by Allen Drury
“Each side will then have the opportunity, through a single spokesman, to rebut.”
(“My God,” the Newark News whispered, “we’ll be here all night.” But Tommy had thought of that, too.)
“Because of the great—I might even say, the overwhelming—concern in this matter,” he went on with a somewhat hesitant smile that George Harrison Wattersill immediately decided to act upon, “and because of the great necessity to expedite it so that the National Committee may know immediately how to proceed hereafter, the Court is arbitrarily”—he paused, took a breath and then licked his lips in a nervous little gesture that only confirmed George Wattersill in his intention—“the Court is arbitrarily going to restrict arguments on each side to one and one-half hours, to be apportioned internally as counsel may decide between themselves, and rebuttal to one-half hour for each side. In this way—”
But George Harrison Wattersill was on his feet, every line of his body rigid with disapproval, his face suffused with a respectful but overpowering indignation.
“Now, Mr. Justice,” he said in a tone that nicely mixed sharpness and supplication, “if Your Honor please! This is indeed, Your Honor, a most overwhelmingly vital matter, in which the future fate of this nation and the fate of the world insofar as this nation contributes to or affects it are involved, as Your Honor most truly says. How, then, are we to present—on either side, if I may speak for my able friends opposite—the facts and the arguments upon which this Court may reach a fair and just decision? Now, I do not say, Your Honor,” he added with a respectful haste, “that Your Honor cannot reach a fair and just decision on brief arguments, but is it fair to the two sides here? Is it fair to the candidates—to the nation—to the world—to restrict us to such arbitrary and hampering limitations? I submit respectfully this is hardly a democratic procedure, if Your Honor please!”
“Your Honor,” Senator Munson inquired in a dry drawl from his side of the table, “who said this is a democratic procedure? Isn’t it true—need I stand, incidentally?”
“No, certainly not,” Justice Davis said promptly. “Considering the quasi-informal nature of a hearing in chambers, and considering”—and he gave a sudden twinkle that somehow disturbed George Harrison Wattersill a great deal—“your advanced years, the Court thinks all counsel may remain seated if they wish. If they wish to stand, that is all right, too. It is up to them.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Bob Munson said, interpreting Tommy’s humorous mood exactly as George Harrison Wattersill did. “As far as I’m concerned, I’ll let George, here, do the leaping, even if I’m not quite as ancient as you think.”
(“Oh, God,” the general director of the Post said savagely to Walter Dobius in front of the television set in his office downtown. “Isn’t everything so God-damned chummy!” “I don’t like it,” Walter said with a worried frown.)
“I was going to say, Your Honor,” Senator Munson resumed, “that of course this is not a democratic procedure, in the sense that anybody can take a vote on whether we talk at length or not. Now, counsel knows that as well as I do. This Court has absolute constitutional authority to set any rules it pleases. This Court isn’t democratic—it’s an arm of democracy. Counsel knows that.”
“Counsel will not split hairs, I will say,” George Wattersill snapped, “with the distinguished Majority Leader. I am simply saying that we on our side are going to be very seriously restricted if we are subject to any such close and arbitrary course of procedure. While I know,” he said with a grave worry, “that such is not the intention of the Court at all, still I am very much afraid this can only be interpreted by everyone who is watching or listening as being simply a fortuitous, gratuitous, and I am sure most highly welcome, advantage for the Secretary of State, Mr. Knox.”
(“Tommy won’t like that,” Orrin remarked with a sudden amusement to Beth, Dolly and Lucille in front of the set at “Vagaries.” And Tommy didn’t.)
“Well, now!” he said with a tartness that told George Wattersill he had gone too far, “I think counsel has gone too far. There is no intention to give anyone any advantage about anything. There is an intention to expedite this and get it over with, in the national interest and the world interest. This Court resents any implication or imputation of such a motive. Counsel knows better than that.”
George Harrison Wattersill looked positively crushed.
“I apologize most humbly, Your Honor,” he said with a confused, beseeching air. “I am afraid my desire to present a well-rounded case—a desire which Your Honor, as a lawyer, surely cannot criticize—led me to protest too vigorously. We on our side do have, we believe, a well-rounded case to present. Of course,” he said thoughtfully, “those who have fewer facts perhaps understandably need less time. (The two Bobs stirred, but decided simultaneously to hold their tongues.) It will be difficult to present the sound arguments we believe we have, but of course we will be bound by Your Honor’s wishes. I do apologize, Your Honor, most humbly. Most humbly.”
And he sat down, shaking his head in a sad, bewildered fashion. Roger P. Croy leaned over and put an arm around his shoulders with a fatherly, comforting air.
(WATTERSILL CHARGES KNOX COURT ADVANTAGE, the next edition headlines said. Throughout the country and around the globe, many millions agreed.)
“Counsel should watch his language,” Tommy said, more mildly. “Now, if Mr. Leffingwell wishes to present his arguments, perhaps we can begin.”
“Your Honor,” George Harrison Wattersill interrupted, contrite and humble still. “I do appreciate your courtesy and kindness to one who perhaps allowed a certain—I can hardly say youthful”—he smiled exactly the right kind of smile, a little shy, a little abashed, a little boyish, a little self-deprecatory—“perhaps lower-middle/middle-aged might be better—enthusiasm and impulsiveness to run away with him.”
“Yes, yes,” Tommy said with just the faintest show of a rising impatience. “Please let Mr. Leffingwell begin now.”
“Georgie, I think you’d better,” Lafe Smith remarked to Cullee Hamilton in the Delegates’ Lounge at the UN. “The last time that boy let impulsiveness run away with him was when he couldn’t control himself at the age of six months. After that one initial mistake, he’s known exactly what he was doing, ever since.”
“I’ve always found him an awfully tiresome character when he’s been before House committees,” Cullee agreed. “I get awfully fed up with this fake humility and these fake blunders that always wound up in such propaganda advantages. Look at them over there,” he said with some disgust, pointing to a group in front of one of the television sets that had been placed around the enormous room for this momentous day. “Japan, Congo Leopoldville, Ceylon and Bolivia think he’s absolutely great.”
“They all think he’s great,” Lafe said. “Look at all those eager, happy, laughing faces, all around the room. I don’t see how they can tear themselves away for the Security Council meeting.”
“When we’re the target,” Cullee said dryly, “they’ll manage. Anyway, the general services people have put ten sets in the room next door, so I dare say we’ll all be nipping in there when things get dull in the Council.”
But contrary to his expectation, things did not get so very dull in the Council, for no sooner had they taken their places than they became aware of a rustling and a murmuring and a behind-the-hand gossiping around the big green circle which seemed to promise some surprise for the arrogant, overconfident, deplored and mistrusted United States.
It must be, they decided, something more than the resolution introduced by France and the Soviet Union which urged continued recognition of the Obifumatta government in Gorotoland and dispatch of a UN force to reopen the fighting. They were pretty sure they could count on Britain to veto that one, and knew that if Britain didn’t, they would. So it did not worry them particularly.
Nor were they much more concerned about the second resolution, introduced by Britain, France and the Soviet Union, condemning the threatene
d U.S. blockade of Panama and pledging “all efforts of this organization, both collectively and in the realm of individual members acting within their rights upon the seas,” to break it. That, too, could be vetoed if necessary. But it might never have to be if the resolving powers could be convinced that America meant business in her drive to defeat Felix Labaiya’s “Government of the Panamanian People’s Liberation Movement” and its threat to the Canal.
As the meeting prepared to pull itself cumbrously together, late as always in typical UN fashion, it appeared that this last might take some doing, for the British Ambassador, easing quietly into his seat beside Lafe, looked as upset and affronted as he had the last time they had seen him.
“Claude,” Lafe said with a challenging good humor, “good afternoon. How are you?”
“Quite well, thank you,” Lord Maudulayne said crisply. “Better, since it appears that the National Committee is going to be permitted to select a reasonable and responsible candidate.”
“Oh?” Cullee said, his tone beginning to bristle as he leaned forward to talk around Lafe. “Is that how he looks to you?”
“Anyone,” Lord Maudulayne said with a sort of strangled indignation. “Anyone, to break this damnable chain of wars and more wars, crisis on top of crisis. Don’t you people realize the world must have peace?”
“Oh, my God,” Lafe said in a weary voice, making no attempt to conceal his tired disgust from Vasily Tashikov, watching already from across the circle. “Not you, too.”
“Yes, we too!” Claude said sharply. “My Government are sick of it. Sick of it, sick of it!”
“Well, don’t get hysterical,” Cullee said in a deliberately blunt tone. “We know you’re frustrated, but don’t let it get you down.”
“We are not, I submit,” Lord Maudulayne snapped, “as frustrated as an Administration whose answer to everything is war and more war.”
“And you honestly believe,” Lafe said slowly, staring thoughtfully straight at Tashikov, who finally looked away, “that America lives and functions entirely in a vacuum: that no one else in this world commits aggression or upsets the peace of the world: that no one else in this world ever does anything to bait or provoke us: that no one else in this world is ever guilty of anything detrimental to peace: that we have no genuine interest whatsoever in preserving peace: that our only motive is conquest and aggression: that it is all the bad old United States, exclusively and entirely the only evil-doer in all the world.” He turned to stare at his seat-mate. “You honestly and truly believe that.”
“Well,” Lord Maudulayne said, looking down and shuffling the papers on the desk in front of him. “Well! Naturally not. Naturally not! Only fools believe that. But I do believe, and my Government believe, that in recent decades it has become too easy for you to resort to force.”
“Easy for us, my God?” Cullee demanded. “With the number of Americans we’ve had killed and the amount of money we’ve spent and the way we’ve spread ourselves around the world to pick up where you left off? Easy for us? Oh, come on, now!”
“Nonetheless,” Claude said stubbornly, “the face you show to the world is the face of war and the policy you follow is the willingness to make war. And you frighten the world, and you accomplish little.”
“All we accomplish,” Cullee said bitterly, “is to save you all from being overrun. And what in the hell thanks do we get for it?”
“Why shouldn’t we go our own way?” Lafe asked quietly. “What do our friends—strange friends!—do to help us? Why shouldn’t we just follow our own policy, for our own self-interest, do what we think is right for us, and let the rest of you sink? Is that what you’d like? Vasily over there would be very happy to take you all over if we didn’t spend our lives and substance to stop him. Why should we continue to protect you? Can you think of one good reason?”
“But that’s ridiculous,” Lord Maudulayne said. “Now, that is ridiculous.”
“No, really,” Lafe said. “I’m not kidding. I want to know.”
“If it isn’t obvious,” Lord Maudulayne said coldly, “I’m afraid I can’t explain it.”
“Somehow, Claude,” Cullee said dryly, “we just knew you couldn’t.”
“I believe we have a session to attend to,” the British Ambassador said, still coldly, as the Ambassador of Cymru, this month’s President of the Council, gaveled for order.
“I believe we do,” Cullee said with a sudden attentiveness. Cymru said in his inimitable accent,
“The Council is now seized of SC/127, introduced by France and the Soviet Union, on the situation in Gorotoland. I believe the People’s Free Government of Gorotoland has petitioned to address the Council, and I believe”—he peered around brightly with his sharply twinkling little eyes—“I believe that government’s special envoy is ready, is it?”
“Is it, indeed,” Lafe remarked as Prince Obifumatta, gorgeous in his giant height and flaming robes, stepped suddenly into the excited, buzzing room and came with his long, loping stride to take his seat at the table. “Yes, yes. Is it, indeed.”
“Now, Mr. Presiding Officer, Mr. Temporary Speaker or whatever you are, sir,” Jawbone Swarthman cried as a packed and worried House began consideration of A Bill to Further Curb Acts Against the Public Order and Welfare, “now, Mr. Presider, sir, I want to state right here and now at the beginning that this bill, this measure that comes here under this pious title, sir, is repugnant to every instinct of a democratic people! Yes, sir, it is plumb, downright repugnant, and this House ought to toss this crazy ol’ bill right out the window, sir, I submit it just should toss this ol’ bill right—”
“Your Honor,” Bob Leffingwell said, and from his comfortable smile no outsider could ever have guessed the mood or the conditions in which he and Tommy had faced each other last, “I think I too shall avail myself of your kindness to the aged, and remain seated. It is not that I don’t value the dramatic advantages of being on my feet, and perhaps may avail myself of them before my time is up, but I don’t really feel, Your Honor, that a sound case needs too many dramatics.
“I do believe,” he said quietly (George Harrison Wattersill and Roger P. Croy shifted in their chairs and looked suitably superior), “that the case I represent is sound.
“You are aware, Your Honor, that it has been a good many years since I actively practiced at law. And yet it seemed to me that this was an issue in which a certain personal dedication might overcome any slight rustiness. It is also an issue in which common sense, a modicum of fairness, and a reasonable care for the habits and customs of this democracy, would seem to equip almost any decent citizen to argue this side of it.”
(“Throwing a few knives today, isn’t he?” the Arkansas Gazette whispered to the Newark News. “And Georgie Wattersill isn’t?” the News inquired.)
“We are confronted here with an attempt, quite blatant, to make use of Your Honor and this Court simply as mechanisms to secure a political advantage. It is quite clear that those who are manipulating”—and again he ignored the restlessness of George Wattersill and Roger Croy, except to repeat calmly—“those who are manipulating—the very narrow majority which existed in the National Committee yesterday are not really interested in appealing against the temporary injunction. They are here in the obvious hope that Your Honor will overturn the appeal and thereby uphold the injunction, which would, of course, paralyze the Committee until such time, possibly much later in the summer, when the pending suit might be decided in the court below.
“But, Your Honor, even if there should be a swift decision by the court below, say even within a week, directing the Committee to reconvene the convention, is anyone so naïve as to think that the sentiment within the Committee which I represent” (At ‘Vagaries’ Orrin said softly, “Good man.”) “and am proud to represent—would not immediately appeal from that decision? And there we would be again, with who knows what delays then, and who knows when there might be a chance, then, to select candidates?
“No, You
r Honor. This is the time it it’ll be decided, right here and now, once and forever. Consequently we on our side intend to be brief and, I hope, both pertinent and constructive.
“As Your Honor truly says, this is a matter of overriding importance to the country and the world, and to judge it fairly it must be placed in context. Context of a most bitter convention, lately concluded, at which the delegates freely made their choice” (“By damn,” ’Gage Shelby remarked to Sue-Dan Hamilton at DEFY headquarters downtown, “listen to that man lie.”) “context of the tragic and unexplained death of the late President of the United States—context of a war”—and his choice of the singular was not lost upon the world—“context of carefully managed and completely unprincipled violence through the country and in this capital—context of other recent tragic events”—and he stared thoughtfully at the little Justice, who for just a second looked sad, worried and harassed, but the camera did not swing to him quite quickly enough to catch it—“with which Your Honor has lately been made familiar.”
(“Now, what do you suppose he means by that?” the AP asked of no one in particular.)
“It is against this background that the appeal, the injunction, and the case below, must all be considered.
“Now, Your Honor,” he said, and his aspect was still calm, comfortable and relaxed as though he were at his own poolside, “we do not intend to dwell upon facts which are known to everyone. The basic fact is, of course, that the convention, freely and regularly called, legally bound at every point by its own rules of procedure, did in fact select the late Harley M. Hudson as its candidate for President and the Secretary of State, Mr. Knox, as its candidate for Vice President. No challenge can ethically or legally be laid against that proceeding. The convention was open, democratic, and free” (“Oh, come on!” the general director of the Post exclaimed. “Come on.” “George will take care of it,” Walter Dobius promised.) “as all American Presidential nominating conventions,” Bob Leffingwell went on blandly, “are open, democratic, and free, and I think that too can be stipulated on the face of it. Certainly to open up a line of argument to the contrary,” he said softly, “would be to force us to produce evidence of various attempts to intimidate, harass, threaten, and—in the case of the daughter-in-law of the Secretary of State—actually to beat a pregnant girl and cause her to lose her baby. This would not, perhaps, be a profitable line of argument for opposing counsel to pursue.”