In the Name of Honor

by Richard North Patterson

  Though touched, Terry smiled yet again. “You’re a devious man, sir.”

  “There’s no wind so ill,” his mentor answered blandly, “that it can’t serve someone’s purpose. In this case, mine. I assured General Jasper that, as a short-timer, you wouldn’t mind breaking a little china if it served young McCarran’s interests. And if it came to a trial, God forbid, I hoped you might be willing to extend your tour in the army. I generously promised not to stand in your way.”

  As Terry framed a droll reply, the seriousness in Dawes’s face stopped him. “You know I’d like you to stay, Paul. But if this goes to trial, it could be the high-profile case of a lifetime, with all the human challenges and opportunities that involves. No matter what awaits you in your Wall Street firm, you’ll likely be a better lawyer, maybe even a better man. That’s part of what I’m trying to do.”

  Absorbing this, Terry nodded. “Thank you, sir. Unfortunately, the firm has already assigned me an investment banker to defend, with more to follow. Whatever Brian McCarran’s problems, I don’t think the firm will wait. But I’ll go to see him, of course.”

  Briefly, Dawes frowned. “There’s someone else you should meet first. Brian McCarran’s sister.”

  Terry gave Dawes a puzzled look. “No doubt she’s concerned,” he answered. “But I should meet my client first.”

  “Meg McCarran’s more than a concerned sister. She’s a lawyer, and she came here from California to help her brother. She’s also quite insistent on ‘helping’ you.”

  Terry felt himself bristle: he did not want to deal with an anxious relative standing between him and his client—or serving as a conduit to her father, the general. “Is there anything I can do about this?”

  “Meet her and see.” Smiling faintly, Dawes glanced at his watch. “It’s eight-forty. I told her to be in our reception area at nine o’clock. If she’s as businesslike as she sounds, she’s already here.”

  AS DAWES HAD PREDICTED, Meg McCarran was waiting outside his office.

  She stood, briskly shaking hands with Terry as the colonel introduced them. Her looks surprised him. Encountering her at random, Terry might have seen an Irish beauty, a fantasy from his Catholic youth: glossy auburn hair, large blue eyes, softly glowing skin, a button nose, and a wide, generous mouth, which, parting for a perfunctory smile, exposed perfect white teeth. But her suit was the pin-striped carapace of the courtroom, and the skin beneath her eyes was bruised with sleeplessness. The effect was somewhere between trial lawyer and the vigilant older sister of a juvenile facing trouble, and her swift appraisal of Terry combined a palpable wariness with an air of command worthy of her father.

  Standing to one side, Dawes offered them the use of an empty office. “Mind talking outside?” Terry asked her. “I could use some fresh air, and there’s a park across the street where we can sit.”

  Meg gave a fractional shrug. Opening the door, Dawes reminded Terry of an anxious parent watching two recalcitrant teens embark on a blind date. Instinctively, Terry wished that the occasion were as trivial as a high school dance, and would be over with as quickly.

  THEY SETTLED ON A bench beneath a cluster of oak trees, set back some distance from McCarran Drive. Terry reminded himself that less than two days ago, this woman’s brother had called her to report killing a man she must have known well. “I understand how worried you must be,” he ventured.

  “Clear-eyed,” she amended. “I know the army. Because of our father, they’ll bend over backward not to show Brian any favoritism. So whoever we engage to help him, I need to be here.”

  Briefly, Terry weighed his response. “No matter whose son Brian is, there’s an orderly process. CID will investigate; Major Flynn will make recommendations; ultimately General Heston will determine whether to refer charges for trial. What Brian needs right now is an advocate.”

  Meg faced him. “What Brian needs,” she said with quiet urgency, “is for the army to comprehend what it’s done to him. I’m absolutely certain that Brian acted in self-defense. But the man who shot Joe D’Abruzzo is different from the man they sent to Iraq.” Her voice slowed, admitting a first note of entreaty. “Sadly, Captain Terry, Brian’s not very trusting anymore. He’s not likely to trust you or any lawyer but me. That’s another reason I’m here. Of all the people in Brian’s life, I’m the one who knows him best.”

  Terry contemplated the grass at their feet, dappled with light and shade. “How long do you plan to stay?”

  “Until Brian’s out of trouble. Whether that’s days or weeks or months.”

  “What about your job?”

  “I’m a domestic violence prosecutor in the San Francisco DA’s office.” She bit her lip. “I love my work, Captain Terry. But the DA can’t have a prosecutor from his office acting as a defense counsel. If Brian’s charged with Joe’s death, I’ll have to resign.”

  Even under the circumstances, the depth of her resolve struck him. “We’re not there yet,” he reminded her. “Even if we were, I’m not sure Brian will need that kind of sacrifice.”

  Meg shook her head. “He’s my brother. I won’t let anything happen to him.”

  Something in her fierce insistence suggested the conscientious child she might have been, charged with protecting a younger brother. “Are there just the two of you?” he asked.

  “And my father,” she said. “My mother’s dead.”

  The flatness of her tone deflected further questions, let alone any rote expression of sympathy. After ten minutes of acquaintance, it was hard for Terry to imagine Meg McCarran seeking sympathy from anyone. She had a quality of independence as striking as her beauty, suggesting both intelligence and a considerable force of will. But Terry also intuited a trait he understood all too well—the instinct for self-protection. Facing him on the bench, Meg said in a neutral manner, “I know my father made inquiries. But I don’t know anything about you, or much about the JAG Corps.”

  “It’s pretty straightforward. Every major installation has JAG offices, including a legal adviser to the commanding officer, judges, prosecutors, and defense lawyers. The Trial Defense Service, my unit, has its own chain of command. The purpose is to ensure that our superiors don’t punish us for winning—”

  “That’s reassuring,” Meg interjected tartly. “How, specifically, was Brian assigned to you?”

  Terry was determined to maintain his equilibrium. “In any case occurring at Bolton, Colonel Dawes details a defense counsel. As you suggested, your father also made inquiries. I’m the result.”

  Meg regarded him closely. “No offense, Captain Terry, but you’re obviously young. Don’t you think Brian might do better with an experienced civilian lawyer?”

  Briefly, Terry had the thought that if he were to be relieved of this case, and this woman, his departure from the army would be far simpler. “It’s not my call,” he answered. “I can tell you the pros and cons. A JAG lawyer knows the military justice system and the psychology of the potential jurors. Most people don’t trust defense lawyers; military people trust them less. If you asked the average army officer, odds are he’d say that many civilian lawyers are ethically challenged or just in it for the money.

  “A defense lawyer in uniform avoids that bias. On the other hand, a civilian lawyer is less inclined to be deferential, and the talent pool is larger.” Terry paused. “Military or civilian, what a court-martial comes down to is how good the lawyer is. Hopefully, you won’t need one. Right now the idea is to persuade the army not to prosecute.”

  A light breeze stirred Meg’s hair. She pushed her bangs back from her forehead, her intense blue-eyed gaze still focused on Terry. “Why did you choose the JAG Corps?” she asked.

  Terry decided to be direct. “First, my family had no money, so a ROTC scholarship to college helped get me where I am. Second, I don’t like taking orders.

  “That may sound strange coming from a JAG officer. But a number of my law school friends wound up as gofers in big corporate firms, shuffling papers miles fr
om the courtroom. To have the career I wanted, I needed to try cases—hard ones, and a lot of them.”

  “Have you?”

  “Over a hundred twenty in the last six years, the first ninety as a prosecutor. I didn’t always get the sentence I wanted, but I never lost a case.”

  “ ‘Never’?” Meg repeated skeptically.

  In the face of Meg’s challenge, Terry stopped resisting the sin of pride. “Means never. When the Trial Defense Service got sick of losing to me, they asked me to switch sides.”

  A first sardonic smile appeared at the corner of her mouth. “At which point you started losing, too.”

  “Rarely.”

  This stopped her for a moment. “What about homicides?”

  “I’ve defended five. Three acquittals; one conviction on a reduced charge; another on second-degree murder. In that case, the victim was a six-year-old boy, my client’s prints were on the knife, and he confessed to CID and the victim’s mother. Clarence Darrow couldn’t have saved him.” Terry’s speech became matter-of-fact. “I’m getting out next month, so I hope to wrap this up by then. But I chose defense work on principle—too many prosecutors lack a sense of justice. Temperamentally and professionally, I’m more than capable of helping your brother.”

  She gave him a considering look. “Why do you think you’ve been so successful?”

  “Simple. I hate losing.” Terry paused, then decided to finish. “Since the age of thirteen, no one has given me anything. I got here by sheer hard work, the only asset I had. Lose a case, and I’m haunted by what I might have done better.

  “There may be smarter lawyers. But no one hates losing more than I do, or works harder for their clients. I’ve defended thirty cases; I’ve lost four. I still can’t shake them.”

  Meg sat back, her eyes meeting his in silence. “I think I understand,” she said at length. “At least for now, I’d like you to represent my brother.”

  For some reasons he could identify, and others that eluded him, Terry felt both satisfaction and a deep ambivalence. “Then let’s go see him,” he answered simply.

  two

  BRIAN MCCARRAN, HIS SISTER EXPLAINED, HAD DISLIKED enclosed spaces since returning from Iraq. Now the quarters into which the army had moved him, both alien and confining, evoked the cramped living room in which he had killed Captain Joe D’Abruzzo. They would meet on Brian’s sailboat in the Fort Bolton marina.

  It was a little before ten o’clock, and the morning sun caused the aqua surface of the Potomac River to glisten. Weekend skippers in sailor powerboats slid across the water, and a young water-skier left a spume of white. Meg led Terry along a catwalk to a trim sixteen-footer where a lone man in a polo shirt and khakis sat in the stern, preternaturally still, watching the river with the keen gaze of a sentinel.

  Terry’s first sight of his client surprised him. General Anthony McCarran was famously tall and lean and sharp of eye and feature, an eagle in uniform. Facing his sister and Terry, Brian McCarran was as striking as his father without in any way resembling him. He was surprisingly blond, with long eyelashes, light blue-gray eyes, and features that, though chiseled, had a refinement about them, almost a delicacy, causing Terry to wonder about how his mother might have looked. Shorter than his father, he had a fine-drawn fitness; if martial analogies applied, Brian McCarran was a rapier. Terry had heard him called a golden boy, but his appearance lent the term new meaning; hair glinting in the sun, Brian had the look of a warrior-poet, his perfection marred only by the puckered red welt at his throat. As Meg introduced them, the gaze he fixed on Terry was oddly impersonal, as though he were gauging the level of threat.

  “Good morning, sir,” Brian said in a cool, clear voice. “If you can call it that. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  Terry and Meg sat next to Brian on a padded seat. Reaching for a thermos, Brian poured coffee into a mug. For an instant Terry thought he saw a tremor in Brian’s hand; then Brian seemed to stare at it, willing his hand to be still, before he finished pouring with exactness. Terry noticed that the boat was spotless.

  Handing him the mug, Brian again regarded Terry, his expression neutral save for his eyes, as sharp yet guarded as his sister’s. Quiet, Meg watched them closely.

  “So,” Brian said, “Meg says you’re my lawyer.”

  “Only for the next month,” Terry answered. “But you’re right to seek legal representation. If you want that from me, anything you say here will be privileged.” Glancing at Meg, Terry added, “Assuming that your sister is also acting as your lawyer. Is she?”

  Brian tilted his head toward Meg, a first hint of amusement in his gaze. “What about it, sis? Are you?”

  Rather than smiling, Meg looked briefly sad. “Yes. I am.”

  Brian nodded, facing Terry again. “Meg’s always represented me, Captain Terry. Years before she went to law school.”

  The dry remark made Terry wonder when their mother had died; with their father consumed by his duties, the two of them might have formed a family unto themselves. Whatever Terry was sensing, he felt like an outsider.

  “One preliminary question,” Terry said to Brian. “Under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, if CID suspects you of a crime, they have to tell you that. Did they?”

  “Yes, sir. The sergeant said that it was routine.”

  Terry did not comment. “Then let’s start with the basics. Where’s your apartment?”

  Brian gave him the location and address. At once Terry recognized the building: its standard unit—a living room, bedroom, and eat-in kitchen—was identical to Terry’s own. And, as with Terry’s, its second-floor location would offer its occupant little chance to escape from an intruder. “Where did you keep the gun?” Terry asked.

  Brian hesitated. “Nowhere in particular. The gun was Joe’s.”

  Meg leaned forward. “You have to understand the relationships,” she told Terry. “As Colonel Dawes may have mentioned, Joe was married to Kate Gallagher, the daughter of our father’s closest friend at the academy—Dad was best man when Jack married Kate’s mother, Rose. But Jack was killed in Vietnam before Kate was even born. Dad helped Rose cope. So our families were always together.” She glanced at Brian. “Our mother died when I was twelve, and Brian nine. Dad and Rose tried to keep things stable. When Dad was overseas, or somewhere he couldn’t take us, Brian and I lived with the Gallaghers.”

  “So they became your family?”

  Meg seemed to hesitate. “As best she could, Rose replaced our mother. Kate is six years older than me, and nine years older than Brian. So she helped look after Brian, too.” She turned to Brian again, as though explaining their own past. “She and Brian have always had a special bond. And when Joe and Kate were married, all of us were there. At the wedding, my father gave the bride away—”

  Interrupting, Terry asked Brian, “What was your relationship to Joe?”

  Brian’s gaze became opaque. Softly, he answered, “The shooting was about Kate.”

  As Terry registered the evasion, Meg placed a hand on Brian’s arm. “Tell him how you got Joe’s gun.”

  Prompted, Brian briefly closed his eyes. Gazing past Terry at the water, he began in a toneless voice, as though reciting a scene by rote. But the detail and precision with which he spoke summoned, for Terry, a vivid picture that Brian portrayed as truth.

  WHEN KATE CALLED HIM, it was evening, and Brian was alone. “It’s Kate,” she said in a tight voice. “I need help.”

  Brian tensed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just come—before Joe gets back. I’m afraid of him.”

  In the twilight, Brian drove the ten minutes in his convertible, a tension in his gut. Kate opened the door of the town house before he could knock.

  Dark and pretty and refined, Kate was the youthful replica of her mother, Rose, and the young boy Brian’s first image of feminine beauty. Kate was usually the picture of self-possession; tonight, her face seemed frozen, her eyes stunned.

&
nbsp; Pushing past her, Brian looked swiftly from side to side. “Where is he?”

  “At the Officers’ Club,” Kate said quickly. “He’s already been drinking.”

  Crossing the living room, Brian searched the hallway. “And the kids?”

  “With my mom.” Her tone became wan. “Joe and I were supposed to go out for dinner.”

  He joined her in the living room, his tone softer but still urgent. “What happened?”

  She sat on the couch, awkwardly and abruptly, as though the adrenaline that propelled her had evanesced. “Joe hits me,” she said. “Ever since he came back from Iraq.”

  Brian felt a jolt of anger and surprise. “He hit you tonight?”

  “No.” Her voice became brittle. “He threatened me with a gun. I can’t go on like this.”

  Brian sat down beside her, covering Kate’s hand with his. “You should go to his battalion commander. He’ll put a stop to this.”

  Kate slowly shook her head, a gesture of despair. “That would end Joe’s career and destroy our marriage. The kids—”

  “What if he kills you? Where would the kids be then?” Brian made himself speak slowly and firmly. “Get help, Kate. Or I’ll get it for you.”

  Tears misted her eyes. “Please, Brian—”

  He put his arms around her, Kate’s hair brushing his face. “If Joe won’t stop,” he said softly, “we don’t have a choice.”

  She leaned her face against his shoulder, saying in a muffled voice, “I can’t yet.”

  “Then I’ll talk to him myself.” He paused, then asked in the same insistent tone, “Where’s the gun?”

  He felt her swallow. With seeming effort, Kate stood, then walked toward their bedroom like an automaton.

  Following, Brian saw Kate’s nightgown thrown over a chair, the black dress she’d meant to wear lying on the bed. She opened the drawer of the nightstand, drawing back from what she saw.