Memorial Bridge

by James Carroll

  "You wouldn't be amused if you saw the material I see."

  "Then show it to me. Show me what implicates my son with subversives, what sets him apart from ten thousand other boys who have refused to report for induction."

  "I can't. You know that."

  "Why, because my clearances aren't up to level?"

  Peterson looked away from Dillon, not replying.

  "Then why isn't he charged with violations under the Smith Act? Subversion, acting as an agent of a foreign power, conspiracy. Why aren't those the charges? You have him for one lousy count of failure to report, and another of unlawful flight. Why are those the charges if he's so dangerous?"

  "We can't bring our sources into court, that's why. But we're using what open violations there are to bring this movement to a halt. You know how it goes. Unfortunately, your son got caught in the first phase of our full-court press. I've no doubt he's just been duped, Sean. But he is active. His first phone call from jail was to Resist. He was active with Resist in Toronto."

  "Which you have infiltrated, right? That's how you knew he would be at Randall Crocker's funeral."

  "That was badly handled. I admit it."

  "Badly handled! Christ, it was a funeral! Where do you get your agents now? The Cosa Nostra? They're the ones who make their hits at funerals."

  "I said it was badly handled. What do you want?"

  "I want the charges dropped against my son. Whatever you have going with this Resist operation, he's peripheral to it."

  Peterson shook his head. "The indictment's been handed down."

  "Hoover could have it quashed in an hour, and you know it."

  "Mr. Hoover expressly told me, Sean, to convey his regrets on this. He'd like to help, but he can't. This is a national security case, and you should—"

  "Don't give me that crap." Dillon's anger brought him to his feet. He leaned over Peterson. "This is my son. This is me. Whose side do you think I've been on for thirty years? I'm not accepting this from you. Hoover will have to tell me to my—"

  A brusque voice from behind cut Sean off. "No, he won't, General."

  Dillon turned to see in the side doorway the figure of Clyde Tolson, Hoover's alter ego. He'd obviously been listening to everything. "Mr. Hoover won't see you on this."

  "He'd better see me, Clyde, because I don't think you can make clear to him how strongly I feel about this. I've never asked for anything, once! Nothing for myself, ever. I came here to ask, but now I'm telling! This is me! This is my son! And I won't let you dump a load on him that belongs on someone else. Do your work. If you have a case against Resist, develop it. If you have Soviet penetration in the antidraft movement, expose that. Don't pretend these easy-to-arrest, long-haired, hippie peaceniks are national security threats, especially not my son!"

  Dillon had crossed to Tolson, always a sycophant. But now he seemed weak and old. In Tolson's flinching, Dillon saw something else. "Or is it especially that he is my son? Is that it? You land on him because of me? What, to prove how serious you are, to send Resist a message? Or who, the Kremlin?

  "Well, I have a message for you, a message for the director. Tell Hoover I won't stand for it. Not my son! You don't do this with my son. The Bureau used to take care of its own. He taught me that. Well, in this I'm still a Bureau man and I take care of my own. You tell him that, Tolson!" Dillon poked him once, firmly. "I'll be the Bureau if you won't be." At that, Dillon walked out. Not Moses now, but St. Paul, having shaken from his clothes the dust of the road to Damascus.

  St. Paul, he thought, looking at the imposing figures of the bas-relief on the wall at the elevator. He saw not Justinian now, nor the barons of the Magna Carta, but Saul of Tarsus. Dillon had never felt less like a saint; it was the idea of reversal that had seized him.

  He remembered from his lessons years before that Saul was a leading rabbi whose conversion turned him against the religious Establishment. His conversion marked him from then on as a misfit, a heretic and a criminal. Like Richard.

  Dillon's blue car was waiting for him on Ninth Street.

  Sergeant Kingfield craned back at him from the driver's seat.

  "Take me to Occoquan, Gus."

  Kingfield hesitated.

  "It's the prison complex south of Fort Belvoir, out Route One."

  The driver's face clouded over as he faced forward. Automatically, his eyes found the general's in the mirror. "I know where Occoquan is, sir. I had a cousin there."

  "My son is there, Gus."

  "I know that too, General. I'm glad we're going out there."

  Kingfield pulled the car into traffic. "I only met your Richard that once, when we went to the Shrine for the archbishop's funeral. But the other sergeants, they all tell me he's a good man."

  "Thank you, Gus. I think he's a little lost, though, if you know what I mean."

  "Yes, sir."

  Kingfield drove in silence then.

  Dillon watched the features of the city slide past, then those of the commercial highway, then of the deep Virginia countryside. He thought of Paul, to whom on that road God appeared as a lightning strike. The flash of light made Paul blind. But blind, he saw more clearly than he ever had before. He saw that his great enemy had all along been his friend. He saw for the first time the real meaning of his life.

  Richard. Dillon thought of his son. Now everything depended on Dillon's ability to deflect the government's assault. Not against my son, you don't.

  Dillon forced himself to think about what to do.

  The first problem was, what lawyer? Not the genteel Macmillan. Richard would need a cutthroat attorney, an Edward Bennett Williams or an F. Lee Bailey. And once he had the lawyer, what part could Dillon himself take, in all discretion, to help prepare him? What could he reveal of what he'd just learned in Peterson's office?

  It shocked Dillon to realize that he felt somehow bound by the secrecy of the Bureau's dubious assessment of Resist. He recognized his readiness to protect their operation, even now, as a measure of his lifelong habit of personal renunciation. And it seemed perverse to him.

  The fine points of the draft law would be key; what cutthroat attorney would see that? Dillon took the subtleties for granted. He thought of that bastard Raymond Buckley, and the use of that law he himself had made years before. "The goddamned draft," he said aloud. He laughed, but felt a throaty nudge of despair. The circle his life had made. "The goddamned draft."

  Twenty-four

  It was late in the afternoon, and less than thirty minutes remained of visiting hours, even for lawyers and court officials. The last thing the guards behind the thick plate glass at the gatehouse were prepared to deal with was some asshole's father.

  But those guards were service veterans to a man, and by that point in that year, they were incapable of squelching a feeling of reverence at the sight of a uniform like Dillon's. The blue, the stars, the embroidery on the visor of his hat—to them he was the flag come to life.

  The supervisor himself escorted Dillon through the double-door chamber. A short, dark hallway took them to another door, which brought them outside again, into the broad open space behind the high, old wall. The newer buildings were to the left. The Civil War–era bastion was farther away, up a hill to the right. As Dillon and the guard crossed toward the ancient jail, they passed the trusties' playing field. Spectators were knotted around a football game, forty or fifty denim-clad men. The raucous ball game stopped as inmates noticed the general passing by, like an apparition. At first they fell silent, watching him, then a few began to feign salutes and call out—"Semper fi," "Up we go, fly-boys," "Fuck the army!"—until guards began to whistle them down. That set off the remaining prisoners, who hooted and jeered as Dillon and his escort moved away.

  The isolated granite jailhouse was somber and quiet by comparison. Another double-door chamber brought them inside, where the combined stench of fungus and disinfectant jolted Dillon. He followed the guard with a dead feeling in his stomach, staring straight ahead, ignori
ng the silent, shackled inmates seated on benches that lined the hallway. They were waiting for admittance to an infirmary, he realized, and he thought of the stockyards dispensary. This place revolted him, like that one had. Yet it was as easy to imagine himself confined here as it was Richard—no, easier.

  The makeshift visiting room was crowded. Every place at the long, broad bisecting table was taken, and perhaps that was why Dillon's arrival was such a disruption. That uniform; who would be made to move aside for him? The commotion of the competing talk broke off abruptly, as all became aware of the threat he was. Every head in the room fixed on him for a moment. The privilege and power implied in his appearance seemed an affront.

  Dillon's escorting guard tapped the shoulder of an old woman, but it was to the prisoner she was visiting that he said rudely, "Time's up, bud." The prisoner threw his mother a kiss and, with only a sneer at Dillon, got up and left. To Dillon's surprise, the woman did not protest either. He said, "I'm sorry," when she brushed past, but she ignored him.

  No sooner had Dillon taken his seat than a far door opened, and Richard appeared. He was in prison denims too, and he was handcuffed.

  Jesus Christ! Dillon was staggered by how awful his son looked. His bones protruded through the rough fabric of his jail clothing. His hair was pulled away from his face in a ponytail so tight it stretched the skin of his face into a translucent pallor. While a guard uncuffed him, he seemed indifferent and inert. Only his eyes moved, searching the visitors' table; his pupils darted weirdly, like a frightened animal's, from within the cave his brow made.

  Oh Christ, Dillon repeated to himself, as he watched his son move slowly toward him, rubbing his wrists, hardly bothering to lift his feet off the floor. His eyes seemed incapable of focusing, even after they'd found Dillon. Where is my bright boy? Dillon wanted to know. Where is my laughing child? My Rich, my football?

  "Hi, Dad."

  Richard approached his side of the table and sat down.

  "Hello, Rich."

  "Gee, you're in uniform."

  Dillon opened his hands, indicating himself, but he said nothing.

  Richard cast his eyes around the visiting room, the armed guards, the shadows of bars falling across the floor, the other prisoners. "Probably haven't been that many silver stars in here."

  "Sheriffs' badges," Dillon said. He was not going to leap with his son to the subject of shamed uniforms.

  "Listen, Dad." Richard's voice seemed so weak. Once more the ache of his concern washed over Dillon. What are they doing to my boy? Then he thought, Hoover. What is Hoover doing to my son? The weight of the entire misguided government had landed on Richard, and had broken him.

  "I feel bad about causing all that trouble at Mr. Crocker's funeral. I'm sorry, I just wanted—"

  Dillon cut him off. "Randall Crocker loved you. And he was proud of you. He defended you, even to me. He was completely on your side. It was right to go to his funeral. No one's presence, including all those big shots, would have pleased him more than yours. The agents had no business arresting you there. So don't apologize to me again about that, all right?"

  "But at the time, you seemed so ... you looked right through me."

  Sean listened to the sounds of the other prisoners talking. He had no trouble recalling the exact feeling he'd had that day at Arlington, having buried Crocker, having felt the hot wash of the Thunderchiefs swooping down on him and all those others who had made the war, having chased his fugitive son right to the edge of what? A pit of blood. The feeling had been that his entire life—his work, his love—had come to nothing, worse than nothing.

  "I've had a lot to figure out, Richard." How even begin to speak of it? He had just told his son not to apologize. Yet Dillon's every impulse was to do exactly that himself. Not apologize, rather confess. But it is a law of nature, isn't it? A father does not confess to his son. "Frankly, I've had more linebackers blindsiding me than I can handle. Perhaps someday I'll give you a full account of it, and you can tell me how it was for you." Dillon knew what a sham his show of dignity was, but it seemed a saving show. He was here for his son's sake, not his own, and what his son needed was strength. "But for now we should settle for the fact that we're together at this table, and we're discussing your situation. Can you settle for that?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Me too. I..." Dillon stopped at another wall then—walls inside of walls, the corrals and chutes of a lifetime's feelings—for his impulse was to—Is there a law of nature against a father's thanking his son?

  "Richard, I'm glad you asked me to come here."

  "I didn't want to ask you."

  "I know. But I'm here to help. First, I hope you'll reconsider your decision not to accept a lawyer."

  "Yes."

  "Good. I've been thinking about it—"

  "You, Dad."

  "What?"

  "I want you for my lawyer."

  Dillon stared at his son, unable to speak.

  "You're a lawyer, aren't you? I mean, weren't you?"

  The screen of Dillon's mind had been taken over by a scrolling list of all that made such a thing impossible. Himself, his son's lawyer? He was the director of DIA, an active-duty general, whose commitment to policy, despite everything, held. He'd resolved to protect his son, but from a distance, from his usual distance.

  The list scrolled quickly past, leaving his mind blank until a new question posed itself. Why didn't I think of this? Of course I should be his lawyer. I know better than anyone how to defend him.

  And then he saw that his son was not broken at all. He saw the reserve of courage out of which this desperate, life-changing stroke had come.

  "I'm honored, Rich, that you would ask me that."

  "Will you do it?"

  "Yes. I'm still a member of the bar."

  For the first time, light returned to Richard's face.

  Sean went on immediately, solemnly, "The first thing a lawyer and a client have to do is settle on terms."

  "You mean, what I have to pay?"

  "In a way, yes. I have a couple of conditions."

  "What?"

  "First, timing. This is June. As of now you're scheduled to come to trial week after next. I would enter a motion having the trial put off until August."

  "August! Why?" Richard's stomach twisted at the thought of weeks more in the Occoquan jail.

  "Because in August the eyes of this city will be on Chicago, for the convention. More to the point, every news hound will be there, and for that matter anybody whose inclination is to set himself up as a moral prophet on the war. Chicago will be the showdown with Eugene McCarthy and poor old Hubert Humphrey. No one will know or care what goes on in a low-rung D.C. courtroom."

  "And so they won't notice that you're there, you mean?"

  Dillon wondered, Was that it? Crazed Lyndon Johnson would personally strip him of rank if he made news in an antiwar courtroom. But no, Lyndon Johnson was not the issue, and the court case didn't have to be about the war. "I'm not thinking of myself, believe it or not. Your case won't be helped if it becomes a cause célèbre. We want the judge to feel absolute and unfettered discretion, which they never feel if there's publicity. I know that, as a rule, the people you follow thrive on publicity, but you have to take my word for it: in your case it wouldn't help." Dillon watched as his son sank into sullenness, and he couldn't keep the irritation from his voice as he added, "You don't see my reason?"

  "It seems sort of beside the point, to worry about what people think."

  "What people think?" Dillon asked quietly. "I thought that was the entire point. What the people think is the object of the contest between your side and mine, isn't it?"

  Dillon waited. Richard refused to answer. Both felt the gloom of a coming failure. This was impossible. How had either imagined they could do this?

  Dillon purged his voice of defeat to say, "My thought, and I presume yours in asking me to defend you, was perhaps to leave our 'sides' out of this. Am I wrong? The newspapers wo
uld love a general and a draft dodger in court together, the Pentagon and the peace movement. A soap opera, two great symbols of the generation gap. Is that what you want? Or can this be plain Richard Dillon and plain Sean Dillon? Is it my uniform and title that are important to you? What did you want, Richard, when you asked me to be your lawyer?"

  Very quietly, "You."

  "Well, that's what you've got. And in court, by your side, I'll be my plain self, in civilian clothes, because the air force, my part in it, has nothing to do with this." Dillon watched his son for a moment, and he saw clearly the edge onto which the boy had placed himself. "Tell me what's bothering you."

  "August. You said August."

  "Which is a long time in this place."

  Richard nodded abjectly.

  And Dillon was glad for the signal that his son was not so far gone as to like it here. "Lucky for you, my second condition takes care of the Occoquan hellhole problem. You have to accept bail and come out."

  It was no surprise to Richard how easy he found it to yield at once to his father's authority on this. Jail had never been essential to his position, and he hated it so. "But, Dad, I couldn't live at Boiling. I can't go back to Boiling again."

  "I understand that, Rich. You're an adult. You live where you want. That's not my issue."

  "And, Dad, when it comes to my trial, I'm not going to deny what I did. But I'm also not pleading guilty. I don't think I'm the guilty one."

  "You can plead nolo contendere. No contest. Just what you said. You wouldn't be denying what you did, and you wouldn't be admitting guilt. You simply refuse to answer the government's charges."

  "I'm not interested in plea bargaining."

  "I don't know what they taught you at UVA, but a plea of nolo is treated by most courts exactly as guilty, but you get no credit for a show of remorse. It's slightly defiant."

  "I'm not making any deals, that's all. You have your conditions, okay, but I have mine. I want a jury, and I want to take the stand before them so that I can say what I believe. I'll be speaking for thousands of guys who feel like I do. We aren't traitors. I want to put a decision about the war to the jury. I feel obliged in conscience, after all of this."