The one-armed witness was followed by sixteen more testimonials from injured workers with similar stories. Jack knew that their statements bore no incriminatory weight against Hewitt, but Sergei was cultivating a feeling of hostility that would soon color the atmosphere of the proceedings if he didn’t act quickly to counteract it. When the last witness had finished, he asked to speak, but Sergei interrupted him, requesting an adjournment due to the late hour.
“Permission granted,” Stalin hastily replied. “The proceedings will continue tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
As they left the room, Jack turned to Elizabeth with irritation. “Damned Russian! That bastard drew the testimonies out so that we wouldn’t have time for rebuttal, and Stalin consented to it.”
“But you can give your evidence tomorrow.”
“Yeah. After they’ve brooded all night over how your uncle Wilbur is a serial mutilator.”
Once they were outside the kremlin, Jack asked Elizabeth to go home by herself. He needed to see the legal expert whom Ivan Zarko had recommended, and whom he was required to see alone.
It took an hour to find the apartment building, which was in a state of semicollapse, near Monastyrka, in the south of the city. When he found that the address was a doorless room that a leper wouldn’t live in, he thought he’d made a mistake, but a rich voice coming from a shape wrapped in blankets told him to come in.
“Are you the American?” it asked.
Jack saw something resembling the body of an old man emerge from under the blankets. It stank of urine and alcohol. Jack nodded. When the man invited him to sit on a pile of old rags, he declined.
“Have you come alone?”
“Yes. Are you Valeri Pushkin?”
“Silence!” he yelled. “Nobody told you to say my name.”
For a moment Jack thought Ivan Zarko had got it wrong. He took out the note to recheck the address, but the old man snatched the piece of paper from his hand.
“Yes, that’s me. What did you expect? A slick-haired shyster?” He took off the woolen hat that came down to his eyebrows and revealed a scar-covered face. “Ivan Zarko sent me a message saying you’d pay for my advice.”
“Yes, that’s right, but . . .” Jack fell silent. He doubted this angry old man could defend himself, let alone Wilbur Hewitt.
“Good. Did he say how much?”
“No.”
“A thousand rubles. A thousand rubles and a bottle of vodka. The good stuff, not that crap they sell on the highways.” He kicked an empty bottle, which rolled until it stopped near another dozen empties.
“Here.” Jack took out a thousand rubles. “And another hundred for the vodka,” he said. It was his only option.
“Perfect.” The old man stuffed them into his pocket and smiled. “So . . . Zarko filled me in.” He searched among the trash for a little vodka in one of the empty bottles. “That American’s on trial, and you want to defend him so you can fuck his little niece, am I right?” He found some dregs of vodka and knocked them back.
“No, it’s not that.” Jack wondered whether he should waste another second with this disfigured old man.
“Well, it makes no difference to the case.” He tilted the bottle again in the hope that he could drain a last drop from it. “You want to defend an American who’s already been condemned.” He laughed like a lunatic. “Tell me one thing, boy, and think carefully before you answer, because your future might depend on it: What exactly is it that you want?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Americans!” He shook his head with disapproval. “You’re lucky it was old Zarko who recommended you. Look, kid, whatever your aim is, you have two options, the second less promising than the first. If you manage to persuade them to declare him innocent, you’ll be hated by the entire OGPU. They might leave you be for a while, but as soon as the case is forgotten, they’ll come after you. Those people don’t forgive a defeat, I can promise you that.”
“And if they convict him?”
“If they convict him, they’ll execute him by firing squad, and shoot you.”
“What do you mean?” Jack wobbled.
“That unless you leave the country, sooner or later you’ll meet the same fate. Defending a guilty man before Stalin is not, shall we say, well regarded.”
“Look, I’m not sure why I’m wasting my time listening to you, but—”
“Silence!” the old man bellowed. “I haven’t finished. Old Zarko asked me to help you, and that’s what I’m going to do, so listen closely because there are things you must know if you’re to have any chance against those cretins. I know what you’re thinking . . . that there’s no way a dirty old drunk like me is going to help you, but in my day, I was one of the most successful lawyers in Saint Petersburg. A sad business, but that’s another story. Do you have any reports? Any documents that might help us?”
Jack considered telling him about McMillan’s papers, but prudence decided him against it. However, he promised that he would provide anything that the old man needed.
“Good. Well, until then, what you have to do is delay the verdict for as long as possible. The secret police will want to close the case while Stalin’s here and notch a victory, but Stalin won’t stay in Gorky for long. That man’s a demon, I can tell you. He appears in the middle of the night, goes for his enemy’s throat, and then returns to his lair in Moscow to continue his plotting. If you want to find him, all you have to do is follow the trail of corpses he leaves behind.” He coughed. “To slow the proceedings down, ask for witnesses that are difficult to find, cross-examine witnesses that have already been questioned, ask for written evidence, complain, protest, shield yourself behind legal language, whatever you can think of. Just make sure that Stalin has to leave the city before the verdict, or you’ll watch your friend Wilbur be shot to pieces, and the same thing will happen to you.”
Suddenly, as if by magic, Jack’s opinion of the drunk had completely changed. “All right. Anything else?”
“Yes. The Communists are masters of propaganda. Pravda, Izvestia, Radio Moscow, pamphlets, posters, rallies, union meetings . . . If they used their skills to sell by mail order, they’d be the best businesspeople on earth. And if you want the slightest chance of winning, you should do the same.”
“Me? How? Stick posters up on the walls of the kremlin?”
“Drop the sarcasm,” the old man spat out. “A Soviet trial’s unlike any you’ve ever seen. Forget laws and evidence, because they won’t help you. They’ll do whatever they want, however they want. Try contacting your fellow countrymen in Moscow. Maybe that will help.”
“It was the first thing I did. I sent a message to the American embassy, to—”