In the Name of Honor

by Richard North Patterson

  “Reflexively, Brian fired, hitting his upper left arm. Already in motion, Captain D’Abruzzo reached for the gun, taking a second bullet in the palm. As momentum carried D’Abruzzo forward, a third shot struck him in the chest.” Pausing, Terry asked, “Is that sequence of events consistent with the captain’s wounds?”

  Goode slowly nodded. “It’s one possibility, yes.”

  “But what isn’t conceivable, Doctor, is that the lieutenant’s first shot could have hit D’Abruzzo directly in the kneecap.”

  Goode looked and sounded weary. “If I accept your premise—that D’Abruzzo was turned sideways—such a shot would be unlikely. But we haven’t covered the shot in D’Abruzzo’s back.”

  “Which you assume came last. What do you know about the trigger pull on a nine-millimeter Luger?”

  “My sense is that it requires little pressure. But I’m not an expert on ballistics.”

  “Then we’ll stick to your expertise,” Terry responded amiably. “Earlier this morning, you suggested that Captain D’Abruzzo bled to death in roughly ten minutes. During that time, is it likely that he was moving?”

  Goode hesitated. “I suppose not.”

  “In fact, the carpet contained no smears of blood suggesting movement.”

  “No.”

  “Would Captain D’Abruzzo have been talking?”

  “No.” Goode answered curtly. “While he lived, Captain D’Abruzzo was certainly in shock.”

  “So if he didn’t move and didn’t talk, wouldn’t it be reasonable for Lieutenant McCarran to believe that he was dead?”

  “He might have,” Goode retorted. “Unless he’d troubled himself to check D’Abruzzo’s pulse.”

  “ ‘Troubled himself’? What if the lieutenant was in shock?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “And I appreciate your humility. But earlier, you intimated that, even though D’Abruzzo probably died within ten minutes, he might have survived had Brian McCarran promptly called the EMTs. In fact, you virtually implied that Brian McCarran allowed the captain to die. Remember that?”

  “What I said,” Goode parried, “is that Captain D’Abruzzo might have benefited from rapid medical attention.”

  Terry moved closer yet, his voice filling with anger and disdain. “Are you serious, Dr. Goode?”

  “Objection,” Flynn called out.

  “I’ll rephrase that,” Terry said over his shoulder. “Tell me, Dr. Goode, how long did it take the EMTs to respond?”

  “Five to six minutes.”

  “Do they carry blood for transfusions?”

  “They do not.”

  “How long would it have taken them to get D’Abruzzo on a stretcher, out the door, and into the ambulance?”

  “Maybe two minutes.”

  “And to deliver him to the emergency room at Fort Bolton Hospital?”

  At the corner of his eye, Terry saw Dr. Wertheimer make her own calculations. “Another five minutes,” Goode responded.

  “So far I count approximately thirteen minutes. By which time, using your own estimate, Captain D’Abruzzo is dead on arrival. Do you disagree?”

  “I can’t say. My only point is that a prompt call was preferable.”

  “But isn’t it also true that Captain D’Abruzzo surely would have died before an ER doctor, however skilled, could have commenced surgery?”

  Goode’s puffy eyelids lowered. “I suppose so.”

  “Then what in the world,” Terry said with real anger, “were you trying to tell the members of this court?”

  “Objection,” Flynn snapped.

  Terry waved a dismissive hand. “No matter,” he said scornfully. “I’m through with Dr. Goode.” Returning to the defense table, he noticed Dr. Wertheimer whispering to Colonel MacDonald, who nodded.

  FLYNN’S REDIRECT WAS CAREFUL, almost laborious. It reprised his central themes: no GSR, a wound in the back, no evidence that exclusively pointed to self-defense. But that was Flynn’s problem, and he knew it as clearly as did Meg, who, her face more relaxed, had stopped taking notes: while the medical evidence, as a whole, was unhelpful to Brian, none of it was unequivocal. From the confusion on the faces of the jurors, they understood that well.

  On his legal pad, Terry wrote, “I’ll buy you dinner,” and passed it to his client.

  THE ELEGANT DINING ROOM of the Officers’ Club was half full, groups of men among husbands and wives or parents and kids out for a special dinner. A few heads turned toward Brian—among Terry’s motives was to show this small community an officer who, knowing his innocence, was unafraid to surface in public. His sculpted features serene, his blond hair glinting under the soft light of the chandeliers, Brian was as Terry wanted him to be, the vision of a brave young officer who had been unjustly charged.

  Across the table, Terry saw a different picture: haunted eyes; the care Brian took to sit with his back to the wall. In a belated show of companionship, he raised his glass to Terry. “Meg says you’re the best cross-examiner she’s ever seen. For my part, I can’t imagine anyone better.”

  Carefully, Terry considered his response. “What you saw today is the same magic show you saw yesterday. Day after day, I can try to pull another rabbit out of yet another hat. But come the day of reckoning, I’d better have your help in creating something more substantial.”

  For an instant, naked fear flashed through Brian’s eyes. The blank expression that followed reminded Terry of a curtain falling across a window. In a monotone, Brian said, “I really don’t remember, Paul.”

  “The man took a bullet in the back,” Terry pressed him. “Was it a reflex? Did he turn as you were firing? Did the gun go off in your hand?”

  “Or maybe,” Brian interjected coolly, “I wanted to give the son of a bitch an extra shot for sport.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” Terry responded flatly.

  Almost imperceptibly, Brian’s shoulders sagged. “Sorry.”

  “What happened between you and D’Abruzzo in Iraq?”

  Brian looked past him. “Nothing that matters here.”

  Terry felt his client slipping away. Silent, he took another sip of scotch.

  “Well,” Brian said in the same quiet voice, “what should we talk about now?”

  “I don’t know, Brian. How about girls?”

  Brian considered him. “How about Meg?”

  Surprised, Tony said, “What about her?”

  “I think she’s in love with you.” Emotion returned to Brian’s voice. “Not that she’d admit that—especially to you. She’s the most frightened strong person I know. But she’s also the best and most loving, the biggest reason I survived. She deserves that in return.”

  Despite the oddity of the conversation, Terry was curious. “What are you asking me?”

  An expression of candor entered Brian’s eyes, so lacking in irony that Terry almost trusted it. “This court-martial may not turn out too well. No matter how it ends for the rest of us, she needs to leave the past behind. I hope that you can help her.”

  Terry tried to sort out his feelings—the entwinement of the trial with his relationship to Meg, the strange sense that their future might be governed by how the trial ended, and what might surface before then. “Maybe I will,” Terry answered. “But you could help us both by getting acquitted.”

  eight

  THE NEXT MORNING THE SQUALID WEATHER HAD BECOME A slate-gray drizzle.

  Terry and Meg hurried to his car, silently preparing for reporters seeking comments, the grim presence of the D’Abruzzos, Flynn’s assault on her brother. Meg broke their silence. “Did you see the Post this morning?” she asked. “Their guy thinks we’re doing well.”

  “All I know,” Terry answered, “is that Flynn has pushed his witnesses one step too far. Which allowed me to cut their legs off.” He switched on his windshield wipers. “I’d never make that mistake—if it is one. But Flynn is trying to create an image of Brian that lingers in the jury’s mind. All he wants is to m
ake us put on a defense. That’s where he thinks he can win.”

  Meg gave him a look of worry. “What do you think?”

  They came to a stop near the courthouse, spotting the clumps of reporters and cameramen awaiting them beneath black umbrellas. Briefly, Terry touched her hand. “Ask me when the case is over,” he said.

  SERGEANT DAVID MARTINI, THE ballistics expert, was a wiry, dark-haired man of around thirty, with a thoughtful but decisive manner punctuated by constant gestures with his hands. He delivered his answers in a clipped tone that wasted no words.

  Flynn’s own demeanor was crisp, well-organized, and uninflected, a deliberate effort, Terry suspected, to avoid any taint of overkill. After establishing Martini’s qualifications, Flynn handed him the black handgun that had killed Joe D’Abruzzo. “Can you identify this firearm?” Flynn asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Cradling it in both hands, Martini seemed to gauge its weight and balance. “This is the nine-millimeter Luger that belonged to Captain D’Abruzzo.”

  “Can you describe its features?”

  Facing the jury, Martini held up the gun. “It’s a semiautomatic pistol, fed by a magazine that holds fifteen bullets. Once the first round is fired, the pistol will be ready to fire on the next pull of the trigger, and keep on firing until the magazine is emptied. A trained shooter can squeeze off three to four rounds in a second.”

  “Is this exhibit the gun you found in Lieutenant McCarran’s apartment?”

  “Yes. Specifically, on the floor beside his chair.”

  “After you retrieved this weapon, what steps did you take?”

  Placing the gun in his lap, Martini ticked off steps by jabbing the fingers of his left hand. “To begin, we noted the location of the expelled bullets in Lieutenant McCarran’s living room. We examined the four bullets for trace materials like blood, bone, fibers, and damage to the bullet itself. We also looked for evidence that would indicate the proximity between the weapon and the victim—seared and blackened skin, powder in the wound tracts, or gunshot residue on skin or clothing.

  “Related to that,” Martini continued, “we fired this weapon to establish the maximum distance at which it still deposited gunshot residue: four feet, one inch. Equally critical, we used the shell casings at the scene to determine the position from which Lieutenant McCarran fired each shot, and whether he or the victim was moving as he fired.”

  In the austere manner of a scientist, Flynn asked, “What did you conclude?”

  “First, the absence of GSR on the victim shows that Lieutenant McCarran fired each shot from a distance beyond four feet. Second, the fact that one of the bullets was shored by the wall above the defendant’s body suggests that this was the lieutenant’s final shot.” Steepling his fingers, Martini aimed them toward the members. “Most telling was the location of the bullets and, especially, the expended shells. Taken together, they indicate that both Lieutenant McCarran and Captain D’Abruzzo were moving as the lieutenant fired.”

  Though he’d expected this, Terry felt on edge. Calmly, Flynn inquired, “Could you tell the direction in which these men were moving?”

  “I certainly formed an opinion. The pattern of bullets and casings and the location of the body all suggest that Lieutenant McCarran shot Captain D’Abruzzo while he was moving forward. The victim appears to have been moving backward.”

  As Meg scribbled on her notepad, Terry read, “No instant execution.” But her face was tight, a sign of worry. “On what do you base this conclusion?” Flynn asked.

  “The expended bullets were a few feet apart, along the wall, suggesting that Lieutenant McCarran fired all four shots from the same direction. But the bullet casings were scattered between the lieutenant’s chair and where the body fell.” Facing the jury, Martini spread his hands. “It follows that Lieutenant McCarran fired four times while moving forward, firing the last shot when Captain D’Abruzzo was facing the wall.”

  The expression on Flynn’s gaunt face implied dispassionate curiosity. “Isn’t the alternative that Captain D’Abruzzo was moving toward the accused?”

  Martini briskly shook his head. “That doesn’t seem likely, sir. As we know, Captain D’Abruzzo was lying near the wall. Lieutenant McCarran told CID that he fired the first shot—the only shot he claims to remember—from near the chair. Each of the other three bullets is a few feet closer to the body.”

  “Based on that, Sergeant Martini, what do you conclude about the shooting?”

  Martini glanced at Brian before speaking to the members in the same calm but confident voice. “In my opinion, Lieutenant McCarran was the aggressor. He was moving forward as he shot the victim, four times, from a distance that always exceeded four feet. That’s hard to square with self-defense.”

  In the jury box, Major Wertheimer looked down, her eyes narrowed in thought.

  STANDING, TERRY ASSUMED A manner that was matter-of-fact, his tone suggesting mild curiosity. “You mentioned divining Lieutenant McCarran’s movements from the position of the shell casings. In what direction do casings eject from the gun?”

  “Perpendicular and to the right. That’s how we can assess the position, or positions, of the shooter.”

  “Let’s talk about the casings themselves. In a fifteen-by-twenty-foot apartment, are there variables that affect where they end up?”

  Martini rubbed his palms together. “Yes,” he said. “For one thing, they can bounce off walls or furniture.”

  “What kind of floor did the living room have?”

  “Most of the floor was covered with a Persian carpet. At the border of the carpet was maybe a foot of hardwood.”

  “Can casings bounce off a wooden floor?”

  “They can.”

  “Or even Persian rugs?”

  “To a lesser degree, yes.”

  Edgy, Terry paused, uncertain of how far to push this somewhat tendentious point. “So the ‘pattern’ could reflect bullets bouncing off walls, the chair, the coffee table, the carpet, or the wooden border of the floor.”

  “For any given shell, yes. Of course you’re talking about four separate casings.”

  “But you can’t be certain where Lieutenant McCarran was when he fired any particular shot.”

  “No.”

  “You also can’t determine which shot came first, correct?”

  “That’s true.”

  “You mentioned the position of the expended bullets. If bullets pass through different parts of the body, could that affect their trajectory?”

  “It could.”

  “According to the autopsy report, the bullet that passed through the captain’s chest also struck a rib. Wouldn’t that deflect a bullet?”

  “Probably.”

  “So, in and of itself, the position of three bullets near the wall might not tell you very much.”

  Martini clasped his hands together. “We can talk about any one of them. But my opinion is based on three bullets and four casings.”

  Martini was a facile witness, Terry acknowledged, without seeming unreasonable or resistant. “You say that three bullets were close together, Sergeant Martini. Might not that suggest that, instead of moving forward, Lieutenant McCarran was standing still?”

  “It could. Of course, there’s also the casings.”

  “But if the bullets in themselves tell us nothing about movement, aren’t the casings the only basis for suggesting that the lieutenant was moving forward?”

  For the first time, Martini was still. “Yes,” he finally answered. “I’d say my opinion relies heavily on the casings.”

  “Which could have bounced off walls and chairs and floors and coffee tables?”

  “Objection,” Flynn called out. “Asked and answered.”

  Turning, Terry read Hollis’s puzzled expression—by underscoring the subject, Flynn had made his first misstep of the day. “Your Honor,” Terry countered, “it seems that the witness’s central point is that Brian McCarran was moving forward. We just learned that his opinion rests
entirely on the bullet casings. It’s important to underscore the limitations of that thesis.”

  Hollis gave Flynn a brief but pointed look. “Objection overruled.”

  Martini spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “As I said, bullet casings can bounce off various surfaces or objects, altering their pattern.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. What’s the trigger pull on a nine-millimeter Luger?”

  “It’s very light. Essentially, it’s a hair trigger.”

  “Why is it made that way?”

  “The less pressure needed to pull the trigger, the more accurate the shot.”

  “Can a hair trigger lead to the unintended discharge of a bullet?”

  “It can, yes.”

  “Would you say that such a trigger is particularly hard to control in high-stress situations?”

  “Obviously.”

  “So is it possible, Sergeant Martini, that one or more of the bullets fired by Lieutenant McCarran was discharged accidentally? For example, the bullet in Captain D’Abruzzo’s back, the apparent result of the last, delayed gunshot.”

  Terry saw Flynn start to rise, glance at Hollis, then reconsider. “With a gun like this,” Martini answered, “you can’t ever rule that out.”

  Terry gave him a thoughtful look. “When did you enter the army, Sergeant Martini?”

  “In 1994.”

  “As part of your training, were you taught to shoot a handgun at targets meant to represent an enemy?”

  “We were.”

  “What part of the body were you trained to hit?”

  “Objection,” Flynn said promptly. “The question introduces a subject outside the scope of direct examination. If Captain Terry wants to make some other point, he should call his own expert.”