The entire theater both laughed and groaned at the airman's words. A ripple of talk went through the room, all variations on the same, as one man whispered to the next, "What I wouldn't do for a rib eye steak, grilled with onions and mushrooms…"
Tommy let the laughter subside. He wore a small, crooked smile of his own.
"Meat processing can be a pretty foul business, can't it, lieutenant? I mean, slaughtered animals, guts, blood, shit, and fur. Got to get rid of all that waste, just leave the good parts behind, correct?"
"That's the game, lieutenant."
"Getting rid of all that foul, disgusting stuff, that's where the
Negroes worked, right, lieutenant? They didn't have the well-paying jobs, did they, these Negroes you worked with?
They were the people who took care of the mess, right? The mess that the white men didn't want to deal with."
Murphy hesitated, then shrugged.
"That's the jobs they seemed to want."
"Sure," Tommy replied.
"Why would anyone want something better?"
Lieutenant Murphy didn't answer this question. The courtroom had once again quieted.
Tommy moved about in front of Lieutenant Murphy, pacing in a small circle, first turning his back on the man, then suddenly pivoting to face him. Every motion he made, Tommy thought, was designed to unsettle the man.
"Tell me. Lieutenant Murphy, who is Frederick Douglass?"
Murphy thought hard for a moment, then shook his head.
"I'm not sure. Isn't he a general on Ike's staff?"
"No. Actually," Tommy said slowly, "he was a longtime resident of your state."
"Never heard of him."
"That doesn't surprise me."
Walker Townsend rose to his feet.
"Your Honor," he said with a tone of exasperated impatience.
"I fail to see what is the point of this cross-examination. Lieutenant
Hart has yet to ask the witness about the gentleman's trial testimony.
He complained of history lessons yesterday offered by the prosecution, and yet returns today with some question about a man who died decades ago-" "Colonel, it was the prosecution that made the point about Lieutenant Murphy's racial 'enlightenment." I'm only following up on that."
MacNamara scowled, then said, "I will permit these questions as long as you hurry up and make your point, lieutenant."
Tommy nodded. At the defense table, Lincoln Scott whispered to Hugh
Renaday, "There's one of the bones tossed in our direction."
Pausing for just an instant. Tommy turned back toward Murphy, who again shifted in his seat.
"Who is Crispus Attucks, lieutenant?"
"Who?"
"Crispus Attucks."
"Never heard the name. Another Massachusetts man?"
Tommy smiled.
"Good guess, lieutenant. Now, you say you are not a bigot, sir, but you cannot identify the Negro who died at the infamous Boston Massacre, and whose sacrifice was celebrated by our founding fathers at that pivotal moment in our nation's history? Nor do you recognize the name of Frederick Douglass, the great abolitionist, many of whose writings were committed to print in your fair state."
Murphy stared angrily at Tommy but did not reply.
"History wasn't my best subject in school," he said bitterly.
"Obviously. Now, I wonder what else you don't know about Negroes."
"I know what I heard Scott say," Murphy spat out sharply.
"And that's a whole damn sight more important than some history lesson."
Tommy hesitated, and nodded.
"Indeed. Now, you're not very bright, are you, lieutenant?"
"What?"
"Smart." Tommy fired his questions rapidly, picking up momentum and raising his voice.
"I mean, you had to go to work in the family business, weren't bright enough to do something on your own, correct? How'd you qualify for officer's training, anyway? Your daddy know somebody who pulled some strings? And that school where you said Negroes attended beside you. I bet you didn't even get grades as good as theirs, did you? And you were happy keeping those Negroes sweeping up while you made money, correct? Because if you ever gave one of them a chance, you were afraid they'd do a hell of a lot better job than you could, right?"
"Objection! Objection!" Walker Townsend shouted.
"He's asking ten questions at once!"
"Lieutenant Hart!" Colonel MacNamara started.
Tommy swung his face down toward Murphy.
"You hate them because they make you afraid, don't they?"
Again Murphy didn't reply. He simply seethed.
"Lieutenant Hart, I warn you, sir," MacNamara said, slamming his gavel down sharply.
Tommy stepped back from the witness, staring across the small space at Murphy, looking into his eyes.
"You know. Lieutenant Murphy, I can tell what you're thinking right now."
"What's that?" Murphy asked, between tightly clenched teeth.
Tommy smiled.
"Why, you're thinking, "I ought to kill that son of a bitch…" aren't you?"
Murphy scowled.
"No," he said.
"I'm not."
Tommy nodded, still grinning.
"Sure you aren't." He stood up straight and gestured toward the packed audience and the kriegies hanging by the windows, listening to every word.
"I'm sure that everyone here believes that denial. Absolutely.
I must be one hundred percent wrong…"
Sarcasm swirled around every one of Tommy's words.
"I'm sure you didn't think, "I ought to kill that son of a bitch…" and you received perhaps one tenth of one percent of the abuse that
Trader Vic subjected Lincoln Scott to on each and every day since Mr. Scott first arrived at Stalag Luft Thirteen!"
"He said it," Murphy persisted.
"I didn't."
"Of course he did," Tommy answered.
"But he didn't say:
' I'm going to kill that son of a bitch," or' I must kill that son of a bitch," or "I plan to kill that son of a bitch tonight…" He didn't say any of those things, did he, lieutenant?"
"No."
"He said what anyone else might have said, under the exact same circumstances."
"Objection! Calls for the witness to speculate," Townsend shouted.
"Ah, withdrawn, then," Tommy interjected.
"Because we surely wouldn't want Lieutenant Murphy to speculate about anything."
MacNamara glared down at Tommy.