(1964) The Man

by Irving Wallace

  Eaton contemplated the cognac, warming in his palm, and the terrible scene provoked by that unsavory Murdock in a New York apartment, a scene he found unbearable and which Zeke Miller apparently relished. Eaton said, “You mean that girl informed on her brother?”

  “You’re goldarn right she did,” said Miller, “because she hates him like she hates her father, our biggety Nigra President. Anyway, Murdock wanted to know if she could prove her brother was a Turnerite. She said sure she could, and she would, but only if she had to. She told Murdock if he wanted to know more, go and talk to Julian personally. So Murdock rode out to Trafford, cornered our President’s son, and accused him of the Turnerite membership. Julian got sullen, then downright nasty, and said it was a lie to hurt his father, and he was never a Turnerite in his life, and Murdock couldn’t prove it, and his sister couldn’t prove it, and besides she was a psychopathic liar, and so forth. So our kid reporter, Murdock, he hotfooted it back to New York and got to Mindy again, and said she was a liar, because Julian said so and had denied everything. Mindy was pretty keyed up that day, I mean on some kind of pills or something, and she got pretty hysterical against her brother. She went and dug out some letters, and held them while Murdock read them. They were from Julian, and the first one, with the oldest date, was full of resentment about being stuck in the Nigra school, and his father being too yellow to act for the Nigra race, and Mindy turning her back on her people, but he was going to be different, the one in the family who wasn’t yellow, because he was planning to join up secretly with a new outfit called the Turnerites who were going to give all Nigras equality. Well, there it was. In the other letters, written later, when he was involved with Hurley and learned his membership was supposed to be secret, I guess, he wrote his sister he’d been kidding, and denied ever joining, but he wasn’t kidding. There it was in writing. Is that proof, Arthur, or is it not?”

  Eaton put down his empty cognac glass. “Can you get that first letter?” he asked.

  Miller grinned. “I got it, my friend.”

  “You have? How?”

  “Mindy agreed to turn it over to Murdock for his written and signed pledge that he would never disclose her identity, that he would leave her alone, leave her keep passing, so’s she can give some poor white Christian young fellow her nigger blood in a coon baby. Murdock gave me the letter, and all his statements are to be made into affidavits tomorrow, on the condition that Mindy’s passing not be exposed and his fiancée, Miss Foster, and her diary with the facts, not be dragged into this in any way.” Miller paused, and added solemnly, “I gave the lad my word, and I gave him the job. And now we got the goods on our biggety Nigra President.”

  Senator Hankins coughed and wheezed. “Mighty powerful case, gentlemen.”

  Talley echoed, “Mighty powerful case.”

  “For what?” asked Arthur Eaton. He stood up, and went to find a cigarette. Not bothering about his holder, he lifted a silver table lighter before him as he said to Miller, “What do you intend to do with all that—that research?”

  Zeke Miller opened his hands and raised his shoulders. “Simple. I intend to go—or have you and the Governor go—straight to our beloved President Dilman and say, Mister, you’re here ruining the country, and we’re here with our minds made up to save the country. The way for you to help us save the country, Mr. President, is for you to become incapacitated and be forced to resign because of ill health—maybe you been pretty sick since that assassin almost got you—maybe you got a heart condition and it’s been kept hushed, but now your family physicians say you can’t go on—so you resign because of disability, for the sake of the country, and the Party, and your health, and let the next in line, namely, our able Secretary of State and close friend of T. C., Mr. Arthur Eaton, become President for the rest of this term. If you won’t resign, Mr. President, we got to tell the country the truth about your son being a Commie Turnerite, and you condoning it and giving those subversives aid and comfort, and we got to tell about your wife’s death, and your past, your unreliability because you’re a drinking tosspot of a Nigra, and we got to tell your own people how you’re so ashamed of being a nigger you encouraged your daughter to pass deceitfully for a white girl. Now, what’ll that do for you and your family, Mr. President, all that coming out? So for reasons of your health, you better resign.”

  “Impressive,” said Eaton with irony.

  “You betcha,” said Miller, pleased.

  Suddenly Eaton ground out his cigarette and said, “And what if Dilman refuses to quit?”

  “Aw, Arthur, cripes, you know he’ll shrink up and have to.”

  “American Presidents don’t resign,” said Eaton flatly. “Not a single one ever has, not even Woodrow Wilson when he was bed-ridden by a stroke. They die. They are killed. They become ill, even incapacitated, but they do not resign. And Vice-Presidents, they’re the same. Only one ever resigned, Jackson’s Vice-President, John C. Calhoun, and that was with only two months to go and he had already been elected to the Senate, and that was as far back as 1832.” Eaton shook his head. “No, I’m afraid President Dilman might not fold up and quit. He might prefer to have you expose him, suffer his family to go down the drain, rather than give in to your pressure. Have you allowed for that?”

  Before Miller could reply, Senator Hankins snorted and trembled on the sofa, as he raised his hand. “I allowed for it, Mr. Secretary. Actually, so did Zeke. We talked about it with our friends before coming here. We decided this. If that nigger won’t leave the White House on his two feet, then we’ll carry him out.”

  Eaton contracted his brow. “Carry him out?”

  “Remove him, sir, remove him by force,” said Senator Hankins. “Your Constitution, young man—never forget your Constitution. Article II, Section 4. ‘The President . . . of the United States shall be removed from office on impeachment for and conviction of treason, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanors.’ The law of the Founding Fathers, young man.”

  Arthur Eaton tried to maintain his poise, but he was deeply shaken. He stood still, eyes averted, staring at the carpet. He had never before, not until this moment, heard the monstrous word impeachment used in this way by men elected to high offices of responsibility. He had heard it employed in gossip, he had read it in the columns of the lurid tabloid press, but he had not heard it used by members of the United States Congress. It was as impossible an American word to him as secession or revolution or assassination. All of his background and breeding—his intelligence, his faith in orderly settlement of any crisis, his belief in the give and take of gentlemanly compromise—was offended by this word.

  “That’s right,” he heard Miller saying, “if Dilman won’t get out, we’ll evict him out under due process of law.”

  “Gentlemen,” Eaton said, “I find even consideration of such a solution repugnant. I think such a solution could do the country as much injury, in these times, as Dilman’s own bumbling. Even if I stand to gain by the outcome, I’m afraid I could not support you in such a drastic act.”

  “But the Constitution—” Miller said.

  “The Founding Fathers, riding to their meetings in horse-drawn carriages, creating the Constitution with their quill pens, could not have anticipated what every article of it would mean in a nuclear age, with Communists in front of us, with racial strife behind us,” said Eaton. “No, impeachment would be dangerous. Jefferson said it was merely a ‘scarecrow’ in the Constitution, presumably not to be used except as a scarecrow. But Jefferson aside, and given real cause to use impeachment powers, and even if it could be managed quickly and safely, I do not believe that Dilman would merit removal, at least not on the evidence you have at hand. What you possess is criticism of the character of a man in high office, what you have is scandal, but that is not evidence of treason, bribery, or high crimes against his country.”

  Miller pounced forward, confronting Eaton. “It can all be made to add up to treason and unfitness for office,” he insisted.

&n
bsp; “I have strong doubts,” said Eaton.

  “Anyway, we don’t have to prove that much,” said Miller. He turned to Hankins. “Senator Bruce, you got that—”

  “Got it right here handy,” said Hankins, holding up the photocopy of a book page. He adjusted his pince-nez, studied the photocopy briefly, then looked up at Eaton. “There’s no precise exact definition of impeachment crimes, Mr. Secretary. Fact is, it’s a pretty wide umbrella, and our evidence fits under a fair amount of it. Example, this little definition of impeachment I have here. George T. Curtis, the historian-attorney, made it back in 1889. He said”—Hankins read from the photocopy—“ ‘A cause for removal from office may exist where no offense against positive law has been committed, as where the individual has, from immorality, or imbecility, or maladministration, become unfit to exercise the office.’ ”

  “See!” Zeke Miller exclaimed triumphantly to Eaton. “Like it’s tailor-made for Dilman.”

  “Nevertheless, I have my doubts,” said Eaton.

  “Well,” Talley called out, “I think we’re barking up the wrong tree, and wasting our breath. It’ll never come to anything so serious. Arthur, I’m inclined to side with Zeke and the Senator on what’ll really happen. If they pull together what authentic findings they already have, and hit Dilman smack between the eyes with them, I think he’s got to back off. I think he’ll run up the white flag and call it quits.”

  Eaton bit his lip. “I wish I could be as confident as the three of you. I can’t be. I believe you have enough evidence right now to hold over the President’s head, and make him reconsider any further rash and self-serving behavior. I believe you can slow him down, and force him to listen to our advice. I think you can manage that, and more power to you. But, I reiterate, I do not believe you have enough evidence to impeach, and, I repeat, I doubt that you even have enough to frighten him out of office.” Eaton shrugged. “This is my opinion. You do what you will. I feel it only fair to say that if you take more drastic steps, based on what you have, I cannot let myself go along with you.” He saw their unsmiling faces, and he said, as lightly as possible, “But I will go along with you for one more drink, before we—”

  The doorbell chimes melodiously interrupted him. Puzzled, he looked at the clock over the fireplace. It showed ten minutes before midnight. The chimes played again, followed by the metallic hammering of the brass door knocker.

  “Who can it be?” Talley wondered.

  “I’ll see,” said Eaton. “Excuse me, gentlemen. The Governor will pour you one for the road.”

  He left the living room, went into the high-ceilinged entry hall, and pulled open the door.

  Sally Watson stood there, one hand clutching the doorframe. Eaton had never before seen her this way, in this condition, and for a moment he was taken aback.

  “That’s right,” she said thickly, “it’s me, or whatever’s left of me, believe it or not.”

  “My God, Sally, come in.”

  He reached out and drew her into the hall, examining her with disbelief. Her blond hair was in disarray, and strands of it hung down over her eyes. Her mascara had run, and there were tear streaks along her cheeks. The bodice of her green cocktail gown was half on, half off, one strap torn loose, the front of the dress ripped, so that part of her brassière was in view.

  She covered her bosom with the coat on her arm, and looked up at him. “Quit staring, Arthur. It’s not my fault. Blame him. He did it to me, the sonofabitch, blame him.”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think?” she said angrily. She had worked the index cards out of her purse. “Here’s what you wanted. I promised you I’d get it, and I got it. I did that anyway. Lemme get cleaned up and I’ll tell you plenty, that filthy bastard.”

  She started toward the living room, lurched off balance, and Eaton quickly grabbed her elbow. Then, taking the coat from her, he led her swiftly into the living room. With her appearance, Zeke Miller, who had just sat down, immediately leaped back on his feet, and Bruce Hankins rose with a grunt. They greeted her with courteous surprise, but Sally did not reply, only stared at them as she wobbled past.

  “Miss Watson’s been in some trouble,” Eaton explained. “I want her to lie down. Be right with you.”

  Talley had wheeled around at the bar, and his eyes followed Sally with incredulity. “What the devil happened?” he wanted to know.

  “Your goddam drunk President,” she said viciously. “He did it—he thought I was like all the rest of his chippies!”

  Eaton’s expression was pained. “Please, Sally.” He shoved the index cards at Talley. “Here. The notes on Dilman’s CIA meeting with Scott. Better read them.” He hustled Sally out of the living room, but not before he heard Zeke Miller shout, “Hey! Wait a sec—what was that she was saying?”

  With difficulty, trying to steady her, Eaton hurried Sally through the corridor. He knew that she could not make the stairway to the upper bedrooms. Instead, he guided her into the book-lined library, one hand supporting her, the other slamming the door behind him.

  “There’s the bathroom,” he said.

  “I changed my mind,” she said.

  He studied her face and could see she was not only intoxicated but on the verge of hysteria. He forced her to the sofa. “Then lie down for a moment.”

  She sat on the sofa, and dropped her face into her hands. “I don’t want to lie down. I want to kill that bastard.”

  “I think you need something to settle your nerves,” said Eaton anxiously. He rushed into the bathroom, turned on the light, and hunted for Kay’s tranquilizers. He found the container, spilled out two, prepared a glass of water, and returned to Sally. “Take both of them.”

  She obeyed him.

  “Good,” he said, “now the water.”

  She took one swallow, made a show of distaste, and pushed the tumbler back at him. “I’ve had enough to drink.”

  Eaton set the glass aside, knelt before her, and considered her. “Do you think you need a doctor?”

  “What can a doctor do for me? It’s all inside, what he did, humiliating me like one of his whores. If anybody knew—” She beat her fist helplessly on the sofa cushion.

  Eaton rose and sat on the corner of the coffee table. “When you—you feel ready to speak of this, Sally, I’d like to hear what—”

  “I’m ready now.”

  “Whenever you say.”

  “I was trying to figure out how to help you,” she said excitedly, “and then I got the chance, because he invited me to his bedroom again—”

  “Who? Dilman?”

  “Not Calvin Coolidge, you bet. Of course, Dilman.”

  “What do you mean—he invited you again?”

  “Jesus, Arthur, I can’t always bring myself to tell you everything. He’s had a lech for me, and at least three times before he’s invited me to his bedroom in the evening, to go over social affairs, so he says—ha, social affairs. I always got out of it. But tonight, when he whispered it again, to meet him about some plans after the guests had gone, I saw a chance to help you, and I agreed. I went to his bedroom a little early, and the transcript of the meeting he had with Scott today was lying open, so I just read it, you know. Made those exact notes on the cards. You’re lucky to have it—”

  He found her hands. “Sally, darling, I am grateful, but I’m worried—”

  She withdrew her hands, and brushed the hair from her eyes. “Well, about ten he came in—everyone had gone—and I could see he was plastered, drunk as a lord. I wanted to leave, but he insisted on business talk, and hell, you can’t insult the President, I mean—how? He kept insisting I drink with him. What could I do? He must’ve poured me a triple, and himself, too, because I got real tipsy, and him, you should have seen him.”

  She kept shaking her head angrily, and Eaton said, “What does that mean, Sally?”

  “I can’t give you the details, it’s too embarrassing, considering his position. But I guess those politicians are only human, like Har
ding and Nan Britton in the White House closet, but who’d expect this from a weaseling, hymn-singing black nigger who’s lucky he’s alive, let alone President? Sure, he came after me, and I fought him, weak as I was, and he even got me on the bed, desecrated that bed, tried to rip off my dress—look at it—but I got away—oh, we had a scene, what a scene—”

  “Sally—Sally—wait a minute. Are you saying Dilman got you drunk and then—”

  “You’re damn right that’s what I’m saying.”

  “But—Sally—there was a dinner party there tonight. Surely you had something to drink on your own first?”

  She was silent for a moment, staring at him warily. “Suppose I did? Who doesn’t have one or two before dinner?”

  “Did you have any more after dinner?”

  “What do you mean, Arthur?” she said. “I told you—with him—he forced me—”

  “Yes, of course. I meant, after you got away from him. If you saw him at ten—and let’s say you left him an hour later—that still leaves almost an hour unaccounted for and I was wondering—”