The Attorney General was a tough-talking Polack prosecutor from Chicago named Andy Wyszynski. He wasn’t leery of taking on spectacular cases. He’d been part of the legal team that tried to convict Belva Gaertner when she shot her lover. Belva not only walked, but one of the reporters wrote a hit play about her. Wyszynski’s comment after the verdict was, “Juries are full of jerks.”
From everything Charlie had seen, Wyszynski wasn’t wrong, even if the crack didn’t endear him to the sob sisters. He wasn’t the endearing sort. A big, fleshy man, he had a face like a clenched fist. Like Vince Scriabin and like Joe Steele himself, he wasn’t a man you wanted mad at you.
He’d learned a thing or three from that Roaring Twenties trial. Then, the prosecution let the defense set the agenda. They thought they had an open-and-shut case. As a matter of fact, they did, but Belva’s lawyer wouldn’t let them shut it.
This time, Wyszynski rolled out the heavy artillery before the military judges were chosen. He showed off for the newspapers. He had all kinds of things to show off, too. Wires back and forth between Berlin and Washington. Letters in German on swastika stationery with generals’ illegible signatures. Stacks of swastika-bedizened Reichsmarks, some still in bank wrappers with German writing in Gothic letters on them. Bank transactions showing Reichsmarks converted into dollars. All kinds of good stuff.
Like the rest of the Washington press corps, Charlie wrote stories about the goodies Wyszynski showed off. Among themselves, the reporters were more skeptical. “In a real trial, a lot of that shit wouldn’t even get admitted,” said one who’d done a lot of crime stories. “In this military tribunal thing, though, who the hell knows?”
“How come it isn’t a real trial?” another man asked. “On account of they’re scared they’d lose it if it was one?”
“There’s more to it than that,” Charlie said. “They tried treason cases with military tribunals during the Civil War, so they’ve got some precedent.”
The other reporter looked at him. “You’d know that stuff. You’re the teacher’s pet, right? It’s your bad, bad brother who keeps getting paddled.”
“Hey, fuck you, Bill,” Charlie said. “You think I’m the teacher’s pet, we can step outside and talk about it.”
Bill started to get up from his barstool. Another reporter put a hand on his arm. “Take it easy. Charlie’s okay.”
“Nobody who has anything good to say about that lying so-and-so in the White House is okay, you ask me,” Bill said.
“Well, who asked you? Sit back down and have another drink. You sound like you could use one.”
Having another drink struck Charlie as a good idea, too. It often did. After he got half of it down, he said, “Even if it is a military tribunal, I think it’ll be interesting. They’ll have to let the press in. If they let the press in, they’ll have to give the justices lawyers and let ’em speak their piece. And when they do that, all bets are off. Those guys were all lawyers themselves before they were judges. Probably fifty-fifty they can talk their way out of everything.”
“You say that?” Bill sounded as if he didn’t trust his ears.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Charlie returned.
“’Cause. . Ah, shit. Maybe I had you wrong.”
“This round’s on me, boys!” Charlie sang out. People whooped and pounded him on the back. He went on, “I’ll do the same thing next time Bill admits he’s wrong, too. That oughta be-oh, I dunno, about 1947. Or 1948.”
“Up yours, Sullivan,” Bill said. But he let Charlie buy him a drink.
* * *
You could hold a military tribunal anywhere. Military courts, by the nature of things, had to be portable. Andy Wyszynski-or perhaps Joe Steele-chose to hold this one in the lobby of the District Court Building on Indiana Avenue. The lobby gave reporters and photographers and newsreel cameramen plenty of room to work. Sure enough, this proceeding would get as much publicity as the government could give it.
In front of the District Court Building’s somewhat beat-up classical façade stood a statue of Abraham Lincoln. Charlie pointed to it on the way in. “Betcha that statue’s another reason they’re trying the justices here. Remember how Joe Steele went on and on about Lincoln and treason and habeas corpus-I mean, no habeas corpus-during the Civil War?”
“Sure do.” Louie Pappas nodded. “Betcha you’re right.” The dead cigar in the photographer’s mouth twitched every time he talked.
Up the broad flight of stairs they went. The walls of the lobby were of tan plaster. The floor was marble. The officers of the tribunal had already taken their places behind a table on a dais. The chairman was a Navy officer. A neat sign announced his name: CAPTAIN SPRUANCE. The other three military judges belonged to the Army: Colonel Marshall, Major Bradley, and Major Eisenhower. Each man had a microphone in front of his place, no doubt for the benefit of the newsreels.
Attorney General Wyszynski sat at the prosecutors’ table, drinking coffee and talking in a low voice with an aide. Two lawyers from the American Civil Liberties Union muttered to each other at the defense table. One looked quite snappy; the other wore the loudest checked suit Charlie’d ever seen. Of the Supreme Court Four there was as yet no sign.
More reporters and photographers filed in to fill their assigned sections. “We will begin at ten o’clock sharp,” Captain Spruance said, his voice soft even with a mike. He looked more like a minister or a professor than a military man. Colonel Marshall had that professorial look, too. Spruance went on, “No one from the press will be admitted after that. And we must have silence from the observers. Anyone creating a disturbance will be ejected and will not be allowed to return for the duration of the proceeding.”
Military policemen, shore patrolmen, and U.S. marshals from the Justice Department stood ready to do whatever he told them to do. Charlie intended to keep his trap shut. He wouldn’t have been surprised if somebody raised a ruckus, though.
At ten o’clock on the dot, Captain Spruance said, “Let the tribunal be sealed.” The doors were closed and locked. A late-arriving reporter banged on them in vain. Through the banging, Spruance continued, “Let the accused be brought before the tribunal.”
He looked to the left. Charlie’s gaze, and everyone else’s, followed his. A door opened. The newsreel cameras swung towards it. This would be the first time anyone but their jailers had set eyes on the Supreme Court Four since their spectacular arrest.
Out they came, Justices McReynolds, Butler, Sutherland, and Van Deventer. They all wore suits of good cut and somber gray or blue or black wool. Charlie thought they looked thinner than they had when they were taken away, but he wasn’t sure. They’d worn robes then, which might have expanded their outline. He was pretty sure they were paler than they had been. Wherever Joe Steele had stowed them, they hadn’t got to sunbathe there. He saw no lumps or bruises that might have shown rough treatment, though.
MPs with Tommy guns shepherded the accused men to their table. As they sat, the ACLU lawyer in the horrible clothes whispered something to Justice McReynolds. Whatever answer he got, it made him do a double take Harpo Marx would have been proud of. He whispered again.
After a moment, Captain Spruance said, “The accused will rise.” The men obeyed. “State your names for the record,” he told them.
“James McReynolds.”
“Pierce Butler.”
“Associate Justice George Sutherland.”
“Willis Van Deventer.”
To the chief petty officer transcribing the testimony, Spruance said, “Yeoman, you will disregard the title claimed by the accused, Sutherland.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the yeoman replied.