The Man

by Irving Wallace

  Senator Watson fell silent, nodding at the desk calendar, and Dilman, for want of anything better to say, said, “I’m glad she’s well, Senator.”

  The legislator raised his head and shook it sorrowfully. “She is not well, sir. She never was, but I refused to face that truth, or accept it. I closed my eyes to her behavior and instability, but no more, no more. Tonight I saw Sally for what she always has been. She is ill, mentally ill, and there is no more hiding from it. You, Counselor Abrahams, surmised as much in your cross-examination. I despised you for doing so, because I suspected the truth but could not accept it. But you were right, and I must learn to live with it.”

  Senator Watson unhooked the birch cane from his arm and leaned it against the desk front, and met Dilman’s eyes.

  “Sir,” Senator Watson said, “my daughter has confessed what eeally happened that evening with you. She has confessed it before me, Miss Gibson, and an attorney friend I brought in to record it and witness her signature on it. Sally admitted having-having become involved with Secretary Eaton-then going to your bedroom to take notes from a CIA report, then being discovered by you, insulting you, and fashioning the entire episode into a lie to satisfy Eaton, Miller, Hankins. She did you grievous harm, Mr. President, and perjured herself before the body of the Senate, and I cannot let things rest this way another moment, or neither she nor I shall have peace again.”

  His hand had gone inside his overcoat, and he withdrew a blue-covered folded document.

  “I have Sally’s full statement recorded here, signed in her hand, witnessed and notarized. I suggest your counselor make use of it in his closing address to the Senate tomorrow, to let the truth be told, and destroy that specification in the House’s indictment. I wish I could offer you further redress. You deserve it. All I can offer you is this document, Sally’s wish for forgiveness, and my own deep apology.”

  Abrahams watched, his mind in turmoil, as Senator Watson bent forward and held the document out for Douglass Dilman to accept.

  Dilman stared at the paper. His hands remained motionless on the desk. His eyes went from the signed confession to the legislator.

  Slowly Dilman shook his head. “No, Senator. I don’t want it. Tear it up and throw it away.”

  The document trembled in Watson’s fingers, but still he continued to offer it. “Please, sir, you will need it, you will need as much truth on your side as possible tomorrow.”

  “No,” Dilman repeated. “She is ill, as you have said, and ill people can be cured and saved. The public entering of this retraction and admission into the trial would destroy Sally forever. She would be beyond help, and as one who also has a daughter, a daughter who is ill and not yet destroyed, I will be no party to this. I appreciate it, Senator, but no. My acquittal or conviction will not be decided by this, by the Article charging this lie, nor by any of the other Articles.”

  With reluctance, Senator Watson withdrew the deposition, turned it over in his gnarled hand several times, considering it, and then he looked up.

  “You are generous, sir, and a gentleman,” he said to Dilman. “You must understand, however, that this humane decision on your part can have no influence on my vote tomorrow afternoon. I would not have judged against you if I believed you had behaved against my daughter as first charged by herself and the House, solely on that indictment, and I cannot judge in your favor now, simply in knowing my daughter perjured herself and that the House was misled. You understand that, sir?”

  “I do.”

  Senator Watson tore the document in half, and then tore it into halves again, and he stuffed the shredded paper into his overcoat pocket.

  Once more he looked at Dilman. “I must judge you tomorrow on your merits as a President of the United States. I must decide in the matter of Baraza, taking that as being representative of all other matters and the most crucial, whether you acted wisely or unwisely as a President, and whether you acted as an American President or as a Negro President. The majority of my Southern colleagues are against you, and have judged you on other issues. The minority of members are for you, and have judged you on other issues. But the final weight of tomorrow’s independent vote falls on a great number of our one hundred who sleep tonight and who have not prejudged you, but must awaken with a final decision based on consideration of your merits as a man who is President.”

  “I ask for nothing more, whatever the outcome,” said Dilman quietly.

  Senator Hoyt Watson came wearily to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. President,” he said, and then, head nodding, he left the room.

  From somewhere distant, a clock struck midnight, and time went on past midnight, and the life of the new day had begun.

  IX

  Born of some half-remembered superstition from Douglass Dilman’s childhood was his hope that the sun would shine on this momentous and decisive day of his life, and its appearance would be a lucky omen, melting the hard hearts of his enemies and reviving the spirits of his allies.

  Nature was deaf and blind to human superstition.

  There was no sun this late November day. Bellicose, brooding clouds, like threatening hosts of strife, gathered low in the bleak sky. The air was wintry, the temperature twenty degrees above zero, and the steady wind from the Potomac swept rawly over the high-strung capital city.

  The headlines slashed across the newspapers on the table behind his Oval Office desk were as chilly and ominous as the weather: CRUCIAL IMPEACHMENT VOTE IN SENATE TODAY; PREVIEW POLL INDICATES “CONVICTION CERTAIN”… TENSION MOUNTS IN AFRICA; SECRECY ENVELOPS AMERICAN TROOP MOVEMENTS; U.S.S.R. MAINTAINS SILENCE… SAVAGE RACE RIOT BEFORE WHITE HOUSE CONTROLLED AS FLAMING CROSS BURNS ON PRESIDENT’S LAWN; WHITES AND NEGROES CLASH IN DOZEN CITIES.

  Douglass Dilman tried to ignore the headlines as he came around his desk.

  “All right, Tim,” he said. “Let’s get it over with.”

  It was one minute to ten o’clock in the morning as Dilman left his office, preceded Flannery into his personal secretary’s cubicle, nodded absently to Miss Foster, and entered the Cabinet Room to make his brief news announcement to the twenty-five White House press regulars who had been invited.

  For an instant he was unable to see in the glare of the television klieg lights, but he was nevertheless conscious of the camera lens and of critical eyes following him in his unsteady walk to the table in the center of the room and the open place from which his chair had been removed.

  When his full vision was restored, and he was able to make out the familiar faces in the ring of correspondents, who were armed with their yellow pencils and blank notebooks, Dilman tried to discern the amount of hostility or friendliness that awaited him. There were friendly, interested expressions on an isolated few, but mainly the features of the correspondents revealed doubt, distrust, even antipathy. They were orderly and attentive, true, but their attentiveness was that offered by cynical reporters to a nine-day wonder they had come to interview-on the ninth day.

  Dilman rattled the paper in his hand. “Good morning, gentlemen. At least, I hope it will be a good morning.”

  There were no chuckles, no appreciation of his weak jest or concurrence with his sad wish. Three or four correspondents murmured their greetings, but otherwise the more than two dozen apathetic journalists remained silent and uncommitted to confraternity.

  “I have a brief but important news announcement to make,” said Dilman. He read from the triple-spaced typed lines on the sheet of paper in his hand. “ ‘Precisely one hour ago Eastern Standard Time, so I am informed by the Secretary of Defense and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the battle-ready battalions of a full division of the United States Army, motorized and equipped with the latest in rocketry weapons, landed safely, and without mishap, at strategic airfields in Baraza, and at similar sites in surrounding allied African countries which are members of the African Unity Pact. I can reveal only that fifteen thousand of our soldiers are there. For security reasons, I cannot be explicit about their exact locations. These bra
ve and well-trained men represent an elite segment of our defense forces, popularly known as the Dragon Flies. They are under the field command of Major General C. Jarrett Rice. The military leaders of our combined African allies, in this defensive operation, will also be under the command of General Rice.’ ”

  Dilman read ahead, to himself, and then looked up.

  “ ‘I want to stress the nonaggressive nature of our intervention. The United States is a party to the AUP, pledged to come to the aid of any democratic African nation threatened by attack from an outside enemy. Baraza intelligence agents, as well as our own intelligence men, have supplied us with irrefutable evidence that native African Communists, trained, armed, and now led by Soviet Russian officers, are preparing to overthrow the democratically elected and constituted government of Baraza. The United States has informed the Premier of the U.S.S.R. of our obtaining this intelligence and, in unequivocal language, warned the Soviet Union that we shall honor our treaty with Baraza and the AUP, and intervene to protect our democratic neighbors wherever they are threatened. No formal reply has been received from Moscow. Since this is the case, since the Soviet buildup on the Barazan frontier continues unabated, and there have been unmistakable signs, noted through our Air Force reconnaissance flights, of heightening military activity in the last twenty-four hours, I have commanded our forces, under full cloak of security, to be transported from our shores to Africa. We are there now, and we are ready.

  “ ‘I want to make it clear that no overt aggressive action will be undertaken by the troops of the United States or the AUP countries. They stand alert, to defend Baraza if it is struck. They will counter-attack only if the Barazan borders are invaded. If compelled to fight, the United States force will fight a conventional war with limited weapons, that is, without the use of nuclear warheads.

  “ ‘Otherwise, all of our military establishment, here at home or dispersed around the world, is ready, as it has always been, for any eventuality. Our combat divisions, the air arm of SAC, the ICBM squadrons, our surface and undersea navy, have all been placed on strategic warning-not immediate tactical warning but the more conservative strategic warning.

  “ ‘I repeat, the United States is ready for any eventuality. In my judgment, this is a historic necessity. As the first President of the United States, General George Washington, stated, “To be prepared for war is one of the most effectual means of preserving peace.” And as he wrote, “If we are wise, let us prepare for the worst.”’ ”

  He folded the sheet of paper, handed it to Flannery, and said, “End of statement. That is it for now, gentlemen.”

  About to leave, he saw a hand shoot up. He hesitated. It was the respected and moderate correspondent of the United Press International. “Mr. President-please-your quarantine on all questions, the last week or two, has made our task difficult, if not impossible. In a crisis, the American public deserves at least-”

  Flannery had edged forward. “Wait now, boys, we agreed-”

  Dilman took his press secretary’s arm. “Never mind, Tim.” He nodded to the United Press International correspondent. “All right, your question, and four more, and that is it. If I have further news, you shall be informed of it promptly. The question?”

  “According to Reuters, this morning, an informant in the British Embassy in Moscow has stated that Soviet Marshal Vladimir Borov was flown to Baraza last night to take charge. Can you confirm or deny this, sir?”

  Dilman said, “It is possible, but speculative. I have received no official word to that effect.”

  The New York Times correspondent asked, “Are the United States battalions being kept in their landing areas in Africa, or are they being transported inland to more strategic positions?”

  “They are on the move to the frontier. If the Communists strike, we want to be in control of as much ground as possible.”

  “Mr. President.” It was the Chicago Tribune correspondent speaking. “Is there any definite information on exactly when you expect the Communist rebels to invade?”

  “There is no way of knowing for certain. Intelligence believes the Soviet timetable is set for late today or early tomorrow morning.”

  The Associated Press correspondent asked, “If an actual clash takes place, and the Russian Premier then suggests a compromise over Baraza, have you considered any alternative or revised policy in regard to our position in Baraza and toward the Pact countries?”

  “As long as I am President, there will be no compromise when it concerns defending democracy anywhere.”

  “Mr. President,” a rasping voice called out. It was Reb Blaser, of the Miller newspapers. All eyes were upon him as he pushed forward, and Dilman waited, regarding him with distaste. “Mr. President,” said Blaser, “of course, the Senate will have something to say about what you have just announced. Are you aware that a sampling poll made of the Senate members last night, by the House managers, indicates that the sentiment stands eighty senators for your conviction, twenty for your acquittal, and therefore the Senate has thirteen more votes than the necessary two-thirds required to impeach you? Wouldn’t that-”

  “Mr. Blaser,” said Dilman, “the main forces in my command are committed to defending democracy in Baraza, not in the United States Senate. I am here to discuss foreign affairs. Perhaps you might better ask your question of former Secretary of State Eaton, who seems to have become an expert on domestic affairs.” For the first time, there was laughter, and then Dilman added, “If you’ve ever gone to a prize-fight, you will know that the judges’ ballots are not counted before the first bell, but after the last bell-”

  “Except when there’s a knockout!” Blaser shouted.

  Dilman ignored him. “That is all, gentlemen.”

  The United Press International correspondent intoned, “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  Briskly, Dilman left the Cabinet Room, parted with Flannery at Miss Foster’s desk, and returned to his own desk in the privacy of the Oval Office.

  He switched on the television set and dropped into his swivel chair, exhausted.

  When the picture came on the screen, it showed Nat Abrahams, in the latter part of his summation of the defense case, earnestly addressing the senators.

  “-absurd even to consider that the President violated the Constitution, disregarded the law, displayed contempt for your noble body, by his necessary removal of Secretary of State Eaton,” Abrahams was saying. “Learned senators and judges, as we have attempted to show the other three articles to be a maliciously woven fabric of falsehoods, let me now remind you that the more serious charges embodied in Article IV represent the autocratic, intemperate vengefulness of a small group of legislators. Let me hark back to 1868, when another President’s entire impeachment revolved around his right to override the Tenure of Office Act, ancestor of the New Succession Bill, which President Dilman challenged. Chief Justice Chase, who sat on the bench then, where Chief Justice Johnstone sits now, made the following sage remark, as applicable and important in these troubled times as it was in that day: ‘Acts of Congress,’ he warned, ‘not warranted by the Constitution, are not laws. In case a law believed by the President to be unwarranted by the Constitution is passed, notwithstanding his veto, it seems to me that it is his duty to execute it precisely as if he had held it to be constitutional, except in the case where it directly attacks and impairs the executive power confided to him by the instrument. In that case, it appears to me to be the clear duty of the President to disregard the law, so far at least as it may be necessary to bring the question of its constitutionality before the judiciary tribunals.’

  “So spoke a Chief Justice, in the only other impeachment of an American President in our history. So speak I, on behalf of our President today. The issue is simple. President Dilman assumed office swearing to preserve, protect, defend the Constitution. How could he do so, how could he carry out his duties, if another branch of government, by means of a doubtful law, and from motivations not necessary to repeat, stripped him
of his power to thus preserve, protect, defend? If the President has no longer the power to remove an adviser who is acting as President behind his back, an adviser ready to sell out democracy in Africa to the Soviet Union while the lawful President himself, determined to save that democracy, is rendered helpless, where, then, is left the executive branch, and where, then, is left the Constitution itself? Learned senators-”

  The telephone behind him buzzed, and Dilman sat up, lowered the volume of the television set, and spun around to the console.

  “Yes?”

  The voice was Miss Foster’s. “Mr. President, I’m sorry, but there’s a new policeman at the north gate who insists on speaking to you directly. He says there is someone at the gate who claims to be a relative of yours and wants to see you. He wouldn’t tell me more.”

  “A relative?”

  “I told him you couldn’t be-”

  “One moment, Miss Foster.” On impulse, he said, “Connect me with the gate.”

  He waited, wondering.

  A troubled male voice came on. “Mr. President-”

  “Yes-yes-”

  “I know I’m not supposed to disturb you, but the person insisted I contact you directly. I know there are crackpots and impostors every day, at least a half dozen daily coming around like this, but this one, she showed me an old beat-up snapshot of you, a photograph from her purse, signed by you, and she-”

  “She?” said Dilman slowly.

  “A young lady, Mr. President. She claims to be your daughter. I wouldn’t give her the time of day, you understand, because-how should I put it?-she looks white to me-but the newspapers did say you-you have a daughter like that-still, the identification cards in her wallet say her name is Dawson, Linda Dawson, which doesn’t make sense, except she says you might recognize that name even though it’s not her real name, but I thought I ought to-”