perjury charges. And for the director of the FBI, that could be a very long fall.
“Call John Portman,” I say loudly.
“Bailiff,” says Judge Franklin. “Call John Portman.”
Portman returns to the courtroom wearing the same confidence with which he left it. He takes his seat in the witness box, shoots his cuffs, and gives me a serene smile.
“Director Portman,” I begin, “in your earlier testimony you stated that Leo Marston rendered valuable assistance in the investigation of Del Payton’s death. What was the nature of that assistance?”
He pretends to agonize over this question. “He provided certain information to us.”
“In other words, he acted as a federal informant.”
“Yes.”
A couple of the white jury members frown.
“I’m going to ask you a direct question. Please answer yes or no. Did the FBI solve the murder of Delano Payton in 1968?”
Portman takes a deep breath but says nothing. We have come down to the nut-cutting, as we say in the South. If he lies now, he is laying himself open to perjury charges.
“Director Portman, I asked whether the Bureau learned the identity of Del Payton’s murderer in 1968.”
“Yes. We did.”
A gasp goes up from the spectators.
“Order,” snaps Judge Franklin.
“Why didn’t the FBI arrest or charge anyone in connection with that murder?”
“For reasons of national security.”
“Let me be sure I understand this. The FBI preserved the national security by protecting the identity of a man who had murdered a veteran of the Korean War?”
Portman shifts in his seat. “Director Hoover made that decision. Not me.”
“Did you agree with his decision?”
“It wasn’t my place to agree or disagree.”
“You were just following orders.”
“Yes.”
“Like a good German,” I remark, recalling Stone’s phrase.
“I strongly resent that.”
“Mr. Cage,” Franklin warns. “Don’t push me.”
“Withdrawn. Director Portman, did you-”
The loud clearing of a throat behind me breaks my train of thought. I start to ignore it, but something tells me to turn.
Caitlin Masters is crouched at the bar behind my table, urgently beckoning me with her hand.
“Your Honor, I beg the court’s indulgence.”
I walk back behind my table and kneel so that Caitlin can whisper to me. Her lips touch the shell of my ear. “I just talked to Stone’s daughter,” she says. “She and Stone were both at the newspaper. Two of my people are bringing them over now. They’ll be on the courthouse steps in two minutes.”
Relief and elation flood through me.
“Mr. Cage?” Judge Franklin presses. “We’re waiting.”
I squeeze Caitlin’s arm, then rise and walk back toward the witness box with a briskness Portman cannot fail to notice. Caitlin’s news has galvanized me.
“Director Portman, was there only one man responsible for Payton’s death? Or more than one?”
“More than one.”
A murmur from the spectators.
“How many? Two? Three? Ten?”
Portman folds his arms across his stomach. “I decline to answer on grounds that it might damage the national security.”
“But you did say more than one. So, a minimum of two. Was one of those conspirators a Natchez police officer named Ray Presley?”
He gives me the great stone face. “I decline to answer on grounds that it might damage the national security.”
“Did you work the Payton case alone, Director?”
“I was part of a team.”
“Did that team include a veteran agent named Dwight Stone?”
Portman’s eyes track me as I move, trying to read the source of my new-found confidence. “Yes.”
“Was the Payton murder your first major case as a field agent?”
“It was.”
“Had Agent Stone wide experience in working civil rights cases for the Bureau?”
“Yes.”
“Did you admire and respect Agent Stone?”
Portman hesitates. “At the time, yes.”
“Did you, earlier this week, order the assassination of Agent Dwight Stone, who is now retired?”
“Objection!” shouts Blake Sims, with Livy close behind.
Franklin bangs her gavel in a vain attempt to silence the gallery. “Mr. Cage, you’d better be prepared to substantiate that statement.”
“I intend to do just that, Your Honor.” I turn back to Portman. “Did you also order the assassination of Sheriff’s Deputy Ike Ransom, the man murdered at the old pecan-shelling plant last night?”
The spectators collectively suck in their breath as Portman turns to Judge Franklin for help.
Franklin looks hard at me, then says, “The witness will answer the question.”
“I did not,” Portman says in an indignant voice.
“Did you last week order the assassination of former Natchez police officer Ray Presley?”
“Mr. Cage,” Franklin interrupts, “I’m losing my patience.”
“One final question, Your Honor. Director Portman, if Special Agent Dwight Stone walks through that door back there and takes the stand, will you remain in Natchez to be recalled as a witness by me?”
He looks right through me. “I will.”
“No more questions, Judge.”
“Director Portman, you are excused,” says Franklin.
Portman glances up at the TV cameras, then stands, shoots his cuffs again, and leaves the witness box. As he passes me on the way to the aisle, I say: “Call retired Special Agent Dwight Stone.”
The hitch in Portman’s walk is momentary, but for me it occurs in slow motion. His eyes flit instinctively to the main door, searching for his old enemy. Then they return to me, the fear in them tamped down, varnished over with the go-to-hell defiance of a man who has survived every threat to his monumental egotism.
“Call Dwight Stone,” Judge Franklin orders.
The bailiff opens the back door. A tall, wiry man wearing a Denver Broncos windbreaker and leaning on the shoulder of a much younger woman limps through it with a cane in his left hand. Even from my table I can see the steely resolve in Stone’s eyes. But he is not looking at me. As his daughter squeezes in beside Caitlin, he limps up the aisle using the cane, his eyes never leaving the face of John Portman, the man who threatened his daughter’s life, and who tried to kill us two nights ago. I have a feeling that a lot of dead Koreans and Chinese saw the look that is on Stone’s face right now. I would not want to be John Portman at this moment. But when I turn back to Portman, what I see unsettles me.
He looks surprised but unafraid.
CHAPTER 40
When Stone finishes his slow journey to the witness box, he pauses for a few deep breaths, then turns to
