The Man

by Irving Wallace

  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 think 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 morn
ing, 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?”

  “Shamefully ignorant of the details, I’m afraid,” Dilman confessed. “I remember some of it from school, and side reading, of course. And lately the papers have been full of it, highly colored, and the radio and television have been dinning it in our ears, but somehow, I’ve been unconsciously avoiding it. I don’t know. I have the impression that President Johnson was given a bad time of it. My survival instinct tells me not to relive his hell when I’m about to undergo one of my own. It’s like-I’ll tell you what-like you’re about to face an unusual life-or-death major surgical operation. You know there’s been one similar case. Well, you’re not inclined to study the gory details beforehand. You sort of prefer to shut your eyes and let them roll you in, the mystery of it still a mystery, holding your layman’s blind high hopes before you go under.”

  Abrahams had listened solemnly, full understanding in his face, “Yes,” he said. “Nevertheless, if you can bring yourself to it, I believe you should try to understand something of that other impeachment trial.”

  “If you think so, Nat. But why?”

  “Because, far from being dead history, the facts of it will become a living part of your own trial. I repeat, it is the single precedent both sides have to go by. The House managers and the four of us will quote from it, refer to it, whenever it is to advantage, you can be sure. Furthermore, not surprisingly, President Johnson’s impeachment crosses and touches yours in several important areas. I do recommend you acquaint yourself with the salient facts, Doug.”

  “All right, then, I will.”

  “I’m not saying you must go out and get some weighty tome from the Library of Congress. I know you haven’t the time. But-” He leaned sideways, riffling the file folder tabs in his briefcase on the floor. “I have something here, if I can find it… ah, here it is.” He came up with what appeared to be a stapled typescript. “We all read what we could on the Andrew Johnson trial. Then Tuttle condensed the proceedings of that trial into eighty pages, for easier reference.” He handed it across the table to Dilman. “Take a look at it when you can. Of course, the great amount of offstage byplay, the cloakroom hanky-panky, isn’t in there-”

  “Like what?” asked Dilman, fingering the manuscript.

  “Like-well-to be quick about it-when Booth’s derringer pistol killed Lincoln, it was Vice-President Andrew Johnson who became President in 1865, when he was fifty-seven. It makes me laugh, Doug, when I read those columnists who say you weren’t prepared for the Presidency. You were ten times better prepared for it than half our past heads of state, and a hundred times better prepared than Andrew Johnson. He’d been a tailor in North and South Carolina, and owned a tailorshop in eastern Tennessee. He’d never had a single day’s formal education. So he went into politics, and made the United States Senate. Lincoln took to him because, even though Johnson owned slaves and was a Southern Democrat, he fought against secession. Well, anyway, by the time Johnson became President, he had few friends left. The Southern Democrats considered him a traitor. The Northern Republicans considered him an untrustworthy rebel-lover. He was lonely as hell in the White House. He had a wife, but she was invalided by tuberculosis, and I believe she made just one public appearance beside him in four years.”

  Dilman nodded. His heart went out
to that vilified President who had been treated like some sort of white nigger. “I never knew any of that,” he said.

  “Oh, there’s more,” Abrahams said, “but to get to the crux of it, his impeachment. Why was he impeached? Basically because the Northern Republicans, who controlled Congress, wanted to treat the defeated states as a conquered and occupied country, wanted to keep the South disenfranchised and in bondage. President Johnson, on the other hand, following Lincoln’s policy, wanted to heal the wounds of war, conciliate the Southern states, bring them back into the Union. So that was a bad breach. Almost every time Congress passed some bill of reprisal keeping the South under the military heel, giving freed slaves control there, Johnson would veto it, and then Congress would override him. Finally, it resolved itself into a fight for power between the executive and legislative branches of government. Congress felt that it should run the Reconstruction of the South, and the President felt that this task belonged to him. There were endless secondary factors against Johnson, also. He was hated as a man who was neither fish nor fowl, neither true Southerner nor Northerner. He was resented for going soft on the ex-rebels, when they were being blamed for Lincoln’s assassination. He was feared by the Republicans, who didn’t want him to bring the Southern Democrats back into power on the Hill by admitting the Southern states back into the Union. So the House decided to get rid of him. They started impeachment proceedings against him, not once but three times, and the third time they succeeded in getting their impeachment. And on March 5, 1868, his case went on trial before the Senate.”

  “There were eleven Articles charged against him, weren’t there?” Dilman asked.