The Winston Affair by Howard Fast Page A

here!”
    When the orderly had left, Adams lit another cigarette and watched Kaufman pace back and forth. It was very hot in the little office. The perspiration on Adams’ face flowed down and wet his cigarette. Across Major Kaufman’s shoulders a band of moisture darkened his shirt.
    Then he stopped pacing and looked at Adams. “What do you want?” he asked.
    â€œI want the report—and I want you as a witness for the defense.”
    â€œI’m glad you saved that until now.”
    â€œI wasn’t certain that I wanted you as a witness until now.”
    â€œAnd now you are?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œGive me a day or two to think it over.”
    â€œI can’t give you an hour to think it over, Major,” Barney Adams said stubbornly. “I have two days left to prepare my case. I can do it if I cut down my sleeping to a minimum. But I need your decision now.”
    â€œI suppose you know what it is?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œWell, get out now. Get out and leave me alone. I have work to do, too, although you may not think so.” He went to a metal filing case, opened a drawer, and took out a sheaf of paper. “Here’s the report,” he said.
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    â€œAh, to hell with thanks! I’m not doing this for you, Adams.”
    â€œWe convene at nine-thirty, Monday morning. At the Advocate’s.”
    â€œAll right. And don’t bother—I know where it is.”
    Kaufman left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Friday 3.10 P.M .
    Half a dozen American correspondents and four British correspondents were already seated in General Kempton’s big office when Barney Adams arrived. The general, who had a reputation as a stickler for punctuality, was in this instance remarkably genial and understanding. Before any questions were permitted, he spread his arms and told the newspapermen:
    â€œI want you to understand that you are dealing with an infantry officer, not with your home-town mayor in uniform. Major Alek Gunther is here from the PR office, and he knows the rules. You also know the rules. You can address any questions you wish to—to me or to Captain Adams. But if Major Gunther makes a no-comment decision, the decision holds. I don’t want any arguments. And I don’t want you button-holing Captain Adams in the corridor for inside dope. There is no inside dope. This case is open—wide open.”
    And then turning to Gunther, “Do you have anything to add to that before we begin, Major?”
    Gunther, slim, dark, impeccably tailored, his briefcase at the ready under his arm, as if prepared to step into a client’s office, shook his head.
    â€œYou’ve covered it, General.”
    â€œFire away,” the general said.
    The Associated Press man wanted to know whether Captain Adams had been brought into the theater specifically for this case.
    â€œI wouldn’t say that,” the general answered, smiling. “He has been brought in because I wanted him on my staff.”
    From the Times man, “What do you think are your chances of saving Winston’s life, Captain Adams?”
    â€œI have no idea, nor do I have enough time to speculate on my chances. I was assigned to defend Lieutenant Winston. I shall do that to the best of my ability.”
    â€œDo you intend to enter a plea of insanity?” a British correspondent demanded.
    â€œI’m afraid I cannot disclose my strategy before the court convenes,” Adams replied.
    The door to the office opened now, and a reporter for the major local paper entered. Dark, abashed, his white cotton clothes wrapped so strangely and gracefully about him, he remained standing next to the door at the back of the room. Gunther looked at him and said nothing.
    A question came without Barney Adams’ hearing it. He was wondering why he should doubt himself as he pointed to an empty chair and said to the native reporter,