Abrahams’ keen eyes tried to follow the activity of both sides, that of the senators who were known to be in the camp against the President, determined to convict and remove him, led by aging Senator Bruce Hankins, who was everywhere, and that of the senators who were known to be in the camp supporting the President, determined to acquit him, led by the spry former labor union executive, Chris Van Horn, senior senator from Dilman’s own state.
Had a single vote changed from guilty to not guilty, even one? Abrahams could not tell. The partisans were easy to read. The independents were independent still, and unreadable. Only one emotion in common was evident in all faces, all stances, all movement: intense excitement.
At last, in his carved chair on the rostrum high above, Chief Justice Johnstone slid forward and rapped his gavel down hard once, twice, three times on the oak board, and the sound reverberated throughout the Chamber and stilled it, and gradually the Senate members began to empty the aisles and return to their individual desks, with their personal decisions already made or soon to be made.
“All caucusing will come to an end, and the senators will resume their seats and be attentive,” the Chief Justice commanded. He waited for his order to be obeyed, and it was obeyed. Satisfied, in a louder voice he announced, “The Senate is now organized for the purpose of proceeding to the trial of the impeachment of Douglass Dilman, President of the United States. The Sergeant at Arms will make the proclamation.”
The Sergeant at Arms jumped to his feet. “Hear ye! Hear ye! All persons are commanded to keep silence on pain of imprisonment while the Senate of the United States is sitting for the trial of the Articles of Impeachment against Douglass Dilman, President of the United States.”
Abrahams saw a rangy figure rise behind his desk near the aisle. It was Van Horn, the vigorous outspoken senator from Dilman’s state. His arm was uplifted.
“Mr. Chief Justice, I move that the Senate proceed by voice vote to the consideration of the order that I submitted to the bench a short time ago, as to the reading of the Articles of Impeachment.”
The Chief Justice looked directly below him. “The Secretary of the Senate will read the order which Senator Van Horn proposes to take up.”
The Secretary of the Senate rose, and from a sheet of paper read aloud, “Ordered, that the Chief Justice, in directing the Secretary to read the four Articles of Impeachment, shall direct him to read the fourth Article first, and the question shall then be taken on that Article, and thereafter the other three successively as they stand.”
Senator Bruce Hankins, coughing and hacking, stood up. “Mr. Chief Justice, is this legal? Can the Articles be voted upon out of their original sequence?”
Senator Van Horn spoke quickly. “Mr. Chief Justice, I suggest the bench remind the able Senator that there is historical precedent for such procedure, as evidenced in the minutes of the Andrew Johnson impeachment, and other lesser impeachments in modern times. While I am aware that each and every one of the Articles is subject to a separate roll-call vote, it is also legal, and there is precedent for this, to select of the several Articles of Impeachment the one that is most important, and center a vote on that. If the respondent is found guilty on that one Article, he will be guilty and removed no matter what the vote on the others. If the respondent is found not guilty on that one Article, it is unlikely he will be found otherwise on the remaining and lesser Articles, which have considerably less support for conviction. On both sides of the aisle, and in both camps, I find sentiment agreeing that Article IV is the key indictment against the President. That is why I have moved that it be taken up at once, and have suggested a voice vote for or against.”
The Chief Justice rapped his gavel. “A voice vote will be taken on the motion. On the question of reversing the order, in the first instance, for voting on the Articles under consideration, how many of you say yea?”
A powerful, lusty chorus of voices rang out, “Yea!”
“How many of you say nay?”
Another chorus of voices, thin and scattered, shouted, “Nay!”
“The yeas have it,” announced Chief Justice Johnstone. “The motion as to altering the sequence of the Articles to be voted upon is carried.”
Senator Selander, the Majority Leader, was calling for recognition. When he had it, he said, “Mr. Chief Justice, I move that the Senate now proceed to vote upon the Articles according to the order of the Senate just adopted. I have submitted this motion in writing to the chair.”
“Very well,” said the Chief Justice, “the motion will be read.”
The Chief Clerk came to his feet, and he read the motion. Promptly, a voice vote was called for. The motion was unanimously agreed upon.
Twice now the robed magistrate’s gavel was heard, and when the Chamber was hushed, he announced, “By direction of the Senate, I hereby, as Chief Justice presiding over this court, admonish citizens and strangers in the galleries that absolute silence and perfect order must be maintained from this moment onward. Persons responsible for disturbance will be immediately arrested… Senators, in conformity with the order of the Senate, the chair will now proceed to take the final vote on Article IV, as directed by the rule. The Chief Clerk of the Senate will now read aloud Article IV.”
The Chief Clerk was already standing with the document containing the Articles of Impeachment in his quivering hand. He scanned the assembly, and then, with deliberation, enunciating every word of the language of indictment clearly, he began to read.
“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 his 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…”
From his corner of the President’s managers’ table, Nat Abrahams had been listening to the words of indictment long engraved on his mind. But now his attention wandered from the Chief Clerk to the faces of the five at the table across the way, the House managers, each expression intent and solemn, except that on the countenance of Zeke Miller, sitting back carelessly, lips curled in a self-satisfied smirk, as if relishing every dagger word of the indictment.
From Miller’s face, Abrahams’ attention moved out and across the faces hung over the Senate desks, some directed toward the reading, some turned downward as if contemplating what judgment they must pronounce in not many minutes.
At once, the suddenness of silence brought Abrahams up short. He realized the reading of the indictment, the crucial one, had concluded, and that everyone, everyone around the room, up high, down low, was staring at the dais. Abrahams looked up, too.
Chief Justice Johnstone had risen from his chair, his black robes flowing. Majestically, he surveyed those beneath him. In a husky voice, he uttered three words.
“Call the roll!”
The moment had come, the moment of hope and dread, and Abrahams was certain that his heart had temporarily ceased its beat.
He thought of the millions everywhere, in America, in Europe, in Asia, hypnotized before their television sets. He thought of Doug Dilman watching, and of all the ones that mattered in Doug’s life and his own life. The moment had come, and there was no hiding from it, no turning from it, no stopping it.
The Senate Chamber was deathly still.
No longer, it seemed, were all eyes focused upon the Chief Justice, who remained upright. All eyes were on the Chief Clerk, directly beneath him, who had risen with a scroll containing the names of the 100 senators present who would vote in alphabetical order.
“Mr. Alexander,” the Chief Clerk called out.
&
nbsp; A pinch-faced, elderly man rose in his place at the rear bench.
“Mr. Senator Alexander, how say you?” the Chief Justice asked sternly. “Is the respondent, Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, guilty or not guilty of a high misdemeanor, as charged in this Article?”
Senator Alexander’s reply was a shout. “Guilty!”
He sat down, satisfied with himself.
“Mr. Austin,” the Chief Clerk called out.
A dapper young politician in the second row stood up.
“Mr. Senator Austin, how say you?” the Chief Justice demanded to know. “Is the respondent, Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, guilty of not guilty of a high misdemeanor, as charged in this Article?”
Senator Austin hesitated, then answered, “Guilty.”
“Mr. Bennatt,” the Chief Clerk called out.
A twitching, stunted man leaped up from his desk near the center row.
“Mr. Senator Bennatt, how say you?” the Chief Justice inquired. “Is the respondent-”
“Not guilty, sir!” Senator Bennatt interrupted.
From the gallery came a nervous giggle, then laughter, and the Chief Justice suppressed his own smile, held his gavel poised, but did not use it.
“Mr. Bollinger,” the Chief Clerk called out.
“Mr. Senator Bollinger, how say you? Is the respondent, Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, guilty or not guilty of a high misdemeanor, as charged in this Article?”
“Guilty.”
Abrahams’ heart was hammering again, as if to make up for its loss in suspension, and he stared down at his hands worriedly. Four of the one hundred had voted, and three of the four had judged the President as guilty. It was not promising. Abrahams could hear Senator Campbell being questioned, and now he heard the reply.
“Guilty.”
About to return his full attention to the rising, announcing, and sitting of senator jurors, Nat Abrahams found himself mildly distracted by the sounds of whispering beside or behind him. He glanced at Tuttle, then down the table at Priest and Hart, to learn if they were the ones conferring, but they were silent, mesmerized by the drama of the vote.
Perplexed, as the whispering continued, Abrahams quietly turned in his chair, and then saw the source of the sound that had distracted him. A network television camera, which he had not noticed before, had been set up on the ground floor level, near the rostrum, to capture the historic countdown in its glass eye. Nearby two men crouched, one tallying the voting on a pad, as the other, an announcer, whispered the totaled figures, and their significance, into a perforated microphone in his hand.
Abrahams tilted backward, cocking an ear toward the whispering announcer, trying to close out the individual senators rising with their votes in order to catch, if he could, the latest tabulation. He listened hard, heard parts of several sentences, and then became attuned to the television announcer’s low-keyed commentary and was able to hear him distinctly.
“The vote is going swiftly, as you can see on your screens,” the announcer was purring into the microphone. “We have-let me see-yes-thirty-five out of the one hundred senators have already declared themselves. Of this first thirty-five, the vote summary this moment is twenty-six against President Dilman, nine favoring President Dilman, meaning that the vote to convict is running well ahead of the two-thirds required to remove the President from his office. It is too early to tell if this is a trend, and we are unable to learn if there have been any surprise switches against or for, but the President is trailing, he is behind, and if this count continues, he will be removed. For the first time in American history, a President of the United States will be removed from office for high crimes and misdemeanors. We want to remind all of you it will require two-thirds of the one hundred present to vote guilty, if conviction is to be obtained. Two-thirds means sixty-seven Senate members must declare aloud that they believe President Dilman guilty-wait, one moment-what’s that, Kent?-yes, fine. Ladies and gentlemen, while I’ve been speaking to you, the voting has been going on, inexorably continuing, relentlessly driving to its climactic moment, and now my colleague with the tally sheet informs me-uniforms me that half of the votes are in-here, I have the halfway total in hand-the vote now stands, this minute it stands, thirty-four votes guilty, sixteen votes not guilty, out of fifty senators who have declared. It would appear-it appears that while the President is still running behind, his supporters have somewhat closed the gap, the voting has tightened considerably. If this ratio maintains, the prosecution will get its two-thirds by two votes to spare, at least, but since the earlier tabulation, it has narrowed down to a real life-and-death struggle-let’s see now, who’s that rising to vote?”
Abrahams sat up, tried to shut the smooth, glib, whispering voice from his hearing. It had begun to irritate him. Out on the floor before them, not only a human being’s future hung precariously in the balance, but the continuance of the checks and balances of America’s system of government as well as the integrity of the American public who prattled about equality and freedom. Yet an announcer, epitome of the best and worst, now the worst, in the brassy, competitive, public-relations American culture, was trying to report this critical historic event in the same manner he might a game, a sport, a horse race.
As if his mind refused to accept and suffer, hope living, hope dying, each excruciating vote being announced, Abrahams’ thoughts dwelt on the end result of what was occurring before his very eyes.
What would happen to this country if Douglass Dilman were convicted and ousted in these next minutes? What would be on the national conscience as the great country stirred awake tomorrow morning, sated by its Roman holiday, but knowing it had crucified a President not because he was an incompetent leader-the Dilman triumph in Baraza would be known to all by then-but because he was black and they were white? How would neighbor look upon neighbor, and how would they live as one people in their shame? And Doug, what would happen to Doug? Where would he go? What would he do? How could he live? Yet, on the other hand, if he were acquitted in the minutes to come, what would be the state of the Union then? And Doug’s future?
He heard the senators’ voices replying to the Chief Justice… “Guilty”… “Guilty”… “Not guilty.” He heard the watch on his vest chain ticking, ticking, ticking. He sought it, peered down at its hands. Twenty-three minutes had passed since the roll call began. Then he felt fingers tugging at his sleeve.
He glanced up. It was Tuttle, and Tuttle was sliding a slip of notepaper in front of him. It was a scrawled message from Hart:
“They have 60, we have 26-14 votes left. They need 7, we need 8. I’m dying. What do you think, Nat?”
He took up a pencil and wrote across the note, “I think I’m dying, too, but we’re not dead. Stop using your fingers for writing and keep them crossed!”
He sent the note back down the table, turned in his chair, and now gave his full attention to the final fourteen voters. But to his surprise, in the time it had taken for Hart to write the note, pass it on, for him to read it, and reply, ten more votes had been announced, and the eleventh was just being announced, and this he knew because he could hear the damnable announcer whispering into the microphone behind him.
“-Stonehill just voted not guilty, as expected,” the tightening voice behind him announced to the nation. “It now stands ninety-seven senators out of one hundred have cast their votes. The tabulation shows sixty-five guilty, and thirty-two not guilty. The prosecution requires two of the remaining three votes to impeach and convict the President of high crimes. The defense requires two of the remaining three votes to acquit and save the President of the United States… There seems to be a lull… The Chief Justice is checking with the Clerk to see what is left to be done… We can tell him what is left. Three votes to be announced, and the impeachers need two, and it looks like they may get them. Only Senators Thomas, Van Horn, and Watson remain on the roll uncounted. Thomas, from a border state, has been outspoken in his criti
cism of the President. Van Horn was a supporter of President Dilman’s intervention in Baraza from the outset, and with the flash of our victory there, it is unlikely he will do anything but continue to support the President. The third and last voter, the redoubtable Senator Hoyt Watson, whose own daughter was involved in the charges against Dilman, is a Southerner-a progressive Southerner, but a dyed-in-the-wool Southerner nevertheless-and so it appears that two of the three remaining votes will be guilty, giving the enemies of the President their sixty-seven required votes, their two-thirds, and unfolding before our eyes one of the most memorable occasions in history, the driving from office of the highest public official-”
The Chief Justice’s gavel fell.
Nat Abrahams shut his ears to the announcer, gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, and stared straight ahead. He knew that perspiration had gathered on his forehead and down his back. He knew his worn, worried heart was faltering again. He waited.
“Mr. Thomas.”
“Mr. Senator Thomas, how say you? Is the respondent, Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, guilty or not guilty of a high misdemeanor, as charged in this Article?”
“Guilty!”
“Mr. Van Horn, how say you? Is the respondent, Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, guilty or not guilty of-”
“Not guilty.”
Abrahams’ mind tabulated the count now: sixty-six guilty, thirty-three not guilty. One vote would convict Dilman; one vote would acquit Dilman. And there was but one vote and one voter left.
The one-hundredth Senate member in the room sat erect behind his mahogany desk, arms folded across the desk.
“Mr. Watson,” the Chief Clerk called out.
Abrahams watched him, throat and lungs near bursting, eyes strained wide, watched the old gentleman unfold from his seat, grip his birch cane, watched his white thatched head, wrinkled phlegmatic face, rise with his aged body.
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