Greg Iles - The Quiet Game

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.”

Franklin gives Stone an inquisitive glance. “Mr. Stone?”

Stone shakes his head like a soldier pondering a heavily defended hill he has just been ordered to take. “Judge, the heart of my testimony goes to the justification of that national security classification. After sixteen years working for J. Edgar Hoover, I can tell you this. No man more readily abused such classifications for his own personal ends than Hoover. He sealed the Del Payton file solely to mask evidence of criminal activity. It had nothing to do with the national interest. If you allow my testimony, you’ll know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’ve done the right thing.” He looks Franklin square in the eye. “Have the courage of your office, Judge.”

She regards him thoughtfully. “My dilemma, Mr. Stone, is that once you’ve spoken, your words cannot be taken back.”

Stone sighs. “With all respect, Judge, I’m going to tell my story regardless of your decision. I’ve been silent too long. I can tell it here on the stand, or outside on the steps.”

Franklin tilts her head back, shocked by Stone’s frank threat. “I have a third choice. I can have you jailed for contempt.”

Stone doesn’t even blink. “You can jail me, Judge. But you can’t stop me from speaking. That is the one thing you cannot do.”