(1964) The Man (45 page)

“No, Mr. President, it’s
our
affair,” said Kemmler emphatically, slapping his thigh. “I spoke to Lombardi at once, and ordered him to sic the FBI after them, because there were indications that the victim was being taken across the state line. Now there’s concrete evidence from the FBI that Gage has been carried from Mississippi into Louisiana, and the hoodlums are probably trying to get him to Texas and into Mexico. That makes it our business. That brings it under the Lindbergh kidnaping law. It’s a clear-cut Federal offense.”

“Well, all right, you’re on top of it,” said Dilman. “You’re doing what you can—”

“My God, Mr. President,” exclaimed Kemmler, slapping his thigh repeatedly in his agitation, “this is only the beginning. Can’t you see what this means? It means Hurley, Valetti, the whole Turnerite gang—no matter what their phony denials—are starting their eye-for-an-eye policy. If we let them get away with this, they’re going to go on with it, take the law into their own hands. Every time they can trump up an injustice practiced upon a Negro, they’re going to retaliate with a kidnaping, blaming their act on unknown individuals and mocking us with their innocence as a group. Can’t you see what this will lead to? Anarchy, crime compounding crime, with counter-vigilante outfits galloping around the country. Goddammit, we’re going to have the Civil War all over again—but twice as bad, because it’ll be black against white this time—unless we do something fast.”

Shaken, eyes now downcast, Dilman began crumbling the cigar butt between his fingers. “I suppose I could make some kind of personal appeal to Hurley to join us in apprehending—”

“No, absolutely not,” said Kemmler.

Talley snapped his fingers for attention. “Mr. President, I’m inclined to agree with the Attorney General. You, personally, can’t treat with a possible abductor as an equal, bring him up to your level, or demean yourself by going down to his. The consequences—”

“I’m flatly against any bargaining,” Kemmler interrupted. “The situation is too explosive. We can’t let one man who is outside the law, heading up one organization, decide what is just and unjust, and mete out his own punishments. We can’t have two governments, Mr. President. If there are biases and delinquency on our side, and there are plenty of these, we’ll find ways to right them under due process, but no gang of activists is going to supplant us.” He straightened, breathing heavily, and then continued. “The FBI’ll nail the kidnapers soon enough, you can be sure. Then we’ll be able to prove their link to the Turnerites and prosecute them. But we can’t wait for that, believe me. What we need from you, Mr. President, is foresight and firm intervention right now that’ll put an immediate stop to any more Turnerite violence. In this way you’ll discourage lawlessness from other activist groups, black or white. You’ve got a press conference today, right? You can bet those reporter hounds will be howling after you and after me. Okay, I think you should be ready for them, beat them to the punch. I think you should announce that the Federal government is moving immediately to outlaw and disband the Turnerites, and that any person found to be a member—”

“Wait a minute,” Dilman interrupted, rolling his swivel chair back, and swinging his bulk directly toward Kemmler. “I haven’t the power to ban or restrict any private society or organization in the United States, be it the Turnerites or the Ku Klux Klan, unless—”

“Unless it is proved subversive,” Kemmler finished for him. “That’s right. Well, we’ve got the goods on the Turnerites. It was because he anticipated a situation exactly like this that T. C. forced Congress into beefing up the Subversive Activities Control Act. He and Congress knew that the $10,000 fine and five-year imprisonment for failure of a Communist to register wasn’t going to scare anyone, especially since it was always being questioned in the courts. That’s why T. C. pounded through this stronger act—any Communist Front organization engaging in subversive activity, to the detriment of the nation, against the safety of the government, can have its leaders punished and its membership disbanded, and those not complying—”

“You don’t have to read the law to me, Kemmler,” Dilman broke in. “I voted for it in the Senate. I just don’t see how the Subversive Activities Control Act can be applied to the Turnerites. They don’t—”

“We can pin a Communist Front tag on the Turnerites and make it stick!” Kemmler exclaimed triumphantly.

“The Turnerites—Communist?” said Dilman with disbelief. “Come, now. I know you’re investigating that newspaper scoop about one of the Turnerite directors—whatever his name—Valetti, yes—being a Red, but—”

Kemmler shoved his face almost into Dilman’s own. “We have investigated Frank Valetti. He’s been a Communist Party member for years, and he still is. He is also Hurley’s second-in-command. That’s point one. And here’s point two, the clincher. Over in Justice we wondered where the Turnerites were getting their money. Who was financing them? Either they were being kept in business by the Crispus Society, which I doubted, or by the Communist Party. Well, we’re now satisfied that Valetti has been carrying money from the Commies to the Turnerites.”

Dilman shook his head vigorously. “I’m not satisfied. It sounds flaky. Accepting the fact that a member of the Turnerite leadership is a Communist is one thing, but proving the Turnerites, as a group, are part of a conspiracy to overthrow the government—I don’t think anyone will buy that.”

“You don’t?” Clay Kemmler was obviously indignant. “Mr. President, forgive me, but your people have been wide-open to Communist manipulation for years. Remember what J. Edgar Hoover said years ago? He said the Communists were trying to divide and weaken America from within. He said the Communists were trying to exploit misunderstandings and take advantage of areas of dissension and unrest in this country. He said, ‘This is especially true in the intense civil rights movement, for America’s twenty million Negroes and all others engaged in this struggle are a major target for Communist propaganda and subversion.’ Well, okay, that’s what is going on right now. Valetti and the Commies are trying to use the Turnerites for their own ends, and Hurley and the Turnerites are fanatic enough to accept anyone’s help to achieve their goals.”

Dilman stared at Kemmler. “You still haven’t proved that the Turnerites are being financed with Communist funds.”

“We have a dossier a mile high on Valetti, Mr. President. Here’s an unskilled man, whose education ended with grammar school, banking a fantastic yearly income. From whom? From registered Communists, that’s who. And no sooner does Valetti deposit this money than out it goes in big cash lumps. Where does it go? Do I have to spell it out? Our file is wide-open to you.”

Dilman gripped the arms of his big green chair and heaved himself to his feet. He studied Kemmler a moment, and then left his desk, circling the office. He knew that the three of them were watching him, waiting for him to speak. He tried to think. Desperately he tried to sublimate his feelings as a Negro and coolly judge what he had heard and what was wanted from him, by applying his critical faculty as a onetime practicing attorney-at-law.

At last he faced them, “Gentlemen, this much I know now—I don’t intend to do anything rash, anything I’ll regret later. Ever since the stronger Subversive Activities Control Act has been in effect, there have been five hundred specific organizations posted for public notice on the Justice Department’s questionable list. To my knowledge, not one has ever been prosecuted and disbanded under the act. Is that correct?”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean—” Kemmler began.

“It doesn’t mean such banning can’t be done or shouldn’t be done,” said Dilman. “When the safety of the country is at stake, and the enemy within is proved guilty, it will be done. I remind you, Mr. Attorney General, I’ve got a law degree, as you have, and I tell you I am not satisfied that we possess sufficient evidence to invoke the Subversive Control Act now against the Turnerites. Until I know beyond a shadow of doubt that Hurley and the Turnerites, as a group, are responsible for that kidnaping of Gage, and until I am certain that they are Communist-financed, I cannot restrict, ban, or dissolve them.”

Kemmler was unable to conceal his dismay. “But, Mr. President—you’ve got to do something.”

Dilman had started for his desk. “I intend to. I want to satisfy myself on one question. And then I will do something.”

He dialed Edna Foster, and requested her to put through a call to the Reverend Paul Spinger at the Crispus Society Building. Standing, telephone in hand, he suggested that the others make themselves comfortable. Talley and Flannery retreated to the sofas, but Clay Kemmler refused to sit. He went to the French doors and glumly looked out at the south lawn.

In less than a minute, the Reverend Spinger’s concerned voice greeted Dilman.

“Reverend,” Dilman said into the mouthpiece, “have you heard what’s happened down in Hattiesburg?”

“Yes, Mr. President, it’s dreadful. Those irresponsible and ornery gangsters couldn’t have done a greater disservice to our cause.”

“I agree with you, Reverend. Now I’ll tell you why I’m calling. I have here in the office with me the Attorney General, as well as Governor Talley, and Mr. Flannery. We’ve been discussing the abduction, and the possible repercussions it will have. We must be prepared to act. Reverend, do you consider the kidnaping as something done by an isolated bunch of hotheads or as something instigated by Hurley and his Turnerites?”

“Mr. President, I can’t say. Certainly we have no information here, one way or the other.”

“All right, you don’t know.” Dilman looked over his shoulder at Kemmler, whose back was still to him. “Reverend Spinger, we’ve touched upon this matter many times, but I have never put the question directly to you. Now I am going to do so, and do so officially.” He could see Kemmler turning to catch every word. Dilman concentrated on the telephone. “Since many Crispus Society members left you to form the Turnerites, it is imperative that we know what ties you have, if any, with the Turnerites. I must—”

“None, Doug, you know that.” Dilman could detect the fervent emotion in Spinger’s voice, as the clergyman went on. “We disapprove of Hurley, his threats, his inciting activities, just as he and his group disapprove of us, of our adherence to legal procedure, our qualified support of the Minorities Rehabilitation Program, our—”

“Then, Reverend, you disavow any ties with the Turnerites. Two final questions. Has your organization now, or at any time, by any means, ever financed the Turnerites?”

“The answer, Doug, is an unequivocal no. Not now, not before, never.”

“Never. Very well. Then the second question. Do you have any information as to who
is
financing Hurley’s group?”

“I have no factual information, Mr. President,” replied Spinger, more controlled. “There’s been some hearsay—you know, Valetti, the—”

“I’m not interested in hearsay, Reverend.” He paused, then asked, “Have you ever met Jefferson Hurley? Do you know him?”

“I’ve appeared on several speaking platforms with him, at one or two rallies, on a television show once, that’s the extent of it.”

“Does he have a fairly high regard for you, Reverend?”

Spinger grunted. “He thinks I’m a doddering and reactionary has-been who ought to have been interred long ago.”

“I see,” Dilman said. “Would Hurley speak to you if you requested a meeting?”

“I don’t know why not . . . yes, I think he would.”

“Very well, Reverend Spinger, I’ll tell you what we’re up to, here. When the news of the kidnaping gets out today, we expect an uproar, and considerable unrest and agitation. Based on some evidence in the hands of the Justice Department, I have been asked to outlaw the Turnerites—”

“Doug, don’t do it, don’t do it unless you are positive,” Spinger pleaded with passion. “You have no idea how this might affect the Negro community. It might give the impression that you’re in the hands of vindictive whites, that you’ve been whitewashed, so to speak. It would create a terrible reaction against you, your administration, and, worse, create automatic sympathy for Hurley and his Turnerites. Our people might look upon them as the persecuted underdogs, identify with them in a way they have not done up to now. Our people might begin to equate the Crispus Society with any repressive government action, and pull out on us, and—”

“Wait, Reverend, I haven’t said I’m ready to disband the Turnerites. I’ve only said it is under consideration, until I have the facts, all the facts. You have as great a stake in ferreting out the truth as I have. I want you to do something for me, if you can.”

“Anything, Mr. President. Whatever you say.”

Dilman measured his words carefully. “Reverend Spinger, I am appointing you my official representative, the President’s intermediary, to meet with Jefferson Hurley for a discussion of this whole affair.” As he spoke, Dilman’s eyes shifted from Kemmler’s reaction of disgust, to Talley’s expression of bewilderment, to Flannery’s show of approval. He drew the mouthpiece closer to his lips. “Reverend, I want you to locate Hurley, and converse with him by phone, if you can’t in person. I want you to find out, as best you can, whether the Turnerites are behind this crime or not. If he denies any part of the crime, as he has done already, I want you to tell him exactly what the Justice Department is considering doing. And I want you to tell him that if he wants to prove himself clean, and keep his organization intact, he must publicly condemn the Hattiesburg crime, and come forward to open his financial records for your eyes. If he will do this, I can promise him I will not enforce the Subversive Activities Control Act. If he refuses, I will promise nothing. Are you prepared to undertake the assignment, Reverend Spinger?”

“I am, Mr. President. When should I begin?”

“You begin this minute, and report your findings to me directly. Good luck, Reverend.”

After he had hung up, he remained still, knowing the others were gathering before his desk.

Dilman lifted his head. “That’s it for now, gentlemen.”

Kemmler was doing a poor job of containing his displeasure. “You’re making a mistake, Mr. President.”