But the next question got Tommy’s attention.
“Now, lieutenant, Massachusetts is a state well known throughout the Union for its advanced and altogether enlightened racial atmosphere, is it not?”
“It is, captain.”
“Did it not raise one of the first all-black regiments to fight in the great War Between the States, or what some of us consider the Great War of Secession? A most valorous group under a justly famed white commander?”
“It did, yes sir . . .”
Tommy rose. “I object. Why do we need a history lesson, colonel?”
MacNamara waved his hand. “I’ll allow some leeway,” he said, “as long as the prosecution makes its point rapidly.”
“Thank you,” Townsend answered. “I will move swiftly. You, Lieutenant Murphy, come from Springfield. A lifelong resident of that fair city in that state, famed as a birthplace to our own revolution, are you not? Bunker Hill, Lexington, and Concord—these important sites are all neighbors, are they not?”
“Yes sir. In the eastern portion of the state.”
“And in growing up, it was not unusual for you to come into contact with Negroes, is that correct, sir?”
“Correct. Several attended my high school. And there were others that were employed at my place of business.”
“So, you, sir, are not a bigot?”
Again Tommy jumped up. “Objection! The witness cannot conclude this about himself! Why—”
MacNamara cut him off. “Captain Townsend, please make your point.”
Townsend nodded again. “Yes sir. My point, sir, is to show this tribunal that there is no southern conspiracy here operating against Lieutenant Scott. We do not hear solely from men who hail from states that seceded from the Union. The so-called slave states. My point, Your Honor, is that men from states with long traditions of harmonious coexistence of the races are here willing, no, eager, I dare say, to testify against Lieutenant Scott, and who witnessed actions the prosecution feels are crucial to the sequence of events that resulted in this most despicable murder. . . .”
“Objection!” Tommy jumped up, shouting. “The captain makes a speech designed to enflame the court.”
MacNamara stared over at Tommy. “You are correct, lieutenant. Objection sustained. Enough with the speech, captain. On with the questions.”
“I would further point out that simply because someone comes from a particular section of the United States gives him no greater or lesser claim on the truth, Colonel. . . .”
“Now, Mr. Hart, it is you who makes speeches. The tribunal can judge the integrity of witnesses without your assistance. Sit down!”
Tommy sat down hard, and Lincoln Scott immediately leaned over, whispering. “Racial harmony, my ass. Murphy was just as fast as Vic was with the word nigger. Just spoken in a different accent, that’s all.”
“I remember,” Tommy said. “In the corridor. I may remind him on cross-examination.”
Townsend had sauntered over to the prosecution’s table. Major Clark reached down beneath and removed the dark sheet-metal frying pan that Scott had constructed to fix his meals. The major handed it to Townsend, who pivoted and approached the witness.
“Now, lieutenant, I’m showing you an exhibit that we have introduced as evidence. Do you recognize this, sir?”
“I do, captain,” Murphy replied.
“How do you recognize it?”
“I watched as Lieutenant Scott constructed the frying pan, sir. He was in the corner of the barracks room in Hut 101 that we all shared. He fashioned the pan out of a piece of metal liberated from one of the German refuse bins, sir. I have seen other kriegies do the same, but I remember thinking that Scott seemed to have some expertise with metalwork, because this was the best version of the frying pan that I had seen in my months here.”
“And what did you observe next?”
“I saw that he had some leftover metal that he was beginning to form into some other shape. He used a piece of wood to hammer out the bends and wrinkles, sir.”
“Please tell the tribunal what you next witnessed.”
“I left the room, briefly, sir, but when I returned, I saw Lieutenant Scott wrapping the handle of this leftover piece of metal with an old strip of cloth.”
“What was it that he appeared to have constructed?”
“A knife, sir.”
Tommy jumped up. “Objection! Calls for a conclusion.”
“Overruled!” MacNamara bellowed. “Continue, lieutenant.”
“Yes sir,” Murphy said. “I remember asking Scott, right then, what the hell did he need that for? Damn thing was near as big as a sword—”
“Objection!”
“On what grounds?”
“This is hearsay, colonel.”
“No, it isn’t. Please continue.”
“I mean,” Murphy persisted, “I’d never seen anyone in this camp ever construct something like that. . . .”
Townsend had once again crossed over to the prosecution’s table. Major Clark handed him the flattened metal blade. The prosecutor held it up before him, almost like Lady Macbeth, then he slashed it through the air several times.
“Objection!” Tommy shouted again. “These histrionics . . .”
MacNamara nodded. “Captain Townsend . . .”
The southerner smiled. “Of course, Your Honor. Now, Lieutenant Murphy, is this the device you saw Lieutenant Scott manufacture?”
“It is,” Murphy replied.
“Did you ever see him use this knife to prepare his food?”
“No sir. Like a lot of us, he had a small, folding penknife that’s much more efficient.”
“So, Scott never used this blade for any legitimate purpose?”
“Objection!” Once again Tommy was on his feet.
“Sit down. This is why we’re here, Lieutenant Hart. Answer the question, Lieutenant Murphy.”
“I never saw him use the blade for any legitimate purpose, no sir.”
Townsend hesitated slightly, then asked: “And when you saw Lieutenant Scott form this blade, did you ask him why he needed it?”
“Yes sir.”
“And his reply, Lieutenant Murphy?”
“Well, sir, I remember his words exactly. They were: ‘For protection.’ And so I asked him who he needed to be protected from, and Scott said: ‘That bastard Bedford.’ Those were his words, sir. Just as I remember. And then he told me, clear out, without my asking any question beforehand, ‘I ought to kill the son of a bitch before he kills me!’ That’s what he said, sir. I heard him clear as day!”
Tommy thrust himself up, throwing his own chair backward, so that it clattered loudly on the floor. He stood stiffly, shouting, “Objection! Objection! Colonel, this is outrageous!”
MacNamara bent forward, his own face red, almost as if he’d been interrupted in the midst of some backbreaking job of work.
“What precisely is outrageous, lieutenant? The words your client spoke? Or something else?” The Senior American Officer’s words were marred with contempt.
Tommy took a deep breath, fixing MacNamara with as harsh a look as the SAO had for him. “Sir, my objection is twofold. First, this testimony comes as a complete surprise to the defense! When asked what he would testify to, this witness replied, ‘Threats and animosity. . . .’ There was no mention of this alleged conversation! I believe that it is fantasy! Made-up lies, designed to unfairly influence . . .”
“You may try to bring that out under cross, lieutenant.”
Walker Townsend, smiling lightly, one eyebrow slightly raised, interrupted, then. “Why, Your Honor, I fail to see where there has been any deception whatsoever. The man told Lieutenant Hart he would testify about threats. And that is precisely what we have just heard from Lieutenant Murphy. A threat. It is not the prosecution’s province to make sure that Lieutenant Hart adequately prepares by seeking additional information from a witness prior to trial. He asked a question of this witness and he received an answer, and he should
have pursued it further, if he considered this testimony to be potentially so harmful—”
“Your Honor, this is unfair attack! I object!”
MacNamara shook his head. “Once again, Lieutenant Hart, I must insist you sit down. You will have an opportunity to cross-examine the witness. Until then, be quiet!”
Tommy did not sit, but remained standing. He surreptitiously gripped the edge of the table for support. He didn’t dare look over at Lincoln Scott.
Walker Townsend held up the handmade knife.
“ ‘I ought to kill the son of a bitch,’ ” he bellowed out, the thunder in his voice only accentuated by all the soft tones he’d used before. “And when did he say this?”
“One, maybe two days before Captain Bedford was murdered,” Murphy replied, smugly.
“Murdered with a knife!” Townsend said.
“Yes sir!” Murphy blurted out.
“A prophecy!” Townsend crowed. “And now this blade, Lieutenant Lincoln Scott’s blade, is stained with the blood of Captain Vincent Bedford!”
He walked over to the prosecution’s table and slammed the knife down hard, flat against the table planks. The noise resounded through the silent courtroom.
“Your witness,” he said, after a suitable pause for effect.
Tommy rose, his head jumbled with outrage, doubt, and confusion. He opened his mouth, only to see Colonel MacNamara raise his hand, slicing off his words.
“I believe we shall have to wait to have the cross-examination in the morning, lieutenant. We are closing in on time for the evening Appell, are we not, Hauptmann?”
For the first time in what seemed like an hour, Tommy pivoted toward the one-armed German. Visser was nodding his head. He seemed to take some time, however, before answering. Instead, for several long seconds, the German stared at Lieutenant Murphy, as the Liberator copilot shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Then Visser slowly searched around the courtroom, examining Lincoln Scott and Tommy Hart, then swinging over to the prosecutors, and finally back to Colonel MacNamara. “You are correct, colonel,” Visser replied. “This would, perhaps, be an appropriate and convenient moment for dismissal.”
Visser rose and the stenographer at his side clapped shut his notebook.
MacNamara banged his homemade gavel down. “Until tomorrow, then. We will reconvene without delay directly after the completion of the morning count! Lieutenant Murphy?”
“Yes sir?”
“You are not to discuss your testimony with anyone. Got that? Not anyone, prosecution, defense, friends, or foes. You can talk about the weather. You can talk about the army. You can talk about the lousy food, or the lousy war. But what you can’t talk about is this case. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes sir! Absolutely.”
“Fine then,” MacNamara briskly said. “You are dismissed.” He looked up at the assembled men. “You are all dismissed.”
He rose and the kriegies all scrambled to their feet, coming to attention as the members of the tribunal pushed back from their table and stiffly exited the theater. They were followed by Major Clark and Captain Townsend, who had trouble containing his grin as he swept past Tommy, and then, in quick order, Visser and most of the other Germans. One or two of the ferrets who lingered slightly behind urged the kriegies to depart, their hoarse cries of “Raus! Raus! You are dismissed!” cutting through the air behind Tommy’s head.
Tommy closed his eyes for a moment, searching the black emptiness within. After a second, he opened up, and turned to Lincoln Scott and Hugh Renaday. Scott was staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed upon the empty witness chair. Unblinking. Rigid.
Hugh leaned forward. “Well,” he said slowly, “that was a shot across the bow, what? How do we prove that bastard is lying?”
Tommy started to reply, although he was unsure what he was going to say, only to be cut off by Scott.
The black flier’s voice was dry, parched. It rasped and echoed slightly in the theater. They were alone now. “It wasn’t a lie,” Scott said quietly, almost as if each word he spoke were painful. “It was the truth. It’s exactly what I said to the slimy son of a bitch. Word for word.”
By the time they finished the evening Appell and returned to their room in Hut 101, Tommy was seething. He slammed the door shut behind them and pivoted to face Lincoln Scott.
“You could have goddamn told me,” he said, his voice rising in pitch like an engine accelerating. “It might have been helpful to know that you threatened the life of the murder victim right before he was killed!”
Scott started to reply, then stopped. He shrugged and sat down heavily on the edge of his bed.
Tommy’s hands were balled into fists, and he circled the space in front of the black flier.
“I look like a goddamn idiot!” he raged. “And you look like a killer! You told me you didn’t know anything about that damn knife, and now it turns out you built the damn thing! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Scott shook his head, as if unwilling to answer that question. “After I shot my mouth off to Murphy, I stuck it next to where I kept my Red Cross box. It disappeared the next morning. The next time I saw it was when Clark pulled it out from the hiding place that I didn’t know about, right under the bunk.”
“Well that’s great,” Tommy said furiously. “That’s a great story. I’m sure just about everyone will believe that. . . .”
Again Scott looked up, ready to reply, then stopped himself.
“How the hell do you expect someone to defend you when you won’t tell him the truth?” Tommy demanded furiously.
Scott opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Instead, he kept his head bent, almost as if in prayer, until he finally sighed deeply and whispered a reply. “I don’t,” he said.
Tommy’s jaw dropped, in surprise. “What?”
Scott’s eyes rose slightly, peering at Tommy. “I don’t want to be defended,” he said slowly. “I don’t need to be defended. I have no desire to be defended. I shouldn’t be in a position where I have to be defended! I have done nothing! Nothing except tell the truth! And if those truths don’t work out right for you, well, I can’t do anything about that!”
With each sentence, Lincoln Scott had stiffened, finally rising to his feet, his hands clenched tightly in front of him.
“So I threatened the bastard! What’s wrong with that? So I made a show of constructing a knife? That’s not against the goddamn rules, because there are no rules! So I told him I would kill him. I had to say something, for Christ’s sake! I couldn’t just sit around quietly, ignoring everything the bastard was saying and doing! I had to put Bedford on notice, somehow, that I wasn’t like every weak-kneed, terrified, ignorant black man that he’s been bullying and holding down every minute of every day of his whole damn life! I had to get across to that bigoted bastard that it didn’t make any difference to me if I was all alone here. I wasn’t going to shuffle off into some corner and yassuh, nosuh, take all his abuse, just like all those others. I’m not a slave! I’m a free man! So I constructed a goddamn sword, and let him know I would use it! Because the only thing the goddamn Bedfords of this world understand is the same violence they want to deliver to you! They’re cowards, when you stand up to them, and that’s all I was doing!”
Scott, seething himself, stood stock-still in the center of the room. “Do you understand now?” he asked Tommy.
Tommy stood up, directly in front of the black flier. Their faces were only inches apart.
“You’re not free,” he said starkly, punctuating each word with a short choppy hand motion. “Neither you, nor I, nor anyone else here is free!”
Scott shook his head vigorously, side to side.
“You might be a prisoner, Hart. Renaday might. Townsend and MacNamara and Clark and Murphy and all the others might. But not me! They may have shot me down and locked me up here and now they may march me in front of a firing squad for something I didn’t do, but no sir, I will never see myself as a prisoner! Not for a second, underst
and! I am a free man, temporarily trapped behind barbed wire.”
Tommy started to reply, and then stopped. There was the problem, in the proverbial nutshell. The weight that Scott carried went far deeper than a simple murder accusation.
Tommy stepped back and took a few paces in a circle in the small room, thinking.
“Have you ever, in your entire life, trusted a white man?” he suddenly asked.
Scott took a single step backward, as if the question struck him like a hard jab. “What?”
“You heard me,” Tommy said. “Answer the question.”
“What do you mean, trust?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Answer the question!”
Scott’s eyes narrowed, and he hesitated before replying. “No black man, in today’s world, can get ahead without the help of some well-meaning white folks.”
“That’s not a goddamn answer!”
Scott started, stopped, then smiled. He nodded. “You’re correct.” He paused again. “The answer is no. I have never trusted any white man.”
“You were willing to use their help, though.”
“Yes. In school, generally. And my father’s church sometimes benefited from charities.”
“But every smile you made, every time you shook hands with a white man, that was a lie, wasn’t it?”
Lincoln Scott sighed slightly, almost as if amused. “Yes,” he said. “In a way, yes.”
“And when we shook hands, that was a lie, too.”
“You could see it that way. It is simple, Hart. It’s a lesson you learn early on in life. If you’re going to rise up and be someone, you can rely only on yourself!”
“Well,” Tommy said slowly, “by relying solely on yourself, I would say your future prospects have diminished some in recent days.” He made no attempt to hide his sarcasm, and Lincoln Scott seemed to bristle, in return.
“That may be true,” Scott answered, “but at least when I hear that firing squad commander give the order, I’ll know that no one ever stole from me that which is more important than my life.”
Hart's War Page 37
