trees.
For a moment, he reeled under the pressures of the moment.
He thought of Visser and men moving around late at night and men threatening Scott against orders and all the evidence that pointed one way abruptly disappearing, and Phillip Pryce being summarily removed from the scene.
Everything came pouring at him, and he felt as if he were standing up in the face of a strong ocean wind, one that slung froth off the tops of wildly tossing whitecaps, and turned the water to a deep, murky gray color, promising a great storm that was moving steadily on the horizon.
He shook his head, and berated himself: You have spent too much time staring at the currents at your feet, instead of looking to the distance. He believed that this was the sort of observation Phillip Pryce would have made. But again, he felt trapped by all the events.
In his reverie, he heard his name being called, and for a moment, it seemed to him almost as if it were Lydia, calling him from the front yard, urging him to come out from indoors, because there was a scent of Vermont spring in the air, and it would be criminal not to snatch at it. But as he pivoted about, he saw that it was Hugh Renaday calling his name.
Scott stood nearby, and was gesturing toward him. Tommy glanced down at the watch he wore and saw that it was closing on the time for the final arguments to begin.
Even Tommy was forced to concede that Walker Townsend was eloquent and persuasive. He spoke in a low-key, almost hypnotic tone, steady, determined, the slight southern lilt in his voice giving his words an illusory credence. He pointed out that of all the elements of the crime, the only one truly denied by Lincoln Scott was the actual murder. He seemed to take delight in pointing out that the black airman had admitted to virtually everything else that constituted the killing.
As the entire camp, jammed into every inch of space in the theater, listened to Townsend's words, it seemed to Tommy that innocence was slowly, but certainly, being stripped away from Lincoln Scott. In his own quiet yet sturdy manner. Captain Townsend made it clear that there was only one suspect in the case, and only one man to be assigned guilt.
He called Tommy's efforts mere smoke screens, designed to deflect attention from Scott. He argued that the limited forensic capabilities within the camp made it all the more critical that the circumstantial evidence be given even more weight. He had nothing but contempt for Visser's testimony, though he was careful not to examine what the German had said, but instead to emphasize how he'd said it, which, Tommy recognized, was the best way of diminishing it.
And finally, in what Tommy was forced to swallow bitterly when he saw its brilliance. Walker Townsend suggested that he did not truly blame Lincoln Scott for killing Trader Vic.
The captain from Virginia had lifted his own voice, making certain that not only the tribunal but every kriegie craning to hear actually did hear.
'Who among us. Your Honors, would really have behaved differently?
Captain Bedford did much to bring his own death upon himself. He underestimated Lieutenant Scott from the outset,' Townsend said, firmly.
'He did this because he was, as we have heard here, a racist. And he thought, in the cowardly way that racists have, that his target would not fight back. Well, sirs, we have all seen, if nothing else, that
Lincoln Scott is a fighter. He has told us himself how the odds did not affect him when he went into battle. And so, he took on Vincent Bedford, just as he took on those FWs arrayed against him. That death ensued is understandable. But, gentlemen, just because we can now understand the causes of his actions, that does not make him less accountable, nor does it make them any less despicable! In a way. Your Honors, this is the simplest of situations: Trader Vic got what he deserved for the way he behaved. And now, we must hold Lieutenant Scott to no less a standard! He found Vincent Bedford guilty and executed him! Now we, as civilized, democratic, and free men, must do the same!'
With a nod to Colonel MacNamara, Walker Townsend sat down.
'Your turn, Mr. Hart' the SAO said.
'Be brief.'
Tommy rose.
'I will. Your Honor.'
He stepped to the front of the auditorium and raised his voice just loud enough so that everyone could hear.
'There is one thing that we all, every man here in Stalag Luft Thirteen, understands. Your Honors, and that is uncertainty.
It is the most elemental province of war. Nothing truly is certain until it is past, and even then, many times, it remains shrouded by confusion and conflict.
'That is the case with the death of Captain Vincent Bedford.
We know from the only real expert who examined the crime scene-Nazi though he is-that the prosecution's case does not fit the evidence.
And we know that Lieutenant Scott's denial remains un controverted by the prosecution, and unshaken by cross-examination. And so, members of the court, you are being asked to make a decision from which there is no appeal, and which is utterly final in its certainty on the most subjective of details. Details cloaked in doubt. But there is no doubt about a German firing squad. I do not think you can order this without an absolute belief in Lincoln Scott's guilt! You cannot order it because you do not like him, or because he is the wrong color, or because he can quote from the classics and others cannot. You cannot order it, because a death penalty cannot be based on anything except the most clear-cut and uncompromising set of undeniable facts.
The death of Trader Vic doesn't come close to meeting that standard.'
Tommy paused, trying hard to think of something else to say, and believing that he had fallen short of Townsend professional eloquence.
And so, he added one last thought:
'We are all prisoners here. Your Honors, and unsure as to whether we will live to see tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. But I would suggest to you that taking Lincoln Scott's life under these circumstances will kill a little bit of each of us, just as surely as a bullet or bomb would.'
And with that, he sat down.
Behind him, voices suddenly babbled together, breaking first into murmurs, followed by cries and shouts, reforming as arguments and closing in on fights. Kriegies in pockets throughout the theater pushed and shoved, confronting each other angrily. Tommy's first thought was that it was abundantly clear that the two final statements from Walker Townsend and himself had done nothing to defuse the tension among the men, and, probably, had done more to cement already held beliefs.
Again the gavel pounded from the front of the theater.
'I will not have a riot!' Colonel MacNamara was shouting.
'And we will not have a lynching!'
'Hope not,' Scott whispered under his breath. He wore a wry smile.
'You will come to order!' MacNamara cried out. But it took the kriegies almost a minute to settle down and regain some composure.
'All right,' MacNamara said, when silence finally gripped the room again.
'That's better.' He cleared his throat with a long, protracted cough.
'The obvious tension and conflict of opinions surrounding this case has created special circumstances,' MacNamara blared out, as if he were on the parade ground.
'Consequently, in consultation with the Luftwaffe authorities'
MacNamara nodded toward Commandant Von Reiter, who touched the shiny black patent leather brim of his cap in a salute of acknowledgment 'we have decided upon the following. Please understand. These are direct orders from your commanding officer, and they will be obeyed!
Anyone not following orders precisely will find themselves in the cooler for the next month!'
Again, MacNamara paused, letting the threat sink in.
