by Greg Iles
Shad looks a little disconcerted by this correction of the record. “Go on, Captain.”
“Well, we started with eight wounded soldiers in that ambulance—it was an old Dodge WC54, World War Two vintage—which meant we were double loaded, plus me driving and Tom in the back. Most of those boys was wounded so bad they wouldn’t have made it to a surgeon even if the ambulance hadn’t gone off the road. The accident only caused additional casualties and shock, like the major said. Two GIs were killed by machine-gun fire during the ambush, and two more died during the roll down the cliff. One might have reached the hospital in decent shape if we hadn’t been ambushed, but he sustained a skull fracture during the crash. He was in and out briefly, then fell unconscious. But here’s my point: as bad as those two conscious boys were hurt—mortally wounded, both of them—they fully understood the situation. No help was coming.”
“How did they come to understand it? Through what you and Private Cage told them?”
“Lord, no. The whole damned division was bugging out, and they knew it. All discipline had broken down; the army was in full retreat. I don’t like saying it, but wounded were being abandoned all over the place. We could hardly get tanks down that road, much less stop and mount a rescue operation. Nobody was going to take time to winch an ambulance back up onto a road that was nothing but a kill zone. And those boys knew that. We all did. Even Powers.”
“Let’s get back to the wounded men,” Shad suggests.
“Let’s,” Walt says icily. “So . . . I was trapped in the driver’s seat, but I could hear fine, better than I wanted to. One boy was crying for his mother; another was screaming in pain. He quieted down when Tom gave him some morphine. That’s when Tom came forward and freed me. He did that by breaking my shoulder, by the way. Broke it with an entrenching tool.”
A soft gasp sounds in the courtroom.
“Weren’t no other way,” Walt said. “There wasn’t no Jaws of Life down in that godforsaken gorge. Tom told me what he’d have to do to get me out, and I said ‘Get on with it, then.’ I’d have let him cut my arm off to keep from being captured by those Chicom bastards.”
Shad probably figured he had an idea what was coming, but the jury members are hanging on Walt’s brusquely delivered words in a way they did not when Powers spoke.
“After Tom freed me, we climbed in the back and tried to figure a way to get those boys back up to the road. We saw right quick we couldn’t manage it, so Tom decided to climb the cliff to see if he could get help. We’d heard screaming up there earlier, but that had stopped. Tom’s climb took a while, and the wounded didn’t get any better during the wait. I did what I could to treat them, but they bled more and went deeper into shock. The one who was in and out went into a coma and stayed there. I had to shoot myself with morphine just to stand the pain from my shoulder. We was a pitiful bunch, I tell you. We tried to laugh about it, but it was twenty below zero. Hard to see the funny side when you’re that cold.
“Anyway, our column had taken off hell-for-leather when the ambush started. Some of our boys got knocked off the tanks when the gunners rotated their turrets to fire back at the Chinese, and some got crushed flat by the treads. Piss-poor planning, I’ll tell you. By the time Tom got up to the road, there was nobody there but dead GIs and Chinese waiting to ambush the next column. That’s when he got grazed by another bullet. And that’s another thing the major left out. If you don’t believe me, get him to strip down and take a look at his scars.”
Shad forces a respectful smile. “We’ll take your word for it, Captain.”
Walt looks hard at Shad, then continues, his eyes on the faces in the jury box. “After Tom got back, he asked me to come outside the ambulance to hear his report, but the boys heard it anyway, like Powers said. The next column to come down the road was going to catch the same hell we had. Tom and I were hurt too bad to move the wounded, who couldn’t ethically be moved anyway—so there we were. Rock and a hard place, literally.”
“Why couldn’t you stay where you were and wait for relief?”
Walt looks at Shad like he’s an idiot. “Did you not hear me say it was twenty below zero? We had two boys bleeding out and one in a coma. There was no heat and no hope of help. Plasma was frozen solid in the aid stations, and we had none in the ambulance. The only thing we had enough of was morphine.”
“Go on.”
“That’s when the first boy begged us not to leave him.”
“Had you told the wounded you intended to leave them?”
“Not at that point. But every GI north of the thirty-eighth parallel knew the Commies’ prisoner policy. No quarter given. The North Koreans had been mutilating POWs before executing them. A couple of ambulances filled with wounded had been burned out with flamethrowers. And we were even more afraid of being captured by the Chinese.”
Shad takes a moment before going on. “Wasn’t it your duty to stay with the wounded, Mr. Garrity?”
“Mr. Johnson, that might be a thorny problem in some philosophy book, or even a field manual. But in real life . . . no soldier is obligated to wait for certain death unless ordered to, and we hadn’t been. Tom and I had a tough choice. We were medics, and dedicated to our work. We could stay there and be captured—which meant death or worse—or we could try to climb out and bring back help, if we could somehow hook up with an American unit in time. We knew the odds were low. We told those boys how things stood. We said, ‘We’d take you with us if we could, but we can’t move you without killing you.’ And that’s when one of them, a tough little fella from Idaho, said, ‘Kill me now, then. Better you than them devil monkeys.’ That’s what some guys called the gooks—the North Koreans—back then. I don’t think he even knew it was the Chinese who’d knocked us off the road. Anyway, I looked at Tom, he looked at me, and we knew each other’s minds. It was either put them boys out of their misery or leave them to a terrible fate.”
“And Major Powers?”
Walt sniffs as though he has just detected a noxious odor. “Major Powers. Well . . . early on, the major had been praying, like he said. But about this time he chimes in and says, ‘I know what you men are thinking, and you can’t do it. No matter what these boys say, it’s wrong, and you know it.’”
“How did you respond?”
“I told him I thought what he was saying was fine for a church meeting, but not much use down in that gorge. I’d gone to church most every Sunday growing up, but my heart told me it was up to them boys to decide how they wanted to meet their maker.”
“And?”
“They decided. They told us to give ’em enough morphine to go to sleep and not wake up. And that’s what we done.” Walt sniffs a couple more times, like a man with hay fever, but then I realize his old slit eyes are welling with tears.
“Another thing the major left out . . . them two boys held hands while we done it. Held hands and prayed till they fell unconscious. Not one day of my life has passed that I don’t see those boys in my mind. But I’ll tell you this: Even if the Lord sends me to everlasting perdition for what I done that night, I know I did right by ’em. Tom, too. I know that in my heart. Their own mamas wouldn’t have done no different.”
Shad looks astounded by this assertion. “Do you really believe that, Captain Garrity?”
“Son, if I didn’t believe it, I’d have shot myself in the head thirty years ago.”
Shad appears to have no idea how to respond to this. “Permission to approach the witness, Your Honor?”
Judge Elder nods.
Shad walks away from the podium and circles slowly toward Walt. “You said ‘we’ during that description. But did you inject either soldier with a lethal morphine dose?”
“I offered to, but my dominant hand was numb from the broken shoulder. Tom volunteered to do it, to make it easier on the boys. And on me, too, probably.”
“I see. And the unconscious man?”
“Like the major said, Tom didn’t want to inject him. But one conscious boy kn
ew that fella and said the boy wouldn’t want to wake up alone with a North Korean’s bayonet in his gizzard, if by some miracle he did wake up. I agreed with them, and Tom finally went on and did it.”
“I see. So . . . you don’t believe that Tom Cage committed murder on that night?”
“No, sir. I mean, yes—that’s right. It wasn’t murder. It was like putting down a horse with a broken leg. Three horses. They were hopeless cases.”
“Yet Major Powers survived that night.”
“Yeah,” Walt says with what sounds like resentment. “That’s another thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Another thing the major left out.”
Shad looks wary now. “I think we’ve heard enough to clarify what happened in the ambulance.”
“Well, I think you’re missing a key detail, Mr. Johnson.”
I remember Quentin’s insistence that the jury hates to be denied any part of a story. Shad knows trouble is coming, but he also senses that he shouldn’t resist. Now that the door is open, Quentin can easily bring out whatever Walt wants to say during cross. Better to bring it out himself and try to steer the questioning. “Please enlighten us, Captain.”
Walt gives a tight smile. “Major Powers wasn’t like the other wounded in that ambulance.”
“How do you mean? He had the lightest wounds?”
“No. He did have the lightest wounds, but since he couldn’t walk, that wouldn’t have mattered. Except for another fact.”
“What’s that?”
“He was air force. The other wounded were all army. And Powers wasn’t just air force. He was a pilot. A jet pilot. And all field officers in both the North Korean and Chinese armies were under orders not to harm captured American pilots. Pilots were considered the highest-value American prisoners by the Chinese, because it was their MiGs we were fighting in the skies over Korea. Even the Korean civilians had been ordered not to hurt our pilots if they parachuted down or crash-landed. Pilots were passed back up the chain until they were taken into China for questioning. My point is, a lot of them survived. So, while Powers surviving to live fifty-five more years to come here and testify might make it seem like Tom and I acted hastily that night, the fact is, those army boys were as good as dead the minute we went off that road. In that ambulance, only Major Powers had a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
While Shad tries to find a way to gracefully get Walt off the stand, the old Ranger says, “World War Two was the same. Hermann Goering had been a pilot in World War One, so he set up special camps for airmen in the next war. In some wars, being a pilot is kind of like being in an international gentlemen’s club. Not that some didn’t suffer—they did. But that’s not like having your eyes gouged out with a sharpened spoon, or having your balls cut off before they bayonet you through the mouth.”
Shad stares at Walt like a man watching an unpredictable dog.
“You know who really killed those boys in that ambulance?” Walt asks pugnaciously.
“Who?”
“Douglas MacArthur. The Chinese had said they would enter the war if we marched too far north, but MacArthur didn’t believe ’em. We’d been seeing troops wearing quilted coats and tennis shoes for three weeks, and finding perfectly square foxholes—which is textbook Chinese discipline—but our brilliant leader ignored the intelligence. He sat over in the Dai Ichi building in Tokyo, wearing his kimono, and sent thousands of boys to their deaths. That bastard should have been court-martialed the week after the Bugout. I don’t know why it took so long for Truman to fire him. If he was here now, I’d spit on him.”
“On Douglas MacArthur? An American hero and legend?”
“You’re damn right. Men have to die in war, but those poor boys died for MacArthur’s arrogance. For no other reason.”
“I suspect you’re oversimplifying matters, Mr. Garrity.”
“No, that’s what you’re doing. Hindsight’s always twenty-twenty, ain’t it, Mr. DA?”
“Whether it is or not, Major Powers’s vision was twenty-twenty when he watched Tom Cage kill three soldiers by lethal injection in 1950. You saw the same thing, correct?”
“I did.”
“Then we’ve heard all we need to on that subject. Let me ask you about one other thing. It’s a small matter, but very important.”
Walt says nothing.
“When Tom Cage was apprehended outside Henry Sexton’s funeral, after jumping bail, he had been driven to that church by you, had he not?”
“He had.”
“In fact, you had been driving him around ever since he skipped bail. Aiding and abetting a fugitive, as it were.”
“You could call it that, if you had a mind.”
“Well, Mr. Garrity, you spent decades serving as a Texas Ranger. What did you call men who skipped bail?”
“Depended on the man. Some were outlaws, and some were good boys caught in a misunderstanding. That’s why Rangers were taught to use their judgment.”
Shad gives Walt a sidelong glance that lets him know he does not appreciate the sparring. “Were you in court during Sheriff Byrd’s testimony that the night after Dr. Cage turned himself in to the FBI, you threw a videotape from your RV into the Mississippi River?”
“Yes, sir, I was.”
“Was the sheriff’s account accurate?”
Walt leans back in the witness chair and folds his arms. Once more he sniffs, then gives the jury box an appraising glance.
“Captain Garrity?” Shad presses.
“Yessir?”
“Will you answer the question?”
“The sheriff’s account was accurate enough.”
“You threw that videotape from your RV into the river?”
“I threw a tape into the river, along with some other stuff.”
“Are you saying you didn’t know what was on the tape?”
“That’s right.”
“Had you visited Dr. Cage earlier that afternoon in FBI custody?”
“I had.”
“At that time, did you discuss the videotape in the van?”
“No, sir.”
Shad looks skeptical. “Dr. Cage did not tell you where to find that tape and ask you specifically to destroy it?”
“How could he, if we didn’t discuss the tape?”
“Yes or no, Captain.”
Walt is starting to lose patience with Shad. “The answer is no.”
Shad lets the jury see an exaggerated look of incredulity. “If you knew nothing about the tape, not even what was on it, then why would you get rid of it?”
Walt gives Shad a bitter smile. “Because you and your wannabe-cowboy sheriff had been trying to frame my best friend for a week. After Tom turned himself in to the FBI, I stayed a night at his house to make sure his wife was okay. The next day, I decided to go back to Louisiana and get my van. Given the situation, I figured the Roadtrek might draw some unwelcome attention from Sheriff Byrd when I crossed back into Mississippi. So I searched it, just to be careful. I found that tape under a seat cushion. I also found a half-empty bottle of Maker’s Mark and a video camera. I’d never seen the tape before, so I put it in the camera and fast-forwarded through it. Wasn’t nothing on it. In the end, I decided to stuff everything in the bag and toss it when I drove back over the bridge. If you want to charge me with littering, go ahead. But I wasn’t going to help anybody frame my best buddy for something he didn’t do.”
An odd smile touches Shad’s lips, and the sight of it strikes fear in my heart.
“Captain Garrity, did Tom Cage ever tell you that he killed Viola Cage? As a mercy killing, even?”
Walt’s face darkens. “No, sir. He did not.”
“I see. Did he ever tell you specifically that he did not kill her?”
“Yes. He did.”
Shad takes a step toward the jury and looks back at Walt. “Captain, is it your deepest conviction that Tom Cage is innocent of the murder of Viola Turner?”
Walt leans forward. “Absolutely.”
Shad nods slowly, then turns to Judge Elder. “Your Honor, at this time I would like to enter an audio recording into evidence as State’s Exhibit Seventeen.”
“What is the nature of this recording?”
“It was made in Navasota, Texas, under a warrant duly ordered by a Texas circuit judge.”
The blood has drained from Walt’s weathered face. Navasota is where Walt lives, where his wife lives. And in this moment Walt is asking himself the same question I am: What the hell has Shad done?
In a short enough span of time for me to know this has been rehearsed, Shad’s assistant rises from the chairs behind him and goes to the side of the courtroom to load a tape into a player.
Quentin could object to this recording and stop it from being played until its authenticity is verified. But I guess he figures it’s going to be admitted in the end, and if he’s going to keep up the appearance of Dad having nothing to hide from the jury, better to let it be played without argument.
Walt must be losing it up there, but he’s been in the witness box enough times to know better than to let anyone see him sweat.
“Ready,” says the ADA.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Shad says, “you are about to hear a brief portion of a recording of a conversation between the witness and his wife, Mrs. Carmelita Cruz Garrity. It was made four days after Tom Cage turned himself in to the FBI, and three days after Captain Garrity threw the videotape into the river.”
Walt leans forward, his face expressionless, his mind spinning through every conversation he had with his wife during that period.
A female voice with a heavy Mexican accent says, “How long are you going to stay in Mississippi, Walter?”
“I’m not sure,” Walt answers in an exhausted voice. “As long as they need me.”
“They?”
“Tom and his family.”
“And you’re staying at Tom’s house? With his wife there?”
“I have to, darlin’. Peggy’s in bad shape. She puts on a good show, but this is a tough situation.”
