Greg Iles - The Quiet Game

A superior smile touches Portman’s lips. God, he’s enjoying this. “I find the notion utterly preposterous. The fact that we are sitting here today discussing it is a travesty of justice.”

“Thank you, Mr. Director. Your witness.”

I would prefer to cross-examine Portman after I have presented my case, but I cannot let his slurs against me stand unchallenged. Nor can I be sure that Portman will even stick around Natchez after he leaves the stand. I rise but remain at my table.

“Mr. Portman, you and I were involved in a jurisdictional dispute over the extradition of a murderer from Texas to Los Angeles, California, where you were a U.S. attorney. Is that correct?”

“Broadly.”

“Where was that murderer ultimately tried and convicted?”

“Houston, Texas.”

“Thank you. You also stated that I killed the brother of a man I tried for murder. That trial ended in a conviction, did it not?”

“Yes.”

“And wasn’t the man I convicted also the subject of our jurisdictional dispute?”

“He was. But-”

“Was I charged in the shooting of his brother?”

“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.”