Cody Elijah Harnish

My Command was seeking to separate me from military service for being dropped from a key development course after being rendered unable to continue due to a behavioral health crisis. The odds had felt stacked against me for several months. I had several years of very positive performance evaluations,... I had character statements that echoed the same. I had documentation that reflected my resiliency; records of in-patient treatment, outpatient treatment, a provider memorandum with a positive prognosis in light of my commitment to my own recovery and assisting others' in their recovery. I should have felt more confident. I was the walking and talking proof that personal dedication to the institutional programs organized to bring Soldiers back to the fight worked. But no one thought I had a chance of staying in. All interactions were consoling, sympathetic to the all-but-certain, soon-to-be end of my career. I had become resigned to it as well. But it didn't feel right. It didn't feel justified for everything I had given and sacrificed. So I was fighting it. Hopelessly fighting. I wasn't sure what to expect with a military lawyer. I had heard plenty of stories, so I was a bit nervous. Cody, understandably, kept his cards close to the chest in our first meeting, listening to my story, digging and sifting through the last several months I had lived through to come up with all of the facts, including the facts disregarded by my Command, and all of the key persons of interest that could potentially provide testimony. He wasn't passively engaged either. Pen and ledger at the ready, he alternated listening intently and furiously taking notes. I believe he filled at least four pages with key information to follow-up on. He requested additional documentation that I had accumulated over the last several months that supported everything I said, and contact information for all of the key people who had played a part in my recovery. He didn't commit himself to our assured victory before I left, I wouldn't have appreciated the false bravado either if he had, but he did reassure me that the course of action pursued by my Command didn't appear justified, given my record and my commitment to recovery. I felt better after our meeting, but still resigned to the end of my career. We only had a week and a half until the separation board. What kind of defense could be built in so little time? I can only imagine the time and energy that Cody must have put into building his case. He kept himself available to me and we spoke a few times in the days leading up to the board. On the day of the board I felt nervous and exhausted. Cody had an air of humble confidence. He was organized and well-prepared. He spoke calmly and reassuringly, but with an optimistic energy. I had thought myself mentally ready for the attacks of the prosecution, but it was truly like being battered by the raging winds and torrential rains of a terrible storm, taking the form of a narrative crafted to discredit my character and paint me as a weak, ineffective leader, ill-suited for continued service. As corny as it may sound, Cody was the immovable stone that kept me from being swept away in that storm. He wasn't idle at all during the proceedings either. I felt myself part of an audience, but he was engaged in the theater itself, objecting to each overreach of the prosecution, and strategically positioning himself at every opportunity to thoroughly trounce the prosecution's argument. The day stretched on, and my exhaustion overfilled. Before the closing arguments, Cody and I had one last conversation. By the end of it, for the first time, I actually felt hope that we would win. His closing argument was nothing short of an impassioned, masterful work of art. And it was all from his heart. I couldn't believe he didn't have a script to reference. It was very moving. And we won. No one thought I had a chance, including me. But Cody did.