In the Name of Honor

by Richard North Patterson

  “I flew out two weeks after he arrived at Bolton. At first, I was so overjoyed all I wanted was to hug him. But then I realized how changed he was.”

  “In what respects?”

  She looked down, as though not wishing to answer in front of Brian. “He was way too quiet. He seldom smiled, and his jokes all tended to be dark. He seemed hollowed out, like his soul had left his body. Then I realized he’d left it in Iraq.”

  Flynn watched her closely now, poised to object. “How did you conclude that?” Terry asked.

  “By staying with him. During the day, while he was working at his battalion’s headquarters, it seemed like he kept things together. But he was different at night, or out in the world.” Meg’s speech quickened. “On the highway, he kept looking to the right and left, like he was still at war. Traffic jams enraged him; unexpected sounds made him flinch, like a car backfiring or a waiter dropping dishes. In restaurants, he sat with his back to the wall, constantly scanning the room.” She paused. “Brian has a great deal of pride, and he exercises all his willpower to try to keep a lid on behavior people might notice. But that breaks down at night.”

  “In what way?”

  “He can’t sleep. When he does, he has terrible nightmares he won’t describe.” Meg’s voice filled with remembered fear. “One night he woke up screaming. When I tried to calm him, his eyes were wild, and he didn’t know who I was. He started to choke me, then stopped at the sound of my voice crying out. He just sat there, slumped, his sheets tangled and damp with sweat. He told me I was the only person he’d let be near him when he tried to sleep. Then he just held me and said, ‘I’m sorry, sis.’ ”

  “Did you suggest that he get help?”

  “Of course. But he said that calling himself a head case would kill his career. He was an officer, he told me—he understood what had happened to him, and he’d get through it. Just like our father got through Vietnam.”

  The last phrase had a brittle tenor. “Did Brian put a label to his problem?”

  “Not in so many words. But one night I found him searching the Internet for articles on post-traumatic stress disorder. So we talked about that a little.” She paused again. “He did admit to feeling numb, and to hating enclosed spaces. Even his apartment made him feel trapped. It was like he was looking out for enemies and needed a means of escape.”

  Once again, Flynn stirred; as Meg had intended, this came close to invoking Brian’s state of mind on the evening he had killed D’Abruzzo. Quickly, Terry said, “Did he ever hint at any aspect of his nightmares?”

  “Only once.” Meg seemed to swallow. “I heard him stirring. When I went to the bedroom, tears were running down his face. ‘What is it?’ I asked him. ‘I can still see them,’ he answered. Then, as if it were a separate thought, he said, ‘He named his kid after me.’ ”

  Looking at the members, Terry saw Bobby Wade connect this to Kate’s description of a similar remark. “Did you ask him what he meant?”

  “Yes. He wouldn’t say.”

  “Since he was charged with murder, how would you describe his state of mind?”

  “Worse.” Now she looked at Brian directly. “I’m very worried for him. I don’t think he can see a future anymore.”

  “On what do you base that?”

  She turned her gaze to Terry, her features slackened by sorrow. “When I try to talk to him about the trial, he’ll say things like ‘What’s the point?’ And I know he’s not talking about the trial at all. I, too, have read up on PTSD. So I discovered that the ultimate symptom is suicide.” Her eyes misted, and she gave her brother a pleading look. “One of Brian’s men hung himself. I know how it feels to lose someone you love like that. I couldn’t stand that happening to Brian.”

  They had crafted her testimony to affect the jury. But her answer affected Terry as well. For an instant, he saw through the woman on the stand to the determined twelve-year-old with a vulnerable brother, protecting him from what their mother had done to them both.

  “No further questions,” Terry said.

  As he walked to his chair, he saw that Joe D’Abruzzo’s parents had returned, perhaps intending by their presence to affect the balance of sympathy. By accident or design, Flora was a portrait in dignity, her face betraying grief without malice. But what struck Terry even more was Brian’s expression, so remote that he seemed to be willing himself off the face of the earth. In Brian McCarran, Terry understood, this was what shame looked like.

  APPROACHING MEG, FLYNN HAD an air of skepticism and reserve. There was little good to be done here, he surely knew, and every question had an underside of risk.

  “According to Lieutenant McCarran’s statement to Sergeant Frank, he called you moments after the shooting. Is that true?”

  Terry had left this subject open, knowing that Flynn would be forced to pursue it. As they planned, Meg’s expression and tone were undefensive. “Yes, it’s true.”

  “Why did Brian call you?”

  She shifted her gaze, partially facing the members of the court. “From his voice, he was in shock. It was like he couldn’t describe exactly what had happened.”

  Flynn turned to Hollis. “We move to strike the answer,” he said flatly. “The witness’s interpretation is unsupported by fact—including any account of the lieutenant’s actual words.”

  The judge turned toward Meg. “I’m going to allow your answer, Ms. McCarran. But please refrain from putting a gloss on the events that may say more about your sympathies than it does about the facts.”

  “I understand,” Meg said respectfully. “I know my brother, and that was why I answered as I did. But I’ll try to be more careful.”

  The brief narrowing of Hollis’s eyes, not visible to the members, suggested his awareness that Meg McCarran was a very clever woman. “The judge asks the proper question,” Flynn told her coolly. “What did your brother say?”

  Meg faced him. “I believe his exact words were ‘I just killed Joe.’ I couldn’t make any sense of it. ‘Joe who?’ I asked. ‘Joe D’Abruzzo,’ he answered. ‘I shot him.’ ”

  “Did you ask him why?”

  “He said that Joe was beating Kate, and that he’d come to Brian’s apartment.” Distractedly, Meg brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “It sounded so disjointed I thought Brian was having some sort of breakdown. It took me a moment to comprehend that Kate’s husband was lying dead on the floor of Brian’s apartment.”

  “Or dying,” Flynn retorted. “You don’t know that he was dead, do you?”

  “No,” Meg answered softly. “I’m just saying what Brian thought.”

  Nettled, Flynn raised his eyebrows in the judge’s direction, making his point without words. In a tone of exasperation, he asked Meg, “How did you respond?”

  “I told him to call the military police at once.” She paused, then added quietly, “I also told him not to answer any questions. He sounded so confused that I was afraid he’d create trouble for himself just by trying to be helpful. Unfortunately, he didn’t follow my advice.”

  Flynn’s dilemma was written on his face: in the guise of a worried sister, Meg the lawyer was artfully planting seeds of doubt and sympathy. Her skill at this was a reminder, if Terry needed one, that Meg McCarran was far more subtle than she appeared. At length Flynn found a question calculated to elicit an answer helpful to his case. “Did Brian tell you that he was having an affair with Kate D’Abruzzo?”

  Meg looked astonished. “It wasn’t that kind of conversation. He called because something terrible had happened, which he didn’t seem to comprehend.”

  “How did you learn about the affair?”

  Terry stood. “We object, Your Honor. Within two days of the shooting, the accused had established an attorney-client relationship with Ms. McCarran—”

  “Which she waived by testifying,” Flynn interrupted.

  “That’s not true,” Terry answered smoothly. “On direct, we were careful to confine ourselves to events prior to the death of Cap
tain D’Abruzzo.”

  “Objection sustained,” Hollis told Flynn. “Frame your questions accordingly.”

  Facing Meg, Flynn put his hands on his hips. “So despite your extraordinary closeness prior to the shooting, Brian never told you he was sleeping with a woman you’d known your entire life?”

  “No. But I wouldn’t expect him to. It’s Brian’s nature to protect people.”

  Terry suppressed a smile. Beside him, Brian looked closely at his sister, his interest reengaged. Coldly, Flynn asked, “When the accused called you to report that he’d shot Captain D’Abruzzo, did anyone else hear the conversation?”

  “They couldn’t have. My office door was closed.”

  “So no one can corroborate any aspect of your conversation with the accused?”

  “No,” Meg said simply. “There was no one in my office when Brian called.”

  “So no one can confirm what your brother said to you?”

  “No.”

  “Or what you said to him.”

  Meg’s voice was tighter now. “No.”

  “Did you report it to anyone?”

  “I called my father right away. This affected Brian, and our extended family—Rose, Kate, and Kate’s children. Dad needed to know.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Only what had happened. The conversation wasn’t long—he was too anxious about Brian.”

  Flynn skipped a beat. Casually, he asked, “Did you also call Kate D’Abruzzo?”

  “I did not.” Meg allowed a quiet indignation to seep into her voice. “But let me see if I understand you. You’ve suggested that Kate and Brian are part of a conspiracy to commit murder that included concocting elaborate lies. You’re now insinuating, it seems clear, that I became part of that conspiracy. I’m a lawyer, Major Flynn. You may not like my testimony, but I don’t tell lies under oath. Not in answer to this question, or any other.”

  Flynn stared at her with palpable anger. “Your Honor,” he told Hollis, “I move to strike every word of that answer except ‘I did not.’ ”

  Terry stood. “It seems to me,” he responded mildly, “that counsel got the answer he was asking for.”

  “And then some,” Hollis retorted. To Meg, he said sternly, “I’ve already warned you about answers based on speculation. You can add to that argumentative responses that exceed the scope of the question asked. We’ll have no more of either.” Facing the members of the court, he instructed, “The jurors will disregard the witness’s answer following the words ‘I did not.’ ”

  But Terry knew that they would not. Watching her contrite expression, Terry realized that when she cared to be, Meg McCarran was a gifted actress.

  THAT NIGHT, OVER DINNER at Terry’s apartment, Meg drank more wine than usual. They had barely finished when she led him to the bedroom and slid out of her pastel dress, her eyes intent on his. Her lovemaking was quick, almost fierce, as though she wished to block out everything but the man inside her.

  Afterward, they lay in the dark. “Was I all right?” she asked.

  Terry kissed her. “When?”

  Meg did not smile. “In court.”

  “You were perfect,” Terry assured her. “I already told you that. Do you want to talk about it a little more?”

  “No,” she replied flatly. After a moment, she said in a quieter voice, “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. At least until I watch my father.”

  Terry asked nothing more.

  five

  THE ENTRANCE OF GENERAL ANTHONY MCCARRAN TRANSformed the courtroom.

  He walked to the witness stand in his bemedaled green uniform, his clear gray-blue eyes offset by the deepening creases in his face. To Terry, he looked careworn, much older than the man he had met five months before. His charisma remained undeniable. But part of this was a sense of distance, as though a space existed around Anthony McCarran that belonged to him alone. The members of the court watched him with respectful gazes; which, in Major Wertheimer’s case, was leavened with an open curiosity. Erect even when sitting, Anthony McCarran might seem like a legend brought to life, the straight line of his service marked by courage, faith, sacrifice, and honor. Even Colonel Hollis, usually opaque, seemed to regard him with regret—his only son, the heir to the McCarran legacy, stood accused of murder and adultery.

  From the defense table, Brian regarded his father with what struck Terry as a dispassionate, almost chilly, curiosity. Meg’s tension showed in the stillness of her body, the caution and alertness in her eyes. Briefly, the general glanced at his son and then, as though pained, looked past him. Following his gaze, Terry saw that Rose Gallagher had returned, watching the general with an affection and concern absent from the faces of his children. It occurred to Terry that he knew little about how father, son, and daughter were coping with one another now.

  Terry began his questions. With economy, they outlined the general’s service, his medals, the hallmarks of a unique career. McCarran answered sparingly, a man who did not wish to dwell on his achievements. But when Terry evoked Brian’s successes prior to Iraq, the general responded with more emotion, as though reentering a moment or time filled with hope or, perhaps, the comfort of illusion.

  “How did you feel,” Terry asked, “when Brian’s unit was sent to Iraq?”

  As before, McCarran’s spine did not touch the back of the chair. “I knew it was inevitable,” he replied in his clear, soft voice. “This was the career he had chosen, and I knew his brigade commander, Colonel Northrop, to be a very fine officer.” He paused, as though prompting himself to say more. “What I felt, I suppose, was a father’s hope and a father’s concern. I had learned what war is long ago.”

  “Brian was a platoon leader, correct?”

  “Yes. As I had been in Vietnam.”

  “And Captain Joe D’Abruzzo was his company commander.”

  For an instant, McCarran glanced toward D’Abruzzo’s parents, his eyes conveying regret. “Yes.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  McCarran nodded. “Because of Kate, his wife, and her mother, Rose. As you know, our families were close.”

  To Terry’s ear, the last phrase had a faint valedictory quality. “Did you have an opinion of D’Abruzzo’s abilities as a company commander?” Terry asked.

  “I did not.” McCarran hesitated. “But my sense was that Joe was aggressive, perhaps somewhat impulsive. It takes combat to show how these attributes work out.”

  “During the time Brian served in Iraq, did you monitor Brian’s company?”

  “I did,” McCarran answered gravely. “They faced some of the hardest fighting in the war, in one of its most difficult periods. There were thirty men in Brian’s platoon. By the end of the year, most of them were wounded or dead.”

  Terry paused, allowing the members to absorb this. “Did Colonel Northrop specifically comment on Brian?”

  “Yes.” McCarran glanced toward Brian, his voice becoming warmer. “He told me that Brian was a resourceful officer, undeniably brave, and that his men seemed to love him. That account never changed.”

  “You must have felt a great deal of pride.”

  “Less pride than comfort.” McCarran’s voice was quiet again. “I always wondered if Brian went to the academy because of me. Now I was able to believe that he knew his own nature, which was to be a soldier.”

  The regret in the words was understated but clear. Evenly, Terry asked, “Did you still feel that way when he returned from Iraq?”

  McCarran’s gaze flickered. “I still knew he was a brave officer. But I began to wonder what that had cost him.”

  “Had he changed?”

  “Certainly to me. He refused to talk about Sadr City or what had happened to him there. But he made it very clear that he felt the army, and his country, had failed the men he led.”

  “How did he express this?”

  “With a great deal of anger.” The grooves in McCarran’s face deepened and then, as if knowing that he must, he con
tinued to speak. “His contempt for those who planned this war was profound. Generals don’t fight, he told me—I hadn’t seen a war in fourteen years, and my Iraq war was nothing like his. He said that he’d seen his men maimed and slaughtered and stripped of any belief in the mission they’d been sent for. And when they came home feeling lost, we abandoned them.”

  McCarran seemed to repeat the words almost literally, as though Brian’s fury had seared them into his memory. “Beyond the anger you mention,” Terry asked, “how was Brian different?”

  “He had lost his faith,” McCarran said reluctantly. “In the army, in our leaders, in the church—even in the existence of God.”

  “How did you find those conversations?”

  McCarran’s eyes were bleak. “Difficult,” he said softly. “That’s not how I came up. A good officer, like a good Catholic, may sometimes be faced with doubt or questions. At times it may be necessary to express them. But then he must go about his mission, and his life, with faith and without complaint. That’s the only way an army can function, or a man can transcend his own frailties.”

  The speech had the sound of a core belief, the fortress against doubt that had enabled McCarran to survive tragedy and war but which now, faced with his son, no longer sustained him. “Did you express those thoughts to Brian?” Terry asked.

  “I did.” McCarran looked down and then, as though against his will, recited in a monotone the answer Terry had extracted from him three hours before. “He said that I had too many verities: that God exists, that Christ’s mother was a virgin, and that the secretary of defense is worthy of respect by virtue of his office. And that these illusions sheltered me from facing the fact that the meaningless death of his men was a mercy compared to the lives that the survivors might lead at home.”

  The savagery of Brian’s response seemed to echo in the courtroom. Softly, Terry inquired, “Did you react to your son’s comments, General McCarran?”

  “I’m afraid I became angry, and refused to discuss it further.”

  “Did there come a time when Meg, your daughter, told you that Brian himself was struggling?”