The Man

by Irving Wallace

  Cruising slowly along Van Buren Street, keenly conscious of the upper-class Negro women on the sidewalks with their shopping bags, Nat Abrahams sought the residence. Midway up the block, his gaze rested on the two-story brownstone row house, and he knew it immediately. He slid the Ford up to the curb, parked, and pocketed the keys.

  Before his reunion with Wanda Gibson, he decided to review the evidence supporting the resolution for impeachment one more time. He unfolded the newspaper, propping it against the steering wheel, and absently packed tobacco into the crusted bowl of his straight-stemmed pipe and lighted it. The lead story reported Zeke Miller’s dramatic introduction of the impeachment resolution, then went on to say that although it had been referred to the House Judiciary Committee, almost all necessary evidence against Dilman had been gathered from witnesses and documents, and therefore Miller promised that the committee, after meeting through the night, would present its recommendation to the House of Representatives at noon today. Majority Leader Harvey Wickland was quoted as stating that he expected the committee to recommend impeachment unanimously, and that he expected the full contents of the charges embodied in the resolution for impeachment to be read and put to limited debate by early afternoon.

  Nat Abrahams’ attention was drawn from this story to the impressive black-bordered box in the upper center of the front page reproducing four Articles of Impeachment in boldface type superimposed over a faint photograph of Doug Dilman’s portrait, a not too flattering portrait at that.

  Beneath the photograph there ran a lengthy caption. Abrahams studied it:

  “The Articles of Impeachment reproduced above-this newspaper has been informed by a reliable Congressional source-may be the form the House of Representatives charges will take when presented to the Senate, presuming the House does indict the President of high crimes and misdemeanors. These charges, in less stately language, are a part of the resolution of impeachment that will be debated today in the House of Representatives. If a majority of House members vote to impeach the President, the charges will be turned over to a special appointed committee, drawn from the House Judiciary Committee, which will formalize them as Articles of Impeachment, and return them to the House for routine approval, before sending them on to the Senate for final judgment. But the raging question today is-will the House of Representatives vote yes or no on the grave matter of converting its resolution for impeachment into actual Articles of Impeachment upon which the Chief Executive would have to stand trial?”

  Scowling, Abrahams began to read the evidence that had been prepared against Doug Dilman. He skimmed the contents of the first three articles, more notable for their questionable sensationalism than their proof of high crimes and misdemeanors (although the first charge of treason, if substantiated, might be grave), until he reached the last article. The fact of this one, of course, could not be disputed. Nat reread it carefully:

  ARTICLE IV.

  That said Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, at Washington, in the District of Columbia, unmindful of the high duties of his office, of the oath of office, and in violation of the Constitution of the United States, and contrary to the provisions of an act entitled “The New Succession Act Regulating the Line of Succession to the Presidency and the Tenure of Certain Civil Offices,” without the advice and consent of the Senate of the United States, said Senate then and there being in session, and without authority of law, did, with intent to violate the Constitution of the United States, and the act aforesaid, remove from office as Secretary of State the Honorable Arthur Eaton. Then and there being no vacancy in said office of Secretary of State, whereby said Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, did then and there commit and was guilty of a high misdemeanor in office, not only for his disregard of the law and his contempt of said Senate, but for his malicious desire to sustain himself in office by illegal removal of the next in line to his succession, whose popularity with the electorate he resented and feared.

  This charge, Nat Abrahams could see, would be the most difficult to refute, the one Doug Dilman would find the most menacing and formidable to contest. Whereas his opposition might be challenged on their proof of his commission of treason, through Wanda, with the Vaduz Exporters and Soviet Russia, there was no denying the fact that Doug had broken a law (no matter how unconstitutional it might be) by firing a Cabinet member without the consent of his onetime colleagues in the Senate. Of course, a sound case might be made on Doug’s behalf in the House debate today, but Nat was not sure there was anyone prepared to make that case.

  Abrahams’ eyes left the box of articles, and moved to the farthest left-hand column. There was another dismaying headline, and beneath it a dateline from Cleveland. Doug had spoken before a convention of war veterans, of which he was one, and his speech had been met with continuous boos, hisses, and catcalls-the epithets were shocking (“Traitor!… Commie!… Whoremonger!”), and although the police had evicted two dozen hecklers from the auditorium, the disturbance had not ceased. The speech had been an utter disaster. Abrahams’ heart went out to his friend. He was tempted to telephone him, and beg him to return to Washington, but that made no sense either.

  As he was about to fold the newspaper, one more story caught Abrahams’ attention. The Secret Service agent who had saved Dilman’s life, Otto Beggs, had successfully come through his latest surgery, had not lost his shattered leg, but his use of it would be considerably impaired. Even this was related to the impeachment. Miller’s investigators, eager to question the President’s personal bodyguard for evidence of what he might have seen or overheard, had been rudely turned away by Admiral Oates.

  It pleased Abrahams that someone had shown a shred of decency, but it distressed him to know to what lengths the House investigators were going, to build their case against the President. Apparently they felt that even if they already were in possession of enough evidence to indict the President, there was always use for more, and again more, if he should go on trial.

  Abrahams’ vest-pocket watch told him it was twenty minutes to two, and that he had been sitting outside the brownstone for over five minutes. He pulled down the rearview mirror, to see if he was entirely presentable for Wanda Gibson. A tuft of his chestnut hair stood up in back, and no amount of water had been able to slick it down. The extraordinary amount of sleep and relaxation he had enjoyed in Washington, while awaiting the last draft of his contract and while casually acquainting himself with his future duties for Eagles Industries, had not eliminated the lines in his gaunt features or made his deep-set eyes appear more rested. Nevertheless, he felt energetic and revived, all senses alert and questing, as if resurrected from fat lethargy by his antagonism toward Doug’s prosecutors.

  He swung his long legs out of the car, slammed the door, and strode to the brownstone. Emptying his pipe against the heel of his hand, he told himself that if he could not help his friend in the House of Representatives, at least he could be of some use to Wanda. It was little enough, but in a time like this it might mean much to Doug. And anyway, it was good to be active.

  Inside, he took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the upper landing, he was pleased that he was not winded, and knew that his physician would be pleased too. Approaching the door, he could hear the sounds of television behind it. He knocked firmly. Almost immediately the door opened, and he was inside the parlor, face to face with Wanda Gibson.

  He was delighted to find that she was as attractive as he had remembered her. Her glossy dark hair was caught back in a ribbon, and her tawny smooth face was devoid of any makeup except at the lips. Her dark eyes tried to smile, and failed. She wore an apricot-colored cotton blouse, and wide navy-blue leather belt, and a simple tailored blue skirt. Her countenance and her figure were classic, and Nat Abrahams silently congratulated Doug Dilman for his good taste.

  Taking his overcoat, she told him that she remembered both him and his wife very well, and she inquired about Sue and the children. As they walked to the couch, she waved
a disdainful hand at the television set. The screen showed a panoramic shot of the overflowing galleries in the House, and then moved down to a cluster of representatives gathered before the Speaker’s rostrum.

  “Look at it,” Wanda said. “It’s like watching a motion-picture revival of some old spectacle about the Roman Colosseum, with the caged lions rumbling, waiting to be released to rend apart and chew up one poor Ethiopian martyr. Have you been watching, at all?”

  “No, I haven’t had the opportunity-or the inclination.”

  “A television first,” said Wanda bitterly, finding a cigarette on the coffee table and allowing Nat to light it for her. “A special public service, the network said. Produced by the Marquis de Sade, directed and written by the Spanish Inquisition, they didn’t bother to say. I tell you, I don’t know what we’re coming to. All the sham and pretense. That little monster, Miller, jumping up and announcing the House committee recommends impeachment. Then all kinds of parliamentary business. Then, just now, Wickland-I thought at least, as a Far Westerner, the Majority Leader, he’d be something more-but no, there he was droning out those awful blasphemous four charges as evidence to back their resolution for impeachment. Now there’s a point of order, then Miller is going to elaborate on the charges in detail, before the debate begins later.” She stopped, looking sorrowfully at Abrahams. “It’s terrible. Poor Doug, getting it here-and as a result, look what’s happening to him on the road. Who is there to contest these libelous lies?”

  “There’ll be someone when the debate begins, Wanda. At least a dozen congressmen, white and colored, have come out against this.”

  “Where are they?”

  “They’ll be heard, believe me.”

  She nodded uncertainly. “I have some coffee ready-”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “I have it ready,” she said. “I’m sorry the apartment is a mess. The Spingers are in New York on this business. They’re meeting with Crispus lawyers on the charges against the Reverend as well as those against Doug… Excuse me a minute.”

  After she had gone, Nat Abrahams filled his pipe, settled into the chair between the couch and television set, and smoked as he watched the screen. There was a close shot of Representative Zeke Miller rising from his bench, notes in his hand, grinning, waving a greeting to someone, then addressing the chairman and the House.

  “My honorable colleagues,” Miller was saying, “we on the Judiciary Committee who have recommended this distressing action are not unconscious of our responsibility to our constituents, and to our traditions of justice. We are fully aware that this is only the second occasion in two centuries that it has been found necessary to bring such all-fired powerful proceedings against a Chief Executive of the United States. It is for us a distasteful undertaking. Yet we must have the courage to face our duties and back up our convictions. We must accept the shocking facts as they have come to us, and we must elevate our patriotic concern for our beloved America’s future above any sentimental concern over a single weak and dangerous-yes, downright dangerous, for the tyranny of the weak is the worst tyranny of all-individual. Aware as we are that we may face the opprobrium of the squeamish, as well as the protests of Communist appeasers, misguided and devious liberals, sanctimonious and professional minority lovers, we must suffer their slings and arrows to perform the greater good. We beg you not to let your intelligence be hamstrung by the propagandists, but to permit cool reason to accept and weigh the incontrovertible facts in this case.”

  The camera revealed a close-up of Zeke Miller, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, gulping water from a glass, and then it held tightly on him as he continued.

  “In speaking of the one who was the object of another Presidential impeachment in another time, namely, Andrew Johnson, two of our predecessors in this very chamber, both from the great state of Illinois, remarked that the object of the impeachment was ‘as mendacious as he is malignant,’ that ‘this nation has been too long disgraced by this man, this accidental President. Let him be removed.’ I say, let that wise American injunction guide us in our deliberations today.”

  On the television screen, Miller consulted his notes, and then looked up. “Allow me to elaborate on the four major points in our resolution for impeachment, one by one in their order, and offer to you the evidence of how President Douglass Dilman has degraded himself and debauched our democratic government, through reptilian cunning and unsavory habits. Let us begin with our first charge, the astounding and appalling conduct of this accidental President of the United States in his relationship with the mulatto female, an employee of the Soviet Union, known as Miss Wanda Gibson, and the serious consequences of this allegedly illicit relationship. First of all-”

  With a start, Nat Abrahams became aware of Wanda’s presence behind him. She was standing stock-still, holding the tray of coffee, cream, sugar, her hurt eyes trained on the television screen.

  Every instinct of decency impelled Nat Abrahams to rise swiftly, putting himself between Wanda and Miller. He reached to the set, found the right knob, and turned it off. Miller’s harangue was interrupted in mid-sentence, his image blotted from view.

  Wanda closed her eyes briefly, then said, “Thank you, Nat.” As he pulled his chair to the coffee table, she inquired, “Cream and sugar?”

  “Sugar. I need it.”

  He laid his pipe in the ashtray and began to drink the coffee.

  Wanda Gibson circled the coffee table. “Doug telephoned me from Cleveland last night, after the speech,” she said. “He didn’t want to talk about that though, only to find out if I’d read Reb Blaser’s column in the Miller paper. He’d read it. Apparently it appears in Cleveland too. Have you seen it?”

  “I don’t read Blaser’s column,” Abrahams said.

  “You should, because lots of others do, and they’re people too, and they have as much to say as we do.” She plucked the folded newspaper off an end table. “You want to hear the column? Well, the first paragraph, anyway. The heading says, ‘The Red and The Black.’ Then it goes on, ‘Now then, good citizens, if our illustrious President has done nothing else during his short term in office, he has revived an interest in the classics, especially in Stendhal’s The Red and the Black. The difference is that Douglass Dilman has rewritten the sordid and immoral French yarn, and given it a peculiarly modern twist. The Red, in the new version, is the infamous Soviet undercover agent, Franz Gar, and the Black is his executive office assistant, Wanda Gibson, the comely Negro paramour of the President of the United States.’ ” She lifted her eyes. “Enough?”

  “Too much, considering the source,” said Abrahams. He hesitated, frowning, and then he said, because he felt she was one that he could tell the truth to, “Wanda, you’ve got to steel yourself for more of the same. This could be only the beginning.”

  “Oh, I know.” She sat down, one hand massaging the other. “I’ve turned away two dozen photographers and reporters today.”

  Abrahams put down his coffee cup, and took up his pipe. “Mind?”

  “Please-”

  He passed a lighted match over the tobacco. “I’m here to help you, if you require help, not only because Doug wants it, but because I want it.”

  “That’s kind of you, but-”

  “Wanda,” he went on, “I’m not interested in newspaper dirt, any more than you or Doug should be. I’m interested in seeing that you are treated fairly under the law. I’ve already been to the Department of Justice. I’ve been assured that there is absolutely no evidence in their files that would enable them to charge you with being a Communist. As of today, Justice has no plan to prosecute you in any way. Yet, inevitably, you will be questioned, and I wanted to see you before that begins.”

  “Too late,” she said calmly. “It’s already begun.”

  “Who?”

  “The legal counsel for the House Judiciary Committee, a Mr. Wine. He was here at the crack of dawn today, with aides, to hand me a subpoena. Either I had to appear befor
e the subcommittee, or testify before him and sign my statement. That’s what I did, the last.”

  “What did he want to know?” Abrahams demanded hastily.

  “Everything. Where I was born, educated, how I lived, jobs, family, everything. Most of it was about Doug and myself, when and where we met, how often we saw one another when he was a senator, after he became President, how frequently we talked on the telephone, how-”

  “How many times did you see Doug after he became President?”

  “Only once, I’m sorry to say, once and no more. He came here to offer me a job in the White House. I turned it down. Of course, we had a number of telephone conversations.”

  “What else were you asked?”

  “Exactly what our conversations were about. That Mr. Wine was so obvious and embarrassing, all those suggestive questions. Did Doug tell me about what went on in the Oval Office, at Cabinet meetings, the National Security Council meetings, and so forth? Did I discuss Doug with my employer?”

  “What did you tell him, Wanda?”

  “The truth. What else was there to tell? I have heard no secrets, so I had none to pass on. I doubt if Franz Gar even knew Doug was a friend of mine. Then-then all kinds of nasty stuff about my having lived here when Doug did-both of us under the same roof-the illicit love routine.”

  “I hope you told him to-”

  “To drop dead? No. I’m a straightforward person, a defect of mine, but it makes sleep easier. I said the President and I never had an affair. We have known each other nearly five years, and he has never done anything more aggressive than kiss me, embrace me, hold me, hold my hand, and that yes, we have always been fully clothed in one another’s company. Good Lord, you know Doug as well as I do. To him, all women are Vestal Virgins, unless sanctioned by the church and state to procreate. That’s why I almost laughed at their other charge of immorality-Doug, the libertine, trying to rape that daughter of Senator Watson. Can you imagine them swallowing that?” She halted and looked hard at Abrahams. “No one will believe that, or the things about me, will they?”