“Gubser! Gubser! he’s our man!
If he can’t do it, Hillings can!
Hillings! Hillings! he’s our man!
If he can’t do it, Yorty can!
Yorty! Yorty…”
“Whoopee-ti-yi-yo!” laughs Uncle Sam, herding them in, “the whole dingbusted United States guvvamint is corraled in here tonight, I see, everybody from the guinea pigs at Disease Control to the coffee steward at the Pentagon! It’s a real smorgasbord! Here muster, not the forces of party, but the forces of humanity, and a appetizin’ lot they are, too!” Then he suddenly starts and glances up at the sky, lost beyond the bright lights and hovering smog of Times Square. “God damn that tarnacious Phantom if he lets one fly tonight!” he mutters, and a collective gasp shakes the Square. Could it happen? “What am I sayin’? Anything he can do I can do better! I yam strong as the breezes w’ich blows down big treeses, so c’mon, get on with it, punkin, dish ’em up! In skatin’ over thin ice our safety is in our speed!”
Nobody knows better than Betty Crocker the importance of proper timing in laying a good table, so she rushes on, bringing out the ninety-six Senators now and all their spouses and children: Lister Hill and John Sparkman of Alabama, Carl Hayden and Barry Goldwater of Arizona, John McClellan and J. William Fulbright of Arkansas, William Knowland and Thomas Kuchel of California, Edwin Johnson and Eugene Millikin of Colorado, Prescott Bush and William Purtell of Connecticut, John J. Williams and J. Allen Frear of Delaware, Spessard Holland and George Smathers of Florida, Walter George and Richard B. Russell of Georgia, Henry Dworshak and Herman Welker of Idaho, Paul Douglas and Everett McKinley Dirksen of Illinois, Homer Capehart and William Jenner of Indiana, Bourke Hickenlooper and Guy Gillette of Iowa, Andrew Schoeppel and Frank Carlson of Kansas, Earle Clements and John Sherman Cooper of Kentucky, Allen Ellender and Russell B. Long of Louisiana, Margaret Chase Smith and Frederick Payne of Maine, John Butler and J. Glenn Beall of Maryland, Leverett Saltonstall and John F. Kennedy of Massachusetts, Homer Ferguson and Charles Potter of Michigan, Edward J. Thye and Hubert H. Humphrey of Minnesota, James Eastland and John Stennis of Mississippi, Thomas Hennings and Stuart Symington of Missouri, James Murray and Mike Mansfield of Montana, Hugh Butler and Dwight Griswold of Nebraska, Pat McCarran and George Malone of Nevada, Styles Bridges and Charles Tobey of New Hampshire, H. Alexander Smith and Robert Hendrickson of New Jersey, Dennis Chavez and Clinton Anderson of New Mexico, Irving Ives and Herbert Lehman of New York, Clyde Hoey and Willis Smith of North Carolina, William Langer and Milton Young of North Dakota, Robert Taft and John Bricker of Ohio, Robert Kerr and Mike Monroney of Oklahoma, Guy Cordon and Wayne Morse of Oregon, Edward Martin and James Duff of Pennsylvania, Theodore Francis Green and John Pastore of Rhode Island, Burnet Maybank and Olin Johnston of South Carolina, Karl Mundt and Francis Case of South Dakota, Estes Kefauver and Albert Gore of Tennessee, Lyndon B. Johnson and Price Daniel of Texas, Arthur Watkins and Wallace Bennett of Utah, George Aiken and Ralph Flanders of Vermont, Harry Byrd and Willis Robertson of Virginia, Warren Magnuson and Henry (Scoop) Jackson of Washington, Harley Kilgore and Matthew Neely of West Virginia, Alexander Wiley and Joseph McCarthy of Wisconsin, and Lester Hunt and Frank Barrett of Wyoming.
“Oh, when the saints go marchin’ in,
When the saints go marchin’ in,
Oh, I want to be in that number,
When the saints go marchin’in…!”
Naturally, with the entire American constituency out there as an eager audience, each one of these handsome screamers aches for a shot at the microphones as he goes galumphing grandly across the stage, past the electric chair, and down—thunk! splot!—into the elephant patties, but Styles Bridges, the President Pro Tempore and a respecter of hallowed traditions, limits the privilege to a few heroic whoopees from the Majority and Minority Leaders and Whips and a blown kiss and a blessing from the Senate Elders: George, Hayden, Russell, Byrd, and McCarran. Not that this stops the precocious junior Senator from Wisconsin—Joe McCarthy doesn’t give a shit for protocol, but grabs the mike out of Bridges’ hand (some say they saw Bridges hand it to him) and lets rip with a rampagious spate of old-fashioned, breast-beating, salt-boiler drolleries: “No one can push me out of anything!” he cries, and Bridges winks as though to say: You better believe it! “I’m not retiring from the field of exposing left-wingers, New Dealers, radicals and pinkos, egg-sucking phony liberals, Communists and queers! That fight can’t abate on my part or yours until we’ve won the war, or our civilization has died!” Promising the revelation of “a conspiracy of infamy so black that, when it is finally exposed, its principals shall be forever deserving of the maledictions of all honest men,” he announces hundreds of investigations that he plans to launch before the year is out into the State Department with its “prancing mimics of the Moscow party line,” the information- and teacher-exchange programs, East-West trade, the Government Printing Office, the defense industry, the Army Signal Corps (the Rosenberg spy-ring story isn’t over yet! he hints darkly), and even the Army itself: “I am going to kick the brains out of anyone who protects Communists!” The other Senators are made green with envy and flushed with embarrassment at the same time by all this public hyperbole, but the crowds love it, and even Uncle Sam seems reluctant to shut him up. Finally Joe himself remarks on all the time-wasting here tonight and demands that they get on with it: “It’s a dirty, foul, unpleasant, smelly job, but it has to be done! A rough fight is the only fight Communists understand!” He leaps gleefully down into the shit, getting a tremendous ovation—it’s a real pick-up, without him the show had begun to stall.
But time, inexorably, has been ticking away: there’s less than half an hour now to 8:01. The remaining speeches have to be scrapped and, except for the box-seat guests of honor, the rest of the VIPs—including all the senior magistrates, top military brass, forty-eight State Governors, and the official, unofficial, kitchen, golf, poker, and bedroom Cabinets, and all their families and dogs—have to come barreling out on the double, Betty Crocker, reeling off the names, sounding like one of those new slow-speed records on an ordinary turntable. Only Foster Dulles is given a brief moment at the microphone to release a few lugubrious epigrams from the doctrines of Massive Retaliation, Liberation of Captive Peoples, and Faith in Christ Jesus and the Future of Human Freedom, just to remind the citizens what these executions tonight are all about and to give Uncle Sam time to slip off and shazam himself into the President, but the rest go whipping by like tracer bullets. Betty Crocker’s voice now is just a shrieking whir of sound, like an electric beater churning through a fast-thickening pastry dough, as they come streaking out en masse, slipping and sliding, elbowing and punching, thundering right over poor Betty, scrambling frantically for their seats like they’re afraid somebody’s going to take them away from them. Most of them are well winded by the exercise, they’re not used to moving this fast, the judges especially, who are additionally handicapped by their long robes, ripping them on the doorjambs as they shoot out from the wings, tripping and falling over them, having to lift them like skirts to tippytoe at full gallop through the elephant droppings. By the time old Fred Vinson, the Supreme Court Chief Justice, hits the shit, it’s much heated up by the frenetic parade and slick as a greased skillet: woops! down he goes! He picks himself up hastily and—zzzipp! whap!—he’s down again. He proceeds more methodically the next time, placing first one foot under him, then the other, rising slowly…his feet slowly slide apart, he gropes for balance and pulls them together again, they spread fore and aft, he tips, rights himself, he’s running in place, clawing for air, he’s on one foot, the other, neither—SPLAT! His old crony Justice Tom Clark rushes to his aid, only to find himself skidding, slithering, pitching out of control, and landing with a mighty—look out, Fred!—ker-FLAP! on the Chief Justice’s hoary head, just as the old fellow was lifting himself on his hands and knees out of the muck. “That damn fool from Texas,” laughs Harry Truman. With the very honor and dignity of the United S
tates Supreme Court at stake, Justices Robert Jackson and Sherman Minton come bounding to the rescue, as Clark and Vinson, leaning on each other, heads together as though in an embrace, butts out for balance, slowly straighten up—cautiously, hanging on, they turn to look toward their seats and what do they see but Jackson and Minton, faces white with panic and feet back-peddling frantically, bearing down on them—CRASH! they’re all down, wheeling around in the mire like the spinners of children’s board games, piling up in a heap finally under the Death House stage. They glance blearily at each other, count themselves, blanch, and duck—and sure enough, here they come: Stanley Reed and Harold Burton, feet flying, robes fluttering, arms outflung and grabbing at space—WHACK! SPLAT! Ker-SMASH! When the shit clears, the six Justices arc seen, exhausted and blinded by the muck, floundering aimlessly on their hands and knees. Dwight Eisenhower, peeping out from the wings, utters a short cry—“Christ on the mountain! what arc those monkeys doing?”—and disappears again.
Standing there backstage with his wife and sons, waiting for the three ritual knocks that will announce his second (formal) entrance as a special guest of honor, Judge Irving Kaufman has been pondering the rewards of virtue and high office, and the essentially—indeed, necessarily—divine origin of the concept of Law, and it occurs to him now, looking out on this scene and listening to one of the prison doctors beside him practicing his lines for later in the show (“I pronounce this man dead… I pronounce this woman dead… I pronounce…”), that it might behoove him to play a part in this rescue, for even if he failed and joined the rest of them down there in the dreck, it might not be the worst thing that ever happened to him. But just as he steps out, unannounced, onto the stage, he hears somebody, far off in the mob, shout his name. Eh—?! The man comes tearing through the jam-up, past the Rat Pack and pageant figures guarding the perimeter (it’s a piece of the Wild West he breaks through), and right into the VIP section. The man—it’s that damned interloping defense lawyer Dan Marshall from Nashville, up to his tricks again!—charges straight down the aisle and up to the foot of the stage: “A writ of habeas corpus!” he cries. “Hear my plea!”
The Boy Judge, unsure whose body is about to be had, turns back in retreat toward the wings, but sees there Attorney General Herb Brownell gesturing frantically, glancing nervously over his shoulder, urging Kaufman to stall until Uncle Sam gets back. “All right,” says Kaufman, trying to keep his knees from knocking together, “get along with your argument, there isn’t much time!”
“Please, try to delay the execution until I complete my argument,” cries Marshall. “It’d be terrible if I could convince Your Honor that you should grant the application and it would be too late!”
Kaufman sees through the crude tactics: a delay past sundown and the executions are not merely postponed until Monday but will have to be completely rescheduled. Which would give them time to fabricate more appeals, and who knows? the state the Supreme Court’s in right now, they might be too lame to sit for a year! “It is unfair to put that kind of burden on a judge,” he complains. “I’m aware of the tragedy involved. Now get on with it.”
While he beats off Marshall’s desperate rhetoric, he sees other defense lawyers pouring through the hole in the line at the boundaries of the VIP section—“We are counsel for the Rosenbergs! We must get through! It is an emergency!”—and squeezing into the VIP seats, grabbing at circuit judges from the U.S. Court of Appeals. Emanuel Bloch has spied Herb Brownell peeking out from the wings—he tries to scramble up onto the stage to reach him, but he’s too clumsy and all he’s getting is slivers for his pains. Brownell, insulted once too often by Bloch, refuses even to acknowledge his presence, strolling out onstage once to look out over his head and step on his fingers. Some pro-Rosenberg demonstrators have leaked through, too—Judge Kaufman’s one abiding passion has been his hatred of quasilegal pressure groups, some of his best work had been his investigation of lobbying for Tom Clark when Clark was Attorney General, and now he feels that anger welling up in him again. They’re running about through the VIP section, dodging Secret Service agents and Rat Packers, distributing “fact” sheets and clemency petitions, accusing Uncle Sam of premeditated murder, and shouting disruptive slogans like “No Secret to the A-Bomb!” and “They were convicted by the atmosphere and not by the evidence!”
Which latter is Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter’s notorious opinion on the Sacco and Vanzetti case, and Frankfurter, perhaps flattered by this recognition, steps back from the edge of the elephant turds where he’d been about to tiptoe in and offer a helping hand to the other six, and now joins, however belatedly, Justices Douglas and Black in dissenting against yesterday’s majority opinion on the stay of execution: “Can it be said,” he asks, “that there was time to go through the process by which cases are customarily decided here?” A rhetorical question, but anyway it saves him a nasty fall. Back in the VIP seats for the House of Representatives, Pennsylvania Democrat Francis Walter remarks idly to a couple of his colleagues that he thinks the Supreme Court erred yesterday, having taken jurisdiction when “nothing was before it.” Justice Douglas’s act was legal and under the law the whole case now had to be returned to the lower courts, whence it must come back to the full Supreme Court via District and Appeals Courts. Walter assumes he is off-mike, but by a quirk in the acoustical system, his voice carries out over the masses and all the way up to Central Park: ‘“There is absolutely nothing in the act of 1925 that gives the Supreme Court authority to review the action of one of its Justices acting under the statutes!”
The people are getting edgy. They’d thought at first this was part of the show and had laughed at the lawyers, supposing they were clowns in disguise, but now it’s clear that something is wrong. Where is the President? Where is Uncle Sam? The Vice President? J. Edgar Hoover or Cecil B. DeMille? Nothing but confusion up there—even Judge Kaufman (what’s he doing out there on the stage?) seems unsure of himself. More demonstrators are pushing into the VIP section and others are circulating out among the common people—how did they penetrate the defenses so easily? wasn’t Monaghan supposed to contain these elements down in the ghetto somewhere? where’s the Army? where’s the National Guard? why is Betty Crocker out flat on her ass? “This is the hour of our country’s shame!” some guy is yelling. “No government has such a record of legal murders and legal lynchings as the Government of the United States in the past seven years!” There are rumors of FBI forgeries in the atom-spy trial and stacked decks, perjured witnesses. “We are here to proclaim that if the Rosenbergs die, it will be the most brutal murder ever committed in America!” they scream, seizing the microphones. “They are not traitors! It is those who want to kill them who are traitors to America!”
Distantly, out at the edge, there’s a strange clackety noise, starting softly, getting louder: what is it? The prisoners banging their tin cups on their bars! rattling the gates of their cages in protest! To the frightened crowds in the Square, huddling toward the center, it sounds like the Phantom himself shaking his death chains! The Phantom’s spectral image seems to appear, not only on door knockers like old Morley’s in A Christmas Carol, but everywhere they look: in skyscraper windows, in the shadows behind the bright lights, under the stage, in the bottles they drink from! The angry clatter is punctuated by remote but heavy whumps!—foreign A-bomb tests! Spreading over the earth like smallpox! News reports ratatat against the periphery of the crowd like the firing of Sten guns: riots in Liverpool, Toronto, and Turin! the American Embassies besieged in Rome and Paris and Ottawa! a port strike in Genoa in protest against the executions! firing squads in East Berlin! prayer vigils for the Rosenbergs in Iceland and Israel! plane crashes and battle casualties! ten thousand Communists are massing up to riot in Munich! screams of “Murder!” from rioters running amok through the streets of Melbourne and London! Copenhagen and Birmingham! there are reports of Mau Maus, Vietminh, Gooks, Arabs trying to break through at the rim, to get in! to get what we’ve got! “Yo
u are afraid of the shadow of your own bomb!” cries a French voice above all the rest. It is Jean-Paul Sartre! “Magic, witch hunts, autos-da-fé, sacrifices: your country is sick with fear! Do not be astonished if we cry out from one end of Europe to the other: Watch out! America has the rabies! Cut all ties which bind us to her, otherwise we will in turn be bitten and run mad!” The French indeed seem to be going berserk: crackly on-the-scene radio reports say they’re running wildly through the streets of Paris, carrying big posters of Eisenhower flashing his famous smile but with each tooth an electric chair! “We are in the midst of a cold war,” remarks Bernard Baruch dryly to a couple of the Presidents sitting beside him, his hand in his pocket, resting on his billfold as on the butt of a six-shooter, “which is getting warmer…”
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