“Wait a minute,” Amzi Whipple said. “What exactly are you proposing?”
“Two things.”
“I thought you said one thing.”
“They’re the two parts of one thing.”
Clark tapped on the table with a pen. “Propose them one at a time, Senator.”
“I am proposing,” Busby said, “that the Senate formally empower the Chief Justice to cast the deciding yea or nay in case of a tie vote, and that they accept his rulings on questions of law as if handed down by a judge presiding at a trial. That is, not overturn his ruling afterward by using the Senate as some kind of court of appeals to manipulate the law.”
Whipple said, “You mean his rulings from the chair would not be subject to appeal even if erroneous?”
Busby gave Whipple a deferential nod. “I guess we could make provision for that, Senator—say, a three-fifths vote of the Senate to declare that a ruling should be called into question, and a majority to overturn.”
“A majority to overturn? With the Senate divided evenly on party lines and the Chief Justice casting the tie-breaking vote? That’s some provision, Senator. In the spirit of brevity to which we are all committed, I will say this to you, sir: Over my dead body.”
The other two reactionaries said the same thing as Whipple in softer words. The senators from Busby’s own party, neither of them a radical like himself, said nothing at all. This did not discourage him; overcoming reluctance was his specialty. He said, “What I’m proposing is simplicity itself: that the Senate formally empower the Chief Justice to cast the deciding yea or nay in case of a tie vote, and that the Senate accept his rulings on questions of law as if handed down by a judge presiding at a trial.”
Clark said, “We heard you the first time. We’ll take your suggestion under consideration, Senator.”
“Of course you understand,” Busby said. “It couldn’t be simpler: that the Senate formally empower the Chief Justice to cast the deciding yea or nay in case of a tie vote, and that the Senate accept his rulings on questions of law as if handed down by a judge presiding at a trial.”
“Exactly,” Clark said.
“I’m glad you see my point,” Busby said. “Let me sketch in my reasoning, if I may.”
Whipple wrote the words Shut him up! on a slip of paper and slid it over the tabletop to Clark. Both men knew this was impossible. As Clark folded Whipple’s note into smaller and smaller squares, Busby continued. “It makes sense,” he said, “to formally empower the Chief Justice to cast the deciding yea or nay in case of a tie vote, and that the Senate accept his rulings on questions of law as if handed down by a judge presiding at a trial because the Senate is evenly divided for the first time in history, and this eventuality, insofar as it affects an impeachment proceeding, is covered by a clause in the Constitution.”
Whipple said, “The Chief Justice is not a senator, Senator.”
“Perfectly true,” Busby replied, “but that’s not the only reason. Now I’m not saying he should vote as a senator—no, sir, I’m not ready to say that. However, the Constitution says, ‘The Vice President of the United States shall be the President of the Senate, but he shall have no vote unless they be evenly divided’ Only one paragraph later, the Constitution goes on to say, ‘When the President of the United States is tried, the Chief Justice shall preside ’ In other words, in this one clearly defined situation, the Chief Justice sits as President of the Senate. The Constitution has already told us that the Vice President ‘shall have no vote unless they be evenly divided ’ I would remind you that the Vice President is not a senator, either, Senator. He is a member of the executive branch, not even elected in his own right, but as the running mate of the President of the United States. Yet the Constitution likewise gives the Vice President a vote in the Senate in one clearly defined situation. He is not a senator, yet when the Senate is evenly divided he votes as a senator. That is his constitutional function, to preside over the Senate and break ties. So you can see how simple it is, how obvious it is, how clear is the intent of the Framers. Affirming this instruction from the Constitution is symbolic, that’s all.”
“Sweet Suzie in the morning,” said Whipple, throwing up his hands.
“Symbolic in what way?” Clark asked. There was a stubborn light in his eyes. Busby had seen it there before when some compromise with the dead past, some creative approach to constitutional matters, was broached in his presence. Clark had made a career of putting the country ahead of everything—party, principle, progress, personal interest.
“It’s a formula for Armageddon,” Whipple said.
“I don’t see how, if we believe what the Constitution says,” Busby said. “The Chief Justice is not going to have a vote on guilt or innocence. How could he have? The issue of conviction or acquittal cannot be decided by breaking a tie. We all know that. A two-thirds majority is required to convict. If we’re one short of that majority, I’m not proposing for a single minute that the Chief Justice should nudge the issue one way or the other. He can only vote in case of a tie on issues requiring a simple majority.”
“Such as?”
“We don’t know what may come up. Constitutional questions, questions of law. That is what a presiding officer is for, to rule on such questions. We need a way to decide unforeseen questions. The Constitution gave us a way. We have no right to ignore the Constitution. I’d go so far as to say that we have no choice but to take it literally.”
“I don’t doubt for a minute that you’d go even farther than that, Senator,” Whipple said. “But damn few of the rest of us who ever went to law school would agree with you.”
“Really?” Smiling his dazzling smile, Busby said, “Then behold the proud exception.”
Whipple said, “Be serious. Doing what you suggest would bring the Chief Justice and the Senate into a death grip. The Senate is the maker of its own rules. No outsider has a place in this process. Why should the Chief Justice be empowered to decide questions that it is the constitutional duty of the Senate to decide?”
“The whole point of my proposal is to reassure the American people that this is not a put-up job, like the Andrew Johnson trial was, and not a whitewash, either.”
“I wouldn’t worry about the ability of the American people to see through us, if I were you,” Whipple said.
Again Busby flashed his brilliant white smile. “If you were me, oh, yes, you’d worry,” he said.
Clark said, “Let’s move on.”
Busby said, “First I just want to say one more word about this tiebreaker issue. Those who do not learn the lessons of history are likely to repeat its mistakes. Did any of you watch Patrick Graham this morning?”
Clark said, “Patrick Graham?” Busby was sitting right next to Clark, so he could see his face. Clark was watching him with that absence of expression, that deadness of regard, which meant he was completely out of patience and sympathy.
Nonetheless Busby plunged on. “Patrick’s point,” he said, “and I thought it was a good one, was that justice must not only be done, but must be seen to be done.”
“Good point,” Clark said. “But I think we had all grasped it even before Graham went public with it. Now we have to move on.”
“I’m glad you agree it’s a good point,” Busby said. “That’s why I keep saying it’s the symbolism, not the substance, that counts in this issue. You see, Sam, fellows, what I’m proposing doesn’t really give the Chief Justice any power to make history. That’s because of the two-thirds requirement—”
Tonelessly, Clark said, “Senator . . .”
But Busby kept talking, making his vital point once more. Around the gleaming conference table, blurry faces turned away. Though he could not make out their features, he knew from experience that the other senators were avoiding his eyes and looking at each other with expressions of desperation—sure signs that they were almost ready to give in. All he had to do was make the point one more time, drive it home; they’d come around. He knew this was
the case because he had made it happen so often in the past. He said, “What I’m suggesting is very simple, that we do what the Constitution clearly tells us to do and empower the Chief Justice to cast the deciding yea or nay in case of a tie vote, and that we accept his rulings on questions of law as if handed down by a judge presiding at—”
Amzi Whipple said, “Mr. Chairman, I move that this meeting be adjourned until one o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
Every other voice except Busby’s said, “Second.”
“Moved and seconded,” Clark said, “and without objection this committee is adjourned until one o’clock tomorrow afternoon in this room.”
The other senators rose to their feet and left wordlessly, without lingering—some of them, as Busby noticed, quite hurriedly. This was a good sign. Clark could hardly flee like the others since the meeting was taking place in his office. Instead, he headed for his bathroom, which was located in a narrow hallway between the conference room and the room where his desk was. Busby followed him.
“Buzzer,” Clark said, “we’re alone now, so I’m going to speak plainly.”
“Sam, you always do. I admire that in you. You’re my model in that regard.”
“Buzzer, shut up and listen. We all understood what you said the first time you said it. Don’t—don’t—say it again, tomorrow or any other time. If you agree to that, the committee will vote on your proposal, we’ll take it to the floor even if we have to do it as a minority report, and you can tell the whole Senate your reasons for wanting to place the fate of the nation in the hands of Archimedes Hammett. But this committee understands what you’ve told us. You don’t have to tell us again.”
“I hope so, Sam, because—”
Clark said, “Buzzer, listen to me. I not only understand what you’re saying, I’ve also got a pretty good idea of what you’re trying to make happen. Don’t push it.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that, Sam,” Busby said. “If you mean I support and admire and trust Archimedes Hammett, you’re absolutely right.”
“Nobody doubts your enthusiasm on that score, Senator. That’s the problem.”
Shocked, Busby said, “Sam, this is the Constitution we’re talking about!”
“Is it?” Clark said.
“Darn right!” Busby said, drawing closer, chin out. What he wanted to say was: If this were some political and moral tightrope walker of a Chief Justice instead of the courageous idealist we all know Hammett to be, you fellows wouldn’t have a problem about this. You fear men of principle. But he knew better than to deliver such home truths. Calling a hypocrite a hypocrite was a good way to lose everything. So what he actually said was “I’m not going to give up on this, Sam.”
“I know that, we all do,” Clark said. “All I’m asking you to do is shut up about it.”
“And if I do, you’ll help me get my rule to the floor?”
Clark nodded, and before Busby could utter another word, he turned on his heel and closed the bathroom door behind him.
This was unsenatorial behavior, most untypical of Sam Clark. Had he guessed or gotten wind of what Busby and Horace had discussed down in the Caribbean? No, that was impossible. Only a Shelleyan could have told him, and that simply could not happen.
Through the locked door, Busby could hear Clark urinating. This homely reminder that Sam Clark was only human seemed to be a sign sent to reassure him. He could win this one. He knew he could; the reactionaries were already on the run.
Back in his office, Busby made a call to a Shelleyan who relayed news of what he had done to Horace, and more important, to Archimedes Hammett. It would have been dangerous for Busby to discuss this matter directly with Horace, and improper for him to discuss it with the Chief Justice. On the other hand, he could hardly let his fellow Shelleyans read about it in the newspapers.
3
Late Friday night, after five days of intensive work made possible by Busby’s nearly total silence during its deliberations, the Committee on the Impeachment agreed on the rules for Lockwood’s trial. As was inevitable in the circumstances, the members deadlocked on party lines, three votes to three, on Busby’s proposal to give the Chief Justice the power to break a tie vote and hand down irreversible rulings on questions of law. True to his word as always, Sam Clark broke the tie in Busby’s favor, and the Busby Proposal, as it immediately came to be called, was sent to the floor of the Senate for debate and vote the following morning. Clark had acted as he did because he had been certain that it could not pass: Amzi Whipple’s side of the Senate would vote against it in a body, and since they had exactly half the votes, the measure could not achieve a majority.
That same Friday night, on his way home after teaching the weekly Bible class for Senate pages, Senator Wilbur E. Garrett of Missouri, the leader of the evangelical wing of Mallory’s party and an arch-detractor of Hammett’s in any and all situations, was assaulted by a carjacker while sitting at the wheel of his brand-new Cadillac Eldorado at a stoplight at Reno Road and Yuma Street, Northwest. Incidents of this kind were increasingly common in the supposedly safe neighborhoods of upper-income Washington, so the attack on Garrett was mentioned only in passing by the media. It might not have been mentioned at all if Garrett’s assailant had not chosen to wear a Franklin Mallory mask. The carjacker shattered the window on the driver’s side with a hammer. smashed Garrett’s left shoulder joint with a second hammer-blow, dragged his unconscious body from the car, and drove off. Because of the mask (for a fatal moment, the senator had thought that the face in the window actually belonged to his old friend Mallory), and because the assailant wore surgical gloves and a black athletic costume with a high turtleneck, Garrett was not able to tell the police whether he was white, black, yellow, or brown, young or old, short or tall. A woman who lived in a house across the street recorded the incident with a video camera, and the footage was shown on local television, though not on the networks, from which it was bumped by more sensational news. The woman with the camera was the only known witness to the crime. The police investigation was cursory. Carjackers were almost never caught, and the loss of a luxury car covered by insurance was not a crime that greatly interested the police.
The following morning, while the Busby Proposal was being debated and voted on the Senate floor, Wilbur E. Garrett was still under anesthetic after three hours of surgery to replace his shattered shoulder joint with an artificial one. This meant that Lockwood’s party enjoyed a temporary one-vote majority, and the measure passed by a single vote after being amended to limit the Chief Justice’s privilege to cast the tie-breaking vote to constitutional questions only. Because the term “constitutional question” was not defined, ambiguity persisted as to Hammett’s actual powers, but Busby told Morgan Pike that he was satisfied with the outcome. “The authority of the Constitution has been reaffirmed,’ he said. “The symbolism is extremely important.’’
“Are you saying that the issue is merely symbolic?” Morgan Pike asked.
“In the great crises of American democracy,’ replied Busby, who was as pithy on camera as he was prolix in camera, “symbol is substance.”
Minutes after this interview took place, Amzi Whipple caught up with Busby on the shuttle train between the Capitol and the Senate office buildings. “That was quite a triumph for your side,” Whipple said.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Busby replied. “Everybody won.”
“The American people you keep talking about may wonder just what they won when Archimedes Hammett casts his first tie-breaker.”
Busby winked playfully and flung Whipple’s own words back at him. “I wouldn’t worry about the American people if I were you, Senator.”
“I don’t,” Whipple said. “Because after this is all over, the man the American people elected President, Franklin Mallory, will move into the White House as our rightful chief executive.”
Busby hesitated, then spoke his mind, but in a playful way that might be taken as more teasing. “In the words of that
great American Amzi Whipple, ‘Over my dead body.’ No fascists in the White House.”
“You actually think you can save Lockwood?”
“Who said anything about that? All I’m saying is, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
“Then what are you and your faithful troops planning to do, Baxter—sober up Tucker Attenborough and make him President?”
Elated by his victory on the Senate floor, still in a state of self-congratulation after the ace he had just served to Morgan Pike, Busby gave Whipple a broad wink. “Good heavens, Amzi,” he said. “Even you can’t imagine we aren’t thinking in terms of an alternative to that.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth Busby realized he had said too much. Evidently Whipple thought so, too, because his eyes, usually so fatherly and whimsical, suddenly became cold and suspicious. He started to ask another question, but before he could form the sentence, Busby leaped off the train and hurried toward the elevator.
4
That evening, in the library of Mallory’s Kalorama house, Amzi Whipple said, “Something mighty funny is going on, Franklin. It looks like Busby and his crowd are trying to get rid of their own man.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Beats me. But think about it. Just before the impeachment hearings begin in the House, they hang a rape charge on Tucker Attenborough, after leaking the Lockwood tape. Then, right on the eve of the session in which we’re going to vote on that damn fool idea of Busby’s to give that America-hating son of a bitch Hammett the power to break ties in the Senate and make law off the top of his head, Wilbur Garrett pulls up to a red light and gets hit on the clavicle with a hammer. Result: he can’t vote, and consequently the tie Sam Clark was counting on to kill the worst idea anybody in the Senate ever had turns out to be a one-vote victory for the forces of darkness. And now Buzzer springs this one on me.”
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