Advise and Consent

by Allen Drury

  “Well, Tommy,” he said rather shortly, “what can I do for you?”

  “What’s the matter, Bob?” the Justice asked in some alarm. “Am I imposing on you? Shouldn’t I have come?”

  “No, indeed,” the Majority Leader said shortly. “I didn’t mean to sound abrupt. You’re always welcome here.”

  “Are you upset about something?” Tommy asked in a worried tone. “Because if you are, I can come back some other time.” And inside he said a fervent little prayer: please tell me to go away, I don’t really want to do this. But Bob was Bob.

  “Sit down, Tommy,” he ordered, not unkindly, “and stop fidgeting. I’m just upset about this damned nomination. The whole thing appears to be blowing up again.”

  “Again?” Justice Davis asked. “Did you think it was settled?”

  Senator Munson frowned, and because he was in a frustrated and bothered mood he let his visitor in on mechanics of the Senate he otherwise wouldn’t have.

  “After working all morning and through the day,” he said, “Orrin and I thought we had it all fixed up. We had Lafe take him to lunch—”

  “Who?” the Justice said. “Bob Leffingwell?”

  “No, of course not,” the Majority Leader said impatiently. “His high and mightiness, our young friend from Utah. Brig the Unbendable. Lafe had it all set up to have him go to the White House and talk to the President, and then the whole thing blew up. God damn it,” he added, in a beleaguered voice.

  “Did Brig back out?” the Justice asked.

  “No, the President called him before I got a chance to talk to either one of them,” Bob Munson said, “and apparently he got sharp, and Brig got stubborn, and the talk ended in a row, and now we’re in a hell of a shape again.”

  “Won’t he even see the President at all?” Tommy asked.

  “Oh, he will, yes,” Senator Munson said, “after the White House Correspondents’ banquet tonight. But I have a feeling he isn’t going to yield.”

  “What does he want the President to do?” Justice Davis inquired, and he actually turned a little pale when he heard the answer.

  “He wants the President to withdraw the nomination.” Senator Munson said. “Isn’t that a hell of a note?”

  “Oh, dear me,” Tommy said unhappily, for he knew that this meant that he had no choice, he must do what he had come to do. “Oh, my, I wish he didn’t want that.”

  “Well,” the Majority Leader said abruptly. “I don’t want to bore you with my problems. Unless you can help with them, of course. What did you mean this morning when you said you knew something about Brig that might be of assistance?” He smiled. “The President indicated earlier that he wouldn’t be above a little blackmail. Have you got something he can use?”

  But he could see that this remark, which was intended as no more than an ironic jest, had really upset the Justice, for he suddenly looked very strained and unhappy.

  “I may have,” he said in a barely audible voice, and Senator Munson leaned forward with a skeptical look.

  “What?” he said. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right, Tommy? The Court’s docket hasn’t been too heavy for you lately, or anything?”

  “No,” Justice Davis said, in the same low voice; and with a hand that noticeably trembled he drew a small manila envelope out of his breast pocket and laid it carefully on the desk blotter in front of Senator Munson.

  “What’s that?” the Majority Leader said, still in a mocking tone despite his caller’s obvious confusion of feelings. “Evidence of crime and corruption?”

  “It’s something I found a couple of days ago,” Tommy Davis said. “It fell out of the car.”

  “What do you mean, fell out of the car?” Senator Munson asked. “Whose car?”

  “Brig’s car,” the Justice said carefully. “He gave me a ride.”

  “So you repaid it by stealing his private papers,” the Majority Leader said cruelly, and he meant it to be cruel, for he had suddenly realized that Tommy Davis really did think he had something damaging, and all the instincts of a decent heart told him he didn’t want to have anything to do with it; even as he knew, with a sort of sick anticipation, that he was going to.

  “Don’t,” Justice Davis said as though he had received a blow. “Please don’t. I don’t want to hurt anybody. I’ve never hurt anybody in my life.”

  “Then why are you planning to hurt somebody now?” Bob Munson asked in the same cruel way. “Is this nomination really that important to you?”

  “I’m not the only one who thinks it’s important,” the Justice said pleadingly. “The President does; you do; lots of people all over the country and all over the world do. What right has he got to stand in the way?”

  “If he is standing in the way,” Senator Munson said soberly, “it is because he is being true to his own integrity and his own concept of what is best for the country. Can you and I,” he asked slowly, “say the same thing at this particular moment?”

  At this Justice Davis became very still, and, if anything, paler. But he also began to look a little stubborn and a little resentful.

  I believe I am doing this for the country,” he said. “I couldn’t possibly do it otherwise, Bob. Don’t you know me well enough to know that?”

  The Majority Leader gave a sad and bitter smile.

  “Nobody in this town,” he said, “ever does anything except for the best of motives. I’ve never known a major issue yet in which all sides didn’t claim, even as they slaughtered one another, that they were inspired by the noblest of reasons. Well, what is this—thing you have?”

  The Justice reached over and pushed it an inch or two toward him.

  “You open it,” he said with a little shiver.

  “Very well,” the Majority Leader said impatiently, “I will.” And although he dreaded he knew not what, he reached over quickly, picked it up, opened it, and shook the contents out into his hand. A photograph with an inscription scrawled in one corner stared up at him blandly from the past.

  “Is this all?” he said bluntly after a moment. “Is this this great secret of yours? Is this what you stole from Brig?”

  “Stop saying that,” Justice Davis said as though each word were a physical pain. “Please stop saying I stole it. Please. I found it.”

  “And you kept it, and you brought it along, and now you want me to use it to blackmail one of the finest people who ever came to this Senate,” Senator Munson said bitterly. “God help us.”

  “He hasn’t any right to stand in the way,” the Justice said doggedly. “He just hasn’t, Bob. You want him out of the way, and the President wants him out of the way. Maybe this is the means.”

  “What?” the Majority Leader demanded savagely. “An old photograph that doesn’t mean anything?”

  “If somebody were to find out who the other fellow was,” the Justice said carefully, “and get to him, it might be that something could be developed. There are detective agencies that do that sort of thing. It might be—”

  “Yes, it might be,” Senator Munson said in the same savage way, “or it might not be.”

  “I think it might be,” Tommy Davis said.

  “Do you,” the Majority Leader said, and a strange, contemptuous smile passed across his face. “Just what do you think it means, Tommy?”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly—” The Justice began, but Bob Munson wasn’t having any of that.

  “Oh, yes, you do,” he said cruelly. “Yes, you do, my fine, pious upholder of equal justice under law. Yes, you do, indeed.”

  “Well,” Justice Davis said in a quietly stubborn tone. “So do you.”

  After this there was a little silence while the Justice stared at the Senator and the Senator stared at the photograph. Then Bob Munson spoke slowly.

  “What I ought to do,” he said, “is give this back to Brig. Better yet, I ought to tear it up so that he would never know that anyone else had ever seen it. That,” he said carefully, “is what I ought to do.”


  “Yes, it is,” Mr. Justice Davis said with a certain spiteful note coming into his voice. “But,” he added softly, “you won’t.”

  “There’s nothing to stop me,” the Majority Leader said. “I could do it right now.”

  “Go ahead,” Tommy Davis said. “Go ahead, then. Let him get away with blocking the nomination. Let him defeat Bob Leffingwell. Let him destroy one more hope of peace. It doesn’t matter,” he said bitterly. “So many have been destroyed already.”

  “What do you want me to do with it, Tommy?” Senator Munson asked curiously. “What did you have in mind when you came here?”

  “I thought you might give it to the President,” the Justice said. Bob Munson laughed, a short, unhumorous sound.

  “That would be fine,” he said. “Oh, my, yes, that would be very fine. He’s in a mood right now to destroy Brig, Tommy. This isn’t tiddlywinks any more, you know. This is reaching the stage where everybody is beginning to play for keeps. Oh, my, yes, it would be just dandy to give it to the President. Oh, yes, yes, indeed.”

  “Then maybe you could let Brig know in some way that you have it but won’t—use it, if he will go along,” the Justice said hesitantly.

  “Blackmail,” Bob Munson said again. “How many civil rights cases have you passed upon, Tommy? How many noble declarations for the majority, how many ringing dissents for the minority, have you handed down over there? How often have you gone to bat for your fellow men? And where does blackmail fit into the picture?”

  The Justice looked out the window with a strange far-off expression, as though he were staring down the years.

  “Men do what they have to do,” he said quietly. “I have to be true to what I believe to be best for the country. I think this nomination is. I think it has got to go through. I think Brig has got to get out of the way. If he won’t get out of the way voluntarily, then he has got to be made to get out of the way. And I think this is a possible way to do it. That is what I think.”

  “There’s a long way to go,” Senator Munson said, “between an innocent-appearing photograph and what you’re trying to fabricate from it, Tommy.

  “The inscription isn’t so innocent,” the Justice said quickly.

  “I’ll admit it’s equivocal, but it would take an awful lot of digging and an awful lot of luck to get any substantive proof. It was apparently taken during the war, and for all we know the boy may be dead now. As it stands, this is nothing.”

  “There are detective agencies,” Justice Davis repeated stubbornly. “The name of the picture company is on the back, it’s a big firm and it’s still in business. I remember seeing it when I was in Honolulu last summer. It may have records running back, if they gave their right names. Somebody who wanted to could trace it....if he wanted to.”

  “Well,” Senator Munson said, “I don’t. Good Christ!” he exploded angrily. “What do you want to do to this man, anyway? End his career? Destroy his family? Ruin his life? Kill him?”

  “I just want him to get out of the way,” Justice Davis repeated doggedly. “That is all I want him to do. So does the President. So do you. Anyway,” he said rather desperately, as though this might excuse everything, “we don’t know that it could be traced. You could just tell him it might be.”

  The Majority Leader looked at the photograph again with an expression of bitter distaste, not for the two youths in uniform who looked candidly out of it with every appearance of an innocence that the inscription in some subtle, indirect way belied, but rather for what the picture was making men do just because it was in existence. Then he put it in its envelope and tossed it back across the desk.

  “You take it, Tommy. Your mind seems to be suited to this sort of thing more than mine is.”

  “I don’t want it,” Justice Davis said hastily. “It doesn’t belong to me. I’ve discharged my duty by giving it to you. What you do with it is something between you and the President.”

  “Have you said anything to him about this?” the Majority Leader demanded sharply, and the Justice shook his head.

  “No, indeed,” he said. “I thought I should talk to you first. This is a Senate matter.”

  Bob Munson shook his head with a helpless air.

  “What a set of values,” he said, “that you could think of such a nicety in such a connection.”

  Justice Davis flushed.

  “If it eases your conscience to berate me, Bob,” he said, “go ahead and do it. But just don’t forget that the nomination is at stake here, and this is the way to make Brig get out of the way. It may be the only way. He’s very stubborn.”

  Senator Munson sighed. “So he is. Well, you run along, Tommy. I’ll think it over.”

  “Will you give it back to him or tear it up?” the Justice asked. The Majority Leader shrugged.

  “I don’t know yet,” he said. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Because if you should, you know,” the Justice said defiantly, “probably then I would have to tell the President. And of course there’s the press. They’re outside waiting. What shall I tell them when I go out, Bob?”

  “I don’t think,” Senator Munson said, “that you had better tell them anything, Tommy. I really don’t. I think you’ve done enough damage to your-self after all these years of being honorable, so if I were you I’d just let it rest. You wanted to put the burden on me, and you have. Now just leave it alone.”

  “It’s only because I believe the nomination should be confirmed,” the Justice said with a sort of dogged, determined defensiveness. “Why did God let me find it if He didn’t want me to use it to help the country?”

  “Why does God do anything?” the Majority Leader demanded shortly. “You ask Him, I’ve given up trying to figure it out. Just one thing, Tommy,” he added as the Justice rose. “I don’t want you saying anything to the press about this now, and if I decide not to do anything with it I don’t want you to say anything to anybody about it ever.” His voice became both soft and filled with a genuine menace. “Is that clear?” he asked quietly.

  Tommy Davis looked at him defiantly.

  “You can’t defend him,” he said, rather shrilly. “You can’t defend him if what we think is true, and you know it. You wouldn’t dare, you just wouldn’t dare. So don’t try to bluff me, Bob.”

  “He’s a decent and honorable man,” Senator Munson said slowly as though he hadn’t heard him at all, “who has paid his debt to society, if you’re right and he had one to pay, a hundred times over.”

  “But you couldn’t defend him if it came out,” the Justice repeated, “and you know it.”

  The Majority Leader sighed.

  “No,” he agreed, “I couldn’t defend him. Now why don’t you run along, Tommy? You’ve done enough for one day.”

  “I will,” the Justice said meekly. At the door he paused.

  “Bob—” he said hesitantly. “Don’t hurt him any more—any more than you feel is necessary to make him get out of the way. It needn’t be anything drastic. My God,” he said as though suddenly struck by the enormity of it all, “I don’t want you to do anything that would really hurt him.”

  “I appreciate your charity and kindness, Tommy,” Senator Munson said dryly, “and I’m sure Brig would appreciate it too, if he could only know. You’ll understand and forgive me if I suggest that it’s perhaps a little late in the day. Wait a minute until I get the press out of the way.” And lifting the phone and pressing a buzzer, he told Mary to open the door and let the reporters into the outer office. When he was satisfied that they were all in he turned back to the Justice.

  “Now, Tommy,” he said, his voice suddenly becoming harsh, “you go out this door and beat it. Just get the hell back where you belong and don’t stop to talk to anybody along the way.”

  “Will I be hearing from you, Bob?” the Justice asked, almost apologetically, and Senator Munson snorted.

  “You may or you may not,” he said. “Now, good-by. And don’t call the President, either,” he added. />
  “I may or I may not,” Mr. Justice Davis said, not without a flare of spite provoked by the Majority Leader’s tone. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” Bob Munson said.

  After the door had closed he remained seated at his desk for several minutes. He was surprised but not shocked that a Justice of the Supreme Court should be engaged in such an enterprise, for passions were running very high on the Leffingwell nomination, and a long life in politics, while it still left some small room for surprise, had virtually extinguished the capacity for shock. People did the damnedest things and quite often the damnedest people did the damnedest things. The same applied to his young colleague, though for him the Majority Leader felt a much more profound emotion tinged with a heavy sorrow. Once more he took the photograph out and studied it carefully, finally shaking his head in wonderment. “Brigham, Brigham, Brigham,” he said with a sigh. Tear it up now, a voice of sanity and decency urged him; Don’t be too hasty, another countered, the nomination has got to go through. “God damn it to hell!” he exclaimed bitterly, and with a sudden angry motion, as though if he did it very fast he wouldn’t know he was doing it, he slipped the picture back in its envelope, put it in his coat pocket, and went out to see the press.

  “I have no announcement to make,” he said abruptly, before anyone could speak.

  “Nothing at all?” AP said in a tone of disbelief.

  “Nothing at all,” Senator Munson said.

  “But I thought you told us—” UPI began.

  “I was mistaken,” Senator Munson said.

  “But Justice Davis said—” the Newark News protested.

  “He was mistaken too,” Senator Munson said.

  “Can we see him?” the Philadelphia Inquirer asked.

  “He’s left,” Senator Munson said. “Mary, bring those letters in and we’ll get to work on them.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” the Providence Journal said as the Majority Leader turned his back upon them without ceremony and returned to his private office. “I thought we were going to get the end of this story this afternoon.”