“You owe me the better job I’ll get for getting you acquitted.” Terry softened his tone. “Look, I know reliving all this has been difficult.”
“Not as difficult as testifying.”
Meg rested her hand on Brian’s shoulder. “You have to testify, Brian. You can save yourself. And, no, it’s not ‘too late’ for that.”
Slowly, Brian nodded in resignation. “You know the problems,” he said softly. “But I’ll do what I can.”
Watching him, Terry was still unsure that he knew what all the problems were.
eight
WITH A CALM THAT APPROACHED DETACHMENT, BRIAN McCarran occupied the witness stand, ignoring those who packed the courtroom: members, reporters, gawkers, fellow soldiers, Flynn, the D’Abruzzos, Dr. Blake Carson, even his father and Rose. Terry knew that the narrow focus of his gaze—on Meg or on Terry himself—was his means of self-protection. But the members of the court would see a strikingly handsome young officer whose poise was either admirable or troubling. Terry had both reactions.
Swiftly, Terry went to the heart of Flynn’s case. “Before you went to Iraq, Lieutenant McCarran, how long had you known Kate D’Abruzzo?”
As they had practiced, Brian’s voice and manner remained even, as though the question had no overtones. “All my life. When I was a kid, she babysat me, drove me to practices, birthday parties, the doctor or the dentist. She even looked over my homework and helped teach me how to drive.” He paused, glancing at the members. “That was part of life for me. Our father was gone or busy; our mother was dead. The constants in our lives were Kate and her mom, who we always called Aunt Rose. Together two families with missing parents made one family that worked.”
“Did you attend Kate’s wedding?”
“We all did. Dad stood in for her father.”
Terry paused. “At that time, did you have an opinion of Kate’s husband?”
“I liked him,” Brian said firmly. “I was a teenager, and what I saw was a friendly guy who made Kate happy. I didn’t subject their relationship to deep analysis.”
“What about as an adult?”
“That was more complicated,” Brian responded at length. “I still thought Joe was a pretty good guy. But I also sensed that he had a chip on his shoulder, a feeling of inadequacy he couldn’t quite shake.” Brian angled his head, pensive. “He’d say something at a family event, then sneak a look at Dad or me, as though to see how we reacted. I became more conscious of making him feel accepted. As long as he was good for Kate, I never minded that.”
Once again, Brian’s tone—philosophical yet observant—was at odds with what one would expect of a calculating murderer. “What was your impression of their marriage?”
“I thought it was fine,” Brian said cautiously. “As time went on, it seemed built around the kids. I saw them as an old married couple.”
“Did you have any romantic feelings for Kate D’Abruzzo?”
“None,” Brian answered with a swift shake of his head. “I loved Kate, for sure. But she was like an older sister who’d gotten married. That’s how I thought of her.”
Satisfied, Terry decided to move on. “When you went to Iraq, Captain Joe D’Abruzzo was your company commander. Did that change things between you?”
“Yes, of necessity. Our relationship became governed by military formality, and the respect and loyalty I owed a commanding officer. As much as I could, I tried to separate that from knowing Joe within our family.”
“Did you have an opinion of Captain D’Abruzzo as an officer?”
“I thought he was capable.” Brian hesitated. “I also thought he was still trying to impress people. Especially our battalion commander, Colonel Northrop.”
“Did you have a problem with that?”
Brian shrugged. “Personally, I’ve always thought you succeed by caring about your job, not by looking around to see who notices. But whatever your motivation, the first priority for any officer in combat is to carry out his mission. He can ask questions, but once his orders are set, that’s it. My initial problem with Joe, to the extent I had one, was that he asked no questions, and resented it when others questioned him.” Brian paused again, as though trying to explain himself precisely. “Aggressiveness is good in a combat leader. Combining that with ambition and insecurity becomes more problematic. Still, as Joe’s lieutenant my job remained the same: execute his orders as capably as I could.”
So far, Terry thought, he and Brian had presented a careful account of differing personalities. “Did you sense, Lieutenant McCarran, that Captain D’Abruzzo was also affected by the changes in your relationship?”
Brian considered the question. “It wasn’t overt,” he answered. “But I felt like he was still watching me, worried that I was judging him. Maybe I was. I couldn’t help who my father was, and I don’t think he could help reacting to that.”
“Was there also a difference in your leadership styles?”
Brian frowned at the question. “We had different jobs,” he temporized. “I spent a lot more time with my men, and we spent more time fighting al-Sadr’s militia. My guys were real to me in a way they weren’t to him.”
Brian’s eyes had clouded. More sharply, Terry asked, “Sergeant Whalen believes that D’Abruzzo singled out your platoon for dangerous assignments. Did he?”
Brian hesitated. In a cool but quiet tone, he answered, “There were too many dangerous assignments for any one platoon. What I’d say is that, thanks to me, our platoon got special treatment from Captain D’Abruzzo—directly after I pulled my guys back rather than run down some Iraqi schoolkids.”
“Did Captain D’Abruzzo confront you about that?” Terry pressed.
“Yes,” Brian answered tersely. “As Joe saw it, the Mahdi Army had dictated the rules of engagement. If kids had to die, that was a tragic necessity of war.”
“And you disagreed.”
Brian still stared fixedly at Terry. “Personally, I wanted to leave Iraq without killing young kids and adding to a legacy of hatred. Professionally, I thought we’d be falling into the Mahdi Army’s trap—that one day the survivor of some dead child or another, fueled with hatred, would plant an IED or put a bullet through the head of an American soldier. What I said to Captain D’Abruzzo was that morally repugnant and tactically stupid were a lousy combination.” He paused, as though to fortify his self-control. “In fairness, I think the question bothered Joe a lot. I could look into his eyes and see him imagining his own kids. But he also thought that my attitude endangered American lives, and that by retreating I’d emboldened the Mahdi militia.” Briefly, Brian closed his eyes before adding softly, “The Mahdi Army did it again, to my platoon. So one could argue that Joe was right the first time. Whatever his reasons, Joe decided to toughen me up. That’s why he picked us to guard that police station.”
The slight crack in Brian’s composure hinted at repressed anguish, deepening the quiet around him even as it increased Terry’s watchfulness. In the next few moments, he would learn whether Brian could speak in public about what had damaged him so deeply. Terry hesitated, then asked, “Did there come a time when your relationship with Captain D’Abruzzo ruptured?”
At this, Flynn looked up from his notes, scrutinizing Brian with a jeweler’s eye. Brian paused, as if to fight through the difficulty of describing to strangers what he could not tell his family. “Yes,” he said in a flat voice. “The night before the ambush.”
THEY WERE AT THEIR encampment on the outskirts of Baghdad, resting up at the end of a three-day patrol. Dusk was setting in, and the few scraggly palms were outlined against a blood-red haze of windblown sand and polluted air. Leaning against his trailer, D’Abruzzo asked Brian, “Why believe this Iraqi?”
“Because his story makes sense. We’re sitting ducks, sir. The Mahdi know our schedule: we show up every three days, like clockwork, and once we’re close to the station there’s only one street we can take. It’s perfect for an ambush—rooftops all around, alleys coming from the side. They coul
d try to wipe us out anytime they want, and now we know they plan to.”
D’Abruzzo frowned. “According to a cop who, by his own account, is planning to bail out. Why would he risk his own head ending up in a pile of garbage?”
“No clue, sir—maybe he likes Willie Shores. But what sense does it make for the Mahdi Army to put him up to this? As far as I can see, none.” Urgency quickened Brian’s words. “I’ve got eighteen guys left. If we go back in, we need overwhelming force, not a decimated platoon strung out from a month spent serving as target practice.”
“We don’t have ‘overwhelming force,’ ” D’Abruzzo answered with strained patience. “Are you asking me to send in the entire company and abandon the other missions Colonel Northrop has ordered us to execute?”
It was a fair question. “Isn’t that for the colonel to decide?” Brian responded. “Why not ask him?”
“Based on what?” D’Abruzzo crossed his arms. “That some random Iraqi says you may be ambushed? Consider yourself lucky, Lieutenant—you’ve been warned. How many soldiers will be shot at tomorrow without the courtesy of advance notice?” D’Abruzzo grimaced, his voice softening. “If we don’t clean up Sadr City, who cleans up for us? You want the next bunch of guys to die for you? It’s too easy for you to think that the risks your men might take tomorrow are all this is about.”
Quietly, Brian answered, “What is it about, Joe?”
D’Abruzzo stiffened. In cold, clipped tones, he said, “In the States, we’re family. But in Iraq, I’m ‘sir.’ ”
Brian’s frustration deepened. “I apologize, sir. But there is no doing it right under these conditions—we don’t have enough troops for that. By sunrise, I’m convinced, those Iraqi police will be gone—if we’re lucky, without having slaughtered the platoon that’s already there. But how many of our guys will have already died for nothing? Including the ones who may be fated to die tomorrow.”
In the same cold voice, D’Abruzzo said, “Are you questioning the mission?”
“I’m questioning this mission, sir. Have you ever asked Colonel Northrop why we’re still guarding that police station?”
“We’re done here,” D’Abruzzo snapped. “Colonel Northrop has issued orders. We’re carrying them out. Just like they taught us at West Point and the Citadel.”
“And tomorrow,” Brian countered, “men will die for an empty police station. But the colonel won’t know why, because we won’t have told him.”
D’Abruzzo stood straighter. “Any more of this, Lieutenant, and I’m going to recommend that Colonel Northrop relieve you of your command. Tonight, if need be.”
Brian was trapped. He could not let his men go without him, certain that some of them would die. “That won’t be necessary,” he said coldly. “Sir.”
ON THE WITNESS STAND, Brian’s face was as hard as if he were still confronting Joe D’Abruzzo. “Was Sergeant Whalen’s account of the ambush accurate?” Terry asked.
“Yes.”
“An Iraqi boy died throwing an IED in a Coke can at your vehicle.”
“Yes.”
“You then were faced with a line of kids herded by Mahdi gunmen.”
Brian’s face became a mask. “Yes.”
“What happened then?”
“I ordered Corporal Shores to brake.” Brian’s voice was muted. “Perhaps the militia were counting on me.”
“And then?”
Brian drew a breath, his only visible movement. “And then we were sitting ducks, just as I told Captain D’Abruzzo we’d be. But I made that worse by stopping.”
“While you were stopped, what happened?”
Brian touched the scar on his throat. “An RPG decapitated Corporal Shores.”
“What did you do then?”
“I floored the accelerator, heading for the kids and gunmen.” Brian’s voice was toneless, as though reporting a minor traffic accident. “One boy couldn’t seem to move. He just stood there, eyes begging me to stop. I felt his bones break beneath the wheels.”
For a long moment, Terry paused. “Your sister testified that you have a recurring nightmare. Is it about this Iraqi boy?”
Brian looked away. “And Willie Shores.”
“Could you describe it?”
The shake of Brian’s head bespoke hopelessness. “It’s like a movie of how it happened, playing over and over. I tell Willie to stop, and he dies. I accelerate, and the kid dies. It never changes. Just like I can never change what happened.”
“Besides the Iraqi and Corporal Shores, is there anyone else in your dream?”
Brian hesitated. Almost inaudibly, he said, “Captain D’Abruzzo.”
Terry quickened his rhythm. “In the dream, what does he do?”
“He orders me to run the boy over. So I do.”
Terry felt his flesh tingle. “Other than Father Byrne, did you ever talk to anyone about the ambush?”
“Yes,” Brian responded. “Joe D’Abruzzo.”
FOR A LAST MOMENT, Brian stood with the chaplain outside the trailer filled with dead men. Then he went to the trailer where Joe D’Abruzzo lived.
He knocked on the door. Within a second, D’Abruzzo opened it, as though he had been waiting for him. He studied Brian in the thin light of the quarter moon.
“Come on in,” he said.
“No, thanks. I should be getting back to my platoon.”
D’Abruzzo appraised him. “You lost four, is that right?”
“Five. Sava died two hours ago.” Conversationally, Brian added, “You heard the police station was deserted, right? So I guess we’ve completed our mission.”
Silent, D’Abruzzo stared at him.
“Don’t worry,” Brian assured him. “Only two people know about last night’s conversation. Northrop’s still where we left him, in the dark. So you and I are the ones who’ll be living with your decision. Sir.”
IN THE SILENT COURTROOM, Terry said, “According to Father Byrne, Joe never told him about this conversation.”
“Would you? Otherwise, Joe told the truth: we never talked about it again.”
“Did this conversation have any consequences?”
“Joe would have been the one to ask. All I can know is that he kept assigning us to house-to-house fighting in Sadr City.”
“Did that involve getting shot at in confined spaces?”
“Often enough.”
Terry paused. “You acknowledged that, in general, Sadr City was a dangerous place. Do you have any way of quantifying the level of danger faced by your platoon?”
“Just numbers. Of the thirty guys I started with, sixteen are dead. Only three of us survived without wounds severe enough to get us sent home. Sergeant Whalen, Sergeant Martinez, and me.”
“Are the three of you still alive?”
“Two,” Brian said tautly. “As my father mentioned, Martinez hanged himself.”
Terry asked for a recess.
IN THE FIFTEEN MINUTES that followed, Terry, Meg, and Blake Carson met with Brian in a windowless room reserved for breaks. Brian slid into his chair, his usual grace diminished by weariness. Only his questioning look at Terry suggested that his mind was in the room.
“Iraq’s pretty much done now,” Terry told him. “You’ve given Blake what he needs to testify. Next we move on to the shooting.”
Brian’s gaze turned inward. “You know what Paul’s going to ask,” Meg assured him. “Your answers are what they are. And we’ve prepared you for what Flynn will try to do. You’ll be fine.”
An ironic smile played on Brian’s lips. “I feel like a prizefighter, talking to my corner men. ‘Go get ’em, killer. Only ten more rounds to go.’ Except you already know that, come the final round, I’m brain-dead.”
“That’s my problem,” Carson reassured him. “You can’t invent what isn’t there.”
Brian shook his head. “But who’ll believe me?” he said softly.
Terry wondered.
FOR THE NEXT HOUR, methodically and unemotionally, Te
rry led Brian through his version of the events that led to Joe D’Abruzzo’s death: Kate’s account of spousal abuse; their sudden, surprising affair; Kate’s reluctance to report her husband; her panicky call after Joe held a gun to her head; Brian’s decision to take it from their home; Kate’s message on the night of the shooting; Brian’s phone call in return. Though the account was familiar, the members of the jury seemed to tense, as though waiting for Joe D’Abruzzo to press the buzzer of Brian’s apartment. “When you heard the buzzer,” Terry asked Brian, “were you afraid?”
Brian appeared haunted by the memory. “Yes. That’s why I took Joe’s gun to the living room, and hid it beneath the pillow.”
“Wouldn’t it have been safer not to let him in?”
“Maybe for me. But not for Kate. I worried that he’d go back home and do God knows what to her.” He hesitated. “Joe had lost it, somewhere in Iraq.”
Flynn twitched, stifling his instinct to object. Terry knew his thought process: his turn would come soon enough. In the same dispassionate tone, Terry asked, “What did you think would happen once D’Abruzzo was inside your apartment?”
“Maybe I could reason with him.” As if hearing the incongruity, Brian added, “Any anger he released at me might slow him down a little.”
“Didn’t you think that was dangerous?”
Brian shrugged. “I was used to that. Better me than Kate.”
The answer carried echoes of Iraq. “Once you let him in, what happened?”
“He walked right to the middle of the living room, like the space was his own. He was so drunk you could smell it on him. I looked into his eyes and knew right away I couldn’t talk him down. Then he ordered me to give him the gun.”
“Describe what you mean by ‘ordered.’ ”
“He barked it out like a command. ‘Give me my gun, Lieutenant!’ ” Brian shook his head in wonder. “The weirdest thing was addressing me by rank. It was like the two of us were back in Iraq.”
“How did you respond?”
“ ‘You threatened Kate with it,’ I said. Joe came toward me. ‘So now you have rights,’ he said. ‘I can shatter your windpipe or gouge your fucking eyes out.’ ”
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