The Quiet Game (72 page)

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Your Honor, I have further questions for this witness, but I would prefer to examine him during the presentation of my case.”

Seeing Franklin gearing up to explain to me why the director of the FBI cannot be expected to sit around at my beck and call, I add, “I hope to recall Mr. Portman before the end of the day.”

Judge Franklin turns to Portman with a solicitous smile. “Will that impose an undue hardship on you, Mr. Director?”

“I can be available until the end of the day, barring an unforeseen emergency.”

“Very well. You are temporarily excused.” Franklin turns to the defense table. “Mr. Sims, does the plaintiff intend to call further witnesses?”

Blake Sims leans across Leo’s massive chest and holds a whispered conference with Livy. She listens, then shakes her head. They want this show to close as quickly as possible.

“Your Honor,” says Sims. “Reserving the right to call rebuttal witnesses, the plaintiff rests.”

Judge Franklin looks at her watch. “This phase of the trial has taken much less time than I anticipated. Let’s take a ten-minute break, and then Mr. Cage will present his defense.”

As the jurors file out, I turn and look for Caitlin. She’s sitting with my parents. She slides along the bench, then comes up to the bar behind my table. I can tell by her face that she doesn’t have good news.

“No word from Stone?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry. You’d better drag out the testimony of every witness you have.”

“I hate to do that. Juries always sense it.”

“I don’t think you have a choice.”

What a comfort. The ten-minute recess lasts about two minutes, and then I’m on my feet again, doing what I have done countless times in my life: presenting a murder case. I do not stall for time. I do not equivocate. I present it just as I’d planned.

My witnesses come and go like commentators in a documentary. Frank Jones admits he lied about being alone in the Triton parking lot; his ex-wife
describes finding the soiled stockings in their car; Betty Lou tearfully places Ray Presley at the crime scene (earning points with the jury for testifying against her own interest), then describes Presley’s subsequent threats and brutal harassment; Huey Moak’s expert testimony establishes that Payton’s car was destroyed by C-4, proving the evidence “discovered” by Presley was planted; and Lester Hinson testifies that he sold C-4 to Ray Presley in April 1968. All this testimony runs like a Swiss watch.

And therein lies the problem.

Neither Blake Sims nor Livy rise once to cross-examine my witnesses. They don’t even challenge Huey Moak’s credentials. Every time I tender a witness, Sims waves his hand from the table and says, “No questions, Your Honor.” Their strategy is simple. They’ll happily let me prove Ray Presley guilty of murder. And they will probably let me draw connections between Presley and Ike Ransom, if I can. As long as I can’t link Presley or Ransom to Leo Marston, I am fulfilling the scenario painted in Sims’s opening statement. The Payton murder was a race crime, committed by a racist. In his closing argument Sims will probably laud my efforts to find justice in this terrible tragedy. But to suggest any nefarious link between such men and Leo Marston must indicate some secret malice toward Marston on my part.

My dilemma is simple. Either I begin the long, laborious task of building circumstantial links between Presley and Marston, which will last well into tomorrow and bore the jury to tears (not to mention sabotage my opportunity to cross-examine John Portman in this lifetime), or I can question Portman now, do what damage I can, and pray that Dwight Stone descends from the heavens like the deus ex machina of my dreams. Without Stone’s testimony as a fulcrum, I can’t force Portman to help my cause. But by forcing him to lie, I can set him up for a later fall on perjury charges. And for the director of the FBI, that could be a very long fall.

“Call John Portman,” I say loudly.

“Bailiff,” says Judge Franklin. “Call John Portman.”

Portman returns to the courtroom wearing the same confidence with which he left it. He takes his seat in the witness box, shoots his cuffs, and gives me a serene smile.

“Director Portman,” I begin, “in your earlier testimony you stated that Leo Marston rendered valuable assistance in the investigation of Del Payton’s death. What was the nature of that assistance?”

He pretends to agonize over this question. “He provided certain information to us.”

“In other words, he acted as a federal informant.”

“Yes.”

A couple of the white jury members frown.

“I’m going to ask you a direct question. Please answer yes or no. Did the FBI solve the murder of Delano Payton in 1968?”

Portman takes a deep breath but says nothing. We have come down to the nut-cutting, as we say in the South. If he lies now, he is laying himself open to perjury charges.

“Director Portman, I asked whether the Bureau learned the identity of Del Payton’s murderer in 1968.”

“Yes. We did.”

A gasp goes up from the spectators.

“Order,” snaps Judge Franklin.

“Why didn’t the FBI arrest or charge anyone in connection with that murder?”

“For reasons of national security.”

“Let me be sure I understand this. The FBI preserved the national security by protecting the identity of a man who had murdered a veteran of the Korean War?”

Portman shifts in his seat. “Director Hoover made that decision. Not me.”

“Did you agree with his decision?”

“It wasn’t my place to agree or disagree.”

“You were just following orders.”

“Yes.”

“Like a good German,” I remark, recalling Stone’s phrase.

“I strongly resent that.”

“Mr. Cage,” Franklin warns. “Don’t push me.”

“Withdrawn. Director Portman, did you—”

The loud clearing of a throat behind me breaks my train of thought. I start to ignore it, but something tells me to turn.

Caitlin Masters is crouched at the bar behind my table, urgently beckoning me with her hand.

“Your Honor, I beg the court’s indulgence.”

I walk back behind my table and kneel so that Caitlin can whisper to me. Her lips touch the shell of my ear. “I just talked to Stone’s daughter,” she says. “She and Stone were both at the newspaper. Two of my people are bringing them over now. They’ll be on the courthouse steps in two minutes.”

Relief and elation flood through me.

“Mr. Cage?” Judge Franklin presses. “We’re waiting.”

I squeeze Caitlin’s arm, then rise and walk back toward the witness box with a briskness Portman cannot fail to notice. Caitlin’s news has galvanized me.

“Director Portman, was there only one man responsible for Payton’s death? Or more than one?”

“More than one.”

A murmur from the spectators.

“How many? Two? Three? Ten?”

Portman folds his arms across his stomach. “I decline to answer on grounds that it might damage the national security.”

“But you did say more than one. So, a minimum of two. Was one of those conspirators a Natchez police officer named Ray Presley?”

He gives me the great stone face. “I decline to answer on grounds that it might damage the national security.”

“Did you work the Payton case alone, Director?”

“I was part of a team.”

“Did that team include a veteran agent named Dwight Stone?”

Portman’s eyes track me as I move, trying to read the source of my new-found confidence. “Yes.”

“Was the Payton murder your first major case as a field agent?”

“It was.”

“Had Agent Stone wide experience in working civil rights cases for the Bureau?”

“Yes.”

“Did you admire and respect Agent Stone?”

Portman hesitates. “At the time, yes.”

“Did you, earlier this week, order the assassination of Agent Dwight Stone, who is now retired?”

“Objection!” shouts Blake Sims, with Livy close behind.

Franklin bangs her gavel in a vain attempt to silence the gallery. “Mr. Cage, you’d better be prepared to substantiate that statement.”

“I intend to do just that, Your Honor.” I turn back to Portman. “Did you also order the assassination of Sheriff’s Deputy Ike Ransom, the man murdered at the old pecan-shelling plant last night?”

The spectators collectively suck in their breath as Portman turns to Judge Franklin for help.

Franklin looks hard at me, then says, “The witness will answer the question.”

“I did not,” Portman says in an indignant voice.

“Did you last week order the assassination of former Natchez police officer Ray Presley?”

“Mr. Cage,” Franklin interrupts, “I’m losing my patience.”

“One final question, Your Honor. Director Portman, if Special Agent Dwight Stone walks through that door back there and takes the stand, will you remain in Natchez to be recalled as a witness by me?”

He looks right through me. “I will.”

“No more questions, Judge.”

“Director Portman, you are excused,” says Franklin.

Portman glances up at the TV cameras, then stands, shoots his cuffs again, and leaves the witness box. As he passes me on the way to the aisle, I say: “Call retired Special Agent Dwight Stone.”

The hitch in Portman’s walk is momentary, but for me it occurs in slow motion. His eyes flit instinctively to the main door, searching for his old enemy. Then they return to me, the fear in them tamped down, varnished over with the go-to-hell defiance of a man who has survived every threat to his monumental egotism.

“Call Dwight Stone,” Judge Franklin orders.

The bailiff opens the back door. A tall, wiry man wearing a Denver Broncos windbreaker and leaning on the shoulder of a much younger woman limps through it with a cane in his left hand. Even from my table I can see the steely resolve in Stone’s eyes. But he is not looking at me. As his daughter squeezes in beside Caitlin, he limps up the aisle using the cane, his eyes never leaving the face of John Portman, the man who threatened his daughter’s life, and who tried to kill us two nights ago. I have a feeling that a lot of dead Koreans and Chinese saw the look that is on Stone’s face right now. I would not want to be John Portman at this moment. But when I turn back to Portman, what I see unsettles me.

He looks surprised but unafraid.

When Stone finishes his slow journey to the witness box, he pauses for a few deep breaths, then turns to Judge Franklin. “May I stand during my testimony, Your Honor?”

“Do you have a physical malady that prevents you from sitting?”

“I was shot two nights ago. In the left buttock.”

Predictably, some spectators snicker in spite of Stone’s obvious pain.

“You may stand,” says Franklin, glaring at the crowd.

I move slowly toward the podium, running through memories of everything Stone told me two nights ago in Colorado. He lied to me then—by omission—leaving Ike Ransom completely out of his story. I need the truth today, the whole truth. Stone must be made aware that Ike the Spike no longer needs his protection. Instead of stopping at the podium, I adopt Livy’s tactic and continue right up to the witness box. In a voice barely above a whisper, I say:

“Ike Ransom was shot to death last night.”

As Judge Franklin orders me to speak at an audible level, Stone winks, and my heartbeat rushes ahead.

“Mr. Stone, were you ever an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

“I was a field agent for sixteen years.”

“Did your duties ever bring you to Natchez, Mississippi?”

“Yes.”

“In what capacity?”

“In May of 1968, I was assigned to investigate the death of Delano Payton. I arrived here the day after he was murdered.”

“Who gave you that assignment?”

“J. Edgar Hoover.”

“Personally?”

“Yes.”

“Did you succeed in that assignment? Did you solve the murder?”

“I did.”

Even though Portman said the same thing during his testimony, the crowd
buzzes in expectation. It’s plain that Dwight Stone does not intend to hold anything back.

“Could you briefly describe how you went about doing that?”

“Objection,” says Livy, rising to her feet. “Judge, this man is testifying to information that has been sealed to protect national security. His willingness to break the law or even to commit treason is no reason to allow him to divulge protected information in front of television cameras.”

I try not to let my anxiety show on my face, but Livy may have just stopped this trial dead, at least until government officials are brought in to decide what Stone may and may not say.

Judge Franklin looks at me. “Ms. Sutter raises a serious issue, Mr. Cage. You have argument on this point?”

I could argue for an hour, but I would probably lose. “Perhaps we should hear Mr. Stone on this point, Judge. He’s an attorney himself.”