The Winston Affair

by Howard Fast

“I don’t know.”

  “Then examine it, Colonel. It is dated, Colonel. It is typed on the hospital stationery, is it not? It is marked—Lieutenant Charles Winston. It bears his serial number. It is titled History and Prognosis. And it is signed with Major Kaufman’s signature. Is that not so, Colonel?”

  “Yes, that appears to be the case.”

  “May it please the court,” Adams said, “I would like this to be stamped for identification. And then, if the court so pleases, I would like it to be entered for evidence, to be marked Defense Exhibit A.”

  Thompson had withdrawn into a shell of anger and control; he sat by Mayburt with an invisible wall between them. He tried to display disdain in the slight nod of his head that turned the proceedings of law over to the Law Officer.

  But Mayburt remained unruffled as he said, “Mark it for identification, Sergeant Simmons, and then bring it to the bench.”

  Adams handed it to Simmons, the clerk, who stamped and dated it and then brought it to Thompson. He only glanced at it before he passed it to Mayburt. Mayburt leafed through it, and then passed it on. It went to Kelly, McCabe, Cummings and Brown; and then down the table again to Winovich, Burnside, Hennessy and Clement. During this time a restless silence pervaded the courtroom; whispers edged it with sound. But Kempton and his guests did not whisper—they sat each in his own tension, concern or interest. Little rivers of perspiration flowed down Burton’s cheeks.

  Only Charles Winston was indifferent. Winston, with his hatred and hope, waited for God; but from all that he displayed, what happened in the courtroom never entered the shell that enclosed him.

  The report came back to Mayburt “You may enter it as evidence, Captain Adams,” he said.

  Adams took the report and gave it to Burton again. “This is a carbon copy, Colonel Burton,” he said. “Have you ever seen the original?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to read this. How do I know if I have seen the original?”

  “Then examine it and refresh your memory, Colonel.” Adams waited a few moments more while Burton looked through the report. Then Adams asked, “Colonel Burton, did you read a report prepared by Major Kaufman on the case of Lieutenant Winston?”

  “Yes, I read a report.”

  “Does this appear to be a copy of that report?”

  “It does,” Burton answered reluctantly.

  Adams took it from him and read from the first page. “From page one of Major Kaufman’s report, I quote: ‘After making arrangements for Lieutenant Winston to be placed in a room, under guard, I informed the office of the commanding officer of the admittance and the circumstances surrounding it. This was during the first half-hour after the patient’s arrival. I spoke to Captain Greene, assistant to the commanding officer, and related the fact to him. I pressed him to inform the commanding officer immediately, and he said that he would.’ I end the quote there.

  “Now, Colonel Burton, in your testimony you stated without any qualification that you were not informed for four hours. Either Captain Greene was guilty of gross negligence or you were not telling the truth. Which is it?”

  “I may have forgotten that Captain Greene mentioned it earlier.”

  “Do you remember now, sir?”

  “I seem to recollect something of the sort. I am a very busy man. Sometimes things do not impress themselves on me sufficiently.”

  “But you are sufficiently impressed with the fact that you are now under oath?”

  Major Smith rose with an objection. His anger bursting forth at this point, he cried out, “May it please the court, Colonel Burton is not on trial. I object to this whole line of questioning!”

  “He’s absolutely right,” Thompson whispered bitterly to Mayburt.

  Mayburt said, “Sergeant Debbs, strike out Captain Adams’ last remark. And hereafter, Captain Adams, confine your questions to the cross-examination.” Then he turned to Major Smith. “The court must overrule your objection to the entire line of questioning. It is proper cross-examination. I suggest you refer to your notes of your own direct examination.” He then nodded at Adams to continue.

  Adams said to Burton, “You said, sir, that you personally examined the defendant on two occasions. Did you take his blood pressure?”

  “I don’t remember,” Burton replied.

  “Did you check his reflex reactions?”

  “I am not sure—I don’t think so.”

  “You said in your testimony, Colonel, that you did take his pulse. What was his pulse beat on each occasion?”

  “I can’t remember—do you know how many—”

  “Please, Colonel, in your testimony you spoke of his pulse being rapid the first time and normal the second time. Can you recollect that and not the number of beats per minute?”

  “I can. And if you were a physician, you would understand.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Now you testified that in both of your examinations you found nothing to lead you to believe that Lieutenant-Winston was mentally sick. Is that so?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I read from Defense Exhibit A, page two, quote: ‘Upon admittance, the patient was in a profound suicidal-depressive state, which worsened the following day, and therefore could not be left unguarded for a moment. His pulse was 130, his blood pressure dangerously high. He was only vaguely aware of what had transpired the night before at Bachree, and his speech was incoherent. Not until after the third day of treatment and sedation could he be questioned in a manner that would evoke coherent response.’ End quote.

  “Does this suggest mental illness, Colonel?”

  “I spoke only of my own examination,” Burton said, some of his confidence returning.

  “And you found none of these symptoms in your examination?”

  “I mentioned that his pulse was rapid.”

  “Only that, sir?”

  “That is what I mentioned.”

  “Yes, sir. And then you testified that Major Kaufman had refused to sign the discharge papers for the defendant?”

  “Yes—he refused.”

  Major Smith rose, and Adams said, “May it please the court, I have no intention of cross-examining in terms of the hearsay evidence.” White with anger, Major Smith reseated himself.

  Adams went on, “Did Major Kaufman submit his report to you before or after he refused to discharge Lieutenant Winston?”

  “I believe it was before.”

  “Did you read the report?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you read all of it, Colonel?”

  “I read most of it.”

  “Yet you saw fit to reject it?”

  “As I told you some days ago, Captain Adams, the report was not competent or scientific.”

  “And you came to this conclusion without even reading the entire report?”

  “I am a medical man, sir. I can recognize incompetence.”

  “Did you tell Major Kaufman to prepare another report?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you advise him to change his conclusions?”

  “I advised him to restudy the case.”

  “Did you advise him to find Lieutenant Winston sane?”

  “I advised him to restudy the case.”

  “I see. Now, Colonel Burton, you testified that General Kempton instructed you to convene a lunacy commission. Who selected the members of this commission?”

  “I did, upon the recommendation of General Kempton.”

  “Do you mean that he asked you to choose the members? Or did he select them himself?”

  “He asked me to choose the members.”

  “Yes, thank you, sir. Now lunacy is a legalistic term which today is no longer used in medical practice. Am I right, sir?”

  “It could still be used in medical practice.”

  “But, Colonel, since Webster’s International Dictionary, a copy of which we have in this courtroom, defines psychiatry as the medical specialty which deals with mental disorders, would it not be proper and perhaps more modern, i
n sense, to refer to a lunacy commission as a psychiatric commission?”

  “I suppose it could be so referred to.”

  “Thank you. Now in your General Hospital, sir, do you have a Department of Psychiatry?”

  “We have the Neuro-Psychopathic Ward.”

  “How many beds are in this ward?”

  “There are two buildings with two hundred beds.”

  Adams walked across to Moscow and accepted a slip of paper he held out.

  Then, to Burton, “Would this be a proper description of the work of your NP Ward? I have taken this from the physicians in charge. Psychotic section—schizophrenic, acute mania, confusional states, paranoid states, depression. Neurotic section—psychosomatic, depression, traumatic neurosis, compulsion.”

  “Yes, if you wish to use fancy language.”

  “This is not language of my choosing or competence, sir. These are medical terms. I merely repeat them. Now, how many physicians work in the NP Ward?”

  “Three.”

  “Would you name them, Colonel?”

  “Major Kaufman, Captain Mayer and Captain Albertson.”

  “Are they all trained psychiatrists?”

  “I don’t know,” Burton snapped.

  “Are you seriously telling me, sir, that you do not know whether the three physicians who have the responsibility for your mental patients are trained psychiatrists or not?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “May I remind you that you are under oath, Colonel.”

  “I must object to this incredible procedure,” Major Smith declared. “May the court please—this whole line of questioning and implication is improper and incompetent.”

  Colonel Thompson nodded and added, “Your constant reminders to Colonel Burton that he is under oath are offensive, Captain Adams. You are not examining a criminal, but an officer and a gentleman who accepts the role of a co-operative witness.”

  “May it please the court,” Adams said, “I have attempted to avoid any error in proper cross-examination. If my remark was in poor taste, I apologize to the court. May I continue?”

  “May I have a ruling on my objection, if the court so pleases?” Smith asked.

  Mayburt, his face set and empty of expression, scribbled on his pad.

  Thompson said angrily, “The objection is not in order. You are overruled, Major Smith.”

  “I ask you again, Colonel,” Adams persisted, “are these three officers trained psychiatrists?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Again Adams took a paper from Moscow. “May it please the court, this is a précis of the medical and training records of the officers in question. May it be marked for identification and entered as evidence?”

  As this was done, an almost palpable gloom settled over the court. The room was heavy with heat. It had darkened through the afternoon, and now, outside, it began to rain.

  “May it please the court,” Adams said, “I would request that the record show that the three officers in charge of the NP Ward at the General Hospital are trained and qualified psychiatrists.”

  “It is so ordered, Sergeant Debbs,” Mayburt said bluntly.

  “Colonel Burton,” Adams said, his face bleak and tired, “you convened a lunacy commission, in other words a psychiatric commission, and made no attempt to place one of the three psychiatrists on your staff upon it. Is that not so?”

  Colonel Burton tightened his lips.

  A long moment went past, and then Colonel Mayburt leaned forward and said, “As the Law Officer of this court, Colonel Burton, I must instruct you that when you are under oath and a proper question is asked, you are to answer it. This court will decide when a question is improper. It is not for you to decide. This court is not influenced by rank or circumstances. There is no rank higher than a court of the United States Army. And unless you co-operate with this court, it will not hesitate to find you in contempt. May I say that I find your conduct disturbing, your answers confusing and perilously dose to perjury.” Mayburt’s face was white with anger as he sat back.

  “I will rephrase that question,” Adams said. “Why did you not appoint a psychiatrist to the lunacy commission?”

  “I did not think they were competent,” Burton answered slowly.

  “I see. Colonel Hale is a surgeon, is he not?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “And Major Frank is a dentist, is he not?”

  “He is.”

  “But you decided that both these men were competent to sit upon a lunacy commission with a man’s life at stake. Is that so, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Colonel Hale or Major Frank conduct physical examinations of the defendant, Lieutenant Winston?”

  “No, they did not.”

  “Was Major Kaufman’s report given to them to read?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I submit that you do know!” Adams cried. “Was the report given to them?”

  “It was not.”

  “And yourself, sir, what were your reasons for appointing yourself head of the commission?”

  “I believed I was competent. I am the commanding officer of a general hospital,” Burton answered desperately.

  “I see. Have you ever had any psychiatric training, Colonel Burton?”

  “Not in a formal sense, no.”

  “Then in an informal sense, you have. Will you explain that, sir?”

  “I have studied books on the subject.”

  “Will you tell the court the title and author of one or more of these books?”

  “That was some time ago. I don’t recollect the titles.”

  “I see. Now here again, sir, is Major Kaufman’s report. On page three, I read, quote, ‘All the symptoms of schizophrenic-paranoia were present in a marked manner, as follows—’ I end quote.

  “Do you know what those symptoms are, Colonel?”

  “No, I don’t. I know when a man is sane or insane. That’s enough to know.”

  “Could you tell the court the meaning of schizophrenic-paranoia?”

  Colonel Burton sat stolidly silent, but one arm was trembling now, from shoulder to hand.

  “Colonel Burton,” Adams said deliberately, “where were you employed before you enlisted in the army?” And when Burton did not answer, Adams continued, “Was it in the Diamond-Square Truck Works in Detroit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you employed as company physician?”

  “Yes.”

  “And were you discharged because you diagnosed a heart attack as acute indigestion?”

  “I was not discharged,” Burton said, his voice a whimper now. “I resigned.”

  “I have no further questions,” Adams told the court—without any note of triumph or joy.

  Monday 4.40 P.M.

  Colonel Burton was the last witness for the prosecution. After he had left the witness chair, Major Smith announced that he was resting his case.

  “If the court pleases,” he said, “and with the reservation that if the defense chooses to make a dosing statement I may reply to it, the United States Army is prepared to rest on the evidence that has been taken. In the light of this evidence, I feel that the Trial Advocate has proven that the murder of the decedent, Sergeant Arnold Quuin, was willfully and with forethought committed by the defendant, Lieutenant Charles Winston—while he, the defendant, was of sound mind and in full possession of all his faculties.”

  Colonel Thompson rapped with his gavel and said, “So be it! This court is adjourned until nine-thirty tomorrow morning, at which time those having business before it will appear here again!”

  Moscow gathered his papers together, rising with Adams as the court rose. “Do you want to talk with Winston now?” Moscow asked.

  “I don’t want to talk to anyone now.”

  “You know that Harvey and I are having dinner with you, sir. I hope you feel better then.”

  “At the Palace?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know you’re in n
o mood to hear anything of the sort now, sir—but you’re a damn good lawyer. I have to say that to you. I just wish Harvey could have seen it.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Outside, in the main entranceway, Major Kensington was waiting for Adams. “I’m really sorry, old chap,” he said. “I had put myself up to it and stiffened my back while I was waiting around today. Now I’m ordered to return to my station immediately and prohibited from testifying.”

  “Yes,” Adams said, and nodded.

  “You don’t seem surprised?”

  “No, I’m not surprised, Major, not at all.”

  “I suppose you could get some kind of legal paper or something or a subpoena—you know what I mean—and force it? I’d just as soon you did.”

  “No, I can’t. We’re two separate armies.”

  “You mean because in this hole we’re top dog?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Well—it has been a pleasure to know you. I do hope you’re not hurt too badly, Adams.”

  “Thank you, Major. I’ll get along.” Adams smiled.

  Monday 7.20 P.M.

  Lieutenant Harvey Bender was understandably in excellent spirits. He had produced a handwriting expert in the last place in the world where you would expect to find one. He had carried out his orders, and since he was very young, he had begun to build Barney Adams into a hero of sorts. He told Adams and Moscow how he had gone into the university and then to the police, and finally to the newspaper—from whence they sent him back to the university with a letter of introduction to Professor Nahrawal Chatterjee. Professor Chatterjee, a small, withered and unassuming man, as Bender described him, was a Doctor of Philology, educated at Oxford, who had written a manual of comparative chirography—stressing the differences between the Eastern and Western script development.

  “Now, by God,” he said, “I deserve a small good conduct badge for that, don’t I, Captain?”

  “I suppose you do. Will he testify?”

  “He will. No money either. He’s a peculiar little duck. And by the way,” he added, “Lieutenant Sorenson gave me this letter for you.” He handed an envelope to Adams, who glanced at it and then put it in his pocket.

  Whatever it was, Adams did not want to read it in front of them. He wanted only to finish with this dinner and meeting and then go to sleep.