by Greg Iles
“Could you briefly describe how you went about doing that?”
“Objection,” says Livy, rising to her feet. “Judge, this man is testifying to information that has been sealed to protect national security. His willingness to break the law or even to commit treason is no reason to allow him to divulge protected information in front of television cameras.”
I try not to let my anxiety show on my face, but Livy may have just stopped this trial dead, at least until government officials are brought in to decide what Stone may and may not say.
Judge Franklin looks at me. “Ms. Sutter raises a serious issue, Mr. Cage. You have argument on this point?”
I could argue for an hour, but I would probably lose. “Perhaps we should hear Mr. Stone on this point, Judge. He’s an attorney himself.”
Franklin gives Stone an inquisitive glance. “Mr. Stone?”
Stone shakes his head like a soldier pondering a heavily defended hill he has just been ordered to take. “Judge, the heart of my testimony goes to the justification of that national security classification. After sixteen years working for J. Edgar Hoover, I can tell you this. No man more readily abused such classifications for his own personal ends than Hoover. He sealed the Del Payton file solely to mask evidence of criminal activity. It had nothing to do with the national interest. If you allow my testimony, you’ll know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’ve done the right thing.” He looks Franklin square in the eye. “Have the courage of your office, Judge.”
She regards him thoughtfully. “My dilemma, Mr. Stone, is that once you’ve spoken, your words cannot be taken back.”
Stone sighs. “With all respect, Judge, I’m going to tell my story regardless of your decision. I’ve been silent too long. I can tell it here on the stand, or outside on the steps.”
Franklin tilts her head back, shocked by Stone’s frank threat. “I have a third choice. I can have you jailed for contempt.”
Stone doesn’t even blink. “You can jail me, Judge. But you can’t stop me from speaking. That is the one thing you cannot do.”
Eunice Franklin studies Stone for a long time. What does she see in him? He is ten years her senior, but from another era altogether. Is he a veteran cop with a conscience? Or an unstable and dangerous has-been, as John Portman would portray him? Livy opens her mouth to argue further, but Franklin stops her with an upraised hand.
“No additional argument, Ms. Sutter. If Mr. Stone has the courage to risk jail, I will risk censure. If he strays into what I feel is dangerous territory, I’ll stop him. Continue with your story, Mr. Stone.”
“Under protest,” Livy says in a cold voice.
“Noted. Mr. Cage?”
I turn to Stone with as much gratitude as I can bring to my eyes. “Mr. Stone, could you describe how you went about solving the Delano Payton murder?”
In clear and concise language, the former agent gives a chronological account of his investigation up to the point that he nailed Ray Presley. His story mirrors exactly the testimony given by my earlier witnesses, from Frank Jones to Lester Hinson, and he confirms that John Portman worked with him every step of the way. Their discovery that Lester Hinson had sold C-4 to Ray Presley, Stone says, prompted a “rather intense” meeting with Presley, during which Presley stated that he’d merely acted as a middleman in the deal, purchasing the plastic explosive for a young Natchez black man, an army veteran. This brings us just past the point at which Stone began lying to me in Colorado.
“What was that young black man’s name, Mr. Stone?”
“Ike Ransom.”
“Are you aware that a sheriff’s deputy by that name was murdered last night?”
“Yes.”
“Was he the same man you interviewed in 1968?”
“Yes.”
“John Portman stated that the FBI file on Del Payton was sealed because of the involvement of a certain Vietnam veteran. Was Ike Ransom that man?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do after Patrolman Ray Presley told you he’d bought the C-4 for Ike Ransom?”
“Portman and I interviewed Ransom at his apartment. Two minutes after we were inside, he confessed to the murder of Delano Payton.”
Livy jumps to her feet, but her objection is drowned by the explosive reaction of the crowd. Judge Franklin bangs her gavel, but it takes some time for order to be restored. Even the jury is gaping at Stone.
“Your Honor,” says Livy, “I object. This witness’s testimony is hearsay.”
Franklin nods and looks at me. Under the Mississippi rules of evidence, Livy is right. But all rules are proved by exceptions. As I come to my feet, I troll my memory for the details of exceptions under Mississippi law, which I scanned less than six hours ago in the office of the chancery judge, an old high school friend.
“Your Honor, this qualifies as a hearsay exception under Rule 804 (b)3. Deputy Ransom was on my witness list specifically to testify to this information. His murder last night has made that impossible. Since the declarant is unavailable due to death, Mr. Stone’s statement should be admitted.”
Franklin looks surprised by my knowledge of Mississippi law.
Livy says, “Your Honor, Mr. Cage’s exception is—”
“Sidebar,” Franklin cuts in. “Approach the bench.”
Livy and I meet before Franklin and lean toward her.
“Judge,” says Livy, “this is patent hearsay, and no exception should be made.”
“Judge, Ike Ransom’s confession was a statement made against interest. A murder confession so obviously subjected him to criminal liability that great weight must be accorded to it.”
Franklin taps her pen on a notepad as she considers my argument. “Given the totality of the circumstances, I’m going to allow it.”
“His entire statement?” I press.
“Let’s see where it leads. I may stop him.”
Livy starts to argue, then thinks better of it. She returns to her table as I approach Stone.
“Please continue, Mr. Stone.”
He lifts his cane from the rail and leans heavily upon it. “Ike Ransom was a mess. Suicidal probably. He was living in squalor that would be difficult to believe by today’s standards. There was drug paraphernalia in plain view. What we called ‘heroin works’ back then. He was literally dying to tell someone his story.”
“What was his story?”
“He had recently separated from the army after a tour in Vietnam. He’d served as a military policemen there, as I recall. He’d tried to find work with the local police department but was turned down. Desperate for money, he’d turned to drug dealing.”
“He admitted this to you?”
“Yes. Two weeks before Del Payton was murdered, Ransom was stopped on a rural road by Patrolman Ray Presley. Presley discovered a large quantity of heroin in Ransom’s trunk. He offered to overlook this if Ransom agreed to kill a man for him.”
“Objection!” Blake Sims cries.
“On what grounds?” asks Judge Franklin.
But Livy has taken hold of Sims’s jacket and pulled him back down to his seat.
“There’s no objection,” she says.
Franklin gives them an admonitory look. “Continue, Mr. Stone.”
“Patrolman Presley also promised Ransom that if he carried out this murder, Presley would ensure that he was eventually hired by the police department. Presley had told the truth about Ike Ransom asking him to get the C-4. Ransom was afraid of dynamite, but he’d had experience with C-4 in Vietnam.”
“Did you report Ransom’s confession to Director Hoover?”
“I did.”
“What was his reaction?”
“I would describe it as glee.”
“Glee. Could you elaborate on that?”
“Mr. Hoover was being forced to aggressively pursue a civil rights agenda. This did not reconcile with his personal feelings. He particularly hated Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. My revelation that the murder of Del Payton—a
crime which Robert Kennedy considered a civil rights murder—had in fact been carried out by a black man gave the director obvious enjoyment. He remarked that he would dearly enjoy telling Bobby Kennedy that Payton’s death had been nothing but another ‘shine killing.’ Those were his words.”
“Did Hoover in fact report this to Bobby Kennedy?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“What did he do?”
“He authorized me to wiretap the home of Ray Presley, and also the pay phones within a two-mile radius of his home.”
“Did you learn anything from those wiretaps?”
“A few days later Presley called Leo Marston, the local district attorney, and asked for a private meeting.”
“Objection!” cries Sims, to Livy’s obvious displeasure.
It looks to me like Sims may be objecting on the order of his client. Leo’s face has grown steadily redder during Stone’s testimony.
“Grounds?” asks Judge Franklin.
When Sims hesitates, Franklin says, “I want no more frivolous interruptions of this testimony. You can object from now till doomsday, but Mr. Stone is going to tell his story. Is that clear?”
Sims sighs and takes his chair, while Leo sets his jaw and glares at Franklin.
Stone relates the story of wiretapping Tuscany, and of Hoover taking personal control of the investigation because of its political sensitivity. “The meeting between Presley and Marston took place in the gazebo outside the Marston mansion. It became clear in the first ten minutes of that conversation that Ray Presley had arranged the death of Delano Payton at the specific request of the district attorney, Leo Marston.”
Judge Franklin is so engrossed by Stone’s testimony that it takes her several seconds to realize that the spectators are out of order. She furiously bangs her gavel.
“I’ll clear this court!” she vows, pointing her gavel at the balcony for emphasis.
I would have expected Livy to leap to her feet at Stone’s last statement, but she seems as engrossed in the story as Judge Franklin.
“How did that become clear, Mr. Stone?” I ask.
“Marston knew every detail of the murder, right down to Ike Ransom’s request for the C-4.”
“Did their conversation shed any light on the possible motive for this crime?”
“Yes.” Stone lucidly lays out the pending land deal between Marston and Zebulon Hickson, the carpet magnate from Georgia. He explains Leo’s secret ownership of the land, Hickson’s concern with black labor problems, and his insistence that an “example” be made of a black union worker before committing to purchase Marston’s property.
“Yes. Mr. Stone, I’m sure everyone in this courtroom is wondering why, since you solved the murder, no one was arrested for it. Can you explain that?”
“After Director Hoover had all the evidence and reports in his possession—including the audiotapes—he set up a meeting with Leo Marston at the Jackson field office of the FBI. After this meeting took place, I was instructed to stand down my Natchez detail and report to Tuscaloosa, Alabama, for other duties. I was told that no arrest would be made because that was in the best interests of the Bureau and the country.”
“What did you make of that?”
Stone shakes his head. “I’d seen it before. Hoover liked having leverage over people. Particularly people in government. Leo Marston came from a powerful political family. His father had tremendous influence in both Mississippi and Washington. Over the next year, I learned that Hoover used the leverage of the Payton murder to force Leo’s father to influence the 1968 presidential election by trying to swing Mississippi’s electoral votes away from George Wallace to Richard Nixon, who was a protégé of Hoover’s. It was also clear in 1968 that Leo himself was destined for higher office. Director Hoover and Leo Marston developed a mutually beneficial relationship that flourished from Payton’s death in 1968 until Hoover’s death in 1972.”
Judge Franklin is shaking her head in amazement.
I can’t believe that Livy or Sims did not object to Stone’s last statements, but they probably assumed—rightly, I suspect—that Judge Franklin meant to hear him out no matter what.
“So,” I summarize, trying to bring it all into perspective for the jury, “J. Edgar Hoover was willing to bury conclusive evidence of a civil rights murder in order to strengthen his own political influence. How did you react to this?”
“Not well.”
“Please be specific.”
“I began drinking. It affected my work. I cheated on my wife. She divorced me, took my daughter from me. I was eventually dismissed from the Bureau.”
A fragment of Ike’s confession in the pecan-shelling plant comes to me from the ether. “Did you ever make any attempt to right what you considered the terrible wrong that had been done in the Payton case?”
Surprise flashes in Stone’s eyes. “Yes.”
“How?”
“I had retained a copy of the incriminating tape. About a year after the murder, when I knew no official action would ever be taken against the killers, I called Ike Ransom. He’d been hired as a police officer by then, just as Presley had promised.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. I played him my copy of the tape. Then I hung up.”
“What did you think Ransom would do after hearing that tape?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I hoped that he might take direct action.”
“You hoped he would kill Presley and Marston?”
Stone’s face remains impassive. “The thought entered my mind.”
“Mr. Stone, when you described these events to me two days ago, you didn’t mention Ike Ransom. Why?”
He looks at the rail, his eyes filled with something like grief. “I felt some sympathy for Ike Ransom, despite what he’d done.”
“Sympathy for a murderer?”
“Ransom was a combat veteran. I was one myself. Del Payton too. Ransom had a bad time in Vietnam, I could tell that right off. When Presley caught him with that heroin, his choices narrowed down to nothing. Parchman prison or commit murder. That may not mitigate his act, but when I interviewed the man, he was paralyzed by remorse. He was the only one of the three who ever showed any, and to this day, I’m surprised he lived through those weeks.” Stone rubs his free hand over the one holding the head of the cane, then expels a lungful of air. “Presley and Marston were arrogant about what they’d done. And why not? The system rewarded Marston for it.”
I ask Stone to briefly explain the Presley angle of the Marston-Hoover deal (Marston’s betrayal of Presley to the FBI), my goal being to show the jury that even last night’s attempt by Presley to kill Marston had its roots in the Payton murder. When Stone finishes, Judge Franklin looks overwhelmed by the implications of the case.
“One last question, Mr. Stone. Why, knowing all that you did, did you wait so long to come forward with the truth?”
He looks past me, but I doubt he sees anything of the courtroom. “Cowardice,” he says. “Plain and simple. Hoover used John Portman to threaten my family if I caused a scandal. After my ex-wife died, I thought about coming forward. But by then my daughter had graduated law school and against my advice joined the FBI. She was subject to the will of the Justice Department, of which John Portman was a major part. The murder had happened so long ago. I just tried to put it behind me.”
“Did you succeed?”
“No. It’s haunted me my whole life.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stone. I tender the witness, subject to redirect.”
Judge Franklin lays both hands on her desk and sighs. “I’m going to take a recess here. I’d like to think for a bit, and I’m sure Mr. Stone would like to rest his legs.”
Livy stands abruptly. “I’d prefer to cross-examine now, Your Honor.”
Franklin frowns and looks at me. “Mr. Cage?”
I should probably opt for the recess, to give Stone time to decompress. But something pushes me in the opposite direction. Something
in me is driven to witness Livy’s performance. How far is she willing to go to protect her father? How far, now that Stone’s testimony has destroyed any remaining illusions she might have had about Leo’s innocence?
“No objection, Your Honor.”
“Proceed, Ms. Sutter.”
Livy squeezes Leo’s shoulder in a gesture that looks genuine. Then she approaches Stone at an oblique angle, walking slowly with a burgundy Montblanc pen in her hand, not looking at him but at the jury. Every man and woman in the box watches her with fascination.
“Mr. Stone, what year were you dismissed from the FBI?”
“1972.”
“Were you summarily dismissed, or were efforts made to help you stop drinking?”
“I wasn’t fired for drinking.”
“Your record states that you were. But I’m interested. Why do you think you were fired?”
“For drawing my service weapon on Leo Marston in the lobby of the Watergate office complex.”
Livy doesn’t bat an eye. “There’s no mention of such an incident in your record. Were there any witnesses to it?”
“My partner, Henry Bookbinder.”
“Will he corroborate your story?”
“He would if he were alive.”
“Any other witnesses?”
“Not that I know by name. Only Marston himself.”
Leo actually smirks from his table. He loves seeing Livy perform this way. This is what he fantasized about before she ran off to Virginia and then Atlanta.
“Let’s return to your dismissal,” she says. “I admired the candor of your earlier testimony. Being honest about things like losing your wife and child must be very hard. I know, because I’m going through a divorce myself.”
Livy wins instant points with the jury for this personal revelation, one with stratospheric value in the Natchez gossip market. Stone stands with a resigned frown on his face, like a soldier being court-martialed, one who knows something bad is coming and that he has no choice but to endure it.
“I wonder,” Livy says with false spontaneity, “were you completely honest about your dismissal?”
Stone just waits.
“Do you know a woman named Catherine Neumaier?”
