My dilemma is simple. Either I begin the long, laborious task of building circumstantial links between Presley and Marston, which will last well into tomorrow and bore the jury to tears (not to mention sabotage my opportunity to cross-examine John Portman in this lifetime), or I can question Portman now, do what damage I can, and pray that Dwight Stone descends from the heavens like the deus ex machina of my dreams. Without Stone’s testimony as a fulcrum, I can’t force Portman to help my cause. But by forcing him to lie, I can set him up for a later fall on perjury charges. And for the director of the FBI, that could be a very long fall.

“Call John Portman,” I say loudly.

“Bailiff,” says Judge Franklin. “Call John Portman.”

Portman returns to the courtroom wearing the same confidence with which he left it. He takes his seat in the witness box, shoots his cuffs, and gives me a serene smile.

“Director Portman,” I begin, “in your earlier testimony you stated that Leo Marston rendered valuable assistance in the investigation of Del Payton’s death. What was the nature of that assistance?”

He pretends to agonize over this question. “He provided certain information to us.”

“In other words, he acted as a federal informant.”

“Yes.”

A couple of the white jury members frown.

“I’m going to ask you a direct question. Please answer yes or no. Did the FBI solve the murder of Delano Payton in 1968?”

Portman takes a deep breath but says nothing. We have come down to the nut-cutting, as we say in the South. If he lies now, he is laying himself open to perjury charges.

“Director Portman, I asked whether the Bureau learned the identity of Del Payton’s murderer in 1968.”

“Yes. We did.”

A gasp goes up from the spectators.

“Order,” snaps Judge Franklin.

“Why didn’t the FBI arrest or charge anyone in connection with that murder?”

“For reasons of national security.”

“Let me be sure I understand this. The FBI preserved the national security by protecting the identity of a man who had murdered a veteran of the Korean War?”

Portman shifts in his seat. “Director Hoover made that decision. Not me.”

“Did you agree with his decision?”

“It wasn’t my place to agree or disagree.”

“You were just following orders.”

“Yes.”

“Like a good German,” I remark, recalling Stone’s phrase.

“I strongly resent that.”

“Mr. Cage,” Franklin warns. “Don’t push me.”

“Withdrawn. Director Portman, did you—”

The loud clearing of a throat behind me breaks my train of thought. I start to ignore it, but something tells me to turn.

Caitlin Masters is crouched at the bar behind my table, urgently beckoning me with her hand.

“Your Honor, I beg the court’s indulgence.”