Specification third.—At Washington, in the District of Columbia, said Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, did attempt to bring into contempt and reproach the Congress of the United States, and impair the powers of Congress, by obstructing its legislative activity through veto of the Minorities Rehabilitation Program Bill, because of intemperate habits, partisanship, and inefficiency, to the detriment of the national welfare. Without study of the aforesaid legislative bill, while under the influence of intoxicants and Negro extremists, said Douglass Dilman . . .
Specification fourth.—In his various residences at Washington, in the District of Columbia, in Chicago, in the State of Illinois, in Springfield, in the State of Illinois, where he was a registered patient in a sanitarium for alcoholics, and in his residences in the States of Michigan, Ohio, Indiana, said Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, was habitually addicted to . . .
Dilman came around in his swivel chair, and with great deliberation he held out the three yellow sheets until Eaton took them. Dilman was pleased to see that his own hands no longer shook, because there was no fear in him. One felt fear when there was something real that threatened, a person, a charge, that might subject one to physical injury or mental harm. This preposterous document, its grotesque half-truths and whole lies couched in the false dignity of Congressional legal verbiage, was too ridiculous to be treated seriously.
He considered Eaton with new confidence. “Is this all of your blackmail, Eaton?”
Carefully Eaton folded the three yellow sheets of paper. At last he looked up.
“These are, without the supporting affidavits and testimony of witnesses, the Articles of Impeachment against you that will ultimately be sent to the Senate, after the House of Representatives has voted to indict you. This evidence will first be presented to the House not as formal articles, but as a series of charges, written in similar language, supporting a resolution for impeachment. This is the case against you which I have managed so far to prevent from being introduced on the floor of the House.”
“I see. . . . Well, I’m sorry for you, Eaton. If you want to become President of the United States, as you do, you are going to have to work and sweat for it, gain it the hard way, and not by trying to frighten me out of this chair with three pages of poppycock. Yes, I’m going to make you work for it in a way that will revolt your fastidious self, by making you live and sleep and hold hands and cast your lot with that gang of inhuman bullies and ignorant rednecks on the Hill. You are welcome to them, and to this trumped-up pack of lies, a nigger indictment wrapped in a package of Constitutional parchment. It’ll get you nowhere.”
Eaton appeared incredulous. “Are you telling me, in the face of those irrefutable facts, you will not step aside?”
“I’m telling you more,” said Dilman, standing up. “I am telling you I will no longer give you the right to the dignity of resigning, because you do not deserve it. As of here and now, Mr. Eaton, you are fired!”
Eaton leaped to his feet and moved to the front of the President’s desk. “Dilman, I think you are too distraught to realize what you are doing.”
“I know exactly what I am doing. I am removing you from office and from my Cabinet.”
“I won’t let you commit suicide, Dilman. You’ve taken leave of your senses. There is a law—the New Succession Act—that prevents you from removing any Cabinet officer without the consent of the Senate. Have you forgotten? You can no more fire me than President Andrew Johnson could defy the Tenure of Office Act of 1867 by trying to fire Secretary of War Stanton without consent of the Senate.”
“Andrew Johnson did it, and I am doing it.”
“Dilman, for heaven’s sake, he was impeached for exactly this.”
Dilman nodded. “Yes, and he was acquitted.”
Eaton planted his knuckles on the desk, and bent forward. “Listen to me, Dilman. You won’t be that lucky. If you fire me, you won’t have me standing between you and your bitterest enemies. Nothing will hold them back. And now they’ll have their strongest ammunition against you, a new article of indictment, and the most powerful one: a charge that you flagrantly violated the law of the United States, that you ignored the rights of the Senate. They’ll be all over you like a pack of angry wolves, and they’ll have teeth for their final attack. Dilman, for once, for one last time while you still can, show good judgment, at least the good judgment of self-preservation. Step aside, as I have suggested. Don’t force us to parade all your friends, your misconduct, before the nation and the world. Don’t force us to drive you from this room in disgrace.”
Dilman had waited patiently for the finish. When he saw that Eaton was done, winded, his chalky cheeks flushed with color, he knew the time had come.
“Eaton, I have no more to say to you, except what I said to your lady friend last night—get out of this room, or I shall have you thrown out. And clear out your office in the Department of State, or I’ll have the United States Marshal dump your effects in the street.”
For silent seconds, as if the firing had come with bullets, Eaton hung suspended before Dilman, riddled with disbelief. Finally he shook his head, turned on his heel, and crossed the room to his hat and coat. When he had picked them up, he shook his head once more.
“Dilman,” he said, regretful as an executioner, “I’m sorry for you, I really am, but you have given us no choice.” He paused, and then concluded, “As of twelve o’clock noon today, the resolution recommending your impeachment goes before the House of Representatives. I would wish you luck, but you don’t deserve it, and besides—it wouldn’t help you anyway.”
With that, Arthur Eaton, former Secretary of State, quickly left the Oval Office.
Holding the telephone receiver in one hand as he waited for Miss Foster to put through his call to the Mayflower Hotel, Douglass Dilman noted the time. Two hours had passed since he had fired Eaton and since he had learned that an effort would be made to impeach him.
It was now a quarter to twelve. He could visualize the scene on the Hill. Right now, bells were ringing throughout the Capitol corridors, buzzers were sounding in the offices of the representatives and in their committee rooms, announcing that the formal session of the House was about to begin.
Soon the corridors and elevators would be filled, and soon the House Chamber, too. At exactly noon, the mace would be placed on its marble column, and the acting Speaker would be announcing, “The House will be in order. Please rise while prayer is offered by the chaplain.”
Immediately after, the Speaker would receive the copy of the urgent resolution that Representative Zeke Miller had deposited in the hopper at the desk of the clerk. He would permit Miller, as author of the top-priority measure, to read out to his assembled colleagues and the gallery, “Resolved, that Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, be impeached of high crimes and misdemeanors in office.” Then there would be instantaneous pandemonium in the press gallery, among the visitors—in fact, among much of the House itself—and then, at last, all the world would know what was taking place.
By two o’clock the Speaker would have referred the impeachment resolution to Miller’s committee, a formality, since the committee had already secretly completed its investigation and voted its recommendation. By tomorrow, the resolution’s position on the House calendar would be waived, Miller’s committee would have given its recommendation, and the membership of the House would have resolved itself into the Committee of the Whole House on the State of the Union, a maneuver that allowed it to act on important legislation with a quorum of one hundred members, instead of more than twice that number which it normally required. Then the limited debate on the charges in the resolution for impeachment would begin, the debate preceding the vote on whether the President should or should not stand trial before the Senate for high crimes and misdemeanors. But that would be tomorrow, and the day after. For today, it was business enough to let the nation and the world know, for the first time, the scandalous and delinquent condu
ct of the President of the United States.
But right now, that was fifteen minutes to one hour and fifteen minutes away. The creation of the indictment, the speeding of it into the hopper, and out of it into committee, and out of committee onto the floor—this procedure accomplishing in hours what often required days and weeks—was still anticipated by only a relative handful of persons. On the Hill, the leaders and most influential legislators of both parties, and a few of their favorite newspapermen, already knew of it. In the White House, only Governor Talley and himself, and in the past hour Edna Foster and Tim Flannery, knew of it. On everyone else in Washington, in the United States, in the world, it would fall as a thunderclap.
Dilman was glad that he would not be present in the city for the sordid debate, for the vile lies and disgraceful calumny, for the charges and countercharges. Outside, on the south White House lawn, he was aware that the huge, blunt-nosed Marine helicopter was standing on its steel pad in readiness to lift him into the sky and spin him to Andrews Air Force Base, where the scarlet-and-silver jet airplane, with its Presidential emblem still on the door, would take him on his five-day inspection and speaking tour of the nation.
Eager as he was to escape the maelstrom of impending scandal, he had been made to reconsider his flight one hour ago. A distressed Tim Flannery had felt that leaving the scene of the impeachment fight at this time might be a tactical error. Since the debate would not be a trial, but the airing and consideration of an indictment, Flannery felt that the President would have no place to respond to the charges against him except in the press. From the Oval Office he might best, and most effectively, ridicule and refute the resolution for impeachment. From a distance his voice might be heard less distinctly.
Giving short shrift to his press secretary’s plea, Dilman had determined to adhere to his schedule. Once the impeachment effort was official, he would issue a single statement, perhaps from St. Louis or Cleveland, and after that, dignify the effort no further. He was confident, he had reassured his press secretary, no more would be required from him. The charges were so oversensational and so lacking in solid proof as to collapse readily from lack of factual foundation.
Yet there was one act that he must perform before his departure, and that was to speak to Nat Abrahams. He wondered why he had not told Nat Abrahams what was in the wind, and why he was not going to reveal it to him now. Then he knew. The two things he had in mind to discuss with Nat must not be discussed in the emotional atmosphere of his personal needs. It would not be fair to Nat, who had his own life to live.
And then, through the telephone at his ear, he heard his friend’s voice at last.
“Hello, Nat.”
“Doug, I’ll be damned. I thought you were already airborne.”
“Oh, I will be in ten minutes. I wanted my Dramamine to have a head start. How are Sue and the children?”
“Sue’s right here with me. She arrived this morning. She’s got everything under control back home. The kids are with the family. We didn’t want to pull them out of school until the beginning of February when the semester ends. I think we’ll go back for the Christmas holidays, though.”
“What about your Eagles Industries contract, Nat? Signed yet?”
“In four or five days. About the time you finish your tour. We’ll have to have a drink on it, although I’m not sure if it should be champagne or cyanide. . . . What about you, Doug? Anything special?”
“Nat, every day is special, it’s one endless crisis here.”
“Hey, that reminds me, Doug. What’s that in the morning paper about the FBI clamping down on the Vaduz Exporters? Isn’t that the outfit your—the firm that Wanda Gibson’s been working for?”
“Yes. That’s really why I’m calling you, Nat.”
“Is she in trouble?”
“No, no, nothing like that. She’s no more Communist than you and I are. She was, after all, just another employee there. She didn’t have the faintest idea that her boss was a Red agent or the company a Communist Front until yesterday morning. When she told me, I told her to get out. Anyway, what worries me is that she may be served a subpoena or something while I’m gone—”
“Doug, they have nothing on her, so why should anyone bother her?”
“We-ll, they might. You know our overzealous bloodhounds on Capitol Hill. And—and the case may have other ramifications—and there may be a lot of questions. I wouldn’t want Wanda feeling abandoned and scared, and without legal counsel. Now, I know you are up to your ears—”
“Doug, I’m doing nothing except waiting to affix my autograph to a contract. Of course, I’ll pitch in.”
“I’d be grateful. It would be a load off my mind. Maybe you can kind of look in on her—say, in a day or two.”
“Absolutely, Doug. In fact, I’ll nose around Justice a bit, and the Hill, to learn what’s going on. Then I’ll drive over and see Wanda.”
“Thank you, Nat. You’re the one person I can depend upon. Too bad I’m losing you to Avery Emmich. Maybe it’s not too late. Have you ever thought of coming into government? The pay is lousy, but the cocktail parties are free, and you get a lot of press clippings.”
“Me in government? Of course you’re kidding, Doug. Can’t you see me trying to conform to the Party? And compromise with the Attorney General? I’d last a fast eight hours in any Federal job. Of course, I can’t say it would be worse than what I am about to do. But in Eagles, at least they pay top wages for sin. I’ll come out only slightly sullied, and at least with cash and the farm to keep me warm. . . . You were just kidding me, weren’t you, Doug? I mean—”
“Yes, I was only kidding. You belong in government about as much as I do, except you’d be good at it. . . . Well, I can hear the helicopter’s choppers beating out there. I’d better be off. Good luck with your contract. Kiss Sue. And—and thanks again for keeping an eye on Wanda.”
Gently Dilman returned the telephone receiver to its cradle.
Well, he told himself, as expected: yes on Wanda, no dice on the other. He would have to go it alone, not that it had been different with Talley and Eaton as part of his administration.
He stared down at the last-minute papers waiting to be signed. He reached for his pen. He signed the note to Admiral Oates requesting that the foremost civilian orthopedic surgeons be brought in to try to save Otto Beggs’s leg. He signed the memorandum to Attorney General Kemmler, reminding him that Leroy Poole’s appeal for executive clemency must be expedited, now that the date of Hurley’s execution was drawing nearer. He signed the order for the Federal Marshal to barricade Arthur Eaton’s office in the Department of State, if necessary, to keep him out. He signed his own curt acceptance of Governor Wayne Talley’s resignation from his staff, as well as that of Talley’s friend and his own military aide, General Robert Faber. And finally, he reread the electric news announcement, prepared by Flannery, stating that he had removed Arthur Eaton from the position of Secretary of State because of their irreconcilable differences over foreign policy, and then he signed that too.
He called Miss Foster, to let her know what he had done, and to remind her to take care of the letters, and especially the news announcement, at once.
He pushed himself to his feet, gathered together the copies of the speeches he was to deliver, the briefing notes on the military installations he was to visit, the memorandum he had written to himself on what he could remember of the House’s impeachment charges, and he stuffed them into his already overcrowded briefcase. Once he had secured the lock of the briefcase, he found his hat and took down his heavy overcoat.
Thus laden, he went outside where the Secret Service men and Tim Flannery were waiting on the dry grass of the Rose Garden lawn. He fell in step with them, and headed for the noisy, vibrating bulk of the helicopter.
The weather was good, he noted, the sky over the Potomac clear. He wondered how long it would stay that way, and if, when he returned, he would be under a cloud at last.
Nat Abrahams’ shoe
pressed down on the brake, and he brought the rented Ford to a standstill at the red traffic light on Sixteenth Street. Once more he gave his attention to the half-open newspaper, purchased when he had left the Mayflower Hotel, with the double-banner headline reading:
PRESIDENT DILMAN IMPEACHMENT!
SCANDAL DEBATE OPENS IN HOUSE!
It amazed him that only yesterday, little more than twenty-four hours ago, Doug Dilman had telephoned him before leaving the city, and talked without giving a single hint or reference to this monstrous attack on his integrity. Dilman, he reasoned, must have known at that very time about the impeachment charges being mounted against him; yet, except for his concern over Wanda Gibson’s future, he had omitted discussing anything connected with them. He had pretended that his concern over Wanda was merely to see that she was protected from harassment by Congressional Red-baiters. Now, it was evident, he wanted her protected from the charge of having collaborated with the President in committing a treasonable act.
How typical of Doug Dilman, Abrahams thought, to seek no advance advice or help about the impeachment as a whole. Dilman had always been secretive about his personal family relationships. But this impeachment attempt was another matter. Yesterday Dilman had been at the brink of facing public infamy, and yet he had kept his silence. How difficult it must have been for him, privately knowing that he had discharged three of his inner circle, had left himself alone to fight against his slanderers, to refuse to seek the aid of his closest friend. His damnable pride, Abrahams thought, pride, which Defoe had once defined as “the first peer and president of Hell.” Yet, knowing Doug Dilman as he did, Abrahams could see that his reluctance to spill out his troubles might have been otherwise motivated. It might have been his Negro sensitivity that had so muted him, the feeling that he did not wish to overdraw his friendship balance with a white man, that he had no right to do so. On the other hand, perhaps he had sought Abrahams’ assistance after all. Hadn’t he said something to the effect that he was sorry to lose Abrahams to Avery Emmich’s corporation, that maybe it wasn’t too late to bring him into government? Had that been Dilman’s tentative feeling out of his friend, privately aware as he was of what lay ahead? Had Dilman wanted to sound out Abrahams on the possibility of his replacing Talley? Probably not, Abrahams decided, for if Dilman had desired him for so responsible a job, he would not have been afraid to mention it openly.
(1964) The Man Page 65