Night of Camp David

by Fletcher Knebel

  Your job is waiting for you this summer. Pedro and the boys say to be sure to bring your guitar with you. Me, I’ll settle for those football arms and legs, because mine are slowing down.

  Sincerely from Betsy too,

  Your friend,

  Slim.

  Mark read his father’s letter to Carmichael slowly, pausing and frowning over such phrases as “Frankly, my dear Carmichael, you are completely out of bounds…a problem that is one of your own making…every citizen should do his utmost to find his own way over the personal obstacles which face us all.” The boy pulled out the letter written to him by his father, and compared the handwriting. There was no mistaking the high, careful looping of letters, the meticulous, prim style. Not a single word was illegible. Excellence in all things, even handwriting. Mark had seen that familiar hand style hundreds of times. There was no doubt that the letter to Slim had been written by his father.

  Then Mark reread his own letter from his father. This time, after reading the letter Slim had forwarded, the phrases on the White House stationery seemed angrier, even ugly:

  “…a dismal showing in the senior year for a Hollenbach…you’ve managed to disgrace not only yourself, but the office of the presidency…are you planning to enter law school on your father’s name rather than your own merits?”

  One sentence now seemed fairly to leap from the page:

  “I had hoped that my own son would spare me vexations at this particular time when there is an obvious conspiracy afoot to sully and demean me, even to destroy me.”

  Mark stared for a long time at this sentence, wondering, conjecturing. The cries of his friends in the courtyard seemed remote, and the room was cloaked in an orange haze from the fading sun. Although the afternoon was still warm, he felt a chill as from an unseen shadow, and involuntarily he rubbed his arms. He reread all three letters twice, and he thought some more.

  Then suddenly he got up and went to the telephone in the wall niche. He dialed the long-distance operator.

  “I want a Mr. R. Paul Griscom in Washington, D.C.,” he said. “He can be reached at his law office in the World Center Building, or at his home on O Street Northwest.”

  18.

  East Entrance

  Joe Donovan always felt slightly ill at ease in the presence of Speaker William Nicholson. Old Nick wasn’t Donovan’s swinging type of politician. Donovan shared President Hollenbach’s view that the Speaker was too ponderous, inclined to be pompous and stuffy. Nick was about as subtle as an ax handle, Donovan thought. The Democratic chairman preferred the pols with the light touch and he often pined for the old days with Jack Kennedy’s Irish Mafia.

  But he had to concede, as he faced Nicholson in the Speaker’s ancient, musty office off the House floor, that Nicholson’s demeanor fitted the occasion this afternoon. Donovan’s mission was a curiously serious one and he was more perplexed than he cared to be.

  “Well, what’s your problem, Joe?” Nicholson appeared to be already brooding over expected bad news.

  “Just checking, Nick,” said Donovan. He threw one leg over the arm of his chair. “It’s a screwy story and maybe there’s nothing to it, but I’ve got to find out.”

  Nicholson squinted at him, rubbed his grizzled chin, but said nothing.

  “My secretary, Rita Krasicki, has been acting funny for about a week,” said Donovan. “I knew there was something wrong, but who knows about a woman? This morning she comes in and talks. She’s got quite a story. She says that a week ago tonight, she was invited to a private meeting of a bunch of Democratic leaders at Grady Cavanaugh’s place down on St. Leonard’s Creek. She was taken before this group by Jim MacVeagh, according to her, and put on the grill. They asked her a lot of surprising questions about a conversation she had with the President.

  “No use going into a lot of details, but Rita said MacVeagh was agitated and upset and refused to tell her what the meeting was all about. As I say, the questions put to her were queer ones. Anyway, she got to thinking about it and came to the conclusion that some kind of secret cabal was operating to damage Hollenbach politically, maybe even to try to deny him renomination at Detroit.”

  Nicholson broke in. “And she gave you a list of names of the men who were there—and I was one of them?”

  “That’s right.” Donovan was grateful for the Speaker’s candor. “So, that’s why I’m here. Let’s level, Nick. What’s up?” Nicholson tilted back in his swivel chair until, the springs squeaked in protest. He looked moodily at Donovan for a moment.

  “We were under a pledge of secrecy,” he said, “and I’m no man to break my word. Still, you came to me and you’re the party’s chairman and you’ve got a right to know. The fact is, Joe, that O’Malley and MacVeagh called that meeting to consider a sensational charge by MacVeagh—that President Hollenbach is mentally unbalanced and that incidentally he, MacVeagh, is being followed by the Secret Service.”

  “What?” Donovan gulped and stared at Nicholson in amazement.

  “That’s right. Jim claims that the President is suffering some kind of mental breakdown.”

  It took Donovan a moment to get his voice. “He’s got to be kidding,” he said in awed tones.

  “No, he’s not. He’s serious. He presented us with a lot of so-called evidence.”

  “What do you mean ‘so-called’?”

  “I mean I didn’t believe it,” said Nicholson. “As a matter of fact, Joe, I walked out on the meeting before it ended. I thought that MacVeagh was either out to get the President for some unknown reason of his own or that Jim’s own mind was sick. I must say I incline to the latter view, the more I ponder it.”

  “What about the Secret Service following him?” asked Donovan.

  “I don’t believe it. I think he’s having hallucinations.”

  “Have you checked any of this out?” asked Donovan.

  “No,” said Nicholson. “I don’t believe in moving too fast on something like this, and frankly I didn’t know just what to do. I thought of telling the President, but then decided there was no sense in alarming him unnecessarily.”

  “As long as you’ve told this much, would you mind filling me in on the meeting at Grady Cavanaugh’s?”

  “Not at all.” And Nicholson proceeded to relate the sequence of events at St. Leonard’s Creek, including MacVeagh’s story of calling on Paul Griscom and MacVeagh’s belief that Griscom thought it was MacVeagh who was having mental problems. Nicholson also told of Rita Krasicki’s tacit admission that she’d had an affair with MacVeagh.

  “God love us,” said Donovan. “Jimmy and Rita! The things a boss doesn’t know about the help. I wondered why it took her so long to tell me about that meeting at Cavanaugh’s and why she was so shook up this morning.”

  “Apparently the affair had been going on some time,” said Nicholson with obvious distaste. “I assume that’s what that Cousins and King story was hinting at. My own theory is that Jim MacVeagh is a badly confused young man and that, as a result, he’s developed a psychotic desire to damage the President in some way.”

  “You don’t think he’s actually dangerous, do you, Nick?”

  The speaker shrugged. “He may be. I know little about such things, but I admit I’m concerned.”

  “I’ve been wondering about Jimmy ever since he quit that vice-presidential race,” said Donovan. “That seemed nutty to me. Especially since—with all due deference to you, Nick—I happen to know he had a good chance to be picked.”

  “Oh.” This intelligence obviously did not please the Speaker.

  “Look, Nick,” said Donovan. “If Jimmy’s off his rocker, we ought to know more about it and try to help him. How about getting Griscom over here to see what he knows about Jim? And Chief Brothers too. Let’s see if the Service ever did put a tail on MacVeagh. It seems a pretty far-out story to me.”

  Nicholson pondered
a moment. “I think you’re right,” he said. “Let’s get them both up here.”

  An “invitation” from the Speaker of the House amounted to a command in Washington, second only to a summons from the President, and Paul Griscom and Arnold Brothers arrived at the Speaker’s office within fifteen minutes. Griscom left no word at his office as to his whereabouts, so efforts of a New Haven long-distance operator to reach the man whom Mark Hollenbach, Jr., called “Uncle Paul” proved fruitless.

  When the two newcomers were settled in the Speaker’s office, Nicholson wasted no time on banter before driving to the core of the problem.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’m worried about the mental condition of our good friend, Jim MacVeagh.” He sketched, briefly but somewhat pontifically, the St. Leonard’s Creek meeting for Griscom and Brothers. “To my mind,” he concluded, “MacVeagh’s charges against the President are preposterous. I think the young man needs psychiatric help, the sooner the better, and I’ll grant I was laggard in not doing something about it last week. But Joe’s call on me just now has crystallized my thinking. What do you think, Paul?”

  The lawyer’s deep eye pouches could be seen through his rimless spectacles. He brooded a moment like a somnolent lizard, then took off his eyeglasses and carefully polished them on the lower part of his shirt.

  “Frankly, Nick,” he said, “I had no idea until now that MacVeagh was trying to tell me he thought the President’s mind was shot. That just never entered my head. I assumed he was talking about himself, while pretending he’d come on behalf of some other senator. Later, of course, that Secret Service call on me did seem odd. However, I failed to put two and two together, a common failing in this town, but an error a man in private practice shouldn’t be making. So, Jim is actually accusing the President of mental incapacity?”

  “Indeed, he is,” replied Nicholson. His tone was heavy, indignant. “It’s patently absurd.”

  “A very, very strange charge to come from MacVeagh,” said Griscom. His manner and voice were dispassionate. “I don’t quite understand the whole thing.”

  “Look, Paul,” said Donovan, “you see the President more than any of the rest of us, being a friend of the family. Have you noted anything oddball about his behavior?”

  Griscom shook his head emphatically. “Not a thing. He’s brimming with enthusiasm. I was over there yesterday on a matter, and I’ve never seen a president more in command of the situation. Of course, he bubbles and boils more than the rest of us, but he’s always been that way.”

  “That goes double for me,” said Donovan. “He’s so hearty on the phone he makes my ears ring. He’s the same old Mark, full of fire and twenty new ideas an hour.”

  Donovan looked at Chief Brothers, whose usually bland, impassive face was knotted in astonishment over the course of the conversation. “How about you, chief?” asked Donovan. “Have you or any of your men on the detail seen anything abnormal about the President’s actions recently?”

  “Not a thing,” said Brothers, “but I wish I could say the same for Senator MacVeagh. He’s worrying the hell out of me.”

  “What are the facts about MacVeagh’s claim that you have him under surveillance?” asked Nicholson.

  A pained expression came over Brothers’ face. Here he was, so close to retirement, and now this increasingly involved and messy business about the junior senator from Iowa came to harass him in his final months on the job.

  “We hate to tail a public official,” he said, and he looked at them as though beseeching understanding. “But in this case we had no choice. First, we get a tip that Senator MacVeagh’s assistant is asking curious questions about the President’s early life. Then MacVeagh lies to my man Luther Smith. And then we find a set of surgical knives in his study at home—”

  “Knives!” said Griscom.

  “Yes, sir, knives.” Brothers described Luther Smith’s discovery in the MacVeagh home on a Sunday afternoon almost three weeks earlier.

  “And then,” continued Brothers, “there was MacVeagh’s unexplained chucking of the race for vice-president, and his curious contention that he was writing a biography of the President, although there’s not the slightest clue that he’s doing anything of the kind. So I couldn’t take a chance. After all, it’s our job to protect the President.”

  He said it defensively, and he did not add that the shadowing of MacVeagh had been undertaken as much by fear that President Hollenbach might hear of MacVeagh’s inquiries and demand an explanation from the Service as by Brothers’ own suspicions about MacVeagh’s motives and intentions. From long experience in the bureaucratic jungle, Brothers had found it wiser to say too little than too much.

  “My own feeling,” said Speaker Nicholson, “is that we ought to get psychiatric attention for Jim MacVeagh. I don’t know what’s eating him, but he’s obviously out to harm the President in some fashion, perhaps only politically, but who can be sure? I suspect this woman thing has got him more upset than we realize.”

  “The affair went on quite a while,” said Griscom. “I know. I live on O Street across from Mrs. Krasicki. But that’s really beside the point now. I agree with you, Mr. Speaker. We ought to take steps to get Jim into a hospital where he can get some mental clinic help.”

  “That’s pretty sticky business,” offered Donovan, “trying to commit a United States senator.”

  Nicholson nodded heavily and there was quiet in the room for a moment. Nothing was more zealously guarded in Washington than the multifold privileges and immunities of senators and congressmen. Some were protected by law, but most, such as the unwritten permission to ignore parking restrictions, were shielded by tradition. It definitely was not the custom to invoke the police powers against members of Congress.

  “Yes,” agreed Griscom, “it is. But it is possible.”

  “How?” Donovan was skeptical.

  “It can be worked through the Secret Service in this case, I believe,” said Griscom. “I seem to remember some old cases our law firm got involved in. Am I right, chief?”

  “Well,” said Brothers, “in the District we don’t have much problem on the original detention, provided the man is picked up in some public place. No warrant is needed then, although we do need a warrant to go into a man’s home and fetch him. But anywhere outside, if we have cause to believe the President is threatened by anyone, we can pick up the suspect and take him to D.C. General Hospital. He’s placed under the care of staff psychiatrists. Then, within forty-eight hours, we have to file an application for detention and examination, and the suspect is examined by the chairman of the Commission on Mental Health and two psychiatrists. If they conclude the person is of unsound mind, they must report the fact to the district court within twenty-five days. That’s about the procedure.”

  “But members of Congress are different, aren’t they?” asked Donovan. “I thought there was something in the Constitution, giving them immunity from arrest.”

  Griscom shook his head. “They’re privileged from arrest while in session, or going to and from Congress, except in cases of treason, felony or breach of the peace, I think the language is. That narrows their immunity pretty severely. Of course, the question here is whether detaining a senator for mental examination would constitute an arrest in the constitutional meaning. I would think not. What do you think, chief?”

  “We’ve never had to face the issue with a member of Congress in these circumstances,” said Brothers, “but I don’t think there’s much doubt that we have the legal right to take Senator MacVeagh in for an examination. Still…”

  He paused and his face clouded. “I’d hate to do it on my own authority alone. If we pick up Jim MacVeagh, we open a can of worms, believe me. Law or no law.”

  “You’re not kidding,” said Donovan. His pale eyelashes were almost closed, a sure sign that his political sensibilities had been alerted. “You pick up Jimmy MacVeagh, and you c
ouldn’t keep it quiet overnight. It would be a page one sensation within twenty-four hours.”

  There was a moment of silence, punctuated by the squeak of Speaker Nicholson’s old swivel chair.

  “We’d have to face the publicity,” said Nicholson, “but I think MacVeagh should be put in a hospital right now. I’m afraid of the man. If you’d seen his face and his behavior at Cavanaugh’s, you’d know what I mean. He’s potentially dangerous, in my book.”

  “Maybe Jimmy would consent to a voluntary commitment for a few days,” suggested Donovan, “long enough to have a thorough examination.”

  “I doubt it,” said Nicholson. “It’s obvious he’s got an obsession on this thing about the President.”

  “Still,” said Griscom, “Joe’s idea is worth a try. I’d be willing to talk to MacVeagh and try to persuade him. Then, if that didn’t work, we could decide what route to take. What do you say?”

  “Okay by me,” said Donovan. Nicholson nodded assent as well.

  “All right,” said Griscom, “I’ll call him right now.”

  The lawyer picked up the telephone on the Speaker’s desk. He was connected with MacVeagh’s office, asked for the senator, then listened for a moment before hanging up.

  “MacVeagh just left for the White House,” he said.

  The four men exchanged surprised glances.

  “That’s funny,” said Donovan.

  “Funny is not the word.” Nicholson heaved himself out of his swivel chair. “I think you’d better take over, chief. I don’t know what MacVeagh is up to at the White House, but I don’t think he should be allowed in there right now.”

  “You want him detained?” Brothers scanned three faces, seeking unanimity. Donovan looked doubtful, but Griscom nodded.