Word of Honor (8 page)

There had been some awkwardness and strained smiles, but this was not an age of absolutes, and there was no consensus on the correct behavior toward a suspected war criminal. Socially, he was still acceptable. Legally, he was innocent until proven guilty. Time to go home.

Tyson looked around the room. Half the crowd was gone, but he couldn't see Marcy. In fact, he hadn't seen much of her most of the evening, though he felt confident she'd danced with a good number of the men, annoyed an equal number of wives, gotten at least one serious proposition, and accepted one or two dates for lunch in the city.

Tyson began walking toward the door and saw he was on a collision course with Phillip Sloan. Sloan intercepted him near the exit. "Ben. Did you have a good time?"

"Hello, Phil."

"Where's your wife?"

"Where's yours?"

Sloan smiled tightly. "Do you have a moment?"

Tyson replied, "I'd rather not be seen speaking to my lawyer. -

Sloan seemed miffed at being put into the same category as a bookie or loan shark. "Let's step out here. - They went into the large anteroom, and Sloan indicated the men's room. Tyson said, "Branch office?" Sloan went inside and Tyson followed. Sloan said curtly, "Is this all right?"

"if you like pink marble."

"Listen, Ben, you haven't been the most cooperative client-"

"And you have not been the most discreet attorney, Phil."

Sloan began to respond, but said instead, "You know, our families have done business for years. I consider you more than a client, you're-"

Tyson turned and used the urinal.

WORD OF HONOR o 59

"You're a friend. The wives are friends.

"We're all friends."

"Right. So don't give me this shit that you don't want us to be seen together in public."

Tyson turned from the urinal. "What did you want to see me about?"

Sloan glanced around to assure himself they were alone. An Hispanic attendant sat on a stool, reading the New York Post. Sloan said, "I've contacted an attorney in the city who specializes in publishing law."

Tyson washed his hands.

"He advised us to bring suit." Sloan waited, then went on. "His reasoning is that these alleged incidents are so old that a criminal action is extremely unlikely. That will leave Picard's allegations as basically hearsay. In lay language, Picard has his ass hanging out. Are you following me?"

The attendant gave Tyson a hand towel. "Sort of."

"Also, no one but you is mentioned in a pejorative way. Whenever he writes about someone shooting civilians, he doesn't give a name."

"I noticed that omission."

"But you are mentioned by name as a witness to the massacre. The point is made again and again that you did nothing to stop the killing." Sloan added, "There's even a line in there that suggests you masterminded the cover-up. There's also an ambiguous sentence about you ordering the enemy soldiers to be killed."

"That certainly was an ambiguous sentence. I did not order wounded and captured enemy soldiers murdered. I ordered my men to find and destroy any armed enemy soldiers still in the hospital who continued to resist."

Sloan seemed uninterested in the clarification. He said, "The point is, whoever spoke to Picard was out to get you. I think Picard believed a lot of crap and printed it as truth. This attorney and I agree that we have a very strong case for libel."

Tyson straightened his bow tie.

Sloan continued, "Ben, I'd like you to meet this attorney. His name is Beekman. He's a real crackedack-"

"What does that make me? The prize? Are you a Milk Dud?"

60 * NELSON DEMILLE

"You're drunk. - Sloan made a move to leave, then came back and took a deep breath. "Beekman has handled some famous literary libel cases. You may know the name."

Tyson looked at Sloan's reflection in the mirror. He said, "You and I have both heard of civil trials that took on the coloration of criminal cases.

All sorts of muck is dragged up, the press reports it as though it were a murder trial instead of a lawsuit, and in the end, even if the plaintiff wins, he loses. - Tyson took a bottle of Aramis and splashed some on his palm. "Let the damned thing die. - He slapped the cologne on his face.

"It won't die unless you kill it. If you don't sue and win, these allegations will hang over you for the rest of your life. Reviewers will quote from Picard's book, other authors will pick up bits and pieces, and this damned hospital incident will enter history as truth."

Tyson didn't respond.

"Actually, it may be better to sit tight for a few weeks and see what kind of media exposure this gets."

Tyson tipped the attendant and looked at Sloan. "What does that have to do with it?"

"Well, according to Beekman, considering the book is recently published, the damages to you are small as of now. The book could be recalled by the publisher, further limiting damages. However, we could wait and . . .

pretend we had no knowledge of the book. Then, in time, as a result of, let's say, author interviews and book reviews, plus the book's circulation, advertising, promotion, and so forth, your good name and reputation will be further damaged."

Tyson didn't reply.

"Ut's say," continued Sloan carefully, "that you lose your job. That your son is harassed at school. That Marcy is . . . well, whatever. Then, wham!

We sue. We go after not only Picard but the publisher, the distributor, maybe even the unnamed sources that Picard mentions. Assuming a jury finds for you, the award will be huge. You will be vindicated and rich."

Tyson observed, "The flip side of every problem is an opportunity. -

"Exactly.-

Tyson was intrigued by Sloan's offhand manner in en-WORD OF HONOR 9 61

gineenng a conspiracy. He'd probably be more ethical in a criminal case where the money was paid up front, and the only thing he could lose was his client's liberty.

Sloan said, "Libel suits are very rare things. It's not often that a person gets libeled in print. Cases like this probably make up less than one percent of all civil suits. And the press covers them. So I understand you wanting to avoid further public exposure. But you're a fighter, Ben, and you won't let this blotch remain on your honor."

"Cut the crap, Phil."

Sloan pulled at his lip as though he were wrestling with a tough decision. He looked at Tyson and said, "You probably think no one is going to zero in on your small chapter in that big book. Well . . ." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Beekman got this for me. There's a trade magazine called Publishers Weekly, and they get galley copies of books months before publication. This is a book review in that magazine published seven weeks ago. " He handed Tyson the photocopied page.

Tyson looked at it. There were six short book reviews on the page. His eyes went to the one captioned Hue: Death of a City. Andrew Picard. There was some publishing information, followed by a short review of about 150

words. He scanned it quickly and saw that the review was generally favorable. Halfway through he read:

There is an account of a massacre by American troops at a French hospital filled with patients and European staff. Picard's writing vividly re-creates the massacre and leaves the reader wondering why no official inquiry ever grew out of this incident that ranks with My Lai in the annals of Vietnam atrocities.

Tyson refolded the page and handed it back to Sloan.

Sloan tapped the paper against his palm. "You see? Even in this little pr6cis, you see what sticks out?"

"I see."

"Imagine longer reviews in newspapers and magazines.

Two men came into the rest room. Tyson walked out, and Sloan followed him into the anteroom. People were

62 * NELSON DEMILLE

wandering out of the ballroom and standing around talking, or heading for the lobby. Tyson noticed a few people glancing their way. He said, "You know, Phil, when I got that Community Fund Service Award, no one seemed to hear about it. But as soon as I get myself mentioned in some obscure book as a war criminal, everyone has heard the good news in two weeks."

"That is life, my friend."

"So I've heard."

Sloan took Tyson's arm. "I have to tell you, Ben, a lot of people kept asking me tonight, 'Are you suing?' I don't know what to say anymore."

Tyson knew Sloan was maneuvering him toward a lawsuit the way a surgeon maneuvers a patient toward the operating room. He knew he needed a second opinion and not Beekman's. He said to Sloan, "If we sue and it went to trial, how many Army lawyers would be in the spectator seats? How many Justice Department lawyers?"

Sloan didn't reply.

Tyson continued, "You see, win or lose, in a civil suit, the government will hear enough to make them curious. Did that occur to you, counselor?"

Sloan shrugged. "That's a possibility, of course. But still, Ben, I'm assuming that in a strict legal sense you are not guilty of murder.

That's what the government will conclude if they monitor a civil trial."

Tyson leaned closer to Sloan. "They will conclude no such thing, my friend." Tyson fluffed Sloan's red pocket handkerchief. "Good night."

Tyson turned and walked toward the lobby where he found Marcy seated in an armchair. She stood as he approached, and without a word, he took her arm and they left the lobby of the hotel through the main doors. The night had turned cool and misty, with a soft wind blowing from the south.

Tyson breathed deeply to clear his head. "I think I smell the ocean."

"You always say that after you eat canap6s made with anchovy paste. You said that once in Switzerland."

Tyson gave the doorman his parking chit. About a dozen people waited under the marquee for their cars. Tyson looked at Marcy. "Did you have a good evening?"

Marcy considered a moment, then said, "No. For the WORD OF HONOR 0 63

first time, I felt I wasn't Marcy Clure Tyson but Ben Tyson's wife. "

"Weak ego, Marcy."

Marcy did not reply.

Tyson lit a cigarette and leaned against a pillar. He looked out across the hotel grounds toward the road. To the left was the village's main street, a long block of little shops and banks. Everytown, USA; as Everytown had looked before the malls and commercial strips. To his left front was the library, and to the right of that, the small war memorial park. Directly opposite the hotel was the commuter station. In the distance, rising above the trees, he could see the tall Gothic spire of the Episcopal Cathedral of the Incarnation against the moonlit skyline, topped by an illuminated cross. This was familiar territory. Safe ground.

"Are you all right?"

He looked at his wife. "Yes."

"You were somewhere else."

"Sometimes I do that."

Marcy said, "Your mother called today. I forgot to tell you. I I

"What did she want?"

"She wants you to take care of yourself. Eat well. Relax. I think Florida made her Jewish."

Tyson smiled. He'd heard from a few old friends and some out-of-town family over the past two weeks. He was a little surprised at how fast news traveled. It reminded him of the Army, the rumor mill par excellence.

Marcy, as though she knew what he was thinking, said, "Anybody who didn't know about it when they got here knows now. Maybe you ought to issue an official statement in the village papers and the club newsletter.-

Tyson smiled again. "Phil said no statements, public or private." But he himself had called a few people, close friends and relatives. And he'd been surprised by the variety of reactions: some people seemed insensitive; some were noncommittal; a good number seemed unimpressed by the seriousness of what had been written about him. A few people, as he'd noted tonight, sensed a developing celebrity status, albeit of a questionable nature, and he had the impression that these people were trying to get close to him to 64 * NELSON DEMILLE

somehow share the limelight. Tyson said to Marcy, "The Grenvilles, who are important personages in the old guard, have asked us to cocktails. Next Friday, if you're interested. "

Marcy replied, "I suppose they want you to autograph Picard's book. I'll bring the Life magazine to pass around."

Tyson smiled. Marcy, if nothing else, he thought, was well equipped to handle friends, neighbors, and family.

As Tyson saw his car coming down the drive, a voice behind him called out,

"Ben. Marcy."

Tyson and Marcy turned. John McCormick and his wife, Phyllis, had come through the doors.

McCormick said, "I didn't get a chance to speak to you guys tonight."

Greetings, handshakes, and perfunctory kisses were exchanged. McCormick said bluntly, "I have some more bad news for you, Ben. I hope you don't hold anything against the bearers of bad news."

Tyson rather liked McCormick, but two pieces of bad news from the same person in two weeks might, he supposed, prejudice him against the man.

Tyson saw the thick newspaper under McCormick's arm and made a guess at what the news might be.

McCormick said, "Sunday Times. Just came in. The book got a major review.

Your name is mentioned."

Tyson nodded. "Okay." He noticed that Phyllis McCormick looked at her husband in a way that suggested this was not her idea. Tyson saw McCormick hesitate, much as he had hesitated on the train before handing him the book. Tyson had a sense of d6jA vu, coupled with a sinking stomach, as McCormick offered him the separated Book Review section. Tyson smiled gamely. "Do you want me to autograph it?"

McCormick's smile seemed more forced. "You can keep it. "

The Volvo stopped at the curb, and the doorman held the passenger door open. The Tysons wished the McCormicks good night, and they parted. Tyson slipped behind the wheel of the Volvo and put it into gear as the attendant shut his door. He pulled up the curved drive toward the road. Marcy sat quietly with the Book Review section on her lap.

Tyson said, "Well."

WORD OF HONOR 0 65

"Well what?"

"Well, with a national circulation of about two million, things are going to begin happening."

Marcy nodded. "I'll arrange for an unlisted phone number Monday."