The Quiet Game

"I've found some pretty big surprises during discovery in my career. People make blunders." I motion toward the boxes the police saved from the fireplace at Tuscany last night. "And then there's that stuff. Maybe we'll get lucky."

Caitlin nods, but she doesn't look hopeful. "Do you realize that almost every witness who knows anything you need to tell the jury would have to embarrass themselves terribly by testifying? Frank Jones… Betty Lou Jackson. Not only that, they'll be putting themselves in the killers' sights. Your ATF pal will testify, and maybe Lester Hinson, if you pay him enough. But the rest? No way."

"That's what subpoenas are for."

"You're not that naive. Portman, Marston, and Presley know about all these people, or soon will. And they'll try everything from bribes to murder to keep them quiet."

"That's why we have to crack Marston's nerve between now and next Wednesday."

"And if you can't?"

"Then we pray our long shots come through."

"And those are?"

"Peter Lutjens, for one. He's going for the Payton file in two days."

"I've been thinking about that. What exactly is he going to try to do? The file is forty-four volumes long. He can't walk out with it under his coat. He can't even photocopy it unless he has all night."

"He won't have to. Remember what Stone told us in Colorado? The file is forty-three volumes of nothing and his final report. That's all we need. Stone's final report."

"Lutjens knows that?"

"I talked to him this morning."

"What's the other long shot?"

"Stone himself."

She shakes her head. "Never happen. He's too scared. They've got something on that guy. Stone's not going to talk."

"I disagree. Whatever dirt Portman has on Stone is a two-edged sword. And Stone's conscience is working on him. It's been working on him for thirty years. Guilt is a powerful thing, Caitlin. Stone needs to unburden himself, and I think he'll come through for us. Or for himself, rather."

"What about Ike Ransom? What's his story?"

"I think Ike's got a personal grudge against Marston that has nothing to do with Payton. He knew I'd go after Marston if I had any kind of weapon, so he gave me the Payton case."

"But has he given you any real information? Any idea of Marston's motive for the crime?"

"Not really."

She drums her fingers on the table. "Motive, means, and opportunity, right? The means and opportunity are Ray Presley, but we're stuck on motive. Marston actually made public statements supporting civil rights in the sixties. I found them in the morgue here."

"I think it's money. Somehow Payton's death increased Marston's fortune or power."

"I can't see that. Financially, Payton was a nonentity."

"Maybe he was an obstacle to something. Some deal."

"What about sex?" suggests Caitlin. "Sexual jealousy. That's a common motive for murder."

The photo shrine in Althea Payton's house flits through my mind, followed by images of Del Payton huddled over his dinner table with Medgar Evers, talking about changing the white man's heart. "That's not it. Payton was a family man all the way."

"That's what they all say until they're caught with their wee-wees in the wrong cookie jar."

"It's not sex, Caitlin. It's money or power. That's what Marston lives for."

She sighs and gets up, then drops her left hand on the charred box of files. "I hope there's something in here."

"You've got to remember one thing. I'm treating this like a murder case, but it's not. It's a civil case."

"So?"

"So the standard of proof is lower. I don't have to prove Marston's guilt to twelve people beyond a reasonable doubt. I have to convince nine jurors that it was more likely than not that Marston was involved in the Payton murder. That means a fifty-one percent certainty. And the jury won't have to agonize over their decision the way a criminal jury would. Because their verdict won't send Marston to jail or to a gurney for lethal injection. Another jury will get that job."

Caitlin moves toward the door. "I think you're going to have a hell of a job convincing those nine people unless you figure out why Marston would want Payton dead. And prove it."

When she opens the door, the goateed anarchists pop through it with their sleeves rolled up and smirks on their faces.

"Mulder and Scully reporting for duty," says one.

Caitlin shakes her head and walks out, leaving me to deal with my new assistants.

In the forty hours between the end of my lecture on Friday and dawn on Sunday, we built a circumstantial case against Leo Marston. The only sleep I got was brief naps on the couch in Caitlin's office, taken while reporters, photographers, and interns worked in shifts over the boxes of Marston papers that arrived in desultory waves from storage rooms unknown. Only my anarchists- who did have actual names, Peter and Ed, prosaically enough-kept pace with me during this marathon. They seemed to see it as a holy mission, one in which iconoclasts could cheerfully take part.