(1964) The Man (110 page)

“I believed the Senate should know what I know, sir.”

“We will proceed. Why did you, one week after Douglass Dilman assumed the Presidency, apply for the position as his social secretary?”

“Certainly not for reasons of personal advancement, Representative Miller. My father, as you know, has always been able to educate and care for his family. I had heard—because of my wide acquaintance in Washington—I had heard that many of the White House staff were resigning, since their loyalty had been only to T. C. Also, I had heard that Miss Laurel, the First Lady’s social secretary, was leaving the White House with her. I read and heard that the new President had no woman to bring into the White House to assist him with the ordinary refinements and duties that only a lady versed in the social amenities could help him with. Of course, at that time I did not know he had a grown daughter passing herself off as a white person in secret.”

“No, none of us knew that, Miss Watson.”

“I knew also that it would be difficult for President Dilman to find someone to fill a specialized position such as social secretary. Because of his—his background—his lack of knowledge of formal entertaining—it would make the position doubly burdensome. Few qualified ladies were prepared to undertake such responsibility for such meager recompense.”

“So you applied as a duty, in the same way a socialite might lend herself to hospital work?”

“If you want to put it that way, yes. I wanted to be of use, to do my part in maintaining the continuity of the social life in the White House.”

“You felt you were qualified?”

“I believed so. I had attended Radcliffe. I had handled the entertaining of account executives for an advertising agency in New York. I had often served as my father’s hostess. I believed that I was qualified, and apparently I was, for the President hired me during my first interview with him, and often congratulated me on my ability in managing his limited social affairs.”

“Did you find the position agreeable, Miss Watson?”

“In every respect except one.”

“Except one? Do I dare inquire in what area you found the position disagreeable?”

“I don’t mind. It is time the—the truth came out. Some of my friends begged me not to take the position. They said it was known that the President had been, well, carrying on with an unmarried white woman—of course, I later learned she was an unmarried mulatto woman—and that his morals were questionable. I ignored that as the inevitable rumor that precedes every new President into office.”

“You were generous, Miss Watson.”

“I don’t like to listen to petty gossip. And at first, the first few weeks, I believed that I was right. President Dilman behaved circumspectly. But then—”

“Go on, please, Miss Watson. Then what happened?”

“I don’t know. He—the President—seemed to begin to feel more confident about his office, his belonging up in the White House, and once the mourning for T. C. ceased, and he knew he was really the head man, his behavior altered. It was at first subtle, but it altered.”

“Can you give us any instances?”

“Oh, yes. His language became more imperious, coarser, and he was more demanding. Since we had many matters to confer about daily, he would insist, more and more frequently, that I come to see him in his bedroom or study, during the morning, while he was still in his pajamas. Sometimes he would demand that I stay on later at night, to meet with him the same way, and sometimes he drank in my presence and became heady.”

“Heady, Miss Watson?”

“Intoxicated. Perhaps Miss Gibson was right. He cannot hold drinks. Nevertheless, he drank. When he was under the influence of drink and we were alone—he would never permit me to bring another member of my staff along, not even his former secretary, Miss Fuller—he would become excessively informal. By that I mean he would make flattering allusions to my appearance, my features or my clothes. It made me uncomfortable. I hated to see him this way, and each time I couldn’t wait to leave him. I’m not a child, but there was something about him, the way he stared at me, that made me afraid.”

“I see. Until the night we shall discuss in a moment, the awful night he gave his true intent away, had President Dilman made an improper advance or gesture toward you?”

“No. He hinted at—at our dining alone sometime—spending a social evening together—but he never came out with it. I think he was inhibited by the possibility of gossip or what my father might say if I repeated it.”

“And, no doubt, he was put off by your own demeanor?”

“Oh, definitely. I was chilly and businesslike with him. It was so difficult, especially knowing, as I did, of his affair—or whatever you wish to call it—with another woman on the side.”

“But the President never touched you, physically, until the night in question?”

“No. If he had, I’d have quit on the spot, and told my father.”

“Miss Watson, we have arrived at the awful scene, the one that inspired the House of Representatives to condemn the morality of the nation’s President in Article III. I refer to the evening that the President, as specified in our charges, ‘while under the influence of intoxicants, made improper advances’ upon you ‘and did commit bodily harm’ to you.”

“It was an ugly experience.”

“The Senate and public will judge fairly the degree of the President’s degradation of his office, Miss Watson. I know their decision will never free your mind of the nightmare visited upon you, but you will know justice has been served. Let us, then, quickly and briefly recapitulate the events of that night. It was the evening of the dinner you had arranged on his behalf for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. There was a movie shown after dinner which you did not attend. Why did you not attend?”

“As we were leaving for the movie, the President drew me aside and whispered to me. He had a private conversation with me.”

“Yes, General Fortney has attested to that. What was the nature of the conversation?”

“The President said he wanted me to get out files on several of T. C.’s dinners given for the legislators, and review them with me, because he thought it was time to start buttering them up. He said he wanted to go over our future social program that very evening. He asked me to get the material and meet him in an hour in the Lincoln Bedroom. I had misgivings, because I could smell alcohol on his breath, but I had no choice. So I was there when he came.”

“What transpired next, Miss Watson? I know this is painful to you, and the evidence has already been introduced, but I desire that the Senate hear it from your own lips.”

“He came in—”

“President Dilman?”

“Yes, the President. He came in, and mumbled something about the movie, and brought out drinks, and kept insisting I have a drink of whiskey with him. I didn’t want to, but he forced one on me. He must have had three in the next fifteen or twenty minutes. I was sitting in a chair next to the bed, and he was sitting on the bed. He was babbling on about his life, what it was like to be Negro, how he was going to prove a Negro and other Negroes he’d bring into the Cabinet could run the government better than white politicians—then suddenly he asked to know if I had anything against him because of his color. I said no. There was more of this, his wanting to know how I felt toward him, then he began saying how he felt toward me, that I reminded him of his wife who was practically as white as I am. Then, suddenly, he asked me to bring him the papers I had in my hand, bring them to where he was sitting on the bed. So I did.”

“And then, Miss Watson?”

“He took the papers, threw them aside, and grabbed hold of me. He tried to kiss me. I refused, and that enraged him. He wouldn’t let go of me, and I tried to get free. He tore my dress, and then he became brutal, and I slapped him, and he pushed me down on the bed. Then he was after me again, and his hands, he bruised and scratched me—you have the photographs the doctor took that night—and finally I said I’d scream if he wouldn’t let go, and pulled away and stumbled to the door, unlocked it, and escaped. I never went back to the White House again.”

“What happened immediately afterward, Miss Watson?”

“I—I told some people high up in government—I was afraid to tell my father—I didn’t want him to do something terrible—and my friends then acted, decided to take action, against the President, and they told my father, and he agreed, and that was all.”

“You’ve been under the strict care of your family physician ever since?”

“I was in a state of shock. I have been confined to our house. The doctor comes by daily.”

“Miss Watson, you have performed a service to your country. Thank you for your soul-rending testimony.”

Zeke Miller bowed his head, and then turned away. Keeping his head low, shaking it sorrowfully, he returned to his table.

There was a buzzing through the Senate Chamber, much twisting, turning, consultation, as Sally Watson rose from her chair to leave.

Chief Justice Johnstone’s stentorian voice halted her. “The witness will remain in her place for the cross-examination by the President’s managers.”

Surprised, Sally Watson sat down.

The Chief Justice called out, “The senators will please be attentive. Gentlemen of counsel for the President, if you desire to cross-examine, you will proceed.”

Nat Abrahams had taken up a manila folder of documents and come out of his seat. “Mr. Chief Justice, by your leave, the defense does have a number of inquiries to make of the witness.”

Abrahams confronted Sally Watson. He had in his mind Dilman’s story of the night in question. He had, in his folder, the thorough research accomplished by Priest and Hart. Abrahams knew that he would not be able to shake her from her story, for as one psychiatrist had pointed out to him, by now she believed it to be true, as was often the case with latent paranoid schizophrenics. If he attacked her ego, her id would make the response. His task was formidable. If he overplayed, and she became hysterical, she might gain sympathy for herself while building more resentment toward President Dilman. Abrahams knew that he would have to feel his way, push where there was give, withdraw where there was resistance, and stop hastily if she got out of hand.

“Miss Watson,” he said, his tone chatty rather than severe, “like the honorable manager who preceded me, I appreciate what an ordeal this appearance must be for a young lady such as yourself. I will do my part in making it as endurable, and brief, as possible.”

Sally Watson eyed Abrahams suspiciously. “Thank you.”

“Be tolerant of me if I cover some of the same ground covered by the learned House manager. Now let me see, according to my notes, you stated that you volunteered, applied, to the President for the position of his social secretary, because—what was it now? Oh, yes—because you wished to serve your country. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very laudable. When you applied in person—I believe you saw President Dilman in the Oval Office of the White House—did he hire you immediately? Or do I understand correctly that he had some doubts about your qualifications until you said that there was a personage of importance in the government who would give you the strongest of recommendations? Is that true?”

“Yes—yes, it is.”

“Who was the person in government who recommended you?”

“The Secretary of State.”

“Secretary of State Arthur Eaton? I see. He recommended you for the position? He knew you personally and said you would be perfect for it?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“As a result of Secretary Eaton’s favorable recommendation, you were hired as White House social secretary?”

“Well, there were also my other qualifications.”

“Of course, Miss Watson, your other qualifications. Let me see.” Abrahams opened his folder and examined the photocopies of documents already entered as exhibits in the trial. “Miss Watson, you spoke of attending Radcliffe. The record shows you attended the college for ten months, and then you were dropped, no cause for the school’s action being given. Can you enlighten us?”

“I tested very well, or I wouldn’t have been there, but my grades slipped. I was impatient with school. The girls were too immature. My mind was on a career. I wanted to go out and have a career. So I moved to New York.”

“Yes, I see. You had one job there. With the advertising agency, which is headed by Senator Hoyt Watson’s former law partner. You received a sizable salary for a young lady who had no advertising experience. Yes, an excellent job, I must say. I am surprised it lasted only six months. Why was that, Miss Watson?”

“There was too much drinking and fooling around. I couldn’t stand it. Besides, I wanted to take voice lessons. I was told I could sing unusually well, and that I might have a future in that field.”

“Yes, there is some evidence you possessed a devotion to popular music. I see here that you were married to a young man connected with a Greenwich Village orchestra. Further documentation makes it clear that the marriage was annulled two weeks later. The young man with whom you eloped, evidently he was deported to his native Puerto Rico.”

“When I learned about his bad habits—he was a dope addict—I sought the annulment and disclosed his vice to—to certain people. I guess that was why he was deported. I think it is a good thing, too.”

“I have no doubt. Such vigilance is admirable. . . . Now, Miss Watson, we have in our possession evidence that, in the next several years, you were attended by three different psychoanalysts, and for one short period you were confined to a mental institution. In itself, nothing wrong. Such treatment is not uncommon. In fact, it shows good sense to take corrective measures when you are emotionally ill. Naturally, and properly, your psychoanalysts and the mental institution would not open their confidential files on your illness to us. We have only the information that you were placed in an institution because you made an attempt upon your own life, made an attempt to commit suicide by self-inflicted wounds that—”

Zeke Miller’s voice shrieked, “Objection, Mr. Chief Justice! The testimony the manager is trying to elicit is irrelevant and immaterial to the case on trial, and an obvious effort to damage the character of the witness.”