by Sol Stein
“Look, Mr. Thomassy,” the judge said, “I’ve been patient with you both. You put the defendant on the stand. I don’t think you can deny the prosecution legitimate questions on the grounds of the defendant’s possible self-incrimination. And please don’t give me a dissertation on context. The context of anything the defendant testifies to is everything else he testifies to in front of the jury. Let us proceed. We’re wasting time.”
“Your Honor,” Thomassy said, “may I quickly read page one ninety-two?”
“You did not read Exhibit J?”
“No, Your Honor. In preparing for trial I only had a chance to skim it briefly.”
“Very well.”
What Thomassy read on that page did not assuage his alarm. “May I confer with my client, Your Honor?” he asked.
“Not during his testimony. You ought to know better than that, Mr. Thomassy. Come on, gentlemen, let’s get the record going again or we’ll be here till Christmas.”
*
As Roberts walked up to the witness stand, Thomassy hoped that Ed, entirely unrehearsed in this area, wouldn’t fall into the pit.
“Mr. Sturbridge,” Roberts said, “is your book a correct and accurate statement of your true beliefs?”
“Of course.”
“Will you tell the court then what your beliefs are with regard to murder as a means to an end and as an end in itself?”
As Ed reflected for a moment, Judge Drewson wondered if he hadn’t indeed opened the trapdoor of reversible error. He could still strike it from the record, though whatever happened now could not be stricken from the jury’s memory.
Finally, Ed spoke. “Murder is generally regarded as the second-worst crime, after treason. The taking of a human life is, of course, abhorred in all societies we call civilized, though subsections of such societies have different views of murder. When it is a means to an end, the end may be the elimination of a potential enemy, or as an ostensible lesson to others—as when society commits capital punishment. However, murder is often committed in the heat of anger, jealousy, or some similar emotion and becomes like any emotion an expression or an end in itself.”
“And why does a reference to murder as both a means and an end in itself,” Roberts asked, “appear in a book that is about revolutions in Latin America?”
Ed was soaring. He didn’t know if they were wholly understanding him, but all of them were focusing their attention on his every word. “One frequently hears it said about communist and fascist societies that they consider every means—including murder—not only permissible but perhaps even desirable if it accomplishes a just end as defined by that society. In capitalist society, profit is considered an end so desirable as to involve such activities as repossessing homes where mortgages are in default. Many people, perhaps most people, view war as permissible murder, permissible in that it is justified as self-defense or warranted attack.”
Thomassy stood to attract the judge’s attention. Ed looked at him as if to say what did I do wrong? “Your Honor,” Thomassy said, “with respect, I cannot see how we are doing anything else here than confounding the jury, which is here to judge fact and only fact. I move that the entire discussion relating to Exhibit J be stricken from the record.”
With great relief, Judge Drewson said, “Motion granted. Strike it out. The jury will disregard.”
“Exception!” Roberts said, putting it on the record, and glancing at Koppelman.
They were setting up for an appeal, just in case, Thomassy thought.
Roberts looked relieved. The defendant wasn’t being judged by his peers. Most of those jurors probably hadn’t read a book of political theory since school, if then. If that last garbage had stayed in the record, they’d camp in the jury room forever. Roberts looked confident as he went back to the real world.
“Mr. Sturbridge, before the events of April fifth, what was your personal experience with kerosene?”
“My parents used to heat the greenhouse with kerosene heaters. I used to help the gardener when I was a kid.”
“Can you tell the difference between kerosene and gasoline?”
“Sure. They smell different. They also look different. And in the Fuller garage, they’re labeled differently.”
Okay, okay, Thomassy thought.
“Then,” said Roberts, “if you were to mistake gasoline for kerosene it wouldn’t be a mistake?”
“Objection!”
“Sustained.”
“Do you read detective stories, Mr. Sturbridge?”
Judge Drewson preempted Thomassy’s objection. “Let’s see where it goes.”
“I’ve read a few.”
“Good. Then perhaps you can tell us what you believe is meant by the perfect crime.”
“In detective stories?”
“In detective stories or anywhere else.”
“I guess it would mean a crime that would go undetected.”
“And why might such a crime go undetected?”
“Because of the means used.”
“Such as?”
“A poison that doesn’t show up in laboratory analysis of the victim’s blood or body tissues, something like that.”
“Would you consider a bit of gasoline mixed in secretly with kerosene to be a means like a poison that doesn’t show up in laboratory analysis?”
“I never read about any such thing in any detective story.”
“Did you invent that means yourself then?”
“Objection!”
“Sustained.”
Thomassy thought, Roberts ought to take lessons in cross-examination.
“All right,” Roberts said to Ed, “did you ever visit the buildings that house the United Nations?”
“Of course,” Ed said. “Several times in connection with my research.”
“And was it research you couldn’t do at the university or elsewhere?”
“Absolutely.”
“And when was the last time you visited there?”
“I can’t remember.”
“This year, last year?”
Careful, Thomassy was thinking, this is the trip-wire.
“When I was doing my dissertation.”
“And not since Professor Fuller’s death?” Roberts asked.
“No, sir.”
Roberts headed for the prosecution table, where Koppelman, all smiles, had the large envelope ready to hand to him. “Your Honor,” Roberts said, “I would like to have these four photographs marked as People’s Exhibit R.”
Four? Thomassy had seen three in Widmer’s house. What the hell was going on?
Judge Drewson looked at the photographs. The first three drew no special reaction from him. The fourth did.
“May I inspect the exhibit, Your Honor,” Thomassy said.
The judge nodded, at the same time that Roberts said, “Of course,” handing them from the judge to Thomassy, who glanced at the first three so as not to betray his anxiety to see the fourth.
The fourth was an extreme close-up of Ed and Trushenko. Their expressions were of men in heated argument. Why hadn’t Perry shown him all the pictures?
Judge Drewson motioned both lawyers to the bench out of earshot of the jury. “Mr. Roberts, can you clarify the purpose of introducing these exhibits?”
“Certainly, Your Honor. We don’t have a smoking-gun case, but one of circumstantial evidence. This evidence, Your Honor, may be objectively verifiable proof that the defendant committed perjury when he said he hadn’t been to the UN building since Professor Fuller’s death when in fact he was there when these photographs were taken within a few days afterward. More importantly, it establishes a link between the defendant and Soviet officials, which speaks to the point of intent if he was in fact operating under instructions from them.”
Thomassy didn’t know whom he was most angry at. “Your Honor, that is a tenuous chain. Photographs can be dangerously misleading because a jury of laymen has been brought up to believe that what the eye sees is proof, but the p
roof being offered by the government does not speak to the point of the events preceding the death of Martin Fuller.”
The judge asked Roberts, “Who took those photographs?”
“Your Honor,” Roberts said, “each is stamped on the back. They were taken by an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, which has certified on the back of each the date and approximate time taken.”
Drewson turned to Thomassy. “Will you stipulate as to the source?”
There was no point to fighting what he knew to be fact. “The defense stipulates that the government is the source of those photographs. But Your Honor, I still believe…”
Thomassy wanted to go on, but the judge said, “Let’s get on with it,” and that was that.
At the witness box, Roberts was ready to break Ed. “I show you photograph one. Can you please examine the photo closely and see if you can identify any of the people you see?”
Ed looked at the photo. His lips were tight. “There are a lot of people there.”
“Please focus on the people who are not walking. Can you identify any of these three?” Roberts asked, pointing to Semyonov, Trushenko, and the young man with his back turned.
“The picture isn’t very clear. From what I can see, I can’t identify any of those persons.”
“Well then,” Roberts said, “can you identify that short man I am pointing to right now who is wearing a jacket exactly the same as the one you are wearing now?”
“Objection!” Thomassy shouted.
“Sustained,” the judge responded.
“Can you identify the short man,” Roberts said, keeping the pressure on.
“No, sir. His back is turned.”
“Well, then,” Roberts said, taking the photo back and handing Ed another, “here is a side view. Does that help you identify the man?”
Ed looked at Thomassy. He was hoping for an objection. There was nothing for Thomassy to object to.
“I can’t identify any of them,” Ed said, swallowing.
Don’t let the jury see you swallow like that.
Ed responded to photo number three the same way. But when he was shown the fourth photo, he asked, “Is this a different photo?”
“It is a blow-up of a section of photo three,” Roberts said, “to help you identify those persons.”
Ed pretended to study the photo, using the time to think. Finally he said, “I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure,” Roberts said triumphantly, “that that person I’m pointing to right now is you?”
Thomassy was on his feet. “The witness answered that question already, Your Honor.”
Roberts asked to approach the bench. Both lawyers came forward. “Your Honor,” Roberts said, “I beg the court’s leave to ask for an adjournment to ascertain if the government will permit the agent who took the photographs to testify and as an expert witness, to bring up from Washington the Bureau’s chief expert in identification procedures involving photographs.”
“I object, Your Honor,” Thomassy said. “The prosecution has had its chance with witnesses.”
He saw the flicker in Judge Drewson’s face. He wasn’t dumb. He wouldn’t take an obvious chance with reversible error.
“Sustained,” he said.
Thomassy tried to keep his smile in check. Roberts started to burble his objections, but the judge cut him short. “Sustained,” he repeated.
Roberts tried to compose himself. “Your Honor,” he said, “while the testimony of the defendant is fresh in the jury’s mind, I request the court’s permission to publish all four photographs to the jury.”
“Granted.”
They all watched the faces of the jurors examining the photos. Some of the jurors took extra time over photo number four, looking up at Ed on the stand, then back at the photo. One of them looked over at Thomassy. The last thing in the world Thomassy wanted to communicate was worry. He smiled. Those photos don’t mean a damned thing.
When the jurors were through, Judge Drewson ordered them sequestered for the night. Then he asked to see Roberts and Thomassy in chambers.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “let’s do a little horse trading. Mr. Thomassy, are you planning to redirect on those photos?”
“I’ll reserve my answer,” Thomassy said, “until I hear the other half of the horse trade.” He didn’t want to redirect. The less focus on those pictures the better.
“Mr. Roberts,” the judge said, “if you get your FBI people on the stand, they’ll bore us all to death, and you know Mr. Thomassy is going to feel obliged to tear their testimony to the point where the jury’ll doubt they could recognize their own mothers in a photograph. If you’ll withdraw your request for additional prosecution witnesses, perhaps Mr. Thomassy can be persuaded to skip his redirect. We’ll save a day and you can get to your summations. Perhaps your own comments on those photos, Mr. Roberts, may be more impressive than what the FBI people might have to say. And you get the last word without Mr. Thomassy’s objections. What do you say, gentlemen, shall we call it a day?”
Smart, Thomassy thought. Roberts can’t resist that. And Drewson’s avoided error.
“Well?” Judge Drewson prompted Roberts.
“Deal,” said Roberts.
Thomassy nodded his assent, and in two seconds they were on their way back into the courtroom. As he gathered up his papers, Thomassy told Ed, “I have to visit a friend in the hospital. Stay in your place. I want to talk to you tonight.”
“Did I do all right?” Ed asked.
“The first half was brilliant,” Thomassy said. “The second half depends on whether the jury thinks you’re lying about the photographs.”
His throat tightening, Ed whispered urgently, “What do they prove?”
“In their minds? That you’re a liar. If you lie about those photos, you could be lying about everything.”
“But I’m not.”
Thomassy was already on his way. Through his mind flitted the thought that one of the virtues of not being married was you didn’t have children like Ed. He passed the Sturbridges on the way out of the courtroom. Mr. Sturbridge had the face of a long-dead Pharaoh. Only Mrs. Sturbridge, a mother used to pain, turned to nod at him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The logistics made sense to Thomassy. After a full day in that hardwood chair in the courtroom, the ache in his lower back needed fifteen minutes of stretching out. He’d go home, sack out for that quarter of an hour, freshen up, drive down to Ed Porter’s, then shoot over to the hospital to see Francine without a time limit hanging over his head. Hell, I’ll sleep with her in the hospital, he thought, and laughed at the ideas that sometimes came into his head.
One thing he didn’t like about late October was the switch from daylight saving time to what he thought of as daylight losing time. When he pulled up in his driveway and got out of the car, he did something he hadn’t done for quite a while. He looked up at the night sky. It was spangled with stars. One of them had to be Haig Thomassian. Another his mother. That’s what he wanted to believe, the dead who continued to live in his brain spoke from the stars. That was a suitable compromise for the idea of heaven. He’d share that with Francine on whatever day Episcopalians started to believe in miracles.
First he heard the car door slam. Then a second slam, and footsteps coming up the gravel. Give them your wallet, he thought.
“Hello,” said Perry. “Hope we didn’t startle you.”
Randall was with him.
“We left a message with your service,” Perry said.
“I didn’t call my service.”
“You’re seeing Ed Sturbridge tonight.”
How did they know?
“We wanted a couple of minutes before you did. We hoped you’d stop home first.”
He had no choice. “Come on in,” Thomassy said.
*
They didn’t want a drink even when he poured himself one.
“You look tired, Mr. Perry. What’s on your mind.”
�
�Christov’s been talking a blue streak.”
“Who the hell’s Christov?”
“Sorry. Remember the man who defected in the courtroom?”
“Nearly got me a mistrial. You don’t think anyone in his right mind wants to try this case twice.”
“Christov says Trushenko was Ed Sturbridge’s control.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know damn well what that means. Semyonov’s left for Moscow. We need to know whatever Sturbridge will give us before Trushenko’s gone, too. He could be out of our hands tomorrow.”
“Does Roberts know any of this?”
“Of course not.”
“Then how the hell did he get the pictures if you’re not cooperating with him?”
“The pictures were to put pressure on Sturbridge.”
“And get him convicted?”
“Not in your capable hands. What would Sturbridge get if he were convicted?”
“Of what? Accidental homicide? He’s not getting convicted.”
Perry took a single sheet of folded paper out of his breast pocket. “If Sturbridge will give us an affidavit on Trushenko, we’ll pick Trushenko up. We won’t let the affidavit out until after the trial. We want Trushenko. There’s at least one other American in his control.”
“Who?”
“If we knew we wouldn’t need anything from Sturbridge.”
“You fellows play a dirty game,” Thomassy said.
“I’d expect to hear that from a nurse, not a criminal lawyer. The affidavit doesn’t need to be in exactly that form. Just the substance.”
Thomassy tore the paper in half. “Get out of here,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
There was a time when Ed thought he could count on Trushenko. He had a kind of Slavic charm, a friendly gruffness, a laugh that came from an up-and-down movement of his whole chest. Ed asked him if he had once worn a beard, and he remembered how that question startled Trushenko. “How did you know such a thing?” he demanded.
Ed said he stroked his face with his left hand as if he had once had a beard there. Trushenko thought that was a very clever observation. “A painter, an artist sees such things.” Later Ed learned that he didn’t mean artist. To Trushenko, the highest art was espionage. Trushenko was a soldier during the Great War in defense of the motherland. “A soldier,” he said, “gives his life to protect against the enemy. In espionage, a man sometimes gives his life to the enemy in order to bring back something more valuable than his life.”
