In the Name of Honor

by Richard North Patterson

  Afterward, as Meg slept, Terry sat on the deck with a glass of wine. The breeze smelled faintly of salt; the moon cast a thin light on the gently stirring sea grass. Terry thought about everything and nothing.

  He heard footsteps on the wooden planks, then felt Meg’s chin resting atop his head. “Penny for your thoughts,” she said. “Is that still the going rate?”

  “Certainly for mine.” Leaning back, Terry studied the moon. “I was thinking that we’re almost like actors on a movie set—our relationship is defined, and confined, by Brian’s troubles. For which I’m sorry.”

  She drew back slightly. “You mean that it’s finite.”

  “Your word, not mine. I was just wondering how we’d be without the case to worry about. Or, for that matter, Mike Flynn.”

  Meg sat next to him. After a while, she said quietly, “Then tell me about your father. I keep wondering how he died, and why you never say.”

  Terry felt the familiar ache, a tightening in his chest that made it hard to speak. In a monotone, he said at last, “One evening he bought a gun, went to the police station, and blew his brains out in the parking lot. He didn’t want us to find him. In that way, Dad was considerate to the end.”

  She grasped his hand. “My God, Paul—”

  “He was depressed, my mother explained. I was still grieving when she told me we had no money. Two years later I found some papers hidden in his desk and pressed her for the truth.” Terry’s voice became weary. “He’d been caught embezzling cash, a little at a time, to put in a college savings account Mom knew nothing about. Dad returned the proceeds. But that wasn’t enough for Evan Corns, the president of Corns Insurance. ‘Mr. Corns,’ as Dad still called him after twenty years, insisted to the county prosecutor that only a prison sentence would keep his other employees honest. Dad couldn’t face prison or us. Instead he took the gun and went Mr. Corns one better.”

  Meg studied Terry in the moonlight. “What was he like?”

  “Sweet, with a gentle sense of humor. One night I asked him to take me to a hockey game. Dad seemed too preoccupied. To impress him, I explained that the visiting team had Guido Fasciani. ‘Maybe if they take penicillin,’ Dad suggested with mock solemnity, ‘it’ll go away.’ When I didn’t see the humor, he relented and took me to the game. He shot himself two weeks later.” Terry faced her. “I didn’t need Yale, Meg. I just needed my father. What did I ever do, I wonder, to make him think he wasn’t enough. But all I can do now is provide for my mother.”

  “Why did you never tell me?” Meg asked.

  He twitched his shoulders. “It didn’t seem germane.”

  “Not even to my story? Come off it, Paul.” Her voice softened. “You said that a person shouldn’t be defined by his worst moment. You were talking about your father, weren’t you?”

  “And Mr. Corns,” he said tersely. “Mike Flynn’s spiritual father. So now you know all about me.”

  “Hardly all.” Pausing, Meg touched his face. “We don’t have very much time, I know. But I still care about learning more.”

  Suddenly Terry felt the tears in his eyes, the ones left over from the nights he spent not crying as his mother slept the drugged sleep of prescription pills. “Maybe I should have said something, Meg. But it wasn’t you, or even that we’re co-counsel. There was no redeeming my father’s death, and I couldn’t be defined by it. All I could control was this day and the next, working toward a future where I finally outran the misery I felt.” His voice lowered. “It’s not that I don’t know myself; I know myself too well. For the last eighteen years I’ve believed that every second I lived in the past blocked my hope of transcendence. That’s what I see in you. But it hasn’t quite worked, has it? For either one of us.”

  Meg took both of his hands in hers. “Do you know what I sensed when we first met? That we’re alike.” She gave a gentle, rueful laugh. “Too bad for us, I guess. I wonder if we can ever unlearn what we’ve taught ourselves.”

  Terry pulled her close, held her for a time. “Too bad I’m leaving,” he said softly.

  ON SUNDAY MORNING, THEY sat on the deck, drinking coffee and reading the New York Times. Terry appreciated the distraction—perhaps, like Meg, he felt exposed.

  Her cell phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, she stood and walked to a corner of the deck. She seemed to listen for a while, then returned with an air of resignation. “That was my dad.”

  Terry summoned a smile. “Checking up on you?”

  “Actually, he wanted your cell phone number. I told him we were together.” She paused a moment. “He’d like to see you.”

  “When?”

  Meg seemed to wince. “This afternoon, if possible. In Washington.”

  Their chance for intimacy, Terry realized, was coming to an end. To Meg, he said simply, “Tell the general I’ll make time.”

  eleven

  APPROACHING THE VIETNAM MEMORIAL, TERRY SEARCHED FOR Anthony McCarran among the visitors standing quietly before the granite wall, shadowed in the late afternoon. At length Terry spotted him. Wearing civilian clothes and sunglasses, General McCarran went unnoticed—an anonymous if distinguished visitor among the many hundreds who would visit on this day. Only Terry would know that his closest friend’s name was engraved where the general stood or that, however busy, McCarran came here every Sunday. The ritual was, in Meg’s telling, as sacred to him as Mass.

  Silent, Terry stood beside the general, gazing at Jack Gallagher’s name and the date of his death: June 4, 1972. Only a slight shift in McCarran’s posture suggested that he was aware of Terry’s presence. Without turning, McCarran said, “Thank you for coming, Captain.”

  Terry said nothing. Turning, McCarran left the wall and walked, hands in his pockets, toward the bronze statue of three soldiers cast for visitors who found the black granite wall too somber, even for the dead. Stopping by the statue, the general turned again. In a tone somewhere between pointed and apologetic, McCarran said, “I gather when I called Meg you were at Virginia Beach.”

  “Yes.” Terry permitted himself a faint sardonic edge. “It was convenient, I suppose.”

  McCarran gave him a wintry smile. “I hope you didn’t interpret this as a summons. I know very well that you don’t report to me—personally or professionally. But I am a worried father.”

  Terry nodded. “I understand, sir.”

  “I’ve spoken to Meg, of course. But you’re the expert, Captain. What will happen to Brian now?”

  Briefly, Terry considered how to answer. “Procedurally, it’s pretty straightforward. The Article 32 hearing will happen quickly. Four months from now, Brian could be facing a general court-martial on charges of murder and adultery.”

  McCarran removed his sunglasses. “Is that inevitable?”

  “I think so. Under Article 32, all Major Flynn has to show to justify a court-martial is probable cause. He can also use hearsay.” Terry paused, adding quietly, “Which includes Joe D’Abruzzo’s statement that Kate was ‘fucking McCarran.’ ”

  The narrowing of McCarran’s eyes carried a hint of pain. “You really think that’s enough.”

  “I do. In several other ways, Brian hasn’t helped himself. Lying about his affair is only part of that. There are gaps in his story—including a supposed gap in memory. What detail he offers about the shooting doesn’t square very well with the physical evidence. And Brian can’t—or won’t—talk about his combat experience in Iraq.”

  McCarran scrutinized Terry. “I gather that you suggested invoking post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  Beneath McCarran’s neutral tone Terry heard distaste, or perhaps discomfort. “I did,” Terry said flatly. “I think you know far better than I do, General, that PTSD is real. And you know for sure that Brian came back damaged.”

  For a moment, McCarran studied the haunted faces of the three bronze soldiers. “How would that help him now?”

  “It could help explain Brian’s memory lapse, or even why he killed D’Abruzzo.” Pausing, Terry
waited for McCarran to face him. “Maybe,” he continued coolly, “Brian’s a murderer, and an extremely gifted liar. But it’s also very possible that he’s a screwed-up guy who slept with somebody else’s wife, and is facing life in prison for something he didn’t do. At the moment, that’s how I read him.

  “Flynn, however, is a truly moral man. In his mind, Brian’s affair with Kate exposes a pervasive character deficit and provides a motive for murder. Amorality, in Flynn’s eyes, is seamless.”

  McCarran’s gaze turned bleak. “I once served as a juror in a case involving an affair between a married colonel and a female officer in his command. We dismissed him from the service. Civilians don’t understand that. But I know all too well that adultery is a breach of military honor.”

  “This case is worse,” Tony said bluntly. “Among other things, Flynn imagines that Brian killed D’Abruzzo to avoid what you’re talking about—the shame of a ruined career.”

  McCarran absorbed this, still gazing at the statue. Then he said softly, “Every day that Brian was in Iraq, I would scan the reports of the dead, afraid that I’d see his name. Now, like Meg, I worry that he’ll kill himself, or spend his life in prison. But unlike Meg, I have myself to blame—my own pride and self-involvement. Too often I saw Brian as a McCarran, instead of Brian, my son.” Facing Terry, McCarran stood straighter. “Perhaps I have no right to ask you. But Meg thinks very well of you, as does anyone who’s seen you in court. For Brian’s sake, and hers, I wish you’d stay.”

  Terry hesitated, examining his own emotions. “All I can promise,” he answered, “is that I won’t leave without meeting with Brian again. If only to recommend the best military lawyer I know to help them both.”

  McCarran nodded, accepting the tacit rebuff with a look very close to misery. “All right, Captain. I’ll wait to hear from Meg.”

  DRIVING BACK TO FORT Bolton, Terry called his future litigation partner at home. “Sorry to bother you on a Sunday,” he said. “But something’s come up. It looks like the army means to court-martial Brian McCarran.”

  “Too bad,” Frank Morrissey said in a neutral voice. “I’m sure you did all you could to prevent that.”

  “I did. It wasn’t enough.” For a moment, Terry hesitated. “It’ll be a challenging trial, Frank—not to mention well publicized. That might be good for all of us. I was wondering if the firm could give me six months’ grace time.”

  “Wish we could,” Morrissey said crisply. “But your month in Europe was a hard enough sell.” His tone became practical. “One of our investment banking clients, Ray Fazio, is about to be indicted for insider trading. Looks like the feds have a case, but Ray means to fight it tooth and nail. We’re weak in criminal defense—without you, or someone like you, Ray may take his business down the street. We picked you over a hotshot from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. I’m sorry, Paul, but if you don’t show up on schedule, we’ll have to hire the hotshot instead.”

  Terry felt the vise of his own conflicting desires. It was not easy to imagine giving up this opportunity, or explaining to his mother that the house he had promised her would have to wait. All he could say to Morrissey was “I understand, Frank. Thanks for your candor.”

  “No problem, Paul,” Morrissey said warmly. “See you in a month.”

  Another door had closed, narrowing Terry’s choices.

  AS TWILIGHT APPROACHED, TERRY found Brian McCarran on his boat, folding its canvas sails. Glancing over his shoulder, Brian said, “You must think I live here.”

  “I just think you’d like to.” Terry kept his tone level. “When you’re finished, there’s a conversation we need to have.”

  Brian’s smile was a mere show of teeth. “The one where you wish me ‘good luck’?”

  “No. The one where I explain that you’re going down unless you get a grip.”

  As Brian’s mouth formed a silent whistle, his blue-gray eyes watched Terry’s face. “I’m listening.”

  Terry sat across from him. “If you’re a liar, Brian, it’s not working. And if you’re trying to be a stoic, you’re also a complete fool. With me so far?”

  This time the smile did not diminish Brian’s look of vigilance. “That wasn’t hard to follow, Captain.”

  “Okay. Let’s assume for the moment you’re a stoic.” Terry paused for emphasis. “I don’t care what you did in Iraq or how much pain it causes you. You need to work with Dr. Carson to uncover why you can’t remember what happened that night.

  “That’s for openers. Once the Article 32 investigation concludes, your lawyer can ask for his own investigator from CID. Unless you’re completely self-destructive, you’ll give that guy the name of every soldier in your command who saw whatever you went through. Not just to establish a PTSD defense but as witness to your character as a combat leader. When those jurors look at you, they need to see an officer who watched out for his men, not a guy who screwed his murdered CO’s wife.”

  Brian’s eyes glinted. “And where will you be, sir? In Europe? Or New York?”

  Terry leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him. Softly, he said, “I’m not sure yet.”

  Brian sat straighter. With mild astonishment, he said, “You’re thinking about staying.”

  “I’m considering it.”

  “Why exactly?”

  “Maybe I think you’re a liar but not a murderer. Or maybe I just don’t want to leave Meg in the lurch. Call me sentimental. But whether I stay is up to you.”

  “Does that mean I have to ask?”

  “More than that, Brian. You’ll have to do exactly as I say.”

  Brian gave him a wary look. “Work with Carson, you mean.”

  “Yes. But not for the sake of the Article 32 hearing.” Terry’s voice became crisp. “Other than to cross-examine Flynn’s witnesses, we won’t offer a defense. If I can manage it, Kate D’Abruzzo won’t say a thing at the hearing. And I know damned well that you will—”

  Brian held up his hand. “No way. Crooks and gangsters take the Fifth—”

  “So do officers who dislike prison.” Terry slowed his speech for emphasis. “Your story needs work. You should only tell it once, and only when you’re ready. Otherwise Flynn will tear you to little pieces. I won’t let you serve as his enabler out of some medieval sense of honor—military or familial.

  “All I care about is keeping you out of jail. You said you’d rather kill yourself than go to prison. So what do you care about most—your life and freedom, or your father and those dead ancestors on his wall?” Terry paused again. “Do what I say at the Article 32 hearing, and you’re guaranteed to face a court-martial. But at least you’ll have a prayer of winning.”

  Brian stared at the lacquered floor of his boat. “So you’re willing to defend me,” he said slowly. “All I have to do is spill my guts, look like a weasel at the hearing, and tee up a court-martial for Major Flynn.”

  “That’s just the start. I also know you’re sitting on something. You don’t have to tell me what it is. But whatever you do tell me had better be true. One more lie, and I walk out.” Terry lowered his voice. “Then there’s your sister. If I agree to represent you at the court-martial, you’ll damn well stay alive for her. One suicide in Meg’s life is enough.”

  Brian stared at him. Softly, he said, “So I’d lose my freedom of choice?”

  “Yup. But there’s one other thing, Brian. You’ll have to start calling me Paul.”

  Brian’s bark of laughter was followed by a grin that, to Terry’s surprise, seemed genuine. “Free at last—Paul and Brian’s excellent adventure.” The smile vanished abruptly. “This won’t be easy. Not for me, or you. Or Meg.”

  Terry nodded. “I know that.”

  For a moment, Brian shut his eyes. Quietly, he said, “Okay, Paul. You’re on.”

  PART

  III

  The Prosecution

  November 2005

  one

  THE DAY BEFORE JURY SELECTION IN UNITED STATES VERSUS Lieutenant Brian McCa
rran, Major Michael Flynn, trial counsel for the army, and Captain Paul Terry, counsel for the accused, met to argue Flynn’s motion to preclude the defense from contending that Brian suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder.

  Meg sat beside Terry at the defense table. During the past four months, she had been coming to Terry’s apartment several times a week, at times as his co-counsel, at other times as his lover. He thought of her as different people: the driven lawyer; the troubled woman who felt unmoored from her own life; the passionate lover; the sister who wished to escape her fears for Brian. The starkest divide was between the lawyer who observed him so clinically and the refugee who, outside the confines of the case, could be tender and even light of spirit. Terry’s best hope of reconciling these personae—and sorting out his own feelings of attachment to her—lay on the far side of the trial.

  Her expression today was as somber as the courtroom. Stained wood composed the walls, the judge’s bench, and the box where the members of the court—military jurors—would sit. Heavy gold drapes were drawn across tall windows, the sole illumination falling from bowls suspended from a high ceiling, lending the courtroom a sepia tone. The solemnity was completed by the presence of Colonel Carter Hollis, a magisterial African-American, who, as senior judge in the circuit that included Fort Bolton, had assigned himself to the trial of Brian McCarran.

  For Hollis, this case might become the high point of a notable career. Known as a superb judge, Hollis had served as prosecution and defense counsel and, after ascending the bench, had presided over a hundred courts-martial, including a challenging trial stemming from the death of Iraqi civilians. While the colonel ran a taut courtroom, by reputation he had an open mind. Particularly hopeful, from Terry’s perspective, was that Hollis held a master’s degree in criminal law from Harvard, lectured extensively at the army JAG school, and had a sophisticated grasp of the nuances of law, including cutting-edge issues subject to sharp debate. This had led to Terry’s first tactical decision: hoping that Hollis would preside, Terry had waived the right—available in such an incendiary case—to request a judge from another branch of the military. Today would tell him much about the wisdom of that gamble.