The Quiet Game (74 page)

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?”

His face sags.

“Would you like some water?”

Stone’s jaw clenches. He is clearly offended by Livy’s feigned concern. “I did know Catherine Neumaier. She’s dead now. Dead twenty-five years.”

“Did Miss Neumaier have a profession?”

“She was a dancer.”

“A dancer. She had no other profession?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“FBI records indicate that Miss Neumaier was a prostitute.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“How did you meet Miss Neumaier?”

“I was working an organized crime task force. I was assigned to try to compromise her as an informant.”

“Because she had ties to organized crime?”

“She danced in a club owned by Sam Giancana.”

“The Mafia boss of Chicago?”

“Yes.”

“Did Miss Neumaier become your informant?”

“Yes.”

“Was she an alcoholic?”

“No.”

“FBI records indicate that she was. Also that she took drugs.”

Stone sighs. “She had a severe health problem. Lupus. She took pills to help her stay awake for work. Pills to help her sleep.”

“Did you have a sexual relationship with Miss Neumaier?”

His eyes don’t waver. “Yes.”

“Wasn’t it this relationship that caused the breakup of your marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Were you reprimanded for unprofessional conduct because of this sexual relationship with Miss Neumaier?”

“Officially. And only after the fact. Unofficially, Hoover encouraged it from the start.”

“You were encouraged by the director of the FBI to have an affair with a Mob prostitute? I find that difficult to believe.”

Stone’s eyes are burning now, all patience gone from his face. “Lady, the total tonnage of what you don’t know about federal law enforcement would sink a damned oil tanker.”

Livy is already smiling in triumph when Judge Franklin reprimands Stone for his language.

“Did you feel,” she goes on, prodding a different nerve, “that John Portman had anything to do with your dismissal from the FBI?”

“I know he did.”

“How do you know?”

“Portman had known since the Payton case that I didn’t go along with what Hoover had done.”

“Allegedly done.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“I’m warning you, Mr. Stone,” Franklin cuts in.

“How did Mr. Portman influence your dismissal?” Livy asks.

“He reported all my conversations and movements to Hoover after the director took over the Payton case.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he sensed that I wasn’t going to toe the line. He sensed my sympathy for Del Payton and Ike Ransom. Hoover’s standard procedure would have been to tell Portman to keep a close eye on me and report back. This was Portman’s first major case. He would have kissed Hoover’s— He’d have done whatever Hoover told him to without question.”

“What else did Portman do?”

“Two days before I was fired, evidence pertaining to the Payton case was stolen from my apartment. Portman took that.”

“I thought you told us that Director Hoover requested that all the Payton evidence be forwarded to Washington.”

“I kept copies of certain things.”

“Against direct orders?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think it was Portman who allegedly stole this material?”

“He left me a calling card.”

“A business card?”

“No. A map.”

Livy looks less certain here. “What kind of map?”

“My evidence was hidden behind a wall panel. After the theft the panel was purposefully left out of place. When I looked inside the wall, I found a map of Natchez, Mississippi. There’d been no map there before. That was Portman’s calling card. That was the only place we’d ever served together. I suppose he thought it displayed a certain wit.”

“How do you feel about Mr. Portman personally?”

“Since he sent four men to kill me last night, I don’t feel too well disposed toward him.”

“The jury will disregard that statement,” Judge Franklin cuts in. “Confine yourself to the question, Mr. Stone.”

“All right. I think John Portman is a rich, spineless bureaucrat who didn’t get spanked enough when he was a kid.”

Franklin turns red, but Livy is ecstatic. Stone is giving her exactly what she wants. Before Franklin can reprimand him, she turns to face the jury box.

“Mr. Stone, did you enter into a conspiracy with the author Penn Cage to ruin the careers of John Portman and Leo Marston?”

He blinks in surprise. “What? Absolutely not.”

“But you see the symmetry of the suggestion?”

“I do not.”

She turns back to him with a knowing smile. “Come, now. You’re a smart man. I’m suggesting that you and Mr. Cage made a deal of sorts. Mr. Cage hated Leo Marston, you hated John Portman. Alone, neither of you could do much to destroy those men. But together—”

“Objection,” I say at last.

Livy smiles. “I withdraw the question, Your Honor. And I have no further questions for this witness.”

I can’t understand why she’s releasing Stone so soon until she says, “If this is Mr. Cage’s final witness, I would very much like to call Mr. Cage at this time as a rebuttal witness.”

Her suggestion stuns me. All I can think to say is, “Ms. Sutter is out of order, Judge.”

“Just a moment,” says Franklin. “You are excused, Mr. Stone. But don’t leave the courthouse.”

Stone makes no move to leave the witness box. He looks down at Livy with contempt and says, “You’re not worth a hangnail on Catherine Neumaier’s little finger. Your father is a murderer, and you know it. But you stand there—”

“Mr. Stone!” snaps Franklin. “Leave the stand, or I’ll be forced to hold you in contempt.”

Stone looks away from Livy like a man looking away from a dead enemy, then limps off the stand with his soldier’s bearing. As he passes me, he stops, shakes my hand, and leans close.

“I told you you didn’t want me as a witness.”

I squeeze his hand and whisper, “Bullshit. I wanted the truth, and you gave it to me. The question is, was the jury ready for it?”

As Stone passes the spectators’ benches, his cane rapping on the hardwood floor, his daughter rises, takes his elbow, and helps him toward the doors.

“Ms. Sutter,” says Judge Franklin. “This is an unusual request. Whose testimony are you calling Mr. Cage to rebut?”

“Mr. Stone’s, Your Honor.”

Franklin considers this for a few moments. “Mr. Cage, do you plan to call additional witnesses?”

I had planned to recall Portman, but now that Livy has undercut everything Stone said by making him look bent on revenge, I’m not sure what to do. And now she wants to question me? I suppose she is finally answering the question of how far she is willing to go.

“I have no more witnesses, Your Honor.”

“Does the defense rest, then?”

A strange sense of sadness flows through me, not for myself but for Althea Payton, sitting out there in the benches. She nods at me as though to say,
At least we tried.
“Subject to calling rebuttal witnesses, the defense rests.”

“Very well. Please take the stand, Mr. Cage.”

Without looking at Livy, I mount the steps to the witness box and seat myself. Everyone in the room is watching me. My parents. The Paytons. Austin Mackey, who looks like he’s in shock from the revelations he’s heard in the past half hour. High in the back of the court, more faces watch from the balcony, and among them the larger gleaming eyes of the CNN and WLBT cameras.

One pair of eyes is not watching me. Livy Marston’s, and it’s a damn good thing. If she had the nerve to look me in the eye while playing out this obscene charade, I might decide to stand up and announce her sins to the world. But I won’t do that. And she knows it. It’s not in me to do something like that. But maybe it is in her.

“Mr. Cage,” she says, facing the jury. “Did you and I have a romantic relationship when we attended the St. Stephens Preparatory School?”

“Yes.”

“Was it a serious relationship?”

“Define serious.”

“An extended relationship of a sexual nature.”

She has guts, I’ll give her that. “Yes.”

“When did that relationship finally end?”

Two minutes ago.
“Our freshman year of college.”

“Did it end that year because my father, Leo Marston, handled a malpractice suit against your father, Thomas Cage?”

“Yes.”

“In the course of that lawsuit, did your father suffer a near-fatal heart attack?”

“Yes.”

“Did you blame my father for that?”

“Yes.”

“Did that lawsuit effectively end any chance of you and I getting married?”

“Yes.”

At last she turns to me, but her eyes look opaque, as though she has closed them against all my feeling for her, steeling herself against mercy. “Did you blame my father for that as well?”

Does she want me to tell the truth? Does she want me to say,
No, I blame you? The whole goddamn thing happened because you got yourself pregnant by a stupid redneck murderer and couldn’t deal with it?