the anger she felt. Her eyes glared through narrow slits and her voice became tinged with rage. She was beginning to lose her military bearing.
"Well, just how damned descriptive do you want me to be, sir? Do you want an accurate account of the number of moles on their breasts?"
Ralstein suddenly laughed, as if she had made a joke.
“Just be as descriptive as possible without being ridiculous. By descriptive, I mean, well, what parts of their bodies did your tongue touch, and how many times, approximately, did you have sex, for example.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s the way it’s gotta be. The sooner you give us your statement, the sooner you can get out of here.”
Ralstein and the woman agent looked at each other to acknowledge victory as Strickland scribbled down only a few of the many private moments she had shared with her lovers.
And that was that. That was the only deal he had offered. No names, no honorable discharge. And now it was a done deal.
Strickland felt like a big piece of shit for giving him what he wanted, just to save her own ass. She stared at the piece of paper he now held in his hand. She wanted to grab it from him and rip it into a million pieces. But he kept it safely away from her grasp.
Not being able to take it any longer she stood up and threw the pen against the wall, not caring what he did to her now. “You have what you fucking want. Can I please go now?”
Ralstein, indeed having what he wanted, casually opened the door and stepped aside. Without saying another word she stormed out of the building and went directly to the motor pool.
Strickland thought the ambush was well executed, all right, and it made her sick to her stomach that it might have included the deception of her own supervisor. As she sped to the motor pool she prayed Robinson didn’t know that she had been set up. And if he did, she was going to kill him. She wondered how he could have lied to her like he did.
She burst into his office and slammed the door shut. He leaned far back in his chair as she reached over his desk and poked a finger into his chest.
“You knew damn well why the CO wanted to see me, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” she screamed.
Robinson’s eyes, as big as baseballs, were filled with guilt.
“I’m truly sorry. He, he made me swear I wouldn’t say anything. He threatened me with an Article 15 if I warned you. What could I do? I, I have a family. I got kids!”
“I knew it!” she shouted as she angrily glared into his eyes.
After a long moment of silence, she realized he didn't have much of a choice, either. She broke off her glare and plopped down on the metal chair, feeling totally defeated.
“I'm sorry they threatened you, but you could have at least warned me. Now my career is over,” she said anyway, her voice low and cracking. Suddenly feeling extremely vulnerable, she broke down into uncontrollable sobs. He quickly came to her and held her in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he tried to comfort her.
But as much as he felt ashamed for hurting her, he was also relieved his secret was out. He didn't know how long he could have pretended he didn't have anything to do with it.
“If only I had time to think,” she mumbled to herself. “Some kind of warning. I could have come up with something. Something.”
She pulled from him and slowly walked into the garage. It was eerily quiet. Strickland was relieved the work day hadn't started yet.
She sat on the large tire she had pulled off the truck yesterday and glanced around the garage, as if it was the last time she would fix anything here. She loved this place, with its grease-stained floor, the tiny universal latrine that never had hot water, the hundreds of tools she had arranged neatly in her camouflaged tool cabinet. This place was like her second home.
Robinson followed her, then carefully moved closer, until he was sharing her truck tire.
“I wish I could have warned you, Cindi, but I had to follow his orders,” he explained. "It was a very difficult decision to make, and I will never be proud of what I did."
Strickland silently stared at a hanging oil hose in front of her. She reached up and swatted at it, mesmerized with it as it swung back and forth.
“I hope you understand. But I promise you that I haven’t said anything to a soul, and I won’t. You’re one of the best mechanics I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. So if you ever need anything, a letter of recommendation, whatever, please ask me. Okay?”
Strickland nodded. "I hate this. It's not fair. I'm being kicked out for something that has nothing to do with my job."
"No, it's not fair. I personally don't give a damn what my mechanics do in the privacy of your own homes. What you guys do on your own time is none of my damned business, as long as it doesn't interfere with the job. Know what I'm saying? But maybe someday it won't matter who you love. Maybe that presidential candidate I’ve been hearing so much about will change the policy if he gets elected. I hear he's actually considering it.”
"Yeah, right. That'll never happen in my lifetime. There's too many good old boys in the system," she said.
"You never know. Things change."
"Not soon enough. What they did to me was sneaky and un-American. You'd think I was a spy or something."
"It sucks," he said.
"Anyway, so you don’t hate me for being, you know, what I am?"
"Hell no! I can't believe you're even asking me that question. Besides, I've known all along. I figured it was none of my business. It wasn't something you flaunted, so what did I care?"
Strickland finally smiled, visibly relieved at his words of acceptance.
“Hey, I know it’s not your fault I got busted,” she told him. “Sneaky bastards!”
They leaned against each other and finally laughed.
Friday, March 2
Strickland’s commander, on the other hand, had absolutely no concern for her fate.
Capt. John Taft had prescribed his own punishment of barracks arrest, making her his own personal prisoner since then. It seemed no chore was too large or small. Shoveling snow, painting rooms, buffing floors, moving furniture, scouring anything and everything he could fit into her hellish schedule.
He called it extra duty. She called it harrasment.
Despite her ordinarily kind nature, Strickland learned what hate felt like. All of her energy went into despising her own commander. She found it much easier to hate this man’s guts than to dwell on the treason of her former lover, Wendy Phillips.
Taft definitely added plenty of salt to the wound, and it hurt like hell. Barracks confinement gave her plenty of time to dwell on her life, especially the regret she felt for turning in her lovers. She should have insisted on hiring a civilian lawyer before she signed their lives away, but she had never heard of liberal groups like the American Civil Liberties Union. By the time someone had anonymously slipped a piece of paper with the names of several civil rights organizations under her door, it was too late. Besides, the last thing she needed was the media using her as a poster girl for sexual freedom.
At the very least, Strickland knew she should have gone down alone, with a little dignity to spare. But she had been too terrified to think straight. Their scheme had worked perfectly.
But, more than anything, she was ashamed she had added more names to an endless list of gay victims who continue to pay the high price of unjustified prejudice in a country that touts personal freedom. Freedom. That's a laugh, she sadly thought as she finally scooped her untouched cold oatmeal into a spotless trash can.
She often wondered if suicide was her savior. She figured all it would take was a quick slice to the wrist and her misery would be over. But she knew everyone would only feel pity for her. The poor pathetic dyke. See how disturbed they are? they’d say. She knew her death wouldn’t stop them from going after their next victim. No, as much as she wanted to, she could never kill herself. She refused to give them that satisfaction.
Strickland reluctantly pulled the new red toothbrush out of her pocket and threw it across the room. It ricocheted off the wall and landed about two feet from her bunk. It felt good to release some of the negative energy that had built up all morning. At least this was the last detail she would ever do for the United States Army.
She thought it rather cruel that it took over a month for her discharge papers to be processed. But here she was, still living like a hermit in this depressing barracks room.
Strickland had wanted to leave the country immediately after that day in the CID office. She didn’t want her friends to find out that she was a traitor. But, of course, they all knew. The rumor mill continued to spin on fast cycle. Because of the obvious fear of guilt by association, all her friends avoided her like the plague, all fearing they might be on the list.
It deeply saddened her that she wouldn't have a single friend to see her off at the airport. No one was going to hug her and wish her good luck and goodbye. But by this time tomorrow she will be flying over an ocean. Going home to Nebraska. She wondered if it was possible to reclaim her life.
She often wondered what was to become of Lt. Amanda Roberts, PFC Dawn Hawthorne and Sgt. Mindy Sterling. She prayed that by the time they were approached by CID, she’d be long gone.
With one duffel bag and two suitcases packed and ready to go, and many showers and toilets left to scour with a single toothbrush, Strickland knew she had learned a hard, hard lesson: That you can’t trust anyone anymore, especially someone you had sex with.
Life, she thought, definitely sucked!
