McCarran regarded Terry in silence. Then he said, “Are you through with me, Captain?”
“Not quite. Everyone professes to worry about how hurt Rose would be to find out you were sleeping with Kate. But only you know how terrible that revelation could really be. So satisfy my curiosity, General. Whose daughter is Kate D’Abruzzo—your best friend’s, or yours?”
McCarran stared at him in shock, and then his lips curled in distaste. “My God,” he said in a husky voice. “What you must think of me. But Rose deserves more respect and, in this matter, so do I. That Kate is Rose’s daughter is painful enough.” He paused, then concluded firmly. “I’ve heard enough from you. I came here to talk about Meg.”
Terry shook his head. “There’s nothing to say. Meg lied to me. As I think about your family, I can’t even take it personally. She’d have lied to anyone.”
“Maybe so.” McCarran paused, as though drawing on hidden reserves of feeling and resolve. “Nonetheless, my daughter’s in love with you. Meg’s not the type to beg. But she’s devastated at what she’s done, and that whatever price she’ll pay seems certain to include losing you. Personally, I’d prefer she find someone with less capacity for outrage and self-pity. But the heart wants what it wants, as I found out far too late.
“I can’t make you forgive her. But, for the sake of her future, I can ask you to think before you act.” Reaching into the breast pocket of his coat, McCarran held out an envelope. “You’ve got a decision to make, Captain Terry. For Meg’s sake, and Brian’s, read this before you do.”
Terry hesitated, then took the sealed envelope. “That’s a copy,” McCarran told him. “I kept the original for my own use.”
At once McCarran stood, a man with nothing more to say. He looked down at Terry, then left, as quickly as Meg had the last time Terry saw her.
five
IN THE MOMENTS BEFORE CLOSING ARGUMENTS WERE SCHEDULED to begin, the courtroom had the surface quiet familiar to Terry, tension building as the members of the court waited to hear the last words on which they would determine the fate of the accused.
As before, Terry sat between Brian and Meg. Now no one spoke. Having scanned the courtroom, Terry held in his mind the faces of those who had come here. Sitting with Rose Gallagher, Anthony McCarran held himself tautly, as though prepared for whatever Terry might do. But for the moment, his stoic facade was meant to preserve the fragile balance of his family and, with that, the reputation he prized. On the opposite side of the courtroom, Captain Joe D’Abruzzo’s parents huddled together—his father bent by life’s blows; his mother vigilant, her suspicious eyes demanding justice from an indifferent world. Only Kate D’Abruzzo was missing.
In the jury box, Bobby Wade whispered to Doug Young and Adam Chase. Colonel Alex MacDonald—as he had since facing the end of his career—seemed occupied with his own private world. But Major Randi Wertheimer watched Brian closely, as if hoping to discover something more. She would find little, Terry thought; like Meg, Brian looked tired and abstracted, and only Terry knew the reasons.
By contrast, Flynn appeared rested, green eyes keen in his angular face. As he listened to some whispered words from Captain Pulaski, he summoned the perfunctory smile of an advocate anxiously awaiting his first moments of action.
Terry had barely slept. Two cups of black coffee had shot through his body, jangling his nerves and making his empty stomach feel scraped raw. His thoughts were jumbled. The contents of McCarran’s envelope kept flashing before him. He had not yet petitioned to withdraw; in his mind were the fragments of a closing argument he did not know if he could give. At whatever cost, he was waiting to hear Flynn.
He should have decided, Terry knew. To go further would compromise his sense of self and, quite possibly, place his future in Flynn’s hands. To withdraw would provoke a mistrial, signaling a problem so profound that it would point the finger of guilt at Brian McCarran. And to reveal the truth as he now knew it would ruin some lives and damage others, both culpable and blameless, destroying what remained of the McCarrans.
With whom, Terry wondered, did his obligations lie? For once he envied Flynn his moral certainty.
“All rise,” the bailiff called, breaking Terry’s thoughts.
Colonel Hollis took the bench, surveying the courtroom. Tensing, Meg glanced at Terry; he could almost feel her breathe. Brian’s profile remained strikingly handsome but impenetrable, like a sculpture of a soldier’s visage. He could have been in Virginia or Iraq.
“The court will hear final arguments,” Hollis announced.
FLYNN WALKED SWIFTLY TOWARD the members, stopping a few feet from the jury box. “On June 17,” he began, “Lieutenant Brian McCarran killed Captain Joseph D’Abruzzo by shooting him four times—including a bullet in the back. The question you face is why. The answer lies in a despicable breach of the army’s code of honor: the accused’s affair with his victim’s wife.”
Briefly, Terry glanced at Anthony McCarran. The general, catching his eye, did not look away. “If revealed,” Flynn went on, “this affair would destroy Brian McCarran’s reputation and career. Captain D’Abruzzo discovered it. So Brian McCarran murdered him and, with the help of his lover, tried to bury the truth.
“Brian McCarran,” Flynn repeated in a scornful voice, “claims that he acted in self-defense. If so, it is the most premeditated self-defense a guilty man could devise.
“Brian McCarran claims that Kate D’Abruzzo called to warn him that her husband was coming to his apartment. If so, why is there no record of this call?
“Brian McCarran claims to have feared his victim’s lethal skills. If so, why did he let this dangerous man into his small apartment?
“Brian McCarran claims to have taken the murder weapon only to protect Kate D’Abruzzo. If so, why did he not empty this weapon of bullets?
“Brian McCarran claims that he did not plan to shoot his lover’s husband. If so, why did he—by his own account—conceal the weapon to be within his reach once D’Abruzzo shut the door behind him?” Flynn’s gaze swept the members, who listened with uniform raptness. “Brian McCarran claims to have killed Joe D’Abruzzo to protect himself from imminent danger. If so, why is there no trace of gunpowder on D’Abruzzo’s clothes? And what danger did D’Abruzzo pose with his back to the accused?
“Here, not even Brian McCarran has an answer, however implausible. Rather, implausibly, he claims not to remember his own act of self-defense.”
Pausing, Flynn trained his commanding stare at each member of the court. “Brian McCarran,” he said in a mocking tone, “claims that he was so shocked to discover Joe D’Abruzzo mortally wounded on his living room floor that he let him bleed to death. If so, why did he have the presence of mind to seek his sister’s advice? Why was he able—quite calmly—to call the MPs once his victim was past saving? And how did he muster the presence of mind to lie about his affair?”
Major Bobby Wade seemed riveted by Flynn’s words and cadence. The prosecutor slowed his speech, as if pronouncing an indubitable fact. “Innocent people tell the truth because they’re innocent. The guilty lie to conceal their guilt. Brian McCarran lied. Because the truth of Joe D’Abruzzo’s death is that Brian McCarran executed him.
“But Brian McCarran has a skillful lawyer. To obscure his client’s guilt, Captain Terry has picked at the physical evidence—a question here, a quibble there. But he can’t erase the cumulative weight of that evidence any more than he can erase a lie.” Flynn’s voice rose in condemnation. “Nor can he cite a single piece of physical evidence inconsistent with an intentional murder.
“So what is he left with? A desperate effort to distort Captain D’Abruzzo’s honorable service in Iraq, and to mock the service of every veteran of that war. How? By claiming that Captain D’Abruzzo’s presence in Brian McCarran’s living room—to which the accused had admitted him—caused Lieutenant McCarran to relive an ambush in Sadr City. Yet the circumstances of that incident, however terrible, have no resemblance to the circu
mstances of Joe D’Abruzzo’s death. Not even Brian McCarran claims to have confused his former commanding officer—a man he had known for a decade—with an Iraqi insurgent. And as his current commander told you, the lieutenant returned to discharge his duties without any sign of trauma or incapacity.”
“So who is it, exactly, who recounts the behavior Captain Terry cites to support the claim of post-traumatic stress disorder?” Flynn turned to Meg, drawing from her a steady gaze that required an effort only Terry could detect. “His sister, and his father. No doubt this is what they wish to believe, and desperately want you to believe. But you must ask yourself why the only evidence of PTSD resides with the McCarrans. Then ask yourself why the only ‘evidence’ that Joe D’Abruzzo struck his wife—let alone threatened her with a gun—comes from Kate D’Abruzzo, the other person who lied about their affair.”
Listening, Major Wertheimer half-closed her eyes, as though attempting to visualize the truth. “Joe D’Abruzzo,” Flynn said with quiet anger, “was an honorable man, betrayed by his wife and a fellow officer. That is why he died. The least you can do for him now—and for his parents and children—is to give this brave man justice.” Flynn became still as a statue, his gaze beseeching the members to listen and believe. “You know what happened here—a planned killing, tricked out by the defense as the killer’s tragedy. I ask you to find Brian McCarran guilty of the crimes he committed: adultery followed by premeditated murder.”
Even Hollis, Terry saw, could not help but look impressed.
GLANCING AT BRIAN, TERRY considered his choice for the last time. He could request to withdraw, perhaps dooming his own client; or seek to reopen the case, bringing down this edifice of deceit at whatever cost; or argue Brian’s innocence on the record as it stood, attempting to avoid an ethical breach by skirting the falsehood at its core. He felt the complex skein of his emotions—doubt, fatigue, bitterness at having been so badly deceived; a deep anger at those who had created what, for him, had become an existential dilemma. His respect for Flynn’s efforts warred with the belief that—despite what Terry knew—the prosecutor’s characterization of Brian McCarran was unjust. His face averted, Brian asked him for nothing. But Terry was not Flynn—his world was still a complex place, filled with tangled motives, too often barely understood by people who, at crucial moments, were neither bad nor good. Terry’s only certainty was that neither he nor Flynn could ever be certain of the truth.
“Captain Terry?” Hollis prompted.
It was this last reflection that, seconds later, prompted Terry to stand. Walking slowly toward the jury box, he singled out Major Wertheimer—the member whose sensibility, Terry believed, most resembled his own. “Major Flynn,” he began, “is so very certain of so many things. But there is only one thing of which you can be certain: that you do not know, and will never know, what happened in that living room. Nothing else matters. That uncertainty—that unavoidable and irreducible doubt—requires you to find Lieutenant Brian McCarran not guilty in the shooting of Captain D’Abruzzo.”
Judging from Randi Wertheimer’s attentive gaze, these words were an apt beginning. “Brian McCarran,” Terry continued, “told you that he acted in self-defense. As Major Flynn admitted—and as the court will instruct you—the prosecution must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Brian did not. So I ask you to imagine yourself in his place.
“Consider, first, what Brian knew beyond a reasonable doubt. That Joe D’Abruzzo was drunk. That D’Abruzzo had loathed him ever since their service in Iraq. That D’Abruzzo could kill him in seconds. And that he faced D’Abruzzo in a room from which he could not escape.” Pausing, Terry reminded himself to modulate his tone, a deliberate contrast to Mike Flynn. “Consider, second, the evidence Major Flynn cannot disprove. Kate D’Abruzzo testified that her husband hit her. She told you that Captain D’Abruzzo threatened her with a gun. She stated that Brian took that gun in order to protect her. And she explained that she had called Brian to warn him that Joe was coming for him. Before you dismiss all that—as the prosecution needs you to do—please remember the undeniable essence of their relationship: Brian McCarran has loved Kate D’Abruzzo ever since, as a child, he learned what love felt like.”
Feeling stillness all around him, Terry stayed focused on Major Wertheimer. “Consider, third, what the physical evidence cannot tell us. Major Flynn asks you to imagine a coolheaded Brian McCarran executing Captain D’Abruzzo according to plan. But do coolheaded killers, having concocted in advance a bogus claim of self-defense, proceed to shoot their victim in the back? They do not. Far from supporting trial counsel’s certainties, the bullet in Captain D’Abruzzo’s back undermines them.”
Colonel MacDonald, Terry saw, shot a questioning glance at Major Wertheimer. Quietly, Terry told them, “So, again, imagine you’re Brian McCarran. A drunken, angry, and deadly opponent has threatened to kill you, and then ordered you to hand him your only weapon of self-defense. You do what any of us would do—you keep it. When D’Abruzzo pivots to attack, you have no time to think. You react. You fire in split seconds: the popping sounds heard by Major Dahl through the wall of Brian’s apartment. And then it’s over.”
Listening, Major Wertheimer closed her eyes again. In the same reasoned manner Terry went on: “That’s consistent with the testimony of Dr. Carson regarding studies of police shootings. And nothing in the physical evidence refutes it. The medical examiner can’t tell you whether four feet separated Brian McCarran from Captain D’Abruzzo—or six feet, or nine. Major Flynn’s ballistics expert can’t be sure of where they were standing, or of Captain D’Abruzzo’s position when he was shot in the arm and chest and palm. And so the certainty insisted on by the prosecution evaporates.
“Unable to prove his case by the physical evidence, Major Flynn urges you to seize upon another false certainty: that Brian McCarran’s state of mind was that of a premeditated murderer. How does he know that? And how does he know that Brian’s reactions were unaffected by a year of combat more intense than any one of us has ever experienced? Ridicule is not evidence; testimony is.
“We have proven beyond any doubt what Brian McCarran endured in Sadr City. Ceaseless and brutal combat as deadly as it was hopeless. A fatally flawed mission. An order to lead troops into an ambush he had warned Captain D’Abruzzo would occur. An order Brian knew in his heart would be fatal—if not to himself, to his men. An order Captain D’Abruzzo gave after threatening to relieve Brian of his command should he go to Colonel Northrop.” Terry lowered his voice still further. “Death followed. The beheading of Brian’s driver. The death of an Iraqi boy when Brian was forced to choose between his men and a line of children. The death of three other men before Brian’s platoon could reach an empty police station. And after holding the hand of the fifth man as he died, Brian visited the dead to offer his apologies.
“That day began nine more months of orders where Captain D’Abruzzo singled out Brian’s platoon to face one lethal danger after another—fighting door-to-door in spaces no bigger than Brian’s living room. D’Abruzzo hated him for knowing the truth about the ambush. And Brian knew that as clearly as did Sergeant Whalen and Father Byrne and, yes, the wife to whom D’Abruzzo expressed that hatred. No wonder Brian McCarran resisted D’Abruzzo’s final order: ‘Give me the gun.’ ”
Hands in his pockets, Terry watched the members ponder his last words, then continued with a calm that suggested he had no need for tricks of elocution. “Major Flynn belittles the testimony of Brian’s sister and his father, General Anthony McCarran, that Brian suffered from combat experiences other men would find indelible. Who else knows Brian’s truth? Does the major suggest they made this up? The fact that Brian discharged his duties at Fort Bolton says much about him. But it does not discredit what his loved ones saw. Brian is a soldier, from a family of soldiers. Day after day, he tried not to let the army down. Then he went home for another night of tortured sleep filled with nightmares he chose to face alone. Perhaps Major Flynn does not recognize these sy
mptoms, but Dr. Carson does. For he has seen them, and will continue to see them, in soldier after soldier.
“Who among us, if exposed to the horrors Brian endured, truly believes they would be unchanged? Which of us, in Brian’s place, can say with certainty that they would not have perceived Joe D’Abruzzo—drunk, prone to violence, filled with hatred, and possessed of lethal skills—as a threat to his survival? And who can say that this was not so?”
As Flynn had, Terry looked at each member in turn. “In the end, you are left with Brian’s account. When the CID questioned him, he could have—as his sister advised—remained silent. At this trial he could have chosen not to testify. Instead he told you, to the best of his abilities, what happened in that room. There is nothing that impels you to find—beyond a reasonable doubt—that Brian did not act in self-defense. And there is certainly nothing that requires you to conclude—given Brian’s experiences in Iraq and with Captain D’Abruzzo—that he did not believe himself in peril.
“One man is dead; the survivor will never be as he once was. And only one thing is clear: what happened in that apartment was a tragedy. You cannot redeem it. Your only power is to compound it by guessing, or to conclude that there’s been tragedy enough. I ask you to find Brian McCarran not guilty in the shooting of Captain Joe D’Abruzzo.”
In the Name of Honor Page 43