(1976) The R Document

by Irving Wallace

  Except for the occasional interruption of the television newsman’s voice repeating the progressive tally, the Cabinet Room was silent. Minutes ticked away. The voting continued relentlessly to its finish. The big board reflected the votes. Aye. Nay. Nay. Nay. Aye. Nay. Aye. Nay. Nay.

  The announcer’s voice broke in quickly over the voting. The Nays have just gone ahead. This is a surprise. Ratification seems to be slipping away. Despite the pundits and pollsters, an upset seems in the making.’

  More minutes. More votes. As suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The 35th Amendment had been voted down, rejected, by the Ohio House of Representatives.

  There were audible groans, and outcries of disappointment and disgust, from those in the Cabinet Room. Unaccountably, Collins felt his heart pounding fast. He cast a sidelong glance at Karen. She was composed as she tried to suppress a smile. Collins frowned and looked away.

  Everyone was beginning to rise. Almost everyone appeared crestfallen. Puzzled, most of the guests gathered about the President.

  Shrugging, the President looked to his pollster. ‘I thought it was in the bag, Ronald. What went wrong?’

  ‘We had projected a win by a comfortable margin,’ said Steedman. ‘But our last sampling of the House members was thirty-six hours ago. Who knows what variables were not taken into account or what may have happened among the members during the last thirty-six hours?’

  The President’s aide, McKnight, was waving his arm. ‘Mr President, the announcer - he seems to have some kind of answer—’

  The President and his guests, Collins included, turned back to the set. The network newsman did, indeed, seem to have some kind of explanation.

  ‘ … and this word has just come up to us here in our booth. We haven’t been able to confirm it yet, but several legislators indicated to our floor man that there had been an intensive lobbying campaign last night and throughout this morning here in the state capital - a blitz effort by Anthony Pierce - Tony Pierce, head of DBR, that national group known as Defenders of the Bill of Rights - who only a month ago started a campaign among legislators of the most recent states to vote on the Amendment and who has just had his most resounding success in Ohio. We’re told that at the eleventh hour, Pierce met with many fence-sitters, and even backers of the Amendment, and briefed them with documentation to show how the 35th Amendment would do irreparable damage to the country, and apparently he was successful in swaying a sufficient number to help vote down the Amendment, which, an hour ago, appeared unbeatable in Ohio. Tony Pierce, as most viewers will remember, is the onetime FBI agent who turned successful author, lawyer, and civil rights advocate. His record -‘

  A bellowing voice drowned out the television audio. ‘We know his record!’ roared Director Tynan, bounding in front of the television set, shaking his fist at the screen. ‘We know all about that sonofabitch!’

  He whirled around, red-faced, staring at the others, and then fixing on the President. ‘Forgive my language, but we know that bastard Pierce too well. We know he headed a radical activist group at the University of Wisconsin. We know how he got a medal he didn’t deserve in Viet Nam. We know how he weaseled his way into the FBI, playing the war hero, even lying to our great Director, Mr Hoover, who tried to help him. We know he was negligent in his duties -freeing criminals he was supposed to detain, doctoring his reports, trying to take over, being insubordinate. That’s why I kicked him out of the Bureau. We know the names of four radical groups his wife belongs to. We know one of his kids has had children out of wedlock. We know at least nine subversive organizations his law firm has represented. We know Tony Pierce inside out, and we knew he was bad medicine before all this started. We should have demolished him the minute he headed up DBR - but we didn’t because we didn’t want to give a former FBI agent such negative headlines, hurt the image of the Bureau - and besides, we didn’t think anyone would take that crackpot joker seriously.’

  ‘Never mind, Vernon, that’s all water under the bridge,’ said the President, trying to calm him. ‘He’s done his damage, if indeed he was responsible. We’ll just have to see to it that it doesn’t happen again.’

  Observing the scene, Chris Collins found himself embarrassed and upset. He had been taken aback by Tynan’s initial outburst. It had been venomous, and had revealed an inquisitor’s side of the FBI Director that Collins had never seen before.

  Collins had taken Karen’s hand, as if to share his upset with her, when he saw the President signaling him.

  Releasing his wife’s hand, Collins pushed between McKnight and the Senate Majority Leader to reach the President, who had already been joined by Tynan.

  For a moment, the President stood rubbing his jaw

  thoughtfully. ‘Well, gentlemen, we won one by an upset, and we lost one by an upset. It shows you how volatile the country is. But we can’t let it happen again. There’s only one state left. All our marbles are on California. In a month.’ He paused. ‘I haven’t been paying much attention to the polls out on the Coast. I was sure we’d lock it up tonight. Now we’d better pay attention. Ronald tells me we’re ahead in the Golden State Poll. That’s not enough for me. California is something to worry about. You know how unpredictable they are out there. It’s our last shot, and I’m staking everything on it. I want you, Vernon, and you, Chris, to give it everything you’ve got. We’ve got to win.’ Both Collins and Tynan nodded vigorously. The President clipped a fresh cigar, and waited while Tynan lit it for him. Puffing, the President turned to Collins. 1 have one idea, to begin with, Chris. You come from California, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’m from the Bay area, but I also practiced in Los Angeles.’

  ‘Perfect. I think it might be worthwhile for you to get back out there in the next week or two. You can do some subtle but effective lobbying for the cause.’

  ‘Well,’ said Collins, troubled, I don’t know if I’d have that much influence. The only really popular native son -he’s practically an idol in California - is Chief Justice Maynard.’

  The President shook his head. ‘No, Maynard wouldn’t do. I have it from good sources he’s not on our side. Besides, he’s just too impractical. Even if this weren’t so, it’s not at all likely a Justice would speak out on a political issue like this.’

  ‘We can thank God for that,’ interjected Tynan. ‘I wouldn’t trust him on a real law issue like the 35th.’

  ‘We don’t need Maynard,’ the President continued, addressing Collins. ‘But we may need you. After all, Chris, don’t underestimate yourself. You are the Attorney General. That counts for something. The right people will listen. Yes, I like the idea of sending you to California. We can arrange a reason for your having to be there. Let me think about it.’ Uncomfortable as he was with the idea, Collins knew

  that he dared not resist. ‘I’ll do whatever you say. If you feel it’s important -‘

  ‘Damn important,’ Tynan broke in. ‘Nothing more important. I’ve said it a hundred times and I’ll say it again. This is the most crucial piece of legislation ever voted on by the states. Without it, we’ll have - we’ll have no country at all.’

  ‘Vernon’s right,’ the President said. ‘We should have someone in California. Either you or - perhaps someone of stature who’s been in the Administration longer.’ He paused, then added with emphasis, ‘We’re not going to lose this one. I won’t allow it. I won’t let things go on the way they have. This morning I walked over to the East Room to look at the work being done on it. What a shambles, and what a disgrace. When the President’s house isn’t safe, we know we’re in trouble. And it could happen again. You know those trained German shepherds and Doberman pinschers they made me put out there on the grounds? Security, they said. Last night we lost our sixth one to snipers. Now I’m being advised to allow an electrified barrier to be installed, to surround the White House, to isolate me, to make me a prisoner in my own home, the way most decent citizens of this country have been forced to confine themselves behind dead bolt
s and alarms. Well, gentlemen, I won’t have it. We’re going to bring civilization back to this land of ours with the 35th Amendment. And we’re going to do it by winning in California.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Tynan.

  At that moment, Miss Ledger appeared. ‘Pardon me, Mr President…. Mr Collins, your bodyguard is at the door. He has to speak to you. He says it is urgent’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Collins. He turned back to the President. ‘I’m prepared to do whatever I can do.’

  ‘I’ll let you know next week. You’d better go now and attend to your business.’

  After bringing Karen forward to join him in thanking the President for the evening, Collins said a perfunctory good night to those in his immediate area.

  Preceding Karen, Collins hastily crossed the Cabinet Room to the doorway where the sturdy figure of his bodyguard, Agent Mike Hogan, was waiting.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Collins asked as he reached his bodyguard.

  ‘It’s Colonel Noah Baxter, sir,’ said Hogan in an undertone. ‘He’s come out of his coma. He’s conscious. But he’s dying.’

  ‘Dammit, that’s terrible. Are you sure?’

  ‘Definitely. No question. The word came from Mrs Baxter herself to the Justice switchboard, and it was relayed to me in the car. Colonel Baxter’s first words, when he regained consciousness, were that he wanted to see you. He has to see you. It’s about something urgent. He wants to tell you something important. Mrs Baxter begged me to get you to his bedside before it’s too late.’

  Collins grabbed Karen’s arm and headed into the corridor. ‘Okay, let’s get over to Bethesda. We’d better not waste a minute.’ He looked down at Karen. ‘I wonder what the devil this is all about.’

  *

  The Cadillac limousine had gone at breakneck speed north on Wisconsin Avenue, crossed the Maryland line, passed the golf course of the Chevy Chase Country Club, slowed through the business district of Bethesda, taken the curved road into the hospital facility, and braked to a halt before the main entrance of the white tower that was the main building in the Bethesda National Naval Medical Center complex.

  Bidding Karen to remain behind in the car with Hogan and Pagano, the driver, Chris Collins hastened into the building. As he entered, a Navy officer wearing two bars on his open-collared shirt quickly intercepted him.

  ‘Attorney General Collins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Follow me, sir. They’re on the fifth floor.’

  As they ascended in the elevator, Collins inquired, ‘How is Colonel Baxter?’

  ‘When I came down twenty minutes ago, he was hanging on by just a thread, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘I hope I’m in time. Who’s with him?’

  ‘The Mrs, of course. And their little grandson, Rick Baxter. He’s staying with his grandparents while his parents are in Kenya on some Government business. We tried to reach them tonight. No luck. Then, there are two doctors and a nurse in attendance. And - I almost forgot - Father Dubinski is standing by. He’s from Holy Trinity Church in Georgetown, the church the Kennedys used to attend… . Here we are, sir.’

  As they proceeded quickly up the corridor, they passed several uniformed medical officers in consultation. To Collins, Bethesda seemed more a military installation than a hospital.

  When they reached a private hospital room with an open door, Collins’ guide gestured toward it. ‘In here, sir. The Colonel has two adjoining rooms, and this one is used as a sitting room. He’s in the other.’

  Entering the temporary sitting room, which was empty, Collins heard a soft sobbing off to one side, turned, and saw that the door to the next room was ajar. He could see only a portion of the bed, but then he made out a tableau in a dim corner of the next room. There was gray-haired, dumpy Hannah Baxter, for whom he had great respect, seated in a chair, a handkerchief to her eyes, weeping inconsolably. There was the boy, the grandson, Rick - he was twelve, Collins recalled - clutching her arm, looking pale, confused, tearful. Standing over them was the black-garbed priest.

  ‘Please wait, sir,’ said the officer who had escorted Collins. ‘I’ll let them know you’re here.’

  He disappeared into the next room, closing the door behind him.

  Collins found a cigarette, brought his lighter to it, and paced nervously around the small, cheerless room. Again, for the dozenth time, he wondered what was so urgent that Colonel Baxter had to tell him on what was to be his last night on earth. Although Collins knew the Colonel and his wife fairly well from occasional social invitations, he had never been close to them, and most of his relationship with the Colonel had definitely been of a business nature. What

  could the Colonel have to say to him in these fading moments?

  Presently the door to the adjoining room opened, and Collins automatically put out his cigarette and stood stock still. The officer, who did not look at him again, emerged, followed by a nurse and little Rick. They went past Collins without recognition and out into the corridor. Seconds later, the doorway from the next room was filled by a black-robed figure. This obviously was Father Dubinski, of Holy Trinity Church.

  As the priest carefully but firmly shut the door behind him, he gave Collins a silent nod, then crossed to close the corridor door. Collins watched him: a short, stocky, quiet man, the clergyman, with jet black hair, surprisingly light blue eyes, sunken cheeks, a composed mouth; a man perhaps in his mid-forties.

  ‘Mr Collins? I’m Father Dubinski.’ He had reached Collins, and for a moment he stared down at the floor.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Collins. ‘I was at the White House when I got the message from Hannah - from Mrs Baxter -that the Colonel was dying, that he urgently wanted to see me, that he had something important to tell me. I came as quickly as I could. Is he conscious? Can I see him now?’

  The priest cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid not. I’m sorry to say it’s too late. Colonel Baxter died no more than ten minutes ago.’ He paused. ‘May his soul rest in peace for all eternity.’

  Collins did not know what to say. “That - that’s tragic,’ he said, finally. ‘He died ten minutes ago? I can’t believe it.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s true. Noah Baxter was a fine man. I know how you feel, because I know how I feel. But, once again, God’s will be done.’

  ‘Yes,’ Collins said.

  He did not know whether it was proper, in this immediate period of mourning, to try to find out why the Colonel had summoned him here. But proper or not, he knew he must inquire.

  ‘Uh, Father, was the Colonel lucid before he died? Was he able to speak at all?’

  ‘He spoke a little.’

  ‘Did he tell anyone - you or Mrs Baxter - why he wanted to see me?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. He simply informed his wife that it was urgent that he see you, speak to you.’

  ‘And he said nothing more?’

  The priest fidgeted with his rosary. ‘Well, after that, he did speak briefly to me. I advised him that I was present to administer the Sacraments of Reconciliation, Anointing of the Sick, and Viaticum if he so wished. He requested that I give him these sacraments, and I was able to do so in time for him to be reconciled with God Almighty as a good Catholic. Almost immediately after, he closed his eyes forever.’

  Collins was determined to cut through all this spiritual talk. ‘Father, are you saying he made a deathbed confession?’

  ‘Yes, I heard his final confession.’

  ‘Well, was there anything in this confession that could give me a clue - a clue to what he was trying to tell me that was so urgent?’

  Father Dubinski pursed his lips. ‘Mr Collins,’ he replied gently, ‘confession is a confidential matter.’

  ‘But if he told you something he wanted me to know - ?’

  ‘I cannot permit myself to determine what might be for you and what was meant for the Lord. I repeat, Colonel Baxter’s confession must remain confidential. I can reveal no part of it. Now I’d better return to Mrs Baxter.’ He paused.
‘Again, I’m sorry, Mr Collins.’

  The priest started for the adjoining room, and Collins walked slowly out into the corridor.

  Minutes later, he had left the hospital, and settled into the back seat of the limousine beside an anxious Karen. He ordered the driver to take them home to McLean.

  As the car began to move, he turned his head to Karen.

  ‘I was too late. He was dead when I arrived.’

  ‘That’s terrible. Do you - Did you find out what he wanted to tell you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t the faintest idea.’ He slumped deeper into the seat, worried and wondering. ‘But I intend to find

  out - somehow. Why would he waste his last words on me? I wasn’t even a close friend.’

  ‘But you are the Attorney General. You succeeded him as Attorney General.’

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ Collins said, half to himself. ‘It must have had something to do with that. With my job. Or with the country’s affairs. One or the other. Something that might be important to all of us. He said it was important when he sent for me. I can’t let this remain unresolved. I don’t know how yet, but I’ve got to learn what he wanted to tell me.’

  He felt Karen’s hand tighten on his arm. ‘Don’t, Chris, don’t get involved further. I can’t explain it. But it scares me. I don’t like living scared.’

  He stared out the window into the night. ‘And I don’t like living with mysteries,’ he said.

  They buried Colonel Noah Baxter, former Attorney General of the United States, on a wet May morning in one of the few available plots left in the 420-acre Arlington National Cemetery across the Potomac from Washington, D.C. Relatives, friends, members of the Cabinet, President Wadsworth himself, were at the graveside as Father Dubinski intoned the final prayer.

  It was over now, and the living, filled with sadness and relief, wended their way back to the business of life.

  Director Vernon T. Tynan, his shorter sinewy assistant, Associate Deputy Director Harry Adcock, and Attorney General Christopher Collins, who had come to the rites together, were now leaving together. They walked silently in step down Sheridan Avenue, past the gravestones of Pierre Charles L’Enfant and General Philip H. Sheridan, past the eternal flame burning low over the grave of President John F. Kennedy, going steadily toward Tynan’s official bulletproof limousine.