Word of Honor Page 11

  Sloan seemed uncomfortable with this line of conversation.

  Tyson’s tone was bitter. “You know, if old man Stutzman were still in charge, he’d have offered me the corporation’s law firm to fight this.”

  Sloan waved a dismissive hand.

  A waiter came to the table, and Tyson ordered eggs and orange juice. Sloan ordered sweet rolls and another pot of coffee. It struck Tyson that he had an irrational dislike for men who ate sweet rolls for breakfast.

  Sloan reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folded newspaper page, handing it literally under the table to Tyson.

  Tyson unfolded it and saw it was the front page of the American Investigator; not the one featuring Marcy, but the most recent edition of the weekly tabloid. One of the numerous headlines read: MR. PRESIDENT, WILL JUSTICE BE DONE? That interrogatory headline, Tyson observed, was a sly way of suggesting to the American Investigator’s readership that the Chief of State received a copy of the rag on the White House doorstep. Tyson noticed another front-page story titled MARCY’S FRIENDS AND LOVERS TELL ALL. Tyson refolded the page without reading the text and handed it back to Sloan. “So?”

  “Well, the story about Marcy goes beyond the bounds of common decency and journalistic ethics. Even for this scandal sheet. The fellow Jones who’s been covering the story has interviewed some of Marcy’s college friends and . . . people who claim to have been intimate with her.”

  Tyson poured cream into his coffee.

  Sloan continued, “The article is libelous. Filled with titillation, sarcasm, innuendos, and suggestions of radical activities of a violent nature. Marcy was radical, as we know, but to the best of my knowledge, never violent. There are also gratuitous remarks about drugs.” Sloan hesitated, then added, “There is also a guarded mention of marital infidelity.”

  Tyson didn’t reply.

  “Sleaze,” Sloan continued. “Pure sleaze. And damned sure libelous. Look, this has gone on long enough. I think she ought to bring suit. I’m talking to you man-to-man, Ben. You don’t have to get involved in the suit, but I thought I’d speak to you first. Now, we both know that Marcy is an independent woman, and she doesn’t need her husband’s permission to enter into a lawsuit. But tradition and common courtesy dictate that I speak to you first.”

  “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

  Sloan affected a smile. “Well, we’ll keep this conversation to ourselves. But she is my client, and I’m going to speak to her.”

  “That’s your prerogative.”

  The breakfasts came, and Tyson buttered a slice of toast. Sloan bit into a sticky bun. Tyson asked, “Good?”

  Sloan nodded as he chewed. “Want one?”

  “No, thank you.” Tyson took a forkful of eggs.

  Sloan lifted a packet of sugar from a bowl and emptied the contents into his coffee. Tyson said, “They don’t use sugar cubes anymore. Everyone uses those idiotic packets now. I’m going to speak to the manager.”

  “These are more sanitary—”

  “But you can’t build things with packets. I was going to show you the battle of Hue. Here, I can do it with paper and pen.” Tyson took a pen from his inside pocket. “Give me one of those yellow pads you people always carry.”

  Sloan’s eyes rolled slightly as he retrieved a legal pad from his briefcase.

  Tyson began drawing as he ate.

  Sloan glanced around the terrace and noticed a few people turn away. Both men ate in silence for a while as Tyson drew, then Sloan said, “Let’s speak about your suit for a moment. All right, you have been libeled in print and slandered on TV and radio. All the damage that could be done is done. You have suffered acute personal embarrassment, irrevocable harm to your career and your character, causing you great psychological damage—”

  Tyson glanced up from his drawing. “Are you sure? I feel okay.”

  “Listen, Ben, if we delay any longer in initiating suit, we will be guilty of laches—that means sitting on our asses. The law specifically states that you may not unreasonably delay bringing suit for damages. The law recognizes that potential plaintiffs who do that are playing a game, trying to increase the harm—”

  “You said to let my name get dragged through the slime so we could sue for bigger bucks, Phil.”

  Sloan cleared his throat. “That’s not exactly what I said. Anyway, the problem is, to avoid the appearance of laches we must begin now, today—”

  “The problem was the layout of the city.” Tyson swiveled the yellow pad around on the table. “See, within the Citadel, the old city was laid out in long, straight, narrow streets. There’s no room for armor to maneuver. The ARVN tried, but the NVA easily knocked out their tanks with rockets. Okay, within the Citadel you also had the walls of the Forbidden City, which in turn held the emperor’s Palace of Heavenly Peace. See? Then there were these watchtowers on the walls, which were seized early by the Viet Cong and North Viets. To complicate the situation, the Perfume River cuts the city in two. Right here. Farther south of the city you have the area of the emperor’s tombs, which were traditionally controlled by VC—tourists had to pay a VC tax. Crazy war. Anyway . . . you see . . . this is a difficult cityscape . . . too difficult. The American commanders should not have chosen to fight the enemy on the enemy’s terms. That’s what caused so much death and destruction. Hue became a sort of Verdun, with everyone converging on the center of the city to slaughter each other. Bad tactics. The Americans and South Viets should have withdrawn and established a cordon sanitaire. What do you think?”

  “You know,” said Sloan, trying to control his irritation, “because we’re friends, I let you get away with jerking me around. And I know you’re under a lot of stress. But it’s time to cut out the nonsense and act.”

  Tyson contemplated the map he’d drawn and added another detail.

  Sloan leaned across the table. “Here’s the question—do we have a suit? Or is Andrew Picard, through his witnesses, telling the truth? Did you, Benjamin Tyson, or did you not, participate in any way in the murder of men, women, children, nuns, medical staff, et al., at Miséricorde Hospital?”

  Tyson pushed the legal pad aside and chewed thoughtfully on a piece of toast, then met Sloan’s eyes and said, “I suppose you ought to know. Yes, I am, as suggested in Picard’s book, guilty of murder.”

  To his credit, Tyson thought, Sloan did not feign surprise or any other emotion that he did not feel. Sloan simply nodded curtly.

  Tyson continued, “So that’s the end of the civil suit talk. Sorry to disappoint you and sorry to have jerked you around so long. But you understand.”

  Sloan said a bit coolly, “I’m not disappointed. Well, in a way I’m disappointed that you didn’t confide in me earlier and disappointed that you don’t think you’re innocent—”

  “I’m not innocent.”

  Sloan stayed silent a moment before replying, “That’s up to the criminal justice system to decide. Not you. Look, in the event charges are brought against you and then dismissed, or otherwise disposed of, or if in fact you are tried, then found not guilty, then you can most probably win a civil suit for libel. Do you follow?”

  Tyson nodded. The man was persistent and had obviously thought this through.

  Sloan went on. “But you must let me initiate the suit now. We can postpone and delay any resolution of the suit for as long as it takes to dispose of any potential criminal charges. That resolves your complaint about the possibility of the government monitoring a civil trial. That puts them in a position of having to try to outstall us. I can keep a civil suit alive for years without going to trial. They can’t do that with criminal charges without violating your rights.”

  Tyson thought legal strategies were more Machiavellian than even political strategies. Military strategy, if nothing else, was based on simplicity, speed, and commonly understood objectives. Tyson replied, “I’m getting dizzy. Anyway, as I said, with a few minor corrections, Picard has related the truth—”

  “Oh, who gives a s
hit about the truth?” Sloan leaned farther across the table and spoke in a low voice. “Listen to me. I don’t give a goddamn if you’re guilty or not, and you’ve wasted a lot of my time trying to obscure that irrelevant fact. What I’m concerned with is what’s happening now. You’ve been fucked around by the press, jerked off by your employers, snubbed by your peers, and held up to scorn on radio and TV by that schmuck Picard. Let’s lay the groundwork for getting even.”

  Tyson looked out over the greens. Fred Riordon, a semi-retired pediatrician, was teeing off. He turned back to Sloan. “Picard is not a schmuck. I’ve read his book, and I’ve seen him on TV. I wish he were a schmuck, but he’s not. He’s an arrogant twit, but nobody’s fool. Secondly, getting even through civil suit, while civilized, is also wimpy and a poor substitute for kicking people in the balls or cutting their throats. If I ever sue, it won’t be for revenge. Third, your points about our criminal justice system are well taken, but I’ve been doing a lot of reading, and I’m not so sure a military tribunal would find me innocent.”

  “The rules of evidence still apply.”

  Tyson shrugged. “Go see a court-martial. Then we’ll discuss it.”

  Sloan drummed his fingers on the table. “You know, it’s time you made a public statement. Something . . . something like you were saying before . . . about the battle itself. Something to the effect that it was chaos . . . but more than that . . . that it was a military blunder . . . gross stupidity, leading to unnecessary deaths—”

  “What the hell purpose would that serve?”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised. Allegations are not charges.”

  Tyson watched as the shadow of an airplane passed over the links. Tyson turned his attention to Sloan. “No, but there are allegations and then there are allegations. I’m not a lawyer, Phil, but let me tell you what I know of human nature. Here we have wide public knowledge of an alleged crime of some magnitude. Just as you see dollar signs, there are Justice Department lawyers and JAG lawyers who see glory and challenge.” Tyson lit a cigarette and added, “Here we have a public spectacle with all the right elements: murder, conspiracy, Vietnam, sordid revelations, and exposés—a three-ring circus, complete with acrobats, jugglers, magicians, clowns, and tightrope walkers. You’re right: Innocence or guilt has little to do with this.”

  “That’s cynical.”

  Tyson laughed. “That, from a lawyer?”

  “Cut it out, Ben. I’m trying to help you. And I didn’t like that remark about money.”

  “I know you’re not in it just for the money, Phillip. You have an eye on press coverage, too. One man’s misfortune is another man’s fame and fortune. But that’s okay. No sweat.”

  “You’re becoming paranoid.”

  “Paranoia kept me alive once.”

  Sloan poured himself and Tyson more coffee. He said, “You certainly bring new perspectives to the legal system.”

  Tyson seemed not to hear. He said, “An important element, I think, in how I am ultimately going to be judged—either legally or in the eyes of my peers—lies in the ethnicity of the victims.”

  Sloan eyed him closely but did not respond.

  Tyson nodded to himself and continued, “Some of them were Caucasian, Phil. White folk like us. The soldiers at My Lai had it easy. They had only to explain away two or three hundred slant-eyed gook bodies. I have to explain about a dozen dead Caucasians. In war, as in every facet of life, it’s quality, not quantity, that counts.”

  Phillip Sloan seemed to miss the sarcasm of the observation and nodded agreement. He said softly, as if to himself, “Catholics . . . the Orientals were Catholic. . . .”

  “Right, Phil. All the Vietnamese nuns were obviously Catholic. Probably many of the patients were, too. It was a predominantly Catholic suburb of Hue. Some of the Europeans may have been Protestant. Double trouble.” Tyson lit another cigarette. “No priests, though.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “A bunch of babies, however. Pregnant women, children, sick people, wounded people—”

  “Jesus.”

  “That’s what you find in a hospital, Phil. In war, you have to take what you get.”

  Sloan looked at him quickly. “Are you crazy?”

  “Now, there’s an interesting question, fraught with many possibilities.” Tyson winked and stood. He handed Sloan the yellow pad. “Do you see the mistake the Marines made?”

  Sloan seemed momentarily confused, then glanced at the legal pad. “Oh—”

  “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? Look, instead of driving north across the river into the heart of the Citadel, they should have swept around to the west in an end run. Then north across the river to block the western gate in the Citadel wall.” Tyson tapped his finger on the yellow, lined paper. “That was the key. The communists were pumping in supplies and reinforcements through the western gate. And no one was in a position to stop them. My company was moving toward the west wall, but we were understrength and spread thin. Picard glosses over this Marine blunder, which is interesting. You see, after all these years, there is a little part of him that is still a Marine. Semper Fidelis. Don’t bad-mouth the corps. Even when you’re supposed to be after the truth.”

  Sloan said, “He bad-mouthed you and your troops with no problem. That’s what I was getting at before—command culpability at a level higher than yours. If you go before a court-martial board, you can subpoena every commander who was within twenty miles of Hue that day. Make it clear to the Army that you were a small cog in a malfunctioning wheel, that you’re not taking the rap alone. Go for the brass.”

  Tyson stared at Sloan, then leaned down, close to Sloan’s face. “But don’t you see, my friend? That’s not fair. Any fool, including an ROTC lieutenant like me, can be a military genius at the breakfast table twenty years later, after having read a comprehensive history of the battle. But real genius is the ability to grasp the essence of a situation as it is happening. To think—not on your feet but on your belly, with five radiotelephones screaming at you, men dying and crying in pain, your pants full of piss, and the thump, thump, thump of mortar rounds walking toward you.” Tyson slapped the table three times. Thump, thump, thump!

  Sloan glanced around quickly and saw that people were looking.

  Tyson straightened up and threw his cigarette on the terrace stone. He said in a quieter voice, “Well, judge not, that ye be not judged. The Allied commanders at Hue killed more of their own troops through stupidity than the enemy killed through superior tactics. But I’d forgive those officers if they asked my forgiveness. Because, you know, buddy, in the heat of battle, there is no judgment to be made on anyone. When the battle ends and coffee is being served to the survivors, people ought to remember that. Thanks for breakfast, Phil.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Benjamin Tyson lay naked on the ceramic tile ledge and watched the steam rising to the ceiling.

  The man on the tier above him waited until the steam stopped hissing, then said, “I hope you understand why I wanted to speak to you here.”

  Tyson felt the good sweat running over his body. He glanced up at the man sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest. Tyson replied, “I assume it has something to do with recording devices.”

  “Right.” He added, “Everyone’s paranoid these days. Well, what with mini-transmitters, directional microphones, and all, I don’t blame people. But this place is good. I have a lot of meetings in steam rooms. We’ll swim later.”

  Tyson sat up and propped his back against the wall. He had on past occasions discussed business here at the New York Athletic Club, but the place had been chosen to promote chumminess, not to put everyone at ease about tape recorders.

  The man said, “What are your clubs?”

  “Book-of-the-Month.”

  He laughed, then said, “Don’t you belong to two suburban clubs? The Garden City Country Club and the Garden City Golf Club—that’s men only, isn’t it?”

  Tyson said, “I’m afr
aid I’m not clear about who you represent, Mr. Brown.”

  “I represent the government.”

  “The whole government? All by yourself?”

  The man smiled slowly. “Well, that’s not important right now.”

  “It is to me. Look, you convinced me on the phone you had something important to say. That’s why I’m here.”

  Brown looked down at Tyson, but said nothing.

  Tyson stared back at him through the white steam. Brown was somewhat younger than Tyson, and Tyson, like most men who’ve recently discovered they are middle-aged, disliked authority figures who were younger than themselves. The man was well built and well tanned, Tyson noted, except for the outlines of a brief bathing suit and a watch on his left wrist. He had curly blue-black hair and manicured nails, and his general appearance was that of a man who took some care with himself. Tyson noticed he wore a wedding band and a religious medal. He didn’t think Brown was military but felt he had once been. His accent hinted of private schools and an Ivy League college. Tyson said finally, “What can I do for you, Mr. Brown?”

  “Call me Chet, okay?”

  “Okay, Chet. What else can I do for you?”

  The man smiled. “May I call you Ben?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well,” said Chet Brown, as he massaged his sweaty calves, “I want to speak to you about . . . things. This conversation will be unofficial but authorized. We can come to some binding decisions here.”

  Tyson remarked, “Sounds like the government is in trouble.”

  “Not at all. You are the one who is in trouble.”

  Tyson did not reply immediately, then said, “So why negotiate? What did old Ben Franklin say, Chet? ‘Neither a fortress nor a virgin will hold out long after they begin to negotiate.’”

  Brown laughed. “I like that. I think I’m going to like you, Ben. You don’t look like a mass murderer.”

  Tyson resisted several responses, one of which was taking a swing at Chet Brown.