Irving Wallace - The Man

“I won’t let you commit suicide, Dilman. You’ve taken leave of your senses. There is a law-the New Succession Act-that prevents you from removing any Cabinet officer without the consent of the Senate. Have you forgotten? You can no more fire me than President Andrew Johnson could defy the Tenure of Office Act of 1867 by trying to fire Secretary of War Stanton without consent of the Senate.”

“Andrew Johnson did it, and I am doing it.”

“Dilman, for heaven’s sake, he was impeached for exactly this.”

Dilman nodded. “Yes, and he was acquitted.”

Eaton planted his knuckles on the desk, and bent forward. “Listen to me, Dilman. You won’t be that lucky. If you fire me, you won’t have me standing between you and your bitterest enemies. Nothing will hold them back. And now they’ll have their strongest ammunition against you, a new article of indictment, and the most powerful one: a charge that you flagrantly violated the law of the United States, that you ignored the rights of the Senate. They’ll be all over you like a pack of angry wolves, and they’ll have teeth for their final attack. Dilman, for once, for one last time while you still can, show good judgment, at least the good judgment of self-preservation. Step aside, as I have suggested. Don’t force us to parade all your friends, your misconduct, before the nation and the world. Don’t force us to drive you from this room in disgrace.”

Dilman had waited patiently for the finish. When he saw that Eaton was done, winded, his chalky cheeks flushed with color, he knew the time had come.

“Eaton, I have no more to say to you, except what I said to your lady friend last night-get out of this room, or I shall have you thrown out. And clear out your office in the Department of State, or I’ll have the United States Marshal dump your effects in the street.”

For silent seconds, as if the firing had come with bullets, Eaton hung suspended before Dilman, riddled with disbelief. Finally he shook his head, turned on his heel, and crossed the room to his hat and coat. When he had picked them up, he shook his head once more.

“Dilman,” he said, regretful as an executioner, “I’m sorry for you, I really am, but you have given us no choice.” He paused, and then concluded, “As of twelve o’clock noon today, the resolution recommending your impeachment goes before the House of Representatives. I would wish you luck, but you don’t deserve it, and besides-it wouldn’t help you anyway.”

With that, Arthur Eaton, former Secretary of State, quickly left the Oval Office.

Holding the telephone receiver in one hand as he waited for Miss Foster to put through his call to the Mayflower Hotel, Douglass Dilman noted the time. Two hours had passed since he had fired Eaton and since he had learned that an effort would be made to impeach him.

It was now a quarter to twelve. He could visualize the scene on the Hill. Right now, bells were ringing throughout the Capitol corridors, buzzers were sounding in the offices of the representatives and in their committee rooms, announcing that the formal session of the House was about to begin.

Soon the corridors and elevators would be filled, and soon the House Chamber, too. At exactly noon, the mace would be placed on its marble column, and the acting Speaker would be announcing, “The House will be in order. Please rise while prayer is offered by the chaplain.”

Immediately after, the Speaker would receive the copy of the urgent resolution that Representative Zeke Miller had deposited in the hopper at the desk of the clerk. He would permit Miller, as author of the top-priority measure, to read out to his assembled colleagues and the gallery, “Resolved, that Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, be impeached of high crimes and misdemeanors in office.” Then there would be instantaneous pandemonium in the press gallery, among the visitors-in fact, among much of the House itself-and then, at last, all the world would know what was taking place.

By two o’clock the Speaker would have referred the impeachment resolution to Miller’s committee, a formality, since the committee had already secretly completed its investigation and voted its recommendation. By tomorrow, the resolution’s position on the House calendar would be waived, Miller’s committee would have given its recommendation, and the membership of the House would have resolved itself into the Committee of the Whole House on the State of the Union, a maneuver that allowed it to act on important legislation with a quorum of one hundred members, instead of more than twice that number which it normally required. Then the limited debate on the charges in the resolution for impeachment would begin, the debate preceding the vote on whether the President should or should not stand trial before the Senate for high crimes and misdemeanors. But that would be tomorrow, and the day after. For today, it was business enough to let the nation and the world know, for the first time, the scandalous and delinquent conduct of the President of the United States.

But right now, that was fifteen minutes to one hour and fifteen minutes away. The creation of the indictment, the speeding of it into the hopper, and out of it into committee, and out of committee onto the floor-this procedure accomplishing in hours what often required days and weeks-was still anticipated by only a relative handful of persons. On the Hill, the leaders and most influential legislators of both parties, and a few of their favorite newspapermen, already knew of it. In the White House, only Governor Talley and himself, and in the past hour Edna Foster and Tim Flannery, knew of it. On everyone else in Washington, in the United States, in the world, it would fall as a thunderclap.

Dilman was glad that he would not be present in the city for the sordid debate, for the vile lies and disgraceful calumny, for the charges and countercharges. Outside, on the south White House lawn, he was aware that the huge, blunt-nosed Marine helicopter was standing on its steel pad in readiness to lift him into the sky and spin him to Andrews Air Force Base, where the scarlet-and-silver jet airplane, with its Presidential emblem still on the door, would take him on his five-day inspection and speaking tour of the nation.

Eager as he was to escape the maelstrom of impending scandal, he had been made to reconsider his flight one hour ago. A distressed Tim Flannery had felt that leaving the scene of the impeachment fight at this time might be a tactical error. Since the debate would not be a trial, but the airing and consideration of an indictment, Flannery felt that the President would have no place to respond to the charges against him except in the press. From the Oval Office he might best, and most effectively, ridicule and refute the resolution for impeachment. From a distance his voice might be heard less distinctly.

Giving short shrift to his press secretary’s plea, Dilman had determined to adhere to his schedule. Once the impeachment effort was official, he would issue a single statement, perhaps from St. Louis or Cleveland, and after that, dignify the effort no further. He was confident, he had reassured his press secretary, no more would be required from him. The charges were so oversensational and so lacking in solid proof as to collapse readily from lack of factual foundation.

Yet there was one act that he must perform before his departure, and that was to speak to Nat Abrahams. He wondered why he had not told Nat Abrahams what was in the wind, and why he was not going to reveal it to him now. Then he knew. The two things he had in mind to discuss with Nat must not be discussed in the emotional atmosphere of his personal needs. It would not be fair to Nat, who had his own life to live.

And then, through the telephone at his ear, he heard his friend’s voice at last.