by Deaver Brown
He could not resist a disapproving addendum: “And these days the second is becoming more important than the first.”
Madeleine could barely control her indignation. “The man is completely incompetent,” she seethed. “Hasn’t he read what Dr. Schumacher told the court? Doesn’t he keep up-to-date?”
Shushing firmly, Sean managed to keep her quiet, but the rest of the witness’s testimony was delivered to an accompaniment of silent comment from Madeleine. There were angry tosses of the head, grim pursing of lips, spirited little jerks of sotto-voce exclamations.
By the time Madeleine Underwood was finally called to center stage, she was itching to set everybody straight.
Fortunately there was the opening statement on NOBBY’s position to be read. It was far too long—twenty-five pages in all—but its very length accomplished two useful purposes. The act of reading dissipated much of Madeleine’s impatience, and by its conclusion she had regained her equanimity. Second, she was unable to recall its original contents in any detail. Reveling in the too-long deferred opportunity to deliver her message, she was deaf to the fact that that message had been subtly altered. Quax was not now necessarily evil incarnate. How could one tell whether or not its effects would be deleterious without long and patient research? Flat statements were rigidly confined to those areas that no politician in his right mind would contest:
“The American public is overwhelmingly concerned with the welfare of its children.” And later: “We have all seen sad evidence of how impressionable youngsters can be attracted by the lure of nicotine, alcohol and drugs.”
Thanks to Sean Cushing, Madeleine had successfully surmounted the first hurdle. But with a sinking heart he watched her shuffle her text together and set it aside.
Within minutes she was getting into trouble.
“The purchase and consumption of Quax should be confined to those of legal drinking age. Then these problems would be solved.” Combatively she continued, “Not that there would be any. Quax would have to be withdrawn from the market because its sole purpose is to hook the younger generation.”
“But Mrs. Underwood, non-alcoholic beer has been sold along with beer for years. Most breweries have been eager to pursue that market.”
“I would have no objection to such a disposition of Quax,” she declaimed.
She managed to induce genuine confusion in the second committee member to speak.
“Are you advocating temperance, Mrs. Underwood?”
“Certainly not. NOBBY has always taken the position that that is a decision every responsible adult must make for himself,” she said thrillingly. “I repeat, that is a decision for adults. My organization has been appalled by the Kichsel Brewery’s latest ploy with the Rugby chain. It is asking too much to expect small children to distinguish between the sight of an adult drinking a bottle of Quax with his hamburger and that of one drinking beer.”
“But they see adults drinking in every restaurant with a liquor license.”
Aware that she herself had polished off two glasses of wine with her lunch, Madeleine knew there had to be a distinction escaping the Honorable Member.
“Those are not specifically designed as family environments,” she said, undermining in one sentence half the restaurant advertising of the Northeast.
Soon she was trying to elevate her opinion to the level of evidence.
“Our studies show a slow, remorseless identification between Quax and beer.”
“How can there be studies of this slow, remorseless process? The stuff’s only been on sale for two years.”
“I was referring to our ongoing studies.”
“Then they haven’t shown anything yet, have they?” persisted her critic.
Sean, all too conscious that she was speaking of anecdotal contributions by two NOBBY members, cringed, but Madeleine sailed on, unruffled.
“Nonetheless their tenor is clear.”
Fortunately, Harry Hull intervened at this juncture. “As your studies are incomplete, Mrs. Underwood, I think we should defer any consideration of them. Should they be completed in the near future, you will, of course, be given an opportunity to submit them to the committee.”
It was not the first time he had come to her rescue. He was not doing it consistently enough to draw attention, but Sean Cushing, grateful to have a surrogate, had noticed. Frowning in thought, he decided that while Hull had no objection to Madeleine making a fool of herself, he did not intend to let her discredit the entire cause.
He certainly made no attempt to prevent her disastrous foray into NOBBY’s plans with regard to the FDA.
“We shall shortly be forwarding to them our request for a hearing,” she announced. “It is high time that this entire situation received the governmental attention it so urgently needs.”
This brought the entire committee to life. One member wanted to know whether the FDA was backed up for the next five years or the next ten, while another was inspired to ask what the agency was supposed to do for NOBBY. With the entire issue about to dissolve into an internal discussion among members, Madeleine forgot an explicit promise to Sean Cushing.
“If you want instances, I can give you one right here in New York City,” she said. “An example that resulted in the death of a young man entirely due to his exposure to Quax.”
Once again Harry Hull’s services were required.
“I am familiar with that case,” he broke in, “but as the entire matter is still under adjudication, it would scarcely be appropriate to consider it in this forum.”
Madeleine Underwood was not the only one performing in public that afternoon. In the courtroom assigned to Ludlum versus Kichsel, the victim’s father had been taken through his carefully rehearsed tale of the final two years of his son’s life. His counsel Arthur Cleve had painted the picture of a high school boy imbibing Quax regularly, confining himself to that beverage at parties—here Polaroid shots of young Ludlum at his junior prom were introduced—and then shifting to beer, with the fatal consequences already known.
Now it was Paul Jackson’s turn to cross-examine. He began by seeking clarification of certain details. He soon established that Ludlum Senior had been well aware of his son’s partiality for Quax.
“I thought it was good for him. They say so much about its being alcohol-free, I thought that meant it was safe. You know what kids can get into these days.”
“And when did you notice your son’s change in drinking habits?”
“Not right away,” Ludlum Senior admitted. “That’s another thing. They look so much the same you don’t notice. You’re so used to seeing your son drink out of that brown bottle, you don’t think twice about it.”
Jackson’s usual animation was in abeyance. As befitted the subject, his voice was solemn and muted. He knew better than to antagonize a single jury member by any suggestion of callous insensitivity to a bereaved parent. Opposing counsel understood the manner and was not alarmed.
“And then you say he shifted to beer?”
“That’s right. I guess he didn’t see that much difference between those two brown bottles either,” Ludlum said bitterly.
“But there might have been other reasons for the shift. Did he have personal problems?”
“What kind? He was going to school to become an aeronautics technician and he liked it. He was popular, he had a nice girlfriend.”
“Then what about the pressure from his friends who drank? I assume that some of them did.”
“Sure, some of them drank beer. But that had been going on for a couple of years and he was used to it. He never would have taken to beer if the Kichsel people hadn’t put him in training for it.”
Jackson had angled for exactly the formulation he wished.
“Well, now, that’s not entirely accurate, is it, Mr. Ludlum?” he asked gently.
The alteration in tone was barely perceptible but it was enough to make Arthur Cleve raise his head, scenting menace.
“I don’t know what you
mean.”
Jackson had drifted back to his table to consult a document. Retaining it in his hand, he returned to Mr. Ludlum.
“Is it not true that your son was arrested for drunken driving in Massachusetts when he was sixteen years old, arrested before Quax was even available?”
“I don’t believe it.”
Ignoring him, Jackson addressed the bench. “The defense wishes to introduce in evidence this certified copy of the arrest report, to be marked ‘Exhibit D’ for purposes of identification.”
Cleve, cursing under his breath, was huddled with his associates. “Didn’t we check the kid out?”
“We checked New Jersey, New York and Connecticut,” someone said sadly.
Unlike Paul Jackson, the NOBBY attorneys had never followed the trail of Wayne Ludlum, Jr., to his summer job on Cape Cod shortly after acquiring a driver’s license.
“Here is the report, Mr. Ludlum. The name is Wayne Ludlum, Jr., the address is 1247 Sycamore Avenue, Babylon, New York. That is your son, is it not? That is your address, is it not?”
“Yes,” gritted Ludlum between clenched teeth. “But I never heard about this.”
Inexorably Jackson continued. “But you did hear about it when he was suspended from school for three days after being found drinking beer in the schoolyard, did you not? I have here a copy of the letter notifying you of the suspension and its reason.”
“Yes.”
“And that occurred when your son was fifteen, did it not?”
Ludlum’s voice was so low as to be almost inaudible.
“Yes.”
“And that was before Quax was being sold.”
“But he was over it. Wayne was dry for two years. And there was never a drop of stuff in our house.”
“But your eighteen-year-old son didn’t have to be introduced to beer by anyone, did he? He already knew all about it.”
Barely suppressing a groan, Arthur Cleve had finally levered himself to his feet and was asking for an adjournment in order to study this new evidence. The judge courteously turned to Jackson.
“Unless you expect to conclude your examination within the half hour, I am inclined to grant the request.”
The famous wolf grin suddenly illuminated Paul Jackson’s face.
“The defense has no objection, Your Honor. I expect my examination of this witness to be quite lengthy.”
Chapter 8.
One for the Road
Happily unaware of Paul Jackson’s tactics, Madeleine Underwood regarded her appearance before the Rossi Subcommittee as an unqualified success. Moreover, she was not yet finished. Tomorrow, unfortunately, the committee would be shuttling to Washington for an important roll call, but Wednesday would once again see her in front of those microphones. Her only regret was that the feast of congratulation she had expected to share with Sean Cushing did not materialize.
“Well, that wasn’t a bad start,” she said, pursing her lips in a simulation of detachment. “Of course there are still a lot of points that we have to make.”
Sean, however, was strangely unforthcoming. “We’ll have to get together first thing tomorrow,” he muttered awkwardly. “Right now I’ve got to run if I’m going to catch Cheryl before she leaves the office.”
Left alone, Mrs. Underwood savored the surrounding atmospherics of busy people rushing off to planes, rushing off to hotels, rushing off to working dinners. She too, she reminded herself, was now part of this intoxicating world. With NOBBY bursting out of its old format and conquering one public arena after another, the days ahead promised to be more demanding than ever. Tomorrow’s recess only meant a hectic resumption of the activities necessarily put on hold since Leon Rossi hit town. There was the briefing session with the lawyers to keep abreast of Ludlum versus Kichsel. Then an interim report on the hearings would have to be prepared for her board of governors. And finally, lurking in the background, were the daily operations of NOBBY, with which Madeleine had lost all contact in spite of the fact that protests had started in front of the first Rugby’s to grace New York City.
“So much to do, and so little time,” she pretended to lament even as she was suffused by a tide of satisfaction.
Not for one moment did she consciously acknowledge her reluctance to return to that suburb where she was still known as the divorced lady in the big white house. Instead she came to a reasoned, prudent decision. It was folly for an overburdened executive director to waste precious time on daily commutes from New Jersey.
• • •
“Congressman Hull! I didn’t realize we were staying in the same hotel,” she said as they stepped into the lobby from adjacent elevators.
Hull’s polite, although unenthusiastic, reply gave her all the opening she needed.
“I’m so glad we bumped into each other. Now that the hearings are finally on the right track we should have a planning session for the items we want to emphasize on Wednesday morning. It’s hard enough to keep some of the members to the point. I’m sure you noticed how one or two of them tend to ramble into unrelated areas.”
Reminding himself that NOBBY’s nationwide expansion would certainly scoop up a number of registered voters in his district, Hull forced a smile.
“Look, I was just going to get myself a quick drink. Join me and we’ll see if we can put our heads together over this.”
As he had expected, Madeleine was not really proposing a cooperative effort. An encouraging and supportive audience was what she had in mind. Once provided with the vodka and tonic she felt she had earned, she fished a rumpled pad of jottings from her swollen briefcase and, pencil in hand, began annotating her list to the accompaniment of murmured comments.
“Yes, we really did get quite a good deal accomplished,” she summarized. “And high time too! With the first two days spent on empty formalities, I was beginning to despair. Of course, I realize that setting out our formal position on Quax was today’s major achievement. But I am pleased about the opportunity to introduce our proposed approach to the FDA. That lets the committee know we’ll be tackling this question from the technical end.”
Hull, unable to rouse himself beyond an appreciative grunt, wondered if this was a new formulation for the famous research with which she had peppered her testimony.
In the meantime she cast a last look at one unticked line on her list. “I’m sorry you took the position you did about Ludlum versus Kichsel.”
Hull’s features rearranged themselves into their most portentous legislative mode. “I’m sure you understand it would be improper for the committee to embroil itself in an ongoing case.”
Instantly she mirrored his gravity. “Of course, I see that we mustn’t say anything prejudicial,” she agreed solemnly and was then unable to prevent herself from adding wistfully, “But it’s a shame, isn’t it?”
“There will be plenty of opportunities to refer to the case after it’s resolved,” he pointed out, blandly avoiding any prediction as to the outcome.
“That’s true,” she said, brightening. “And who knows where NOBBY will be appearing by then?”
She was so clearly unaware that her own actions had probably barred NOBBY from ever again setting foot in a significant forum that Harry experienced a momentary twinge of compassion. One of the great things about elections, he thought, is that they define winners and losers too clearly for anyone to be in doubt as to his status. But his nascent sympathy faded when she continued:
“And while it’s regrettable that we can’t use the lawsuit itself, that’s a minor consideration as long as we exploit all the expertise assembled for it. I just don’t understand how the committee has allowed itself to be fobbed off with second-best witnesses, but I suppose it’s because they aren’t familiar with the whole subject. Fortunately that can be straightened out, as I happen to know Dr. Schumacher is willing to take the time to appear.”
Hull was shaking his head gently. “Leon Rossi has gone to great pains in making his arrangements. The interested parties are being
given time to put forth their views. That’s why NOBBY is testifying and that’s why Kichsel will get its turn.”
“We all know they have to be given a chance to defend themselves,” she said grudgingly.
Ignoring this, he continued to his main point. “But the technical testimony is something else again; it has to be strictly impartial. Leon is interested in information from them, not views.”
“Surely Dr. Schumacher’s credentials speak for themselves. It’s not as if he’s Mr. Ludlum or one of Wayne’s friends. He’s an expert witness, a trained scientist. You can’t call him biased.”
Determined to duck the entire question, Hull reached for higher ground. “Nonetheless, in order to avoid any imputation of partiality, the chairman has decided not to call any psychologist involved with the case—on either side.”
“Well, if that’s the only problem,” she rejoined, as cheerful as could be, “then probably the best thing is for me to speak to the chairman. As a matter of fact, I have a few other suggestions for him.”
“No!” he exploded involuntarily. Then, recovering, he achieved a more temperate tone. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea at all.”
Her large eyes, already emphasized by the bright-blue frills at her throat, bulged to the point of being exophthalmic. “Why in the world not? Are you afraid that we wouldn’t hit it off because we’re so different? That doesn’t matter. I’ve already spoken to Leon Rossi several times,” she assured him earnestly, “and we get along very well.”
You should hear Leon’s opinion on that, Hull thought to himself as nightmare visions of such an encounter made him want to break and run. Instead he gathered his forces to produce an explanation that would pass muster.
“. . . You see, the general policy of the hearings is approved by canvassing the entire committee, and after that it’s set like concrete. Any deviation from those decisions would entail another round of closed sessions, undermining all the momentum that’s been gained so far.”
This rapid improvisation, he hoped, sounded less like gabble than it was. At least the mutinous expression on Madeleine’s face had softened slightly.