Chapter 44 Ada #2
“Miss Worthington-Fox.” Dietrich meets her gaze levelly and gestures through the door. “Right this way.”
She proceeds without a word, then his grip finds her elbow. A gesture the spectators will take as gentlemanly, yet the tension
is nearly enough to make her wince. She does not react, though, not even when he lowers his voice.
“A person of interest regarding an investigation into Communism, and a person of interest to me. How convenient it was when
your file came across my desk. But then you had to complicate matters.” His grip tightens. “You should have kept your mouth
shut.”
Ada does not respond. There are many things she should have done. Keeping her mouth shut is not one of them.
In the courtroom, Ada sits before a judge, jury, and committee members. Men who have already decided her fate, she expects, so this sham of a trial is hardly necessary. She finds it impossible to focus when every man in this room becomes Dietrich and every woman becomes Mother.
How easily they have toyed with her all this time.
Among the spectators she finds Gordon, wearing an impeccably tailored navy pinstriped suit coupled with a burgundy and gold
bow tie. A sight that reminds Ada of the first time she spotted him in a crowd. She was a Broadway showgirl then and noticed
the audience member sitting a few rows from the stage. A man with kind eyes and a thick handlebar mustache—such extravagant
facial hair was impossible to miss. After the performance, he came backstage to introduce himself. He hasn’t missed her in
a production since that day.
Even if today’s production is not the sort either will enjoy.
The trial begins—formalities, a review of her hearing, then questions. So many questions. About her work, life during the
war, her behavior at the hearing. Nothing helps her pay attention, although she must. Until this is over, she and Ingrid can’t
discuss how they intend to proceed now that the war crimes case has been compromised and Dietrich is here in this room.
“There you have it,” the prosecutor concludes at last. “The daughter of a fascist who mingles with Communists through her
work, her Star Society, nearly every aspect of her life. As for Miss Worthington-Fox’s personal politics, the only conclusion
is this: She might be fascist. She might be Communist. She might be neither. What she most certainly is not, as demonstrated by these proceedings, is an American patriot. And if anything she says tempts you to believe otherwise,
may I remind you she is an actress.”
The contempt in the final statement almost makes Ada shout an objection, as her lawyer has been doing. To them, she is someone who pretends for a living. Therefore she cannot be trusted.
Her lawyer gestures for her to deliver her statement, so she stands, finding Gordon in the crowd. Let them admire you, she can almost hear him say. Except, despite the cameras, the advice does not apply to this instance. This is no performance,
no press event, no publicity stunt.
“I’ve learned art is not something we choose; it chooses us. And when it does, we choose to accept it in return—no matter
the struggles, the triumphs, the joys, the sorrows. We choose it over and over, because we must. To create art without honesty
is impossible.” Ada takes a breath, then looks to the jury. “That’s why I’ve come before you today: to be honest. To clarify
that I have no association with Communism or fascism. And to ask you to be honest in return. In our country’s efforts to preserve
democracy, I hope proceedings will be based in law, truth, and fact—not rumor, not speculation. I lived under an oppressive
government, where accusations destroyed lives and people were not free. I chose America for its liberties. Those who understand
the privileges we appreciate here will defend and uphold the values of our great nation. Have faith in the American people—those
born in this country, and those who chose it.”
Silence follows, then Ada is dismissed. She exits the room, walking slowly in a failed effort to settle her nerves. Whether
she helped or hurt her trial, she hasn’t been offered a job in months, and the Star Society was her idea. If she has failed
to prove the group is not a Communist front, those who attend her gatherings will be at risk.
In a private room, she sits with Gordon, awaiting summons for the verdict. Silence fills the space. Words won’t erase the
lines of worry across his face or ease the tension in her chest.
“You were honest with me from the start,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry I never gave the same to you.”
“You weren’t ready. I can understand that better than most.” He gives her knee an affectionate pat. “We’ll still throw a party the moment we get home.”
She leans back in her chair and closes her eyes. Home. A tentative shadow of comfort and security amid the glaring lights
of politics that would all too eagerly chase it away.
The door swings open, then a voice calls Ada back for the verdict. Back into that place of harshness and noise and theatrics
so like what she does for a living, yet entirely the opposite.
She reaches for Gordon, who takes her hand. Neither moves. They simply cling to the quiet, to the comfort of home.
When they stand, he looks at her for a long moment—a look Ada might have wanted her father to give her, had he cared enough
to remain in their lives. Then he wraps her in an embrace and kisses the top of her head. She holds tight to him while her
shuddering breaths match his.
At last, she pulls back to find his eyes bright.
“I’m proud of you, kid. Even if we never work again.”
“We made decent money together; we’ll spend it together until it runs out,” she replies with a rueful smile. “And we’ll find
work eventually. Even if the only job I can book requires dancing half nude in a sideshow at some seedy downtown theater for
the most unsavory of patrons.”
The jest wins a small smile before she kisses his cheek and threads her arm through his. Together, they return to the courtroom.
All she can do is pray she’s right. That the work will return someday, and that she’s done enough to convince this jury she
is not the threat they fear she is. They already used her hearing to demonstrate what happens to subversives. Do they really
need to convict her of contempt too?
A chill settles over her as she finds her seat.
She glances briefly toward the members of the press.
Ingrid is there somewhere, hiding among them.
A few more minutes until this is over, then Ada will go home, give Ingrid her negatives for the FBI, and divert Dietrich’s attention from her sister however she must. She finds him in the crowd, his eyes on her; she stares back, though her heartbeat races in her ears.
“On the charge of contempt of Congress, we find the defendant, Ada Worthington-Fox, guilty.”
The declaration snaps Ada back into focus, though she hardly listens while the judge sentences her—a fine and three months
in a women’s prison. A fine she can accept, but prison? All because she refused to answer questions to the chairman’s satisfaction,
and because it seems they have chosen to condemn her to the fullest extent.
The role as HUAC’s sacrificial lamb is not one she agreed to play.
Three months, the judge said. Three months during which Mother and Dietrich could disappear.