Word of Honor (3 page)

Tyson realized that he hadn't been home on a weekday afternoon in some years. There were children walking and bicycling from school, housewives with carriages, service vans, mail carriers, and all the other signs of activity that made up the life of these commuter towns by day. He felt almost estranged from these familiar streets where he'd spent his childhood.

Tyson stood before a picturesque brick building with arched windows. The hundred-year-old structure had served as the village stable, public school, and warehouse. Now it was a gentrified warren of law offices where Dickensian scriveners spent the day bent over plea forms and wills. Tyson entered a ground floor office and stood in the empty waiting room.

He shifted the attach6 case to his left hand and was aware of the book, like a tumor, he thought, nascent at the moment, newly discovered, awaiting diagnosis.

A woman appeared from the far door. "May I help you?"

"My name is Ben Tyson. I'm here to see Mr. Sloan."

She smiled in recognition, not of his face, but of his name. Like most of Tyson's relationships, the one with Phillip Sloan's secretary was primarily telephonic. "I'm Ann. Please have a seat."

She disappeared and a minute later returned with Phillip Sloan, a man in his fifties. Sloan was dressed in an unfortunate checkered suit, tassled shoes, and his club tie, whose colors never seemed to match anything. Sloan greeted Tyson effusively, then said, "Ben, did we have an appointment?"

Sloan made a silly show of leafing through his secretary's appointment book.

Tyson moved toward the entrance to the inner offices. "This won't take long, Phil."

Sloan shot his secretary a quizzical look, then followed. He directed Tyson into the library. "I have a client in my office. "

Tyson took a seat at a long reading table and regarded the book-lined walls. Corpus Juris Secundum. The law of the land, codified and indexed, spelling out in excruciating detail and obtuse prose the rights and obligations of a uniquely lawless society.

WORD OF HONOR 0 21

Tyson placed an open book on the mahogany table and slid it toward Sloan.

Sloan glanced quickly at the front of the book, then began to read.

Tyson ht a cigarette and stared off at the far wall.

After some time, Sloan looked up from the book, a neutral expression on his face.

Tyson saw that Sloan was not going to speak, so he said, "John McCormick showed that to me on the train this morning. "

Sloan gave a professional nod that conveyed nothing.

Tyson did not particularly like the man. But Sloan's father had been the Tyson family attorney for years, and it seemed natural that Phillip Sloan should continue to handle the Tysons' affairs. And Sloan was good, if not likable. Tyson stood. "I just wanted to alert you to this before you heard it on the links or wherever it is you disappear to on sunny days. If anything comes of it, I'll let you know. "

Sloan hesitated, then made a motion with his hand. "Sit down, Ben. I can spare a few more minutes."

You're damned right you can, thought Tyson. This is one of those walk-ins you dream about. Tyson remained standing.

Sloan began speaking with a tone of concern. "Well, this is distressing. "

He thought a moment, then said, "I suppose you've given some thought to bringing suit."

But Tyson was only half listening. He said abruptly, "Could this thing bring about a criminal action?"

Sloan stayed silent for some time, staring at Tyson, then said, "That depends.

"On what?"

"Obviously on whether or not there is any substance to what is written in that book." He paused, then said, "Will you sit down, Ben? Let me see that book again."

Tyson sat and took the book from his attach6 case.

Sloan examined it, reading the flap copy, scanning the index, then the front matter. He looked up at Tyson. "Major publisher. The author seems to have credentials. The book is annotated and has a bibliography. Seems like a respectable

b. "

Tyson shrugged.

Sloan said, "You understand, Ben, that whatever we say 22 * NELSON DEMILLE

here is privileged conversation. " Sloan drew a deep breath. "Well?"

Tyson hesitated, then said, "Look, what I want to know from you is whether or not I ... or the men who served with me ... can be called to account."

Sloan's voice had an edge of sharpness. "For what? You haven't answered my question."

"For murder!"

Sloan leaned back in his chair and thought a moment, then replied, "There is no statute of limitations on murder.

Tyson's face was impassive.

Sloan continued, "However, the Army would have to establish jurisdiction in this case."

"Meaning?"

"They'd have to get you back in."

Tyson nodded. "Can they do that?"

"That's the question." Sloan added, "If they can't, then no civilian court can try you. You see, you fall between the cracks. It would have to be an American military courtmartial or no trial at all. There are precedents for this."

"I'm sure there are." Tyson thought a moment. "Okay, worst scenario. They get me back in. Then what?"

"The key here is witnesses. Is there anyone in your former unit who would testify against you?"

"Apparently there is."

Sloan shook his head. "Talking to a writer is not the same as testifying in front of an Army grand jury."

Tyson stayed silent.

Sloan played with his pencil awhile, then said, "Look, what we have here is an alleged crime brought to light by a writer some seventeen--eighteen years . . . My God, is it that long ago? Anyway, many years after the alleged facts. The writer mentions three sources for his account: two unnamed GIs whom he claims were in your platoon and whose anonymity he is protecting and one Eurasian nun, identified only as Sister Teresa, who he says is the sole survivor of the massacre-" Sloan looked at Tyson. "Do you know this Sister Teresa?"

Tyson hesitated before replying, "I knew the nun in question. "

Sloan did not pursue this but said, "Anyway, here is an WORD OF HONOR 0 23

alleged crime, committed in a foreign country with which we have no present relations---

"I know all that."

---during a military operation, during a time of war, and you are not specifically mentioned as one of the people who actively engaged in this .

. . massacre. "

Tyson stared at the book lying between them. "All right, now what's the bad news?"

Sloan leaned forward. "You know. As the commander-"

"Responsible for the actions of my men, I bear full responsibility, and so on. Yes, I know."

"Did you shoot anyone?"

"No. I I

"Were you at the scene of the alleged murders?"

Tyson began to reply, then said, "Picard says I was."

"Picard wasn't there. I'm asking you."

"No, I wasn't even there. Case closed."

"I'm afraid it isn't, Lieutenant. " Sloan tapped his pencil on the table, then said, "Okay, let me play devil's advocate again. Or Army prosecutor, if you like. Based on what I read here, 1, as a prosecutor, want to know if you actually ordered those murders or if you did anything to prevent them.

I want to know if you knew of them and did not report them, or even if you should have known of them or should have anticipated them. Because if any of that is true, then the Army will charge you with the actual murders as though you committed them with your own hands."

After a period of silence, Tyson let out a breath and remarked, "Rank has its privileges."

Sloan stood and went to the far wall of the library. He pulled a large volume from a high shelf and literally dusted it off, then laid it on the table. He said, "Any case that the Army builds against you will probably be based in part on the precedents and principles established at the Nuremberg trials of Nazi war criminals and the Tokyo trials of Japanese war criminals."

"I'm in good company."

Sloan leafed through the book as he spoke. "The object of these trials was to get nooses around the necks of our enemies, of course. But some of those precedents have come

24 * NELSON DEMILLE

back to haunt the American military." He stopped turning pages. "To wit: The landmark case of General Yamashita, commander of Japanese forces in the Philippines. Yamashita was accused by the Americans of having

'unlawfully disregarded and failed to discharge his duty as a commander,'

by permitting men under his command to 'commit brutal atrocities and other high crimes. ' " Sloan glanced at Tyson. "Nowhere was it alleged that Yamashita personally committed any of the atrocities or even that he ordered their commission or even that he had any knowledge of them. The charges merely stated that during the period of his command he failed to anticipate what his troops might do, should have known what they might do, and failed to provide effective control of his troops as was required by circumstances. " Sloan closed the book. "General Yamashita was found guilty and hanged."

"Thanks for the pep talk, Phil."

Sloan looked at his watch. "I have to get back." He stood. "Look, the point about 'should have known' and all that is somewhat esoteric. The Army is not going to charge you with anything after all these years unless you were actually at the scene of the incident. Were you?"

"Quite possibly." Tyson stood.

"Did you actively participate in any way? I'm still not clear about what your role was in this alleged incident."

Tyson picked up his attachd case. "Well, it was a long time ago, Phil, and I'll have to think about what my role was. "

Sloan seemed miffed at the evasive answer. He walked toward the door and turned back. "The best defense is an aggressive offense. That's true in football, combat, and law. You ought to give serious consideration to suing this guy Picard. If you don't sue, then this will be noted by the government and the Army, and may well influence their decision on if and how to proceed." Sloan waited for a reply, then added, "Also, you ought to consider how your friends, community, family, and employers will look on this if you don't sue for libel. "

Tyson had already considered all of that. He knew, too, that Sloan was baiting him, asking in an oblique manner, Of the charge of murder, guilty or not guilty, Tyson?

WORD OF HONOR e 25

"Of course I'll consider a lawsuit," Tyson said.

Sloan nodded slowly. "All right, Ben, keep me informed if anything further develops. Meanwhile, leave me the book to read. Get another copy and do the same." He walked through the door, and Tyson followed. They parted in the corridor. Sloan said, "Don't make any statements, public or private. "

Tyson looked over his shoulder. "I wasn't planning to.

"Best to Marcy."

Tyson left the office and walked up the tree-shaded avenue. The danger, he thought, was more clear now and more palpable, which in a way made him feel better. But the thing had grown another head, and the teeth were far bigger than he'd thought from a distance.

Ben Tyson recrossed Hilton Avenue and entered the village library. He went directly upstairs to the reference law library. After some searching he sat at a small desk with four thick books. He pulled a yellow legal pad from his briefcase and headed the first page: The Peers Commission Report on the My Lai Massacre. On the second page he wrote: Byrne's Military Law. Page three and four he headed, respectively: The Uniform Code of Military Justice and The Manual for Courts-Martial.

Tyson opened the Peers Commission report and began reading, making notes as he went along. After half an hour, he pushed it aside and opened The Uniform Code ofMilitary Justice. He was familiar with this book and was fairly certain it hadn't changed in the eighteen years since he'd last opened a copy of it. Military law transformed itself at roughly the same rate as the evolution of a new species.

As an officer he'd sat on court-martial boards and had even acted as defense and trial counsel at Special CourtsMartial. Military law as written had seemed fair, logical, and even compassionate. There was a certain element of common sense to it that he knew instinctively was not present in civilian law. Yet some of the courts-martial he'd observed, especially those overseas,. had a surreal quality to them; grim, dreary, little Kafkaesque affairs whose sole function was to process the accused into the convicted as quickly and quietly as possible.

26 0 NELSON DEMILLE

Tyson skimmed the pertinent parts of the UCMJ, made some notes, then picked up the Manualfor Courts-Martial. The book was actually a three-ring binder that held looseleaf pages. He perused the book quickly, more out of curiosity and a perverse sense of nostalgia than for legal strategy. The manual was little more than a primer, a blueprint, and a script for a trial. Everyone's part was neatly spelled out in black and white. As an officer he had gone to this book only when all signs and omens pointed to court-martial. Tyson closed the book, rubbed his eyes, and stood. The light was dying from the west-facing window, and the library seemed unnaturally still, even for a library. Tyson looked at his watch. Nearly 6 P.m. He collected his notes, slipped them into his attach6 case, and descended the stairs. He left the building and walked to a bench in the small war memorial park, a stretch of lawn between the library and railroad station. A late commuter train pulled in, and wives or husbands in cars and station wagons were there to meet it. Across the street the large hotel sat serenely in its own treed park.

Several things that he'd read, especially in Byrne's and the Peers Commission Report, preyed on his mind. He had thought briefly that perhaps he was beyond the reach of the law; that time, distance, and the course of his own life had forever separated him from that fetid little white stucco hospital. But now he was not so sure.

Tyson stood, turned, and began walking. He pictured himself in his pressed officer greens, sitting again in a courtmartial room, not on the government side but in the ac

cused's chair. He held on to that image as he walked, trying to make it so vivid that he felt impelled to take any steps necessary to avoid its becoming reality.

He headed toward Franklin Avenue where there was a bookshop. And then, without further delay, he knew he must head home to his family.