Death in Panama

Death in Panama

by William H Venema


Publisher William H. Venema

Published in Literature & Fiction/War & Military, Mystery & Thrillers/Mystery, Literature & Fiction/Contemporary, Mystery & Thrillers, Literature & Fiction

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Book Description


West Point graduate Captain Robert E. Clark arrives in Panama on his first tour of duty as an Army lawyer. He finds a muddled mix of conflict and corruption, where, among other things, marriage vows don’t mean what they did at the First United Methodist Church of Pemberton, Georgia. When Clark is assigned to prosecute a murder case involving the death of a thirteen-month old little girl, his ambition causes him to neglect his wife and daughter more than usual and—even worse—bend the rules in ways that call into question what kind of man he is and what he truly values.

Sample Chapter

Sunday, December 19, 1982

THE OLDER MAN walked toward the young captain. He was elegantly attired in a dark blue pinstripe suit and a crisp white shirt despite the Panamanian heat. His tie was a red foulard; a matching pocket square puffed from his breast pocket. The Army captain—on his first assignment since graduating from medical school—hoped Dr. Gonzalez’s medical acumen was equal to his appearance. They needed a miracle.

As they walked down the hall to the examining room where their patient was being treated, the captain briefed Dr. Gonzalez. “The parents brought their daughter in early this morning. She was lethargic. We examined her thoroughly and connected her to an IV, thinking she had acute bacterial diarrhea—like ninety percent of the kids we see.”

They entered a small, windowless room away from the chaos of the emergency room examining bays. Dr. Gonzalez immediately removed his suit jacket and tie and draped them over a chair. The little girl was lying on an examining table, barely conscious. A nurse was stroking her matted, sweaty hair.

“Her breathing has been irregular all day,” the captain explained. “She continued to be lethargic, so we intubated her.” The young captain looked at Dr. Gonzalez, seeking approval but got nothing. The elder doctor just continued to stare at the little girl. “I’ve never had to cut such a small trachea,” he continued.

Still no response. “She’s been on the ventilator most of the day.”

“That’s good,” said Dr. Gonzalez, finally nodding. “The oxygen will protect her brain if the blood supply has been compromised.” He washed his hands and shoved them into the surgical gloves offered by the senior nurse. They snapped against his wrists. With great formality he turned and walked to the table, where he gave—first the nurse and then the patient—a practiced smile. “You don’t look too good, Sweetie. I hope we can make you feel better soon.” The little girl’s glassy eyes stared up at him, her face expressionless.

“We’ve also kept her on an IV,” said the captain. “When she presented, she couldn’t keep any fluids down, and we were worried she’d dehydrate.” The head nurse held a file folder in front of the captain and pointed to something. “Oh, yes, and she had a seizure that caused her to lose consciousness.”

Dr. Gonzalez stopped his examination and stared straight ahead. “What time did this seizure occur?” he asked, squinting his eyes.

The captain turned to the nurse. “Thirteen thirty hours, sir.” “That’s 1:30 p.m., Dr. Gonzalez,” said the captain.

“You should have called me sooner,” he sighed, shaking his head.

“We tried, several times…” Dr. Gonzalez abruptly stopped his examination, stood erect, shoulders back, and then turned to face the captain but said nothing. The young officer said nothing and avoided eye contact. After a few moments of silence, it was clear who was in charge, and Dr. Gonzalez turned back to his patient. He closely examined her neck and moved her head slightly from side to side. Taking a small penlight from his shirt pocket, he shined it into each eye. “Her pupils are dilated and respond sluggishly to light. Nurse, please make a note in her records.” Turning to the captain, he added, “That is a bad sign.

What is her blood pressure?”

“It’s low, 78 over 40.”

“What tests have you run?” asked Dr. Gonzalez—raising his eyebrows, as he looked over the top of his glasses, which had slid to the end of his nose.

“Just the usual tests we run when we suspect the patient has bacterial diarrhea. Cultures. Blood work.”

“No CT scan?”

“No. There’s only one scanner, so we have to request authorization because…”

“We need a CT scan immediately,” said Dr. Gonzalez. “Nurse, please call Colonel Meacher. Tell him Dr. Gonzalez needs a CT scan on an infant female. Tell him it is urgent.” He watched her scurry off and then turned back to the captain. “We need to have a CT scan to see if her brain is swelling. If it is, we need to know how much and where.” He paused and shook his head. “I fear it might be too late.”

“What else should I have done, Doctor?” asked the young captain—his voice now trembling slightly.

“Nothing, Capitain,” he replied with a comforting half smile. “These things are very difficult to diagnose.” He perused her medical records, which included only the treatment she had received that day. After ten minutes that seemed like an hour, the nurse returned with word that Colonel Meacher had approved the CT scan.

The nurses moved their patient onto a gurney and wheeled her, the IV bag, and the ventilator to the room where the CT scanner was located. The big, white doughnut-shaped machine was intimidating to most people. But this little girl was too sick to register any protest as the big machine clunked and whirred around her.

On his way back to the examining room, the captain stopped

by a break room and poured coffee into two Styrofoam cups. He took a sip. It was harsh and bitter. Probably been sitting there since this morning, but at least it’s hot. He picked up a handful of sugar packets and the jar of powdered creamer and returned to the examining room.

“I wasn’t sure how you take your coffee, Doctor, so I brought these.”

“No time for that, Capitain. The scan confirmed that this child’s brain is swelling. We must operate immediately to relieve the pressure. I need for you to obtain consent for surgery from her parents.”

When the senior nurse offered the captain a consent form, he fumbled with the cups, causing him to spill hot coffee onto his bare arm. He flinched and set the cups on a counter.

“Quickly, Capitain. Tell them we are going to do a craniotomy. ”

“I’m not sure that…”

“We have no choice, Capitain. This little girl will die if we do not operate. Get an operating room ready immediately.”

The young captain froze. After a few moments, he turned to the head nurse, standing next to him like a coiled spring. “You heard him. Get OR One ready ASAP. Dr. Gonzalez, is there anything in particular you will need?”

“We will need to make burr holes, and we will pro’ly need to do a full craniotomy.”

“Ensure that Dr. Gonzalez has a complete set of instruments. Get going.” He turned back to Dr. Gonzalez, “I’ll go talk to her parents.”

“Hurry, Capitain. You will be assisting me.”

After a few minutes, the captain rejoined Dr. Gonzalez. “I’m not sure the parents understand what’s going on…”

“I will talk to them after the surgery,” said Dr. Gonzalez. “Quickly, Capitain, change into scrubs and get washed up.”

The two men walked into the operating room. Their little patient—still connected to the IV and ventilator—now had all manner of monitors and machines and tubes connected to her as well. Two nurses hovered over her, assisting the anesthesiologist, who was finishing his work. Within a few moments she was under.

“Shave her head,” said Dr. Gonzalez. “Quickly, please.” The head nurse—now in scrubs—stepped forward and with just a few strokes shaved the little girl’s hair. Her movements were smooth, precise, efficient. She caught the hair in a towel, which she tossed into a receptacle and then washed the girl’s head with an antiseptic soap that resembled strong tea.

The captain stared at the motionless child. Her eyes were closed, and tubes and monitoring lines were everywhere. The ventilator clicked and whirred as it methodically pumped air into her tiny lungs. It sounded so mechanical. And now, without hair, she looked even more fragile—a little shell of a person hanging on to life.

“First, we will make a burr hole,” said Dr. Gonzalez, sounding like an instructor in medical school. He took a scalpel from the tray and made an incision in her scalp. Then he took a retractor and positioned it to hold back her scalp. “Cauterize those bleeders, Capitain.” The captain’s hands shook as he worked to stop the bleeding.

Dr. Gonzalez picked up a sharply pointed drill. He pulsed it a few times in the air to ensure it was working properly. The sound of the motor announced to everyone what was about to happen. He touched the slick, freshly shaved head and then pressed the bit against her cranium in the center of the incision he’d just made. As the bit dug into her skull, pieces of bone and tissue and blood splattered onto Dr. Gonzalez and the captain. Unfazed, he continued, “You must start with the sharp drill, and once the hole is large enough…” He stopped and picked up an instrument that resembled a carpenter’s brace. “You switch to a blunt-ended burr hole bit to complete the drilling through the skull. This brace and bit minimizes the chance that you will penetrate the dura prematurely. You must be very careful at this stage. There… I’ve penetrated the dura.” He looked intently at her skull. “Mierda! Just as I feared. Her brain is swelling.”

The captain looked down and saw brain tissue oozing through the hole in her skull like toothpaste from a tube. For a moment, he forgot he was looking at the skull of a little girl.

Dr. Gonzalez continued his directions. “We must remove a portion of her skull immediately.” The captain stood transfixed, staring down at the skull. “Capitain, listen to me! Assist me. Open her scalp to approximately six centimeters.” The captain flinched and then tentatively picked up a scalpel and started to increase the incision. “I need more room, Capitain. I need to remove a portion of her skull. We must relieve the pressure immediately. If her brain herniates and swells downward, she will die. Do you understand? The areas of the brain that control her breathing and other functions will be compressed, and she will die. Do you understand me?”

The captain stared at the experienced surgeon’s hand, as he used what looked like a small electric saw to make precise cuts into the girl’s skull in the shape of a triangle. As he cut, her skull pressed upward, and more brain tissue seeped out.

“Nurse, I need some gauze on my brow,” said Dr. Gonzalez.

“This is terrible. Have you given her any steroids, Capitain?”


“Nurse, give her ten milligrams of dexamethasone,” said Dr. Gonzalez. “Immediately. Let’s see if we can slow down this edema.”

The nurse left and quickly returned with a vial. She stared at the two doctors, awaiting instructions.

“Give her ten milligrams. Quickly.”

“Should we remove more of her skull?” asked the captain.

“No. This is as much as we can remove without risking serious infection,” said Dr. Gonzalez with more emotion in his voice than at any time since he arrived.

“What do we do now?” asked the captain.

“We wait. We wait to see if what we’ve done helps her.” “What if it’s not enough?” asked the captain.


285 days earlier

Tuesday, March 9, 1982

ROBERT E. CLARK stepped out of the plane at Howard Air Force Base and was blinded by intense sunlight. It felt as if God had turned an interrogation lamp on him—the only thing missing was His booming voice and a burning bush. He reached for his sunglasses but stopped when his three-year-old began to squirm in the crook of his right arm. He grabbed the stair rail with his left hand, fearing he might stumble down the steps with her. At the bottom, he felt extreme heat rising from the tarmac and saw blurry waves as light refracted near its surface. Disoriented, he forgot to put on his cap and gave no thought to whether his wife had made it down the steps. He just wanted to get inside the terminal… fast. As he approached the open door, a rush of air-conditioned coolness helped him regain his composure.

“Welcome to Panama,” came a Southern drawl from some-

where in the darkness. As Clark’s eyes adjusted to the light inside, a wide, toothy grin appeared. It belonged to a tall, slim officer whose rather long, sun-bleached hair caused him to resemble a lifeguard dressed up in an Army officer’s khaki uniform. “Hot as hell, isn’t it?” he continued, without losing his grin. Then, extending his hand, “I’m Trip… Trip Stephens, your sponsor.”

“Hell, yes, it’s hot… Robert E. Clark,” he said, shaking Trip’s hand, “But my friends call me ‘Clark.’ How do people live in this shit?”

“You’ll get used to it,” Trip laughed, “You’re a Southern boy, aren’t you? Let’s go get your stuff.”

“I’ve gotta go to the bathroom,” blurted a voice nearby, causing Clark to realize for the first time since leaving the plane that his normally talkative wife was behind him, also stunned by their new environment.

“I’m sorry, Sugar. I should’ve helped you down the steps.” He turned to see his wife, cheeks flushed and drenched in sweat.

“I’m all right,” she huffed, “but I do have to go to the bathroom.”

“Trip, this is my wife, Janelle Clark. And this sweet little thing is Eloise, but we call her ‘Ellie’.” Ellie smiled at Trip with bright blue eyes and then tucked her face into her daddy’s shoulder.

“Delighted to meet y’all.”

Clark turned back to his wife. “Why don’t you take Ellie and go find the ‘facilities,’ while Trip and I get the luggage?”

Although the Clark family had flown down from the States on what looked like a civilian passenger jet, the baggage-claim area bore no resemblance to a civilian airport. Instead of a circling carousel of suitcases, there was a pile of duffle bags, suitcases, and boxes thrown in the corner of the terminal. Although Clark had marked their bags with distinctive yellow tags, it took some time to locate all six, which he and Trip lugged to the curb outside the terminal.

Trip left to get his car and returned in a few minutes in a midnight blue, late model BMW 530 with tan leather interior. He jumped out to help Clark with the luggage but, upon opening the trunk, discovered he’d forgotten to unload his golf clubs. That meant three bags had to ride in the back seat, piled next to Clark and Ellie. Janelle sat in front with Trip.

As Trip drove down the palm-lined streets of Howard Air Force Base, Clark had no idea where he was headed. He knew Trip was taking them across the Panama Canal to Fort Clayton, where he would begin his career as an Army lawyer. He knew that, but he had no inkling of what was in store for him there. Everything he thought he knew about himself, his values, and the world around him was about to be challenged.

But at that moment those challenges were months away. He rode along in blissful ignorance of what was to come, excited about his future and captivated by the natural beauty around him. Red, pink, and yellow flowers formed splashes of vibrant colors against lush green foliage. Palm fronds on the trees lining the street swayed in the breeze against a brilliant blue sky. Crossing the Bridge of Americas, high above the water, they had a spectacular view of the Panama Canal and the Gulf of Panama. Two large, white cruise ships glistened in the sunlight, alongside two drab, box-like freighters, all waiting to enter the Miraflores Locks on their way to the Caribbean. Janelle turned around from the front seat and said, with wide eyes, “You know, Bobby, it’s kinda like what Dorothy said: we’re not in Georgia anymore.”

A condescending smile crossed Trip’s face, but it quickly disappeared when the traffic stalled and the grimy face of a small boy appeared outside the driver’s side window. He held up a plastic bottle of gray water and a dirty rag, offering to clean the windshield. “Go away!” Trip shouted through the glass, waving his hand. The boy disappeared, and Trip proceeded through the thick traffic. “Sorry, Janelle. Sometimes you have to be rude to these people. Now, where were we? Oh yeah. Tell me about yourselves.

Y’all are both from Georgia, right?”

“That’s right,” Janelle began, “Pemberton, Georgia, right outside Savannah. But, of course, most recently we’ve been at Fort Hood and Athens and the JAG School. You know, Trip, Bobby

and I have known each other our whole lives.” “Really?” The thin smile reappeared.

Janelle then proceeded to tell their entire life story to this person whom they’d just met. It wasn’t the first time—she loved to talk about anything and everything to anybody. On their flight to Panama, she’d given the woman in the seat next to her a detailed account of their daughter’s birth.

Her monologue continued. “We dated in high school. During Bobby’s first year at West Point, I wrote him every day. Until he went off to school, the only time we were apart was when we went to church. My daddy and me are Baptists, and Bobby’s family is all Methodist.”

“You know how that goes in a small Southern town, Trip,” Clark offered from the back seat, “most folks are Baptists or Methodists, although there isn’t much difference—they’re all pretty conservative. Folks used to say, ‘Our churches are so conservative even the Episcopalians handle snakes.’”

Trip smiled again. “I’d say that’s pretty conservative. There wasn’t much talk of snakes in my church back home.” “Where are you from, Trip?” Janelle asked.

“Well, I guess you’d say I’m an Episcopalian from Jackson, Mississippi.”

After a few moments of silence, Clark coughed and said,

“Trip, I, uh, I meant no offense by that joke.”

“Oh, none taken, Bobby. Or is it ‘Clark’?”

“It’s ‘Clark.’ Only Janelle and my family call me ‘Bobby’ anymore.”

“Yeah, no offense taken, Clark. It’s actually pretty funny because it’s true—Episcopalians are a pretty formal bunch.” Trip paused, seeming to collect his thoughts. “My family’s been in Mississippi forever…” His voice trailed off as if he’d lost his train of thought—or decided not to continue. After a few moments, he began again, “Y’all will soon find out that Panama is a lot different from the States. I suppose it’s the hot weather that makes people a little crazy. It’s a fascinating place, though. By the way, do either of y’all play golf?”

Before Clark could say anything, Janelle answered, “No, Trip, Bobby doesn’t play any sports. All he does is work. He’s been that way his whole life. In high school all he did was work and study, work and study. He dudn’t know how to have fun.”

Clark squirmed in the back seat, causing one of the suitcases to slide in Ellie’s direction. After shoving it back into place, he said, through clenched teeth, “Well, I knew I needed to be prepared for West Point.”

“You worked like a mad man there, too,” she said, turning to the back seat. “Didn’t you say you only slept five hours a night?” She paused when she saw the look on his face and softened her tone. “Bobby, you know everybody in Pemberton was proud of you.” Smiling, she turned back to Trip. “When we thought about West Point, Trip, we thought about the men carved on Stone Mountain—Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, Jeff Davis. For one of our boys to be going to their school was a big deal.”

“The truth is, Trip, none of them thought I’d make it.”

“Well, you never made the football team. You didn’t play any sports.”

“I don’t think Trip is interested in my lack of athletic ability, Janelle,” Clark said with a forced smile.

“Well, you remember when Stanley Griffin came back home from the Air Force Academy when we were seniors. And he’d been the captain of the football team and class president his senior year. People thought if he couldn’t make it…”

“But you obviously did make it through West Point,” Trip interjected. “That must’ve been tough. And you must’ve done pretty well—you were a FLEP, weren’t you? If I remember correctly, aren’t there only twenty-five officers out of hundreds of applicants who get selected for the Funded Legal Education Program?”

“Yeah. That’s right. Then I went to law school at the University of Georgia. Where’d you go, Trip?”

“Ole Miss,” he sighed. “It’s a family tradition: my father and grandfather both went there. If I ever have a son, I’m sure they’ll expect him to go there, too. ‘Hotty Toddy, Gosh almighty,’ and all that…” Trip smiled, but not like a loyal Ole Miss Rebel. After a few moments, he continued, “So, after law school you went to the JAG School in Charlottesville?”

“That’s right.”

“We had a number of FLEPs in my basic class,” Trip offered. “Most of them were West Point graduates. We used to watch them in classes like ‘Introduction to Map Reading.’ They were bored out of their minds. But they said the training we had on the Uniform Code of Military Justice was much better than what they’d had at West Point or the basic courses in their original branches.”

“I’d agree with that,” Clark replied. “In fact, I decided to become a JAG, in part, because nobody in my unit, including my company commander, seemed to know how to use the UCMJ to deal with all the BS.”

“What do you mean?”

Janelle interrupted. “Are there any malls down here, Trip?”

“Huh? Uh, yeah, but you’ll find they aren’t like the ones back home. Mostly cheap junk. The good shopping is in downtown Panama City. I’ve found some fine linens and jewelry that were very reasonably priced.”

“I was trying to answer Trip’s question, Janelle. Trip, you asked what I meant about all the BS. I was referring to what I found when I got to my platoon. Vietnam had been over less than a year, and the Army was exhausted. We had more dirt bags than good soldiers, more high-school dropouts than high-school graduates. And nobody seemed to know how to use the Uniform Code of Military Justice to get rid of the bad apples. One of my troops even pulled a knife on me. When I told my company commander about it, he just asked me if the guy lunged at me. Can you believe that? What difference should that make?”

“It sounds like you want to be a prosecutor.”


“Well, we’ll have to see what Colonel Allen has to say about that,” Trip replied, in a way that suggested there was something important he wasn’t saying.

For a moment Clark considered asking him to explain but decided to play it safe. “So, Allen is a full colonel?”

“No. Lieutenant colonel. That’s what’s authorized for this SJA slot.”

“What’s an SJA?” Janelle asked, indicating that she was paying attention.

“It’s the staff judge advocate,” Clark explained from the back seat. “He’s the head lawyer in Panama.”

Trip turned off the road and pulled up in front of a dreary pink stucco building with a terra cotta tile roof. The mold on the outside walls gave a hint of what they’d discover inside. “This is it,” he announced. “The visiting officers’ quarters. Unfortunately, y’all will have to stay here for a while. We couldn’t put you in for quarters, because you have to do that yourself when you inprocess. It isn’t too bad, though. At least it’s air conditioned, and the food is pretty good.”

The oppressive Panamanian heat greeted them again when they got out of the car. Janelle took Ellie inside to get cool, while Clark and Trip hauled in the luggage. They had barely exchanged “goodbyes” when Janelle started whispering her list of complaints.

“Trip was right about the air conditioning, but it’s really too cool. Do you smell that? It smells like cigarettes and mold at the same time. Ellie should not be breathing that stuff.”

“We don’t have any choice, Janelle. There’s no other place to stay.” She gave him a sullen look, as he turned to approach the registration desk.

Without looking up, the plump woman seated behind the counter mumbled, “How lon’ you gonna stay here?”

“We just arrived from Charleston. Here’s a copy of my orders,” Clark said, pushing the document across the counter.

“I don’ nee’ to see no orders. Capitain Stephens tol’ me you gonna be here until you ge’ into quarters. Did he tell you how lon’?”


“Well, you gonna be in Room 215. I’s a nice room.”

“Is there anyone to help us with our bags?”

The clerk looked up for the first time. “No, you gotta tha’ yourself, and you can’ leave dem here. You nee’ to hurry i’ you wanna eat, ‘cause the restauran’ gonna close’ in t’irty minutes, an’ we go’ no room service.”

Great. Welcome to Panama. Turning toward Janelle, Clark was going to suggest that she take Ellie to their room, but she was already on the way. It took him three trips to get all six bags to the room. They held everything the Clark family would have until their furniture, dishes, and other household goods arrived. Because the VOQ was old—and because modern comforts like elevators were low on the Army’s priority list—Clark had to lug the suitcases up narrow stairs two at a time. He felt like a rookie, going through some sort of initiation or rite of passage.


The next morning Clark got up early to start “in-processing,” an Army term for running all over the installation, clutching reams of paper, and waiting for a clerk to take a copy of your orders and stamp your in-processing checklist with a rubber stamp. Army bureaucracy at its finest. Fortunately, Trip drove Clark around post, so the process went more quickly than it had on his previous assignments.

As Clark walked into the orderly room of Headquarters Company—the last stop on his inprocessing checklist—he had a flash of déjà vu. The smell of musty files, the gray steel desks and chairs, the bulletin board with its neatly arranged documents that no one ever read—all of it brought back memories of his time as a line officer. This company was different, though, because it was not a line unit. It was, instead, the repository for everyone who was assigned to the headquarters staff, and it reminded Clark that he had become what soldiers derisively call a REMF—a rear echelon motherfucker. Still, this was the headquarters company of an infantry brigade, so it was more spit-and-polish than most.

He was completing the last of several forms when the clerk yelled to the company commander. “Sir, the new JAG officer is signing in. I think you’re gonna want to meet him.”

The company commander emerged from his office, and Clark immediately thought of one of his grandmother’s sayings: “he had a grin on his face like a mule eatin’ briars.” Some might have even called it a “shit-eatin’” grin, although this soldier looked like an infantryman from the top of his crew-cut head to the toes of his spit-shined boots. He was fit and trim and appeared to be about the same age as Clark.

His grin grew to a broad smile, and his eyes widened. “You’ve got a Ranger Tab,” he said, referring to the patch Clark proudly wore on the upper left sleeve of his uniform, signifying that he’d graduated from the Army’s toughest school. “You’re a JAG, and you’ve got a muther-fuckin’ Ranger Tab.” Then, looking down at Clark’s orders, his eyes got even bigger. “And your middle name is Elmer! Pleased to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Elmer T. Jackson.”

At that moment, Captain Elmer T. Jackson and Captain Robert Elmer Clark bonded for good.

“Yeah, it was my grandfather’s name,” Clark replied, “But I usually just use Robert E. Clark. Uh, no offense, Elmer, but I’ve always been teased about my middle name.”

“Are… you… kidding?” Elmer said the words slowly and deliberately, emphasizing his mock disbelief. Then, the grin reappeared. “It’s a great name. What other name allows you to walk up to a gorgeous woman in a bar and say, ‘Hi, my name is Elmer. I’m all outta glue, but I can still stick to you.’” He paused and stared at Clark with an expectant look.

“That really works for you, huh?”

“Like a charm. Every time.”

As Clark later learned, Elmer wasn’t kidding. His boyish grin and aw-shucks charm made “Elmer” the most well-known name on post, especially among the attractive Panamanian secretaries who worked in the headquarters offices.

Clark was pleased with himself as he settled into Trip’s BMW to head to the JAG Office. It had been a good morning. He had arrived.


Excerpted from "Death in Panama" by William H Venema. Copyright © 2017 by William H Venema. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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Author Profile

William H Venema

William H Venema

William H. Venema’s legal career spans thirty years and includes time in the U.S. Army Judge Advocate General’s Corps, in law firms, and as in-house counsel in major corporations.

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