Each one of these “crimes” had subdivisions and supplementary clauses, so that any citizen, who was considered “dangerous,” might be proved guilty under them. Durant studied the manual exhaustively. As an attorney, he had had a brief course in it some years ago, but now it occupied his absorbed interest. When a young man, he had been aroused to loathing contempt upon reading it; now he was enraged. He had always known of this abomination. But it had come closer to him in these last months, and he had applied some of its provisions against the bureaucrats, the MASTS and, especially, to the farmers who were his own province.
It was not a necessity for the Military Court to “prove beyond a reasonable doubt” the guilt of the accused. The Court had only to be “convinced,” even without evidence. However, any trial under the manual was given tremendous publicity in the press, in order to assure the people that their “rights” were being fully protected by “their servant, the Military,” and to deter them from committing such crimes themselves.
The prosecution and judgment for crimes which did not warrant the death penalty were usually disposed of by the commanding officer of any Section, or his appointed deputy, without assistance from other military officials. But “grave capital offenses” had to be judged not only by the officer of the Section, but also by two lesser officers. Moreover, at least two members of the Picked Guard had to be present. This, said the Government, virtuously, was a provision especially provided “to protect the interests of the accused.”
Durant chose Lieutenant Grandon and Captain Edwards for his officers, and John Beckett and Chard Sadler as his Picked Guards. He then had to find an attorney for Alex Sheridan, for alleged criminals were no longer permitted to employ their own counsel. The reason for this was explained with immense nobility: “It is only just that the best counsel be obtained for the accused, who is not always in a position to engage proper defense. Therefore, it is the duty of the State to provide the accused with counsel who can protect the interests of the accused, without cost to the accused.” In consequence, men and women brought to trial in the Military Court were represented by counsel drawn from a list of lawyers “whose probity is beyond question, and who have the approval of the State.”
Durant studied the list carefully. Those who had “lost” the most cases to the Military Courts had their names prominently marked. Durant noted that these lawyers seemed to have appeared the greater number of times. Durant picked a name which was not only capitalized but underscored, and it needed very little perspicacity to understand that this name was in high favor. He showed it to Grandon, who laughed maliciously, and to Edwards, who remarked that Pellman was a good man, though he never happened to get his man off very often. Further inquiry on Durant’s part brought out the information that Mr. Pellman lived in one of the best sections of Philadelphia, had a son in a Government bureau in Washington, and a wife who was an aide to Captain Alice Steffens of the Department of Women’s Welfare. For a man who consistently “lost” cases to the Military Court, and whose fee, paid by the State, was comparatively small, Mr. Pellman appeared to be doing very well, indeed.
The arrest and impending trial of Alex Sheridan aroused enormous interest in Section 7. The newspapers polished up their most vituperative adjectives against the accused man. (It was taken for granted that he was guilty.) Durant rightly conjectured that a signal had been given to the newspapers to vilify Sheridan, even though he was the head of the local FBHS, and Durant had his suspicions that the signal had come from Arthur Carlson. Ordinarily, on the rare occasion when the powerful head of a bureau was accused of any crime, the newspapers were wary. If released, such a man might soon be out for revenge against any publication which had denounced him.
The people were very excited. This hated man now stood where so many thousands of their relatives and friends had once stood, and it was very probable that he would face the firing squad, as those relatives and friends had faced them. So many innocent citizens had been tortured by the FBHS, or had “disappeared” at the instigation of Sheridan, that the people could hardly contain their joy. But they had learned to be discreet. They did not mention the name of Alex Sheridan. FBHS spies were everywhere, and if Sheridan were adjudged not guilty even the most poor, the most insignificant or wretched creature, was not safe from bloody reprisal if he had been overheard denouncing Sheridan. However, among those they could trust, the people exulted.
Durant brought the case to trial on a wild and bitter day in November. An early snow blew down like a gray curtain; the wind screamed through the city. As early as dawn, groups of shivering and ragged men and women gathered outside the building where the Court held its sessions. Soldiers, scowling, kept them in line, but did not disperse them. Colonel Curtiss had issued a specific directive that the people be permitted to gather, “in order that they might discover for themselves that the Military Courts were just.” No private citizen, of course, was allowed in the building.
They stood there, the people, in a rapidly gathering crowd, silent but expectant. They did not speak to neighbors, but their faces reflected their hope that Sheridan would be condemned to death, and their eyes blazed with eager expectation. They looked for the arrival of Durant and his men, but Durant slipped through a rear entrance, which the soldiers had kept clear.
The immense edifice which housed the Military Court was also the Military prison for civilian offenders against The Democracy. Old warehouses had been torn down to erect this building, which was of gray stone. It stood thirty stories tall; broad and grim, it stared over the surrounding slums. At night, a red beacon on its top, in the form of a pouncing eagle, bloodied the sky. It was guarded at every door by soldiers, and soldiers patrolled outside, and officers came and went constantly in official cars, and black automobiles brought fresh prisoners. No one ever again saw the victims who were dragged behind those ominous bronze doors, except on the very few occasions when they were released after being found “not guilty” of the crime charged. The building had a name: Democratic Justice Department. The people called it The Morgue.
Durant was led through the administrative sections on the second floor, pleasant enough in bronze and paneled wood and diffused light. He entered the agreeable room called “the judge’s chambers,” where all was warmth, red leather, handsome rugs and polished floors. Here he found Mr. Stephen Pellman waiting for him. The lawyer rose quickly at Durant’s entrance, and Durant’s first impression was of a flare of white teeth, very big, very prominent, and curved affably. The next impression was of a carefully and expensively dressed man of about forty-five, with a rich pile of gray hair on a high skull, a tiny little nose, a gleaming forehead, and a pair of sparkling and mendacious brown eyes. Durant felt those eyes sweep over him, catalogue him, and consign him to a particular niche. He guessed, with considerable intuition, that Mr. Pellman had decided that he was not in the least formidable and not very intelligent. He was so far right that in less than four seconds Mr. Pellman had conjectured that he would be on the way home in little more than an hour.
The presence of Beckett and Sadler did not disconcert Mr. Pellman. He was not in the least afraid of them, and gave them no more than a second flare of teeth and a quick glance. He would have refrained from bestowing even these on the men had he not observed that they were officers. He waited until Durant had seated himself behind an absolutely blank desk, and then sat down, himself, with a care for the crease in his trousers.
Durant let his eyes become empty and glazed, as he contemplated the lawyer. He put a cigaret in his mouth, and Sadler lit it for him. He puffed at the cigaret, and continued his contemplation. The flare of teeth came and went, each time a little less brilliantly and a little more mechanically. A very bright scoundrel, thought Durant, looking more empty second by second. He watched his cigaret smoke curl idly in the warm air. The gray snow blobbed against the tall windows; the winter gale swept by in a long gray swirl. Hurrying footsteps sounded in the corridor, a subdued voice. But everything was silent in the chamber;
the Picked Guards stood on each side of Durant, and regarded Pellman stonily.
Then Durant said: “Pellman?”
The smile flashed out electrically to its full capacity. Pellman half rose and stretched his hand across the desk. “Colonel Curtiss!” he cried, and Durant noticed that he had a full and singing voice. Durant gave the big pink hand a brief shake, then dropped it. Pellman sank back in his chair, disconcerted.
“You’ve seen your client on a number of occasions?” Durant asked idly.
“Indeed, yes, Colonel! Several times. I’ve gone into the case extensively.”
“Well?”
Mr. Pellman’s face took on the solemn curves of distress. He affected to hesitate. He sighed. “I shall do my best for Mr. Sheridan,” he said.
Durant watched the cigaret smoke again. He knew that Pellman was waiting for a signal. He allowed him to wait. Then he remarked: “I covered this case, myself, from the beginning. It’s a queer one. Sheridan has a prominent position in this Section. Tell me, what do you think of Sheridan, personally?”
Pellman was confused. Had he been told to defend this case honestly, an almost unprecedented event, or had he been told to lose it? He had listened to Durant’s intonations, the shading of his words, and was baffled. He cleared his throat. “Well, Colonel, I have known Sheridan for a long time—” He paused, and waited again for another clue.
“Would that prejudice you for or against him?”
“I shall do my best for Mr. Sheridan,” he repeated. “I haven’t any prejudice for or against him.” Then he was desperate. “Should I have?”
“What?” asked Durant.
Pellman was silent, but he watched Durant closely. During old Major Burnes’ tenure, victims frequently escaped with their lives or a small sentence, and a lawyer had only to watch the old major’s face, which usually expressed disgust and loathing for his work and sympathy for the accused, to know how to plead the case. Before Major Burnes, the commanding officer of the Military Court had been a malign individual, nicknamed “Old Thumbs Down” by the irreverent, and under his jurisdiction, too, matters had been simple for the lawyers. But this new man—was he a dull military fool, as he, Pellman, had at first decided, or was there something sinister and elusive about him? There he sat, just staring, and saying again: “What?” Pellman smiled, but his teeth barely glittered. “I just said that I haven’t any prejudice for or against Sheridan. I shall just do my best.”
“Good,” said Durant, pleased with the other’s discomfiture. He walked out of the room without another word, followed by his Guards. Pellman watched him go. What was he to do? How was he to conduct this case? He would just have to try to catch clues from this man as the matter proceeded. He suspected that Durant had baited him. If so, this was alarming. His very position depended upon pleasing the commanding officer. He caught up his briefcase and hurried toward the courtroom.
The day of the large public courtroom was gone. The Military Court was held in a chill room hardly more than thirty feet square. It contained the commanding officer’s bench, the chairs of the accused and his counsel, a single long bench for the witnesses, and a row of stiff seats for newspaper reporters which were rarely occupied, and only when the commanding officer permitted. Below the judge’s bench were two chairs for the other officers who assisted in capital cases.
Because of the “gravity” of this case, the immense excitement it had aroused, and the prominence of the defendant, the reporters’ seats were already filled with newspaper men; photographers stood beside them, tense with expectation. Grandon and Edwards were seated, with properly solemn expressions. On the bench for the witness sat four men, stolidly gazing before them. At Durant’s entrance with the Picked Guard, all stood up. Lights went on and revealed in full the utter starkness of the room. Behind the judge’s chair hung the flag of The Democracy, flaccid in the cold air. The wintry gale hammered the barred windows. Durant seated himself, and his Guards stood beside him. He acknowledged the presence of Grandon and Edwards, and they saluted and sat down. Soldiers stood along the walls, guarding the doors, their rifles ready in their hands. Now the atmosphere quickened. Durant examined the papers on his desk with deliberation, rereading his own reports of the case. The accused was in his seat, and Mr. Pellman leaned toward him in his own chair. There was no need, in these days, for tables and many papers. Even capital cases rarely continued longer than three hours, and there was little ceremony and no rebuttals and no “objections.” No matter what the commanding officer might say, no lawyer was permitted to challenge him. There was no jury to be convinced or swayed or confused. Oratory must be directed at the military judge, who could cut it short if he desired, make his decison, and leave with nothing more to be done. From his decision there was no appeal. The two officers under him might ask a few questions to clarify the situation, but they had no other function.
Slowly, Durant lifted his eyes and scrutinized everyone in the courtroom. The reporters scribbled feverishly, recording his appearance and expression. The heavy silence lay over everything like a mist of death.
Alex Sheridan sat rigidly in his chair. He was a small gray man, middle-aged and slender, with wisps of hair on a small tight skull, long thin features intelligently and delicately set, and pale sunken eyes withdrawn behind his polished glasses. As Durant studied him, he straightened even more, and there was a natural dignity in that movement. It was hard to believe that this man, so inconspicuous, so quiet of manner and face, was a murderer and a creature of dread to millions of people. Though Durant had talked with him several times, it was incredible to him, still, that count less thousands had died at his ruthless word. For Sheridan appeared to have all the well-bred reticence and gentle thoughtfulness of a kindly schoolmaster, or a clergyman, or a secluded scholar of famous reputation, and his voice was reserved and modulated, his conduct temperate.
Durant forgot everyone else in the room but this man, and Sheridan regarded him in turn with a detached remoteness such as one bestows on a stranger. Durant thought of all Sheridan was, and all that he had done. Suddenly, unable to control himself, his face blackened. His eyes glowed in the stark lights overhead. Pellman, watching him with absorption, relaxed happily. He had his clue. That intense expression of hatred, that bitter mouth, was enough for him.
Durant returned to his papers, and was amazed that his hands trembled so, and that there was such a constriction in his chest. He manipulated the papers into a neat pile, looked up and addressed space.
“How does the defendant plead?”
Pellman got to his feet, and his whole figure drooped with sadness. In a dolorous voice, he said hesitatingly: “Not guilty, Colonel Curtiss.”
The faintest shadow of a smile touched Sheridan’s gray lips. He knew that he had been judged and condemned to death during those moments when he and Durant had regarded each other in that pressing silence. He did not shrink or tremble. He only sat beside his lawyer, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his eyes contemplating the distance thoughtfully.
Durant snapped: “First witness. Alfred Schultz.”
Schultz rose clumsily, approached the bench, and stared truculently at Durant. He was a big fat man, untidy and none too clean, and there was defiance in his manner.
“Your occupation?”
“I’m a tavern keeper, sir.”
Durant said: “It won’t be necessary to ask too many questions of any of the witnesses. Schultz, look about you and identify those who were in your tavern until closing hours on the night of the murder of one Andreas Zimmer.”
Schultz wheeled slowly and turned to the witnesses’ bench. He pointed to one man, a short, stout fellow with graying yellow hair, a large intelligent face and narrowed blue eyes. “Mr. Schaeffer.” He pointed to another. “Mr. Kirk.” Mr. Kirk was an emaciated man in his thirties, with a cynical mouth and the long features of a hunting dog. Schultz then pointed to the third man on the bench, an old and wizened man with old-fashioned pince-nez and neat, old-fashioned clothing. �
��Mr. Goodwin.”
“Look at the defendant,” directed Durant, noting that Mr. Goodwin’s wrinkled old face had become passionate with indignation as he returned Schultz’s gaze. The other witnesses smiled a little, exchanging furtive glances.
Schultz looked directly at Sheridan. “Was the defendant with the three witnesses at any time, at any hour, of the night of Zimmer’s murder?” asked Durant.
Schultz drew a deep and beery breath. He met Durant’s eyes belligerently. “No, sir, he wasn’t.”
Schaeffer and Kirk were called, denied, without emotion, that Sheridan had been with them and Goodwin. At their testimony, Goodwin’s indignation increased, and he wriggled on his chair. Pellman, drooping with sorrow, questioned them gently, and then, with an excellently acted gesture of resignation, sat down again.
Durant had questioned Schaeffer, first assistant to Sheridan, and Kirk, second assistant, several times. Their story had never changed; they had answered him easily and quietly. Who were they? What were they, that they should lie and put their director in jeopardy? Schaeffer, perhaps, might covet Sheridan’s power, for he was next in line for the position. But Kirk? Kirk was an enigma. The two men seemed to have some secret understanding. Durant studied them keenly, and they looked back at him with open interest and bland eyes.
Sheridan had listened to their testimony with frozen indifference. He had not even turned in his lawyer’s direction when Pellman had questioned the men. He displayed no interest whatsoever. Sometimes he examined the gold signet ring on his hand, and sometimes he glanced at the stormy windows. If he expressed anything at all, it was cultured politeness.
The Devil's Advocate: The Epic Novel of One Man's Fight to Save America From Tyranny Page 29
