“Who?”
“Douglas MacArthur. The Chinese had said they would enter the war if we marched too far north, but MacArthur didn’t believe ’em. We’d been seeing troops wearing quilted coats and tennis shoes for three weeks, and finding perfectly square foxholes—which is textbook Chinese discipline—but our brilliant leader ignored the intelligence. He sat over in the Dai Ichi building in Tokyo, wearing his kimono, and sent thousands of boys to their deaths. That bastard should have been court-martialed the week after the Bugout. I don’t know why it took so long for Truman to fire him. If he was here now, I’d spit on him.”
“On Douglas MacArthur? An American hero and legend?”
“You’re damn right. Men have to die in war, but those poor boys died for MacArthur’s arrogance. For no other reason.”
“I suspect you’re oversimplifying matters, Mr. Garrity.”
“No, that’s what you’re doing. Hindsight’s always twenty-twenty, ain’t it, Mr. DA?”
“Whether it is or not, Major Powers’s vision was twenty-twenty when he watched Tom Cage kill three soldiers by lethal injection in 1950. You saw the same thing, correct?”
“I did.”
“Then we’ve heard all we need to on that subject. Let me ask you about one other thing. It’s a small matter, but very important.”
Walt says nothing.
“When Tom Cage was apprehended outside Henry Sexton’s funeral, after jumping bail, he had been driven to that church by you, had he not?”
“He had.”
“In fact, you had been driving him around ever since he skipped bail. Aiding and abetting a fugitive, as it were.”
“You could call it that, if you had a mind.”
“Well, Mr. Garrity, you spent decades serving as a Texas Ranger. What did you call men who skipped bail?”
“Depended on the man. Some were outlaws, and some were good boys caught in a misunderstanding. That’s why Rangers were taught to use their judgment.”
Shad gives Walt a sidelong glance that lets him know he does not appreciate the sparring. “Were you in court during Sheriff Byrd’s testimony that the night after Dr. Cage turned himself in to the FBI, you threw a videotape from your RV into the Mississippi River?”
“Yes, sir, I was.”
“Was the sheriff’s account accurate?”
Walt leans back in the witness chair and folds his arms. Once more he sniffs, then gives the jury box an appraising glance.
“Captain Garrity?” Shad presses.
“Yessir?”
“Will you answer the question?”
“The sheriff’s account was accurate enough.”
“You threw that videotape from your RV into the river?”
“I threw a tape into the river, along with some other stuff.”
“Are you saying you didn’t know what was on the tape?”
“That’s right.”
“Had you visited Dr. Cage earlier that afternoon in FBI custody?”
“I had.”
“At that time, did you discuss the videotape in the van?”
“No, sir.”
Shad looks skeptical. “Dr. Cage did not tell you where to find that tape and ask you specifically to destroy it?”
“How could he, if we didn’t discuss the tape?”
“Yes or no, Captain.”
Walt is starting to lose patience with Shad. “The answer is no.”
Shad lets the jury see an exaggerated look of incredulity. “If you knew nothing about the tape, not even what was on it, then why would you get rid of it?”
Walt gives Shad a bitter smile. “Because you and your wannabe-cowboy sheriff had been trying to frame my best friend for a week. After Tom turned himself in to the FBI, I stayed a night at his house to make sure his wife was okay. The next day, I decided to go back to Louisiana and get my van. Given the situation, I figured the Roadtrek might draw some unwelcome attention from Sheriff Byrd when I crossed back into Mississippi. So I searched it, just to be careful. I found that tape under a seat cushion. I also found a half-empty bottle of Maker’s Mark and a video camera. I’d never seen the tape before, so I put it in the camera and fast-forwarded through it. Wasn’t nothing on it. In the end, I decided to stuff everything in the bag and toss it when I drove back over the bridge. If you want to charge me with littering, go ahead. But I wasn’t going to help anybody frame my best buddy for something he didn’t do.”
An odd smile touches Shad’s lips, and the sight of it strikes fear in my heart.
“Captain Garrity, did Tom Cage ever tell you that he killed Viola Cage? As a mercy killing, even?”
Walt’s face darkens. “No, sir. He did not.”
“I see. Did he ever tell you specifically that he did not kill her?”
“Yes. He did.”
Shad takes a step toward the jury and looks back at Walt. “Captain, is it your deepest conviction that Tom Cage is innocent of the murder of Viola Turner?”
Walt leans forward. “Absolutely.”
Shad nods slowly, then turns to Judge Elder. “Your Honor, at this time I would like to enter an audio recording into evidence as State’s Exhibit Seventeen.”
“What is the nature of this recording?”
“It was made in Navasota, Texas, under a warrant duly ordered by a Texas circuit judge.”
The blood has drained from Walt’s weathered face. Navasota is where Walt lives, where his wife lives. And in this moment Walt is asking himself the same question I am: What the hell has Shad done?
In a short enough span of time for me to know this has been rehearsed, Shad’s assistant rises from the chairs behind him and goes to the side of the courtroom to load a tape into a player.
Quentin could object to this recording and stop it from being played until its authenticity is verified. But I guess he figures it’s going to be admitted in the end, and if he’s going to keep up the appearance of Dad having nothing to hide from the jury, better to let it be played without argument.
Walt must be losing it up there, but he’s been in the witness box enough times to know better than to let anyone see him sweat.
“Ready,” says the ADA.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Shad says, “you are about to hear a brief portion of a recording of a conversation between the witness and his wife, Mrs. Carmelita Cruz Garrity. It was made four days after Tom Cage turned himself in to the FBI, and three days after Captain Garrity threw the videotape into the river.”
Walt leans forward, his face expressionless, his mind spinning through every conversation he had with his wife during that period.
A female voice with a heavy Mexican accent says, “How long are you going to stay in Mississippi, Walter?”
“I’m not sure,” Walt answers in an exhausted voice. “As long as they need me.”
“They?”
“Tom and his family.”
“And you’re staying at Tom’s house? With his wife there?”
“I have to, darlin’. Peggy’s in bad shape. She puts on a good show, but this is a tough situation.”