by Pat Conroy
When Jim Rowland presented the facts it seemed to be the most open-and-shut case I had ever heard appear before the honor court. He simply recited the events and circumstances leading up to the moment when Mudge and the OG caught Pig unscrewing the gas cap of a car, with a siphoning hose draped around his neck and a gas can in one hand.
“So you see, gentlemen,” Rowland concluded, “there is no case to try There is nothing to be considered. No deliberation is necessary. Cadet Pignetti was caught in the very act of stealing. I will present the two witnesses who apprehended Cadet Pignetti. They will testify that this cadet,” he said loudly, gesturing at Pig, whose neck stiffened, “is guilty, as charged, of the honor violation of stealing. There has never been such an open-and-shut case of stealing since I have been at the Institute,” he concluded, echoing our own thoughts exactly.
“Your opening statement, Mr. McLean,” Gauldin said.
Stepping to the center of the room, I saw out of the corner of my eye the figure of Mark massaging Pig’s tense, formidable shoulders. Pig’s whole body had tightened since we arrived in this room, and he was flushed with the effort to control his panic.
“I would like a ruling from the court, your honor,” I said to Gauldin. “I do not understand the exact nature of those charges even after the opening statement by the prosecution.”
Jim Rowland jumped to his feet and said, “I will be glad to clarify those charges, your honor. I will make them as simple as possible for Mr. McLean. He must have a serious problem if he does not understand the charges as presented.”
Several members of the court snickered at this but were silenced by an icy glance from Gauldin, who allowed no levity in his court.
“Cadet Pignetti is accused of stealing, Mr. McLean,” Rowland continued. “Those are the charges. Do you understand them now?”
“What ruling do you wish the court to make, Mr. McLean?” Gauldin asked.
“What did Mr. Pignetti steal, sir?” I asked Gauldin. “I’m still rather confused.”
A buzz of perturbation swept along the table of the honor court, but the rap of Gauldin’s gavel silenced them.
“Why is Mr. McLean stalling?” Rowland asked the court. “Is he wasting our time because his case is so weak?”
“I don’t understand your point, Will,” Gauldin said. “Would you explain yourself to the court?”
“I want to know what Mr. Pignetti stole,” I repeated.
“He stole gasoline from a car in the fourth battalion parking lot,” Gauldin explained. “Is that not correct, Mr. Rowland?”
“That is correct, your honor.”
“How much gasoline?” I asked.
“He was apprehended in the very act of stealing,” Rowland said. “He had not completed the act.”
“Then he stole no gasoline,” I said.
“Technically, he stole no gasoline, but only because he was caught before he could complete the theft,” Jim said, looking at me with complete exasperation.
“Then, Mr. Rowland, you are saying that Major Mudge caught Mr. Pignetti before he was able to commit an honor violation.”
“That is not what I am saying at all, Mr. McLean,” Rowland said, understanding the nature of my strategy at last. “I am saying that he caught Mr. Pignetti in the very act of committing an honor violation.”
“But if he stole nothing, Mr. Rowland,” I insisted, “then there is no honor violation. There is no stolen property in this case.”
“Will, I see absolutely no merit in your line of reasoning,” Gauldin said, rapping the table again even though he made no ruling.
“Mr. Grace,” I said, turning away from Jim Rowland, “may I remind you and the other members of the court that the code says that a cadet will not he, steal, cheat, or tolerate any cadet who does. The code says nothing about a cadet thinking of lying, contemplating cheating, or planning to steal. The code punishes those who do, not those who think about doing. Mr. Pignetti stole nothing. There was no gas in the can when he was apprehended. If there was no gas, then I suggest there was no theft. You are punishing Mr. Pignetti for what he might have done, not what he did. The honor code does not cover such cases.”
“The court rules that you are playing with words, Mr. McLean,” Gauldin said, looking to his right and left to catch glances of approval from other members of the court. Eleven such glances were forthcoming.
“I’m discussing proof, Mr. Chairman,” I argued. “There was nothing stolen. There is no evidence to present to this court. There was no property taken.”
“It’s obvious that Mr. Pignetti was planning to steal. The only reason there is no evidence is that Major Mudge interrupted the theft,” Gauldin countered.
“Then we should be grateful that Major Mudge prevented Mr. Pignetti from committing an honor violation. It is irrelevant to discuss what Mr. Pignetti might have stolen. Unless he actually stole some gasoline, there is no theft. None. He has been accused of stealing. The code unequivocally states that stealing will not be tolerated. Show me what Mr. Pignetti stole. How much did he steal? This court has no right to kick a man out of school for something he might have done.”
“The court has already ruled that you are just playing with words, Mr. McLean.” Gauldin spoke sharply. “We do not have time to play with words. We need to resolve this case expeditiously.”
“Let me remind you, Mr. Chairman,” I responded, “that the honor code is made up only of words, that every time the court convenes it is only to ‘play with words,’ that you open and close every session with words, and that you condemn and expel cadets from the Institute with words. We would like the court to alter the charges. We would like you to say that Mr. Pignetti was apprehended in the parking lot the moment before it looked like he was going to steal. That is not playing with language. That is being precise with language.”
“I am not at all convinced by your line of reasoning, Mr. McLean,” Gauldin said impatiently.
“I am not trying to convince only you, Gauldin,” I said, my eyes moving to the other members of the court. “I am trying to convince a single member of this court that since there was no theft, there was no honor violation. If I can convince just one of my friends on the court that my roommate does not deserve to be kicked out of school for something he was about to do, then my roommate will graduate with us in June.”
“Objection, your honor,” Jim Rowland said, rising. “I object to Mr. McLean’s involving his friendship with members of the honor court. This is irrelevant to the case.”
“Sustained,” Gauldin agreed, nodding his head.
“I do not mean to belabor this point of language, your honor,” I continued, “but I would like to cite a precedent case for the benefit of the court. In 1928, when the Institute was still located at its old site in downtown Charleston, there was a vegetable stand frequented by cadets directly across the street from the school. The owner of the store complained to Institute authorities that cadets were stealing quantities of vegetables from his store. The Commandant of Cadets at that time amended the honor code and made it a specific violation to steal vegetables from this particular shop. A Cadet Kersey from Roanoke, Virginia, was brought to trial for stealing an onion. He was brought before the honor court and accused of stealing vegetables. Does anyone on the court wish to make a conjecture on how this case was resolved?”
“Objection, your honor,” Jim Rowland said, an expression of pain and annoyance on his face. “This is irrelevant and a complete waste of the court’s time.”
“How is this relevant, Mr. McLean?” the chairman asked.
“Because of words, Mr. Chairman,” I said earnestly. “Because of the way we are trained to think by the Institute when we are members of the honor court. We are trained to ignore nuances. When I told that story, all of you made a note that Cadet Kersey was obviously guilty of stealing a vegetable. They found that onion in his pocket and the storekeeper had seen him take it. I thought he was guilty too when I studied the history of that case today in the l
ibrary. But the honor court of 1928 found Cadet Kersey innocent. They found him innocent because of words, gentlemen. Cadet Kersey had not stolen a vegetable; he had stolen an herb. The honor code did not cover the stealing of herbs and because of that case the honor code was amended and improved to cover the theft of anything, be it animal, vegetable, or mineral. But it was not amended in such a way that it covers cases such as this present one. When Mr. Pignetti was apprehended, he had no vegetables and no herbs and no gasoline. He had not yet stolen anything.”
“I rule that your line of reasoning has absolutely no merit, Mr. McLean,” Gauldin said, hammering the table once again. “And I think you are hurting your case much more than helping it.”
Before I could respond, Pig angrily muttered a slurred, barely audible word that caused every eye in the room to fix on him in amazement. The word did not register with the court, but it registered instantly with Tradd, Mark, and me. Pig had called Gauldin Grace a motherfucker in Italian.
“I would like to request a brief recess before Mr. Rowland calls his first witness, your honor.”
“Granted,” Gauldin said, looking at Pig.
I walked to the table where Pig sat, red-faced, anxious, and sweating profusely. Sweat was pouring off his face, and Tradd was wiping him dry with a white linen handkerchief monogrammed with his initials. The gesture moved me and reminded me of Bo Maybank massaging me with his towels.
We gathered around Pig solicitously. Mark tenderly rubbed Pig’s thick, taut shoulders, trying to get him to uncoil and relax; his entire body was flexed and his breathing came hard.
“Pig,” I whispered to him, “it won’t help your case to call the chairman of the honor committee a motherfucker. I know you’re under enormous pressure, but we can’t afford any more outbursts. We’ve got to keep the faith, paisan. That bullshit I just slung all over the court probably didn’t work, but all we’ve got to do is convince one of those guys. Just one of them, Pig. It has to be unanimous to throw you out of here. You just concentrate on staying cool. We’re not going to call you to testify so you don’t have to worry about blowing up on the witness stand. But don’t piss these guys off by muttering under your breath every rime a ruling goes against us.”
“Be cool, meatbrain,” Mark said softly.
“They’re going to kick me out of here,” Pig said, staring wildly at us. “They’re going to kick me out of this school. I can feel it. I can feel it in this room, man. It’s like I’m attending my own funeral.”
“We haven’t finished blowing smoke,” Mark said, his mouth close to Pig’s ear.
“It’s just disgusting how copiously Italians perspire,” Tradd said, wrinkling his nose and continuing to wipe the sweat from Pig’s forehead. “American bodies are simply incapable of producing such moisture.”
It was the first time Pig had smiled since the night before. It loosened all of us, and we went back to our chairs and awaited the moment when Jim Rowland would call his first witness. As we listened to the testimony of the OG, I placed my right hand on Pig’s shoulder and squeezed it, as we endured the flat, monotonous testimony, which damaged Pig grievously with its assuredness and its utter simplicity. Mark continued to massage Pig’s neck and shoulders while Tradd dried the sweat on his face. All of us were holding on to Pig, protecting him; by touching Pig, we were touching each other, felt the connection of our time together, the depth and awful brevity of our common history, and the dazzling intensity of our friendship. We had gathered in an indissoluble band around our endangered friend, and we touched him because it was the only form of speech or communication available, our only way of telling him that we were with him at the lowest and most vulnerable hours of his life. A transcendent feeling of superhuman, perfect solidarity with my friends overwhelmed me at that moment. I was dizzy with love and dread. I was connected to the heartbeats and pulses of my roommates by a benign, vital symbiosis, and I felt that I depended on them for blood and oxygen, and if one of them had abandoned the rest of us at that very instant, my spirit and my body could not have absorbed such trauma, such loss.
The OG’s testimony was brief and flawless. Jim Rowland led him through his lines with admirable economy. The defense table did not object once to the testimony nor did we cross-examine the witness when Jim had finished.
Major Mudge entered the courtroom with an imperious leanness and stride. He was sworn in and repeated the exact testimony of the OG. Only the phraseology and the emphasis differed at all. Mudge had a surprisingly dramatic flair as he spoke, stabbing the air in front of him with a perfectly manicured index finger, which moved as thoughtlessly and precisely as a metronome. To be fair, his testimony pained him deeply. Though as the tactical officer of R Company he had always cheerfully loathed me, he had liked Pig a great deal.
When he finished speaking, Mark rose for the cross-examination. He approached Mudge with brio and hunger, stealthy and quick-limbed.
“Major Mudge,” he said, “I have no problems with your testimony at all. But I would like you to describe the automobile from which Mr. Pignetti was about to steal the gas.”
“Certainly, Mr. Santoro,” Mudge answered, consulting his notes. “It was a gray 1959 Chevrolet badly in need of a wash.”
“Whose automobile was it, sir?” Mark asked.
“I don’t know who the car belonged to, Mr. Santoro. I considered that irrelevant. But the sticker number on the car was 16407.”
Mark removed a sheaf of papers from the clipboard he was carrying. “Would you please look up that number, Major, and tell the court the name of the car’s owner?”
“Objection, your honor,” Jim Rowland protested. “I also find this line of questioning completely irrelevant, but that should come as no surprise to the court, since the entire defense we have heard tonight has been completely irrelevant.”
“I assure you, your honor,” Mark said quickly, “the ownership of the car is extremely relevant.”
“It can’t hurt anything to know who owned the car,” Gauldin ruled. “If you would be so kind as to enlighten the court, Major.”
“The vehicle is owned by . . .” Mudge said, going down the numerical listing of all the automobiles registered on campus. Then he stopped, confused, and looked over at me. “The car is owned by Cadet McLean,” he said. “I should have known. It was really in need of a wash.”
There was a bewildered murmur among the members of the honor court. The faces of the individual members registered surprise and even anger. They looked at Pig, at me, and each other as it occurred to them that if Pig was, indeed, the thief, then I was the victim.
The victim kept his hand on the thief’s shoulder and the thief in a natural, unconscious gesture placed his hand over mine.
“I have no more questions for the Major,” Mark said.
“Then call your first witness,” Gauldin ordered as Major Mudge made his exit.
“I would like to call as my first witness Mr. Will McLean, your honor,” Mark said.
“Objection, your honor,” Jim Rowland shouted. “Mr. McLean is a member of the defense. He cannot be both a member of the defense and a chief witness.”
“There’s nothing in the honor code that says that, your honor,” Mark shot back.
“Overruled,” Gauldin said wearily. “Swear the witness in and let’s get on with this.”
It was a lesson in perspective for me to take the witness stand and face the same honor court on which I had served my entire senior year. These were all my good friends; yet, on this night, their collective gaze was harsh and malevolent. The members looked at me as they were required to do, as a witness and not as a friend.
As I waited for Mark to question, an abstract, disjointed thought began troubling me. Pig’s dilemma had demonstrated that the concept of honor meant very little to me at all or at least not when it involved my friends and their security. If I could help Pig get out of this room unharmed and safe, I would tell any lie I could and I would tell it under oath. I would commit an honor violati
on as easily and simply as I adjusted my uniform belt in the morning. But the realization was troubling only because it was worthless. We had reached a critical juncture where not the wildest, most egregious falsehood could help Pig. Our only chance was to confuse the honor court. That was the strategy we had evolved in an all-night vigil in our room as Pig’s last and only chance. But we had also decided, the four of us in a secret vote, that a lie might help Pig and I was the one selected to tell it under oath. The honor committee would never question the veracity of one of its own members. Anything I swore to would be above suspicion. I had voted guilty on three separate occasions during the year in cases involving lying. I had felt no sense of remorse whatsoever when I heard the drums echoing across the campus for those three cadets. Now I was going to lie and I had premeditated that lie for several hours. I tried not to think about lying as I faced the blameless countenance of Gauldin Grace; I tried not to think about hypocrisy. I tried to concentrate on looking as if I were telling the truth. Only threeother people would ever know I was lying, and according to the honor code they too would be implicated in the lie by their toleration of it. Our entire room was entering into the dark country of honor and there were no maps to guide us, no stars on which to fix our sextants, no bells to alert us to the dangers of cities overrun by our enemies. In this country, there were only drums and the drums were waiting, hostile and silent.
“When did you discover that Mr. Pignetti was apprehended while taking the gas cap off your car?” Mark asked me.
“Last night after Major Mudge brought Pig back to the room.”
“Were you disturbed when you heard it was your car, Mr. McLean?” he asked.
“Irrelevant,” Jim Rowland said. “Irrelevant and a complete waste of time.”