“Well, they’re liars,” said Poole. “What do you expect them to say now?”
Dilman nodded. “Be that as it may. I simply wanted both of you to understand that, busy as I am, I have given this case much study and reflection. Now, besides your eloquent appeal, I also have here on my lap the Attorney General’s remarks and recommendation, as I said.” Dilman lifted his head and gazed at Mrs. Hurley. “The Attorney General recommends, without reservation, that clemency be refused and the death sentence stand as ordered.”
Mrs. Hurley did not move or speak, but Leroy Poole, his round forehead perspiring, jumped up indignantly. “That Kemmler-that lousy rotten racist-”
Dilman ignored the writer and resumed addressing Mrs. Hurley. “Of course, as President I have the right to disapprove the Attorney General’s recommendation, override it, return the papers with instructions that they be revised according to my wishes. This rejection of a Justice Department recommendation is the exception to the rule. It has been exercised by Presidents in the past, but in very, very rare instances.”
“Well, thank God, thank God you got that right to do justice,” Poole cried out, and sat down, anxious thyroid eyes fixed on the President’s mouth.
Dilman appeared to gather his strength.
“Mrs. Hurley, I was once an attorney myself, and as an attorney, and now the last judge in this case, responsible for the ultimate decision that must be made on the life of your son, I must tell you honestly-I cannot-I cannot, with any pretense at honesty, countermand the recommendation of the Attorney General. There is nothing here, none of Leroy’s so-called new findings, that convinces me that the decision of the Federal court was wrong, the Department of Justice was wrong, and that your son should not be punished, as he is to be punished, according to the law of the nation and not according to my personal beliefs, for kidnaping and for murder. Mrs. Hurley, it grieves me, but I must reject this appeal to commute the death sentence. I am sorry. I hope that-eventually, if not now-you will understand.”
Leroy Poole fell back into the sofa, covering his face with his hands. His anguish was too overwhelming for an immediate protest or contention. It was as if he had been axed, split from head to toe, by a black brother whom in his desperation he had decided to trust.
To his surprise, he heard Gladys Hurley speak, and her voice was low and composed.
“Mr. President,” she said, “when they stuff my boy into that gas chamber, they’re doin’ to him like the Nazis once did to the Jews-they’re punishin’ him and killin’ him off for what he is, an’ not what he did.”
“Mrs. Hurley, believe me,” Dilman said with intensity, “if I could prove that-prove it-I would commute his sentence immediately. I cannot prove it. Jefferson Hurley is a confessed kidnaper and murderer. The essential truth is that he was a self-appointed Messiah of our people, taking the law into his hands, and the government cannot condone such action. I have no grounds on which to give Jefferson Hurley his life, to overlook his crime, except the fact that he is black like I am, like the three of us in this room are, and if I commuted his sentence, he would be getting preferential treatment, special consideration which a white kidnaper or murderer would not get in this office. Can’t you see that, Mrs. Hurley?”
“No,” she said flatly. “I see one thing. He’s goin’ to die because of his skin. The Federals and Southerners are puttin’ him to death because he’s a black man who won’t crawl, like the Senate is puttin’ yourself to death because you’re a black man who suddenly stopped crawlin’.”
Poole had recovered his wits. “It’s the invisible prejudice law against him!” he shouted. “Same as there’s the invisible Article V of impeachment against you!”
Dilman said sternly, “Mrs. Hurley-Leroy-however we feel about the prejudice that we know exists-and we feel as one in this-there is still the law of the land we live under, our law, the law that keeps us a civilized community and not a pack of roving barbarians. In this case I am the final symbol of that law. Despite the passionate forensics of my good friend and advocate on the Senate floor today, you heard his invisible Article thrown out of the court. It does not enter into my trial, and will not, unless he can legally prove I am being prosecuted as a Negro and not as a criminal. There is little chance he can prove that. And there is no way for you to prove Jefferson Hurley is going to the gas chamber simply because he is a Negro. Jefferson Hurley is going to the gas chamber because, as a man, he committed a crime against men, and against their law. If I am convicted by the Senate body, and punished and disgraced by removal from office, it will not be because I was tried as a Negro but as a government official who committed high crimes. I may have other feelings or views about this, but in court there is the law, and I will abide by it shortly, as you must abide by it now.”
Mrs. Hurley’s inflexible composure broke slightly. “There is-is more than law, Mr. President. There is human bein’s’ compassion, one for the other, there’s that, and sometimes it’s above the law.”
To Poole it appeared that Dilman, perturbed, shaken, would reach out to touch her hand. He did not. He said softly, “Mrs. Hurley, I am not inhuman. I have a son, too, and I know, and I can feel for you.”
Dilman’s mention of his son aroused the last crouched hope inside Leroy Poole, and suddenly he found himself standing again.
“Mr. President, Mr. President!” Poole cried out, his voice a shriek. “Listen to me, listen! This is just for the three of us in the privacy of this room, this one more thing. You keep saying you’re a human being, not just a Negro like us. Okay. Then like a human being you’re fighting for your rights and your life in the Senate, you sure are. I listened some today, and it’s not going good for you, no, but you’ve got a chance, maybe a chance, if it doesn’t get any worse. Okay. That Article II of Zeke Miller’s, one-fourth of all the case against you, that’s leveled at your conspiring to protect the Turnerites because you knew your son was a member, right? Okay. What have your enemies got to support that serious accusation? Nothing much except circumstantial evidence, and some exhibit of a letter from Julian to someone who’s name was not even mentioned, in which he said he was planning to join the Turnerites. That’s all their evidence is, and it’s nothing, because Julian answered, through your attorney, that he was only angry when he wrote that letter, and talking big, and that he never actually joined and there’s no proof he ever joined. Isn’t that the way it is, Mr. President?”
“What of it?” said Dilman suspiciously.
“What of it? Listen to me, man to man. What if that crummy, flimsy evidence in Article II against you overnight became real factually proved evidence, huh, what then? Well, I told you before, and you blew me down, I told you before that your Julian was a member of the Turnerites. I once had it in a letter from Jeff Hurley. But no, father and son, your son, you wouldn’t believe me then. Okay. Mitts off. We, the two of us, Mrs. Hurley and yours truly, we got the living, breathing proof that your Julian was an extremist agitator, an extremist Turnerite-a member of a subversive outfit, as you put it. We have the proof. After you banned the organization, and before he took it on the lam, Jeff, who was personal custodian of every secret membership application and pledge, filled in and signed by every Turnerite, he gave this file over to the one person he trusted in the world, to his mom, to Gladys Hurley here. She has that file, and there is one application and blood pledge in it, swearing to work underground for the cause and die for the cause, and it is signed by none other than your son, namely, Julian Dilman, in his own handwriting, which you’ll recognize and an expert can prove.”
Poole had the satisfaction of seeing that the blow had struck its mark. Dilman’s self-assurance appeared to falter, give way. Dilman’s troubled eyes darted from Poole to Gladys Hurley. She gave a slow nod of confirmation.
For Poole the exalting moment had arrived. On the success of his surrender deal depended Jeff Hurley’s life or extinction from the world of the living. With all the power he could muster, Leroy Poole pressed home his l
ast effort.
“Okay, there’s the membership evidence Zeke Miller wished he had, but doesn’t have, doesn’t know exists, somewhere in Louisville, somewhere in the keeping of Jeff Hurley’s mother. Okay, inside the four walls of this room, let’s come to a businesslike understanding. You’ve been a politician most of your life, and you know there’d be no politics, no economics, no survival, no nothing without bartering and trading, without wheeling and dealing. Mrs. Hurley and I already discussed this, and I hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to speak of it, but she agreed that I could if it was necessary. I’ll offer you a deal here and now, Mr. President. You do what should’ve been done anyway, you commute Jeff Hurley’s death sentence to life imprisonment, and Mrs. Hurley will turn over her file to you instead of to Representative Zeke Miller.”
He waited, out of breath, now that the final terms were in the open. He waited for reasonable capitulation.
Curiously, Dilman had seemed to regain his poise. He contemplated the Negro author with equanimity. When he spoke, his tone was almost gentle. “Leroy, that is no deal, that is blackmail.”
“An eye for an eye, like Jeff used to say,” said Poole. “You spare Jefferson Hurley, we spare Julian Dilman-and yourself. It’s take it or leave it, because-”
The buzzer on the President’s desk pierced through Poole’s threat, and then urgently persisted.
Dilman left the Revels chair, hastened to his desk, and snatched up the telephone. “Yes?… What? No, bring them right in, right in now, Miss Foster!”
Confused, Poole’s gaze went from the President to the secretary’s door, and then back to him. Dilman had gone behind his desk, suddenly so agitated, so nervously distracted, that he now seemed entirely oblivious of the presence of Poole and Mrs. Hurley in his Oval Office.
The door flew open, and into the office, striding fast, came a tall, long-legged African, turban on his head but otherwise garmented in a conservative blue suit. Behind him came a slender, uniformed Air Force officer, whom Poole recognized a moment later as the hero of outer space, General Leo Jaskawich. Bringing up the rear, pad and pencil fluttering, came a disheveled Edna Foster.
All of them crowded around the desk. There were no greetings, there was no formality, there was only an electric air of emergency.
“Ambassador Wamba,” Dilman was saying to the African, “Miss Foster says you have definitely heard. What is it?”
Before the Barazan Ambassador could reply, General Jaskawich, after a nervous glance behind him at Mrs. Hurley and Poole, quickly said to Dilman, “Mr. President, your other guests-this may be confidential-”
Impatiently, Dilman dismissed Jaskawich’s concern with a gesture. “Forget them,” he said. His attention was again entirely concentrated upon the Barazan. “Ambassador Wamba, do you have news?”
Wamba’s speech, with a lilting English accent, precise and Sussex public-school, was forceful. “I have heard from President Amboko directly on our Embassy telephone. The word is in, sir, and the evidence is being flown to you by the CIA. Our own best agents have discovered that our Communist insurgents in the hills will launch their attack at daybreak, in ten days from tomorrow morning.”
Anxiety bunched Dilman’s features. “There can be no mistake? This is positive?”
“Positive,” said Wamba, without equivocation.
Jaskawich stepped forward. “This is it, Mr. President, no question. Scott said for sure they’ll raise the reliability rating from 2 to top 1 on this.”
“Then it is clear-cut,” said Dilman. “We’ve got to prevent their first offensive, and we can only do it by letting the Soviets know we are onto it and that we are prepared to stop it. Very well, Ambassador Wamba, speak to President Amboko at once. Tell him to convene the Foreign Ministers of the African Unity Pact nations in Baraza City, and brief them, and request that they mobilize their forces, and inform them that the United States stands ready to honor its mutual defense treaty with them. Unless Premier Kasatkin gives me absolute assurance there will be no further action, I shall order dispatched by air and sea, within ten days, our fully equipped forces, our very finest troops and rocketry teams, to fight side by side with the armies of the African democracies… General Jaskawich, notify Secretary Steinbrenner of this development. Tell him I want the Dragon Flies battalions on red alert, and I want them quietly, speedily positioned at points of takeoff. When you’re through with him, let’s get out our note of protest and warning to Ambassador Rudenko, for immediate transmission to Premier Kasatkin. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jaskawich.
Jaskawich had Ambassador Wamba by the arm, and hastily the two of them, in whispered consultation, left the office.
President Dilman was about to sit down to his eighteen-button telephone console, when he became aware of Edna Foster still standing at his desk.
He considered her curiously. “What’s the matter, Miss Foster?”
“Don’t-don’t do this!” she blurted.
He appeared confused. “Don’t do what?”
“It’s not my business, except I don’t want you convicted for impeachment. Mr. President, I hate General Fortney, I abhor him, but what he said to you before, about sending an all-white military force into Africa to die for those underdeveloped people, it’ll ruin you in the Senate, it’ll create a storm against you. Can’t you see? It’ll be used to prove what Zeke Miller’s been insinuating all along, that the New Succession Bill had to be made law so you wouldn’t show favoritism to Negroes, even if they’re African Negroes, and that here you are, ready to sacrifice the best of our white troops to do that very thing. I’m not saying don’t defend Baraza. You must-I agree, you must-but can’t you send mixed white-and-Negro battalions to fight there? Can’t you-?”
“No, Miss Foster, I cannot. There is only one counter-guerrilla force that can act effectively, that is equipped to do so with a minimal loss of life, and that, as Steinbrenner said, is the Dragon Flies.”
Edna Foster persisted. “Don’t, Mr. President. Please don’t. This will ruin you-this’ll be the end of you-”
Dilman did not disagree. “It may be,” he said. “But whatever happens to me right now does not matter. It’s what happens to a good neighbor, black or white, one that’s put its entire faith in our decency, its trust in our way of life, that does matter. I can’t make deals with Fortney, or anyone else, to compromise my country, and I won’t. I appreciate your feelings for me, Miss Foster, I really do, but I must handle it this way. Now, please, tell Tim Flannery to notify the networks that I wish air time to deliver a short, major address-fifteen minutes, say-on a matter of national emergency-make it tomorrow at six o’clock our time. Thank you, Miss Foster.”
She shook her head sorrowfully, then ran from the office.
From the sofa, Leroy Poole had witnessed these scenes with fascination. He continued to watch as the President, by now completely unaware that there were others still in the room, swiveled toward his telephone console once more. Then, to Poole’s bewilderment, Gladys Hurley was on her feet and advancing toward the desk. Poole leaped up and chased after her.
Dilman’s hand was on the white telephone when he saw Mrs. Hurley. He blinked, perplexed, then seemed to remember, and pushed the chair back and rose. “Mrs. Hurley,” he murmured, “forgive me, but-”
She stood tall, head high, shoulders thrown back, worn fingers working over her smooth shiny purse.
“You forgive me, Mr. President,” she said. “I am sorry you cannot see fit to save my boy, but from what my eyes have seen, I have seen your goodness. If you cannot help my son, I can help yours and yourself, because you are deservin’ of help from every American. I am goin’ home and I am burnin’ those files of Jeff’s, Mr. President, because even if your boy was in it too, like Jeff was, he did no wrong against the people’s law like Jeff did, and if I will appeal anywhere, it will be to the Lord Jesus Christ, to punish Jeff’s misdeeds and give him mercy so he can become the companion of the holy angels in heaven above.”
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Then her voice trembled, as she went on. “Mr. President, no matter what, my Jeff was always a good boy, attendin’ church and learnin’ the scriptures, keepin’ to cleanliness, never fibbin’ or runnin’ wild in the streets, behavin’ and readin’ his books. And when he growed up, he always respected his father, when his father was alive, and was obedient to his father, and he took care of me, always took care of me and his younger brothers and sisters and needy kin with money and letters. He was a good boy, Mr. President, and he only meant well, but there was no one to understand… Come on, Mr. Poole, let’s leave the President be. He’s got his work to do for all of us.”
At nine-thirty that evening, the West Wing of the White House was still ablaze with light.
In the Reading Room of the press section, a handful of hardy correspondents, aware that the President was still at work, lolled about, hopefully waiting for some fresh morsel of news. In the antechambers beyond the Oval Office, numerous secretaries, on overtime, pecked away at their typewriters. In the corridors, the special police and the Secret Service men of the White House Detail ceaselessly maintained their vigils.
And, in the Cabinet Room, before an audience of three, Douglass Dilman was concluding his rehearsal of the latest draft of the crucial speech that he would deliver to the nation the next evening.
Nat Abrahams, recovered from his ordeal on the Senate floor, puffed his mellow pipe, picked at the rumpled napkin on his depleted dinner tray and listened. General Leo Jaskawich, chewing a half-smoked cheroot, absently doodled on a scratch pad and listened. Assistant Secretary for African Affairs Jed Stover, one hand forming a hood over his shaggy eyebrows, followed the circling needle of the stopwatch cupped in his other hand and listened.
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