With this, the two MPs who had reached Flora’s side steered her toward the exit. She went with them passively, her husband trailing behind, drawing the sympathy of those who watched, even as she drained the impact of Kate D’Abruzzo’s words.
two
WHEN JOE D’ABRUZZO’S PARENTS WERE GONE AND THE PRESS and spectators had quieted again, Flynn commenced cross-examination of his widow. But the ugly moment left a residue—Meg looked unsettled, and the life had vanished from Brian’s eyes. Awaiting Flynn’s assault, Kate appeared stunned, as though she had just realized that her husband was dead.
Flynn stopped in front of her, his voice and posture again hinting at his dislike. “We’ve agreed, as I recall, that you lied to Sergeant Frank about your affair with Lieutenant McCarran.”
For an instant, Kate seemed to bridle. Then, as if too dispirited to quarrel with Flynn’s phrasing, she answered: “Yes.”
“And you’ve further told us that you habitually called Lieutenant McCarran on a landline in order to conceal that affair.”
“Yes.”
“Other than your purported disclosures to Lieutenant McCarran, did you tell anyone that your husband hit you?”
“No.” Abruptly, Kate seemed to awaken from her trance. “I didn’t want to hurt Joe’s career, or our marriage.”
“You didn’t think sleeping with his subordinate might damage your marriage?”
Kate looked away. “I didn’t plan that.”
Flynn stared at her in astonishment. “Did you at least tell someone other than the accused that your husband had held a loaded gun to your temple?”
“No. Brian took the gun away that night.”
“Before Lieutenant McCarran killed your husband, did you tell anyone about why he had taken the gun?”
“No.”
“Even though you worried that your husband could be dangerous—with or without a weapon.”
“Yes.”
“And even though he posed a specific threat to Lieutenant McCarran, a man you claim to care for.”
Kate inhaled. “I didn’t know what to do. If all of this came out—”
Her voice trailed off abruptly. In a tone of disbelief, Flynn asked, “Do you think Brian McCarran loves you?”
Kate seemed to inhale. “Yes,” she said firmly. “We’ve loved each other for years, as friends.”
“Yet as far as you know, the accused never reported to anyone that your husband—this volatile and dangerous man—hit you repeatedly?”
“Not that I know about.”
“Or held a gun to your head?”
“No.” Her voice rose. “I asked Brian not to turn Joe in.”
Flynn stared at her. “So for the sake of your marriage, you asked your lover not to stop your husband from hitting you or threatening you with a gun?”
Terry stood, breaking Flynn’s rhythm. “Asked and answered,” he said. “In how many different ways can counsel ask the same question?”
“Sustained,” Hollis said promptly. “Please move on, Major.”
Intent on Kate, Flynn did not change his expression. “You’re also the only witness to these incidents, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Your children never saw your husband hit you?”
“No.”
“Or hold a gun to your head.”
“No.” Again Kate’s voice rose. “That night Matt and Kristen were with my mother.”
“So your husband—this violent man—was considerate enough not to strike or threaten you in the presence of your children.”
Kate looked ashen. “I don’t know what was going through Joe’s head,” she said tiredly. “I’m just grateful Matt and Kristen don’t have that to remember.”
“I thought your husband would get drunk and lose his self-control.”
“He did.”
“Didn’t your husband always start drinking before he hit you?”
“Yes.”
“And yet this drunken, violent, and volatile man maintained sufficient self-control that he never once struck you in front of your son or daughter?”
At this, Terry decided to buy Kate time. “Objection,” Terry called out. “Once again, trial counsel repackages his previous question. But this time he asks the witness to speculate on motives she can’t know about and that, quite possibly, Captain D’Abruzzo never had.”
Hollis gave the witness a thoughtful look. Then he said, “I’ll allow this one, Captain Terry. Mrs. D’Abruzzo can respond based on what her husband might have said or whatever she was able to observe.”
Facing Flynn, Kate drew herself up straighter. “Joe felt a lot of rage, Major Flynn. But he also felt deep shame. Most people try not to shame themselves in front of others—their children most of all. That’s why I concealed my relationship, and why Joe didn’t hit me, or threaten me, or call me a ‘cunt’ when anyone else was around. Joe was also desperate not to damage his career. He still wanted to feel pride in himself, even when he no longer did.”
Terry watched Flynn search for another question, then fall back on the only line of attack he had left. “Isn’t it true,” he said coldly, “that your husband never hit you at all? Or threatened you with the gun Lieutenant McCarran used to kill him?”
“No,” Kate said tersely. “That’s not true—”
“In fact, didn’t you invent these incidents to smear Captain D’Abruzzo’s reputation and conceal Lieutenant McCarran’s plan to murder him?”
“No.” Kate’s voice was quiet but firm. “Joe came back from Iraq a man I didn’t know. That man did things to me I could never have imagined. The only person being smeared in this courtroom is Brian McCarran, who’s being prosecuted for responding to my weakness and my need. And the only thing that could make this tragedy worse is for you to send him to prison.”
Stymied, Flynn chose to fix her with a look of disbelief. But the members of the court appeared less judgmental than perplexed. Glancing up at Kate, Brian gave her an ambiguous smile. Only Meg’s face was devoid of all expression.
“No further questions,” Flynn said coldly.
Terry had no desire to extend Kate’s time in court. Within a minute, she had left the witness stand, pausing only to touch her mother’s shoulder before leaving, as before, with a bearing so unbowed by her ordeal that it evoked her mother’s example. It struck Terry once again that he did not know this woman at all.
When the court adjourned, he approached Rose Gallagher as she gathered her coat and purse to leave. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
Sadness and uncertainty lingered in her eyes. “No,” she said. “But you can buy me a drink, Captain Terry. I’m sure this trial taxes your resources. But you’d have to be Kate’s mother to know how hard today was.”
ON THIS DAY, CLOUDY without rain, the choppy surface of the Potomac was slate gray with spumes of white. Through the window of the Officers’ Club, Rose considered the river before contemplating her Manhattan. “I haven’t had one of these in years,” she told Terry. “I first ordered one my senior year in college, when Jack and Tony took Mary and me to the Oak Room at the Plaza in New York. I felt so sophisticated that I forgot how terribly young we were. Of course, there wasn’t any way of knowing what awaited us.”
Terry could imagine her thoughts: one of the foursome lost in war; another dead by her own hand; the son of one survivor killing the son-in-law of another. “No one could imagine this, Mrs. Gallagher.”
“And yet we keep on going—because we must, and because we have other people who depend on us. Especially the children.”
Terry nodded in sympathy. “How are they?” he asked.
Her striking face betrayed a melancholy mixed with fatalism. “They miss their father. They’ll both be going along, and then one or the other turns very quiet and faraway. We try to shelter them, but they hear things at school—there’s too much about this on television and in the newspapers for us to control what both kids hear.
“They know about Kate and Brian, though
they never talk of it. Sometimes I can read the judgment in Mathew’s eyes when he looks at his mother. But they seem to drift in and out of reality. As I do, I suppose.”
Terry nodded. “I know Meg struggles with this, as well. Both the affair and the deception.”
Rose put a finger to her lips. “If I might ask, how are the two of you getting along?”
Terry smiled. “As co-counsel, you mean? She’s very sharp.”
Rose’s own wispy smile came with a shake of the head. “That much I know. I was asking whether she trusts you enough to begin letting go.”
Terry sipped his scotch, wondering how to answer. “It feels like she does—at least sometimes. But Meg and I live in a schizoid world. She’ll stay with me at night, and the next day we’re trying to keep Brian out of prison. For hours on end we completely shut our feelings down. Right now there’s no future beyond the verdict.”
“That must be fairly confusing.”
“It’s hard having a relationship in fits and starts, with so much on the line that’s so immediate and so draining. Sometimes I look at her and see the possibility of contentment, a future I think we both want. But this trial is so consuming that nothing outside it seems quite real. Like you, I think it’s hard enough for Meg to believe what’s happened.”
Rose gave him a candid look. “Perhaps so, Captain Terry. But I was speaking literally, and only for myself. Of course, I may be practicing for old age, deploying the weapon old people use to escape what they can’t change—complete denial, the erasure of unpleasant facts. That’s the kind of disbelief I experienced today.”
Terry felt the stirrings of alarm. “Concerning what?”
“Kate’s affair with Brian. I know my daughter better than she imagines. There were times today when I didn’t believe a word she was saying.” As though distressed, Rose looked away. “It must be true, I know. Unless Brian’s a coolheaded murderer—which I don’t accept for an instant—why else did this terrible chain of events occur? But when I try to imagine it, I can’t.”
“What exactly do you mean?”
“Nothing more than what I’ve said.” After a moment, she raised her glass to Terry, her expression neutral again. “I sincerely wish you luck, Captain. With Brian and with Meg.”
THAT NIGHT, MEG STAYED with Brian.
Terry worked alone at his kitchen table. A little before ten o’clock, he put the outline of tomorrow’s examination aside and let his thoughts drift where they would.
They kept returning to Rose Gallagher. She remained beautiful in her late fifties—if he had been the young Anthony McCarran, Terry was certain, Rose would have held far more appeal than Mary. Certainly, this had become true for the general once Mary’s verve for living had deteriorated into the erratic behavior of a self-involved drunk. But it might also have been true, at least for a moment, before Tony McCarran and Jack Gallagher left for Vietnam.
Rose was also a wise woman, he believed, and an honest one. But honesty had its limits—with others, and with oneself. The suspicion he had put aside surfaced once again: the possible reason, long concealed, that Rose Gallagher could not accept what Kate and Brian had openly acknowledged.
He went to his desk, removing a file he had not shared with Meg.
The manila folder was labeled “Questions.” Inside was a single piece of paper. Beneath the sole previous entry—“Brian’s cell phone records”—he wrote, “Is Kate the daughter of Anthony McCarran?”
Terry did not want to believe this. But Kate’s resemblance to her mother was so complete that it shed no light on her paternity. To see Kate at thirty-four was to see Rose at that same age, and to imagine her at twenty-two, smiling at Tony McCarran as she sipped her first Manhattan.
Terry closed the file and stuck it back into the drawer.
three
IN THE HOURS BEFORE DAWN, TERRY’S CELL PHONE RASPED.
For a moment, he was confused. Then the sound pierced his consciousness, and a sharp, sudden fear for Brian caused him to snatch at the phone.
The connection was poor. By the time Terry identified his caller—Sergeant Ben Flournoy, his CID investigator—he was alert but calmer.
Flournoy was in Afghanistan. He spat out his message through the static. “I found Johnny Whalen, the lieutenant’s platoon sergeant. He’s been doing semisecret stuff near the Pakistani border.”
“Did he talk about Sadr City?”
Through the cell phone, Terry’s voice echoed back to him, causing a delay. “He didn’t really want to. But yeah.” A brief crackle punctuated Flournoy’s words. “I’ve heard war stories before, Captain. But this is a bad one.”
“Give me the worst of it.”
Hastily, Flournoy outlined Whalen’s account. In those few minutes, Terry’s comprehension of Brian McCarran was utterly transformed. Tersely, Terry ordered, “See what kind of arrangements you can make to fly him out ASAP.”
Flournoy promised he would, and got off.
For several minutes, surrounded by darkness, Terry did not move. Then he picked up the phone and called Meg.
She was sleeping on Brian’s couch. “Sorry to call so early,” he said. “Ben found Johnny Whalen.”
Anxiety cut through Meg’s sleep-shadowed voice. “Can he help us?”
“We’ll know better when we talk to him. But we’ve got some adjustments to make. Can you spend today preparing your father to testify?”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, I hope. Directly after you.”
There was a brief pause. In a subdued tone, Meg asked, “What shall I tell Brian?”
“Nothing. I don’t want to make him anxious.”
“What did Ben tell you, Paul?”
Terry considered his answer. “Enough,” he told her. “It may explain why Brian’s changed. But whether the members of the court will ever hear it depends on Hollis.”
Terry hung up, then left an urgent message for the judge.
AT NINE O’CLOCK, JUDGE Hollis sequestered the members, convening the lawyers in the courtroom. As Flynn and Pulaski listened, the judge addressed Terry. “For precisely what purpose,” he asked, “are you requesting me to order this man stateside?”
“As far as we can tell,” Terry responded, “Whalen is the sole survivor among those who served with Brian McCarran from beginning to end. The incidents he described may illuminate the role of post-traumatic stress disorder in the death of Captain D’Abruzzo. Including the lieutenant’s loss of memory and, conceivably, his state of mind at the moment of the shooting.”
Flynn rose to speak. Holding up a hand for silence, Hollis prompted Terry, “Can you spell that out for me?”
“To do that, I need more than a secondhand account over a staticky cell phone. All I’m requesting is to interview this man so that I can determine whether to seek permission to call him as a witness. If I do, I’ll make sure the court has sufficient information to determine relevance.”
Thought furrowed Hollis’s forehead and drew down the corners of his mouth. “That’s a limited request,” he told Flynn. “Unless Captain Terry can tie whatever this man says to the lieutenant’s conduct, the members of the court will never hear it.”
“That may be so, Your Honor. But PTSD is already creeping into the case without the foundation you just described. Specifically, in Captain Terry’s plan to call the sister and father of the accused.” Flynn’s staccato speech underscored his point. “That is highly prejudicial, Your Honor. The alleged purpose is to show that the accused has changed—based on a condition we don’t even know he has, and which defense counsel still hasn’t linked to the shooting. That end run around the standards of relevance is bad enough. But the damage will be intensified when it’s given the imprimatur of one of the army’s most decorated and respected general officers. We can’t expect the members not to respond with deference, no matter how little this testimony has to do with the guilt of the accused.”
From the gravity of his expression, Hollis was troubled as well. “Captai
n Terry?”
“If nothing else, Anthony and Meg McCarran are character witnesses—”
“With limited credibility.”
“Perhaps. But they know the accused better than anyone, and can describe changes in behavior consistent with PTSD. If we can’t show how that relates to Captain D’Abruzzo’s death, Major Flynn can make a motion to strike—”
“Which the court will grant,” Hollis said crisply. “Subject to that, you can call the two McCarrans. I’ll also order the return of Sergeant Whalen from Afghanistan. What happens after that depends on what he has to say. Unless the lieutenant’s combat experiences prove relevant, the members of the court will be deciding this case in a matter of days. With or without Lieutenant McCarran’s testimony on his own behalf.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Terry said, suspended between gratitude and doubt.
THE NEXT WITNESS FOR the defense, Victor Lee, was a black belt in karate who had been Joe D’Abruzzo’s last instructor. Among his other qualifications were that he had once disarmed a gang member who had accosted him with a gun. Wiry and alert, Lee told this story while perched on the edge of the chair, his eyes at once calm and watchful. Even his spiky jet-black hair looked ready for a fight.
“Did you kill this man?” Terry asked.
“No,” Lee said matter-of-factly. “But I could have. Instead I kicked him in the groin. He was still retching when the cops showed up.”
“Could Captain D’Abruzzo have done the same thing?”
For an instant, Flynn half-rose, then seemed to swallow his objection. “Yes,” Lee answered promptly. “Captain D’Abruzzo was fully capable of killing someone with his hands. By the time I taught him, he was a fifth-degree black belt, with thirteen years of training. Constant repetition and practice had turned his movements into reflexes, connecting his body to his brain. He no longer had to think.”
In the Name of Honor Page 29
