The Winston Affair (15 page)

“To answer your question, sir,” Moscow said, “Smith can't think on his feet—Harold Wells can. He knows how to try a case, good presence, fine Boston accent. Smith is a plodder; Wells is a jabbing fighter—you know, with the left all the time. But Major Smith knows that, and he'd die before he'd let Wells in.”

“It would be a hell of a team without Smith,” Bender commented, grinning.

“We'll come back to them,” Adams suggested. “Let's talk about the court. Start with the president. I met Colonel Thompson. Are my impressions of him correct?”

Bender waited while Moscow searched Barney Adams' placid face shrewdly. “You try a case that way, Captain?” Moscow asked.

“When it's called for.”

“Your impressions are correct,” Moscow admitted.

“Now, off the record and privileged, gentlemen—I am somewhat surprised to see the Judge Advocate General as the president of the court. It's done, but poorly done, I think, and bad practice. Why?”

“He couldn't resist,” Bender shrugged. “How could he resist?”

“If I may say so, sir,” Moscow added, “no infantry officer understands the fine points of publicity.”

“Leave it at that,” Adams agreed.

“If I may say so, sir,” Moscow put in, “there is one man Colonel Thompson is afraid of. No, that isn't the word. Not fear, but respect. I mean, no nonsense. And that's our one real break on this diagram—Colonel Mayburt, the law officer. If Colonel Mayburt says it's law, it is law, depend on that, Captain.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Late forties,” Bender said, “I think, forty-nine. Tall, handsome man. Lewis Stone type—you remember the Andy Hardy pictures?”

Adams nodded.

“Judge Hardy, in the flesh. But not corny—he was a judge in Elizabeth, New Jersey, criminal court. Eleven years. District Attorney, six years. Beautiful wife, seven children, Board of Directors, First National Bank of Middle Jersey. When he was D.A. he broke the Owney Gleason mob, right through Essex and Hudson counties. Incorruptible. He had it out, showdown stuff, with Hague, and he walked back to his own corner. I tell you, Captain, a man with a record like that ought to be President or at least a senator. Instead, he enlists in the army and lets himself be sent out here to this ass-hole of creation.”

“How do you know all this?” Adams asked in amazement.

“I keep myself posted,” Bender replied modestly. “Oscar and I have some talent. Not what you deserve, but some.”

“About Colonel Mayburt,” Moscow said, “he will deal law, sir, good, solid law. You can be sure of your ground. He'll never pull the rug from under you.”

“That's good to know.”

“I imagined you'd like that, sir.”

“I do. Now let's go to the court itself. We'll move across the diagram. Major Clement first.”

“Maybe a year or two older than you, Captain. Regular Army man—very quiet. He listens. Very serious, and so far as we can find out, no expression of opinion on the Winston case.”

“Major Hennessy?”

“Ah!” Bender nodded. “He used to be a cop on the New York City force. Studied law. Self-made. He would be for guilty, hands down, but he hates the British.”

“He doesn't just hate them,” Moscow added; “his father was an Irishman who was killed in this Black and Tan business. It makes for an opening.”

“Colonel Burnside?”

“No brains, none at all. He's a southern gentleman with fine manners and very agreeable. How can you measure such a man? He will agree with you. He will agree with Smith. He will also agree with Thompson.”

“Colonel Winovich?”

“Guilty. He's a corporation lawyer from Pittsburgh. He won't even listen very much.”

“Colonel Kelly?”

“He's a nice fellow—doesn't hate anyone. But he feels that hanging's too good for Winston.”

“Major McCabe?”

“He thinks Winston ought to be shot and hanged both. An infantry officer, like yourself. Hard as nails, but the boys who served under him in Burma worship the ground he walks on.”

“Major Cummings?”

“Air Force. He's only twenty-six years old, and he has a wonderful record. Shot down over the jungle twice, and walked out each time. They say he's not afraid of anything on earth, including General Kempton. As far as we can find out, he knows very little about the case. The trouble is, he's been dating a British girl.”

“So our spies tell us,” Moscow said. “But who knows on what basis a man dates a girl? The fact is that Cummings has an independent mind—nothing frozen. He will listen to reason.”

“And Captain Brown?”

“I think they wanted company rank on the court,” Moscow said. “My guess is that they deliberately omitted anyone of general rank for the same reason that they brought you to the defense, Captain—because the cards are stacked against Winston and because this has become a sort of general headache in Washington and London and everywhere else. They want to have a sort of jury of peers, so as to speak. Captain Brown is from supply, just as Winston was. He's a sort of white-collar officer, like Bender here and myself, and he certainly won't fight city hall.”

“He's a man of no distinction.” Bender nodded agreement.

“At least,” Adams said, “I have background knowledge now. Suppose we go into the lounge and find a quiet corner and get to work.”

“But what about your challenges, sir?” Bender wanted to know. “We have a replacement list of seventeen officers. Don't you want to go through them?”

“No. I'm not going to use any challenges.”

Bender was shocked. He appeared to feel that he and all his vast statistical and investigatory knowledge had been summarily rejected. “I'm afraid I don't follow you, Captain,” he said with great dignity.

“Come, Lieutenant,” Barney Adams said kindly, “let's see just what a challenge is. The civilian lawyer sets great stock by them, because he has a set of rules for externalizing a person's character. I don't believe in such rules. I don't know very much about any person—not even myself—and when I make a judgment, as often as not it turns out to be wrong.

“Now, I have one peremptory challenge. If I exercise it, I risk the hostility of the entire court. I am a soldier first—I can't forget that. Now, as to challenge for cause—do you know what it means to specify cause when dealing with superior officers?”

Bender shook his head. Moscow said slowly, “Do you know, I think he's right, Harvey.”

Monday 8.30 A.M .

The building which housed the Judge Advocate General was a former governmental residence. Strangely enough, in that subtropical land, it was built in the late Georgian style, and surrounded by a brick wall with wrought-iron gates. It was said that all the bricks for its construction had been brought by sailing ship from England at great cost, which Adams could believe, there being so few brick buildings in the city. The building had fine proportions, and it was the one building in the city that filled Adams and many other Americans with nostalgia, for it was not unlike many buildings at home.

When the building was first turned over to the U.S. Command, it was in poor shape and had not been in use for several years. By now, it had been repaired and the rotting wood had been replaced or painted; and as Barney Adams saw it at half-past eight this Monday morning, the sunlight falling upon its tiled roof and old red walls, the palm trees bending over it, the hibiscus against its brick walls, it made a pleasant sight. It seemed incongruous that a murder trial would take place here.

“Well, sir,” said Corporal Baxter as the jeep went through the gates, “this is it, isn't it? Zero hour.”

A certain affection had overlaid Baxter's initial dislike, and he was protective toward Adams. “Anything I can do, just name it, Captain,” he said as he parked the jeep.

“I'm afraid all you can do is sit around and wait, Baxter. I wish I could give you the day off, but I can't take a chance on needing the jeep and not having it here.”

“Don't give it a second thought, Captain. I like to sit. And I want to wish you good luck. It's a hell of a note that they got to go to such lengths because someone knocked over a limey.”

At that moment General Kempton's car, driven by Sergeant Candyman, drew up. Kempton got out, followed by two of his staff officers, whom he introduced to Barney Adams.

“What do you think, Barney?” the general asked.

Adams shrugged. “I've done what I can. Now we'll see.”

Half a dozen correspondents were already waiting as they entered the building. They surrounded the general's party, pleading for a break.

“Gentlemen, when have I ever refused to give you a break?”

“General, let us cover it on the inside.”

Barney Adams realized that Kempton was not as unruffled as he appeared to be. His face flushed as he snapped, “No! I won't even discuss that! You know it's impossible!”

Past the reporters, Adams saw Bender and Moscow talking to a thin, dyspeptic man who carried a briefcase under his arm. Bender caught his eye, and Adams walked over to them.

“Good morning, sir,” Moscow said. “This is Trial Judge Advocate, Major Smith. Captain Adams, sir.”

Major Smith accepted Adams tolerantly. “I hear you're going to make a good show of it, Captain.”

“I hope to try.”

“Good. It wouldn't do to just hang the poor devil.”

“No, it wouldn't do at all, sir.”

“Well, see you in the trenches,” Smith said, taking off toward the reporters.

Bender whispered, “My Aunt Sadie—see you in the trenches! See what I mean, sir?”

One of the correspondents approached Adams. He recognized the Associated Press man who had been in Kempton's office. The correspondent wanted to know about the rumor that Adams would plead Winston's insanity.

“You know I can't divulge my plans.”

“Let a word drop. Give us a lead.”

Shaking his head, Kempton pushed between them, hooked his arm in Adams', and led him away.

“Come in here a moment, Barney,” the general said, opening one of two tall white doors that faced the entrance hall. Adams followed, and the general closed the door behind them. They were in the court now, a room forty feet long and twenty-five feet wide, with six high windows facing them. Fans on the ceiling turned lazily. A long table of polished mahogany stretched full twenty feet, with ten chairs placed behind it. At either end, a smaller table was set at right angles, much as the diagram had depicted.

“Nice room, isn't it,” the general observed, his mind obviously elsewhere.

“Very nice, sir.”

“Barney,” he said suddenly, “how far are you going to push this case?”

“To a point where I win it, sir.”

“And you still think you can win?”

“Yes, sir, I do. I have a tough case here, but I think I also have a good case.”

“The only case you have is an insanity plea.”

“If Winston was insane when he murdered Quinn, then he is not guilty—is he, sir?”

“Let the court decide, Barney. You haven't the chance of a snowball in hell of proving insanity, and you know it.”

“You may be right, sir.”

“Oh, damn it all,” the general said, putting his arm on Adams' shoulder, “why am I snapping at you, Barney? I brought you into this. All I want you to remember is that we are only interested in establishing a record that cannot be questioned. The man is a murderer. There's no doubt of that.” The general spread his hands now. “You have no obligation to save his life, Barney—your only obligation is to defend him, to give him the use of guarantees provided by military justice.”

“That is what I intend to do, sir.”

“I wonder? Look, Barney, I'm going to level with you. The British Command here asked to be present. I had no alternative except to invite them. Then the Assistant to the Home Secretary in London decided to fly in quietly and take me by surprise. Of course, I had to invite him too. You'd think with the way they've been pasted by bombs and with all their headaches in Italy that they would hardly be able to or want to stick their noses into this affair, but evidently this is in their tradition, and Winston and Quinn rate high there. A British M.P. comes down from the north at the same time—another guest. Now the U.S. Consul General here tells me that he would like to be present. I can't admit the British fellow and keep him out. So aside from myself and two staff members, we're going to have three civilians and six British brass—that's what those chairs at the end of the room are for.

“Now, Barney, I want you to know this.”

“Thank you, sir. But it makes no difference as far as I am concerned.”

“Doesn't it, Barney? How plain must I be?”

“Are you trying to tell me, sir—”

“Let's leave that unsaid,” the general replied firmly. “I am advising nothing. I am telling you what the situation is. Do you understand me, Barney?”