Silas Timberman (37 page)

“No—not all those years. I enlisted in the army in June of 1941, and returned to Clemington in November of 1945.”

“What was your rank in the army?”

Ward half rose to object, thought better of it, and sat back to wait. Silas realized that he was unsure of himself and that he had decided to allow this to develop more fully.

“I entered officers training for the infantry. I held company rank when I was discharged.”

“Was it an honorable discharge?”

“Yes, sir—of course, I remain in the reserve.”

“What are the honors of your war record, Professor Brady?”

“Five battle stars, the Purple Heart and the Distinguished Service Cross.”

The jury was even more intent. The judge leaned forward, listening carefully, and Mr. Ward sat as still as a carved image.

“Professor Brady, are you a member of the Communist Party?”

There was a buzz from the spectators' seats. The judge's eyes narrowed. Ward half rose again and sat back again. The jurors stared with delight and excitement.

“I'am.”

“You are a member in good standing with dues paid?”

“That is correct.”

“When did you join the Communist Party, Professor Brady?”

“In 1933.”

“Then you have been a party member during the time you have been a faculty member at Clemington University?”

“That is right.”

“Are there other communists at the university?”

“There are.”

“Do you know them all?”

“I do.”

“Is the defendant, Professor Timberman, in the courtroom now?”

“He is.”

“Would you point him out?”

“He is that man,” pointing.

“Would you rise, Professor Timberman? Thank you. Now, Professor Brady, is the defendant, Silas Timberman, a member of the Communist Party?”

“He is not.”

“Aside from knowing who are communists at the university, how can you be sure that he is not a member of the Communist Party? Could he conceal his membership from you?”

“I don't think so. A communist is not merely a member of an organization—he is a person with a particular world outlook, which is called Marxism-Leninism. This comprises a political philosophy, a method of life and action, what is called a class position—and a certain scientific approach to all phenomena. This would be particularly marked in a scholar. Professor Timberman is not a Marxist—nor has he any pretensions toward Marxism. He can best be characterized politically as a liberal, a man of honesty and integrity, with strong influences of populism and Jeffersonian democracy.”

“Then you feel able to assert flatly that he is not a communist?”

“I do.”

“Has he ever, to your knowledge, attended a communist meeting?”

“He has not.”

“Were you involved in the organization of a public demonstration at Clemington University at which Professor Timberman was a speaker?”

“I was, in a consultative capacity. It was mainly organized by the students.”

“Was Professor Timberman involved in the organization of this meeting?”

“He was not.”

“Thank you. Your witness,” MacAllister said to Mr. Ward.

Mr. Ward rose slowly, his hands in his pockets, turned to the jury and regarded them briefly and questioningly, his glance holding the mild reproof of an older brother and liberating them from the spell Brady had cast over them. Then he walked toward Brady and said, almost indifferently.

“You testified, Mr. Brady, that you know who the communists at the university are, did you not?”

“I did.”

“Very well. I am now asking you to name them. Who are they, Mr. Brady?”

MacAllister bounced to his feet, objecting, and the judge, cool and relaxed again, said, “I am sorry, Mr. MacAllister, but I cannot sustain any objection to this question. It seems to me that it is directly to the point, striking at the basis of the witness' credibility. I shall have to over-rule you.”

“But this is not a question of credibility. This is clearly an attempt to put the witness in the position of being an informer! I must object!”

“And I have said that your objection is over-ruled,” Judge Calent replied, a knife edge coming into his voice for the first time. “You will be seated, Mr. MacAllister. I have been very fair and very lenient during the course of this trial and I have overlooked many things, but now your action verges on willful contempt. You seem to answer every move of the government with this charge of informer. It is tiresome.”

MacAllister seated himself slowly, painfully, pain in-his whole body and spread on his face. The judge asked Brady.

“You were not subpoenaed to this trial, were you, Mr. Brady?”

“No, I was not.”

“You came of your own free will, did you not?”

“I did.”

“Very well. Proceed with your cross-examination, Mr. Ward.”

And Ward said, “Will you name the other communists at Clemington, Mr. Brady?”

Brady was almost casual in his reply, pedagogic, sardonic to a degree, “When I came here, I anticipated that this question would be asked. It is a typical question, typical of much that is happening in America today, degrading to him who asks it, degrading to one who must hear it—”

“You will answer the question, Mr. Brady,” the judge said sharply. “You will not make political speeches here. You will answer the question directly.”

“No, I will not answer it,” Brady said. “It is not a question which a decent human being can answer. I must refuse to answer it, and I must refuse to answer all similar questions.”

“I am now going to order you to answer it, Mr. Brady.”

“I will not answer it,” Brady shrugged.

“Very well,” the judge said quietly, in command of himself, polite again. “That being the case, I am forced to hold you in contempt of court—and for said contempt, I order that you be incarcerated in the District Jail for ninety days, or until you may be willing to purge yourself of the contempt by answering this question. Are there any further questions, Mr. Ward?”

“No further questions,” Ward shrugged, glancing at the jury.

Two marshals came to the witness stand and led Brady away, and then the judge adjourned court until two o'clock that afternoon.

* * *

The rest of the trial was hopeless in terms of the defense, anticlimactic, words said because they had to be said, motions made because they had to be made; but MacAllister was beaten, broken, defeated. He attempted to hide his defeat from Silas, but the attempt was a poor one. He tried gallantly when Masterson testified as a character witness, and Reverend Masterson did all that he could do, but Ward demolished it in cross-examination by asking.

“Does the defendant attend your church, Reverend Masterson?”

“No, he doesn't.”

“What church does he attend?”

“I don't know. I never discussed his religious beliefs with him.”

“Does he attend any church?”

“I don't know.”

And Mr. Ward left his small victory there. He did not have to press it. He was firmly in the saddle, and when he chose to look at the jury, they understood that, and when MacAllister made his summation, the following day, he might have been talking to a stone wall for all the impression he felt he was making. Nevertheless, he tried. He reviewed the testimony. He emphasized the sharpest contradictions in Bob Allen's testimony, and he castigated the man as a morally bankrupt person, an informer, a Judas who sold his friend for a few pieces of silver. For a time, he was carried away by his own argument—and then, slowly but inevitably, the ground he stood upon turned into sand and quicksand. The jury did not care; they were not hostile to him; they were indifferent to him. He spoke of Silas as a symbol and as a man, a quiet college professor, a family man, a decent man—but the jury did not care.…

Nor were they too interested in what Mr. Ward had to say. They knew what their role was to be, and they felt that Mr. Ward was needlessly reiterating the obvious. When Mr. Ward was dramatic, contrasting two types of communist, the one who operated in the deepest secrecy and the other who emerged from hiding to rescue the first, they were appreciative of his dramatic eloquence; but they sat apathetically through his long review of what he had proved.…

The judge sensed their mood, and he shortened the charge he had prepared. He told them gently that under American law, all men were innocent until proven guilty; but then he told them firmly what their duties were, if, after weighing the evidence, they should decide that the defendant was guilty. He pointed out to them what a responsibility they bore—and how they were, in the most essential sense, the pillars of justice in a free world. There were two counts in the indictment, he reminded them. The defendant could be found innocent on both, or guilty on one, or guilty on both—and then he spoke of the gravity of the crime of perjury, the gravity of the communist menace—the gravity of concealment by those who would destroy.

And then he sent them forth to the jury room.…

Silas stood in the corridor and smoked, talking to no one, desiring to talk to no one. The court attendants and the newspaper men were making a twenty-five cent book on the time the jury would be out, and Silas was aroused from his reverie by a young reporter's estimate of forty-five minutes. It seemed an incredible guess, until the jury returned in exactly thirty-five minutes with a decision of guilty on both counts.

The judge set Friday, two days away, for the sentencing, and ordered the defendant not to leave Washington during the intervening time. But graciously, with a flushed and happy Mr. Ward sharing his graciousness, he agreed that the present bail should be continued.

* * *

His first reaction was to have no reaction. When Brady had been thrown into jail, Silas felt the cut of it deep into his own heart, and all of him longed toward Brady, to take off Brady's back this burden that he himself had imposed. But now, for himself, there was no immediate reaction or hurt, and he wondered what had happened to his sensations, his sensitivities, his fears.

He knew that he had to call Myra, that she had to hear it from him and not from anyone else—and he wanted to be alone. He told MacAllister that he wanted to be alone, that he would meet him and Masterson back at the hotel. Then he went to a telephone booth in the courthouse and called Myra and told her.

“My darling,” she said. Only that.

“I have until Friday,” he said. “But I can't leave Washington.”

“Then I'll come.”

He tried to tell her that she should not come. The fare was so much, and they had already spent such a large part of the little money they had. And who would she leave the children with?

“The children will be all right. Silas, Silas—let me come. I want to come. Don't worry about the money. I'll get Selma or someone to stay with the children, and there's a plane from Indianapolis at eleven. Let me come—please.”

“If you want to, then come,” he said. He told her about Brady, but she already knew, and he found himself wondering why she couldn't be concerned for Brady as he was. He walked back to the hotel, feeling that he was walking in a dream. Surely, it was a dream. It was a dream, and he was a small boy walking through the night. He came to the hotel.

When he entered his room, Elbert Masterson rose and came forward and took his hands MacAllister was sprawled on a bed, staring at the ceiling. “Silas,” the pastor said, “how can I tell what I feel for you?”

“I never thanked you properly,” Silas replied.

“Don't thank me. I am an old man going into a long, hard battle. Silas, my son, are you afraid?”

“I don't know.”

“I tell myself that I must not be afraid, because today I was afraid. I will not be afraid, Silas, and neither must you.
Whosoever is fearful and afraid, let him return
. Does an old man's love and support and friendship help?”

Silas looked up at him with tears in his eyes.

“That's not to be ashamed of. Who are the tears for?”

“Not for myself,” Silas thought, “not for Myra or the kids.” And he said to Masterson, “For knowing that there are men like you and Brady in my own land. I was lost until you made me remember that. I was like a little boy walking in the night. Now I'm all right. Myra is coming here.”

“Shall I remain here? Can I help you?”

“I don't need any help now,” Silas smiled. “Myra is coming. I'll be all right.” He went over to MacAllister then and told him to clean up, so that they could have dinner. MacAllister didn't move.

“Get up, Mac,” Silas said.

Still he didn't move, and Silas said, “Didn't you hear the pastor? Get up, God damn you, and be glad for the fight!” MacAllister sat up and suddenly began to weep. “Stop it,” Silas said gently. “Stop it. Go in and wash. Then we'll eat.”

They all felt better at dinner, and they were all ravenously hungry. They ate and listened to Masterson's account of his arguments with Brady on the plane. The old man was a fine story teller, and he was obviously taken with Brady, filled with love and admiration for Brady.

After dinner, Silas took another room for himself and Myra, and then Masterson packed and rode with Silas to the airport. By now, Silas felt that he had taken this ride numberless times—but after Masterson had left, he was lonely and found the time he had to wait endless and tedious. He smoked half a pack of cigarettes and drank three cups of coffee before Myra's plane landed—but then he had her in his arms, and the time of waiting was forgotten and everything else was gone, and the only reality was this woman who was like himself and part of him. Not the least of what he had learned was how to love.

* * *

When the judge asked Silas whether he had anything to say before sentence was passed upon him, Silas turned to look at Myra, and somehow she had known that he would turn around and was waiting for his glance with that look upon her face that was so much and wonderfully a part of her, an expression that told him that he was known and wanted. Whatever happened, Myra would be all right—and so would he, so would he.