Private Vegas (Private 9)

Caine said, “Yes, Your Honor. The defense calls Mr. Jack Morgan.”

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.

Chapter 63

THERE WASN’T A sound in the room, just expectant faces, every one of them turned toward me.

I began to talk about the night we were transporting troops from Gardez to the base in Kandahar. I said that I was piloting the aircraft, that Del Rio was my copilot, my wingman, and that we had fourteen war-weary Marines in the cargo bay.

“Night flights are exceptionally—hazardous. Even with NVGs, even with our heightened awareness of anomalies on the ground, there are ditches and shadows where the enemy can hide.”

I said, “We never saw the ground-to-air missile that slammed through the belly of the CH-46, knocking out our rear rotor, sending us into a death spiral thousands of feet straight down. That same missile set off ordnance inside the chopper and blew up the fuel tanks and started the fire that burned our helicopter from the inside out.”

I looked at the faces of the jurors and told them that against terrible odds, we landed the aircraft with its struts down, and that Del Rio and I got out of the Phrog alive and uninjured. My voice cracked when I told them that when I reached the wreckage of the cargo bay, I was presented with something akin to Sophie’s choice.

“You’re supposed to take the man that has the best chance of survival. That’s what you do—but it was dark. Men were screaming in agony, begging not to be left to be burned alive. I loved them all, but I grabbed Corporal Danny Young,” I said. “I didn’t know if he would make it, but he was closest to the door.

“I carried him to safety, and I had just put him down when the helicopter exploded. It’s a concussive explosion. The ground erupts. The air shatters.