Silas Timberman

by Howard Fast

  The whispered argument at the bench went on, but Silas could already see that it was lost. The lost cause did not even proceed with dignity. MacAllister returned to his cross-examination, but Bob Allen had leaped the biggest hurdle, and he was serene and sometimes amused at this pink-cheeked little man who was trying so hard to find him in the trap of falsehood. At one point, where the word “informer” rolled off MacAllister’s lips again, Allen answered earnestly.

  “You have called me that name several times, Mr. MacAllister. I don’t find it pleasant—but if simple service to my country means that I must endure it, why I will, and eagerly.”

  Again, Silas felt that the jury was on the point of cheering, and from the audience behind him, from those strange, rootless spectators who wander in and out of Washington courtrooms, there came a whisper of approval, which the judge quickly and severely stilled. Just as reprovingly, the judge told Bob Allen,

  “You must only answer the questions addressed to you.”

  The cross-examination finished just before adjournment, and the government’s case was completed.

  * * *

  Silas and MacAllister took a taxicab to the airport to meet Reverend Elbert Masterson and Alec Brady, whose plane was due in at six o’clock—and on the way out there, Silas asked MacAllister whether it might not be to their benefit to have Myra come to Washington to testify on the bridge question. MacAllister didn’t think so. “How likely are they to believe Myra? A wife isn’t the best witness in the world, Silas, and I think two witnesses from Clemington are about all we can afford or hope to gain from. Can Brady testify to that?” Silas didn’t know. He couldn’t remember ever having discussed bridge with Brady.

  In any case, it was good to see them, and Masterson shook Silas’ hand warmly. When Silas tried to thank him, he protested that his weakness was a lack of travel, and that this was a wonderful opportunity. A man ought to be in Washington not less than once in five years, if only to look at the Lincoln Memorial and walk along the bank of the Potomac; and in turn, Brady said that gratitude ought to wait until the result of his testimony could be assessed. “I was very happy you asked me to do this, Silas,” Brady said. “Believe me.” It was Master-son’s first plane flight, and he had enjoyed it immensely, and all the way in they had argued theology, the origin of the Church, and the place of the Essenes in the first congregation, the latter subject one upon which Brady was exceptionally well informed. “It is a canard that one does not discuss religion,” Masterson said. “Religion, like other things that serve any human need, thrives on discussion, and I haven’t had a theological tussle like this in years.”

  During dinner, MacAllister and Silas painted a picture of the trial, giving Brady and Masterson as complete a background as they could, MacAllister concluding.

  “So there it is, and not very good. We have a jury of government employees, neck deep in this cesspool of loyalty orders and petty terror. We have a judge who is maddening in his polite destruction of every avenue of inquiry that might help us—a son-of-a-bitch, begging your pardon, Reverend, if I’m any judge—and who is waiting to crack down and let the iron fist be felt through his velvet glove. I think it’s only fair that you know this, Alec, and so does Silas. We are agreed that you can’t win this case for us, although you might just give us a fighting chance. Do you want to go through with it?”

  “Of course I do,” Brady smiled.

  “I imagine you have thought it through completely?”

  “As much as one can think such a thing through.”

  “How does your wife feel about it?”

  “Much as I do, although she doesn’t share all my views. She feels there is nothing else I can do.”

  Silas apologized to Reverend Masterson. “Do you know what we are discussing?”

  “Professor Brady informed me of it on the plane. I expressed my admiration for him.”

  MacAllister felt good. “I would feel still better with a drink,” he said to Silas. “But I feel better than I have since this damn thing started. Don’t you, Silas?”

  “I feel very good,” Silas said, looking at Brady. It was quite true. He felt full of something that would never go away.

  * * *

  The next morning, after MacAllister’s argument that the government had made no case and that the indictment should be dismissed, Silas took the stand, opening his own defense, and his testimony was short, direct, and completely to the facts. All of MacAllister’s questions were pointed toward a simple refutation of the government’s two witnesses from Clemington, his feeling being that in such a way, he made the best use of his client’s obvious and open sincerity.

  “Are you a member of the Communist Party, Professor Timberman?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Have” you ever been?”

  “I have never been a member of the Communist Party.”

  As simply as that, and yet Silas wondered whether it had any meaning for those twelve strange, silent, expressionless men and women in the jury box. There was a time when he would not—could not—have believed that he could so testify in the presence of twelve Americans without summoning some part of their belief.

  “Professor Timberman, you heard Mr. Allen testify to a certain meeting at your house in 1947—at which plans were discussed to take over the administration of Clemington University. Did such a meeting ever take place?”

  “No, it did not.”

  “You also heard Mr. Allen testify that this meeting was held under the guise of an evening of bridge. Did you ever invite Mr. Allen to your house for an evening of bridge?”

  “I did not.”

  “Did you ever invite anyone to your house for an evening of bridge?”

  “I did not.”

  “Do you play bridge?”

  “I do not.”

  “Do you know how to play bridge?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Does your wife play bridge?”

  “She has not played since the end of the war.”

  But the moment MacAllister veered from this direct examination, he met the wall of Ward’s objections. When he tried to ask Silas whether his card habits were commonly known among the faculty, the objections turned him from it as hearsay. When he tried to go beyond the direct facts of Silas’ war record and service, to his feelings about the Second World War and the Korean War, the objections turned him away from it with the argument that it was extraneous. Silas, watching him fight his way through the objections and the judge’s gentle support of the objections, like a man floundering in quicksand, felt his heart go out to him, felt like crying out to him, “Enough, God damn them!” But MacAllister was patient—enormously patient.

  “As your lawyer, Professor Timberman, advising you in preparation for the Senate Committee hearing, I suggested that you should refrain from answering the two questions which are the subject of this indictment—is this not so?”

  Ward objected to this again. “I am afraid I must allow this, Mr. Ward,” the judge explained. “It pertains directly to the matter of the perjury. On what do you base your objection?” “Hearsay and framing the answer for the witness.” “Hearsay,” the judge repeated. “No, I’m afraid this is in the direct experience of the witness. But re-phrase your question, Mr. MacAllister.” Then MacAllister, with his first victory in so long, asked Silas what his advice had been, and Silas replied that he had been advised not to answer questions of this type.

  “Then why did you answer them, Professor Timberman?”

  “Because I had to—as the beginning of a new process of learning to live with myself! And because the asking of them by Senator Brannigan was a challenge to all I have lived by!”

  Ward was on his feet, objecting, and once again the argument of the lawyers raged. The judge was annoyed now, and he regarded Silas curiously and without pleasure. Again questions and again objections. The judge sustained Mr. Ward; his tone was petulant as he asked Mr. MacAllister to proceed.

  “Professor Lundfest testi
fied that you spoke at a meeting on campus. Did you have anything to do with the preparation of this meeting?”

  “I did not.”

  “What was the purpose of the meeting?”

  Even this could not pass without an objection. Silas looked at the jury. They appeared to be bored with the proceedings at this point; their attention wandered. One of them gazed dreamily at the ceiling. A lady cleaned her nails delicately. A man darted sly glances at a little magazine in his lap. An old man dozed intermittently. Others seemed to be annoyed at the request that they follow this intricate and tedious by-play of objection and counter-objection.

  Try as he might to put his thoughts into a hopeful and defiant framework, Silas did not succeed. The questioning went on, and he answered; but there was little confidence in his answers. He was almost relieved when MacAllister said,

  “Your witness, Mr. Ward.”

  Mr. Ward did not even rise. He smiled fleetingly, waved a hand, and casually answered, “No questions, Mr. MacAllister.” It was completely disdainful and Mr. Ward’s first masterful stroke in the entire trial. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed Silas Timberman and his testimony.

  Judge Calent smiled slightly in appreciation, and adjourned court for fifteen minutes.

  * * *

  MacAllister asked for Professor Alec Brady to take the stand, and as Brady walked forward, the jury quickened a little and showed awakened interest. He was an impressive figure of a man, his long, balding head strangely intriguing, his skeptical, rather cynical expression promising them more than average entertainment. He had an air of authority that could not help but impress, and the jury, bored before, settled back to be entertained. He took the oath, and answered the formal introductory questions pleasantly and casually.

  “How long have you known the defendant, Professor Timberman?” MacAllister wanted to know.

  “As a faculty member—that is, casually—since 1938, when I joined the staff at Clemington University. My social acquaintance with him, as a friend at first, and then as a very close friend of Professor Timberman and his family, began after the war, early in 1946.”

  “And you have taught at Clemington University since 1938?”

  “No—not all those years. I enlisted in the army in June of 1941, and returned to Clemington in November of 1945.”

  “What was your rank in the army?”

  Ward half rose to object, thought better of it, and sat back to wait. Silas realized that he was unsure of himself and that he had decided to allow this to develop more fully.

  “I entered officers training for the infantry. I held company rank when I was discharged.”

  “Was it an honorable discharge?”

  “Yes, sir—of course, I remain in the reserve.”

  “What are the honors of your war record, Professor Brady?”

  “Five battle stars, the Purple Heart and the Distinguished Service Cross.”

  The jury was even more intent. The judge leaned forward, listening carefully, and Mr. Ward sat as still as a carved image.

  “Professor Brady, are you a member of the Communist Party?”

  There was a buzz from the spectators’ seats. The judge’s eyes narrowed. Ward half rose again and sat back again. The jurors stared with delight and excitement.

  “I’am.”

  “You are a member in good standing with dues paid?”

  “That is correct.”

  “When did you join the Communist Party, Professor Brady?”

  “In 1933.”

  “Then you have been a party member during the time you have been a faculty member at Clemington University?”

  “That is right.”

  “Are there other communists at the university?”

  “There are.”

  “Do you know them all?”

  “I do.”

  “Is the defendant, Professor Timberman, in the courtroom now?”

  “He is.”

  “Would you point him out?”

  “He is that man,” pointing.

  “Would you rise, Professor Timberman? Thank you. Now, Professor Brady, is the defendant, Silas Timberman, a member of the Communist Party?”

  “He is not.”

  “Aside from knowing who are communists at the university, how can you be sure that he is not a member of the Communist Party? Could he conceal his membership from you?”

  “I don’t think so. A communist is not merely a member of an organization—he is a person with a particular world outlook, which is called Marxism-Leninism. This comprises a political philosophy, a method of life and action, what is called a class position—and a certain scientific approach to all phenomena. This would be particularly marked in a scholar. Professor Timberman is not a Marxist—nor has he any pretensions toward Marxism. He can best be characterized politically as a liberal, a man of honesty and integrity, with strong influences of populism and Jeffersonian democracy.”

  “Then you feel able to assert flatly that he is not a communist?”

  “I do.”

  “Has he ever, to your knowledge, attended a communist meeting?”

  “He has not.”

  “Were you involved in the organization of a public demonstration at Clemington University at which Professor Timberman was a speaker?”

  “I was, in a consultative capacity. It was mainly organized by the students.”

  “Was Professor Timberman involved in the organization of this meeting?”

  “He was not.”

  “Thank you. Your witness,” MacAllister said to Mr. Ward.

  Mr. Ward rose slowly, his hands in his pockets, turned to the jury and regarded them briefly and questioningly, his glance holding the mild reproof of an older brother and liberating them from the spell Brady had cast over them. Then he walked toward Brady and said, almost indifferently.

  “You testified, Mr. Brady, that you know who the communists at the university are, did you not?”

  “I did.”

  “Very well. I am now asking you to name them. Who are they, Mr. Brady?”

  MacAllister bounced to his feet, objecting, and the judge, cool and relaxed again, said, “I am sorry, Mr. MacAllister, but I cannot sustain any objection to this question. It seems to me that it is directly to the point, striking at the basis of the witness’ credibility. I shall have to over-rule you.”

  “But this is not a question of credibility. This is clearly an attempt to put the witness in the position of being an informer! I must object!”

  “And I have said that your objection is over-ruled,” Judge Calent replied, a knife edge coming into his voice for the first time. “You will be seated, Mr. MacAllister. I have been very fair and very lenient during the course of this trial and I have overlooked many things, but now your action verges on willful contempt. You seem to answer every move of the government with this charge of informer. It is tiresome.”

  MacAllister seated himself slowly, painfully, pain in-his whole body and spread on his face. The judge asked Brady.

  “You were not subpoenaed to this trial, were you, Mr. Brady?”

  “No, I was not.”

  “You came of your own free will, did you not?”

  “I did.”

  “Very well. Proceed with your cross-examination, Mr. Ward.”

  And Ward said, “Will you name the other communists at Clemington, Mr. Brady?”

  Brady was almost casual in his reply, pedagogic, sardonic to a degree, “When I came here, I anticipated that this question would be asked. It is a typical question, typical of much that is happening in America today, degrading to him who asks it, degrading to one who must hear it—”

  “You will answer the question, Mr. Brady,” the judge said sharply. “You will not make political speeches here. You will answer the question directly.”

  “No, I will not answer it,” Brady said. “It is not a question which a decent human being can answer. I must refuse to answer it, and I must refuse to answer all similar questions.”

&
nbsp; “I am now going to order you to answer it, Mr. Brady.”

  “I will not answer it,” Brady shrugged.

  “Very well,” the judge said quietly, in command of himself, polite again. “That being the case, I am forced to hold you in contempt of court—and for said contempt, I order that you be incarcerated in the District Jail for ninety days, or until you may be willing to purge yourself of the contempt by answering this question. Are there any further questions, Mr. Ward?”

  “No further questions,” Ward shrugged, glancing at the jury.

  Two marshals came to the witness stand and led Brady away, and then the judge adjourned court until two o’clock that afternoon.

  * * *

  The rest of the trial was hopeless in terms of the defense, anticlimactic, words said because they had to be said, motions made because they had to be made; but MacAllister was beaten, broken, defeated. He attempted to hide his defeat from Silas, but the attempt was a poor one. He tried gallantly when Masterson testified as a character witness, and Reverend Masterson did all that he could do, but Ward demolished it in cross-examination by asking.

  “Does the defendant attend your church, Reverend Masterson?”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “What church does he attend?”

  “I don’t know. I never discussed his religious beliefs with him.”

  “Does he attend any church?”

  “I don’t know.”

  And Mr. Ward left his small victory there. He did not have to press it. He was firmly in the saddle, and when he chose to look at the jury, they understood that, and when MacAllister made his summation, the following day, he might have been talking to a stone wall for all the impression he felt he was making. Nevertheless, he tried. He reviewed the testimony. He emphasized the sharpest contradictions in Bob Allen’s testimony, and he castigated the man as a morally bankrupt person, an informer, a Judas who sold his friend for a few pieces of silver. For a time, he was carried away by his own argument—and then, slowly but inevitably, the ground he stood upon turned into sand and quicksand. The jury did not care; they were not hostile to him; they were indifferent to him. He spoke of Silas as a symbol and as a man, a quiet college professor, a family man, a decent man—but the jury did not care.…