Inside the bar of the Senate the chair reserved for Lockwood stood empty. After eulogizing Willy Graves, the President had retreated to Camp David, leaving his lawyers to appear for him. Chief Justice Hammett, grave and still, instructed the sergeant at arms to call the President to the floor. As before, the sergeant at arms threw open the doors and bellowed, “Bedford Forrest Lockwood, President of the United States, Bedford Forrest Lockwood, President of the United States, appear and answer the articles of impeachment exhibited against you by the House of Representatives of the United States.” Once again there was no answer.
Hammett looked down from the podium at Olmedo and Blackstone, who were already seated at the defendant’s table.
“Mr. Olmedo,” he asked, “does the President of the United States intend to appear before the Senate for trial on the articles of impeachment exhibited by the House of Representatives?”
“Mr. Chief Justice,” Olmedo answered, “my brother Mr. Blackstone and I are here as the President’s counsel to enter appearance for him.”
“Then he will not appear in person.”
“Not at this time, Mr. Chief Justice.”
“Is it possible he will present himself in person at some future time?”
“That is a matter for the President to decide according to circumstances, Mr. Chief Justice.”
Olmedo spoke with a gravity that matched Hammett’s, but he knew that all this was for the cameras. The Senate had been informed in advance that Lockwood would not appear in person. No one had supposed that he would be physically present, like a prisoner in the dock. However, Hammett’s face took on a look of displeasure. On the rostrum before him, his folded hands rested on the Greek Bible he had brought with him again today; this worn volume was the only object on the polished desktop before him apart from the presiding officer’s gavel. “Very well,” he said at last. “Is the President prepared to present his reply to the articles of impeachment?”
“He is, sir.”
Norman Carlisle Blackstone put on his pince-nez, and in a loud uninflected voice read out Lockwood’s answers. To the surprise of many who knew Blackstone, these were brief, one-sentence replies. To the first article, the President denied that he had ordered the assassination of Ibn Awad or authorized the Foreign Intelligence Service to aid or abet it. “His denial on all points of this article is categorical,” Blackstone read, “and any action that may have been taken by any officer of the United States contributing to the death of the said Ibn Awad was taken without the authorization or approval of the President.”
This drew a gasp and a ripple of whispers from the galleries. These were small noises, but Hammett instantaneously gaveled them into silence. “If there is any further demonstration,” he said, “the sergeant at arms will clear the galleries. Continue, Mr. Blackstone.”
On the article relating to the theft of the election, Lockwood denied knowledge of fraud. “As he believed himself at the moment he took the presidential oath to be the duly elected President of the United States, and as he still believes himself to be such,” Blackstone said, “he denies that he took the oath with mental reservations.”
All this consumed no more than half an hour. “If the senators have no objection,” Hammett said, “the answer of the President of the United States to the articles of impeachment will be filed.” There was no objection from the quiescent Senate.
“Managers of the House of Representatives,” Hammett said. “You will now proceed in support of the articles of impeachment.”
Blackstone, who had been bent over his papers, hand to his pince-nez, looked up in astonishment. Olmedo rose smoothly to his feet.
“Mr. Chief Justice, we understood that the purpose of this session was to present the President’s answers to the charges of impeachment. We have done that. But nothing was said about making opening arguments.”
Though he indicated his surprise that Blackstone should interrupt him in this way, Hammett was gentle in his reply, and like all his moods, this one was perfectly attuned to the camera. “Mr. Olmedo, the question of proceeding with this trial with all deliberate speed was, I thought, discussed and decided at our last meeting. The Constitution mandates speedy action, the President himself has demanded a rapid resolution of this crisis, the need of the country to resolve the question of presidential legitimacy is paramount.”
“Nevertheless we are surprised,” Olmedo said. “May I ask for a vote of the Senate on this question?”
“You may, sir. Senators, do you desire to vote on the ruling of the Chief Justice on this matter?”
There was no reply from the floor. An impassive Hammett said, “The managers of the House will proceed with their presentation.”
Bob Laval rose. His presentation of the evidence consumed the entire forty-five minutes allotted. Hammett turned to Olmedo. “Are you ready with your reply, sir?”
Rising, Olmedo looked upward at Hammett for the briefest of moments. There was no trace of expression on either man’s face. Then he turned his back on the podium and addressed the Senate. “If it please this honorable Senate,” he said, “the President’s reply to the presentation of the managers of the House of Representative is brief. He will show that the articles of impeachment are without substance or merit, that he has faithfully executed the office of President of the United States, and that he has, to the best of his ability, executed his oath to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
As Olmedo sat down, Hammett said, “Senators, the hour is early. I move that the Senate adjourn for thirty minutes and that it then reconvene and proceed to the examination of witnesses in regard to the first article of impeachment. Is there objection?”
Amzi Whipple rose. “There is, Mr. Chief Justice.”
“Then the clerk will call the roll and the senators will vote on the motion.”
The vote was tied on strict party lines like all the other ones before it, and as usual Hammett broke it in his own favor. The chamber emptied.
4
All afternoon, every time he raised his eyes to the gallery, Hammett had met the fixed stare of Tucker Attenborough, who sat directly in his line of sight like the diminutive mummy of some Yorick that had been exhumed from a peat bog, dressed in a suit and tie, and propped up in the front row as an absurdist comment on the trial. The Speaker seemed incapable of movement. His color was awful. Only his feverish eyes showed the spark of life. Never wavering, they bored into Hammett’s eyes, glittering with an unnerving mixture of bitter accusation and Olympian amusement, as if the old man were already dead and knew the secrets of his enemies’ hearts. Having grown up on his grandfather’s stories of wronged Maniátes who came back from the next world as demons and succubi to avenge themselves in horrible ways on the living, Hammett half-believed that such a thing was possible.
“A message from Senator Clark, Mr. Chief Justice,” said a female voice at Hammett’s elbow. A matronly woman handed him a note in a barely legible scrawl he took to be Clark’s; it was rare in this era of electronic mail to see another person’s handwriting. It asked him to join Clark and the other members of his committee forthwith. Clark himself stood some distance away, watching while Hammett read the note. The Chief Justice looked up, nodded, rose briskly to his feet, and strode out of the chamber. He had the strong sensation of being followed by Attenborough’s feverish eyes, but he did not look back.
The woman led him through rooms and corridors in what was evidently a shortcut to the back door of the Vice President’s office, which the Senate had put at his disposal for the duration of the impeachment trial. He was offended by its opulence—the gilt, the silk, the waxed and burnished furniture and paneling, the deep carpet—and as much as possible he had avoided using it. As he approached the door, he heard Sam Clark and the other members of his committee guffawing inside. In the circumstances this was the last sound he had expected to hear, yet it did not surprise him; white males of the type who ran for the Senate were incurably frivolous, a se
lf-perpetuating elite whose members ate too much, drank too much, told too many jokes. When he pushed open the door and entered the room in his black robe, they ceased laughing as if in response to a signal.
“We’ve just been caucusing,” Clark said. Hammett gave him a saturnine scowl. Clark continued, “We all feel that these surprises from the chair are counterproductive—”
“Surprises?” Hammett said.
“Such as this latest one to proceed to the examination of witnesses without any sort of preliminary agreement to do so.”
“How can there be a preliminary agreement between us? You are the judges in this case, Senators. I am the presiding officer. We must be independent of each other. This conversation is most improper. We should meet only in open court.”
“By God, you are upright, aren’t you?” Amzi Whipple said. “Just don’t pull any more stunts like that one.”
“The question was decided by the Senate,” Hammett said. “The Chief Justice made a proposal. You yourself objected to it, Senator Whipple. I called for a vote as provided in Rule Twenty-four. The Senate voted according to party interest. I cast the deciding vote as provided by the rules.”
“You’re damn right we voted,” Amzi Whipple said. “Had to. But you can’t just spring these things on us that way.”
“What way?” Hammett asked. He looked from one face to another in the circle of senators. “I’m sorry, Senators,” he said. “But whatever point Senator Whipple is trying to make eludes me.”
Throwing up his hands, Whipple said, “Sam, I yield. Maybe you can explain it.”
Clark said, “Mr. Chief Justice, there are no witnesses present to be examined.”
“Then you’d better summon some,” Hammett said.
“On five minutes’ notice?” Whipple bellowed. He advanced a step or two, ruddy and loud, then stumbled on the luxurious carpet. After catching his balance he pointed a finger at Hammett. A spark of static electricity flew across the space between them. Hammett recoiled. Whipple said, “Brimfire, by God!” All except Hammett laughed.
Clark’s pocket telephone rang. He took it out, clicked on, listened, clicked off, and then turned back to the others. “That was Bob Laval,” he said. “The House managers have found Jack Philindros driving around in his car and he’s agreed to come in to testify. Laval is agreeable. But it will have to be pro forma and this will have to be the only witness of the day, Mr. Chief Justice. Nobody’s ready. We just want you to understand that.”
“I understand perfectly,” Hammett said. “But I hope things will be better organized when the trial resumes on Monday afternoon.”
“I think you can count on it,” Clark said.
“Just remember, I must preside as the Constitution and the rules adopted for this trial provide.”
“Jehoshaphat!” Whipple cried. He was seething.
“Forgive me, Senator,” Hammett said, “but I was under the impression that you and your entire party voted for this motion. What’s your problem?”
“My problem is that we were mousetrapped,” Whipple said. “This makes a mockery of the Senate, of the whole damn process. And speaking for the opposition and in the spirit of that same Constitution and those same rules, I have this to say to you, Mr. Chief Justice: If there are any more of these procedural jack-in-the-boxes, there’ll be no tie votes for you to break. The two parties will combine to deal with the situation by changing the rules and hanging your skinny ass out to dry on worldwide live TV. This is still the United States Senate. We can’t have you making a mockery of it, sir.”
Hammett gave the excited old man a look of cold contempt. “No comment, Senator,” he said. “Senator Clark, my only objective is a swift resolution of the issue at hand.”
“There’s one hell of a difference between swiftness and indecent haste,” Whipple said. “You and your confederate had better remember that.”
“My confederate?” Hammett asked imperiously. “Who exactly would that be, Senator?”
Clark put a hand on Whipple’s back. “We’ll leave you now, Mr. Chief Justice,” he said.
Hammett said, “Not until Senator Whipple answers my question.”
“This meeting is adjourned,” Clark said. “This is not the moment to work out these differences in detail.”
“We’d better damn well find a moment,” Whipple said. “And soon.”
“All will be well by Monday, Amzi,” Buster Baxby said.
Whipple glared at him with unconcealed revulsion. “I’m glad you think so, Senator,” he said. “I’ll see you all on the floor.”
Clark watched him go, the others following him. “I think you realize that certain sensibilities have been engaged,” he said to Hammett.
“Or something,” Hammett said.
Clark sighed and left. Busby lingered. “What brought on that mood swing?” Hammett asked him.
Busby shrugged. The last indiscretion he would ever commit would be to mention the diskette Slim had delivered to him, but he thought that a bit of irony might not be out of place. “I think I may be the confederate Amzi had in mind,” he said. “The old fellow thinks there’s some sort of conspiracy going on between you and me.”
“A conspiracy, Senator?” Hammett stared. “With you? I hardly know you.”
“Nevertheless.” Busby’s handsome and still-boyish face crinkled in amusement, white teeth flashing through the fresh tan he had acquired on his sail through the Grenadines with Horace Hubbard.
“Paranoia, that’s what we’re seeing here,” Hammett said. “Pure paranoia. I haven’t even spoken to you, or anyone else, since this thing began. I don’t want to talk to you now. If I withdrew any farther into judicial isolation I’d have to preside over this trial from the surface of the moon.”
“I know that,” Busby said. “So do they, even Whipple. You’ve been a model of probity.”
“Then why are they so suspicious and unhappy?”
Busby’s smile had not yet faded; he intensified it slightly. “Because you’ve gotten all the media coverage.”
“I’ve done my best to avoid it. I can’t control the media.”
“They think you can.”
“Is that part of the plot, too?”
“You bet. Look at it through their eyes. You seized the high ground from the first moment, and they can’t admit the reality, which is that you’re perceived as being above politics while they’re perceived as being totally corrupted by it.”
Hammett’s lip twisted disdainfully. “Appearance is reality, except where their conspiracy theory is concerned. It’s a contagion.”
“Right,” Busby said. “Anyway, I apologize for springing this witness thing on you.”
“I assumed it was part of the conspiracy.”
Busby put a finger to his lips. “Ssshhh! Not even in jest. But there was a good reason for doing what I did.”
Squinting for a sign of encouragement before he went on, Busby stood quite close, a necessary practice on those occasions when he wished to study the face of the person he was talking to. Hammett did not utter a word or make a gesture, but something flickered beneath the aloof look on his face. This was a conspiracy, and both men knew it.
Moving even closer, Busby began to whisper, a warm stream of breath that smelled of the fresh California fruit he had had for lunch. “Can you hear me?” he asked. Hammett nodded, turning his head aside. “As you know, the rules provide for senators to write down questions for a witness—”
“But any such question must be put to the witness by the presiding officer,” Hammett said. “Rule Nineteen.”
“That’s the one.” Busby grinned. “I see you’re on top of things as usual,” he said. “Here’s my question for Jack Philindros—actually, several questions. It will be handed to you by the clerk, along with others, no doubt. I hope you’ll ask it first.”
“For what purpose?”
“In the name of the Poet.”
He handed Hammett a sheet of legal-size paper folded in quarters. Th
e Chief Justice opened it and speed-read it. A chill ran up his spine but he showed nothing of this to Busby. Instead he nodded so briefly that the human eye, Busby’s myopic ones anyway, could scarcely register the movement. “It shall be done,” he said.
A bell rang.
“Wouldn’t he enjoy all this?” Busby said.
“Who?”
Busby grinned wickedly, as Shelley might have done, like an eternal boy. “The Poet,” he said. The questions he had just handed to Hammett were based on what Horace had told him during the picnic in the Grenadines, and he felt that it was going to be a bombshell. He smiled happily at the thought as he hurried back to the chamber.
5
On the appointed minute, Hammett struck his gavel and the trial reconvened. As he hammered, he threw a glance at the gallery. Attenborough was still there, the same staring jester effigy. Philindros was already seated at the witness table. He, too, was as unnatural as a manikin. Hammett had never before seen him in the flesh, but he had always been interested in him because of his Greek name, and now he studied him carefully. He was a dark-haired, dark-eyed man with olive skin and a straight Hellenic nose that descended from joined black eyebrows. The clothes he wore were dark and inconspicuous yet vague in their origins, like himself. The object of his behavior, unsurprisingly in a spymaster, seemed to be concealment—concealment of his true personality, concealment of the contents of his mind, concealment, even, of his real voice. Hammett assumed he must have another, more audible one in addition to the undertone in which he was testifying. Maybe, Hammett thought, he spoke in a natural pitch only when torturing an enemy agent. There was something tribal about Philindros, something primal, something deeply crafty and unpredictable, that Hammett found himself admiring. He could imagine this man’s ancestors plotting revenge, whispering against their enemies in some ruined house. He was contained, Spartan. Just possibly he was a Maniáte like Hammett himself. For the second time that afternoon the Chief Justice longed vaguely for Gika Mavromikháli; given a single genealogical clue, the old man would have been able to deduce the entire list of martyrs, heroes, and enemies that constituted Philindros’s ancestry.
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