“Miss Gibson, do not insult the intelligence of this court. Do you mean to tell me that you, a grown single woman, enjoyed a friendship with a mature widowed male for five years, and there was no intimacy between you, not once in five years?”
“Intimacy?”
“Come now, Miss Gibson, you know very well what I mean.”
“I suspect I do, and I am appalled. Congressman Miller, the friendship I had with the President was based on mutual respect, common intellectual interests, and the simple pleasure of being together. We had an abiding affection for one another. We held hands. We embraced. We kissed. But, sorry as I am to disappoint you, there was nothing more furtive or lurid that ever occurred.”
“I am not disputing your sincerity, Miss Gibson, but do you mean to tell me that a person like the President—his intemperate habits have already been introduced into—”
“What intemperate habits?”
“Drinking, excessive drinking, for one thing.”
“Drinking? The President? Surely you’re joking. All he ever drank in my presence was carbonated water, celery tonic, and occasionally wine at dinner. Two glasses of wine and he fell asleep. The sight of a bourbon advertisement made him take me home early. You’re joking.”
“And you, Madam Witness, are flippant, excessively so, to the detriment of the person you, understandably, are trying to protect.”
“If I am flippant, it is because your questions inspire only my contempt, and yet I do not think they deserve the honest emotion of contempt, not from a lady and not in a court.”
“I will leave it to the honorable members of the Senate to judge your performance. However, before entering into the serious matter of how your close relationship with the President, your kiss-and-tell Vaduz relationship—”
Abrahams was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor!”
Miller gave a disdainful gesture toward Abrahams. “Forget it. I’ll rephrase. . . . Miss Gibson, before entering into the series of questions designed to extract from you the full story of how you were able to acquire from the President privileged state information, and pass it on to your Communist employers, in support of Article I of the House indictment, I wonder if you would be kind enough to reply to one more question about your friendship with the President. Did the President find your companionship so rewarding, so fulfilling, for five years, that he did not think it necessary to ask your hand in marriage?”
“Congressman, I suspect the implication behind your question is an insult.”
“No offense intended—”
“You are implying, despite my sworn denial, that the President and I did have an affair, and that this satisfied him sufficiently to keep him from proposing marriage.”
“Miss Gibson, you said that, I didn’t.”
“Congressman, when a snake rattles, you know it’s just a rattle, not a bite, but you know the meaning of the sound, and what comes next.”
“Miss Gibson, I will not be diverted by a lecture in zoology. I want the facts of your relationship with the President set before this tribunal. Miss Gibson, after five years, why did the President and yourself not legalize your relationship?”
“Not legalize our relationship?”
“Not marry, Miss Gibson. Why did you not marry?”
“Because he never asked me. I think he meant to, but I think he was afraid.”
“The President—afraid?”
“Of people like you, Mr. Manager, who might think him too black for me, and me too white for him, and who might cry out that our union would be mongrelizing the Congress, where he was once a member, or the White House, where he is now the President. If you are through with the Madame du Barry part of my life, Mr. Manager, can we go on to the Mata Hari part? I’m eager to know how it all comes out.”
Ten minutes later, when Zeke Miller, mopping his wet bald pate, had finished the Mata Hari part and grimly gone back to his table, it was Nat Abrahams’ turn.
Abrahams rose. “Mr. Chief Justice, the President’s managers waive cross-examination. The witness may be dismissed without recall.”
He smiled at Wanda Gibson as she left the stand. Maybe the Senate had another view of it, but for Abrahams, the President’s lady needed no further defense this day or ever. Perhaps, Abrahams reasoned, her flippancy—how difficult the attitude must have been for her, considering her essential seriousness and concern, yet how unwaveringly she had maintained that pose, determined to ridicule the outrageous charges—may have offended some senators, coming, as it did, from a mulatto. Nevertheless, Abrahams believed she had more than adequately defended herself and the man she loved. She required no counsel’s assist. If most of the Senate appreciated her sparring with Miller, her ridiculing of Miller’s charges, then her triumph was not a small one.
Scanning the inscrutable public faces of the senators as they watched Wanda Gibson leave, Abrahams could detect nothing decisive, neither favorable nor unfavorable reactions.
Looking past the podium, Abrahams saw Zeke Miller’s manner change. He appeared to light up. Then Abrahams beheld the witness who was approaching, the witness whose deceptively innocent face was set firmly in cold determination.
Sally Watson, blond hair combed bell-like for the occasion, taupe wool sheath accentuating her feminine contours, mink stole on her arm, had gone up before the witness chair and the Secretary of the Senate.
Tuttle, beside Abrahams, leaned closer. “She looks as if she’s going to be hard on us,” he whispered.
“She will be,” Abrahams whispered in return.
Zeke Miller, rubbing his hands with apparent relish, dipping his head to the seated witness in a gallant welcome, addressed her with the deference he might have accorded Varina Howell Davis—Jefferson Davis’ Varina—flower of the Confederacy.
“Miss Watson, considering the nature of your familial ties, the fact that your brilliant and beloved parent is a member of this august body, considering the ordeal you have recently undergone, it is an act of uncommon bravery and patriotism for you to have volunteered to appear here in public this afternoon. All of us in the legislative branch are appreciative that you are ready to become a collaborator in our search for the truth, in our desire to purify and strengthen the executive branch of our noble government. For my part, I shall attempt to make your appearance as brief as possible.”
“Thank you, Representative Miller.”
“I understand that you have insisted upon coming here against your physician’s wishes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because you felt that no affidavit could adequately reveal what injury and humiliation you have suffered?”
“I believed the Senate should know what I know, sir.”
“We will proceed. Why did you, one week after Douglass Dilman assumed the Presidency, apply for the position as his social secretary?”
“Certainly not for reasons of personal advancement, Representative Miller. My father, as you know, has always been able to educate and care for his family. I had heard—because of my wide acquaintance in Washington—I had heard that many of the White House staff were resigning, since their loyalty had been only to T. C. Also, I had heard that Miss Laurel, the First Lady’s social secretary, was leaving the White House with her. I read and heard that the new President had no woman to bring into the White House to assist him with the ordinary refinements and duties that only a lady versed in the social amenities could help him with. Of course, at that time I did not know he had a grown daughter passing herself off as a white person in secret.”
“No, none of us knew that, Miss Watson.”
“I knew also that it would be difficult for President Dilman to find someone to fill a specialized position such as social secretary. Because of his—his background—his lack of knowledge of formal entertaining—it would make the position doubly burdensome. Few qualified ladies were prepared to undertake such responsibility for such meager recompense.”
“So you applied as a duty, in the same way a socialite mi
ght lend herself to hospital work?”
“If you want to put it that way, yes. I wanted to be of use, to do my part in maintaining the continuity of the social life in the White House.”
“You felt you were qualified?”
“I believed so. I had attended Radcliffe. I had handled the entertaining of account executives for an advertising agency in New York. I had often served as my father’s hostess. I believed that I was qualified, and apparently I was, for the President hired me during my first interview with him, and often congratulated me on my ability in managing his limited social affairs.”
“Did you find the position agreeable, Miss Watson?”
“In every respect except one.”
“Except one? Do I dare inquire in what area you found the position disagreeable?”
“I don’t mind. It is time the—the truth came out. Some of my friends begged me not to take the position. They said it was known that the President had been, well, carrying on with an unmarried white woman—of course, I later learned she was an unmarried mulatto woman—and that his morals were questionable. I ignored that as the inevitable rumor that precedes every new President into office.”
“You were generous, Miss Watson.”
“I don’t like to listen to petty gossip. And at first, the first few weeks, I believed that I was right. President Dilman behaved circumspectly. But then—”
“Go on, please, Miss Watson. Then what happened?”
“I don’t know. He—the President—seemed to begin to feel more confident about his office, his belonging up in the White House, and once the mourning for T. C. ceased, and he knew he was really the head man, his behavior altered. It was at first subtle, but it altered.”
“Can you give us any instances?”
“Oh, yes. His language became more imperious, coarser, and he was more demanding. Since we had many matters to confer about daily, he would insist, more and more frequently, that I come to see him in his bedroom or study, during the morning, while he was still in his pajamas. Sometimes he would demand that I stay on later at night, to meet with him the same way, and sometimes he drank in my presence and became heady.”
“Heady, Miss Watson?”
“Intoxicated. Perhaps Miss Gibson was right. He cannot hold drinks. Nevertheless, he drank. When he was under the influence of drink and we were alone—he would never permit me to bring another member of my staff along, not even his former secretary, Miss Fuller—he would become excessively informal. By that I mean he would make flattering allusions to my appearance, my features or my clothes. It made me uncomfortable. I hated to see him this way, and each time I couldn’t wait to leave him. I’m not a child, but there was something about him, the way he stared at me, that made me afraid.”
“I see. Until the night we shall discuss in a moment, the awful night he gave his true intent away, had President Dilman made an improper advance or gesture toward you?”
“No. He hinted at—at our dining alone sometime—spending a social evening together—but he never came out with it. I think he was inhibited by the possibility of gossip or what my father might say if I repeated it.”
“And, no doubt, he was put off by your own demeanor?”
“Oh, definitely. I was chilly and businesslike with him. It was so difficult, especially knowing, as I did, of his affair—or whatever you wish to call it—with another woman on the side.”
“But the President never touched you, physically, until the night in question?”
“No. If he had, I’d have quit on the spot, and told my father.”
“Miss Watson, we have arrived at the awful scene, the one that inspired the House of Representatives to condemn the morality of the nation’s President in Article III. I refer to the evening that the President, as specified in our charges, ‘while under the influence of intoxicants, made improper advances’ upon you ‘and did commit bodily harm’ to you.”
“It was an ugly experience.”
“The Senate and public will judge fairly the degree of the President’s degradation of his office, Miss Watson. I know their decision will never free your mind of the nightmare visited upon you, but you will know justice has been served. Let us, then, quickly and briefly recapitulate the events of that night. It was the evening of the dinner you had arranged on his behalf for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. There was a movie shown after dinner which you did not attend. Why did you not attend?”
“As we were leaving for the movie, the President drew me aside and whispered to me. He had a private conversation with me.”
“Yes, General Fortney has attested to that. What was the nature of the conversation?”
“The President said he wanted me to get out files on several of T. C.’s dinners given for the legislators, and review them with me, because he thought it was time to start buttering them up. He said he wanted to go over our future social program that very evening. He asked me to get the material and meet him in an hour in the Lincoln Bedroom. I had misgivings, because I could smell alcohol on his breath, but I had no choice. So I was there when he came.”
“What transpired next, Miss Watson? I know this is painful to you, and the evidence has already been introduced, but I desire that the Senate hear it from your own lips.”
“He came in—”
“President Dilman?”
“Yes, the President. He came in, and mumbled something about the movie, and brought out drinks, and kept insisting I have a drink of whiskey with him. I didn’t want to, but he forced one on me. He must have had three in the next fifteen or twenty minutes. I was sitting in a chair next to the bed, and he was sitting on the bed. He was babbling on about his life, what it was like to be Negro, how he was going to prove a Negro and other Negroes he’d bring into the Cabinet could run the government better than white politicians—then suddenly he asked to know if I had anything against him because of his color. I said no. There was more of this, his wanting to know how I felt toward him, then he began saying how he felt toward me, that I reminded him of his wife who was practically as white as I am. Then, suddenly, he asked me to bring him the papers I had in my hand, bring them to where he was sitting on the bed. So I did.”
“And then, Miss Watson?”
“He took the papers, threw them aside, and grabbed hold of me. He tried to kiss me. I refused, and that enraged him. He wouldn’t let go of me, and I tried to get free. He tore my dress, and then he became brutal, and I slapped him, and he pushed me down on the bed. Then he was after me again, and his hands, he bruised and scratched me—you have the photographs the doctor took that night—and finally I said I’d scream if he wouldn’t let go, and pulled away and stumbled to the door, unlocked it, and escaped. I never went back to the White House again.”
“What happened immediately afterward, Miss Watson?”
“I—I told some people high up in government—I was afraid to tell my father—I didn’t want him to do something terrible—and my friends then acted, decided to take action, against the President, and they told my father, and he agreed, and that was all.”
“You’ve been under the strict care of your family physician ever since?”
“I was in a state of shock. I have been confined to our house. The doctor comes by daily.”
“Miss Watson, you have performed a service to your country. Thank you for your soul-rending testimony.”
Zeke Miller bowed his head, and then turned away. Keeping his head low, shaking it sorrowfully, he returned to his table.
There was a buzzing through the Senate Chamber, much twisting, turning, consultation, as Sally Watson rose from her chair to leave.
Chief Justice Johnstone’s stentorian voice halted her. “The witness will remain in her place for the cross-examination by the President’s managers.”
Surprised, Sally Watson sat down.
The Chief Justice called out, “The senators will please be attentive. Gentlemen of counsel for the President, if you desire to cross-examine, you will proceed.”
Abrahams confronted Sally Watson. He had in his mind Dilman’s story of the night in question. He had, in his folder, the thorough research accomplished by Priest and Hart. Abrahams knew that he would not be able to shake her from her story, for as one psychiatrist had pointed out to him, by now she believed it to be true, as was often the case with latent paranoid schizophrenics. If he attacked her ego, her id would make the response. His task was formidable. If he overplayed, and she became hysterical, she might gain sympathy for herself while building more resentment toward President Dilman. Abrahams knew that he would have to feel his way, push where there was give, withdraw where there was resistance, and stop hastily if she got out of hand.
“Miss Watson,” he said, his tone chatty rather than severe, “like the honorable manager who preceded me, I appreciate what an ordeal this appearance must be for a young lady such as yourself. I will do my part in making it as endurable, and brief, as possible.”
Sally Watson eyed Abrahams suspiciously. “Thank you.”
“Be tolerant of me if I cover some of the same ground covered by the learned House manager. Now let me see, according to my notes, you stated that you volunteered, applied, to the President for the position of his social secretary, because—what was it now? Oh, yes—because you wished to serve your country. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very laudable. When you applied in person—I believe you saw President Dilman in the Oval Office of the White House—did he hire you immediately? Or do I understand correctly that he had some doubts about your qualifications until you said that there was a personage of importance in the government who would give you the strongest of recommendations? Is that true?”
(1964) The Man Page 87