(1964) The Man (108 page)

Why, Abrahams asked himself, had the House managers determined to crowd the best of their case into a single afternoon? Because, he decided, they felt the timing was right, the climate never better.

The steady if gradual shift of sympathy and support to President Dilman, among the public, had faltered in the last nine days. Miller’s weather eye was keen. Eight days ago the President had admitted to the nation that he might, if necessary, sacrifice the lives of an all-white American fighting force in the defense of a little-known African nation. The Negroes and liberals approved, but the larger part of the nation boiled with resentment. Then Julian had confessed to his Turnerite affiliation, and while the majority of twenty-three million American Negroes may have been sympathetic once more, and some whites impressed, the greater part of 230 million Americans were increasingly suspicious of the President’s past activities. Now, this morning, Zeke Miller’s revelation about the President’s daughter passing for white, with the President’s knowledge and lack of disapproval, would once more turn the Negro population against him and infuriate most of the white population. And, Abrahams saw, even Doug Dilman’s profoundly moving explanation of his daughter’s passing, and of his own role in it, would fail to counteract the damaging publicity. For the rest of the press, who had missed Miller’s sensational scoop, were trying to make up lost ground by excerpting portions of the President’s remarks, lifting them out of context, angling and distorting them to make headlines anew and sell copies of their newspapers.

Abrahams rubbed his shoulders against the pillar, put a flame to his pipe again, and considered the situation. Yes, for Zeke Miller, the national climate was right to bring out, from the principal witnesses, the last of the evidence against Dilman. There was momentum in the sentiment against the President, and whatever headlines Miller could create and throw forth today would ride with the momentum, until the charges would be too many and too powerful for it to be stopped.

Abrahams did not like the defense’s position. If the prosecution concluded its testimony today, it would be the defense’s turn, either late today or tomorrow, to summon up its own rebuttal witnesses. These were good witnesses, but not colorful, not space grabbers, not names, and they would receive scant attention. Abrahams needed what Miller possessed—a cast of stars—and he had none, not one.

Only a single faint hope remained, Abrahams decided, and that was to make Miller’s stars his own stars. He must build up Julian and Wanda, even though subpoenaed by Miller, as defense witnesses. He must tear down Eaton and Sally Watson, so that resultant headlines would favor the President over his prosecutors. It would not be an easy game to play, if it could be played at all, but, he thought mournfully, it was the only game in town.

He heard an agitated voice call out, “Congressman—Congressman Miller—”

Looking off, he was surprised to see George Murdock, fugitive from the press gallery and Blaser’s collaborator, hastening in his general direction. Then Murdock hurried past him, and abruptly halted. Abrahams poked his head around the pillar, and he recognized Zeke Miller, profile to him, considering the reporter with annoyance.

“What are you doing here?” Miller demanded. “You’re supposed to be up there doing what you’re paid to do.”

“Congressman, I’ve got to speak to you,” Murdock insisted, clawing his acned, pasty face. “That story you and Reb broke this morning—about Mindy passing—”

“Don’t bother me now. I have no time. I’ve got a trial to conduct.”

“Listen—wait—I signed a paper for that girl, promising if she gave me the letter Julian wrote her, I’d never in my life whisper a word of who she is or what she is. I told it to you in confidence—remember? It was part of our deal—you could use everything else I got you, as long as you never used that. You promised, like I promised. You pledged your word.”

Miller’s lipless mouth was drawn back so that his yellowed teeth were exposed. “Boy, I don’t remember making no foolish promise like that there one, you understand? When Zeke Miller makes a promise, he keeps it. You’re not questioning my integrity, you’re not doing that, are you? That wouldn’t be sensible—would it?—for a reporter in an editorial room to doubt the word of the proprietor, would it now? I’ve seen my daddy, in his day, have his cotton pickers thrown off his land for less than that.”

Murdock shriveled. “I—I’m only trying to say—”

“Boy, what burr you got up your behind? You mean an important proud writing person like you is worrying about some cheating cullud girl, some Nigra tar baby who’s painted herself white because she wants to insinuate her class into our class? What’s happening to you, boy? Keep that up and I got a good mind to make you a foreign correspondent and send you off to cover Harlem permanently. Know what I mean? You wouldn’t like that, would you, feller? Come now, would you?”

“No—no—I wouldn’t.”

“Then get yourself back up to that gallery and write like you’re told, and don’t bother Zeke Miller again with any of that Northern weeping-willow crap.” Miller waved off to someone. “Hiya, Senator Watson. Time to get back to the combat field, I guess.”

Abrahams watched Miller leave, in step with Senator Hoyt Watson. Quickly, he glanced at Murdock. The reporter’s face was sallow gray, like a scrap of ancient papyrus. Some kind of involuntary utterance came from him, more moan than sigh, and he turned, head down, and went slowly back to the press gallery, as Abrahams, aching for his humiliation, averted his eyes.

Then, seeing that the Marble Room was quickly emptying, Abrahams tapped out the ashes from his bowl, pocketed the warm pipe, and fell in line behind those returning to the Senate Chamber.

When he took his place at the President’s managers’ table, he could see the Chief Justice already on the bench above, Julian Dilman in the witness chair timidly prepared for anything, and the last of the absent senators squeezing back in behind their desks.

Chief Justice Johnstone’s gavel came down. After calling the court to order, announcing his decision on the point of law which conceded the correctness of the senatorial challenge and therefore required no vote by the body of legislators present, the magistrate ordered, “Senators will please give their undivided attention. The counsel for the House of Representatives will proceed with the examination of the witness.”

Zeke Miller bounced up from his table, came to the front of the podium, and planted himself before Julian Dilman.

“Well, now, Mr. Julian Dilman, we have arrived at the core of the charges in Article II of this impeachment. You have confessed, in a public statement, that you were an early and secret underground member of the subversive Turnerite Group. There is no arguing about that now, is there? We can accept your public confession of membership in full, can’t we? Or do you wish to retract it?”

“I was a member, yes,” said Julian, “exactly the way I announced it last week.”

“I am pleased Mr. Witness confesses to the confession.” Miller waited for the laughter from the gallery to subside, and then he asked, “Before the day of your public confession, did the President, your father, know you were a member of the subversive Turnerite Group?”

“No, sir.”

“You say, ‘No, sir’? Let me explore this further. Did the President, your father, ever make mention of the Turnerites to you, in speech or writing?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Oh, he
did
discuss the subversive Turnerite Group with you? Did he inquire if you were a member?”

“Yes, he did, but—”

“Why would he inquire if you were a member? Was it just paternal curiosity or did he have suspicions of you?”

“He’d heard I was a member. Someone told him.”

“Ah, ‘someone’ told him,” said Miller. “In other words, he was in contact with someone who definitely knew? He was in touch with other secret Turnerites?”

“No, not exactly—”

“Never mind. The point is that the President had been informed that you, his son, were a Turnerite, and he went to you, and desired for you to confirm the news of your membership?”

“He didn’t know I was one of them, but he had heard a rumor, yes. He was upset. He tried to pin me down. I denied everything. I lied to him, because—because I was afraid.”

“Afraid of whom, Mr. Witness? Afraid of your real boss, the late murderer, Jefferson Hurley—or afraid of your father’s wrath?”

“Both.”

“So you lied to your father. Are you in the habit of lying often, Mr. Dilman?”

“No. But my situation made it necessary that one time.”

“If you could lie to your parent, if you could lie to the President of the United States, might you not be capable of lying to this high tribunal?”

Abrahams leaped to his feet. “Objection, Mr. Chief Justice! Mr. Manager Miller is baiting and leading the witness.”

Miller looked up at Chief Justice Johnstone, all bland innocence. “Mr. Justice, I am merely attempting to establish the devious character of—”

The Chief Justice’s gavel rapped. “Objection sustained. The witness is under solemn oath, Mr. Manager Miller. Avoid further speculation on his veracity.”

Miller shrugged good-naturedly and considered his witness once more. “Let’s see, Mr. Julian Dilman, what have we established up to now? That you were covertly a blood member of a subversive organization. That your father heard about it. That your father confronted you with the fact, and you denied it, you lied to him. Now, from his subsequent actions, we must wonder if your father, the President of the United States, believed your denial—or if he knew more about your affiliation than he had told you. Let us see, let us see. The Turnerites, in their efforts to overthrow the established government of the United States, perpetrated a planned kidnaping of a municipal official. Despite this, as the Attorney General has testified in writing, the President refused to outlaw the society which had been responsible for this outrage. Instead, he appointed a friend and tenant of his, a Nigra lobbyist, to talk and deal privately with the Turnerites. Then, when your organization committed foul murder, the President still refused to condemn your friends until he was forced to bend to the pressure of the Justice Department and outlaw your organization. Would that not clearly indicate that Hurley had threatened to expose you, unless your father, the President, went soft on the Turnerites? Would that not clearly indicate your father, the President,
knew
his son was a member of a lawless society, and, to protect his son, treated with the Turnerites, went easy on them, until a life was lost? Would that not indicate that your father, the President, putting his own interests, the interests of his family, before the interests of his high office, was guilty of high crime and—”

“That’s not true!” Julian protested. “He didn’t believe I was involved, and he made no deals with them.”

“How do you know, Mr. Julian Dilman? You weren’t there when the President’s emissary was treating with the Turnerites.”

“Neither were you!”

Miller’s face darkened. “You are being insolent, young man. Who taught you your manners? The Commie terrorists and Nigra extremists in your crowd? Or the President himself?”

“Objection!” Abrahams called out.

Miller held a hand up to the bench. “Never mind, Mr. Chief Justice. I retract. I fear the younger generation can often be provoking. . . . Very well, Mr. Julian Dilman, your father had heard you were a bona fide member of this violent, now outlawed, society. Let’s find out what nefarious activities you performed while serving—”

Half listening to Miller’s continuing examination, Nat Abrahams jotted notes on the pad before him. Miller, he realized, was making his best of a bad thing. Miller had failed to prove that the President knew of his son’s membership and had therefore promised the Turnerites he would go easy on them if they kept Julian’s membership quiet. Yet, proof or no proof, Miller was succeeding, by using the tactic of repetition. In lending some credulity to the charges in Article II. Had not the President “heard” his son was a member and accused him of it? Therefore, he might possibly have “known” for certain. Had not the President appointed a “friend,” instead of a government official, to arrange a compromise with Hurley through Valetti? Therefore, he may possibly have been party to an underhand “deal.”

After five minutes more, Miller concluded his examination, and Nat Abrahams stood before the shaken young Negro boy.

In as kind a tone as possible, Abrahams said to Julian, “Since the House managers have no witnesses, no firsthand evidence whatsoever, that the President believed you were a Turnerite, that the President made a deal with the Turnerites to protect you, the charge embodied in Article II stands or falls completely on your word. Julian Dilman, you have taken solemn oath before the Senate body, at the risk of being charged with perjury, that you will here tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God. You are entirely cognizant of that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did the President, in a private room at Trafford University, ask you if you were a member of the Turnerite Group?”

“He did.”

“And you told him you were not a member?”

“I told him I was not a member.”

“Did he believe you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he ever bring up the subject again?”

“He did not, sir. He believed me.”

“In short, Julian Dilman, as far as you know, the President was satisfied from that day on that you were not a member of the Turnerites?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Therefore, he would have no reason to compromise himself with the Turnerites in order to protect you?”

“He would have no reason whatsoever, sir.”

“You have told the learned manager of the House that the President did, on several occasions, discuss the Turnerite movement with you, other than discussing your own possible involvement. Is this so?”

“Oh, yes. We talked about them. I mean, he didn’t discuss the Turnerites with me. I discussed them with him. I always brought them up.”

“Why did you bring them up?”

“I felt worried about secretly belonging, without his knowledge, and wanted to convince him that the ideals of the Group were good ones. Then, at the time, I believed in the society, and he did not, and we used to argue about it.”