Then Mr. Goodwin was called; and the frail old man almost ran to the bench in his indignant eagerness to be questioned. He looked up at Durant, and quailed for an instant. Then he gathered his slight body together and threw back his head. Under questioning, he insisted, in a high shrill voice, that he and Sheridan and the two other witnesses were all together on the night of the murder, and did not separate until dawn. He became more excitable as he talked. He made the stiff fierce gestures of the elderly when they are emotionally involved, and angry. An honest man, thought Durant. He probably believes that he is serving a free and righteous and democratic State, and he serves fervently, meticulously, and with all his heart and mind. Durant’s eyes lightened with dreary pity and tenderness. Then he saw that Sheridan was gazing at the man who was defending him with gray and shadowy contempt.
Durant said, sharply: “That’s enough, Goodwin. You’re screaming. You are either mistaken about the night, or you are lying. Which is it?”
Goodwin quivered with wrath. “I’m not lying, and I’m not mistaken, sir! I’m telling you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God!”
The old words, so long forgotten except by the old, so strange in this Court, struck poignantly on Durant’s ear. He regarded the old man with deep sadness. There had been no oaths taken by the witnesses, for this formality, too, had been set aside. But Goodwin had raised his gnarled and shaking hand in the resolute gesture of the ancient oath, and his wrinkled face blazed. The newspaper photographers took a second picture of Goodwin, and the reporters scribbled more feverishly than ever, and grinned derisively.
Durant suppressed a compassionate smile. “How old are you, Goodwin?”
“What has that to do with it, sir?” quavered the old man, who had forgotten his fear. “I’m seventy-one, but I’m not senile, and I’ve been in the Government service for fifty years. I do my work well, I hope and believe, and have full possession of my faculties.”
The newspaper reporters wrote: “Colonel Curtiss showed great consideration this Goodwin, who was incoherent and revealed every sign of senility, and apparently had no respect for the Military. The colonel was much amused when the old man, to emphasize his point, employed an oath long abandoned.”
Goodwin turned slowly and scrutinized his fellow bureaucrats. He frowned at them, made a vague gesture of pleading. They merely smiled a little. Goodwin returned to Durant, and in a decisive and heart-broken voice, replied: “They’re lying, sir. I don’t know why, but they are. I—I don’t understand it. Mr. Schaeffer and Mr. Kirk always liked Mr. Sheridan, I guess. They—they were good friends. Always together; used to meet for cards at each other’s houses. And I—”
“Yes?” said Durant gently.
The dull flush of the old stained Goodwin’s cheeks. The veins swelled in his concave temples. “Well, sir, I worked for both Mr. Schaeffer and Mr. Kirk. I didn’t see Mr. Sheridan very often. I—I don’t think he liked me very much.” He glanced at Sheridan, imploringly. “But I did my work well, and Mr. Schaeffer, especially, always seemed to like me. He used to give me as much as two hundred dollars on Christm—I mean, on Democracy Day, December twenty-fifth.” He was trembling more and more. “So, when Mr. Schaeffer and Mr. Kirk and Mr. Sheridan went to that tavern, Mr. Schaeffer used to invite me. Once, when my wife was sick, he sent us some extra blankets. I surely liked Mr. Schaeffer, sir! And Mr. Kirk, though he came only three years ago, was considerate, too. I—I just don’t understand, sir.” Tears rushed to his eyes, and he blinked them away, his features quivering with distress. Then, embarrassed, he straightened resolutely.
Schaeffer and Kirk listened intently to the old man’s words. They watched him with pitying kindness, then exchanged glances. Their eyes flickered.
Durant recalled both Schaeffer and Kirk to the bench. He said: “You’ve heard Goodwin. What is your opinion? He bears neither of you any malice; in fact, he is deeply grateful to you.”
Schaeffer’s large face softened. He replied: “Remember, he’s seventy-one, sir. And old people forget. It’s true we four were together, but that was two weeks before the murder.”
“He often forgets things,” added Kirk. “He’s old enough to have been retired years ago. I’ve spoken of this to Mr. Sheridan several times. However, we came to the conclusion that Goodwin’s small pension wouldn’t support him and his wife. Then,” added Kirk, with the utmost solemnity, while his eyes bored into Durant’s “the President has said—again—that we must prepare for the new conflict with our—enemies. Unity! Duty! Sacrifice! Every man must be available.”
Durant was silent; he kept his face expressionless. Then he scratched his chin. “Ah, yes, of course. Unity! Duty! Sacrifice!” He motioned to Pellman. “Your witness.”
Schaeffer and Kirk went back to their seats. For the first time, Sheridan displayed interest. He turned in his chair and examined his erstwhile aides. They met his eyes; their own changed subtly, and Durant was not too surprised to see their cold hatred and derision. Sheridan smiled almost imperceptibly, settled his elbow on the arm of his chair and contemplated nothing, again.
Mr. Pellman came to Goodwin. He was all solicitude and sorrow. “You must have a certain point of reference in your mind, Mr. Goodwin, which fixes that night in question in your memory. Will you please tell us what it is?”
Goodwin hesitated, bewildered. “Why, uh, it was one of the nights—we used to go to the tavern on certain nights—once a month. I was used to it. Of course, sometimes I wasn’t invited, but that wasn’t Mr. Schaeffer’s fault. My wife is often sick, sir.” His lips trembled, dried. He moistened them.
“Was your wife ill around that time, Mr. Goodwin?”
“Well, sir, she was just recovering. She said I could go. She liked me to have the outings.”
“How soon was it, after her illness, that this party assembled in the tavern?”
The old man was silently and frantically searching his memory. Then he stammered: “Maybe a week, maybe two weeks.”
“Then,” interrupted Durant, “you can’t set the positive date?”
“Yes, I can!” Goodwin cried, with spirit. “I remember reading about Mr. Zimmer’s death, and I thought to myself: ‘It was last night, while we were in the tavern.’”
Schaeffer said, from the bench: “May I ask Goodwin a question, Colonel?”
Durant paused, then made an assenting gesture. Schaeffer walked casually to the old man, smiled at him with encouragement. “Goodwin, do you remember the Pinchard case? Do you remember discussing it with me, and coming to the conclusion that Pinchard ought to be arrested?”
Goodwin nodded. “Yes, Mr. Schaeffer.”
“Well, then, we had that discussion two weeks before the murder. We had it the day before we had the party at the tavern.”
Goodwin gazed at him with protruding eyes. “Are you positive, sir?” He was shaking again.
“I can show you the report, Goodwin.”
The old man was speechless. Schaeffer took him by the arm. “There, now, don’t let it upset you.” He appealed to Durant. “I’m afraid he’s going to collapse, sir.”
“Let him sit down, then.” Schaeffer led Goodwin, who was tottering with agitation, back to the witnesses’ bench. Once seated, the fragile old man turned his fearful and pleading gaze from Kirk’s face to Schaeffer’s, his mouth working. Both men nodded to him kindly, and Kirk put his arm protectingly over the narrow shoulder.
Durant cleared his throat, and went on with pompousness: “The FBHS is under my jurisdiction in Section 7, though it operates more directly from Washington than any other bureau and has its own directives, though it must try all its cases before the Military Court. I want it on record that the Military is concerned only with justice, no matter the bureau or the person or the accused, or any other institution or citizen.”
Goodwin was wiping his shriveled face and hands, and listening. His lips twisted like a child’s. He said, almost inaudibly: “I’m too old. I forget. No one needs me
any more.” He pressed his handkerchief to his eyes in a gesture of simple grief.
Durant addressed himself to Stephen Pellman. “You may speak in behalf of the defendant.”
Pellman rose. He moved with dramatic slowness to the bench. Every gesture, every movement, expressed his dejection and his courageous dignity. He held up his big hand, and paused while the lights flashed again. He drew a deep breath. He turned eloquent eyes upon Durant. Then his voice, sonorous and ringing, filled the courtroom; and every pen began to scribble frenziedly.
“Colonel Curtiss.” Pellman bowed deeply to Durant. “Whatever any speaker of falsehoods might say, it must be evident to everyone in this room that the commanding officer is a gentleman of tolerance and consideration, giving every advantage, straining every opportunity for fairness, in behalf of the defendant. Neither Mr. Sheridan, nor I, can cavil at one word, nor challenge any statement, of the commanding officer. We accede to that; we admit that with respect and gratitude.”
He stopped; he was overcome by his emotions. Sheridan began to smile his gray shadow of a smile.
“We are faced by insurmountable difficulties. We have the statements of both Mrs. Zimmer and Mrs. Sheridan. The poor ladies, naturally prostrated, were in no condition to appear at this trial. Mrs. Zimmer can offer only hearsay evidence, received from her husband’s lips, that her husband told her of the impending visit of Mr. Sheridan. Mrs. Sheridan’s testimony, in the preliminaries, means nothing insofar as our case is concerned. She states that her husband returned shortly after dawn. I preferred not to have her appear, even if she had been able to do so.”
He whirled out a fine linen handkerchief and applied it to his face in a mopping gesture of despair, and paused again while his photograph could be taken. Then he spread out his hands, surrendering, to Durant.
“There are three witnesses against my client, and only one witness for him, a witness, treated very tenderly, who has virtually admitted that he might be wrong. What can we say, Colonel Curtiss? To reiterate that my client is not guilty would put me in an absurd position. I prefer not to waste time in urgent denials. And so”—and he gestured dramatically—“we throw ourselves on the mercy of the commanding officer. We plead with the commanding officer. He has demonstrated his boundless capacity for mercy and patience and justice. We ask him to remember Mr. Sheridan’s long and faithful service to The Democracy, his unrelenting and steadfast devotion to its principles, his inexorable administration, his brilliant performances in the past. Surely, these must be taken into consideration. We do not admit his guilt, as such. If, in a moment of passion, or in the belief that Andreas Zimmer was dangerous to our country, he killed him—or, should I say?—he executed him, ought he to be punished for this act?”
Durant listened in silence. He chewed his thumb nail, then suggested: “Execution is not a private affair. If Mr. Sheridan were convinced of Zimmer’s guilt, he ought to have delivered him to justice. Besides, there is no evidence of Zimmer’s treachery. I have Mr. Sheridan’s statement that he never knew the man, had seen him only at a distance.”
Mr. Pellman sighed mournfully, shaking his head. “I cannot circumvent or set aside Mr. Sheridan’s admission. Again, Colonel Curtiss, we can only throw ourselves on your bountiful mercy, and beg you to remember Mr. Sheridan’s faultless and dedicated administration. A prison term, perhaps—”
Durant was tired of him and his theatrics. “Andreas Zimmer was equally dedicated and devoted. He was murdered horribly, for no reason we can discern, unless it can be a despicably personal one. In order not to prejudice your client, I shall not suggest that perhaps Mr. Sheridan is not what he seems, and that he is an enemy of The Democracy, murdering those who adhere to its laws and serve them without question. No, I shall not suggest that. It would be unfair. Let your client, if he wishes, take the stand in his own defense.”
Mr. Pellman was all joy. He bowed again to Durant. He bounced rapturously on his toes, and flung out his arm to Sheridan. “Mr. Sheridan, sir, take the stand! This has rarely happened before, in my experience. Defend yourself, sir!”
Sheridan did not move for a few moments, and more photographs were taken of him. Then, with a faint gesture of well-bred scorn and impatience, he got to his feet and approached the bench. He stood there, gently patrician, his eyes gleaming behind his glasses. He smiled with amusement. He studied Durant, and his pale lips curled.
“The Military Court,” he said deliberately, in his modulated accents, “is determined to destroy me. The colonel has his own motives, which I am not interested in questioning. But the colonel must understand that I have some faint suspicion of those motives.”
“Mr. Sheridan!” protested Pellman, in tones of wretched sorrow.
Sheridan gave an aristocratic gesture of disgust. “I don’t need your oratory, Pellman. Don’t you remember? I know you too well; I’ve used you, myself, too often.”
He directed all his attention at Durant: “There is no use, of course, in attempting to defend myself. The effort would be ridiculous. Nevertheless, the colonel is as sure as I am that I am not guilty of the murder of Andreas Zimmer.”
The men in the courtroom were aghast, and looked incredulously at each other. Pellman withdrew from the vicinity of his indomitable client as from an obscenity. But Durant smiled darkly. “The defendant is wrong, very wrong. I know he is guilty of murder.”
“The colonel might be convinced that I am guilty of what he might call murder,” said Sheridan, softly, coming a little closer to the bench. “But not of Zimmer’s murder.”
“You might elucidate,” suggested Durant.
Sheridan shrugged. “The colonel came only recently to this Section. The colonel is an equivocal gentleman. A gentleman,” he repeated, and his colorless eyes surveyed Durant mockingly. “But, of course, the colonel will never be questioned.”
Durant was startled, and his throat tightened. But he said, stolidly: “Go on. I am at a loss to understand you, Mr. Sheridan. However, a man in your position can be ambiguous. I was sent here, as you know, by the Chief Magistrate, Arthur Carlson. So, I will dismiss your remarks.” He said to the newspaper men: “Mr. Sheridan is not himself. You may delete what he has said these last few minutes.”
Sheridan’s calm smile widened briefly. “The colonel confirms my opinion.” Then his quiet face became stern. “I wish the colonel to know that I do not intend to plead for mercy, or grovel. I really prefer to die. For the colonel must understand that I can live only in an environment I have chosen, which is an environment natural and suitable to me. Outside that environment, I could not exist.” He paused, and now the pale eyes were steady on Durant’s face. “The colonel would not be here, and would not have his power, if an era which I could not endure is not about to appear violently. It would be untenable to me, to my nature. The colonel will be doing me, not only a great honor, but a great mercy, in condemning me to death.”
Durant said, and felt his words were inane: “The defendant fears further strengthening of the Military in The Democracy?”
Sheridan laughed a little. “I wish the colonel very good luck,” he said, with reserve. “There is no static society, I see. I knew there would be an end some day. I prefer not to be alive when that end arrives. The colonel is a young man. He will eventually be disillusioned. It’s regrettable, just as it is regrettable for me, now. However, I am somewhat tired, and I loathe the thought of the future. I loathe, in truth, all that the colonel represents.”
Durant addressed the press weightily: “You have recorded that Mr. Sheridan is strongly apposed to the just dispensations of the Military, and is an enemy of the Military?”
The newspaper men nodded vehemently. Sheridan laughed again, then appeared thoughtful. However, he said no more.
Durant let a very dramatic silence fall. “Much has been revealed here. Mr. Sheridan has practically admitted to murder. Worse, perhaps, he has admitted that he is a traitor in his heart.” He struck his hand on the bench. “Therefore, with regret, I must con
demn Mr. Sheridan to death, and to order his execution, at dawn. In the meantime, I order that he be confined to solitary confinement and that he receive no visitors.”
Sheridan said, with surprise: “Does the colonel fear that I might speak—to anybody? The colonel is naïve. The colonel does not know that I no longer care. I have done with the future, and I know, now, that the future is inexorably approaching.”
He went back to his seat, composed and uninterested, and again remote.
Durant looked down at his aides. “Captain Edwards; Lieutenant Grandon. Have you questions?”
They shook their heads in the negative. “Then, I hereby order Mr. Sheridan to be delivered to the soldiers who are his guards, and conveyed to his cell.”
He stood up. He could not help glancing at Schaeffer and Kirk. They were smiling, but only a little, and they considerately did not look at Durant. He waited until Sheridan was surrounded by the soldiers and taken out of the room. Only then, did he leave, himself.
Durant, for some reason he could not explain, felt a repulsion at the idea of returning to his offices immediately. So he went to the judge’s chambers, sat down and began to smoke. He felt suddenly ill and beset and outraged. He asked his Guards: “Well, how did it go?”
Sadler replied imperturbably, his face noncommittal: “Wonderful, Colonel. You gave Sheridan every opportunity.” Then he smiled.
Beckett was more enthusiastic. “Seeing it was the colonel’s first trial, it couldn’t have been better. Why, I’ve seen trials in Oregon; disposed of in fifteen minutes, and the defendant never even called or permitted to testify! Rough, sometimes.” He gave Durant a light for his cigaret; the glaucous blue eyes had a queer expression of satisfied awareness, which Durant could not interpret. He did not like Beckett, and this was not only because of his implied effeminacy on occasion. In truth, he was unable to say why he disliked the Guard, who was handsome, efficient and intelligent.
He said restlessly: “I’d like to look over Sheridan’s dossier again. Beckett, would you ask the warden for it? And tell him that I’d like to have Sheridan in these chambers in about half an hour.”
The Devil's Advocate: The Epic Novel of One Man's Fight to Save America From Tyranny Page 30
