The Winston Affair by Howard Fast Page B

“Won’t you please sit down, sir.”
    General Kempton watched Adams shrewdly. The native correspondent nodded his thanks as he gingerly and uncertainly went to the chair and sat down.
    The Manchester Guardian correspondent then asked, “What is your opinion about the political issues involved here?”
    â€œNo comment on that. None.” Major Gunther appeared pleased to make his firm hand felt “This is a military trial, and there are no political issues involved.”
    â€œOh, do be a bit flexible,” protested the Guardian man. “Our readers are not concerned with how Winston is defended. They want to know the American attitude toward the murder of a British non-com.”
    â€œThere is no comment on that,” Gunther repeated. “You know the ground rules here.”
    The United Press man said, “General, could you intervene? I think it’s a fair question. It cuts to the core of things. Editorials stateside are calling this a hot potato, not because a man murdered someone, but because an American officer murdered a British non-com.”
    â€œIt’s a hell of a broad question.” Kempton smiled. “You can’t just ask one’s opinion of political issues involved. That covers too much. I think Barney Adams is a damn good lawyer. But he’s not a congressman.”
    This fetched a laugh all around. Adams’ respect for Kempton was increasing. He used his indolent, apparently good-natured bulk cleverly and well—and gave little indication of what lay beneath it. Yet at the same time there were clues to the man. Angry, he would be dangerous beyond expectation. So Adams thought, telling himself not to underestimate this man, not even to fall into the trap of taking him lightly.
    Meanwhile, the native correspondent had come to his feet and was waiting to ask a question. Unlike the others, he did not speak out. He waited to be recognized, to be asked. Gunther ignored him, but Kempton nodded at him and said, “Go ahead, sir.”
    â€œAbout the political consequences,” the man began, his English stilted, strangely accented, “I think that you are right to say that this is a very broad topic. For not only the murderer, but the hangman too, functions in terms of two peoples. My readers—”
    Gunther cut in, “If you have a question, ask it. This is not a forum.”
    â€œI was merely trying to explain, sir, that my readers would ask this question—is there any justice apart from might? Can there be such justice?”
    Gunther hesitated, unsure of himself now that the focus had been narrowed.
    General Kempton said, not unkindly, “Who do you direct that at, Captain Adams or myself?”
    â€œCaptain Adams, sir, since he stands for the defense.”
    Watching the man, Adams thought again of the different worlds that Kaufman had specified. This man did not stand upright; out of training and habit, his muscles had lost the ability to hold him fully upright in the presence of white men. His knees were bent just a trifle, his shoulders bent just a trifle, his neck bowed just a trifle—even as his voice was muted, the words and meaning separated from the tone, which was carefully calculated not to give offense.
    â€œI think,” Adams answered slowly, “that justice can only exist apart from might. A result provided by power and necessity does not lie within my definition of justice.”
    He felt pompous and foolish after that reply, yet facing the man as he was, he didn’t know what else he might have said.
    The press conference went on, but the dark-skinned reporter did not ask any other questions.

Friday 5.00 P.M .
    When the press conference had finished, General Kempton asked Adams to remain for a few minutes. Adams sat down gratefully, exhausted in every bone and muscle of his body. General Kempton, observing him thoughtfully, asked if he had ever been the focus of a press conference