SEOUL, South Korea _ The text messages arrived on Chrissy Royal's phone at 3:23 a.m.
"I got arrested (help) me," said one.
Then: "Yongsan police station."
It was a cool March night in Itaewon _ a neon-lit nightlife district in central Seoul _ and Royal's husband, Raymond, had been out drinking with his best friend, Cory Anderson.
The men were U.S. army mechanics, and they had arranged to be deployed at the same time in South Korea. Pfc. Royal, 22, was based at the Yongsan Garrison, a major U.S. military base near Itaewon. Pfc. Anderson, 20, was stationed at Humphreys, a rural garrison 55 miles south, and he was visiting for the weekend.
They drank; they played pool; they wrestled like muscle-bound, army-trained puppies, grappling into chokeholds until one or the other cried uncle. They got matching tattoos _ "friends forever" swirling down their forearms in blue Korean script.
Chrissy _ an energetic young woman from Royal's North Carolina hometown _ went home early, and just after midnight, Royal and Anderson decided to go home too. A taxi dropped them off near Royal's apartment. Royal and Anderson began roughhousing. Royal pushed Anderson with two hands _ a shove to the chest _ and Anderson fell backwards.
Thus began the first in a tragic series of unpredictable events that would leave one friend dead, the other on trial, and the military justice system forced to grapple with complex questions about responsibility and punishment in a case whose primary villain seemed to be fate.
It happened in a matter of seconds. Just as Anderson tumbled into the street, a car veered around a corner and blazed through a red blinking light, plowing suddenly over Anderson with both axles _ bump, bump. The car stopped. The police arrived. And 12 days later, Anderson died in the hospital, hooked up to a mechanical ventilator.
The Army charged Royal with manslaughter.
The hearing that would determine whether Royal would have to face a full court-martial began on a crisp day in October.
No matter the outcome, his military career was effectively over. At best, Royal could hope for an administrative discharge, which would allow him to live a normal, civilian life but end any future he might have had in the Army. A court-martial, on the other hand, could lead to a prison sentence or at least a dishonorable discharge, a black mark that would burden him for the rest of his life.
Surely, Royal told his family, the hearing officer would understand they'd just been roughhousing, that he hadn't intended any harm to a man he considered closer than a brother.
But it wasn't going to be that simple. A young Korean man had seen them at the bar. He hadn't known about their relationship. He'd seen them "fighting," as he described it, and was alarmed enough to call the police.
It got worse.
When officers arrived at the scene moments later, they found Anderson bleeding on the street, with Royal frantically trying to move him. Royal then tried to flee, police said later.
But it would not be so simple _ and as it unfolded, the case became an extraordinary study into the attribution of culpability, the chasm between American and Korean cultures, and the nature of military justice.
