by Allen Drury
“Prince Obi has fled to Tanzania and apparently intends to go from there to Moscow and then to Peking to seek support for renewing the war. But in actual practical fact, the war is over. And,” he adds with a calm bluntness, “the policies of President Hudson, myself, and the Secretary of State, have been proved correct.
“We are informed that the Soviet Union, Britain and France have demanded an urgent Security Council meeting tomorrow to discuss this sad event, and Panama. But on that, too,” he adds with an equal bluntness, “the actual practical fact of it is that we have indicated our position with three vetoes so far, and will, if necessary, indicate it again.”
(“The arrogance of it,” Raoul Barre murmurs to Lord Maudulayne. The British Ambassador shakes his head with a sad and worried look.)
“And now it would seem to me,” the President says, once more businesslike, “that perhaps the best way to proceed would be to have nominations immediately, to be followed by a roll call. We know the men. We know the issues. We need a candidate, and we shouldn’t delay. Perhaps if someone would like to make a motion—”
And now Roger P. Croy does hold up his hand, a long, flowing, imperious hand at the end of a long, flowing and imperious arm. The President looks a little amused, as though he had expected this.
“The distinguished National Committeeman from Oregon,” he says, and Roger Croy rises and turns gracefully so that he is half-addressing the chair, half-addressing the cameras, microphones and pencils eager to record something at last that will bring a little balance back into these sickeningly one-sided proceedings.
“Mr. President,” he says graciously, “I rise for the purpose of requesting a small delay. Since we are cut off here completely from the outside world—is there even a telephone in here?”
“Are you asking me?” the President inquires. “Yes, there is, up here on the stenographers’ desk. And there are three more in private booths we’ve had set up backstage. I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone wanted to call. No one has called in,” he adds with a smile, and a little wave of amusement breaks the tension somewhat.
“Oh, I don’t,” Roger Croy says. “Everything is in order, I believe. It’s just that I would like to know exactly when the U.S. marshal is going to be here—”
“What U.S. marshal is that?” the President asks in an ominous tone, and over the little room a sudden rush of excitement and renewed tension surges.
“Bearing the order, I believe—” Roger P. Croy begins gently, but doesn’t finish, because suddenly, so suddenly that it makes many in the audience gasp, the phone on the stenographers’ desk does ring, shatteringly loud and insistent.
“Get that,” the President orders, his voice beginning to show a little strain in spite of him. One of the stenographers, looking frightened, does so.
“It’s for you, Mr. President,” he says, and holds it out at such nervous arm’s length that the President can’t help but look amused. Again the tension eases a little. But the amused expression doesn’t last long as he listens carefully and then snaps, “Let him through!” He replaces the receiver and returns the phone to the still apprehensive stenographer. Then he turns back to the lectern, places his hands firmly upon it and leans forward to stare directly down at Roger P. Croy.
“Very well, Governor. Your man is on the way. I don’t think we need a formal recess—”
“Oh, no,” says Roger Croy graciously.
“So,” the President says, still staring down at him with an ironic and quizzical expression, “we shall just wait. It shouldn’t be more than two minutes, ladies and gentlemen.”
And just about two minutes it is, long enough for a fearful tension to build again. Then there is a stir at the door. Committee, guests, press, television, cameras, microphones, lights and all, swivel around as though moved by the same mechanism. In the doorway stands an earnest little man, wearing a salt-and-pepper suit (“What, no ten-gallon hat and six-shooter?” the New York Times has time to murmur with a wild irreverence to the AP) and a nervous but grimly determined expression. In his hand he holds high a folded piece of paper. And there he stands, paralyzed, until the President says, impatiently yet not unkindly, “Come in, marshal. It’s quite all right, you’ve got your duty to perform. Come ahead.”
“Yes, sir,” the marshal says, starts down the aisle, almost trips in his excitement, catches himself and hurries forward.
“Right up here,” the President says, waving him up the steps and holding out his hand. The marshal thrusts his paper into it, and suddenly and quite genuinely, the President laughs.
“I just wanted to shake hands, first,” he remarks. “But thanks anyway.”
At this there is a burst of laughter, also quite genuine, from the room, and for a moment they are all chortling together, friends and enemies alike. Then the marshal steps back, the President opens the paper, and abruptly all is silence again.
“This appears to be”—the President says slowly, “—it is—a temporary restraining order—a preliminary injunction—from the District Court for the District of Columbia. It purports to be”—he stares over it once more at Roger P. Croy, bland and attentive below “—it is—issued pursuant to a suit filed at ten a.m., just about an hour ago—how clever you have been. Governor, how clever—by attorneys for the distinguished National Committeeman from Oregon and the distinguished National Committeewoman from California, Mrs. Stryke, joined by attorneys for the National Antiwar Activities Committee. The suit seeks a permanent injunction that would prohibit further proceedings of this Committee to select a nominee for President and/or Vice President, and directs the Committee to reconvene the convention—”
“My God!” somebody says from the press benches, loud and clear.
“—with instructions to select the nominee for President and/or Vice President.
“The preliminary injunction directs that this meeting be suspended until the case has been decided.”
For quite a few minutes after that, there is pandemonium in the room, and on the wind from outside, faint but distinct, there comes a great rushing sound of cheers and jubilation. In the room, reactions run from Krishna Khaleel, who is practically hugging himself with excitement—what will these Americans think of next!—to Cullee Hamilton, who tries to remain impassive but cannot prevent an annoyed and disgusted scowl from crossing his face. Temporarily, at least, the Knox forces are in obvious dismay and disarray, the Jason forces are quivering with excited triumph and anticipation. Into the hubbub Roger P. Croy once more raises a graceful arm and the President once more says, this time with a considerable irony in his voice, “The distinguished National Committeeman from Oregon.”
“Mr. President,” Roger Croy says, “I move this committee stand in adjournment, pursuant to temporary injunction, until the pending suit has been decided.”
“Second! Second!” cry many voices, and “Question! Question!” cry many others. There is some suspicion that the voices are not entirely confined to bona fide members of the Committee, but in any event it doesn’t matter, because the President brings his gavel down with a crash on the lectern.
Abruptly it is still again.
“It seems to me,” he says firmly, “that while the Committee is legally bound by the terms of this temporary injunction pending decision of the case, nonetheless the Committee as a collective body also has a right to decide what legal course it should take in this situation, over and beyond simply adjourning, which is a perfectly valid motion under the circumstances.
“Now, the only time and the only place in which the Committee is gathered as a committee, and can be under this injunction, is right here and now. This is the only chance we will have, if we disband pursuant to call after decision of the case, to decide what we should do as a collective body. Therefore, if Governor Croy would be willing to withhold his motion for a moment, so that we might decide—”
There are cries of, “No! No! Abide by the law, abide by the law!” countered by shouts of, “Put it to a vote! Let’
s decide! We have a right to decide!”
Again the President terminates the uproar with his gavel.
“I am aware,” he says with a certain comfortable irony, as a trained ear tells him that sentiment is beginning to move his way a little, “that the President of the United States is in a somewhat questionable position defying an injunction, and I am not defying it. I am simply saying that we have a right now, while we are still together as a body, to decide what course we should pursue in the new situation posed by the injunction.
“Now, we can have a vote on the motion to adjourn, but I am not sure it would carry, Governor. In this purely procedural situation, the chair would hold, if the Committee will support me, that a simple majority vote of the membership must prevail. When it comes to selecting a nominee, as you know, each state’s vote has the same numerical value as it had in the convention. But here, I should think, a simple majority must prevail. Does that seem unreasonable?”
He pauses and inwardly holds his breath; but by some miracle, nobody challenges. “Very well. On that basis, Governor, do you wish to press your motion to adjourn immediately?”
He stares down again upon Roger P. Croy, stately, handsome, and obviously doing a lot of thinking. In a moment the thinking produces a slow shaking of the head and the thoughtful comment:
“Not, perhaps, at the moment, Mr. President. Possibly there is some logic”—and he raises the graceful hand again as protesting murmurs break out here and there—“to considering this carefully for a moment. It is certainly a situation without precedent, and perhaps we should give it thorough consideration while we are, as the President says, gathered in one place as one entity.”
(“That’s a mistake,” Walter Dobius whispers with an angry dismay to Frankly Unctuous. “Oh, that’s a mistake! Don’t do it, don’t do it!”)
But Roger P. Croy, persuaded by no one knows what considerations, possibly just the calm reasonableness of the President who seems so calm and so logical as he skates on legal thin ice and emotions which could at any moment take the meeting out of his hands, has already done it.
The President wastes no time.
“Very well. Does anyone wish to speak or make a motion on this issue?”
Out of the babble and talk Lyle Strathmore of Michigan is first on his feet.
“Mr. President!” he says, and his voice rings out commandingly. “I move that this Committee take an immediate appeal against the temporary injunction to the U. S. Circuit Court of Appeals.”
“Second!” screeches Lizzie Hanson McWharter as the room again explodes in angry sound.
“Question!” caterwauls Anna Hooper Bigelow.
“Now, just a minute!” shouts Roger P. Croy, coming suddenly out of his curious complacency which apparently has not been curious at all but part of a shrewder strategy than the President’s. “I move to amend that motion to state that this Committee take an immediate appeal to the Supreme Court. Specifically, since the Court is in summer recess, to the presiding Justice of the District Court for the District of Columbia,”
“Tommy!” Bob Munson says explosively to Lafe Smith. “Christ!”
“Second!” screams Esmé Stryke, and “Question!” shouts Milton S. Oppenheimer of New York.
For just a moment the President hesitates, but he knows there is nothing for it. Under parliamentary law the amendment must be voted upon first.
“Mrs. Bigelow,” he says with a fair show of calmness, as though by pretending the vote will go the way he wants it to, he can make it so—a tactic that sometimes works in the House, and just might here—“I would appreciate it, and I am sure we all would, if you would repeat the role you filled so ably at the convention. Would you please act as secretary of the Committee and call the roll?”
“Mr. President,” Anna Hooper Bigelow protests, “please let someone else—” But there is a return of amicability for a moment as they all cheer and clap, and finally Anna, looking flustered, comes forward and takes her place beside him at the lectern.
“The vote is on the motion of the distinguished National Committeeman from Oregon,” the President says. “All those in favor will say Aye, those opposed No, the Secretary will call the roll.”
“Alabama!” says Anna Bigelow, and at once the deep divisions here flare into the open for all the world to see.
“Madam Secretary,” Helen M. Rupert says in a voice that remains steady with some difficulty, “on this motion, as it was in the convention, Alabama is divided. I cast my vote Aye.”
“Madam Secretary,” says Henry C. Godwin at the desk beside her, “I vote Nay.”
And as Anna Bigelow goes on down the proud parade of states, it swiftly becomes apparent that the bitter differences on policy, which became so clear in the many split delegation votes on the nomination of Harley Hudson, are just as strong today. Many of the smaller states remain consistently united for either the Jason cause or the Knox—Tobin Janson and Mary V. Aluta of Alaska voting firmly No, Henrietta McEwan and Elliot B. Whitaker of Nevada voting firmly Aye, the President and his colleague Jessica Edmonds Clark voting No for Colorado, Alice Lathrop Smith and Ewan MacDonald MacDonald voting Aye for Wyoming. Many of the big states are consistent too—consistently divided. From California, where Esmé Stryke defiantly votes “Aye!” and Asa B. Attwood defiantly counters “Nay!” through Illinois, where Ruth B. Stillson votes No but Malcolm N. Sherman votes Aye, to New York, where Milton Oppenheimer votes Aye but Janette Wilkins Vandervoort votes No, it is obvious that the Committee, like the convention, is a horse race.
As Anna proceeds, however, the excitement grows, for it begins to appear that this time a trend may be developing. Some states that were divided before, such as Minnesota and Ohio, are not divided today; and although they don’t even think of it, so intently are they concentrating on their own concerns right here in this small room, outside on the sweltering lawns, in the city, across the nation, over the watching world, the tension again becomes almost unbearable. For it appears that in a handful of four small—small? Fantastically large—votes, the fate of Roger Croy’s motion, and perhaps the fate of his candidate, will be decided.
“On this vote,” the President says quietly, confirming what the world has already counted, “the Yeas are fifty-five the Nays fifty-one and the motion of the Committeeman from Oregon to amend the motion of the Committeeman from Michigan is agreed to. The vote now comes”—he raises his voice above the excited noises that at once break out—“the vote now comes on the motion of the Committeeman from Michigan, as amended. All those in favor—”
But Mary Baffleburg is on her feet:
“I don’t think that any vote we take in this Committee should be by voice vote! It’s all too important! I demand a roll call!”
There is, for once, unanimous agreement in the National Committee with Mary Baffleburg. A shout of approval goes up, the President nods and directs Anna Bigelow to call the roll. Again the tension rises, but the Jasonites find they have no worries.
“On the motion of the Committeeman from Michigan, as amended,” the President says, “the Ayes are fifty-five, the Nays fifty-one. The motion is agreed to and an immediate appeal will be taken to the presiding Justice of the District Circuit.
“The chair,” he says, with an amiable smile which serves to restore at least a temporary good humor to the proceeding, “would love to appear before the Supreme Court himself, but he does have a few things to tend to at the White House. Obviously, however, arguments will be heard and counsel will be necessary.
“Now, you understand, all of you, I hope, that in the very act of taking an appeal to the Court, there is implicit the Committee’s official position that it is opposed to the injunction and its terms. But obviously”—he raises his hand as good feeling vanishes again and angry murmurs begin—“obviously, if I may be permitted to say so, this does not reflect the very closely divided sentiments in the Committee.
“The motion is simply a mechanism, I take it—you will correct me, Governor,
” he says dryly—“simply a mechanism for getting it before the Court in the hope that the Court will deny the appeal and thereby uphold the injunction and force us to reconvene the convention.
“Therefore, both sides, it seems to me, will undoubtedly wish to be represented by counsel. If I may be permitted to speak for those who oppose the injunction”—he pauses with a questioning look; there are no objectors—“I think perhaps we should meet in caucus to select—” But his attention is attracted by a hand in the audience, moving quickly and then as quickly stilled. His eyes search for and find its owner, who nods, almost imperceptibly but with a calm, almost fatalistic determination.
“I think,” the President says smoothly, “that perhaps by virtue of the authority vested in me as chairman of the caucus—”
(“Chairman of a caucus that hasn’t even been held!” The Greatest Publication exclaims, torn between helpless laughter and rage. “What a railroad!”)
“—I may now make our selection. I hereby appoint the Honorable Robert A. Leffingwell—”
“Oh, no!” cries Mary Baffleburg, and there are several other Knox supporters who cry out with an equal dismay. But a majority seems willing to accept the President’s judgment, or at least unwilling to offer an open challenge to it.
“—as counsel representing those members of the Committee opposed to the injunction. I assume those favoring it will select the distinguished gentleman who offered the amendment.”
“We want Roger P. Croy, if that’s what you mean,” says Ewan MacDonald MacDonald of Wyoming in the clipped brogue his children call “playing the Old Country.”
“That’s who I mean,” the President agrees with a smile. “And now, Governor Croy, if you care to reintroduce your motion to adjourn—”
But again the telephone rings, and he breaks off with a wry, “Somebody must be watching.”
The stenographer, still looking perturbed, picks up the receiver, listens for a moment, holds out the instrument without a word to the President.