(1964) The Man

by Irving Wallace

  He heard Poole’s disjointed whine at last. “Mr.—Mr. Pres-President, I swear on my mom and everything that’s holy, one of the members called long distance, which one, who, I don’t know, no names on the telephone, and simply told me what happened to Jeff Hurley, the truth of it, and asked me to help him, see the truth gets known. That’s all I know, I swear to God in Heaven.”

  “All right, I take your word for it, Leroy. But you still haven’t told me what I want to know. This abduction of Judge Gage, it was done by your gang, by the Turnerite Group, wasn’t it?”

  “What if it was? Sure it was. You don’t think a man of Jeff Hurley’s moral character and standards would go out for some personal revenge, do you? He and whoever was with him, they agreed to lead the way, to be the first like John Brown, to set an example, not order others to do what they wouldn’t be willing to do themselves. So they did it for the Turnerites—not kidnaping, either—but merely taking that sonofabitching, persecuting magistrate to another climate where they could reason with him about his abortion of justice, make him rescind it or admit he was wrong, make him agree to be the instrument to let our poor guys free. This was no hoodlum act, Mr. President. It was a protest act by the only decent, uncorrupted protest society in America today, doing something, not just talk and compromise, but doing something to dramatize the plight of every beat-up and degraded colored man and woman and kid in the country. You—you of all people—should be the first to see that, Mr. President. And you can become the greatest President in history, a hero of our people, if you will shake off those white bastards around you and intercede for Jeff Hurley—”

  Dilman felt ill with the knowledge of the truth, with the realization of what had happened and what he must do. His loathing of his truth, its consequences, filled every bone of his body with a creeping dullness.

  “Leroy,” he said wearily, “Hurley is no longer the issue. The Turnerite Group is the issue, the whole society, you and every one of them, your membership, your financing, your program—that’s the issue. You may as well know. The Justice Department is going to take legal action against you, to disband and outlaw you, and arrest and fine those who resist.”

  There was shock in Poole’s trembling voice. “You—you can’t let them do that.”

  “I have no choice. I must.”

  “No, listen, Senator—Mr. President—don’t, don’t let them. If you kill Hurley, disband what he’s fought for, you kill me and yourself. With one act, you hurl us back where we were before the Civil War. Freedom now becomes freedom never. Ban us, and the fiery crosses and police dogs win. Every activist group will have to close shop and get off the street when the white man passes. We’re niggers again, with no hope but those ass-dragging old Uncle Toms in the Crispus and NAACP. We’re niggers again, and when we want white men’s food, they’ll throw us our watermelon rind like the Minorities Rehabilitation Bill, so’s our mouths will be full and we’ll have to stay shut up. Mr. President, don’t do it, don’t go bowing and scraping after the ones who’re lording it over you, don’t sell us out, because if you do, you’ll not only kill us, like I said, but you’ll make every one of your people your enemy and the enemy of your Party for life.”

  Annoyance at the offensive little writer’s presumption and disrespect momentarily overrode Dilman’s guilts and fears. “I’ve heard enough, Leroy. I have no more time to talk to you. I’ve got my job to attend to. I’m going to do what has to be done. Good-bye and—”

  “Hold on, Mr. President,” Poole called out across the wire. “You’re sure, you’re absolutely positive, nothing can change your mind?”

  Dilman hesitated, not because of what Poole said but because of how he had said it. Poole was no longer hysterical or wheedling, no longer begging. There had been a new undercurrent in his voice, of slyness, even cruelty. Perhaps, Dilman told himself, he was imagining too much.

  He still held the receiver, and now he brought the mouthpiece closer. “No, Leroy, nothing can change my mind. I will instruct the Department of Justice to observe the law immediately. I have no more to say.”

  “I have,” said Leroy Poole. “One last thing. Listen. You indict the Turnerites for criminal subversion, and you indict your own son, too. You hear me? You indict your own son. Maybe it is news to you, but Julian is one of us. Julian is one of our secret members assigned to the Crispus Society, to get at their private files of statistics on cases of white persecution, like the information that Hattiesburg was a hot place to begin our crusade. If you condemn us, you—”

  Dilman’s hand clenched the telephone until his fingers were nearly bloodless. The nausea that welled high in his throat was not of fear but of disgust. He said, “You’re no better than Hurley—you’ll do anything—you’re a rotten, sick liar, dragging my boy into it.”

  “Am I?” said Poole. “Okay, Big Man, ask him—and then let’s see what you’ll do!”

  He banged the telephone in Dilman’s ear.

  Douglass Dilman stood motionless, the receiver still poised at his mouth and ear. Kemmler and Lombardi were right, and Poole had confirmed it. And they were right about another thing, too. There was no room in America for Turnerites, black or white. They were savage. They were vicious. No tactic, no matter how slimy and foul, was too low for them to accept, with their psychotic minds, and to brandish as a club. Kidnaping. Murder. Now—family blackmail. The Lord damn them and curse them every one.

  He jiggled the telephone for the White House operator, and demanded she get him Edna Foster.

  When his secretary came on, he said, “Miss Foster, I’m coming down to the office. Ring up Attorney General Kemmler. If he’s not home yet, leave a message with anyone there. Tell Kemmler to come back to the White House immediately. Say the President has made up his mind and must see him at once.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. Will that be all?”

  “All?” He wondered: Could there be more? Something nagged. “Uh, one last thing. Before you go home, Miss Foster—that letter you wrote to Trafford University, turning them down—tear it up. I’ve changed my mind. Write Chancellor McKaye I consider it a privilege to accept that honorary degree, and I’m glad to accept the invitation to make the principal address. Inform him I will speak not only to his student body and faculty, but to the nation, on a policy decision of national importance. Have you got that, Miss Foster?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “And then write a short note to my son—to Julian—tell him I’ll be at the school on Founders’ Day, and that I want him there, because—because after the ceremony—I want to have a private talk with him about a matter that concerns us both. Is that clear, Miss Foster? Leave both letters on my desk for signature, and then go home. Now, you’d better get that call in to Kemmler first.”

  He hung up, and then he strode to the door, opened it, and went into the corridor. The ever-present Otto Beggs was still on duty.

  “Is the show over with?” Dilman asked.

  “Fifteen minutes ago, Mr. President. They kept it going with encores, hoping you’d get back. The guests are gone. Except there’s one gentleman—”

  It was then that Dilman sighted Nat Abrahams slumped on a red chair in the Main Hall, puffing his pipe. Abrahams came to his feet, waved, and started toward Dilman.

  “I thought I’d hang around a little bit,” said Abrahams as he approached, “in case you needed a friendly ear. I was worried the way you left the East Room. Anything I can do, Doug?”

  “Damn kind of you, Nat. Thanks. There’s nothing anyone can do for me tonight—except me.” Dilman tried to smile. “Believe me, Nat, I’d rather be talking to you than to the Attorney General. But he’s the one I’ve got to go downstairs to see.”

  Nat Abrahams nodded agreeably. “Another time, then.” His eyes did not leave Dilman. “I’m not prying, Doug, but is everything all right?”

  “Nat, everything is lousy, and I’m afraid it’ll get worse. Maybe I’ll be able to tell you about it someday soon. Anyway, what was that girl
singing in there before? Yes. ‘I’ll lie in de grave and stretch out my arms’ and ‘Lay dis body down.’ That’s what I’d like to do tonight, Nat.”

  “Not yet, Doug.”

  “No, not yet. . . . Good night, Nat. And, Nat. Don’t let your kids grow up to be President. They deserve better. Remember that.”

  V

  FOR RELEASE AT 11:00 A.M. EDT

  Office of the White House Press Secretary

  * * *

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  * * *

  ADDRESS OF THE PRESIDENT AT THE FOUNDERS’ DAY CEREMONY, TRAFFORD UNIVERSITY, NEW YORK, AFTER RECEIVING AN HONORARY DEGREE IN PHILOSOPHY.

  COPIES OF THIS SPEECH ARE BEING DISTRIBUTED TO THE PRESS AT TRAFFORD UNIVERSITY AND FROM THIS OFFICE.

  Chancellor McKaye, my fellow citizens:

  It is a great pleasure for me to participate in this ninety-second celebration of the founding of your illustrious school. I am deeply gratified by the academic distinction being conferred upon me. This is not simply because the award has been given by a Negro university to one who is Negro, but because the award has been given by an institution—whose program and teachings have risen above the narrow confines of racial thinking—to one who is working as an American member of our national community and not as an Afro-American member of our country.

  Indeed, it is about our relationship to our nation as a whole, as Americans, and nothing else, that I wish to address you today. You are aware of the racial unrest in our country. You are aware, also, that the Department of Justice and I have been studying evidence of the activities of these super-government, super-American societies and organizations, composed of extremists of the right and left, of white and black, responsible for fomenting such dangerous unrest in these critical . . .

  * * *

  IT was a cool, shining autumn morning, and President Dilman, feeling slightly ridiculous in his tasseled mortarboard and warmed by his dark gown, sat comfortably on the outdoor, flag-decorated stage, basking in the sun, only partially attentive to Chancellor McKaye’s laudatory introduction.

  Except for the Washington press corps, predominantly white, seated in rows down to his left, busily engaged in reading and marking the mimeographed advance release of his address which Tim Flannery had passed out minutes before, the sea of faces stretching before and around him was black. The faculty and alumni, the ones he could see clearly because they were directly below in folding chairs, appeared interested and hospitable. The mass of the student body beyond, crowded and standing (and Julian probably among them, having rejected a place on the platform), represented a jagged inky blur offering no visible clue to its friendliness or hostility toward him. The fact was, they were there, orderly and silent, and to Dilman this seemed a good sign.

  While he was no judge of crowds, Dilman guessed that there must be more than three thousand persons present, an amplitude of humanity that blanketed every foot of the rectangular grassy quadrangle, and the walks and shaded malls leading into it as well. What gave the scene its added dignity, even majesty, were the old stone buildings, vine-covered, rising behind the audience, the Social Science Building, Medgar Evers Memorial Library, the School of Law Building, and Garrison Hall, the student union.

  Trafford University was, he told himself again, a gracious and resplendent school and campus. He would never understand why Julian had not made peace with it.

  He shifted in his chair to enjoy the sun more, and was surprised again at the lack of tension and fatigue in his body. Certainly he had every reason to feel tired. His administrative duties in recent days had been hectic. He had affixed his signature to the African Unity Pact, previously ratified by the Senate. He had, after some brief soul-searching, allowed the insulting New Succession Bill to become law, not with the approval of his signature but by letting it remain in his desk drawer for ten days and a Sunday, whereby it had automatically become a statute. He had released, through Flannery, his only comment on the New Succession Bill: that he had not been able, in good faith, to sign it or yet to veto it. Since he doubted its constitutionality, he preferred it to be the House’s law and the Senate’s law until it could be judged properly by the Supreme Court in the first test case that should arise.

  Certainly, too, he had had every reason for feeling worried in recent days. The White House press room, and his own Oval Office, had been filled with nerve-racking reports about the Hurley trial, the pros and cons on the possible banning of the Turnerite Group, the latest outbreaks of racial violence in Raleigh, Fort Lauderdale, Wichita, Oklahoma City, Cincinnati, Houston, San Diego, Oakland. He had not looked forward to this visit to Trafford, to the potentially explosive announcement he would make on this occasion, and, equally disagreeable, to the private confrontation with his son.

  Yet here he was, and it was not bad at all. He felt relaxed. He felt welcome among his own. The speech would likely be well received. And as for Julian, whom he had seen momentarily with the reception committee, that small, reticent boy seemed utterly miscast for the violent role that Leroy Poole had said he was playing. Yet, reconsidering the last, Dilman retained one misgiving: would Poole have dared hurl such a charge as a lie, knowing how easy it would be for him to check it out?

  Suddenly, he heard the words “—give you, ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!”

  He realized that the learned, dusky face of Chancellor McKaye was turned toward him, that there was scattered applause from up front, and that his turn had come at last.

  Dilman rose, accepted his degree, accepted the Chancellor’s handshake. Then, putting the beribboned degree aside, he mounted the rostrum, extracting his triple-spaced typed speech from beneath his gown, placed it on the lectern under the curve of microphones, and smiled at the unsmiling black sea stretching before him. “Chancellor McKaye, my fellow citizens—” he began, hearing not his voice but its curious echo in this building-encircled outdoor arena.

  The first of the speech went well, he felt. Although Talley, Flannery, Kemmler had all had a hand in the writing of it, had in fact written it, the third sentence had been inserted by himself, after a discussion with Nat Abrahams. This was the sentence about his pride in not being honored as a Negro by a Negro university, but in being honored as a fellow American by a distinguished school of learning that had broadened and risen above racial chauvinism.

  Now, a little more uneasily, but keeping his voice deliberate and clear, he entered upon the controversial portion of his address. What he might say had been speculated upon in the press, on the airwaves, the entire week. Today what he said would be official. T. C.’s advisers had agreed that the announcement be made in his speech at Trafford University, because the atmosphere would be one of intellect and reason, and because the audience would be largely Negro, receptive to him, proud of him.

  Now, as his eyes skipped to the words ahead, his voice faltered. He was not used to announcing agonized-over decisions in public. But there it was, in unmodified pica lettering on the page beneath the microphones, already released to the press, and he must read what had been written. Controlling his voice, enunciating with care, he plunged ahead.

  “You are aware, also, that the Department of Justice and I have been studying evidence of the activities of these super-government, super-American societies and organizations,” he read, “composed of extremists of the right and left, of white and black, responsible for fomenting such dangerous unrest in these critical times when we must preserve unity and peace at home to maintain strength abroad.”

  He held his breath, and then, leaving his deliberate manner behind, rushed in where former Presidents had feared to tread.

  “Extraordinary challenges to our way of life, we have decided, must be met promptly and firmly by extraordinary countermeasures within the law. Drastic crimes against our government must be met and punished by drastic executive action. Recently, whatever its motivation, a deplorable crime occurred in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. A county judge was kidnaped and taken across two s
tate lines, to be held for human ransom. The leader of the abduction was caught by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and is now standing trial, and his individual case will be decided, without prejudice, on its own merits. The concern of your government, however, has been with the factors behind the crime itself.”

  He no longer looked up from the printed words. His gaze was directed to the carefully prepared text. He read from it with measured emphasis.

  “Irrefutable evidence, examined by objective minds, has made it clear that the Federal crime was not perpetrated by irresponsible individuals, but was an act of organization policy. The abduction, we now know, was committed by the activist Turnerite Group, which has been financially backed by the Communist Party, as the first act in a premeditated strategy to subvert our laws, our country, and take the administration of justice into its own hands. Such activity cannot be permitted in a democratic government by the people, of the people, for the people. And so, to halt its cancerous spread, and with full knowledge of my accountability to our tradition of civil liberties, I take this occasion to announce to my fellow Americans that I am invoking the Subversive Activities Control Act against the leadership and membership of the Turnerite Group. As of eleven o’clock this morning, the Turnerite Group is outlawed and banned, and any further activity of any nature by its members will be regarded as criminal and dealt with under the statutes that provide—”

  There was a thin crackling sound that interrupted Dilman, a sound similar to that of an eggshell breaking, and it distracted Dilman and made him lift his face to the microphones. He saw at once that it had been an egg, a raw egg that had hit the microphones, broken and splattered, now spilling its liquid yolk down upon the page of his manuscript.