In the Name of Honor
Page 39
AFTERWARD, THEY LAY ON top of his bedcovers, Terry’s head on her stomach. Their skin shone with sweat. “What just happened to you?” he asked.
Meg gazed at the ceiling. “I had a vision of a life,” she admitted. “It happens now and then. But never as strongly as this morning, when I allowed myself to imagine that my brother will be okay.” Her voice fell off. “I shouldn’t hope yet, I know—”
“Stay with this for a minute. What kind of life?”
“A normal one. We go to work, and then come home. We take turns cooking, or go out. We make friends we both like. We go to plays and movies, learn something about opera and art, take walks and hikes.”
“Where does this life take place?” Terry asked, and began to kiss her stomach.
“Watch that,” Meg admonished. “In answer to your question, San Francisco. I checked with my boss. There’s an opening—if Brian’s acquitted, and I don’t have to worry about an appeal, I can get my old job back.”
“What will I be doing?”
“You said it yourself. If Brian’s acquitted, you write your own ticket.”
A shadow of doubt crossed Terry’s mind. “Not yet. Too much can still happen.”
She gave him an uncertain look. “A girl can dream, can’t she?”
Reaching out, Terry touched her face. “I’ll make you a deal. If this turns out right, we’ll go to Costa Brava. After that I’ll visit San Francisco.”
Her eyes became very serious. “Do you mean it, Paul?”
“Yes,” he said, and realized that he did. Or, at least, that he wanted to.
They made love again, then prepared to cross-examine Colonel Northrop.
twelve
COLONEL DAVID NORTHROP HAD SHORT BROWN HAIR, WATCHful brown eyes, and a long face that seemed better suited to dolor than humor. He answered Flynn’s questions without inflection or expression, a soldier doing his duty.
Yes, Northrop affirmed, he had been Brian McCarran’s commanding officer before, during, and after their service in Iraq. Yes, Captain Joe D’Abruzzo had been one of Northrop’s company commanders during the year in Sadr City. And yes, unlike Northrop’s contact with D’Abruzzo—who had become an operations officer in another battalion—his interaction with Brian McCarran had continued until the preferral of charges. Watching, Terry awaited Flynn’s portrayal of Brian McCarran as a competent and seemingly untroubled man.
“Since his return from Iraq,” Flynn asked Northrop, “how would you evaluate Lieutenant McCarran’s performance?”
“Outstanding,” Northrop said. “Capable, efficient, responsive, and organized.”
“Did his level of performance change after he shot Captain D’Abruzzo?”
Northrop sat back, as though pondering the nuance of his answer. “Brian became quieter. That was understandable. But nothing interfered with his work.”
In the jury box, Major Wertheimer’s puzzled expression underscored Terry’s concern—depending on how you viewed it, Brian’s apparent equanimity was either admirable or troubling. In the same methodical manner, Flynn asked, “Since his return from Iraq, how has Lieutenant McCarran related to the officers and men in your battalion?”
“Very well. He was attentive to problems, responsive to concerns, and direct and clear in his communications.” After a moment, Northrop added, “Brian didn’t try to win you over with personality. Like General McCarran, he drew people by being honest, straightforward, and exceptionally bright. And, like his father, I thought him destined to become a general officer.”
“Did you see any difference in his performance during the two years you served as his commanding officer?”
“No. Obviously, serving as a platoon leader is very different from the administrative work he did thereafter. But he did both jobs superbly well.”
Flynn gave the colonel a look of exaggerated curiosity. “During these two years, did you see any signs of emotional difficulties?”
Northrop twisted his academy ring with the fingers of his right hand, a gesture of distraction that Terry read as reluctance to play his role. At length, Northrop said, “I perceived no difficulties at all. Even with the pressure of combat under harsh conditions, my understanding was that Lieutenant McCarran never lost his judgment or ability to lead. His performance at Fort Bolton was of the same high order.”
Flynn inclined his head toward Brian. “Did the accused ever mention that he was suffering from combat-related stress?”
Northrop’s glance at Brian mingled puzzlement with regret. “He did not.”
“During your tour of duty in Iraq, were you aware of any antagonism between Lieutenant McCarran and Captain D’Abruzzo?”
“Not at all.” Northrop’s jaw seemed to tighten. “In fact, I understood they had what amounted to a family connection through Captain D’Abruzzo’s wife.”
“Did Captain D’Abruzzo ever express a negative opinion of the accused on a personal level, or regarding any aspect of his performance in combat?”
Northrop considered Flynn with a faintly gloomy look. “No.”
Meg pushed her legal pad closer to Terry, calling his attention to the note she had written: “Murderers don’t reveal their methods.” It took him a moment to realize that she was referring to D’Abruzzo. “Would you have been aware,” Flynn asked Northrop, “if Captain D’Abruzzo had harbored such feelings?”
Northrop looked troubled by the question. “I’m not a mind reader, Major Flynn. The best measure I can give you is that Captain D’Abruzzo evaluated the lieutenant throughout their service in Iraq. His fitness reports gave Brian the highest marks.”
Quickly, Flynn introduced as exhibits D’Abruzzo’s reports on Brian. Terry had already seen them and knew that they described Lieutenant Brian McCarran as “an exceptional combat leader” who was “unusually resourceful and clearheaded.” But to the members, these reports were new, and Flynn gave them ample time to read. Four out of five seemed as struck by D’Abruzzo’s praise as Flynn wished them to be; only Colonel MacDonald, perhaps reflecting on his own imminent departure from the army, had a distant, unhappy look.
At length, Flynn asked Northrop, “Based on your observations, do you believe that Captain D’Abruzzo singled out the lieutenant’s platoon for the most dangerous assignments?”
Narrow-eyed, Northrop seemed almost to visualize the question, disassembling its component parts and assessing its latent ambiguities. “My answer depends on how I interpret your phrasing. Sadr City was inherently dangerous—it was often hard to predict which mission would be more dangerous than others. Granted, the lieutenant’s platoon took more casualties than most. But Captain D’Abruzzo believed that Lieutenant McCarran was his ablest platoon leader, and I had no reason to doubt that.” Northrop gave Brian a rueful look. “It’s the nature of war that the greatest burdens fall on the best soldiers. Sometimes the price for that is high. But that’s what Brian McCarran signed on for, and he never once complained to me.”
Flynn’s expression was the closest to contentment Terry had seen from him in court. “Thank you, Colonel Northrop. That’s all I have for you.”
APPROACHING COLONEL NORTHROP, Terry stopped a respectful distance away. The colonel’s expression was neutral; Terry sensed that, while he had once thought highly of Brian, Northrop was determined to answer questions on his own terms—especially in a case where the accused had confessed to adultery with the victim’s wife. “Is it fair to say,” Terry began, “that because of the nature of the assignments given Lieutenant McCarran, more men in his platoon were killed or wounded?”
Again, Northrop seemed to deconstruct the question. “It’s certainly true that Lieutenant McCarran’s platoon took more casualties. Whether that could have been predicted from the nature of his missions isn’t entirely clear.”
“Do you attribute the high casualty rate to failures in his leadership?”
Northrop frowned. “I have no basis for forming that opinion. Certainly not from Captain D’Abruzzo’s fitness reports.”
“He did not.”
“So isn’t it fair to conclude that—whether or not the danger was always predictable—Lieutenant McCarran’s platoon drew more inherently dangerous missions than the other three platoons in Captain D’Abruzzo’s company?”
Northrop hesitated, then conceded in a flat tone, “You could conclude that, yes.”
“Did you ever discuss with Captain D’Abruzzo the casualty rate in Lieutenant McCarran’s platoon?”
Northrop gazed at Terry, his expression closing. “Twice,” he said tersely.
“When was the first occasion?”
“After the completion of a mission guarding an Iraqi police station. The resulting casualties had left Lieutenant McCarran’s platoon more shorthanded than the others. So I suggested to Captain D’Abruzzo that we should consider giving that platoon whatever breaks we could, at least until they got replacements.”
“How did Captain D’Abruzzo respond?”
“That Lieutenant McCarran and his platoon were still best suited to handle challenging assignments. At least within reason.”
“You expressed a personal opinion that Lieutenant McCarran was an exceptionally able platoon leader. On what did you base that opinion?”
“In part, on my own interaction with Lieutenant McCarran.” Northrop paused. “Also on the fitness reports written by Captain D’Abruzzo.”
Terry felt his pulse quicken. “Had these reports been less favorable, Colonel Northrop, would you have questioned Captain D’Abruzzo’s statement that the lieutenant and his platoon should take more difficult assignments?”
“Of course.”
“So as a result of Captain D’Abruzzo’s favorable assessments, Brian McCarran’s life was at greater risk?”
“Objection,” Flynn interjected crisply. “The question calls for speculation.”
“Hardly,” Terry told Hollis. “It follows from the witness’s prior answers.”
“Agreed,” Hollis said somberly. “Please respond, Colonel Northrop.”
“If the reports had been less favorable,” Northrop answered slowly, “I’d have been more prone to question the assignments given to Lieutenant McCarran’s platoon.”
“Let’s return to the mission guarding the police station. You considered that to be dangerous, correct?”
“Yes, for two reasons. First, the station was manned by Iraqis with dubious loyalty, some of whom no doubt were tied to the Mahdi Army. Second, it was in a particularly treacherous part of Sadr City, where many residents were followers of Muqtada al-Sadr and which afforded a favorable environment for picking off American soldiers.”
“And on the final day of that mission, Brian’s platoon took significant casualties inflicted in an ambush.”
“That’s correct. As I understand it, the militia used children to hem in our platoon. Lieutenant McCarran was forced to drive through them.”
Terry waited, hands in his pockets. Mildly, he asked, “Did you ever hear that one of the Iraqi police had warned Lieutenant McCarran that the policemen would desert and that his platoon was walking into an ambush?”
Though clearly unsurprised by the question, Northrop hesitated. “Not at the time.”
“So you didn’t know Brian had taken this report to D’Abruzzo?”
“I did not.”
“Or that Captain D’Abruzzo refused Lieutenant McCarran’s request to modify his orders, or to bring this information to your attention?”
Northrop’s eyes hardened. “No.”
“And that, when Lieutenant McCarran pressed his argument to confer with you, Captain D’Abruzzo threatened to relieve him of his command?”
“No.” Northrop seemed genuinely disturbed. “Who said that?”
“Lieutenant McCarran.” Terry gave the colonel a long, appraising look. “As battalion commander, shouldn’t you have been told about the ambush?”
Northrop propped his elbow on the arm of the witness chair, delivering the answer he had no doubt reached with Flynn. “In the first analysis,” he said carefully, “that was Captain D’Abruzzo’s call. Several factors come into play, including how he assessed the reliability of the information and whether responding in some other fashion—say, by sending in a second platoon—could have negatively affected other missions where his company was also short of troops. I can’t know what went into Captain D’Abruzzo’s decision, or what I would have done in his position.”
“Or in yours,” Terry said sharply, “seeing how you didn’t know.”
“That’s true,” Northrop acknowledged.
“Suppose that after the ambush, you’d learned that Lieutenant McCarran had taken this information to Captain D’Abruzzo, who’d declined to bring it to you. As battalion commander, what might you have done?”
“I’d have questioned Captain D’Abruzzo. Depending on what I learned from him, I might have brought in Lieutenant McCarran.”
“Would that have affected your assessment of D’Abruzzo as company commander?”
Northrop folded his hands. “It might or might not have. I simply can’t say.”
“But you can conceive of circumstances where that assessment could have been unfavorable to Captain D’Abruzzo?”
“Yes.”
“Would that information have also raised questions about Captain D’Abruzzo’s insistence that Lieutenant McCarran’s platoon was best suited to assignments such as house-to-house fighting?”
For a long moment, Northrop weighed the question in silence. “Could you be more specific?”
“Sure. Would you have wondered whether Captain D’Abruzzo felt animosity toward Brian McCarran?”
“It would have crossed my mind.”
“Or whether, if only Lieutenant McCarran knew of their argument, Captain D’Abruzzo considered him as a threat to his own advancement?”
Northrop’s reluctance to go further showed on his face. “If I understand the implications of your question,” he said coldly, “you’re asking me to speculate as to whether Captain D’Abruzzo hoped that Lieutenant McCarran would be killed by Iraqi militia. In my dealings with him, Captain D’Abruzzo was honest, responsible, and dedicated to fulfilling our mission. Officers issue orders, and men die as a result. But I won’t attribute to this dead officer any other motive than trying to do his duty as he saw it.”
But the members might, Terry knew. “Very well, Colonel. You mentioned that Brian McCarran never sought help to deal with post-traumatic stress disorder stemming from his combat experiences in Iraq. Had he done so, might that have adversely affected his career?”
Again, Northrop seemed to search for balance in his answer. “In the past, it could have. But the army is making a concerted effort to encourage soldiers to seek whatever help they need.”
“Is that attitude uniformly accepted by all officers?”
“Put that way, no. New policies take a while to catch up with old biases.”
“Has any officer in your command sought assistance in dealing with PTSD?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“How many officers in your battalion are veterans of Iraq?”
“Over twenty.”
“Yet none of them is suffering adverse affects from combat?”
“Not that they report.”
“How about what you observe, Colonel Northrop?”
Northrop gave him a defensive look. “I’ve seen no behavior in my officers that suggests functioning impaired by post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Which includes, by your account, Brian McCarran. When did you have the opportunity to observe him?”
“During normal working hours, in the discharge of his duties.”
“Never outside?”
Northrop seemed to search his memory. “Once,” he said at length. “At a cocktail party my wife and I held for the battalion’s officers.”
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br /> “Did Brian bring a date?”
“No,” Northrop said after a moment. “I believe he came alone.”
“Do you know who Lieutenant McCarran’s friends are?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea how well he sleeps at night?”
“No.”
“Or whether he has nightmares?”
“No.”
“Did you ever drive with Lieutenant McCarran outside of Fort Bolton?”
“No.”
“Or see him in any situation after Iraq that might be stressful?”
“No.”
“What do you know, if anything, about Brian McCarran’s life outside his duties at the battalion?”
Northrop placed a finger to his lips. “Almost nothing. Except that he likes to sail.” He paused. “I’ve since learned about his affair with Kate D’Abruzzo. But I had no idea of that. As I look back at it now, all I really know about Brian McCarran is what I saw on duty. Outside of that, his life remains a mystery to me.”
As it was to Terry. “No further questions,” he said, and the testimony in the court-martial of Lieutenant Brian McCarran came to an end.
COLONEL HOLLIS SET FINAL arguments for Monday.
Crowded by video cameras, dogged by shouted questions they refused to answer, Brian, Meg, and Terry left the courtroom and made their way to the parking lot, Brian staring straight ahead. Standing beside Brian’s car, Meg touched Terry’s arm. “Get some sleep, Paul. Think about something else for a night.”
Terry wished he could.
Instead, he took his questions home. As nightfall darkened the windows he poured himself a drink.
He could not fault his performance, Terry concluded. He had gotten the jury he wanted, and had expanded his defense to include PTSD. He had exposed the enigmas and assumptions in a prosecution case that, from the outset, had never overwhelmed him. Too many of Flynn’s suspicions were based not on his own proof, but on Terry’s absence of proof to corroborate the account given by Brian, Kate, and Meg: that Joe D’Abruzzo had ever hit his wife or threatened her with a gun; that Joe had gone to Brian’s apartment on his own initiative, rather than in response to a call from Brian; that Brian suffered from sleeplessness and nightmares; that, at the moment of the shooting, Brian had believed himself in danger; and that Brian had not called Kate to warn her that her husband was dead. Flynn’s belief that none of this was true did not amount to evidence. The irony was that his case rested on another statement by Brian and Kate—the confession of an affair—the truth of which had been known only to them. Without that, Terry believed, Flynn might not have brought the case at all.