As the morning’s vital strategy session approached its conclusion, Dilman studied the men whose clever minds, vast legal experience, honest interest in justice would represent him before the bar.
Dominating the four, of course, was Nat Abrahams himself, chestnut hair rumpled, seamed profile drawn, long frame slouched into the heart-backed Victorian chair, as he chewed the hard rubber stem of his briar pipe and listened. His trusted junior partner, a brilliant graduate of the University of Chicago School of Law, was animatedly speaking. Felix Hart was deceptively callow-looking, cherubic, ebullient, imitative of Nat’s careless manner of dress—deceptively, because his easy outer aspect hid a pertinacious, clawlike, investigative brain. It was he who had supervised and directed the dredging up of all of Dilman’s earlier life in the Midwest, trying to pinpoint what might be harmful to their case and at the same time watch for what might be useful.
Listening, also, was the elder statesman of the quartet, the renowned Walter T. Tuttle, a onetime Attorney General during The Judge’s administration, whom The Judge had rousted out of recent retirement to join the defense team. A courtly old-school gentleman in his late seventies, Tuttle had a countenance as American as any that had been sculptured on Mount Rushmore. The opaque eyes screened a slow but direct mentality. The tone of his utterances was dry, yet often tart. Tuttle’s affectation was not that he was a country squire, which he was, but that he was a farmer in citified clothes, which he was not. He had been widely quoted for a remark made during his service in The Judge’s Cabinet, that he “always avoided any dinner where there were three forks beside the plate.” His specialty was constitutional law, and as a youngster he had sat behind his father, an eminent attorney turned congressman, when his father had been one of the House managers trying Judge Halsted L. Ritter before the Senate during the Seventy-fourth Congress, in 1936. Judge Ritter had been impeached, like Dilman, on four articles. Acquitted on all but one charge, which was that of “misbehavior” in office, he had been found guilty by the Senate and removed from office.
Speaking now was the fourth of Dilman’s managers, a slight, pensive attorney still in his thirties named Joel Booker Priest. Conservative and immaculate, Priest had attended every meeting with his slick, shiny hair smoothly in place, his person exuding a pine-scented cologne, and his body always garmented in one of his costly single-breasted suits. Joel Booker Priest was a Negro, of dark tan complexion, who now and then had handled special cases for Spinger and the Crispus Society. His law firm was in Washington, and quietly, but with the eager persistence of a bird dog, he had retraced Dilman’s life in the capital city and had attempted to ferret out what Miller, Wickland, and the other opposition managers were planning to present to the Senate.
Observing Joel Priest this minute, as he tried to surmise the House’s case in support of Article IV, and as the others hung on his every word, Douglass Dilman was incredulous at how much he himself had changed in short days. Not long ago, the very thought of a Negro defending him in any action would have been frightening. It was Spinger who had suggested Priest’s services to Abrahams, and Abrahams who had then studied the Negro lawyer’s career and met him. And when Abrahams had recommended him, surprisingly, Dilman had asked only one question, “Why do you want him, Nat, because you think it might look good to have someone of my own color on the team?” Nat had snorted, “I want him because he’s good.” And Dilman had replied, without reservation or hesitancy, “He’s hired.”
Suddenly Dilman was aware that the others were pushing back their chairs and standing.
“Well, that’s it, gentlemen,” Nat Abrahams said. “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be. Remember, we’ve been assigned the Vice-President’s formal office next to the Senate Reception Room for our private headquarters. They’re turning over two of the late Vice-President Porter’s other offices for our stenographers and researchers, but the formal office will be the brain center. You can unpack there. I’ll catch up with you about eleven, and we can have a quiet lunch together, and then be ready for the fireworks at one o’clock. Oh, there’s another thing, Mr. Tuttle—” Abrahams turned to Dilman. “Mr. President, I’d better walk with them to the elevator. Then I’d like to come back and have a few more words with you alone. Can you spare ten minutes?”
Dilman nodded. “Certainly, Nat. I think I’d better get dressed first. I’ll only be a short time. I’ll meet you in here.”
He preceded his managers into the second-floor hall, then thanking them warmly and wishing them luck, he parted company with the four. As Abrahams went left down the hall, deeply engrossed in conversation with his associates on the way to the private elevator, Dilman turned right and entered the Lincoln Bedroom.
After throwing aside the terry-cloth bathrobe, he dressed slowly. As he was getting into his shirt, pulling on his trousers, his thoughts dwelt on the impeachment, and then, as if by a force of will, wishing a respite from the suspense of it, he temporarily shoved it to the back of his mind. He reviewed the week of days that had brought him from the Iowa farmhouse, and his resolve to fight for his life rather than quit, to this forbidding morning in the Andrew Johnson Cabinet room of the White House, and the last meeting before his actual trial would begin.
Most of that week gone by had been given over to building his actual defense against impeachment, to the seemingly endless meetings with Nat Abrahams and the other managers, and yet there had been other persons who had populated his world in the last seven days.
In many respects, since the impending Senate trial cast a shadow over his every activity, it had been a mean and arduous week. The language of law used this last hour permeated his thinking, and when he recalled the week he had lived through, he considered it in concise legal terms.
Specification one: the said Douglass Dilman and Wanda Gibson. He had telephoned her at the Spingers’ the midnight after his return from the Midwest. He had told her of his decision to fight, and she had broken into tears, and contained them, and been only slightly heartened after he had added the news that Nat Abrahams had thought enough of his chances to undertake the defense. She had dreaded his impending Calvary, the vilification to which he would be subjected, the disgrace that would probably be his, but in the end she had accepted his decision fatalistically. He had telephoned her twice more, once learning that the House had served her with a subpoena to appear as a witness (this had made him miserable and apologetic, and he had blamed himself for her suffering so much over a relationship from which she had derived so little fulfillment), the second time learning that she had decided, after working it all out in her mind, that she was proud that he was going to stand up to his traducers. Wanda’s devotion to him had been unreserved, yet now he could not be positive that it was the product of love rather than pity.
Specification two: the said Douglass Dilman and Julian Dilman, relative. The second evening, he had brought his son down to Washington for a last talk before the trial. Julian had sworn to Joel Priest that he had no connection with the Turnerite Group, and since Priest had a complete account of this denial, there was no more need for Dilman to go into it further. Rather, Dilman and Julian had dined together as father and son. Dilman had learned that because of the impeachment, there had been some sentiment among the Negro undergraduates of Trafford University which had turned in his favor, even though the greater proportion of the student body still resented him for the discredit his alleged conduct had visited upon the Negro population. It was clear to Dilman that his son was undergoing an unspoken trial of his own on the campus, and that he was torn between emotional sympathy for his father and intellectual sympathy for his fellow students, who felt that his father’s weakness had led to the scandalous court action. With gravity, so that there would be no question in his son’s mind, Dilman had explained to Julian the answers that his managers were preparing against the widely publicized indictments. Once only had Mindy’s name been mentioned, and then by Dilman. He had wondered what she, unfettered and free in her white world, must t
hink of all of this. Julian had offered no comment. They had said good night awkwardly, and not until the next morning had Dilman learned that Julian had received his subpoena from the House while boarding the train that would take him back to New York City, and then on to Trafford.
Specification three: the said Douglass Dilman and Sally Watson. He had not seen his former social secretary since the night that he had dismissed her. Yet he had not been able to avoid her sick vengefulness. At least three interviews that she had volunteered to the press had made national headlines, the latest and most sensational having appeared in the middle of the week under the joint by-lines of Reb Blaser and George Murdock. In print she had been quoted as remarking, “President Dilman likes to pretend he’s a celibate deacon, but I can tell you, and his impeachers have photographs of my cuts and bruises to prove it, he’s no better than some illiterate oversexed buck Negro who’s gotten tired of his ‘cullud gals’ and wants to make time with the whites.” In the same libelous story, too, Senator Hoyt Watson had stated, “I don’t intend to demean myself by contesting with the President, more rightfully His Royal Accidency, in the public press. I shall wait to hear the legal evidence. But if the House charges are supported, then his personal conduct, the degradation he has visited upon our most exalted office, will be uppermost in my mind, in the minds of my fellow senators, when we sit as his judges.” The story had concluded with the sidelight that Miss Watson had placed her subpoena to appear as a witness for the prosecution in a gold frame on her mantelpiece.
Specification four: the said Douglass Dilman and Edna Foster. Upon his return from the Midwest, it had surprised him to find his Negro Senate secretary, Diane Fuller, making a shambles of his affairs in Miss Foster’s office. It appeared that Miss Foster had fallen ill of a kidney ailment, and would be both indisposed and incommunicado for several weeks, at a time when he needed her most. Then, two days ago, from Tim Flannery, he had received some inkling of the true nature of Miss Foster’s illness. She had been served with a subpoena to be a prosecution witness against the President. Dilman had been disturbed and confused by the information that his confidential secretary would appear as a witness for the prosecution. Until now, he had considered her a loyal and tight-lipped assistant. Unless she was collaborating with the enemy against her will, her defection was inexplicable. Besides, Dilman had wondered, of what value could Edna Foster be to his opposition?
Specification five: the said Douglass Dilman and Montgomery Scott, CIA. He had spoken with Scott three times in the past four days. Scott had reported that by now the CIA had a network of native agents, working hand in hand with Kwame Amboko’s own security force, throughout the back hills and frontiers of Baraza. Scott had expected definitive intelligence information on the Russian buildup any day. Then, last night, he had requested a meeting with the President for this afternoon, and had hinted that it might be wise for the President to arrange a conference with his military advisers immediately afterward. Dilman had taken the hint. After seeing Scott this afternoon, he would meet with Secretary of Defense Steinbrenner and General Fortney. Normally, he would not have looked forward to the conference with these formidable Pentagon chiefs. He suspected that most of the military had contempt for him, hoped for his conviction in the Senate, regarding him as no better than another “big-shot boogie getting too large for his breeches,” a phrase attributed to General Fortney. One new mitigating factor, however, made this confrontation with his Pentagon advisers seem less disagreeable. It would be the first meeting that Brigadier General Leo Jaskawich would attend as the President’s newly appointed military aide. For, once Dilman had returned to Washington, he realized that he would require not only a replacement for his former military aide, but for Governor Talley as well. Immediately, his mind had gone back to Jaskawich, and their talk atop the launching pad at Cape Kennedy and their conversation afterward. Then Dilman had known that what he desperately needed as much as an adviser was another human being on his team he could trust. He had telephoned Jaskawich in Florida, offered him the position, and quickly reminded him that it could be both short-lived and detrimental to his career. If Dilman were convicted, as he likely would be, Dilman had said, Jaskawich’s Washington job would be ended in a matter of weeks. Worse, Dilman had warned him, was the danger of guilt by association. Jaskawich was an authentic American hero. If he wore his spotless armor in the wrong cause, the cause of one soon to be purged for high crimes and misdemeanors, the astronaut’s own image would be irreparably tarnished. It would be absolutely understandable to him, and he would think no less of Jaskawich, Dilman had said, if the astronaut turned down the position being offered. Jaskawich had replied simply, “Have armor, will travel. See you in twenty-four hours.”
From somewhere, musical chimes interrupted Dilman’s specifications of activity past and future. What remained was the immediate present. The hands pointing to the Roman numerals on the Empire clock told him it was eight-thirty. The south windows, on either side of the clock, were spattered with rain. For several seconds Dilman listened to the downpour outside. Often, in the past, he had found that a rainy day had a comforting effect upon him. It confined one’s activities. It heightened one’s appreciation of shelter. It made one feel, if one was indoors, apart from the uncontrolled nature of the universe, safe and apart from it, and in complete repose. Perhaps the pleasure was primitive, harking back to the dry Paleolithic man, snug near the fire in his cave, as the tempest raged outside. Yet, this morning, the rain disappointed Dilman. It seemed the enemy’s rain, imprisoning him, daring him, adding portentous urgency to the need for survival. His was an unquiet cave.
Quickly, Dilman knotted his tie, buttoned his suit coat, slipped a handful of cigars into one pocket and hastily made his way back to the Monroe Room for his last exchange, this first judgment day, with the one who had sacrificed so much in an attempt to save him.
Nat Abrahams was there, scanning and discarding the newspapers that Dilman had left behind.
“Quite a splash you’re making, Doug,” he said. He held up the front page of the newspaper in his hands. The banner headline announced:
MOST DRAMATIC TRIAL IN HISTORY BEGINS TODAY.
Beneath the headline, side by side, were two photographs. One was a picture of Dilman being hustled off the platform at Trafford University while eggs erupted around him. The other was a shot of members of the Senate at their desks in the Chamber. The bold caption read:
IN THIS CORNER THE PRESIDENT—
IN THIS CORNER THE SENATE—
ONE MAN AGAINST ONE HUNDRED—ARE THOSE THE RINGSIDE ODDS AGAINST DILMAN?
“Yes,” said Dilman. “Did you see the lead? Read it.”
Abrahams brought the newspaper into his line of vision. He read aloud:
“ ‘At precisely one o’clock this afternoon, in the hallowed Chamber of the United States Senate, there will unfold what promises to be one of the most memorable trials in the history of the Western Hemisphere—rivaling in drama and importance the great trials of our civilization—those of Socrates, Jeanne d’Arc, Galileo, King Charles I, Mary Queen of Scots, Lord Warren Hastings, President Andrew Johnson—and matching in raw sensationalism and fevered public interest the lesser trials of our time—those of Aaron Burr, the Tichborne claimant, the cadet Archer-Shee, John Brown, Sacco and Vanzetti, John T. Scopes, Bruno Hauptmann. For the second time in the history of the United States, a Chief Executive of the land will go before the tribunal of the people’s Senate to be judged guilty or not guilty of high crimes and misdemeanors—’ ” Abrahams suddenly crumpled the newspaper and cast it aside. “Bunk,” he said. “Thank God the people will be able to see it for themselves on television. I think that’s an advantage, don’t you, Doug?”
“I don’t know,” said Dilman.
“I think so. If we didn’t have television, we’d have, in effect, a closed chamber hearing, sort of a secret kangaroo court, with the senators less responsive to their constituents’ wishes. The news of the pros and cons would be
funneled out by maybe twenty-five regulars of the White House press and maybe one thousand other correspondents, and everything could be angled for reader interest rather than truth. As it stands now, the people will be able to see for themselves what goes on and make up their own minds, not get the story second or third hand through other minds. For the first time in history, an impeachment will be judged not only by the senators and press, but by the voters concerned. You’ll have 230 million judges, Doug, not merely 100.”
“Is that necessarily good?”
“Not necessarily, but probably. The masses become impatient with absurdity much faster than a narrow group of locked-in legislators. Witness what happened to Senator Joe McCarthy. I’ve always thought that if we’d had television back in 1868, President Andrew Johnson’s impeachment trial would not have lasted three months, but three weeks, if that long. The people would have seen through the politics and prejudices of the so-called impartial judges, their congressmen, and they’d have risen up and demanded Johnson’s acquittal at once. In fact, they would have probably demanded that two-thirds of the Senate be impeached. No, Doug, I’ll take my chances on the electronic eye. If it helps us in no other way, it at least guarantees us that Zeke Miller and Bruce Hankins won’t dare to bamboozle their Hill clan with any bigoted anti-minority sleight-of-hand.”
Dilman had unwrapped his first cigar of the morning. He lighted it, enjoyed the aroma briefly, and then took a chair across from Abrahams. “Well, Nat,” he said, “now we’re alone, the two of us, a few hours before the showdown. Truly, what do you think are my chances?”
“Honest to God, I can’t say, Doug. Usually, going into any trial, I have a suspicion of what may happen, I can make an educated guess as to the outcome. But this impeachment business is so unique—the procedure so damn irregular—that no matter how much homework you’ve done, you can’t predict what is going on in those 100 senatorial heads today or what will be in those heads two weeks from today. After all, we have only a single precedent to go by. Just as the newspaper said, there’s only been one Presidential impeachment trial before this. Of course, that gives us several guideposts—” He stopped, and considered Dilman. “How familiar are you with the Andrew Johnson trial?”
(1964) The Man Page 73