The Winston Affair (14 page)

When they came to the hospital, she turned to him and said, “Everything else is all right, and I guess I'm as happy as I have ever been in all my life, but don't say that you're in love with me. You don't have to say that—I swear you don't. Because you're not in love with me, and I am not in love with you. You can have me or any part of me or anything that I own. That's the way I am. I'm not like the girls you knew over stateside—like the girls at the West Point Ball that you were telling me about.”

“What are they like, Kate?”

“You know—it has to be signed, sealed and delivered. Jesus. Christ, Barney, stop playing games with me!”

“I'm not playing games with you, Kate.”

“Barney, Barney,” she whispered, “why are you making it so hard for me? I don't want anything. I'll take tonight. And tomorrow night, if you want it that way. When it's done, it's done.”

“You want it that way? Tell me why, Kate.”

“Because there isn't any other way.”

“You don't believe I love you?”

“No, I don't believe it.”

Sunday 10.00 A.M .

Barney Adams was eating his breakfast in the dining room of the Makra Palace, a room of blue and white and yellow tile that reminded him of Sanborn's in Mexico City, when two young men approached his table. He invited them to sit down and join him for coffee, and they introduced themselves as Lieutenants Harvey Bender and Oscar Moscow. They would be delighted to have coffee with him, they said, because it was common knowledge that the coffee here was the only coffee in the city that was fit to drink—except of course for the Turkish coffee which they prepared in the Hotel Imperial.

But they said this with diffidence, and they obviously regarded Captain Adams with some awe. They were intelligent-looking young men, both of them in their early twenties, Bender towheaded and tall and thin, Moscow nearsighted, quietly intent behind his glasses.

“It's my fault that we're meeting only now,” Barney Adams said as he shook hands with them. “I should have seen you Friday at the latest, but nothing in this case is ordinary. I had to use every moment.”

“Please don't apologize, sir,” Lieutenant Bender protested. “We understand the circumstances.”

“I don't want you to feel that I am deprecating my assistants. I knew that you two men were to assist me. I value such assistance beyond measure.”

“Thank you,” Lieutenant Bender said.

“Perhaps I'm talking out of turn,” Lieutenant Moscow put in, “but I have never heard of a refusal to grant a continuance in a capital case. Not where defense counsel has been arbitrarily changed. I suppose you know, sir, that it was not Winston who demanded new counsel.”

“I know that.”

“Then how on earth can they deny a continuance?” Bender demanded.

“Now wait a moment,” Adams told them. “They haven't denied any delay because I haven't asked for any. I haven't asked for a continuance because I was plainly given to understand that I should not ask for one—that this case must be delayed no longer.”

“Why, that's outrageous!”

“It's not outrageous,” Adams said quietly. “A court-martial must sublimate itself to military necessity—which, like it or not, is the prime necessity of a nation at war.”

“Then what happens to the whole concept of trial justice?” Moscow wanted to know.

“It exists—not as it does in civilian courts, but within a certain frame of reference. And, let me assure you, our frame of reference is the most just of any on earth. You were both civilian lawyers?”

They nodded.

“Then you must lay aside certain things that you accepted unconditionally. I don't think we want a continuance. I go before officers whom I must convince. I think I can convince them better at this moment than at a later moment.”

“This is good coffee,” Bender said. “I guess I haven't had such good coffee since I'm here. Do you mind if I have a roll with it, Captain?”

“Go right ahead.”

“It's funny, the only day I have an appetite for breakfast is Sunday. You don't raise much of an appetite in this heat.” He buttered a roll and heaped marmalade on it.

Moscow's brow was creased. “Sir?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“I can't say that I follow that. Why do you feel that you can convince them better now?”

“Because they have no doubts at this moment—no doubts at all. They know that Winston murdered Quinn. They will go through the formality of a court-martial because it is required of them, but they don't know of any reason why Winston should not hang.”

“I must say that I don't know any reason,” Bender said, his mouth full of roll.

“There you are.”

“Sir?”

“You see,” Adams explained, “where there is no doubt, there is no defense against doubt. There was a young fellow from the Georgia hills in my company. He was a fundamentalist, and never in his life had he questioned or doubted his convictions. Then one day he got into a discussion with a couple of freethinkers in the company and they tore his fundamentalism to shreds. He went to pieces. He had no defense against doubt, no experience with doubt.”

“But is that a fair comparison?” Moscow wondered.

“No, of course not. But it does deal with the question of doubt. If I force a delay, doubts will appear, because this case is full of doubt. Arguments will create counter-arguments, and my own case will be weakened. Anyway, I am not sure that time will gain us anything.”

“You mean the case can't be won under any circumstances?”

“I don't mean that at all,” Adams said. “But suppose we finish our breakfast.”

Sunday 10.40 A.M .

Lieutenant Bender was still drinking coffee and eating rolls when Lieutenant Moscow brought out the diagram of the court-martial. Lieutenant Bender was a natural eater; He ate quickly, competently and professionally, without lingering to savor taste or quality. While Bender ate, Lieutenant Moscow explained that Colonel Thompson, the Judge Advocate General, had sent his apologies along with the diagram.

“Strictly off the record, sir,” said Moscow, “his apologies don't mean a thing. You should have had the diagram yesterday at the latest, and if I weren't discussing my CO, I would—”

“But you are discussing your CO,” Adams pointed out. “I think we must get one thing straight and hold to it. There is no conspiracy here. No one is out to get defense counsel. We recognize that the theater command wishes to hang Winston and get it over with. They feel that there is reason to hang him, and that with his death they will accomplish certain things. I think they are wrong, and I am going to prove that they are wrong. There is the virtue of our way of life—if you care to think of such a thing as a virtue—that I can confront them, challenge them, and stop them. Petty annoyances are meaningless. The only meaningful thing is the verdict.”

“He's right,” Bender said.

“Yes, sir,” Moscow agreed, catching some of the other's enthusiasm. Pointing to the diagram, he added, “Whatever the verdict is—it's in their hands.”

“Good. Now let us get down to cases, gentlemen. We'll start with the prosecution. First of all, Major Smith.”

Bender chewed his contempt with the food. “He's nothing. Nothing, sir.”

“For God's sake,” Moscow said, “stop eating, Harvey. All you've done is eat since we met the captain. What kind of an impression does it make?”

“I'm sorry really sorry, sir.”

“I'd love to see you fill up.” Adams told him. “I give you my word, Bender, we'll do it again. About Major Smith?”

“Well,” Moscow said, “it's easy to underestimate him. You understand, Captain Adams, we will have to talk frankly. Could we say in effect that this conversation is privileged?”

“Of course it's privileged,” Adams agreed.

“In that case, we can start by saying that Major Smith is a boob. You agree, Harvey?”

“Right.”

“But you can underestimate him just because he is a boob. He's a partner in a big Wall Street firm—corporation law, and that impresses people. He has a good memory and he knows a lot of law, but unless I'm mistaken, he has no criminal trial experience at all. Is that so, Harvey?”

“None,” said Bender. “I checked that point because I knew you'd be asking me, Captain. He's been after Colonel Thompson to give him a big trial job because he wants to get his name in the papers and impress his partners. And because of his position at home, sir, Colonel Thompson will brown-nose him right down the line, if you'll forgive the expression.”

“I'll forgive it, but find another one.”

“Harvey,” Moscow said patiently, “Captain Adams is in a peculiar position here. Try to remember.”

“Just say what you want to say,” Adams told them. “Don't worry about me. The important thing is to fill in the holes. Now about Smith—can he think on his feet?”

“He doesn't have to,” Bender said. “He's got Morty Coombs sitting behind him.”

“Lieutenant. Coombs,” Adams repeated, staring at the diagram. “What about him?”

“Twenty-two years old,
summa cum laude
, City College of New York, first five, NYU Law School, stinking little genius, total retention, knows more military law at this point than anyone in the world—”

“Look up the captain's record, Harvey, before you go overboard. Sure, Morty Coombs is smart. But he's no diplomat. You've got to be more than a genius to infuse Major Smith with intelligence. If Smith had humility, he'd use Coombs, but Smith doesn't know how. Do you think he's going to take tactics from a snotty twenty-two-year-old lieutenant? Do you think Coombs can communicate with Smith? Maybe if he had doubts, but like the captain said, he doesn't have doubts.”

“All right,” Adams said. “Now what about Lieutenant Wells?”

“Just don't write Morty Coombs off,” Bender insisted.

“I'm not writing him off. I'm simply trying to give the captain a balanced picture. You see, sir? Harold Wells, on the other hand, is a horse of another color entirely. Wells was an assistant D.A. in Boston. Thirty-three years old, Harvey?”

“Thirty-four, Harvard Law School, Beacon Hill, lots of money in the family, Late George Apley type.”