The Man

by Irving Wallace

  “But not enough. Once this fiction is completed, accepted, she cannot let down her guard. Will she, someday, while intoxicated or under anesthetic or even through some casual verbal slip, disclose that she is really colored? Will some astute newcomer to her circle begin to wonder about an expression she has used, an old habit of speech like ‘G’wan, man’ or ‘Look heah’ and begin to scrutinize the texture of her hair, breadth of her nose, thickness of her lips, moons of her fingernails? Will she, someday, while with her white friends, run into that one-in-a-million visitor from the Midwest, from her old place of life, who is Negro, and recognizes her, and comes up to her, a pretended white girl, and inadvertently exposes her? Will she, falling desperately in love as an equal with a young white man, unable to confess the truth and lose him, keep her secret, marry him, and awaken from the hospital table to find with horror that she has delivered an infant with features and hair more Negroid than white?

  “I have not seen Mindy Dilman in all these years, not because I have not deeply wished it, for I love her, but because she chose it to be this way, so this is the way it had to be.

  “Of course Mindy has been passing for white! Of course I have known it! I would not interfere, because I would not strip from her the advantages she deserves and would otherwise be denied. But I repeat, what is Mindy’s crime? Is it her fault that she was born to Negroes, and in a country where such birth is a sin? If there is crime in this, the crime is not Mindy’s, but yours and mine, that of the American government and the American people, who would not let her grow and develop in dignity and grace.

  “Now, this morning, for the sake of boosting a newspaper’s circulation, for the cause of a politician’s prejudice and quarrel, Mindy’s secret is out. Now, for motives of sensation and hate, the camouflage of this harmless young girl has been stripped off, so that she is naked and alone and black, though no whit blacker or less worthy than yesterday or the day before. And for this my heart is heavy. I sorrow for my daughter, and over what she will endure, and what must become of her-but more, far more, gentlemen, I grieve for the nature of those in this country, and for the situation in this country, that drove Mindy to pass-and I grieve that such minds exist, in government, in the press, who feel that her pitiful masquerade was so monstrous a vice and transgression that they publicly had to brand her not with a searing scarlet letter but a burning black one, to destroy her, to hope to damage me as her father and as the nation’s President, in order to preserve the racial purity of the republic in which we live.

  “Thank you for your attention, gentlemen. Thank you, and good morning.”

  The Senate, sitting as a tribunal for the impeachment trial of President Dilman, had been convened promptly at one o’clock in the afternoon.

  This was the tenth day of the trial, the first day having been given over to the opening speeches of the opposing attorneys, and the eight days since having been given over to the testimony of the witnesses for the House and the cross-examinations conducted for the defense by Abrahams, Tuttle, and Priest, with Hart confining himself to the paper work. Actually, excluding the Sunday during which the Senate had been adjourned, there had been only seven days of witnesses.

  This afternoon’s session had begun with the House managers summoning Julian Dilman to the witness chair, set at eye level with Chief Justice Johnstone’s raised dais, to testify. Representative Zeke Miller’s interrogation of the President’s son had started mildly enough, with questions about the young man’s early years, eliciting information that traced his growth to the time of his entrance into Trafford University. Even though the interrogation had not been fearsome, Julian had appeared frightened, constantly twitching and twisting, his replies sometimes barely audible, sometimes too loud.

  When, after twenty minutes of this, a senator had risen on a point of law and Chief Justice Johnstone had called a fifteen-minute recess to consult his associates and to review published precedent, the stately rectangular Chamber on the second floor of the Capitol had become an informal clubhouse once more.

  Leaving his associates at their table on the Senate floor, their heads huddled together over some legal strategy, Nat Abrahams had quit the Chamber to smoke his pipe and to evaluate the position of the defense. He had gone through the Senators’ Private Lobby, meaning to turn off to his own assigned office, but then he had wandered into the Marble Room, so called for its circular Italian columns, had wended his way past a group of legislators chatting at the round reading table beneath the ornate crystal chandelier, and had then come to a stop next to one of the towering white columns. Still lost in thought, desiring to remain inconspicuous and undisturbed in this lair of the enemy (although every room, apparently, belonged to the enemy), Abrahams had gone behind the pillar, leaned back against it, and lighted his pipe.

  Now, isolated and smoking, he could perceive the House managers’ strategy, all of it dominated by a public relations concept and intended to overwhelm the general public (and through them, the Senate jurors) in one emotional spate of accusation. After Miller’s frenetic opening address, the opposition had built the case for their Articles of Impeachment slowly and not too powerfully. Except for their presentation of several witnesses from Vaduz Exporters, to bolster their Article I charges against the President’s treasonable relationship with Wanda Gibson, except for their questioning of the Reverend Spinger and then his wife to further solidify Article I and give some credence to the extramarital liaison and preferential treatment to Crispus specifications in Article III, except for their parade of Washington experts to prove the New Succession Act was constitutional and the law of the land, and the questioning of Governor Talley to prove it had been violated by the President, which had invited Article IV, the House managers had presented only a series of shabby and inconsequential witnesses.

  Analyzing it now, weighing the effect of the defense’s own cross-examinations, Abrahams was able to see better what progress the opposition had made. Miller had done a fairly good job, not legally but emotionally, in shoring up Article I, charging the transfer of secrets through Wanda Gibson. Until three-quarters of an hour ago, he had offered no witnesses on Article II, the Julian-Turnerite charge, except one affidavit, from the Attorney General, relating the President’s delaying tactics on the banning of the extremist society. As yet, Miller had made little progress on the specifications of Article III. He had made no mention of Sally Watson, and the witnesses he offered to prove the liaison with Miss Gibson, favoritism toward Spinger, political partisanship, and intoxication had been so vague and irrelevant, and had been so rattled under the relentless cross-examinations of Abrahams and his colleagues, that Article III had become more an embarrassment than an asset.

  Miller’s case for Article IV, that the President had broken a law by firing Eaton in defiance of Congress, had been more impressive for the quantity of his witnesses than for their quality. Under Abrahams’ ceaseless bombardment, many of the witnesses had lost their assurance and authority. However, the question of whether the President had removed Eaton because he believed his Secretary of State was usurping his Presidential powers, or because he feared his popularity, was still not settled. And the question of whether the President had removed Eaton without consulting the Senate because he believed the New Succession Act to be unconstitutional and therefore believed that there was no need to consult anyone, or whether he had merely determined to defy and humiliate the legislative branch, and be headstrong and break a law, was still not decided. To this moment, the battle over Article IV was probably a draw.

  Today, Abrahams guessed, Zeke Miller would be unloading his big artillery in one concerted and smashing effort to scatter the defense and send it into hopeless retreat. Today, no doubt, Miller would bring forth those who were still missing: Wanda Gibson to build up Article I, Sally Watson to save Article III, Secretary of State Arthur Eaton to clinch Article IV, just as he now had on the stand Julian Dilman to prove Article II. Miller would try to bring his case, through the evidence of these witn
esses, to a peak in one shattering afternoon, rocking the public and the Senate with the President’s criminality, so that nothing Abrahams or the defense managers could offer in rebuttal, after that, would be able to halt, or even slow down, the assault.

  Why, Abrahams asked himself, had the House managers determined to crowd the best of their case into a single afternoon? Because, he decided, they felt the timing was right, the climate never better.

  The steady if gradual shift of sympathy and support to President Dilman, among the public, had faltered in the last nine days. Miller’s weather eye was keen. Eight days ago the President had admitted to the nation that he might, if necessary, sacrifice the lives of an all-white American fighting force in the defense of a little-known African nation. The Negroes and liberals approved, but the larger part of the nation boiled with resentment. Then Julian had confessed to his Turnerite affiliation, and while the majority of twenty-three million American Negroes may have been sympathetic once more, and some whites impressed, the greater part of 230 million Americans were increasingly suspicious of the President’s past activities. Now, this morning, Zeke Miller’s revelation about the President’s daughter passing for white, with the President’s knowledge and lack of disapproval, would once more turn the Negro population against him and infuriate most of the white population. And, Abrahams saw, even Doug Dilman’s profoundly moving explanation of his daughter’s passing, and of his own role in it, would fail to counteract the damaging publicity. For the rest of the press, who had missed Miller’s sensational scoop, were trying to make up lost ground by excerpting portions of the President’s remarks, lifting them out of context, angling and distorting them to make headlines anew and sell copies of their newspapers.

  Abrahams rubbed his shoulders against the pillar, put a flame to his pipe again, and considered the situation. Yes, for Zeke Miller, the national climate was right to bring out, from the principal witnesses, the last of the evidence against Dilman. There was momentum in the sentiment against the President, and whatever headlines Miller could create and throw forth today would ride with the momentum, until the charges would be too many and too powerful for it to be stopped.

  Abrahams did not like the defense’s position. If the prosecution concluded its testimony today, it would be the defense’s turn, either late today or tomorrow, to summon up its own rebuttal witnesses. These were good witnesses, but not colorful, not space grabbers, not names, and they would receive scant attention. Abrahams needed what Miller possessed-a cast of stars-and he had none, not one.

  Only a single faint hope remained, Abrahams decided, and that was to make Miller’s stars his own stars. He must build up Julian and Wanda, even though subpoenaed by Miller, as defense witnesses. He must tear down Eaton and Sally Watson, so that resultant headlines would favor the President over his prosecutors. It would not be an easy game to play, if it could be played at all, but, he thought mournfully, it was the only game in town.

  He heard an agitated voice call out, “Congressman-Congressman Miller-”

  Looking off, he was surprised to see George Murdock, fugitive from the press gallery and Blaser’s collaborator, hastening in his general direction. Then Murdock hurried past him, and abruptly halted. Abrahams poked his head around the pillar, and he recognized Zeke Miller, profile to him, considering the reporter with annoyance.

  “What are you doing here?” Miller demanded. “You’re supposed to be up there doing what you’re paid to do.”

  “Congressman, I’ve got to speak to you,” Murdock insisted, clawing his acned, pasty face. “That story you and Reb broke this morning-about Mindy passing-”

  “Don’t bother me now. I have no time. I’ve got a trial to conduct.”

  “Listen-wait-I signed a paper for that girl, promising if she gave me the letter Julian wrote her, I’d never in my life whisper a word of who she is or what she is. I told it to you in confidence-remember? It was part of our deal-you could use everything else I got you, as long as you never used that. You promised, like I promised. You pledged your word.”

  Miller’s lipless mouth was drawn back so that his yellowed teeth were exposed. “Boy, I don’t remember making no foolish promise like that there one, you understand? When Zeke Miller makes a promise, he keeps it. You’re not questioning my integrity, you’re not doing that, are you? That wouldn’t be sensible-would it?-for a reporter in an editorial room to doubt the word of the proprietor, would it now? I’ve seen my daddy, in his day, have his cotton pickers thrown off his land for less than that.”

  Murdock shriveled. “I-I’m only trying to say-”

  “Boy, what burr you got up your behind? You mean an important proud writing person like you is worrying about some cheating cullud girl, some Nigra tar baby who’s painted herself white because she wants to insinuate her class into our class? What’s happening to you, boy? Keep that up and I got a good mind to make you a foreign correspondent and send you off to cover Harlem permanently. Know what I mean? You wouldn’t like that, would you, feller? Come now, would you?”

  “No-no-I wouldn’t.”

  “Then get yourself back up to that gallery and write like you’re told, and don’t bother Zeke Miller again with any of that Northern weeping-willow crap.” Miller waved off to someone. “Hiya, Senator Watson. Time to get back to the combat field, I guess.”

  Abrahams watched Miller leave, in step with Senator Hoyt Watson. Quickly, he glanced at Murdock. The reporter’s face was sallow gray, like a scrap of ancient papyrus. Some kind of involuntary utterance came from him, more moan than sigh, and he turned, head down, and went slowly back to the press gallery, as Abrahams, aching for his humiliation, averted his eyes.

  Then, seeing that the Marble Room was quickly emptying, Abrahams tapped out the ashes from his bowl, pocketed the warm pipe, and fell in line behind those returning to the Senate Chamber.

  When he took his place at the President’s managers’ table, he could see the Chief Justice already on the bench above, Julian Dilman in the witness chair timidly prepared for anything, and the last of the absent senators squeezing back in behind their desks.

  Chief Justice Johnstone’s gavel came down. After calling the court to order, announcing his decision on the point of law which conceded the correctness of the senatorial challenge and therefore required no vote by the body of legislators present, the magistrate ordered, “Senators will please give their undivided attention. The counsel for the House of Representatives will proceed with the examination of the witness.”

  Zeke Miller bounced up from his table, came to the front of the podium, and planted himself before Julian Dilman.

  “Well, now, Mr. Julian Dilman, we have arrived at the core of the charges in Article II of this impeachment. You have confessed, in a public statement, that you were an early and secret underground member of the subversive Turnerite Group. There is no arguing about that now, is there? We can accept your public confession of membership in full, can’t we? Or do you wish to retract it?”

  “I was a member, yes,” said Julian, “exactly the way I announced it last week.”

  “I am pleased Mr. Witness confesses to the confession.” Miller waited for the laughter from the gallery to subside, and then he asked, “Before the day of your public confession, did the President, your father, know you were a member of the subversive Turnerite Group?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You say, ‘No, sir’? Let me explore this further. Did the President, your father, ever make mention of the Turnerites to you, in speech or writing?”

  “Well, yes, but-”

  “Oh, he did discuss the subversive Turnerite Group with you? Did he inquire if you were a member?”

  “Yes, he did, but-”

  “Why would he inquire if you were a member? Was it just paternal curiosity or did he have suspicions of you?”

  “He’d heard I was a member. Someone told him.”

  “Ah, ‘someone’ told him,” said Miller. “In other words, he was in contact with s
omeone who definitely knew? He was in touch with other secret Turnerites?”

  “No, not exactly-”

  “Never mind. The point is that the President had been informed that you, his son, were a Turnerite, and he went to you, and desired for you to confirm the news of your membership?”

  “He didn’t know I was one of them, but he had heard a rumor, yes. He was upset. He tried to pin me down. I denied everything. I lied to him, because-because I was afraid.”

  “Afraid of whom, Mr. Witness? Afraid of your real boss, the late murderer, Jefferson Hurley-or afraid of your father’s wrath?”

  “Both.”

  “So you lied to your father. Are you in the habit of lying often, Mr. Dilman?”

  “No. But my situation made it necessary that one time.”

  “If you could lie to your parent, if you could lie to the President of the United States, might you not be capable of lying to this high tribunal?”

  Abrahams leaped to his feet. “Objection, Mr. Chief Justice! Mr. Manager Miller is baiting and leading the witness.”

  Miller looked up at Chief Justice Johnstone, all bland innocence. “Mr. Justice, I am merely attempting to establish the devious character of-”

  The Chief Justice’s gavel rapped. “Objection sustained. The witness is under solemn oath, Mr. Manager Miller. Avoid further speculation on his veracity.”

  Miller shrugged good-naturedly and considered his witness once more. “Let’s see, Mr. Julian Dilman, what have we established up to now? That you were covertly a blood member of a subversive organization. That your father heard about it. That your father confronted you with the fact, and you denied it, you lied to him. Now, from his subsequent actions, we must wonder if your father, the President of the United States, believed your denial-or if he knew more about your affiliation than he had told you. Let us see, let us see. The Turnerites, in their efforts to overthrow the established government of the United States, perpetrated a planned kidnaping of a municipal official. Despite this, as the Attorney General has testified in writing, the President refused to outlaw the society which had been responsible for this outrage. Instead, he appointed a friend and tenant of his, a Nigra lobbyist, to talk and deal privately with the Turnerites. Then, when your organization committed foul murder, the President still refused to condemn your friends until he was forced to bend to the pressure of the Justice Department and outlaw your organization. Would that not clearly indicate that Hurley had threatened to expose you, unless your father, the President, went soft on the Turnerites? Would that not clearly indicate your father, the President, knew his son was a member of a lawless society, and, to protect his son, treated with the Turnerites, went easy on them, until a life was lost? Would that not indicate that your father, the President, putting his own interests, the interests of his family, before the interests of his high office, was guilty of high crime and-”