Allegiance (36 page)

“Good,” I say. The picture of the Japanese boy in the train window is still on his wall.

Biddle follows my eyes. “Alien Enemies treating you well?”

“Yes. Actually I was just talking to Edward Ennis about
Korematsu
and
Endo
.” He nods in a friendly fashion. “The War Department is trying to pass off lies to the Supreme Court.”

“The Final Report,” Biddle says. He looks concerned. “You had Hoover check out those claims.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And they didn't check out. We need to tell the Court that.”

“Well,” says Biddle. He strokes his mustache. “ ‘Lie' is an awfully strong word. Remember who we're talking about here.”

“Karl Bendetsen?”

“Henry Stimson. A good man. Jack McCloy.”

“A Philadelphian,” I put in.

“Exactly. These are men who love their country. Some of our finest lawyers.”

“So?”

“I don't think we can go before the Supreme Court and accuse them of lying. We don't want to stain their reputations.”

“The Final Report says there's proof of disloyalty. That stains some reputations, too.”

“Yes,” says Biddle slowly. “Of course, it doesn't mention anyone by name.”

“You want to help them resettle,” I say. “Don't you think that would go easier if the Court said the evacuation was wrong?”

“Yes.” The word is drawn out over three syllables. “You know I was never in favor. It's a terrible thing.”

“So we'll confess error.”

“Mmmm,” says Biddle. He chews his lower lip, clearly wishing I were someplace other than his office. “Charles Fahy will be delivering the argument. Whatever you work out with him is acceptable to me.”

• • • • 

Charles Fahy prefers to communicate by memo, and Ennis and I spend the afternoon writing one. We outline the claims in the Final Report and the evidence that undermines them. It is bad enough, we say, that these falsehoods were presented to the Court in
Hirabayashi
through the brief of the Pacific states. But the United States government cannot endorse them. Our goal now must be to facilitate the resettlement of the detainees, and a Supreme Court decision holding evacuation unlawful would greatly assist that project.

A messenger delivers the reply an hour later. As I stand with the paper in my hand, I hear voices singing outside. The Marseillaise. I go to the window. A crowd parades down Pennsylvania Avenue, bearing a French flag and holding bottles aloft. It is the end of August, and Paris is free. I open the memo from Fahy. It is one sentence long.
The Solicitor General of the United States does not throw cases.

BRUTE FORCE, ORDEAL,
Tradition
. I am walking circles through Main Justice again. Nanette Dembitz is not in her office.
Superstition, False Witness, Magic
. Edward Ennis is. He looks up as I pass; we both shake our heads. So we will not ask the Court to rule against the government. I will have to write a brief that defends the evacuation. The letter Rowe left is starting to seem a more appealing alternative, the cyanide pill a spy hides for when hope is lost. But perhaps Ennis and I can figure out how to walk the line. We can guide Charles Horsky to the weak spots in our argument, tell him what to attack. The clerks will pick up on equivocations in our brief, just as Gressman did. It might still work. I can tell Clara, or Frankfurter, or even Black, if it comes to that.

Those names bring other thoughts to mind. Quitting will make it harder to ferret out the conspiracy, to find Gene's killer. Not that I have made much progress on that front.
Intuition, Reason, Science
. There is Nanette, down in the courtyard with one of the Antitrust boys. I am back to the beginning. But all of a sudden the light is on. I have been walking the paths to truth, when what I need is a lie.

• • • • 

“So about that Final Report,” I say.

“How did I know you weren't just looking for a squash game?” John Hall
asks. “Oh, because no one likes losing that much.” He begins hitting the ball into the front corners, one after the other, driving it so that it returns to him where he stands at the T.

I ignore the jibe. “Seriously. We need to talk.”

“Okay. About the Final Report. Makes a good case for evacuation, doesn't it?”

“It would if it were true.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means we looked up your claims. And they're not true.”

Hall's face retains its slightly condescending smile. He switches from drives to volleys, the racquet tracing a figure eight in front of him, forehand to backhand and back again. “We think they are.”

“Maybe you do and maybe you don't. But the FBI and the FCC say they aren't. There was no signaling from the shore. There were no illegal radio transmissions. Biddle's going to crucify you on that report. And it's going to cost you the Japanese cases. Charles Fahy's going to tell the Justices the report's not true, that the War Department is a pack of liars, that nothing the military says can be trusted. We're confessing error.”

Hall catches the ball in his hand. The smile is gone from his face. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you made a mistake, John. You or someone else. You forgot we're all on the same side. It wasn't enough to try to justify evacuation. You had to use the report to get back at Justice, at Biddle and Rowe. Well, you made it personal, and now it's coming back at you. Personally.”

Hall looks at the floor, lips moving. He hits the ball into the back corner and lets it lie there. “Bendetsen,” he says. “I told him. Look, Cash, you've got to help me. If Fahy tells the Court not to trust the War Department, I'm screwed. I'm the Justice liaison. If our relationship with you breaks down, it's on my head.”

“Of course I want to protect you,” I say. “That's why I'm here. But the FBI reports are pretty damning. Fahy's on the warpath.” No one who knows Fahy would believe this description, but Hall does not. “What were you thinking, putting that stuff in there?”

“I didn't write the report,” Hall says. Self-pity is in his voice. “Karl Bendetsen did. I made it better. You should have seen what they gave us.”

“What they gave you? Did I get something else?”

I can see Hall hesitating. “You're here to help me, right?” he asks.

“Of course,” I say. “We're Philadelphia boys.”

“Okay,” he says. “Bendetsen sent this over months ago. We could have given it to you earlier. But it wouldn't have helped the litigation. Justice was arguing that we needed to act quickly, and the report said that wasn't it. There was plenty of time; it was just impossible to figure out who was loyal and who was disloyal because they're all inscrutable Orientals.”

“That's not what it says now.”

“Exactly. We knew that wouldn't fly. Not with Justice, maybe not with the Court. So Jack McCloy brought Bendetsen to DC and gave him a good talking-to. Said the War Department wouldn't accept the conclusion that loyalty could never be determined, that the President wouldn't either. And then I rewrote it so it said that time was of the essence. We destroyed the originals, and that was that.”

I can feel my mouth hanging open. “It wasn't your report to rewrite,” I say. “You understand that, don't you? It was supposed to give the thinking of the military officers who recommended evacuation. You had no business changing it to make it hold up better. You lied to Justice and you lied to the Supreme Court.”

“Easy, pal,” says Hall. He holds up a placating hand. “Remember that we're all on the same side here. Let's stay focused on figuring out how you can help me.”

“I can talk to Biddle,” I say. “And Fahy. I can cool them off. But you're going to have to do something for me.”

“Of course.”

“What did Bendetsen do? The thing you were talking about before. Was it changing the Final Report?”

“No,” says Hall. “It was something else.”

“Tell me.”

“And you'll talk to Fahy? You'll calm Biddle down?” He seems pleased.
I think he enjoys the idea that he is purchasing my aid by selling out Karl Bendetsen.

“I'll try my best. I think I can do it.” I enjoy the fact that I am getting the information in exchange for something he had already.

“Drafting James Rowe,” he says. “Bendetsen was behind that.”

“I kind of figured that out already,” I say. But now we are on the right track, I think. “Who else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he arrange for anyone else to get drafted? Maybe Supreme Court clerks who were inconvenient?”

Hall's eyes flick to the side, then back to my face. “No. He's not involved in that.”

It is a very interesting answer. “You mean you have no idea what I'm talking about.”

“I mean he's not involved.”

I nod my head thoughtfully. Emotion is building in me, slow and immense. “I think maybe you should tell me, John, just how it is you're so sure about that.”

“We're Philadelphia boys,” Hall says.

“Of course,” I say. “Merion Cricket.” For some reason the name of Merion gives me a pang that invoking Philadelphia didn't. I ignore it.

“Well,” says Hall. “I know he's not involved because I am.”

I am on him in an instant, pushing him up against the wall. There is a rushing in my ears. My hands find his throat. “You killed Gene Gressman.”

His fingers scrabble at my wrists. “No, Cash. We wouldn't do that.”

“Don't tell me what you wouldn't do. I know what you've done.”

“He was an American, Cash. We wouldn't touch him. We were getting pressure to change his draft status, but we wouldn't even do that.” His face is turning a darker red; his words grow less clear.

I let him go. “What kind of pressure?”

Hall gasps for air. “What happened to Merion?”

“What happened to you? Tell me what kind of pressure you were getting.”

“You know,” he says vaguely. “Hints and stuff.”

“From whom?”

He shakes his head. “I can't tell you that. I gave you what you asked for. Anyway, we didn't do it. He had real medical problems. We weren't going to send a guy into combat with a bum ticker.” He picks up my racquet from the floor and offers it to me. “We're all on the same side.”

I pick up his and in one swift motion break it across my knee. I hand him the pieces. “Don't ever say that to me again.”

Hall looks down at the shattered wood in his hand. He clears his throat. “So,” he says. “You'll talk to Biddle?”

• • • • 

And that, I think, is all the information I'll get from John Hall. But I have mistaken him. That evening the phone rings in my apartment.

“I've got a little more to tell you,” he says.

“Spill.”

“I think we should talk in person.”

“You think your phone is tapped?”

“Not mine,” he says.

“Mine?”

“I'd rather meet in person, that's all.”

“Who are these people, John?”

He ignores the question. “You know the Double Door?”

“I've heard of it.” It is a club of ill repute, down on 14th street.

“I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

• • • • 

Ten minutes later I am climbing the dirty staircase. Inside, smoke hangs thick in the air. There is a spotlight aimed at the small stage, and a sweating man in a red suit. His face is flushed the same color. “Guy volunteers for the paratroops and gets rejected,” he says. “He asks what the problem is. ‘Well,' the recruiting sergeant says, ‘you're blind.' Guy says, ‘Oh, that's okay. I've got a guide dog.' ”

The band supports him with a rim shot, but that's about it. The patrons here are mostly military, and they are looking for women, not laughs. At the
table next to me, some soldiers have made the acquaintance of three WAVES. Nearby sailors do not approve. A lively discussion begins.

“Hiya,” says John Hall, slipping into the chair next to me. He waves at a waitress, holds up two fingers, and nods. “Whiskey okay?”

“Fine. What do you have for me?”

“I can tell you're sore. But you shouldn't be. I just don't want you to get the wrong impression.”

“Straighten me out, then.”

“Yeah, lotta soldiers here tonight,” the man onstage says. “I went to buy some of those camouflage pants the other day. Couldn't find any.”

“This stuff about the drafting. It's on the level. It's secret, that's all.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The guy who gave me the names is in the Army.”

“And what's his name?”

Our drinks arrive. Hall swallows half of his. I sip mine. Whatever it is, it's not whiskey. “You wouldn't know him,” Hall says. “And they use code names, anyway. He calls himself Cato.”

The comic has waited long enough to be sure no laughs are forthcoming. “But you can still get four suits for a dollar,” he continues. “If you buy a deck of cards.” There is another rim shot from the band, and an empty cigarette pack hurled from the audience.

“How does this seem to you at all like it's on the level?” A surge in volume from the table next to us drowns my words. The debate has progressed to the finer points of interservice etiquette. I repeat the question.

“Well, I just figured it was a secret mission or something.” Hall hesitates. “You know Washington. It's all politics.”

“No, John,” I say. He has met the enemy, but if he is one of them, he is doing a very good impersonation of an ignorant fool. And I am pretty sure he is too much of an ignorant fool to be that good at impersonations. He does not know what he has been used for. “It's politics if the law allows it. This is something different.”