Advise and Consent

by Allen Drury

  “Leffingwell’s here too,” he said. “What a happy little party for us all.”

  “I think I’m going to vomit,” Lafe said.

  “It’s all right,” Orrin said. “It’s all right. I never thought he’d make an error of judgment like this, but he has and it’s all right.”

  And taking Lafe’s arm firmly, he piloted him to another group near the other side of the door, the Vice President, Senator Cooley, Senator Danta, the ex-Majority Leader, the Speaker, and leaders of the House.

  “Good morning,” he said quietly. “I see we’re to be honored with the presence.”

  “Both presences,” the Vice President said. “How could they?”

  “I’m glad they have,” Senator Knox said savagely. “Nothing could be more fitting.”

  “They’ll lose votes,” Bob Munson said thoughtfully.

  “Do you think I care?” Orrin asked shortly.

  “Good Christ,” Lafe said bitterly, “isn’t anybody interested in just honoring Brig?”

  “We are,” Stanley Danta said quietly. And he repeated slowly, as if to himself. “We are.”

  “Bob,” Orrin said, drawing him to one side, “when are we having the meeting?”

  “What meeting?” Senator Munson asked.

  “The meeting to re-elect you Majority Leader,” Senator Knox said. Senator Munson smiled rather grimly.

  “I haven’t been accepting his phone calls,” he said, “so he sent me this this morning.”

  URGE YOU WITH ALL MY HEART TO ACCEPT RE-ELECTION, the telegram said. CANNOT CONCEIVE OF THIS JOB WITHOUT YOUR STAUNCH AND LOYAL SUPPORT UP THERE. LEFFINGWELL DOESN’T MATTER (“Not much,” Orrin interjected tartly), BUT OUR FRIENDSHIP DOES. SENATE WOULD NOT BE THE SAME WITHOUT YOU AT THE HELM. THEY NEED YOU, THE COUNTRY NEEDS YOU, AND I NEED YOU. PLEASE AGREE.

  “Very touching,” Orrin commented. “Please, too. That’s unusual.”

  Bob Munson smiled again.

  “Powell called me last night and told me he was after him yesterday morning to run against me,” he said. “Of course that was before he knew I was going to resign, and maybe this is a more genuine expression of his feelings now. At least it hasn’t been released to the press.”

  “It hasn’t been released to the press, yet,” Senator Knox said. “But it’s the only thing he could do, isn’t it? The Roosevelt-Barkley pattern is still the only one possible for a President, isn’t it?”

  “Under the circumstances,” Senator Munson said.

  “The meeting,” Orrin reminded him.

  “Why don’t you set it up with Stanley?” Bob suggested. “He’s acting Majority Leader now.”

  “All right,” Orrin said, “we’ll work it out. Not today, though,” he added, thinking of the committee meeting at 2 p.m., his son’s wedding at six here in this same great, gray, half-finished building dominating the Washington skyline. “Too much else on tap.”

  “Whatever you say,” Bob Munson said.

  There was a sound of sirens in the distance, a stirring among the many mourners standing about. With a dash and a flurry the final White House limousine drew up within its customary framework of motorcycle outriders. The President, looking grim-faced and pale, got out and stood for a moment in the sunlight. Then he moved forward to his own people and together they started in, the crowd beginning to follow as the clock neared eleven. As he approached the door he recognized the congressional group and for a long second he and the senior Senator from Illinois looked one another straight in the eye. Orrin bowed without expression, he returned it gravely and went on in. It did not seem to them that he had seen any of the others, and it was quite possible that he had not.

  And now, Orrin thought, bracing himself with a sudden intake of breath that hit his lungs like a knife, all I have to do is think about something else for forty-five minutes and maybe I can get through this without making a spectacle of myself. He found gratefully that this was not so difficult to do, for he made himself look forward with deliberate impatience to the committee meeting, and planning for it kept his mind pretty well occupied. As always when he had something in train he was eager to keep it moving and bring it to a conclusion as fast as possible. The Senate was going his way now and he didn’t want to give it time to stop and catch its breath. He gradually became so intent upon his plans for keeping up the tempo that the service passed, mercifully, as in a dream.

  “The Secretary of State,” his administrative assistant said shortly after 1 p.m., and the Vice President said, “Hi, Howie,” with a cordiality he did not altogether feel after the performance at the Cathedral. “How are we coming on those interviews with the Ambassadors?”

  “That’s what I’m calling about,” Secretary Sheppard said. “I had hoped to be able to get a moment with you after the service, but it didn’t work out.”

  “No, it didn’t,” Harley agreed. “We seemed to be in different camps, so to speak.”

  “Perhaps it was only seeming,” Howie Sheppard said dryly. “He asked us to go with him, and there wasn’t much we could do about it.”

  “I think it all made a very unfavorable impression on the Senate,” the Vice President said. The Secretary of State sniffed.

  “I expect so,” he said. “Well, it was taken out of my hands long ago, so it’s all quite academic as far as I’m concerned. I really couldn’t care less.”

  “Does he seem discouraged?” Harley asked. Howie Sheppard made a sound of dry amusement.

  “Does he ever?” he replied. “You know him. He may show the strain, and I thought he did, but he never admits it.”

  “He’s a real fighter,” the Vice President said. “Too bad he had to—Well, it’s too bad.”

  “Things work out for the country in odd ways,” the Secretary of State observed. “Maybe it won’t turn out to be too bad when it’s all over. Let me ask you, is Orrin confident?”

  “You know him, too,” the Vice President said. “He fights just as hard. Only in his case I think he has more to base confidence on than the President has.”

  “I wonder what would have happened,” the Secretary of State said thoughtfully, “if you and I had decided to go for him that night.”

  “He would have been President,” Harley said. “It was in the cards that year. We couldn’t lose.”

  “I know that,” Howie Sheppard said. “I mean, I wonder what would really have happened. To the country. After he got there.”

  “It seems idle,” the Vice President said. “He didn’t.”

  “Do you ever wonder if we did the right thing?” the Secretary asked. There was a pause.

  “I often wonder,” Harley Hudson said. “How about you?”

  “Yes,” said Howie Sheppard. “I often wonder.”

  “Well,” the Vice President said in a businesslike way, “about those Ambassadors, I’ve been thinking, Howie, that it might be better from my standpoint to see them together. I know it wouldn’t from theirs, but there’s safety in numbers and I’m not so sure I want to be involved in any confidential little tête-à-têtes with them individually.”

  “Why, Harley,” the Secretary of State said dryly, “you sound just like a President.”

  “Maybe,” the Vice President said with a matching dryness. “Maybe. In any event, I think I’d be willing to see them sometime Thursday afternoon. I’d rather not tomorrow, because I expect we’ll be starting the session at ten to get started debating the nomination and I want to stick pretty close all day to see how it’s going. I imagine we’ll vote sometime Thursday night, so Thursday afternoon would be good. It would be too late to entertain any last-minute appeals that I exert my influence for Leffingwell. Not that I have any influence, of course.”

  “You’re beginning to reach the point where you’re just saying that,” the Secretary of State observed shrewdly. “You don’t really believe it any more. Anyway, they want to see you; that’s indication enough. Incidentally Claude Maudulayne and Raoul Barre have asked for appointments too, so I’ll just throw the
m all in together for you. How about three-thirty Thursday?”

  “That will be fine,” the Vice President said.

  “Are you helping Orrin?” Howie asked bluntly. Harley paused.

  “Are you?” he asked.

  “Any way I can,” Howie Sheppard replied.

  “Maybe we did do the wrong thing that night,” the Vice President remarked. The Secretary of State gave a dry little chuckle.

  “I’ve thought so for quite some time,” he said. “I’ll tell the Ambassadors.”

  “In my office over by the chamber,” Harley said. “You can come too, if you’d like.”

  “Gladly,” Howie said. “It should be an interesting hour in which to visit the Senate. I’ll see you then.”

  At the airport, he and Beth saw the Andersons off on their sad journey to Salt Lake City, where final rites would be held tomorrow. Mabel looked for a long moment at the gleaming white metropolis across the river before giving a little shudder and turning away to kiss them good-by. “I never want to see it again,” she said. “Don’t forget to visit us when you get to Utah.” They promised they would, Brig’s brother lifted a sad-eyed little girl into his arms and the three of them entered the plane which bore in its rear compartment the Senator’s coffin. “I’m not sure I do either,” Orrin said grimly as they got in the car.

  But by the time Beth dropped him off at the Office Building his mood had changed. The committee would meet in half an hour and he felt ready for it. So much so, in fact, that his wife thought a cautionary note was in order. “Good luck,” she said casually. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He gave her a quick kiss and a sudden grin. “How many years ago did I stop taking that advice?” he asked, and she chuckled. “Very well, my boy,” she said, “but just don’t mess it up. It’s going your way, so keep it like that.” “I’ll try,” he promised more seriously. “I really will try. I’ll get home as soon as possible after the meeting breaks up.” “Yes,” she said. “We do have a son getting married tonight, after all.” “I wish him luck,” he said gravely, and tears came into her eyes. “Too much emotion, these days,” she remarked. “I hope we can get away for a while after the nomination is settled. I need a vacation.” “So do I,” he said. “I’ll try to get things squared away so we can. Maybe we can take a real trip to Europe this time.” “Famous last words,” she said with a smile as she started the car. “How many years ago did I first hear that?” “I’ll try,” he shouted as she drove off, but she only shook her head ironically and gave him a rueful wave.

  The television cameras were in place, the bright lights were on, reporters milled about, and the usual tourists stood in little gaping groups as the members of Foreign Relations arrived for their final date with the matter of Robert A. Leffingwell. Except for the one absence caused by death, the press noted that the full committee was present this afternoon, brought to its full complement by Hal Fry and Clarence Wannamaker, who had passed up the UN session to be on hand. Despite the combined efforts of the news industry, there was a polite and consistent refusal to say anything of any moment for the busy pencils and the voracious cameras.

  “How do you think the committee will vote, Mr. Chairman?” they asked Tom August, and the senior Senator from Minnesota said softly, “Oh, I wouldn’t want to predict at this moment. I just wouldn’t want to predict.” “And you, Senator?” they said to Orrin Knox. “My job is to report to the full committee what the subcommittee did,” he observed; “after that, we’ll see.” “And what’s your guess, Senator?” they pressed Arly Richardson, who gave them a skeptical look. “I don’t guess,” he said, “particularly about this committee.”

  Altogether, they agreed as they settled back to wait outside the slatted door in the ornate old corridor, the pickings were rather sparse. Some had a hunch the committee would probably support the subcommittee by a small margin, but there were some who saw it otherwise and some who wouldn’t guess. The only certainty was the significance of the occasion to the world at large, for at least a hundred reporters stood about, and everyone from TASS to the Bangor Daily News was on hand to speculate about what was going on around the green-baize table under the mammoth cut-glass chandelier, and to report it to the far reaches of the globe once it had been formally announced.

  “The committee will be in order,” Tom August said, and, “Mr. Chairman!” Senators Knox and Richardson said.

  “If the committee will be patient,” the chairman said gently, “I should like to ask if the committee wishes to make this a formal meeting with an official reporter present, or shall we discuss the matter informally?”

  “Let’s take our hair down,” Verne Cramer said. “After all, we’re among friends. Only half a dozen of us will tell the press what went on.”

  “That was my thought,” Senator August said with a wistful regret. “I should like an informal discussion if we could all agree that it would be truly confidential, because it seems to me there are matters involved here that...”

  “Mr. Chairman,” Orrin said, “I move that we have a discussion off the record and formalize only the final vote and our recommendation.”

  “I second that, Mr. Chairman,” Senator Richardson said. Tom August looked hesitantly about the table. Everyone nodded.

  “Without objection, then,” he said. “Orrin, did you care to say something further?”

  “Not a great deal, Mr. Chairman,” the Senator from Illinois said, making his characteristic gesture of straightening the papers before him as he began to speak, “because the events of the past two days speak for themselves. As the result of a deliberate decision on the part of the President of the United States, made as a part of his campaign to confirm this nominee, the senior Senator from Utah was driven to his death. Accessories before the fact were the junior Senator from Wyoming and the nominee himself. Proof of these facts is known to at least six members of this committee, who I think will vouch for them, without going into details, to the other members. Am I right in that, Mr. Chairman?”

  Senator August looked uncomfortable.

  “You state it rather harshly,” he said, “but in essence I would say you are correct, yes.”

  “The proof of this is known to six members of this committee?” Senator Richardson asked. “What about the rest of us?”

  “Well, Mr. Chairman,” Orrin said tartly, “maybe I am a liar. Maybe you are. Maybe Bob and Stanley and Warren and Lafe are. Are we? Arly? You may think I am, but are the other five? How about it?”

  “You don’t have to fly off the handle,” Arly Richardson said quietly. “You’re riding high, after yesterday, and I’ll grant you have a right to feel triumphant, but you don’t have to overdo it. If you say it’s so, we’ll accept it. I wonder if the Senate will.”

  “I would hope the Senate would not be called upon to go into that phase of it at all,” Senator Knox said. “I’m only mentioning it for our own background right here.”

  “Somebody may bring it up,” Senator Richardson said.

  “If you encourage it, yes,” Orrin said shortly. “I have some hopes you’ll be decent enough not to....In any event, that is what lies behind the tragedy. But there are other aspects of it, and these are more important, and I believe they should be placed in full detail before the Senate.”

  “And they are damaging to Leffingwell,” Arly said dryly.

  “They are damaging to Leffingwell,” Orrin said crisply. “You will remember he denied the testimony of Herbert Gelman that they had been copartners in some sort of Communist cell in Chicago. According to Gelman there were two other members, one dead, the other a man known as James Morton. He denied knowing Morton, too. Last week the Assistant Secretary of Commerce for International Economic Affairs, now traveling at the specific direction of the President, after the President was advised of his true identity, called Seab Cooley and disclosed that he was James Morton, that there was such a cell, and that Bob Leffingwell was a member. Seab told him to call Brig, which he did, and it was because of this knowl
edge that Brig wanted to reopen the hearings and tried, without success, to get the President to withdraw the nomination. For that,” he said bleakly, “he died.”

  “Why wasn’t all this brought out in the subcommittee meeting?” Senator Richardson demanded. “It was all put on an emotional basis of Brig being hounded to death by the Administration because he got in the way and nobody said why he got in the way. I might have voted differently had I known all this. One reason I voted the way I did was because I thought you were just stampeding Johnny and Win.”

  “Thanks so much for that vote of confidence, old man,” John DeWilton said sharply.

  “Very touching tribute,” John Winthrop agreed. Senator Richardson looked impatient.

  “Well, damn it,” he demanded, “did we have all the facts yesterday or did we not? Did you vote emotionally because you were upset about Brig or did you not?”

  “Well,” Senator DeWilton said angrily, “I am not about to account to you for my motives when I vote. I’m damned if I am.”

  “Whatever the reason,” Senator Winthrop pointed out quietly, “it apparently was a sound decision, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m not so sure,” Arly Richardson said.

  “Not so sure?” Lafe Smith demanded. “What more do you need, for God’s sake?”

  “I need something to prove to me that because Bob Leffingwell did something stupid years ago he is unfit to be Secretary of State now,” Arly said sharply. “That’s what I need.”

  “I should think,” Warren Strickland said quietly, “that lying like a trooper under oath ought to be some indication of that.”

  “Oh, hell,” Senator Richardson said shortly. “Anybody will lie to protect himself.”

  “But the validity of the protection is what we are supposed to judge,” the Minority Leader said reasonably. “Whether it was justifiable and forgivable or whether an honest avowal of his mistake would be more in keeping with the integrity we have a right to expect in the Secretary of State. It’s not a minor office, you know.”

  “I am fully aware of its importance,” Arly said. “More so than ever right now. Have you seen this?” And unfolding an early edition of the Washington Star that he had been holding carefully under his arm, he displayed its headlines to them: