(1964) The Man

by Irving Wallace

  Miller’s lipless mouth was drawn back so that his yellowed teeth were exposed. “Boy, I don’t remember making no foolish promise like that there one, you understand? When Zeke Miller makes a promise, he keeps it. You’re not questioning my integrity, you’re not doing that, are you? That wouldn’t be sensible—would it?—for a reporter in an editorial room to doubt the word of the proprietor, would it now? I’ve seen my daddy, in his day, have his cotton pickers thrown off his land for less than that.”

  Murdock shriveled. “I—I’m only trying to say—”

  “Boy, what burr you got up your behind? You mean an important proud writing person like you is worrying about some cheating cullud girl, some Nigra tar baby who’s painted herself white because she wants to insinuate her class into our class? What’s happening to you, boy? Keep that up and I got a good mind to make you a foreign correspondent and send you off to cover Harlem permanently. Know what I mean? You wouldn’t like that, would you, feller? Come now, would you?”

  “No—no—I wouldn’t.”

  “Then get yourself back up to that gallery and write like you’re told, and don’t bother Zeke Miller again with any of that Northern weeping-willow crap.” Miller waved off to someone. “Hiya, Senator Watson. Time to get back to the combat field, I guess.”

  Abrahams watched Miller leave, in step with Senator Hoyt Watson. Quickly, he glanced at Murdock. The reporter’s face was sallow gray, like a scrap of ancient papyrus. Some kind of involuntary utterance came from him, more moan than sigh, and he turned, head down, and went slowly back to the press gallery, as Abrahams, aching for his humiliation, averted his eyes.

  Then, seeing that the Marble Room was quickly emptying, Abrahams tapped out the ashes from his bowl, pocketed the warm pipe, and fell in line behind those returning to the Senate Chamber.

  When he took his place at the President’s managers’ table, he could see the Chief Justice already on the bench above, Julian Dilman in the witness chair timidly prepared for anything, and the last of the absent senators squeezing back in behind their desks.

  Chief Justice Johnstone’s gavel came down. After calling the court to order, announcing his decision on the point of law which conceded the correctness of the senatorial challenge and therefore required no vote by the body of legislators present, the magistrate ordered, “Senators will please give their undivided attention. The counsel for the House of Representatives will proceed with the examination of the witness.”

  Zeke Miller bounced up from his table, came to the front of the podium, and planted himself before Julian Dilman.

  “Well, now, Mr. Julian Dilman, we have arrived at the core of the charges in Article II of this impeachment. You have confessed, in a public statement, that you were an early and secret underground member of the subversive Turnerite Group. There is no arguing about that now, is there? We can accept your public confession of membership in full, can’t we? Or do you wish to retract it?”

  “I was a member, yes,” said Julian, “exactly the way I announced it last week.”

  “I am pleased Mr. Witness confesses to the confession.” Miller waited for the laughter from the gallery to subside, and then he asked, “Before the day of your public confession, did the President, your father, know you were a member of the subversive Turnerite Group?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You say, ‘No, sir’? Let me explore this further. Did the President, your father, ever make mention of the Turnerites to you, in speech or writing?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Oh, he did discuss the subversive Turnerite Group with you? Did he inquire if you were a member?”

  “Yes, he did, but—”

  “Why would he inquire if you were a member? Was it just paternal curiosity or did he have suspicions of you?”

  “He’d heard I was a member. Someone told him.”

  “Ah, ‘someone’ told him,” said Miller. “In other words, he was in contact with someone who definitely knew? He was in touch with other secret Turnerites?”

  “No, not exactly—”

  “Never mind. The point is that the President had been informed that you, his son, were a Turnerite, and he went to you, and desired for you to confirm the news of your membership?”

  “He didn’t know I was one of them, but he had heard a rumor, yes. He was upset. He tried to pin me down. I denied everything. I lied to him, because—because I was afraid.”

  “Afraid of whom, Mr. Witness? Afraid of your real boss, the late murderer, Jefferson Hurley—or afraid of your father’s wrath?”

  “Both.”

  “So you lied to your father. Are you in the habit of lying often, Mr. Dilman?”

  “No. But my situation made it necessary that one time.”

  “If you could lie to your parent, if you could lie to the President of the United States, might you not be capable of lying to this high tribunal?”

  Abrahams leaped to his feet. “Objection, Mr. Chief Justice! Mr. Manager Miller is baiting and leading the witness.”

  Miller looked up at Chief Justice Johnstone, all bland innocence. “Mr. Justice, I am merely attempting to establish the devious character of—”

  The Chief Justice’s gavel rapped. “Objection sustained. The witness is under solemn oath, Mr. Manager Miller. Avoid further speculation on his veracity.”

  Miller shrugged good-naturedly and considered his witness once more. “Let’s see, Mr. Julian Dilman, what have we established up to now? That you were covertly a blood member of a subversive organization. That your father heard about it. That your father confronted you with the fact, and you denied it, you lied to him. Now, from his subsequent actions, we must wonder if your father, the President of the United States, believed your denial—or if he knew more about your affiliation than he had told you. Let us see, let us see. The Turnerites, in their efforts to overthrow the established government of the United States, perpetrated a planned kidnaping of a municipal official. Despite this, as the Attorney General has testified in writing, the President refused to outlaw the society which had been responsible for this outrage. Instead, he appointed a friend and tenant of his, a Nigra lobbyist, to talk and deal privately with the Turnerites. Then, when your organization committed foul murder, the President still refused to condemn your friends until he was forced to bend to the pressure of the Justice Department and outlaw your organization. Would that not clearly indicate that Hurley had threatened to expose you, unless your father, the President, went soft on the Turnerites? Would that not clearly indicate your father, the President, knew his son was a member of a lawless society, and, to protect his son, treated with the Turnerites, went easy on them, until a life was lost? Would that not indicate that your father, the President, putting his own interests, the interests of his family, before the interests of his high office, was guilty of high crime and—”

  “That’s not true!” Julian protested. “He didn’t believe I was involved, and he made no deals with them.”

  “How do you know, Mr. Julian Dilman? You weren’t there when the President’s emissary was treating with the Turnerites.”

  “Neither were you!”

  Miller’s face darkened. “You are being insolent, young man. Who taught you your manners? The Commie terrorists and Nigra extremists in your crowd? Or the President himself?”

  “Objection!” Abrahams called out.

  Miller held a hand up to the bench. “Never mind, Mr. Chief Justice. I retract. I fear the younger generation can often be provoking. . . . Very well, Mr. Julian Dilman, your father had heard you were a bona fide member of this violent, now outlawed, society. Let’s find out what nefarious activities you performed while serving—”

  Half listening to Miller’s continuing examination, Nat Abrahams jotted notes on the pad before him. Miller, he realized, was making his best of a bad thing. Miller had failed to prove that the President knew of his son’s membership and had therefore promised the Turnerites he would go easy on them if they kept Julian’s me
mbership quiet. Yet, proof or no proof, Miller was succeeding, by using the tactic of repetition. In lending some credulity to the charges in Article II. Had not the President “heard” his son was a member and accused him of it? Therefore, he might possibly have “known” for certain. Had not the President appointed a “friend,” instead of a government official, to arrange a compromise with Hurley through Valetti? Therefore, he may possibly have been party to an underhand “deal.”

  After five minutes more, Miller concluded his examination, and Nat Abrahams stood before the shaken young Negro boy.

  In as kind a tone as possible, Abrahams said to Julian, “Since the House managers have no witnesses, no firsthand evidence whatsoever, that the President believed you were a Turnerite, that the President made a deal with the Turnerites to protect you, the charge embodied in Article II stands or falls completely on your word. Julian Dilman, you have taken solemn oath before the Senate body, at the risk of being charged with perjury, that you will here tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God. You are entirely cognizant of that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did the President, in a private room at Trafford University, ask you if you were a member of the Turnerite Group?”

  “He did.”

  “And you told him you were not a member?”

  “I told him I was not a member.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did he ever bring up the subject again?”

  “He did not, sir. He believed me.”

  “In short, Julian Dilman, as far as you know, the President was satisfied from that day on that you were not a member of the Turnerites?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Therefore, he would have no reason to compromise himself with the Turnerites in order to protect you?”

  “He would have no reason whatsoever, sir.”

  “You have told the learned manager of the House that the President did, on several occasions, discuss the Turnerite movement with you, other than discussing your own possible involvement. Is this so?”

  “Oh, yes. We talked about them. I mean, he didn’t discuss the Turnerites with me. I discussed them with him. I always brought them up.”

  “Why did you bring them up?”

  “I felt worried about secretly belonging, without his knowledge, and wanted to convince him that the ideals of the Group were good ones. Then, at the time, I believed in the society, and he did not, and we used to argue about it.”

  “What were the President’s feelings about the Turnerites?”

  “He thought they were all wrong. He detested them. He hated every extremist and pro-violence organization, black or white, left or right. So we would argue. But now I can see my father was correct.”

  “Julian Dilman, one thing puzzles me. Allow me to pose the puzzle in the form of several questions. You were a member, yet you never told your father about it. Why did you not tell him? Why did you lie about this one thing? You informed Mr. Manager Miller you were afraid of revealing the truth to the President. What were you afraid of?”

  “Well—”

  “Were you afraid of breaking your pledge of secrecy to Hurley?”

  “Only a little. That was the least part of it.”

  “What was the major part of it, then? Were you afraid of your father’s disapproval?”

  “I—I knew how much he was against those extremists. I knew how much he hoped for me and expected of me. I knew that if I told him, he—he would be horrified, and disappointed by the way I’d turned out, and think less of me. I knew he loved me and—I didn’t want to lose his love.”

  “I see.”

  It was a fine moment to dismiss the witness, but Abrahams knew that one more question needed to be asked. “Is that why you finally confessed your secret? It was your secret, and you might have kept it forever. Yet, last week, you made it known to the press and the world. What compelled you to do so? Why did you—when it was no longer necessary—jeopardize your character, make your veracity questionable, and give ammunition to the smallest and weakest part of the House managers’ indictment?”

  “Why?” Julian paused. “Because—I guess because I was so proud of my father’s integrity—and—and ashamed of my own lack of it—and my own ambition was to grow up to be a man like he was, and is—and I decided the way to start was to be honest like him.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Witness.”

  After Julian had left the witness box, Abrahams returned to his table. He could not calculate, from the reaction of his associates or that of the senators, how effective his cross-examination had been. He decided that if it had accomplished nothing else, it had shown the legislators that the President’s son was sincere and trustworthy, and that although Julian had lied once, it was not likely that he was lying under oath today. If this image had been created, Abrahams decided, it was something, little enough, but something, a small victory. And perhaps the scale of justice (or injustice) so heavily weighted against his client had been lightened, and was better balanced, if only a trifle.

  Suddenly Abrahams realized that Miss Wanda Gibson had been summoned, and was already standing before the Secretary of the Senate, right hand raised.

  The Secretary of the Senate droned forth, “You, Wanda Gibson, do affirm that the evidence you shall give in the case now depending between the United States and Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth: so help you God.”

  “I do, so help me God.”

  “The witness will kindly be seated.”

  It pleased Abrahams to see her there, so composed, so attractive in her blue jersey dress and matching jacket. Wanda’s luminous eyes, shining out of her solemn tan face, fleetingly caught Abrahams’ gaze, and they flickered as if to reassure him, and he was grateful for her piquant maturity. He hoped that Doug Dilman was watching on television. Perhaps he would be less worried about the ordeal to which he had subjected her.

  But then, as Zeke Miller materialized, Abrahams’ confidence in her buckled slightly. She would have to be as resilient on the inside as she appeared to be poised on the outside, if she were to survive without serious hurt.

  “Miss Wanda Gibson, I have it,” said Miller, slurring the syllables of her name. “According to Articles I and III of the impeachment, according to the testimony already received, you are the great and good friend of the President of the United States. How long have you known him?”

  “Five years.”

  “How long have you lived under his roof?”

  “I have rented a room from the Reverend Paul Spinger and Mrs. Spinger, the upstairs tenants, for six years. The President purchased the building, occupied the lower half of the duplex, and became the Spingers’ landlord, and, in turn, mine, five years ago.”

  “Do you pay rent for your room?”

  “Of course I pay rent for my room.”

  “Have you always paid rent? Did you pay rent when the President lived in the same building with you?”

  “If you are trying to say, Mr. Congressman, that I accepted special favors from my landlord in return for special favors—the answer is no, I did not.” There was a wide tittering across the gallery, and Wanda looked up with surprise, and then down at Miller. She said, “I have never missed payment of a single month’s rent.”

  Miller sniffed. “Miss Gibson, were you ever, in those five years, alone with the President, either in his downstairs flat or your own?”

  “Never in his flat. Occasionally in the Spingers’ living room. Most often, we were alone on the outside, when we went to dinner or the theater, that is, when the President was a senator.”

  “Miss Gibson, in this dwelling on Van Buren Street where you live, which the President owns, is there any means of private access one could use to go from the downstairs to the upstairs, or vice versa?”

  “Do you mean, is there some kind of private stairway or hidden passage by which t
he President and I could have seen one another without being seen by others?”

  “I will request you to refrain from rewording or defining my questions, Miss Gibson. I mean precisely what I asked. Did the President have any private means of getting to your quarters or you to his?”

  “No. Unless he used a ladder—or the vine that grows on the back wall—but I doubt if the President is, or ever was, that athletic or romantically foolhardy.”

  The spectators in the gallery roared with laughter, and some stamped and whistled.

  Chief Justice Johnstone’s gavel slammed down hard. When peace was restored, the robed magistrate warned, “The Chief Justice will admonish strangers and citizens in the galleries of the necessity of observing perfect order and profound silence—at the penalty of being evicted.”

  Zeke Miller was staring at the witness. “Miss Gibson, previous witnesses who were acquainted with both you and the President, when he was a senator, have agreed that you had a close relationship with him. How close was it?”

  “For the most part, about as close as you and I are right here.”

  “Previous testimony indicates otherwise.”

  “What does previous testimony indicate, Congressman?”

  “That you, Miss Gibson, and the man who is now President had a relationship which might be regarded, by some classes, as an illicit liaison.”

  “Can you prove that scandalous allegation? What do you possess, beyond a desire to defame the President, to support it?”

  “Miss Gibson, circumstantial evidence, strong circumstantial evidence, is enough. The records of your visits and dating together, your telephone conversations, they are enough. The affair is indicated plainly. That is enough.”

  “Enough only for backstairs gossips and vindictive persecutors—”

  “Watch your tongue, Miss Gibson. You are sworn—”

  “Watch yours, Mr. Manager. You have no proof. You have hopes. You have hopes, and hearsay, and indications. And on that you are trying to build a straw Romeo and a straw Juliet. What you are building is a nonexistent affair, a fabrication, and I am the only one in this Chamber who knows the truth, and that is what I am telling you.”