The admiration in Lee’s voice was unmistakable. “How would you describe Captain D’Abruzzo’s physical capabilities?”
“Superb reflexes, superior hand-eye coordination, and decent foot speed.” Lee frowned, adding solemnly, “At the time of his death, he was the only student I had who came anywhere close to matching me.”
Glancing at the members, Terry saw Randi Wertheimer watching Lee raptly. “Suppose,” he asked Lee, “that D’Abruzzo confronted an armed man unskilled in martial arts. Suppose further that they were four to five feet apart. How long would it take the captain to disarm his opponent and strike a fatal blow?”
Lee stroked his chin. “Two seconds, I’d say. Certainly no more than three.”
“Do the karate students you encounter have different levels of aggression?”
“Definitely.”
“How would you characterize Captain D’Abruzzo?”
Lee steepled his fingers. “There are two types of instinctive reactions to danger—fight or flight. Joe was an attacker. He did not back off.”
“How would he react to someone drawing a gun on him from close range?”
“Objection,” Flynn called out. “Calls for speculation. Mr. Lee never saw the victim confronted with such a threat.”
“Mr. Lee is an expert in martial arts,” Terry responded promptly. “He sparred with Captain D’Abruzzo three times a week for over six months. As such, he’s qualified to speak to D’Abruzzo’s physical and mental qualities as a martial artist.”
Pensive, Hollis considered this. “Overruled. Please answer, Mr. Lee.”
Lee nodded. “Danger instantly releases chemicals in the brain. In all likelihood, Captain D’Abruzzo would react with swift, violent moves—blunt and direct.”
“How would that appear to his opponent?”
“Threatening, obviously. With good reason.”
Walking back to the defense table, Terry picked up a black handgun, then showed the judge and members that its chambers were empty of bullets. “I’d like to attempt a demonstration,” he told Lee. “Please step down from the stand.”
Lee faced Terry in the well of the courtroom. Moving to within five feet, Terry aimed the gun at him. “How would you disarm me?”
“I’d turn,” the witness answered briskly. “To present the minimum target.” He spun sideways, so taut that he resembled a blade of steel. “Like this.”
Terry felt the jury members watching. “So that if I shot,” he suggested, “I might hit you on the side of the arm.”
“Sure. But you’d better do it quick.” Without warning, Lee whirled, knocking the gun from Terry’s hand with a painful twist of his wrist. It happened so quickly that Terry felt numb. “Now you’re disarmed,” Lee said.
Terry shook the pain from his wrist. “Unless I shot you in the palm.”
“True. Otherwise you’re vulnerable to whatever I do next. Pick up the gun.”
When Terry did this, Lee backed off to five feet. He spun to the side, whirled to knock the gun from Terry’s hand, and thrust two fingers at his eyes, stopping an inch short. “Now you’re blind,” Lee said, then thrust his right palm at Terry’s esophagus.
“And now you’re dead,” he informed Terry. “The blow to your esophagus just collapsed your windpipe.”
Terry’s skin tingled. From their silence, those watching felt it too.
“Thank you,” Terry said. “No further questions.”
FLYNN WALKED TOWARD THE witness, his demeanor calm and unimpressed. “At a distance of four feet, the accused would have two to three seconds to pull the trigger before Captain D’Abruzzo could disarm him. Is that right?”
On the witness stand, Lee leaned forward. “Yes.”
“Suppose the captain was ten feet away when Lieutenant McCarran aimed the gun. Could he close that distance and disarm him in a comparable time?”
“That’s unlikely.”
“What tactics would the captain use to keep from getting shot?”
Lee examined the question with narrowed eyes. “Most probably, he’d move toward the shooter in a rapid zigzag pattern, trying to avoid bullets. Then he’d try to do what I just did to Captain Terry.”
“Against a capable marksman, what chance would he have?”
“From ten feet? Not very good.”
“What about his chance of being wounded as Captain Terry suggested—in the shoulder and palm?”
“That would be much better, I’d say.”
“And in the chest?”
For the first time, Lee glanced at Brian. “As he reached for the gun, Captain D’Abruzzo would be facing the shooter. That’s when he’d be most likely to take a bullet in the chest.”
“In short, Mr. Lee, the greater the distance between Captain D’Abruzzo and the shooter, the less a chance he had to survive.”
“Yes.”
In the jury box, Major Bobby Wade nodded to himself. “According to our ballistics expert,” Flynn said, “the weapon used to kill Captain D’Abruzzo can fire three to four rounds a second. Even at four to five feet, who would you say had the advantage—the victim, or the shooter?”
“The shooter, obviously. That’s six to eight rounds in the two seconds.”
“Would a black belt in karate consider that?”
“Of course. Mental self-control is essential to our training.” Lee paused, then added, “I mean, Captain D’Abruzzo was shot with his own gun, right? So he knew the weapon’s capabilities.”
Flynn smiled a little. “Of course, Captain D’Abruzzo was also legally intoxicated. How might that affect his physical capacities?”
“He’d be slower, his strokes heavier. His footwork might be messed up.”
“Would he be slow enough to get killed from a distance of four feet?”
“Objection,” Terry called out. “The question asks for speculation.”
“The question asks for an expert opinion,” Flynn rejoined. “Captain Terry has qualified the witness as an expert. The effects of intoxication on martial arts capabilities is well within his expertise.”
“Overruled,” Hollis said, and turned expectantly toward Lee.
“He’d be easier to kill,” Lee answered slowly. “In the moves I demonstrated with Captain Terry, footwork is critical. That’s where Captain D’Abruzzo was least strong and where alcohol would have affected him the most.”
“Would severe intoxication also skew his judgment?”
“Yes. The last thing a martial artist needs is alcohol—you add the potential for mental errors to increased physical limitations.” Lee stopped to parse his words. “If a naturally aggressive man chooses to attack someone with a gun, drunkenness would measurably increase his chance of getting killed.”
Flynn glanced sharply at the jury, as though to demand their strict attention. “In other words, even at five feet—let alone ten—Captain D’Abruzzo was far less of a threat to Lieutenant McCarran than McCarran was to him.”
“Yes, sir,” Lee responded quietly. “I would say that’s right.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lee. No further questions.”
Terry stood at the defense table. “Even drunk, Mr. Lee, beginning five feet away could Captain D’Abruzzo kill Lieutenant McCarran in three seconds?”
“He could. If the lieutenant didn’t shoot him first.”
“So if Captain D’Abruzzo had attacked him, the lieutenant would have three seconds to keep himself from getting killed. During which Captain D’Abruzzo would have been making swift and violent movements toward Lieutenant McCarran.”
“Yes.”
“Does that seem like sufficient time to make a considered judgment about how to incapacitate Captain D’Abruzzo without killing him?”
Lee shook his head. “I can’t say that it does. It’s all a matter of time and distance. Change the distance, and you change my answer.”
That, Terry decided, would have to be enough. When he returned to the table, Brian’s cool blue-gray eyes were grave.
THAT NIGH
T, MEG WORKED at her father’s apartment, helping to prepare his testimony. When she called him, Terry asked, “How is he?”
“Dad?” Meg hesitated. “Stoic. The sense of responsibility is weighing on him. But he won’t fail Brian on the stand.”
She sounded tired. “We’ll go over this in the morning,” he said. “I’ll see you both at seven.”
“Is Brian’s platoon sergeant on the way?”
“As we speak. Try to get some sleep, all right?”
Softly, Meg answered, “I miss you, too.” She got off before Terry could reply.
THAT NIGHT HE DREAMED again of his father. But instead of offering words of comfort, Frank Terry ordered his son not to open the desk drawer where—Terry now knew—his mother had concealed the papers exposing his father’s guilt. What jarred him most was that, in the dream, the desk was Terry’s own.
Splashing water on his face, he pondered the dream’s mutation. Perhaps it meant nothing. Perhaps he felt misgivings about concealing his inchoate doubts from Meg. Or perhaps it was simply the memory of his long ago disquiet, deepening the shadow of his father’s suicide.
For several years, his mother had concealed the truth. But even then Paul had known that something beneath the surface of his father’s life had caused the changes in his own. Without knowing the reason, Terry felt that way again.
four
TAKING THE STAND, MEG MCCARRAN LOOKED SOFTER THAN before. Instead of a suit, she wore a simple dress with pastel colors, and her makeup, carefully applied, accentuated her deep blue eyes. Meg was more aware of her attractiveness than she let on, Terry understood, and had flawlessly chosen a role intended to appeal to the members of the court—Brian’s concerned and beautiful older sister. Hands folded, she listened attentively as Hollis addressed the members.
“Ms. McCarran,” he explained, “has acted as co-counsel to the accused. But she was also named by the defense as a potential witness. Because she has agreed that this will be the sole capacity in which she speaks on the behalf of Lieutenant McCarran, the court is allowing her to testify.”
With a grateful half smile, Meg nodded her agreement, then turned to Terry and the members of the court. After his preliminary questions, Terry asked, “Can you describe your brother prior to his service in Iraq?”
She paused, gazing at Brian with evident affection. “There are so many things I could say, Captain Terry. Brian was—and is—intelligent, sensitive, quiet, and self-contained. But he also had a very keen sense of humor.”
“Would you call him nervous?”
“Then? Not at all.”
“Or angry?”
“No. At most, when Brian got annoyed he’d become more quiet. But I never once saw him lose his temper.”
“Did you know him to have difficulty sleeping?”
“Only for a brief period, when he was nine and I was twelve.” Meg’s voice softened. “Our mother committed suicide. For the next few weeks, Brian took an air mattress and slept on the floor of my room—or Dad’s, if he was home. One night he started sleeping in his own room again.”
Brian, Terry was certain, was mortified at this invasion of his privacy. But this was the best opportunity for members to see him as a person. “Did your mother’s death change him?” Terry asked.
Meg contemplated this. “Brian was always an observer. But he became a little quieter, more inclined to drift off into his own thoughts.”
“After your mother’s suicide, did Brian receive psychiatric help?”
“Not formally, no. But Rose Gallagher, Kate D’Abruzzo’s mother, helped take care of us—when Dad was gone, we lived with Rose and Kate. Rose has a master’s degree in child psychology, and she was always receptive when Brian needed to talk. In many ways, she was like a mother to us both.”
“What was Brian’s relationship to Kate?”
Meg answered as though the question had no overtones. “Kate was in high school when our mother killed herself. So she helped shuttle us around, Brian especially. Sometimes she’d watch his soccer or baseball games. They were close, and Brian clearly cared for her.”
“But not romantically.”
“Of course not,” Meg answered with a brisk shake of her head. “They were nine years apart. Even after Brian was an adult, they were family friends with a deep connection.”
Terry gave her an inquiring look. “Do you consider Brian to be empathetic?”
“I do—especially after our mother’s death. As he got older, he sympathized with people who were vulnerable or hurting. Looking out for people became part of Brian’s way. Even as a teenager, he had no meanness in him.”
“How did he perform in school?”
Meg’s fleeting smile hinted at nostalgia. “Brian did well all around. He was a top student, a terrific athlete, and a natural leader—the kind who never looked back to see if he was being followed but whom others saw as an example.”
“Did that continue at West Point?”
“Yes. He remained a leader, and finished near the top of his class.” She paused, then added wryly, “Almost as high as our father.”
With this reference to Anthony McCarran, Terry and Meg slid into the version of family they had so carefully rehearsed. “Do you know why Brian chose the infantry?”
Meg’s expression became grave. “For the last four generations, McCarrans have served as officers in the infantry. Our great-grandfather received the Medal of Honor in World War One; our grandfather a Silver Star in Korea. Both of them died in combat. Our father fought in the Gulf War and, before that, received a Bronze Star in Vietnam.” She paused, adding softly, “Military service is what the male McCarrans do. I don’t think Brian ever considered another life.”
Terry let this answer linger for a moment. “When was Brian sent to Iraq?”
“The beginning of 2004. Seven months after graduating from the academy.”
“Prior to Iraq, how was his relationship with Captain D’Abruzzo?”
“It was always fine. By the time they both went to Iraq, Joe had been married to Kate for nine years, so he and Brian had known each other since my brother was thirteen. Even when it became clear how different they were, he and Joe seemed to enjoy each other at family gatherings. I never saw any change in that. Nor any change in Brian’s relationship with Kate.”
“How would you describe your own relationship with Brian?”
Looking toward Brian, Meg smiled a little. “We’ve always been close, especially since our mother died. Dad was away a lot—in terms of blood relations, Brian and I often felt like each other’s only family.” She turned to Terry, adding simply, “I hated it when Brian went to Iraq. I didn’t want to lose him.”
The image of Brian as a beloved younger brother was precisely what Terry wanted to impart. “Did Brian know how much you worried?”
“I couldn’t hide it. For my benefit, he tried to be nonchalant. When I told him to skip trying for any medals, he flashed me that fantastic smile of his, the one I used to see so often. Then he said, ‘Don’t worry, sis—the McCarrans are on a winning streak. Dad made it back from two different wars.’ ”
Her answer suggested both fondness and foreboding—that Brian would return alive but deeply changed. Glancing at Major Wertheimer, Terry divined her sympathy and interest. But Flynn’s expression held the stoicism of a prosecutor forced to listen as his opponent created a picture of his client. “Based on a lifetime of knowing him,” Terry asked, “did Brian strike you as well-suited to be a combat leader?”
Doubt seemed to surface in Meg’s large blue eyes. “I’m not a soldier, obviously. My brother is smart and resourceful, with a sense of responsibility and deep concern for other people. But fighting and killing is not a job that rewards sensitivity and introspection. In that way, our father’s a tougher man—he can block out painful thoughts for the sake of pushing forward. That’s neither good nor bad. I’m just saying that they’re different.”
By her own description, Terry thought, Meg resembled her father m
ore than she did her brother. “Once Brian was in Iraq, how often did you hear from him?”
Meg tilted her head. “At first, fairly often. I’d say almost once a week.”
“In these initial phone calls, what did he tell you?”
“He was in Sadr City when Muqtada al-Sadr declared war on American soldiers. He knew I was scared, so he didn’t go into detail. He did say that they didn’t have enough soldiers, and couldn’t tell their enemies from bystanders. But he also told me the war was even harsher for Iraqi civilians.”
“Did he describe his combat experiences?”
“Not specifically. He always tried to sound light about it. But it was clear that he worried for his men.” She paused, glancing at Brian. “It was only later that I learned what he wouldn’t tell me—that some of them were already dead.”
Terry paused for a moment. “Was there a time when Brian seemed to change?”
“About three months in. Brian’s voice became flat, he called less often, and he wouldn’t talk about the war at all.” Meg’s face set. “I got so anxious that I tried to push him, find out what was happening. All he said was ‘You don’t want to know, Meg.’ After a while, he stopped calling anyone—not me, or our dad, or Rose.”
“How did you react?”
“I tried to learn more from Dad. As chief of staff, he wasn’t in the chain of command when it came to executing the war. But he knew a lot.” Meg bit her lip, suggesting her reluctance to betray a confidence. “You have to know our father to know how tight-lipped he can be. But finally he admitted how bad it was in Sadr City. Brian was right, he said—there weren’t enough troops, and no one had planned for the occupation they were facing. It was one thing to beat a fourth-rate army, Dad told me, and another to control someone else’s country.” Meg’s voice fell. “I could tell that it hurt him to say that—both because of his loyalty to the army, and because his own son was at risk on account of mistakes he couldn’t correct. Then we went to Mass together and prayed for Brian to come home unharmed.”
At the corner of his vision, Terry saw Brian close his eyes. Quietly, he asked, “After Brian returned, when did you first see him?”
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