(1964) The Man

by Irving Wallace

  A car honked behind him. Nat Abrahams realized that the red light had turned green. He shifted his shoe from the brake to the gas pedal, and continued up Sixteenth Street. He remembered his upset yesterday, in midafternoon, when he had been half dozing over an out-of-print history of the early days of Congress, and Sue had awakened him with the flash bulletin she had just heard on the radio. After that, neither the radio nor television in their Mayflower suite had been still. With his intimate knowledge of Dilman, the personal charges made by Zeke Miller yesterday had been preposterous. Yet there had been enough validity in each, just enough, to force Sue and himself to discuss them compulsively all afternoon, through dinner, and into the night.

  As he drove now, gradually guiding his car into the right-hand lane, watching for his turnoff, Abrahams’ mind centered particularly on the sections that related Doug Dilman to Wanda Gibson. It was difficult for Abrahams to conjure up a sharply defined image of Wanda Gibson. He and Sue had met her once, about a year and a half or two years ago, and Doug had mentioned her a number of times in letters he had written. Nat could recollect only that she had been a rather mature and striking woman, well educated and well mannered, and with a lovely tan complexion that appeared lighter when contrasted with Dilman’s own color. She was, Nat remembered, a mulatto.

  He recalled, too, the frank discussion he had had with Dilman, the first night Dilman had moved into the White House. His friend had not concealed the fact that he was close to Wanda, in love with her, hoping to marry her one day if he possessed the courage. But there had been no indication of anything more. Trying to match what he knew of his friend and of Wanda to Zeke Miller’s lurid picture of them was impossible. Doug Dilman, that sedentary, bemused, middle-aged, frightened Negro, suddenly a Casanova with a mistress? Miller’s accusation would be hilarious if it were not so serious. Doug Dilman, a reeling drunk in a love nest spilling Presidential secrets to a mulatto Mata Hari who was employed by Soviet Russia? Dilman seduced into performing treason? An insane fantasy.

  Yet Nat Abrahams’ legal mind permitted the House charges in its resolution for impeachment to revolve in his brain, as he examined their many sides. In three decades he had not seen Doug drink more than Bordeaux wine, perhaps an occasional highball or sherry nightcap—still, still, there might have been more. Since he had not known much of Dilman’s family life, he had been dumbfounded by Miller’s revelation that both Dilman and Aldora had once spent time in a Springfield sanitarium for alcoholics. If that was true, if Miller and his cohorts could prove it, there might also be proof, or some circumstantial evidence, that Dilman had been conducting a love affair with Wanda and had unwittingly betrayed a government secret. But Abrahams had his strong doubts, derived not merely from loyalty to his friend, but from knowledge of his accusers. Their charge of treason, based on intemperate habits, partly disguised their true reason for impeachment: they would no longer countenance a colored man sitting as their leader. They refused to forgive him not only his blackness, but the effrontery of his veto of the Minorities Rehabilitation Program. No Nigra—wasn’t that what Miller called Doug?—was going to be permitted to chastise the majority white legislative branch. It was time for an object lesson to all Nigras who were getting out of hand. This would put them in their places, send them back to carrying hats for their genetic superiors.

  Driving more slowly, Nat Abrahams caught the street sign that read “Van Buren N.W.” He flipped his turn indicator up, and wheeled into the residential thoroughfare.

  Nearing his destination, he remembered that he had awakened early this morning filled with righteous indignation and legal curiosity. He had telephoned one of Attorney General Kemmler’s assistants about Wanda, and then he had telephoned and personally visited with Robert Lombardi at the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the forbidding Justice Department building. After that, he had returned to the hotel and telephoned Wanda Gibson herself. She had responded with recognition to his name, and had been formal, but his persistence in addressing her as Wanda and not Miss Gibson had finally forced down her defenses to accepting him as Nat—and as friend. At first she had not wanted to see him, vaguely speaking of other appointments. She had sounded more shy than troubled. When Nat had invoked Doug Dilman, Doug’s desire that Nat as attorney if not friend look into her predicament, the vague appointments had evaporated, and she had capitulated entirely. Abrahams had told her that he would visit her after lunch, around one-thirty or so.

  Cruising slowly along Van Buren Street, keenly conscious of the upper-class Negro women on the sidewalks with their shopping bags, Nat Abrahams sought the residence. Midway up the block, his gaze rested on the two-story brownstone row house, and he knew it immediately. He slid the Ford up to the curb, parked, and pocketed the keys.

  Before his reunion with Wanda Gibson, he decided to review the evidence supporting the resolution for impeachment one more time. He unfolded the newspaper, propping it against the steering wheel, and absently packed tobacco into the crusted bowl of his straight-stemmed pipe and lighted it. The lead story reported Zeke Miller’s dramatic introduction of the impeachment resolution, then went on to say that although it had been referred to the House Judiciary Committee, almost all necessary evidence against Dilman had been gathered from witnesses and documents, and therefore Miller promised that the committee, after meeting through the night, would present its recommendation to the House of Representatives at noon today. Majority Leader Harvey Wickland was quoted as stating that he expected the committee to recommend impeachment unanimously, and that he expected the full contents of the charges embodied in the resolution for impeachment to be read and put to limited debate by early afternoon.

  Nat Abrahams’ attention was drawn from this story to the impressive black-bordered box in the upper center of the front page reproducing four Articles of Impeachment in boldface type superimposed over a faint photograph of Doug Dilman’s portrait, a not too flattering portrait at that.

  Beneath the photograph there ran a lengthy caption. Abrahams studied it:

  “The Articles of Impeachment reproduced above—this newspaper has been informed by a reliable Congressional source—may be the form the House of Representatives charges will take when presented to the Senate, presuming the House does indict the President of high crimes and misdemeanors. These charges, in less stately language, are a part of the resolution of impeachment that will be debated today in the House of Representatives. If a majority of House members vote to impeach the President, the charges will be turned over to a special appointed committee, drawn from the House Judiciary Committee, which will formalize them as Articles of Impeachment, and return them to the House for routine approval, before sending them on to the Senate for final judgment. But the raging question today is—will the House of Representatives vote yes or no on the grave matter of converting its resolution for impeachment into actual Articles of Impeachment upon which the Chief Executive would have to stand trial?”

  Scowling, Abrahams began to read the evidence that had been prepared against Doug Dilman. He skimmed the contents of the first three articles, more notable for their questionable sensationalism than their proof of high crimes and misdemeanors (although the first charge of treason, if substantiated, might be grave), until he reached the last article. The fact of this one, of course, could not be disputed. Nat reread it carefully:

  ARTICLE IV.

  That said Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, at Washington, in the District of Columbia, unmindful of the high duties of his office, of the oath of office, and in violation of the Constitution of the United States, and contrary to the provisions of an act entitled “The New Succession Act Regulating the Line of Succession to the Presidency and the Tenure of Certain Civil Offices,” without the advice and consent of the Senate of the United States, said Senate then and there being in session, and without authority of law, did, with intent to violate the Constitution of the United States, and the act aforesaid, remove from office as Secretary of State the
Honorable Arthur Eaton. Then and there being no vacancy in said office of Secretary of State, whereby said Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, did then and there commit and was guilty of a high misdemeanor in office, not only for his disregard of the law and his contempt of said Senate, but for his malicious desire to sustain himself in office by illegal removal of the next in line to his succession, whose popularity with the electorate he resented and feared.

  This charge, Nat Abrahams could see, would be the most difficult to refute, the one Doug Dilman would find the most menacing and formidable to contest. Whereas his opposition might be challenged on their proof of his commission of treason, through Wanda, with the Vaduz Exporters and Soviet Russia, there was no denying the fact that Doug had broken a law (no matter how unconstitutional it might be) by firing a Cabinet member without the consent of his onetime colleagues in the Senate. Of course, a sound case might be made on Doug’s behalf in the House debate today, but Nat was not sure there was anyone prepared to make that case.

  Abrahams’ eyes left the box of articles, and moved to the farthest left-hand column. There was another dismaying headline, and beneath it a dateline from Cleveland. Doug had spoken before a convention of war veterans, of which he was one, and his speech had been met with continuous boos, hisses, and catcalls—the epithets were shocking (“Traitor!. . . Commie!. . . Whoremonger!”), and although the police had evicted two dozen hecklers from the auditorium, the disturbance had not ceased. The speech had been an utter disaster. Abrahams’ heart went out to his friend. He was tempted to telephone him, and beg him to return to Washington, but that made no sense either.

  As he was about to fold the newspaper, one more story caught Abrahams’ attention. The Secret Service agent who had saved Dilman’s life, Otto Beggs, had successfully come through his latest surgery, had not lost his shattered leg, but his use of it would be considerably impaired. Even this was related to the impeachment. Miller’s investigators, eager to question the President’s personal bodyguard for evidence of what he might have seen or overheard, had been rudely turned away by Admiral Oates.

  It pleased Abrahams that someone had shown a shred of decency, but it distressed him to know to what lengths the House investigators were going, to build their case against the President. Apparently they felt that even if they already were in possession of enough evidence to indict the President, there was always use for more, and again more, if he should go on trial.

  Abrahams’ vest-pocket watch told him it was twenty minutes to two, and that he had been sitting outside the brownstone for over five minutes. He pulled down the rearview mirror, to see if he was entirely presentable for Wanda Gibson. A tuft of his chestnut hair stood up in back, and no amount of water had been able to slick it down. The extraordinary amount of sleep and relaxation he had enjoyed in Washington, while awaiting the last draft of his contract and while casually acquainting himself with his future duties for Eagles Industries, had not eliminated the lines in his gaunt features or made his deep-set eyes appear more rested. Nevertheless, he felt energetic and revived, all senses alert and questing, as if resurrected from fat lethargy by his antagonism toward Doug’s prosecutors.

  He swung his long legs out of the car, slammed the door, and strode to the brownstone. Emptying his pipe against the heel of his hand, he told himself that if he could not help his friend in the House of Representatives, at least he could be of some use to Wanda. It was little enough, but in a time like this it might mean much to Doug. And anyway, it was good to be active.

  Inside, he took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the upper landing, he was pleased that he was not winded, and knew that his physician would be pleased too. Approaching the door, he could hear the sounds of television behind it. He knocked firmly. Almost immediately the door opened, and he was inside the parlor, face to face with Wanda Gibson.

  He was delighted to find that she was as attractive as he had remembered her. Her glossy dark hair was caught back in a ribbon, and her tawny smooth face was devoid of any makeup except at the lips. Her dark eyes tried to smile, and failed. She wore an apricot-colored cotton blouse, and wide navy-blue leather belt, and a simple tailored blue skirt. Her countenance and her figure were classic, and Nat Abrahams silently congratulated Doug Dilman for his good taste.

  Taking his overcoat, she told him that she remembered both him and his wife very well, and she inquired about Sue and the children. As they walked to the couch, she waved a disdainful hand at the television set. The screen showed a panoramic shot of the overflowing galleries in the House, and then moved down to a cluster of representatives gathered before the Speaker’s rostrum.

  “Look at it,” Wanda said. “It’s like watching a motion-picture revival of some old spectacle about the Roman Colosseum, with the caged lions rumbling, waiting to be released to rend apart and chew up one poor Ethiopian martyr. Have you been watching, at all?”

  “No, I haven’t had the opportunity—or the inclination.”

  “A television first,” said Wanda bitterly, finding a cigarette on the coffee table and allowing Nat to light it for her. “A special public service, the network said. Produced by the Marquis de Sade, directed and written by the Spanish Inquisition, they didn’t bother to say. I tell you, I don’t know what we’re coming to. All the sham and pretense. That little monster, Miller, jumping up and announcing the House committee recommends impeachment. Then all kinds of parliamentary business. Then, just now, Wickland—I thought at least, as a Far Westerner, the Majority Leader, he’d be something more—but no, there he was droning out those awful blasphemous four charges as evidence to back their resolution for impeachment. Now there’s a point of order, then Miller is going to elaborate on the charges in detail, before the debate begins later.” She stopped, looking sorrowfully at Abrahams. “It’s terrible. Poor Doug, getting it here—and as a result, look what’s happening to him on the road. Who is there to contest these libelous lies?”

  “There’ll be someone when the debate begins, Wanda. At least a dozen congressmen, white and colored, have come out against this.”

  “Where are they?”

  “They’ll be heard, believe me.”

  She nodded uncertainly. “I have some coffee ready—”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “I have it ready,” she said. “I’m sorry the apartment is a mess. The Spingers are in New York on this business. They’re meeting with Crispus lawyers on the charges against the Reverend as well as those against Doug. . . . Excuse me a minute.”

  After she had gone, Nat Abrahams filled his pipe, settled into the chair between the couch and television set, and smoked as he watched the screen. There was a close shot of Representative Zeke Miller rising from his bench, notes in his hand, grinning, waving a greeting to someone, then addressing the chairman and the House.

  “My honorable colleagues,” Miller was saying, “we on the Judiciary Committee who have recommended this distressing action are not unconscious of our responsibility to our constituents, and to our traditions of justice. We are fully aware that this is only the second occasion in two centuries that it has been found necessary to bring such all-fired powerful proceedings against a Chief Executive of the United States. It is for us a distasteful undertaking. Yet we must have the courage to face our duties and back up our convictions. We must accept the shocking facts as they have come to us, and we must elevate our patriotic concern for our beloved America’s future above any sentimental concern over a single weak and dangerous—yes, downright dangerous, for the tyranny of the weak is the worst tyranny of all—individual. Aware as we are that we may face the opprobrium of the squeamish, as well as the protests of Communist appeasers, misguided and devious liberals, sanctimonious and professional minority lovers, we must suffer their slings and arrows to perform the greater good. We beg you not to let your intelligence be hamstrung by the propagandists, but to permit cool reason to accept and weigh the incontrovertible facts in this case.”

  The c
amera revealed a close-up of Zeke Miller, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, gulping water from a glass, and then it held tightly on him as he continued.

  “In speaking of the one who was the object of another Presidential impeachment in another time, namely, Andrew Johnson, two of our predecessors in this very chamber, both from the great state of Illinois, remarked that the object of the impeachment was ‘as mendacious as he is malignant,’ that ‘this nation has been too long disgraced by this man, this accidental President. Let him be removed.’ I say, let that wise American injunction guide us in our deliberations today.”

  On the television screen, Miller consulted his notes, and then looked up. “Allow me to elaborate on the four major points in our resolution for impeachment, one by one in their order, and offer to you the evidence of how President Douglass Dilman has degraded himself and debauched our democratic government, through reptilian cunning and unsavory habits. Let us begin with our first charge, the astounding and appalling conduct of this accidental President of the United States in his relationship with the mulatto female, an employee of the Soviet Union, known as Miss Wanda Gibson, and the serious consequences of this allegedly illicit relationship. First of all—”

  With a start, Nat Abrahams became aware of Wanda’s presence behind him. She was standing stock-still, holding the tray of coffee, cream, sugar, her hurt eyes trained on the television screen.