Irving Wallace - The Man

That said Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, at Washington, in the District of Columbia, unmindful of the high duties of his office, of the oath of office, and in violation of the Constitution of the United States, and contrary to the provisions of an act entitled “The New Succession Act Regulating the Line of Succession to the Presidency and the Tenure of Certain Civil Offices,” without the advice and consent of the Senate of the United States, said Senate then and there being in session, and without authority of law, did, with intent to violate the Constitution of the United States, and the act aforesaid, remove from office as Secretary of State the Honorable Arthur Eaton. Then and there being no vacancy in said office of Secretary of State, whereby said Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, did then and there commit and was guilty of a high misdemeanor in office, not only for his disregard of the law and his contempt of said Senate, but for his malicious desire to sustain himself in office by illegal removal of the next in line to his succession, whose popularity with the electorate he resented and feared.

This charge, Nat Abrahams could see, would be the most difficult to refute, the one Doug Dilman would find the most menacing and formidable to contest. Whereas his opposition might be challenged on their proof of his commission of treason, through Wanda, with the Vaduz Exporters and Soviet Russia, there was no denying the fact that Doug had broken a law (no matter how unconstitutional it might be) by firing a Cabinet member without the consent of his onetime colleagues in the Senate. Of course, a sound case might be made on Doug’s behalf in the House debate today, but Nat was not sure there was anyone prepared to make that case.

Abrahams’ eyes left the box of articles, and moved to the farthest left-hand column. There was another dismaying headline, and beneath it a dateline from Cleveland. Doug had spoken before a convention of war veterans, of which he was one, and his speech had been met with continuous boos, hisses, and catcalls-the epithets were shocking (“Traitor!… Commie!… Whoremonger!”), and although the police had evicted two dozen hecklers from the auditorium, the disturbance had not ceased. The speech had been an utter disaster. Abrahams’ heart went out to his friend. He was tempted to telephone him, and beg him to return to Washington, but that made no sense either.

As he was about to fold the newspaper, one more story caught Abrahams’ attention. The Secret Service agent who had saved Dilman’s life, Otto Beggs, had successfully come through his latest surgery, had not lost his shattered leg, but his use of it would be considerably impaired. Even this was related to the impeachment. Miller’s investigators, eager to question the President’s personal bodyguard for evidence of what he might have seen or overheard, had been rudely turned away by Admiral Oates.

It pleased Abrahams that someone had shown a shred of decency, but it distressed him to know to what lengths the House investigators were going, to build their case against the President. Apparently they felt that even if they already were in possession of enough evidence to indict the President, there was always use for more, and again more, if he should go on trial.

Abrahams’ vest-pocket watch told him it was twenty minutes to two, and that he had been sitting outside the brownstone for over five minutes. He pulled down the rearview mirror, to see if he was entirely presentable for Wanda Gibson. A tuft of his chestnut hair stood up in back, and no amount of water had been able to slick it down. The extraordinary amount of sleep and relaxation he had enjoyed in Washington, while awaiting the last draft of his contract and while casually acquainting himself with his future duties for Eagles Industries, had not eliminated the lines in his gaunt features or made his deep-set eyes appear more rested. Nevertheless, he felt energetic and revived, all senses alert and questing, as if resurrected from fat lethargy by his antagonism toward Doug’s prosecutors.

He swung his long legs out of the car, slammed the door, and strode to the brownstone. Emptying his pipe against the heel of his hand, he told himself that if he could not help his friend in the House of Representatives, at least he could be of some use to Wanda. It was little enough, but in a time like this it might mean much to Doug. And anyway, it was good to be active.

Inside, he took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the upper landing, he was pleased that he was not winded, and knew that his physician would be pleased too. Approaching the door, he could hear the sounds of television behind it. He knocked firmly. Almost immediately the door opened, and he was inside the parlor, face to face with Wanda Gibson.

He was delighted to find that she was as attractive as he had remembered her. Her glossy dark hair was caught back in a ribbon, and her tawny smooth face was devoid of any makeup except at the lips. Her dark eyes tried to smile, and failed. She wore an apricot-colored cotton blouse, and wide navy-blue leather belt, and a simple tailored blue skirt. Her countenance and her figure were classic, and Nat Abrahams silently congratulated Doug Dilman for his good taste.

Taking his overcoat, she told him that she remembered both him and his wife very well, and she inquired about Sue and the children. As they walked to the couch, she waved a disdainful hand at the television set. The screen showed a panoramic shot of the overflowing galleries in the House, and then moved down to a cluster of representatives gathered before the Speaker’s rostrum.

“Look at it,” Wanda said. “It’s like watching a motion-picture revival of some old spectacle about the Roman Colosseum, with the caged lions rumbling, waiting to be released to rend apart and chew up one poor Ethiopian martyr. Have you been watching, at all?”

“No, I haven’t had the opportunity-or the inclination.”

“A television first,” said Wanda bitterly, finding a cigarette on the coffee table and allowing Nat to light it for her. “A special public service, the network said. Produced by the Marquis de Sade, directed and written by the Spanish Inquisition, they didn’t bother to say. I tell you, I don’t know what we’re coming to. All the sham and pretense. That little monster, Miller, jumping up and announcing the House committee recommends impeachment. Then all kinds of parliamentary business. Then, just now, Wickland-I thought at least, as a Far Westerner, the Majority Leader, he’d be something more-but no, there he was droning out those awful blasphemous four charges as evidence to back their resolution for impeachment. Now there’s a point of order, then Miller is going to elaborate on the charges in detail, before the debate begins later.” She stopped, looking sorrowfully at Abrahams. “It’s terrible. Poor Doug, getting it here-and as a result, look what’s happening to him on the road. Who is there to contest these libelous lies?”

“There’ll be someone when the debate begins, Wanda. At least a dozen congressmen, white and colored, have come out against this.”

“Where are they?”

“They’ll be heard, believe me.”

She nodded uncertainly. “I have some coffee ready-”

“It’s not necessary.”

“I have it ready,” she said. “I’m sorry the apartment is a mess. The Spingers are in New York on this business. They’re meeting with Crispus lawyers on the charges against the Reverend as well as those against Doug… Excuse me a minute.”

After she had gone, Nat Abrahams filled his pipe, settled into the chair between the couch and television set, and smoked as he watched the screen. There was a close shot of Representative Zeke Miller rising from his bench, notes in his hand, grinning, waving a greeting to someone, then addressing the chairman and the House.