In the Name of Honor

by Richard North Patterson

  “The sole survivor,” Flynn amended caustically. “Thanks to your client, D’Abruzzo can’t contradict him.”

  Unfazed, Terry responded, “Which doesn’t erase the fact that D’Abruzzo was drunk, and capable of killing Brian without a weapon. And the physical evidence proves nothing either way.” Terry kept his tone reasonable and respectful. “This isn’t a case you can win, Major. It’s only a case you can prosecute. That would hurt everyone else involved—the McCarran family, Kate’s mother and children, Joe D’Abruzzo’s parents. And for what? The army loses, and so does everyone else.”

  “I don’t care if I lose,” Flynn said in a cutting tone. “I don’t pick my cases to ensure a perfect record.”

  At this clear implication that his own success as a prosecutor stemmed from ducking challenges, Terry gazed out a window at the lawn, reining in his anger.

  “As to the army,” Flynn continued, “it loses only when its integrity is tarnished by its members. That’s what McCarran did.”

  Terry faced him again. “Morality,” he said softly, “is not evidence. The reason I never lost a case as a prosecutor is that I’ve never confused my own antipathies with facts.”

  Flynn placed both hands on his desk, allowing seconds to pass while he chose his manner of response. “I have lost cases, Captain Terry. But they were always ones that needed to be brought on principle.”

  “So were the cases I didn’t bring,” Terry replied, “I wasn’t afraid of losing, Major. I was afraid of winning. I didn’t want to prove my talent by convicting an innocent man.”

  “The defense lawyer’s job is to prevent that,” Flynn answered coolly. “We both agree you’re adequate to the task. I think we can also agree that your client and his lover lied to the CID.” Abruptly, his tone became level and dispassionate. “Here’s what I firmly believe happened. Your client and Mrs. D’Abruzzo resolved to kill her husband before he told anyone about their affair—not knowing what D’Abruzzo had let slip to Captain Pace. So McCarran took his gun, then invited D’Abruzzo to his apartment, confident that D’Abruzzo was too proud to resist. The virtual execution that followed included a bullet in the back.

  “To cover that, Kate and Brian fabricated the story of spousal abuse, then falsely claimed that Joe had gone to Brian’s apartment on his own initiative. Brian justified the murder with yet another lie—that Joe attacked him. Because he feared to concoct a story that the physical evidence might contradict, he feigned amnesia as to the rest. And to ensure that he played his part effectively, he called his sister for advice.”

  “Which he didn’t take,” Terry retorted. “She told him not to answer questions.”

  Flynn shrugged. “He had to. What else would an ‘innocent’ man do? And how do you know the sister isn’t lying to you, too?”

  Terry had considered this. “So Meg’s also a conspirator? Why not throw in General McCarran—”

  “Oh,” Flynn interrupted, “he plays a role here, too. Not in the sense that he’s culpable, but because his son believed that their surname would help save him.”

  Terry shook his head, miming wonder. “I’ll pass over the idea of familial enablers. You’re making Brian and Kate into the Macbeths, coolheaded assassins who plotted murder in advance.”

  Flynn smiled a little. “That’s hardly confined to Shakespeare. It’s clear that both of them lied to you as well as to the CID—for the most sympathetic of reasons, I’m sure McCarran told you. But no doubt only after you beat a confession out of him by predicting what I’d do to them both if they testified in an Article 32 hearing. Coupled with adultery, their deliberate lies cast doubt on everything else they’ve told you.

  “There’s no way you can keep their affair out of evidence. Especially when I prefer charges for adultery—”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as overkill?” Terry interrupted. “Personally, I’ve never seen a prosecution for adultery unless the conduct was flagrant, and persisted despite a warning to the accused. That’s not this case.”

  Flynn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Maybe you think that adultery with D’Abruzzo’s wife is a momentary lapse, excused by a lifetime of closeness. If so, you’ve learned everything from your service save that which is most essential.” Flynn stopped himself, then continued with quiet passion: “The army is also a family. By sleeping with Kate D’Abruzzo, Brian McCarran tore the fabric of both families. He ignored his obligation to two children who thought of him as an uncle. He flouted the good order and discipline necessary to military cohesion. He committed the most basic crime within any family, a figurative act of incest that wounded all its members and led, inexorably, to the death of one.

  “By all accounts,” Flynn concluded softly, “Anthony McCarran is one of the most honorable men we have. Were he here, I firmly believe that he—like I—would tell you that honor is the moral glue that binds us to each other. His son chose to abandon honor. He exemplifies why military justice exists.”

  This was hopeless, Terry realized. What drove Flynn was more profound than ego or fanaticism: a well of principle—as deep as it was narrow—that meant he could only be a prosecutor, and made him every bit as effective as his reputation held. Calmly, Terry asked, “Then what do you propose?”

  Flynn raised his eyebrows long enough to underscore Terry’s concession. “Are you asking if I’ve considered a pretrial agreement?”

  “My client hasn’t considered one. But there’s no point in asking him unless you’re willing.”

  Flynn’s gaze lowered in thought. “For the sake of argument, what might he accept?”

  “I only know what I’d recommend. Adultery doesn’t make D’Abruzzo’s death prosecutable as murder. But I recognize that adultery in itself is punishable under the UCMJ.” Terry paused. “I appreciate how you feel about an affair. But Brian and Kate were close, and two other sources suggest that Joe was abusing her. The one you know about, Nathaniel Pace, says that D’Abruzzo talked about killing his wife. The second, General McCarran, confirms that Kate told him that she was afraid. As you concede, the general may be Brian’s father, but there’s no question about his honor.

  “Under those circumstances, I don’t think a general court-martial would dismiss Brian from the army. But I’m willing to discuss that. Terminating the career of General McCarran’s son, I’d suggest, would vindicate your concerns in a very public way.”

  Flynn curtly shook his head. “The affair caused D’Abruzzo’s death. Now you’re using McCarran’s transgression as a ‘get out of jail free’ card, even though he chose to lie about it.” He sat back, palms pressed together. “I grant you that a court-martial for murder carries risks on both sides. But I believe an Article 32 hearing would make my case stronger, and yours weaker. Before I seek one, I’m willing to consider a plea of manslaughter with significant prison time.”

  Terry felt his resistance growing—armed with too much certainty and a subjective sense of justice, a skilled prosecutor with too little opposition could go too far. “With respect,” he said evenly, “I think that’s excessive. All I can promise is to inform Lieutenant McCarran of your offer.”

  “Then tell him this,” Flynn answered. “To let him walk away would violate the army’s obligations to Joe D’Abruzzo. Brian McCarran has already violated his obligation to both. If there’s anything left of his father in him, he’ll accept the consequences.”

  seven

  IN EARLY EVENING, TERRY AND MEG MET WITH BRIAN ON HIS sailboat.

  With his sister beside him, Brian sat on the fantail. Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, he seemed even younger than usual, his only sign of tension the alert, expectant expression in his eyes, the look of a sentinel. Meg had arrived separately; like Brian, she did not know what Flynn had said. Sitting across from them, Terry again felt like an outsider.

  “I got nowhere,” he told them. “Because of the affair, Flynn has inverted your story into an edifice of lies constructed to conceal premeditated murder. It all fits: Joe’s spousal abuse, the reason
you took the gun, Kate’s phone call, and the shooting itself.”

  Besides the slightest narrowing of Brian’s eyes, the only sign of emotion was a silent inhalation of breath. Softly, he asked, “Why did I do it?”

  “To cover up your affair, save your career, or get Kate all to yourself. Take your pick.”

  Brian tilted his head, as though considering the choices. “I must have shot him to preserve the family name,” he concluded gravely. “If I’d wanted Kate, a mere divorce would have done the trick. I’d have suggested that before I shot her husband. I’m less Catholic than my father.”

  The gallows humor unsettled Terry further. “The one explanation Flynn hasn’t considered,” he retorted, “is that you simply hated D’Abruzzo’s guts.”

  “Think so?”

  “Definitely. Maybe because of Kate; maybe because of something that happened in Iraq. I wouldn’t mind knowing what.”

  Though her face was etched with worry, Meg still said nothing, her gaze focused on Terry alone. Quietly, Brian said, “A war happened in Iraq. Joe believed in it; I stopped. But I’m not sure I really hated him until he started hitting Kate.”

  This laconic admission immersed Terry in Brian’s complexity: Terry could not tell whether it was a simple statement of truth, or proffered to conceal something deeper. In his silence, Meg argued, “Everyone lies about sex, especially when they’re ashamed. And everyone but Flynn knows that’s different than covering up a murder.”

  Brian shrugged. “Either I’m a murderer,” he offered coolly, “or I’m not. But Kate was afraid. Joe did hit her. If Flynn thinks she’s going to turn on me, his fantasies are spinning out of control.

  “So what does that leave him? A confrontation where one guy winds up dead and the other guy can’t remember much. But I do know why I shot him. D’Abruzzo would have killed me.”

  “It also leaves two alternatives,” Terry answered. “Flynn’s is that you’re lying. Mine is that you reacted based on post-traumatic stress disorder. Most people would remember the last three shots—unless their mind was literally elsewhere.”

  Though Brian smiled a little, his gaze was cold. “Forget Iraq, Captain. I certainly intend to. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no place like home.”

  With this, Meg looked more fearful than before. Facing Terry, she said, “Flynn’s talking to you because he wants something. What is it?”

  Terry kept his eyes on Brian. “A guilty plea to manslaughter with ‘significant’ prison time.”

  Brian blanched. Softly, he answered, “I can’t let them lock me up.”

  All irony had vanished from his voice. “Because you’re innocent?” Terry asked.

  Brian closed his eyes. “Because I’d kill myself first.”

  His dread of confinement was so palpable that, for once, Terry could not doubt him. The look Meg gave Terry bespoke a horror he now understood too well. “Then you’ll have to face a trial,” Terry said matter-of-factly. “And win. When your next lawyer comes along, you might choose to be more helpful.”

  Brian turned, gazing at the dusky waters of the Potomac in early evening. “If you were trying this case,” he asked Terry, “could you win it?”

  “Define winning, Brian. Could I get you acquitted of premeditated murder? Based on what I know today, probably. Assuming no more surprises.”

  “What about the manslaughter charge?”

  Terry waited for Brian to look at him. “You’re asking if I could do better than Flynn’s offer. But all you’ve given me is a claim of self-defense and a victim with a bullet in his back.” Terry’s tone became clipped. “How afraid are you of prison, Brian? More afraid than of mounting a defense based on the damage I’m pretty sure was done to you in Iraq? Or would you rather risk a guilty verdict than ‘dishonor’ the McCarran name still more?” Terry glanced at Meg. “You don’t have to answer now. But you will have to answer. Flynn is giving you no choice.”

  Brian leaned forward, chin resting on folded hands, staring into the distance. He could have been weighing his choices or envisioning how a court-martial might unfold. For an instant, Terry imagined him as an infantry lieutenant in Iraq, considering the fate of other men who, Dr. Carson surmised, he had cared about more than himself. “Whatever else,” Brian said at last, “I’m not the guy Flynn thinks I am. Tell him I’ve never committed murder in Virginia. Then tell him no.”

  AFTER THAT, THERE WAS little else to say. Terry left them there.

  Alone in his apartment, he drank a scotch on ice, so absorbed in Brian McCarran that his future in New York seemed far away. Brian was still concealing something, he sensed, but whether this was from guilt or shame, he could not guess. Nor could he decipher Brian’s evasiveness. The young officer had given him little except a lie; yet Terry’s instinct was that Brian’s sense of honor, while different from Mike Flynn’s, governed decisions he chose not to explain. Terry knew a loner when he met one.

  He was finishing his scotch when the buzzer rang. Pressing the intercom, he asked. “Who is it?”

  “Meg.”

  Terry froze, surprised. Without answering, he buzzed her in.

  He waited in the doorway. When Meg appeared, she stood in front of him. “I needed to come here,” she said simply. “I was afraid I’d fall apart in front of him, and I couldn’t stand to be alone.”

  Touched by her admission, Terry motioned her inside. “You can fall apart here, Meg. I won’t mind.”

  He closed the door behind them. Inside, the last sunlight cast dim shadows. Looking around her, Meg said softly, “So strange to think the shooting happened in a room like this. Brian felt trapped, I’m sure. Just like he is now.”

  “Maybe so. For my money, he’s also trapped within himself. But I don’t know why.”

  Meg did not answer. Without facing him, she spoke in the same soft, stunned voice, “Is there any chance an Article 32 proceeding won’t result in a court-martial?”

  “Not much. None unless Brian puts on a defense, and little if he does. All Flynn needs for a court-martial is probable cause, and he can already prove that Brian is a liar and an adulterer. I doubt that Brian’s lawyer will think it smart to preview his defense.”

  Meg sat on the couch. After a moment, she confessed tiredly, “I have trouble sleeping now. When I finally do, I wake up and for a minute none of this has happened to him. Then I realize I’m not at home, or even in my life, and it all comes flooding back.” She shook her head. “Some mornings I feel sick. I’ve never felt that way, even before the hardest trial.”

  “Go home to San Francisco,” Terry said gently. “You can come back for the hearing.”

  “This isn’t Brian’s fault, Paul. I can’t let him be alone. And you know why.”

  She said this with such conviction that Terry could not respond. At length he asked, “Can I get you something?”

  Slowly, Meg nodded. “A drink.”

  Terry poured her a scotch and refilled his own, sitting down beside her. After sipping her drink, Meg said, “There’s another reason I came. I’ve wanted to thank you for all you tried to do.”

  “It isn’t much, I’m afraid.”

  She faced him. “It is, though. You’re even patient with me. Believe it or not, I’ve needed that. I know we’re not easy.”

  Terry tried to smile. “Families seldom are. Why should yours be different?”

  He said this lightly. But Meg’s defenses seemed to have vanished. “Remember when I kissed you?” she asked.

  Her voice trembled slightly. Terry’s skin tingled with surprise. “Of course. I assumed it was a passing impulse.”

  Meg inhaled. “No, Paul. It wasn’t.”

  Putting down her drink, she looked into his face, as though seeking a response. Then she reached behind his neck and guided his mouth to hers.

  Her lips were soft and warm. As the kiss lingered, Terry had the stray thought that lawyers should not sleep with their co-counsel. Then he recalled that his role as Brian’s lawyer was about to end. At the e
nd of the kiss, leisurely and deep, Meg rested her forehead against his face. Terry could smell the freshness of her hair.

  The deepest part of him had begun to want this, he realized. But misgivings tugged at him: surely she had come here less from desire than to escape.

  As though to quell his doubts, she rose, standing in front of him. Eyes never leaving his, she slowly took off her blouse.

  Seconds passed in silence, a kind of trance.

  Meg was round and full-breasted, even more beautiful than Terry had imagined. Her panties slid to the floor. Mustering an uncertain smile, she asked, “Do you need my help undressing?”

  Terry slowly shook his head.

  In his bedroom, they slid between cool sheets, skin against skin. His mouth found her lips again, then her nipples. As they grazed her stomach, Meg murmured her encouragement. After a time, her murmurs became cries that ended in a shudder.

  Terry slid inside her. Her eyes, still open, gazed up into his. He began to move gently, the way he sensed she needed. She thrust against him, demanding more, until her rhythm became a frenzied search for release. She found it seconds before he did.

  Afterward, Terry touched her face. “Are you okay with this?”

  Meg smiled a little. “You were more than okay. If that’s what you meant.”

  “It wasn’t, actually.”

  Her expression took on a fleeting sadness. “I’m always okay, Paul. That’s my role.”

  But she was far from okay, Terry knew. After a time, she dressed, and went to be with Brian.

  eight

  ROSE GALLAGHER’S OFFICE AT FORT BOLTON SCHOOL LOOKED out at the playground, where, this morning, kids in a summer program played volleyball and kickball. As she watched them for a moment, perhaps thinking of her grandchildren, Terry noticed the same wedding photo she kept at her apartment, a smiling Joe D’Abruzzo amid Gallaghers and McCarrans.