St. Clair had never seen Alfonso Olmedo C. before. Of course he knew who he was from the newspapers, and this was the difference between Olmedo and, say, Busby: one knew the Busbys of this world but only knew about the Olmedos. The man’s suit looked as if it had been tailored in Havana for a drug baron. He wore an extraordinary tie that seemed to have been snipped from a bad abstract painting, and when he waved his hands, as he did more or less continually, masses of gold flashed and precious jewels twinkled. Smiling in amusement, St. Clair thought, He looks like someone who used to be married to Esther Williams. Olmedo seemed to divine St. Clair’s line of thought. He did not exactly smile back, but the line of his mouth changed and he nodded almost imperceptibly. Then he asked St. Clair to state his name and address. St. Clair did so, taking pains to pronounce the surname slowly and distinctly, in the same confident voice as before. Good name, good address.
Olmedo said, “Did you graduate from a university, Mr. St. Clair?” Clearly he was a quick study; he pronounced the name right on the first try.
“Yes, sir,” St. Clair replied. “I graduated from Yale University, class of 1971.”
“Do you recognize any other alumni of Yale here in this chamber, Mr. St. Clair?”
“Several, yes, the Chief Justice among them.”
“Did you know the Chief Justice personally at Yale?”
“Yes, I did. We were in the same residential college.”
“That would be Calhoun College?”
“That’s correct. He was two years senior to me.”
“And in undergraduate days in Calhoun College at Yale University did you also know Mr. Julian Hubbard, the former chief of staff to President Lockwood?”
What was this, an interview for the alumni newsletter? St. Clair said, “As a matter of fact I did know Julian Hubbard. He was one year my senior.” He looked upward at Hammett and detected an answering flicker of puzzlement in his stern and guarded face.
Olmedo was saying, “I will ask you this, Mr. St. Clair: Have you kept in touch with Chief Justice Hammett and with Mr. Julian Hubbard on a regular basis in the years since graduation?”
“We chat from time to time.”
“On the telephone?”
Curiouser and curiouser. But this could not possibly be leading where it seemed to be leading. St. Clair was feeling quite relaxed. “Usually on the telephone, yes. We live in different towns.”
“And you also keep in touch with certain other alumni by long-distance telephone?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I will read you a list of names, Mr. St. Clair. Will you be so kind as to answer yes if you have been in telephone contact with the person named at any time in the last six months, either personally or by requesting a third party to pass a message. Please answer no if you have not.”
Abruptly, even a little roughly, Hammett intervened. “ ‘A list of names,’ Mr. Olmedo? What is this? May the Chief Justice see it?”
“Of course you may, Mr. Chief Justice. I was on the point of asking that it be entered into evidence.” Olmedo handed the list to a clerk, who took it to Hammett, who studied it for a long moment. When he looked up he said, “Let the record show that there are forty-seven names on the list. Does that accord with your count, Mr. Olmedo?”
“Yes, Mr. Chief Justice.”
“Good,” Hammett said. “Because if we are going to have a list of names I think it is important to establish at the outset exactly how many names are on it and stick to that number.”
An appreciative giggle ran through the press and visitors’ galleries, where many recognized that the Chief Justice’s remark was a devastating reference to the infamous “list of Communists in the State Department” that had been the Ur-document of the late Senator Joseph R. McCarthy’s notorious Communist witch-hunt in the 1950s.
Hammett gaveled them into silence. “If there is any further display, the sergeant at arms will clear the galleries,” he said. “Mr. Olmedo, what purpose do you hope to serve by reading these names aloud?”
“I have stated the purpose in my last question to the witness, Mr. Chief Justice.”
“Its usefulness remains murky to me, and I imagine to the Senate as well.”
“I hope to make the purpose crystal-clear in a matter of minutes, Mr. Chief Justice.”
“There is a potential for embarrassment in this to a great many distinguished Americans who have no conceivable connection to this proceeding. The Chief Justice cannot permit this.”
Olmedo said, “Mr. Chief Justice, I don’t see how you can prevent it under the rules. This testimony is vital to the President’s case.”
“Every innovation you put forward seems to be vital to the President’s case, Mr. Olmedo. You may not read this list aloud in this chamber. Nor may you release it to the news media or disclose it outside this chamber under the penalties for contempt.”
“May I enter it into evidence?”
“Under seal, yes. Proceed.”
“With great respect, Mr. Chief Justice, this ruling does not appear to be consistent with your earlier ruling that every word uttered in the proceeding must be public.”
“The distinction is evident. Do not quibble with me, sir. Proceed.” For the first time in the whole course of the trial, there was emotion in Hammett’s voice and in the expression on his face. The cameras cut away from him and panned to the many sympathetic faces in the gallery. Hammett’s supporters understood that he was defending an American principle, that he was preventing injustice and slander; they were proud of him.
Olmedo seemed unperturbed, even pleased by the ruling. “Very well, Mr. Chief Justice,” he said. “The names on the list have been declared sacrosanct and so they will remain. I will proceed in another way. Mr. St. Clair, were you a passenger on Universal Airlines Flight 3215, leaving La Guardia at seven o’clock on the morning of March eleventh of this year, arriving at Washington National Airport at seven fifty-nine?”
The question was like a blow to St. Clair’s stomach. It knocked the wind out of him. How could anyone possibly know this fact? He waited for Hammett to rescue him again. Nothing happened. Olmedo said, “Shall I repeat the question, sir?”
“I’m afraid I don’t recall,” St. Clair said.
“I see. How many times have you flown from La Guardia to Washington in the last year?”
“I don’t recall.”
“How many times have you been in Washington in your life?”
“Really, I have not kept track.”
“Once, twice, a hundred times?”
“Three or four times.”
“So it is not a routine event for you to visit Washington?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Mr. St. Clair, but we might have arrived at that answer with less difficulty, don’t you think?”
“Yes or no?” St. Clair said. “Yes, I certainly do think so.”
Olmedo’s smooth and friendly voice grew less so. “Mr. St. Clair, it is getting late. We have no wish to detain you longer than necessary. You have agreed and subsequently sworn to tell the whole truth here. Once you begin, time will fly. Please answer the original question.”
Hammett said, “What was the point of that badgering remark, Mr. Olmedo?”
“To encourage, Mr. Chief Justice. Will you instruct the witness to answer?”
In a kindly voice Hammett said, “Answer as best you can, Mr. St. Clair.”
St. Clair felt absurdly grateful for this tiny sign of sympathy from the Chief Justice. Maybe everything was going to be all right after all. He said, “Yes, I suppose I was on that plane. I did come down here about that date.”
“We are not dealing in approximations, Mr. St. Clair,” Olmedo said. “On that date and no other, on that plane and no other, sir. I have here a passenger list showing your name and that flight, that time, that date.”
A passenger list? Blood drained from St. Clair’s face. This was the Gestapo at work. They had been spying on him. But he remained outwardly calm, jaunty
. He said, “In that case I will consider the time and date as established.”
“With the indulgence of the Senate, I will try to get us to the point a little more quickly from now on,” Olmedo said. “On the day before you flew down to Washington, at eight forty-three in the evening, you received a call from a person whose name I have written on this piece of paper. Is that correct? Let the record show I am handing the paper to the witness.”
St. Clair put on his reading glasses and glanced at the paper. Again he blanched, or thought that he felt himself doing so. The name was that of Five-Three, the senior man in the Horace Hubbard—Baxter Busby cell of the Shelley Society. And Five-Three had been the Shelleyan who called that night.
“Is that correct, Mr. St. Clair? Yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“And in that call did he ask you to perform a service, and if so, what was the service?”
“He asked me to go to Washington the following morning.”
“On that particular flight, on that particular day?”
“Yes.”
“For what purpose?”
“He asked me to wait on the corner of Wisconsin Avenue and Newark Street at a certain time, I believe eight-twenty in the morning, where I would be contacted.”
“Contacted by whom?”
“He did not say.”
“Did he ask you to dress in any particular way?”
“He asked me to wear running togs. Harvard sweats.”
“Do you usually wear Harvard sweats?”
“No, I bought some fake ones at the airport.”
“You saw nothing odd about this request?”
“Yes, of course I did. But I thought it was funny.”
“ ‘Funny’ as in ‘comical’?”
“Right. I assumed it must be some sort of prank.”
“In the nature of a fraternity prank?”
“Something like that.”
“Did you carry out the caller’s instructions?”
“Yes, to the letter.” St. Clair was growing more and more uncomfortable. From his seat at the witness table he could see about half the senators. Many of them were battling faint smiles or shooting amused glances at one another. The story was ridiculous, he knew that, but after all—
Olmedo said. “And did anything occur at eight-twenty on the corner of Wisconsin Avenue and Newark Street?”
“Yes,” St. Clair replied. “I was given a package.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know. It was a delivery person, somebody on a bicycle.”
“This person was also wearing Harvard sweats?”
“No. Bicycling clothes. Big yellow goggles.”
“Male or female?”
“I didn’t notice. The person came and went in a moment.”
“How large was the package?”
“It was an ordinary manila envelope, nine by twelve inches or whatever.”
“You opened it?”
“Yes.”
“What was inside?”
St. Clair really had thought he would have been rescued by Hammett before now. He paused in hopes of an interruption, which did not come—paused rather too long, he realized too late. By his hesitation he had made himself look as if he had something to hide. He spoke up bravely: “The envelope contained a picture of a man, a plastic bag with one of those little tapes for a tape recorder inside it, and a sheet of instructions.”
“Instructing you to do what?”
“To go to a bodybuilding place called ye gods on Wisconsin Avenue, wait outside until the man in the picture came out, then bump into him as if by accident and hook the plastic bag with the tape inside it on his coat.”
“Hook the plastic bag on his coat, Mr. St. Clair? Hook it by what means?”
“It had a string on it, a piece of fish line, I think, with a fishing fly at the other end.”
“And did you do as you were instructed and hook the plastic bag onto the man’s coat with the fishhook attached to the length of fish line?”
“Yes.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I apologized to the fellow for bumping into him and ran on.”
“You got a good look at him?”
“Good enough to know I had the right man, based on the photograph.”
“Did you know the man in the photograph, the one you hooked the plastic bag to?”
“Know him personally? No.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No.”
Olmedo said, “I will hand you a photograph, Mr. St. Clair, and ask you if this is a picture of the man in question?”
St. Clair put on his reading glasses again and examined the photograph. “It very well could be him,” he said. “It was a brief encounter.”
“But a memorable one, I should think.”
Hammett said, “Mister Olmedo—”
Olmedo kept right on talking; he had a much stronger voice than Hammett. “Can you be more definite? Is this the man?”
“Yes. I believe so. To the best of my recollect—”
“Thank you. Let the photograph be entered into evidence and let the record show that the witness has identified the man on whom he hooked the plastic bag with the tape recording inside it as Mr. Ross Macalaster, the syndicated newspaper columnist.”
Diligent newspaper reader that he was, St. Clair suddenly understood what this meant. He was overwhelmed. As on the train, his painfully thin limbs drew up and then collapsed in an acting-class rendition of fright, realization, denial, and despair. He shot a glance at Hammett, who was stony-faced. Was no one going to object, intervene, stand up for what was right, put an end to this humiliation? He glanced around the chamber. There were no smiles to be seen now.
“I am coming to the end, Mr. St. Clair,” Olmedo said in a tone of sympathy. “Please bear with me. After you had done what you came to do, what did you do next?”
“I went back to the airport, changed clothes, flew to La Guardia, and went to work.”
“No. Before that. In Washington.”
“I made a telephone call.”
“To whom, Mr. St. Clair?”
St. Clair hesitated. “Am I permitted to say?”
“Is the name one of the forty-seven on the list?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is a material fact in this impeachment trial and concealing it from the Senate would be unlawful. Please answer the question.”
Hammett sat impassively on the podium.
“The person I called was Julian Hubbard,” St. Clair said.
“Why?”
“It was part of the instructions.”
“And what did you say to Julian Hubbard in that phone call?”
“I said, ‘?I just delivered the Mickey Finn.’ ”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say to you?”
“He said nothing, just hung up the phone.”
“Did you try again?”
“No. I only had one quarter with me.”
“You didn’t have a cellular phone on your person?”
“Yes, but the instructions said not to use it under any circumstances.”
“I see,” Olmedo said. “Mr. St. Clair, what is the meaning of that phrase, ‘I just delivered the Mickey Finn’?”
“I have no idea,” St. Clair said. “It was written down on the instruction sheet.”
“So naturally you uttered it without thought or hesitation,” Olmedo said. “You must trust your friends.”
“I have never had any reason not to.”
“I see. Are you a fly fisherman, Mr. St. Clair?”
“No,” St. Clair said, hardly noting the question.
“I come now to the question that must be in many minds in this chamber. Why did you do this bizarre and inexplicable thing?”
“Because I … Frankly, I don’t know that I can explain in terms that would be understood by an outsider.”
“But you must try, sir, because
we outsiders must also try to understand,” Olmedo said. “I will ask you this: Was it because you do trust your special friends? And when you were asked by a friend in that telephone call to come down to Washington, meet a total stranger on a bicycle on a street corner, hook a plastic bag onto another total stranger”—Hammett stirred on the bench; Olmedo raised his voice—”did you do all this because you were asked to do it ‘in the name of the Poet’?”
St. Clair’s heart leaped in his chest. He knew that he must not look at Hammett or at Busby, knew that they could not help him, knew that his whole life turned on the answer to this question that he could not possibly answer. He thought, My God, if these fascists know enough to know this, what else do they know? “Yes,” he replied in a voice that trembled ever so slightly, “that was the reason.”
Olmedo nodded encouragingly as if he were some sort of priest who could grant absolution. He said, “Is that phrase, ‘in the name of the Poet,’ a password or code word or recognition signal used by the members of some sort of secret or fraternal organization to which you belong?”
St. Clair crossed his spindly legs. “Yes, it is.”
“Of whom exactly forty-seven members, no fewer and no more, are listed on the paper the Chief Justice has sealed to keep it from the eyes of outsiders?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell this honorable Senate the name of that organization?” St. Clair could not get the words out. Olmedo said, “Shall I ask the Chief Justice to remind you, sir, that the oath you have just taken here supersedes all other oaths whatsoever?”
St. Clair looked at Hammett, who gave him no sign. “The name of the organization,” St. Clair said, “is the Shelley Society.”
“Named for the English poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, who lived from 1792 to 1822, was drowned while sailing in a storm off Leghorn, and was cremated on the beach at Viareggio by his friend Edward John Trelawny?”
St. Clair’s face twitched; he could not control it. They knew everything! “Yes.”
Olmedo saw St. Clair’s panic, wondered what caused it. “Mr. St. Clair,” he said, “I will ask you this: Is Mr. Julian Hubbard a member of the Shelley Society? Yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“Is his half brother, Mr. Horace Hubbard, also a member of that organization?”
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