John Nance Garner nodded. “You got me, sonny,” he said, the bourbon only thickening his Texas drawl. “And a hell of a git you got. I was Speaker of the House before Joe Steele tapped me. Remember? Speaker! That was a real job, by Jesus! Not like this one.” He nodded to the bartender. “Fill me up again, Roy.”
“Comin’ up, Cactus Jack.” The colored man made him another tall bourbon. John L. Lewis had called Garner a poker-playing, whiskey-drinking, evil old man. Charlie didn’t know about the other attributes, but drink whiskey Garner could.
“What’s wrong with being Vice President?” Charlie asked. “You’re a heartbeat away from the White House. That’s what everybody says—a heartbeat away.”
“A heartbeat away, and further’n the moon,” Garner said. “Thing with being Vice President is, you don’t do anything. You sit there an’ grow moss, like I’m doin’ here. Sure got nothin’ better to do. I tell you, bein’ Vice President ain’t worth a bucket of warm piss.”
“What would you do if you were President? How do you like the job Joe Steele is doing?” Charlie hadn’t expected to run into Garner, but he’d take advantage of it now that he had.
The Vice President’s eyes were narrow to begin with. They gimleted more now. “You won’t get me to say anything bad about him, kiddo,” he replied. “I may be drunk, but I ain’t that drunk—or that stupid. He’s a man you don’t want to get on the wrong side of.”
“Really? I never would have guessed,” Charlie said, deadpan.
For a second, Garner took that literally. Then he chuckled and coughed, shifting all the smoker’s phlegm in his chest. “That’s right. You’re one of those reporter bastards. You know all about Joe Steele, or you reckon you do.” He chuckled and coughed some more. The horrible sound made Charlie want to swear off cigarettes for life. “Yeah, you reckon you do—but you’ll find out.”
* * *
The proceedings against the Supreme Court Four opened that autumn. They opened suddenly, in fact, before a military tribunal, only a few days after J. Edgar Hoover—that man again!—announced an arrest in the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby more than two years earlier. Charlie wondered if the timing of the two events was a coincidence. A cynical newspaperman? Him? Even he laughed at himself.
He wondered about the fellow J. Edgar Hoover arrested, too. Bruno Hauptmann was a German in the USA illegally. He had a criminal record back in the Vaterland. Considering how Joe Steele felt about Adolf Hitler, couldn’t he be a sucker who got caught in a net way bigger than he was?
And, considering that the four justices were accused of plotting with the Nazis, couldn’t arresting a German for the Lindbergh kidnapping be set up to show that you couldn’t trust a kraut no matter what—and that you couldn’t trust any Americans who had much to do with krauts? Again, Charlie didn’t know about that. He couldn’t prove it. But he did some more wondering.
He did that wondering very quietly, either by himself or with Esther. None of it got into the bull sessions that political reporters had among themselves or with the big wheels they covered. Not even liberal doses of bourbon made his tongue slip. He noticed he might not be the only one who wasn’t saying everything he might have had on his mind. It was a careful time. Everybody seemed to do his best to walk on eggshells without breaking them.
Charlie also didn’t do any wondering that Mike could hear or read. Mike, of course, could get ideas on his own, but Charlie didn’t want to give him any. A small but noisy segment of the press hated Joe Steele and everything he did. To those folks, Mike was a hero, a man who’d uncovered secrets and pulled the blankets away from dark plots.
Joe Steele’s backers tagged Mike for a hateful, lying skunk. Anyone would think they’d listened to Vince Scriabin, or something. And the vast majority of Americans paid no attention to the name of Mike Sullivan. Times were still tough. They tried to get by from one day to the next, and didn’t worry about anything much past Tuesday’s supper or the month’s rent.
The Attorney General was a tough-talking Polack prosecutor from Chicago named Andy Wyszynski. He wasn’t leery of taking on spectacular cases. He’d been part of the legal team that tried to convict Belva Gaertner when she shot her lover. Belva not only walked, but one of the reporters wrote a hit play about her. Wyszynski’s comment after the verdict was, “Juries are full of jerks.”
From everything Charlie had seen, Wyszynski wasn’t wrong, even if the crack didn’t endear him to the sob sisters. He wasn’t the endearing sort. A big, fleshy man, he had a face like a clenched fist. Like Vince Scriabin and like Joe Steele himself, he wasn’t a man you wanted mad at you.
He’d learned a thing or three from that Roaring Twenties trial. Then, the prosecution let the defense set the agenda. They thought they had an open-and-shut case. As a matter of fact, they did, but Belva’s lawyer wouldn’t let them shut it.
This time, Wyszynski rolled out the heavy artillery before the military judges were chosen. He showed off for the newspapers. He had all kinds of things to show off, too. Wires back and forth between Berlin and Washington. Letters in German on swastika stationery with generals’ illegible signatures. Stacks of swastika-bedizened Reichsmarks, some still in bank wrappers with German writing in Gothic letters on them. Bank transactions showing Reichsmarks converted into dollars. All kinds of good stuff.
Like the rest of the Washington press corps, Charlie wrote stories about the goodies Wyszynski showed off. Among themselves, the reporters were more skeptical. “In a real trial, a lot of that shit wouldn’t even get admitted,” said one who’d done a lot of crime stories. “In this military tribunal thing, though, who the hell knows?”
“How come it isn’t a real trial?” another man asked. “On account of they’re scared they’d lose it if it was one?”
“There’s more to it than that,” Charlie said. “They tried treason cases with military tribunals during the Civil War, so they’ve got some precedent.”
The other reporter looked at him. “You’d know that stuff. You’re the teacher’s pet, right? It’s your bad, bad brother who keeps getting paddled.”
“Hey, fuck you, Bill,” Charlie said. “You think I’m the teacher’s pet, we can step outside and talk about it.”
Bill started to get up from his barstool. Another reporter put a hand on his arm. “Take it easy. Charlie’s okay.”
“Nobody who has anything good to say about that lying so-and-so in the White House is okay, you ask me,” Bill said.
“Well, who asked you? Sit back down and have another drink. You sound like you could use one.”
Having another drink struck Charlie as a good idea, too. It often did. After he got half of it down, he said, “Even if it is a military tribunal, I think it’ll be interesting. They’ll have to let the press in. If they let the press in, they’ll have to give the justices lawyers and let ’em speak their piece. And when they do that, all bets are off. Those guys were all lawyers themselves before they were judges. Probably fifty-fifty they can talk their way out of everything.”
“You say that?” Bill sounded as if he didn’t trust his ears.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Charlie returned.
“’Cause . . . Ah, shit. Maybe I had you wrong.”
“This round’s on me, boys!” Charlie sang out. People whooped and pounded him on the back. He went on, “I’ll do the same thing next time Bill admits he’s wrong, too. That oughta be—oh, I dunno, about 1947. Or 1948.”
“Up yours, Sullivan,” Bill said. But he let Charlie buy him a drink.
* * *
You could hold a military tribunal anywhere. Military courts, by the nature of things, had to be portable. Andy Wyszynski—or perhaps Joe Steele—chose to hold this one in the lobby of the District Court Building on Indiana Avenue. The lobby gave reporters and photographers and newsreel cameramen plenty of room to work. Sure enough, this proceeding would get as much publicity as th
e government could give it.
In front of the District Court Building’s somewhat beat-up classical façade stood a statue of Abraham Lincoln. Charlie pointed to it on the way in. “Betcha that statue’s another reason they’re trying the justices here. Remember how Joe Steele went on and on about Lincoln and treason and habeas corpus—I mean, no habeas corpus—during the Civil War?”
“Sure do.” Louie Pappas nodded. “Betcha you’re right.” The dead cigar in the photographer’s mouth twitched every time he talked.
Up the broad flight of stairs they went. The walls of the lobby were of tan plaster. The floor was marble. The officers of the tribunal had already taken their places behind a table on a dais. The chairman was a Navy officer. A neat sign announced his name: CAPTAIN SPRUANCE. The other three military judges belonged to the Army: Colonel Marshall, Major Bradley, and Major Eisenhower. Each man had a microphone in front of his place, no doubt for the benefit of the newsreels.
Attorney General Wyszynski sat at the prosecutors’ table, drinking coffee and talking in a low voice with an aide. Two lawyers from the American Civil Liberties Union muttered to each other at the defense table. One looked quite snappy; the other wore the loudest checked suit Charlie’d ever seen. Of the Supreme Court Four there was as yet no sign.
More reporters and photographers filed in to fill their assigned sections. “We will begin at ten o’clock sharp,” Captain Spruance said, his voice soft even with a mike. He looked more like a minister or a professor than a military man. Colonel Marshall had that professorial look, too. Spruance went on, “No one from the press will be admitted after that. And we must have silence from the observers. Anyone creating a disturbance will be ejected and will not be allowed to return for the duration of the proceeding.”
Military policemen, shore patrolmen, and U.S. marshals from the Justice Department stood ready to do whatever he told them to do. Charlie intended to keep his trap shut. He wouldn’t have been surprised if somebody raised a ruckus, though.
At ten o’clock on the dot, Captain Spruance said, “Let the tribunal be sealed.” The doors were closed and locked. A late-arriving reporter banged on them in vain. Through the banging, Spruance continued, “Let the accused be brought before the tribunal.”
He looked to the left. Charlie’s gaze, and everyone else’s, followed his. A door opened. The newsreel cameras swung towards it. This would be the first time anyone but their jailers had set eyes on the Supreme Court Four since their spectacular arrest.
Out they came, Justices McReynolds, Butler, Sutherland, and Van Deventer. They all wore suits of good cut and somber gray or blue or black wool. Charlie thought they looked thinner than they had when they were taken away, but he wasn’t sure. They’d worn robes then, which might have expanded their outline. He was pretty sure they were paler than they had been. Wherever Joe Steele had stowed them, they hadn’t got to sunbathe there. He saw no lumps or bruises that might have shown rough treatment, though.
MPs with Tommy guns shepherded the accused men to their table. As they sat, the ACLU lawyer in the horrible clothes whispered something to Justice McReynolds. Whatever answer he got, it made him do a double take Harpo Marx would have been proud of. He whispered again.
After a moment, Captain Spruance said, “The accused will rise.” The men obeyed. “State your names for the record,” he told them.
“James McReynolds.”
“Pierce Butler.”
“Associate Justice George Sutherland.”
“Willis Van Deventer.”
To the chief petty officer transcribing the testimony, Spruance said, “Yeoman, you will disregard the title claimed by the accused, Sutherland.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the yeoman replied.
“Be seated,” Spruance told the Supreme Court Four. They sat once more. He went on, “You are all accused of treason against the United States, of collusion with a foreign power, and of perverting your high office to the detriment of the American people. Mr. McReynolds, how say you to these charges?”
“May it please your Honor—” Justice McReynolds began.
Captain Spruance held up a hand. “This is a military proceeding, not a court of law in the strict sense of the words. You will address me as sir.”
“Yes, sir.” McReynolds licked his lips, then went on with no expression in his voice: “May it please you, sir, I wish to plead guilty and to throw myself on the mercy of the court—uh, the tribunal.”
Both ACLU lawyers sprang into the air as if they’d just sat on long, sharp tacks. Several reporters and cameramen exclaimed as well. Charlie wouldn’t have sworn that he wasn’t one of them. Of all the things he and everybody else had looked for, a guilty plea was the last one. Or maybe somebody had looked for it—at the prosecutors’ table, Attorney General Wyszynski leaned back in his chair and looked like a cat blowing a couple of feathers off its nose.
Spruance might not have presided over a court of law per se, but they’d issued him a gavel anyhow. He used it vigorously. “We will have order here,” he said. “Remember my earlier warning. Disruptive persons will be ejected.” Still, he made no move to signal to his enforcers.
“Sir,” said the ACLU man in the dreadful suit, “I object to this so-called confession. It’s obviously coerced, and—”
“It’s no such thing.” Andy Wyszynski spoke for the first time. He sounded amused, and didn’t bother leaning forward.
Bang! Spruance used the gavel again. “That will be enough of that from both of you. We can get to the bottom of this. Mr. McReynolds, are you admitting your guilt of your own free will?”
McReynolds licked his lips again. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly.
“Has anyone coerced you into doing so?”
“No, sir,” McReynolds said.
“After your arrest, have you received adequate treatment, given the understanding that incarceration is not and cannot be a rest cure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well.” Spruance turned to the yeoman. “You will record that Mr. McReynolds has admitted his guilt to the charges raised against him, has done so freely and without coercion, has been treated acceptably while imprisoned, and has asked mercy of the tribunal.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The yeoman’s pencil flashed across the page.
“All right, then.” Captain Spruance sounded satisfied with the way things were going, if not exactly pleased. Charlie got the feeling Spruance seldom sounded pleased about anything. The Navy four-striper looked back to the table where the Supreme Court Four sat. “Mr. Butler, how say you to these charges?”
Pierce Butler took a deep breath. “Sir, I plead guilty and throw myself on the tribunal’s mercy.”
Again, the defense lawyers tried to object. Again, Captain Spruance overrode them. Again, he asked the justice whether his confession was voluntary and whether he’d been treated all right while behind bars. Like McReynolds, Butler affirmed that it was and that he had been. Attorney General Wyszynski looked even more smug than he had before.
Spruance asked Justice Sutherland and Justice Van Deventer how they answered the charges leveled against them. Each in turn confessed his guilt and begged the tribunal for mercy. Each said he confessed of his own free will and that he hadn’t been mistreated since his arrest. The yeoman recorded the guilty pleas one by one.
The ACLU lawyer with the bad taste in clothes said, “Sir, I find these confessions utterly unbelievable.”
“Do you?” Spruance said. “The men deny coercion. By their appearance, they have not been abused. I find myself compelled to credit them.” He pointed to the reporters and to the newsreel cameras. “The American people will see them soon enough. I think their view of the matter will accord with mine, Mr. Levine.”
“It’s Le-veen, sir, not Le-vine,” the lawyer said.
“Pardon me.” Spruance tossed him the tiny victory, then went on to
more important things: “Mr. McReynolds, would you care to explain to the tribunal why you chose to betray your country and your oath? You are not obliged to do so, but you may if you desire to. Perhaps you will offer mitigating circumstances.”
“Thank you, sir,” McReynolds said. “Yes, I would like to speak. We did what we did because we felt we had to stop Joe Steele at any cost and wreck everything he was doing. We thought—we think—Joe Steele is the American Trotsky.”
Butler, Sutherland, and Van Deventer nodded almost in unison. McReynolds’ words caused a fresh stir and buzz among the onlookers. Captain Spruance gaveled it down. Charlie had all he could do to keep from giggling. If the Supreme Court Four really believed that, they were a lot dumber than he’d given them credit for. Joe Steele hated Trotsky even more than he hated Hitler. His beef with Hitler was political. With Trotsky, it was personal. If Joe Steele could have bashed out the boss Red’s brains with an ice axe, Charlie was convinced he would have done it.
Spruance might have been talking about the weather when he asked, “So you felt you had to stop him by any means necessary, whether legitimate or illegitimate?”
“Yes, sir,” McReynolds repeated. “We could see that his programs were going to build up the country. He would get reelected, and reelected, and reelected again. He would be able to set up a tyranny over the United States.”
“And so you conspired with a foreign tyrant against him?”
“Yes, sir. We wanted to keep the United States a democracy no matter what.” If James McReynolds tried to sound proud of himself, he could have done better.
Justice Sutherland did do pride better. “We weren’t the only ones, either,” he put in, as smoothly as if responding to a cue.
“I beg your pardon?” Captain Spruance said.
“We weren’t the only ones,” Sutherland said once more. “Plenty of good, loyal Americans helped us try to put Joe Steele’s head on the wall.”
Joe Steele Page 12
