by Sol Stein
“Can you explain to the court what that entailed?”
“Well, that’s when I first started being invited to his home along with others, getting a chance for long one-on-one discussions, too. I had a feeling that in Professor Fuller’s head was the most valuable method for understanding another political system and how it functioned that existed anywhere in the country and I was determined to learn whatever I could from him directly, or by inference and osmosis.”
Good boy, we wanted words like that.
“Now then, Mr. Sturbridge—” He’d prepared Ed for the fact that he would use the name. “With His Honor’s permission I’d like to ask you a question not normally asked in the courtroom. Have you ever belonged to any political party?”
Judge Drewson looked over in Roberts’s direction. Roberts did not seem inclined to object. “You may answer,” the judge said.
“No, sir,” Ed said.
“Let’s narrow that a bit,” Thomassy said. “Have you ever belonged to the Communist party?”
“No, sir.”
Thomassy didn’t hear the answer, as if a sudden deafness had descended on him in which he could only hear the voices of two women, Tarasova proclaiming him naive and Francine, trying to help him, explaining that Christopher Boyce hadn’t belonged to a party or a movement—he’d just hated enough to focus on the biggest enemy in sight, his father’s country, and had given the Soviets a present of all three guardian satellites. Had Ed given them another gift he thought they’d want, the stopping of Fuller’s brain?
Thomassy glared at Ed on the witness stand. “Answer my question,’’ he said, and suddenly realized he was attacking his own client and that every lawyer in the country would consider that improper. My client right or wrong! Wrong he wanted to shout because it was within these walls, within his head, that he was beginning to grasp the intolerable complexity of the human condition and that Martin Fuller, his greatness unchallenged because he had understood everything about the enemy, in the end, by accepting Ed Porter, may have been, like Trotsky, naive unto death.
Judge Drewson was beckoning him over. “Are you all right, counselor?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“The witness had answered the question.”
The courtroom was painfully silent.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor.”
“Continue.”
Thomassy went over to the witness box. Ed seemed frightened of him. It must be my expression.
Gently Thomassy asked, “Mr. Sturbridge, have you ever belonged to any group or organization affiliated with the Communist movement in any way whatsoever?”
“No, sir.”
“If you had, would such affiliation have gone undetected by Professor Fuller during the course of your many discussions?”
“Objection,” demanded Roberts.
“Sustained.”
“I withdraw the question.” Thomassy picked up a book from the defense table, and brought it to the witness box. “Do you recognize this volume, Mr. Sturbridge?”
“Yes,” Ed said, smiling for the first time.
“Will you tell the court what it is.”
Roberts was on his feet, coming over to see what the book was. He regretted his move, just as Thomassy was saying, “Your Honor, I intend to enter this volume into evidence as Defense Exhibit J.”
“Continue,” the judge said.
“Will you describe this book, please?”
“It’s a copy of Lenin’s Grandchildren written by me and published last year by the Oxford University Press.”
“You were twenty-three at the time of its publication?”
“Just about going on twenty-four.”
“And who wrote the foreword to this book.”
“Professor Fuller.”
“Do you know if Professor Fuller was paid to write the introduction to this book?”
“No, sir. It would have been impolitic for me to offer an honorarium. The publisher may have. I don’t know.”
“Would you characterize this book as procommunist, anticommunist, or any other way?”
Roberts objected. “Your Honor, I question the relevance.”
“I can see a possible relevance,” the judge said. “Please rephrase, Mr. Thomassy.”
“Would you characterize your book, briefly of course.”
“I hope it’s objective. That brief enough?”
Ed got a tinkle of laughter from the press.
“And what is the book about?”
“It deals with the Latin American and African revolutionaries of the last thirty years, and the influence of the Soviet Union on their countries.”
“Would Professor Fuller have written an introduction to the book if it were markedly procommunist?”
“Of course not!” Ed said before Roberts objected and was sustained by the judge.
“I think,” Judge Drewson said, “that a question like that might have been more appropriately asked of Professor Tarasova or some other expert witness. The jurors will note that the question and the answer are both being stricken from the record and they should not consider either in their deliberations.”
“Now then,” Thomassy said, “would you please describe the events of the evening of April fifth in the home of the Fullers to the best of your recollection.”
Ed described the conversation at dinner and Barry Heskowitz leaving.
“Did Mr. Heskowitz offer you a ride into the city?”
“He did.”
“Did you accept?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it was only eleven-fifteen—”
“How do you know that?”
“I looked at my watch.”
“Do you wear your watch all the time?”
“I sure do. Except when I take a shower.”
There was a titter in the audience. Okay, okay, Thomassy thought.
“Do you wear your watch when you sleep?”
“If there’s no alarm clock in the room, so if I wake up I can tell what time it is without fumbling around.”
“At what time did you all go upstairs to bed?”
“Mrs. Fuller broke up the discussion just about midnight.”
“Did you all go up at the same time?”
“Yes, we did.”
“Each into your own bedrooms?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear any unusual sounds during the night?”
“Just the usual athletic activities.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Doors opening, closing, springs going up and down, nothing serious, except I had to use the bathroom once and the damn door was locked, so I had to use the downstairs bathroom. I hated to do that because I didn’t want to wake the Fullers up.”
“Wasn’t there a nearer bathroom?”
“As I said, yes, but the door was locked from the inside. I rattled the knob. Then I went downstairs.”
“Fair enough. Did you slip on any garment when you went downstairs, such as a bathrobe?”
“I have a superlong T-shirt. It’s like a nightshirt on someone my size.”
“But you didn’t put it on when you ran down in the morning?”
“That was an emergency. I heard the screaming.”
“During the night when you went down to use Professor Fuller’s bathroom, did you raise the toilet seat?”
“I always do.”
“Did you notice whether or not you were wearing your watch when you left the bathroom?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“So it might have fallen off as you raised the seat?”
“Objection!” Roberts said.
“Sustained.”
“I withdraw the question,” Thomassy said. “Did you during the course of the night go out to the garage?”
“No, sir.”
“Now, apart from that night and the previous evening, did you at any other time shortly before that use Professor Fuller’s bathroom?”
&nb
sp; “About two weeks earlier, Professor Fuller had asked me to fill up his kerosene heater from the can kept in the garage.”
“Which you did?”
“Which I did.”
“Did you ever mow the Fuller’s lawn?”
“Many times.”
“Did you fill the lawn mower with fuel from the same or a different can?”
Ed smiled. “I’ve never tried running a lawn mower on kerosene. I doubt it’d work.”
“Are the two cans clearly labeled?”
“Oh yes, in Professor Fuller’s own handwriting. On wide duct tape pasted on each can. He was very careful about things like that.”
“Now, let’s be clear. Between the time two weeks before the accident and the date of the accident, did you at any time refill the kerosene heater in Professor Fuller’s bathroom.”
“No, sir.”
“We have heard testimony that Mr. Fuller used the heater every morning. Would it hold a two-week kerosene supply?”
“I doubt it. Frankly, I don’t know.”
Jesus, he’s forgotten, Thomassy thought.
Ed caught himself, continued. “Actually, I did fill it three weeks earlier, too, so it must hold only about a week’s supply.”
“Thank you. That would seem to indicate that someone else filled the heater at least twice since you did, once a week earlier, and once between the morning of April fourth and the morning of April fifth because if gas had been mixed with the kerosene in the heater accidentally or otherwise, it would have blown up earlier than the morning of April fifth.”
The judge held up a hand. “Mr. Thomassy, I’m certain you can touch on these matters in your summation.”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor.” He turned back to his witness. “All right,” Thomassy said. “Did you have any reason to want to see Professor Fuller die?”
Ed’s face looked as if all expression had suddenly drained away. His eyes moved within their sockets as if taking in everyone in the courtroom from left to right without seeing an actual person.
Thomassy couldn’t tell if Ed was thinking, daydreaming, or lost. His soul has fled.
“Did you hear the question?” Thomassy asked, keeping his distance from the apparition.
The ghost-head on Ed’s shoulder made a barely perceptible nod.
“Please answer,” Thomassy said.
“I have never wanted anyone to die.”
Thomassy saw the character he had helped create for the jury’s eyes turning into vapor. “Please speak up,” he said, coming closer to Ed. “Did you have any reason to want to see Professor Fuller die?”
Ed’s face snapped back from wherever it had been as he said louder than anything he had said before in that courtroom so that it sounded like a wail. “I loved him!”
That wasn’t what they had rehearsed. He hadn’t answered the question.
Thomassy glanced at the judge, caught in a freeze-frame. Thomassy turned to Roberts, expecting an objection that never came. And so, his voice as normal as he could make it, Thomassy said, “Mr. Sturbridge, did you at any time ever mix gas and kerosene in Professor Fuller’s heater or any other heater?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you kill Professor Fuller?”
Thomassy could feel the acute silence in the vast room. He’d told Ed not to answer instantly or to wait too long.
After two seconds, Ed said, “No, sir,” and he was actually sobbing, crying and sobbing, reaching frantically for the handkerchief in his pocket, and none of that was in the script.
“Thank you,” Thomassy said. “Your witness, Mr. Roberts.”
As Thomassy returned to the defense table, he noticed Tarasova sitting halfway back. She hadn’t been able to keep away. The dead man belonged to her, too.
*
Roberts’s two young assistants were busily skimming Exhibit J, Lenin’s Grandchildren. The sandy-haired one was glancing down the left-hand pages, while the other skimmed the right-hand pages. “So far nothing,” the sandy-haired one said.
Roberts told them to hurry as he pulled his vest sharply down and proceeded to his post in front of the witness.
Preparation is ninety percent of the battle, Thomassy thought, yet winging it without preparation for a particular turn of events gave him an adrenaline high. When he saw Koppelman and another young assistant DA busily skimming the places they had marked in Exhibit J, Thomassy wished he’d spent time with that book of Ed’s, trying to figure out what they might use, or at least—he looked at Ed sitting in the witness box, his chin cupped in his hands—he should have questioned Ed as to what in the book might be used against him. But Ed wouldn’t necessarily have pointed to the right things. He’s playing a double game, what he tells the world, what he tells me. How different are they?
The large flat envelope on the prosecution table bothered Thomassy. Did they contain the photographs? Roberts would have used them during his witness’s testimony, when Francine was on the stand, if he had them. If he had them then. What if he’d just gotten his hands on them? What if Roberts was smarter than he thought and had saved them to demolish the defendant’s testimony? Could he have prepared Ed to deal with the photos? Were these oversights in his planning because of the rush of things, or was he doing less than a hundred percent? The ache of doubt was not something you wanted nibbling at your gut while the defendant was being cross-examined. You can’t push the clock back. This is it, go with it.
Roberts pulled his vest sharply down and proceeded to his post in front of the witness. He looked like his family had owned the world for a long time.
“Mr. Sturbridge,” Roberts said, “when did you first adopt an alias?”
“What alias?”
“You testified here that your name was Edward Porter Sturbridge. Prosecution Exhibit A was an identification card found in your possession on which you used the name Porter as a last name. My question was when did you first start using that alias?”
“Your Honor,” said Thomassy, objecting, “the word alias has a perjorative connotation that might be misinterpreted by the jury.”
“Sustained,” the judge spoke directly to Ed. “Would the witness clarify his use of two last names.”
Ed’s mother and father sat frozen like Grant Wood figures in the back row.
“Your Honor,” he said, “Porter is my mother’s name. Sturbridge is my father’s name. I used my father’s name, as is customary, until I left home for college. My father, as Your Honor may know, is a well-known pharmaceutical industrialist and I didn’t want to be stigmatized by my peers for any views they might have about my father’s wealth or reputation. The simplest solution seemed to be to use my mother’s name, which is much more common and not associated with anyone in particular as far as I know.”
Good boy, Thomassy thought. Keep it up.
Roberts, his gambit blown, decided to pursue another avenue. “Mr. Sturbridge, you testified that you never were a member of the Communist party. Had you been, what would have been your answer to the question, ‘Are you or have you ever been a member of the Communist party?’”
Thomassy objected. “Your Honor, that is secondhand speculation.”
“I’ll let it stand,” the judge said. He nodded to Ed. “You may answer.”
“I want to repeat that I am not a member of the Communist party. Had I been, however, I would have denied that I was.”
“Does that mean you would have lied under oath.”
“On that issue, of course.”
Thomassy wasn’t happy with the outcome of that interchange. He could ask for a conference at the bench. He could appeal to the judge’s desire to avoid reversible error. The question was hypothetical, though Roberts hadn’t flagged it as such. It was speculative about a large group of people. The hell with it, he thought, let it ride.
Koppelman caught Roberts’s eye and motioned to him. He handed him the copy of Ed’s book opened midway and was pointing an excited finger at a passage, which Roberts quickly read. Koppelman whispered
in Roberts’s ear. Roberts nodded.
“Mr. Sturbridge,” Roberts said, a touch of relish in his voice, “on page one ninety-two of Exhibit J—your book—it says, and I quote, ‘Murder may be both an end and a means.’ Would you explain that statement?”
This time Thomassy was in a mood to fight. “Objection! Your Honor, the book speaks for itself. Any elaboration that the district attorney wants may involve the writing of additional text or a pony, but I don’t think the witness should be required to elaborate.”
The judge said, “Counsels please approach the bench.”
As soon as they were both close, Roberts opened up. “Your Honor, murder is the central issue of the indictment. Intent is central to the concept of murder. Here we have a most unusual opportunity for the jury to understand exactly what the defendant thinks about that subject.”
The judge nodded to Thomassy, who replied, “Your Honor, I have no objection to letting the jury read anything that’s in that book in context, but it is in violation of the defendant’s rights for him to be forced to elaborate on a text that the defense itself committed to the record. If Mr. Roberts wants each member of the jury to read that book, I’ll be happy to supply eleven other copies, but the context of that statement is the paragraph it’s in, and the context of that paragraph is its chapter, and the context of the chapter is the book as a whole. As Your Honor knows, the Supreme Court has taken the position on the issue of obscenity that a work must be taken as a whole because nothing can be judged objectively and accurately out of its context.”
*
Judge Drewson reflected on his isolation. He could not show the anger he felt. He couldn’t leave the bench on some pretext, as he sometimes did; his daughter would see through him as easily here as she sometimes did over the dinner table. Thomassy, you Armenian bastard, I’ll throttle you some other time. In his most controlled voice, the judge said, “Mr. Roberts, why don’t you—without referring to the exhibit—just ask the witness any question you want to about murder.”
“Your Honor,” Thomassy said, “I have to object to that. I can’t let my client be jeopardized by an abstract discussion of his views on any subject, much less murder.”
