Trevayne (11 page)

“Unforgettably. Why?”

“I want to make sure there’s no misunderstanding. I want this record to specify—not indicate, but
specify
—that I’m putting everyone on notice. If they clear me, they do so knowing what I expect from them.”

“For God’s sake, man, you’re reversing the function of the hearing. You’re confirming the
Senate!
”

“I guess I am.”

“What’s your point? What are you trying to do?”

“Setting up the battleground. If they take me, it won’t be because they want to; they’ll have to. It’ll be because I’ve challenged them.”

“Challenged them? What for? What about?”

“Because there’s a profound difference between us.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“It means we’re natural enemies.” Trevayne smiled.

“You’re crazy!”

“If I am, I’ll apologize. Let’s get this over with.” Trevayne looked up at the panel. He took the time to rest his eyes on each place, each member. “Mr. Chairman, my attorney and I have concluded our discussion.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.… I believe the Senator from Vermont submitted an addition in the form of the Undersecretary’s … basic philosophy. The chair assumes that to mean
fundamental
political beliefs—not
partisan
—but of a more general application. None other are pertinent to this hearing.” Gillette looked over his glasses at Vermont’s Norton, so to be sure he understood his meaning.

“Perfectly acceptable, Mr. Chairman.”

“I was hoping it would be, Senator,” added California’s Armbruster with a chuckle. Armbruster and Norton were not only from different sides of the aisle, but as separated in partisan politics as their states were in geography.

Knapp spoke without petitioning the chair. “If I’m not mistaken, the Undersecretary countered our colleague’s addition with one of his own. I think he said he reserved the right to raise similar questions with the members of this panel. A right I seriously doubt should be granted.”

“I don’t believe I made such a request, Senator.” Trevayne spoke softly but with firmness into his microphone. “If it was so construed, I apologize. I
have
no right—or reason—to question your individual persuasions. I’m concerned only that this panel, as one deliberative body, assure me, as I must assure it, of a sense of commitment. A
collective
commitment.”

“Mr. Chairman?” The petitioner was the elderly Senator from West Virginia, a man named Talley. He was little
known outside the club, but within it was well liked, as much for his easygoing temperament as for his intelligence.

“Senator Talley.”

“I’d like to ask Mr. Trevayne why he even raises the issue. We want the same thing; none of us would be here otherwise. Frankly, I thought this would be one of the shortest hearings on record. Speaking personally, I have great confidence in you, sir. Isn’t that confidence returned? If not personally, at least collectively—to use your term, sir?”

Trevayne looked over at the chairman, silently requesting permission to answer the question. Senator Gillette nodded.

“Of course, it is, Senator Talley. And immense respect. It’s precisely because of my confidence
in
you, my respect
for
you, that I wish to be able to refer to this transcript and have it specify that we’ve understood each other. The subcommittee for the Defense Commission will be impotent unless it has the responsible backing of such impartial and influential men as yourselves.” Trevayne paused and ingenuously looked from one side of the panel table to the other. “If you confirm me, gentlemen, and incidentally, I hope that you do, I’m going to need help.”

The West Virginian did not notice the discomfort of several colleagues. “Let me then rephrase my supplication, Mr. Undersecretary. I’m old enough, or naïve enough, or perhaps both, to believe that men of good will—albeit different opinions—can join together in a common cause. The confidence you seek in us I might hope would be documented by what we say to one another in this room. Should it not be to your satisfaction, you have every right to bring it up. Why not find out first?”

“I couldn’t hope for sounder advice, Senator Talley. I’m afraid my initial nervousness clouded my perspective. I’ll try not to raise the issue again.”

Gillette, peering once more over his glasses, looked at Trevayne, and when he spoke, it was clear that he was annoyed. “You may raise whatever issues you wish, sir. As will this panel.” He looked down at the legal pad in front of him, at his own notations. “Senator Norton. You brought up the aspect of Mr. Trevayne’s general philosophy. Would
you amplify—briefly, if you please—so we may clear the question and get on. I presume you wish to be satisfied that our guest at least nominally endorses the fundamental laws of the land.”

“Mr. Undersecretary.” Norton’s heavy Vermont dialect seemed more pronounced than necessary as he eyed the candidate. Norton always knew when to use the Yankee approach. It had served him well in many such Senate hearings—especially when television cameras were on the premises. It made him seem so bound-to-the-earth American. “I shall be brief; for both our sakes.… I’d like to ask you if you
do
subscribe to the political system under which this country lives?”

“Of course, I do.” Trevayne was surprised by the naïveté of the question. But not for long.

“Mr. Chairman …” Alan Knapp spoke as if on cue. “I, for one, am frankly disturbed by an aspect of the Undersecretary’s political history. Mr. Undersecretary, you’re what is known as an … independent, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s correct.”

“That’s interesting. Of course, I’m aware that in many sectors the term ‘political independent’ is revered. It has a nice, rugged sound to it.”

“That’s not my intention, Senator.”

“But there’s another aspect of such a posture,” continued Knapp without acknowledging Trevayne’s answer. “And I don’t find it particularly independent.… Mr. Trevayne, it’s true, is it not, that your companies profited considerably from government contracts—especially during the maximum space expenditures?”

“True. I think we justified whatever profits we made.”

“I would hope so.… I wonder, however, if your lack of partisanship wasn’t perhaps shaped by other than ideological motivations. By being neither on one side nor the other, you certainly removed yourself from any political conflict, didn’t you?”

“Again, not my intention.”

“I mean, it would be difficult for anyone to take issue with you on political grounds, since your opinions
were … are … buried under the classification of ‘independent.’ ”

“Just one minute, Senator!” The chairman, visibly upset, spoke sharply.

“I’d like to comment, if I may—”

“You
may
, Mr. Trevayne, after my own observations. Senator Knapp, I thought I’d made it clear that this is a bipartisan hearing. I find your remarks irrelevant and, frankly, distasteful. Now, you may comment, Mr. Undersecretary.”

“I’d like to inform the Senator that anyone, at any time, may ascertain my political opinions by simply asking for them. I’m not shy. On the other hand, I wasn’t aware that government contracts were granted on the basis of political affiliations.”

“Exactly my point, Mr. Trevayne.” Knapp turned toward the center of the table. “Mr. Chairman, in my seven years in the Senate I have many times supported those whose politics differed from my own and, conversely, denied support to members of my own party. In such cases my approval or disapproval was based on the specific questions on the floor. As men of conscience, we all practice the same ethics. What bothers me about our candidate is that he elects to be called ‘non-partisan.’ That worries me. I fear such people in places of power. I wonder at their so-called
independence
. I wonder, if, instead, it’s merely a convenience to be a companion of the strongest wind?”

There was a momentary silence in the room. Gillette removed his glasses and turned toward Knapp.

“Hypocrisy is a most serious insinuation, Senator.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Chairman. You asked us to search our consciences.… As was pointed out by Justice Brandeis, honesty by itself is not enough. The appearance of integrity must be concomitant. Caesar’s wife, Mr. Chairman.”

“Are you suggesting, Senator, that I join a political party?” asked Trevayne incredulously.

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m raising doubts, which is the function of this panel.”

John Morris, Senator from Illinois, broke his silence.
He was the youngest man on the panel, in his mid-thirties, and a brilliant attorney. Whenever Morris was assigned to a committee, he was invariably called the “house teenager.” It was a substitute for another phrase. For Morris was black, a Negro who had swiftly worked his way up within the system. “You haven’t … Oh, Mr. Chairman?”

“Go ahead, Senator.”

“You haven’t raised a doubt, Mr. Knapp. You’ve made an accusation. You’ve accused a large segment of the voting public of potential deceit. You’ve relegated it to a position of … of a second-class franchise. I understand the subtleties you employ, even grant their validity in certain situations. I don’t think they apply here.”

The Senator from New Mexico, the admired chicano, leaned forward and looked at Morris as he spoke. “There are two of us here who understand only too well the meaning of a second-class franchise, Senator. In my opinion, the issue is valid—to be raised, that is. One always looks for checks and balances; that’s the meaning of our system. However, I think, also, that once having been raised, the issue can be put to rest by a succinct answer from the man standing for confirmation.… Mr. Undersecretary? For the record, may we assume that you are not a … sworn companion of the wind? That your judgments are, indeed, as independent as your politics?”

“You may, sir.”

“That’s what I thought. I have no further questions on this subject.”

“Senator?”

“Yes, Mr. Trevayne?”

“Are yours?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are yours? Are your judgments—and the judgments of every member of this panel—independent of external pressures?”

Several senators started talking angrily at once into their microphones; Armbruster of California laughed, Senator Weeks of Maryland’s Eastern Shore stifled a smile by withdrawing a handkerchief from his well-tailored blazer, and the chairman reached for the gavel.

As order was restored by the rapid clatter of Gillette’s hammer, Vermont’s Norton touched the sleeve of Senator Knapp. It was a sign. Their eyes met, and Norton shook his head—imperceptibly, but the message was clear.

Knapp lifted up the pad in front of him and unobtrusively removed a file folder. He reached down for his briefcase and opened it, slipping the folder inside.

On the top of the folder was a name: “Mario de Spadante.”

The recess was called at four-fifteen, the hearing to be resumed at five o’clock. The forty-five minutes would give everyone a chance to call home, rearrange minor schedules, confer with aides, dismiss assistants outside.

Since the eruption of Andrew’s polite but explosively unexpected question, Gillette had managed to steer the inquiry rapidly through the ensuing invective and reach less abstract ground in Trevayne’s qualifications.

Andrew was prepared; his answers were quick, concise, and complete. He surprised even Walter Madison, who was rarely surprised by his extraordinary client. Trevayne had no need of the numerous pages and charts filled with past figures and long-ago estimates. He rattled off facts and explanations with such assurance that even those who tried to sustain their antagonism found it difficult.

His total command of his own past economic relationships frequently left the panel speechless—and led Senator Gillette to voice the opinion that following a recess, they might conclude the hearing by seven that night—at the latest.

“You’re hot on all burners, Andy,” said Madison, stretching as he rose from his chair.

“I haven’t begun, counselor. That’s in act two.”

“Don’t revert to Charlie Brown,
please
. You’re doing fine. We’ll be out of here by six o’clock. They think you’re
a computer, with a human thought process; don’t louse it up.”

“Tell
them
, Walter. Tell them not to louse it up.”

“Jesus, Andy! What are you—”

“Very impressive performance, young man.” The elderly Talley, the former county judge from the state of West Virginia, walked up to the two of them, unaware that he was intruding.

“Thank you, sir. My attorney, Walter Madison.”

The men shook hands.

“You must feel somewhat unnecessary, I should think, Mr. Madison. It’s not often you high-powered New York lawyers get off so easy.”

“I’m used to it with him, Senator. It’s the most undeserved retainer in legal history.”

“Which means it isn’t, or you couldn’t afford to say so. I was on the bench for damn near twenty years.”

Alan Knapp joined the group, and Trevayne felt himself grow tense. He didn’t like Knapp, not only because of his unwarranted rudeness, but because Knapp had about him the unhealthy look of an inquisitor. What had Ambassador Hill said? What were Big Billy’s words? “… we don’t want an inquisitor …”

But the Knapp now standing in front of Trevayne did not seem to be the same man who sat so coldly on the dais. He was smiling affably, infectiously, as he shook Trevayne’s hand.

“You’re doing splendidly! You really are. You must have boned up for this like the chief does for a televised press conference.… Senator? Mr. Madison?”

Hands were again shaken, the camaraderie so opposed to the atmosphere of five minutes ago. Trevayne felt uncomfortable, artificial; and he didn’t like the feeling.

“You’re not making it any easier for me,” he said, smiling coldly at Knapp.

“Oh, Lord, don’t personalize it, man. I do my job; you do yours. Right, Madison? Isn’t that right, Senator?”

West Virginia’s Talley did not agree as quickly as Madison. “I suppose so, Alan. I’m not a scrapper, so I don’t cotton to the unpleasantness. Must admit, though, it doesn’t bother most of you.”