The Touch of Treason (41 page)

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 proof 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.”

“Nothing,” Ed argued, “is more valuable than a man’s life.”

“That,” said Trushenko, “is the fallacy of individualism.” He stood in admonishment, ready to leave. “Society matters. What kind of socialist are you?”

“One clever enough to fool you, even anger you at will,” Ed said, laughing. “Do you think I am a believer in rampant individualism as in the earliest days of the capitalist era? A Neanderthal?”

Trushenko sat back down, shaking his head, his left hand stroking his chin. “Why are you willing to help us? You could get into trouble.”

“If I answered money, you would accept that?”

“Of course,” said Trushenko.

“Then read my book,
Lenin’s Grandchildren.
You respond to capitalist assumptions as they appear in books and not in life. What kind of Neanderthal socialist are you, Comrade Trushenko?”

“For a young man you are easily insubordinate.”

“If I work for you, I will take your orders, not before.” Ed hoped his ballsiness wasn’t putting Trushenko off. In Fuller’s company Ed was always the student. In Trushenko’s he could be the teacher. In the next two hours Ed convinced Trushenko that Ed knew more about Marxism and Soviet history than Trushenko did. Trushenko probably considered himself an educated man compared to the police-mentality bureaucrats he often had to put up with. Ed could tell he was winning the older man’s admiration. Trushenko had a weakness. He could be seduced by intelligence.

“Here,” Ed was saying, “we learn Marxism in three dimensions. From its progenitors, its followers, and its antagonists. You learn the second dimension only.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “I can be valuable to you.”

“Oh you can shine like a star among the intelligentsia, I’m sure,” Trushenko said, “but when it comes to my kind of work you are a baby.”

“We shall see, won’t we?”

How could he not try Ed? To test him, the first thing Trushenko asked him to do was to bring him a page of Fuller’s famous doodling. No harm in that.

When Ed brought it to him, Trushenko said, “Did Fuller see you take it?”

Ed assured him not.

“Did his wife or anyone else see?”

“No.”

“Fuller will know it’s missing.”

“No.”

“How can you say that with such assurance?”

“I took it out of the wastebasket.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“You didn’t ask. Why should I reveal my methods if you are not yet ready to accept me,” Ed said, enjoying himself, knowing he had already moved himself closer to acceptance.