Chapter 62
I WALKED TO the box, put my hand on the Bible, and swore to God I would tell the truth. I hoped I could do that. I hoped I wouldn’t have to lie.
I sat down and looked across the blond-wood floor to the defense table. Rick’s expression was tight with pent-up emotion, like he was doing everything in his power not to blow.
Eric Caine, my good friend, an excellent lawyer, and Rick’s defender, smiled as he came toward me.
He stopped a few feet from where I sat and said, “Mr. Morgan, you and I know each other pretty well, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, we do.”
“I’m employed by your firm as your in-house counsel, correct?”
“Yes.”
“So I want the jury to know that you are here today as a character witness for Mr. Del Rio and that you have no firsthand knowledge of the crime that was perpetrated on Ms. Carmody.”
“That’s right.”
Caine paused for a moment, then said, “Mr. Morgan, how long have you known Mr. Del Rio?”
“I’ve known Rick for ten years. We served in Afghanistan together.”
“Will you tell the court about that?”
“How much time do we have?”
Caine smiled. He said, “As much time as you need.”
I had rehearsed a few lines to get myself started, but now, as I looked at Rick’s face, I forgot what I was going to say.
But the images, they were there—with sound and the stink of fear and in living color. That night, when we were shot out of the sky, I remember what affected me most deeply: the dead and dying men, and the relief in Del Rio’s face after he’d brought me back to life.
But that was my story.
Rick had a story too, and there was a part of it that we had never talked about and that he wouldn’t want me to reveal.
But I had to tell it now if I was going to help him.
I wanted to tell the jury that Rick talked to the dead.