by Deaver Brown
Unlike Madeleine Underwood, the Kichsel management was not trying to second-guess its attorney. They had hired the best dog they could find and the barking was up to him. Nobody evinced the slightest desire for more detail. And, reflected Thatcher, they would have had a hard time getting any. Paul liked his courtroom theatrics to have just as much impact on his clients as on his adversaries.
And this evening his clients had more than enough to occupy them, as Dean Kichsel was swift to point out.
“We’ll leave all that to you,” he said readily. “But I would like to wrap up plans for our own presentation to the Rossi Subcommittee and consider these demonstrations by NOBBY. I was wondering, Elmer, if it wouldn’t be a good idea to print a small flyer presenting the real facts for distribution inside your outlets.”
Elmer Rugby was not a time-waster.
“No way! My franchises are in the business of serving people food.” Remembering his company, he ducked his head apologetically. “And drink too, of course. We don’t supply reading material.”
Kichsel still liked the idea. “What do you think, John? What harm could it do?”
“I imagine Elmer is talking about atmospherics,” Thatcher temporized.
“Damn right I am. Outside there are people chanting and waving signs and generally making a nuisance of themselves. Then the customer comes inside and he gets to sit down and eat and be comfortable. I intend to keep it that way. My places aren’t turning into some kind of schoolroom.”
In Thatcher’s estimation it could not have been put better. On the street you were an anonymous unit being targeted by a faceless group. But once you were within the protective embrace of Rugby’s, you became an individual with whims to be catered to, someone whose decision between ketchup and barbecue sauce was of central importance. Good old Elmer had the right instincts.
Even Kichsel, now yielding the point, seemed to agree. If Paul Jackson knew how to run a trial, presumably Rugby knew how to sell hamburgers.
“That leaves us with the question of our own presentation. I think we can say that the opening statement is in satisfactory shape.”
“Now that you two have practically blasted my contribution to bits,” Moore grumbled.
Theo Benda tilted his head to an inquiring angle. “What’s the matter, Alec? Did they tone you down?”
“Claudia damn near red-penciled me out of existence,” Alec replied good-humoredly.
“I certainly did. As you know, Alec, I’m all in favor of your approach when Kichsel is marketing to customers. For them Quax is a soft drink and that’s all there is to it. But when we’re making speeches in the public sector, that’s the time to sound more responsive than anybody else to the problems raised by drinking. That’s the only way you have a hope in hell that anybody will believe what you say.”
Claudia Fentiman’s urgency on this subject certainly did her no disservice with Dean Kichsel.
“Yes, indeed. And I particularly liked your paragraph equating Quax with our educational support for the designated-driver program.”
“And exactly how did Mrs. Fentiman do that?” asked Thatcher, genuinely curious.
“She said, just as children benefit from early exposure to that program, so they cannot be introduced too soon to the concept of safe substitutes for beer,” Kichsel told him proudly.
Thatcher supposed that was one way of looking at it.
“It’s just another formulation,” Moore scoffed. “You’re still saying that Quax is a soft drink.”
Claudia’s perfectly arched eyebrows drew into a frown. “That’s the name of the game—different ways of saying the same thing create different impressions.”
Thatcher was interested to observe that Dean Kichsel, disconcerted by so many things, was indifferent to the continual sparring between Alec Moore and Claudia. Kichsel simply seized the opportunity to loft a finger for another bottle of wine before returning to his immediate subject.
“But I feel that a good deal of work remains to be done preparing answers for any questions that may be asked.”
“Here’s a starting list,” said Claudia, efficiently producing several pages of typescript.
The next hour and a half was spent trying to forecast all possible queries—relevant or not—that might spring to the minds of the congressional panel. Kichsel and Moore could not lift themselves beyond the immediately pertinent while Thatcher and Claudia displayed considerable ingenuity in postulating wackier and wackier scenarios. But the palm undoubtedly went to Paul Jackson. Years of preparing witnesses for cross-examination had left him with an unerring instinct.
“You say it that way and this is what they’ll ask,” he would declare with unshakable authority.
By the time the check was being presented, Dean Kichsel was content.
“Now, that certainly takes care of every possible contingency that can arise at the hearings.”
Chapter 10.
In a Ferment
Madeleine Underwood was down, but she was not out. In fact, her counterattack had barely begun.
The next morning NOBBY’s receptionist was startled to have the executive director arrive with a rush at nine-fifteen.
“There’s a message from Mr. Cleve. He wants you to get back to him,” Cheryl cried as Mrs. Underwood swept by without pause.
The call was duly placed and Cheryl, who had never allowed her interest in NOBBY to extend beyond her immediate duties, was all set for another boring day when Madeleine burst from her office demanding, with unmistakable hostility, the immediate presence of Sean Cushing.
“He’s down the hall,” said Cheryl, too genteel to specify further.
“Send him in the minute he gets back,” Madeleine barked.
Cheryl’s jaw had barely returned to normal before she was further jolted by Cushing’s reception of this summons.
“So she’s here, is she? Well, I’ve got a hell of a lot to say to her,” he snarled before striding forward to stiff-arm Madeleine’s door.
Tingling with pleasurable excitement, Cheryl wondered what was going on and what the lawyer had said. For the first time in her employment she regretted not having paid any attention to the burning issues supposed to preoccupy the staff. Mrs. Underwood—totally disorganized, constantly fussing and far too prone to strike high dramatic notes—was certainly not the ideal employer. But bad temper was almost unknown on NOBBY premises. Madeleine tended to forgive others for her own mistakes, Mr. Cushing could be impatient and Mrs. Perez specialized in a particularly trying form of gentle reproach, but nothing had ever approximated the rancor already exhibited.
And within minutes Cheryl could hear the two of them really going at it. Only an occasional phrase erupted with sufficient force to be comprehensible, but the background mood was self-explanatory.
“. . . always think you know best when you don’t know a goddamn thing,” charged Sean.
And Cheryl nodded approbation. Why, she had noticed that herself.
“. . . trying to keep things from me,” Madeleine sang out several exchanges later.
Which was just plain silly, thought Cheryl. The whole office kept secrets from Madeleine. It was the only way to stay in operation. Cheryl herself had discarded a pile of dusty chemical reports that she knew would never be read.
The voices, both now in full spate, were combining to produce a low-throated roaring in which not only words but speakers were indistinguishable. It was like two radio stations struggling for the same spot on the dial, Cheryl decided as she eavesdropped with all her might. Finally Mrs. Underwood’s transmission muscled aside the surrounding static.
“. . . funds I know nothing about. I will not tolerate disloyalty and . . .”
Mildly indignant, Cheryl tut-tutted her disapproval. The nerve of her! Everybody knew that Mrs. Underwood didn’t understand the first thing about the accounts. Why, Mr. Cushing had to spoon-feed her just so that she could talk to the board of governors every July.
But Mr. Cushing was not taking it lying
down.
“. . . responsible for the whole bloody mess and these little diversions aren’t going to get you off the hook.”
“How dare you!”
More rumbling. Then, cutting through the air like a knife:
“. . . financial irregularities practically from the day you got here. It’s stopping right now.”
“The hell you say!” Cushing bellowed. “I’m going straight to the board and they won’t believe their ears. But I’ve got you cold.”
Now things would really heat up. Cheryl could have told Mr. Cushing that Madeleine hated to be reminded of the existence of an overseeing authority.
“I give the orders and you can’t hide behind anybody else.”
“. . . silly stupid bitch throwing away the only chance you’ve got.”
“O . . . h . . . h!”
There was at least no doubt who that startled squawk belonged to.
Finally, loud and clear: “You can pack your things right now and go!”
Good God, she’s fired him, a fascinated Cheryl realized and just had time to pretend to be working as Madeleine Underwood flung open her door and stormed out of NOBBY with such vigor that her bright yellow summer dress flapped in the breeze of her passage.
Predictably Sean Cushing emerged a few moments later. Cheryl examined his face with an interest it had never inspired before, cataloging the beaky nose pushing through taut skin, the cheekbones ridged with white, the expression of boiling anger.
All innocence, she decided to fire a testing shot.
“Mrs. Underwood forgot to tell me where she could be reached.”
“Who the hell cares?” he snapped, retreating to his own domain with a mighty slam of the door.
• • •
Outside the building Madeleine Underwood, pulse still racing and temples throbbing, sucked in great healing lungfuls of the balmy spring air. One unwelcome image after another chased itself across her mind. In her present savage humor each scene assumed its darkest hues. Sean Cushing, a young man she had rescued from the unemployment line, having the effrontery to accuse her of damaging NOBBY; Harry Hull pretending that some esoteric code governed access to Chairman Rossi; and Roger Vandermeer blatantly implying there was an anti-Quax campaign above and beyond her own activities.
But along with returning calm came her unfailing ability to place herself at the center of any picture. With an impatient twitch of her shoulders she at last succeeded in shaking those elements of discomfort into a new and more acceptable pattern. Of course she had enemies and detractors. Any leader, as soon as her cause threatened to become effective, could expect nothing less. And the shabby motives of her opponents were pitifully apparent. Harry Hull stood revealed as an opportunistic politician. Sean Cushing was trying to exploit NOBBY for his own gain. And Roger Vandermeer, most contemptible of all, hoped to claim credit with his clients for her exploits.
“Pygmies, all of them!” she pronounced.
Seen in this light they were insignificant impediments to her own triumphal progress. They couldn’t stop her, they couldn’t undermine her credibility or steal her achievements because, quite apart from a moral integrity they were lacking, she had something else they didn’t have—ten thousand devoted followers.
“It’s time they learned who’s in charge,” she decided.
And one glance at her watch reminded her of where she would find, ready-made, a gathering of the faithful. It was ten o’clock and the starting gun of today’s protest had already sounded. But there would still be only a handful of volunteers dutifully handing out flyers and circling with their placards. Iona Perez, well aware of eating patterns in the city, had busloads arriving for the noontime crowds. And that, thought Madeleine with a gleam in her eye, was the moment to strike.
“I wonder what all the fuss is about,” Charlie Trinkam remarked as he and Thatcher strolled up Broadway.
Thatcher had barely spared a glance for the congestion visible down a side street. In the narrow canyons of the financial district, any object of interest that drew over five people could disrupt pedestrian and vehicular traffic.
“There’s always something going on,” he said indifferently.
“But that’s Elmer’s new franchise.”
“Ah! Then it must be the NOBBY protest. Rugby said it wasn’t causing him any problems.”
Charlie had already veered from course.
“This wasn’t what it was like yesterday. And it won’t take a minute to see what’s up.”
It was always difficult to deflect Charlie when his mongooselike curiosity had been roused. Add legitimate concern for one of his clients and it was almost impossible.
“Just for a moment then,” Thatcher surrendered.
The chief cause of the backed-up traffic soon became apparent. A large charter bus, canted half on the sidewalk, half on the street, was discharging the last of its passengers while the driver extracted fresh supplies of brochures and posters from the luggage compartment. Immediately abreast of this obstacle a patrol car had halted.
“Get that thing out of here! You’re blocking the street.”
Nodding, the driver slammed down the hatch and ran to his cab while the police moved off on their rounds. In the gap that now emerged, Madeleine Underwood came into view, mounted on an improvised platform and haranguing her cohorts.
“Oh, that’s all it is,” said Charlie, shrugging. “They’ve got speakers today.”
Perversely, now that Charlie was willing to leave, Thatcher wished to remain.
“I want to see what she’s like in action.”
Today Madeleine Underwood was a far cry from the gracious matron in front of the courthouse, as Thatcher immediately pointed out to Charlie. Already in full flight, she had managed to turn her audience into a sympathetic chorus.
“. . . seen it happen time and again. First it was nicotine, with the tobacco industry deliberately turning every American soldier into an addict and doing it with the Army’s cooperation. Then it was marijuana and heroin. And now it’s beer. The forces that traffic in these drugs are without conscience and without pity. And they are far too powerful, able to buy the police and to buy Washington. You know the result as well as I do. Cigarette smokers, hooked as teenagers, dying from cancer and heart attacks. Students overdosing at high school parties. Are we going to let it happen again?”
“No! No!”
“It’s too late once the habit has started, once there are drug dealers in every schoolyard, once we have to fight our own addicted children.”
The bus was finally on the move, laboring noisily through its low gears. But Madeleine, like the instinctive orator that she was, effortlessly swelled her volume to override the distraction.
“Oh, I know what you’re going to tell me. They have the money and the influence and they realize we are their enemy. Already they’re working night and day to crush us. Just look at what’s been happening. When they learned we were taking them to court, they deliberately set up a trick situation. Oh, I admit we were taken in. We were too innocent, too trusting. And then we have this so-called investigation by Congress—an investigation where they produce phony experts to testify that Quax is not dangerous, where they plan to whitewash the Kichsel Brewery, where they hope to sweep the whole scandal under the rug. And do you know why this is happening—why I am betrayed at every turn? Because we are on the brink of becoming a national movement. They may pretend that the timing is accidental, but do they think we’re fools?”
Her scornful laugh was echoed by her followers.
“Well, they may control the courts and the committees, but do they control NOBBY?”
Only one answer was possible.
“No! No!”
“Believe me, they’d like to. Believe me, they’re trying to. They have tried to sweep me aside, to undermine my movement, to corrupt it! But they are not invincible. They have one glaring weak spot because they care only about money.”
Now that the bus was out of earshot she
was able to shift to a dramatic undertone.
“And where does that money come from? It comes from us. That’s right. They are using the money we spend to destroy our children. All we have to do is make that impossible. Look at that place.” She directed an imperious wave toward Rugby’s facade. “They get their profits from people like you and me, people concerned about the welfare of their children. Oh, the customers aren’t the enemy. They’re poor gullible victims who don’t realize what they’re doing. But we can make it so plain that there’s no hope of concealing the connection. If the sale of Quax causes Rugby’s profits to fall, then Quax will disappear. And that is our strength. Every penny in the cash registers of that business is a penny directed toward turning our children into helpless alcoholics, reeling in the gutter, incapable of becoming responsible family members, citizens of their community or bread-winning employees. Now is the time to take a stand, now is the time to put every retail outlet on notice. We’re not waiting until Quax has covered the countryside, until it’s being sold in school vending machines and at Little League games. Rugby’s is our test case and you have the power to win it. Stop everybody from entering that establishment, close the place down, send a message that will be heard from coast to coast. You have a choice, my friends. What are you going to do about it? Are you going to let them go on operating, are you going to let them fund their war chest? Or are you going to put yourselves between the customers and those doors and say along with me: They shall not pass!”
Her pause was recognized as a cue and she had provided a catchy phrase.
“They shall not pass! They shall not pass!”
Against this background chanting, Madeleine’s voice soared into climax.
“The time to stop them is now. This day, this minute, this second, the future of our children is in your hands.”
It was a nice note on which to finish. As Madeleine stepped down she was warmly congratulated by those nearby, as others maintained their war cry. Then, under Thatcher’s disapproving gaze, she marched down the street where she could be seen trying to flag a taxi.