Irving Wallace - The Man

He came through the open doorway, a diffident, embarrassed, well-built gentleman in his late forties, his fingers playing nervously across the brim of the hat he held in his hand. “Mr.-Mr. President,” he said, “I don’t know if you remember me-Harold L. Greene from-”

That moment, Dilman recognized him. “Of course, Mr. Greene, I couldn’t make you out for a minute-so far from the Hill. You’re the Sergeant at Arms of the Senate.”

“Yes, sir.” He wriggled in his ill-fitting overcoat. “I was sent here by plane from Washington on official Senate business. I’m supposed to serve you with this”-he reached inside his bulky coat and pulled out a document that resembled a folded legal brief-“summons. It’s an order for you to stand trial, sir, a week from today, before the Senate constituted as a court of impeachment. It’s all in here, sir. I’m sorry to have to do this, but-” He shrugged unhappily and held out the summons.

Dilman stepped forward, reached out and accepted the summons. “Thank you, Mr. Greene, for going to this trouble. I suppose I shouldn’t send you back to Washington empty-handed.”

The Sergeant at Arms appeared as puzzled as The Judge, who stood beside him.

“You can take this message back with you,” said Dilman. While he faced the Sergeant at Arms, his gaze had shifted to The Judge. “Tell the Senate of the United States that the President of the United States looks forward-looks forward to seeing them in court!”

The second that the Sergeant at Arms had gone, The Judge let out a whoop. Beaming from ear to ear, he descended upon Dilman and gave him a wrestling hug. “Mr. President, spoken like a man!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “I knew you wouldn’t quit, knew you’d fight, felt it in my bones.”

Smiling, Dilman pocketed the summons. “I guess I came here, Judge, knowing that too. Only I needed somebody wiser and tougher than I am to give me a kick in the pants, so I’d get mad enough to remember I was right, and do some kicking myself.”

The Judge pounded Dilman’s back affectionately, then held him off. “Mr. President, no matter what comes of this, when you come to be my age, you’ll look back and won’t regret it, never for a minute.”

Dilman nodded gravely. “I hope so,” he said softly, “because I’m going to take an awful licking.”

“No matter what,” said The Judge. “Ever hear of an ancient Roman philosopher by name of Seneca? Ever read what he wrote about a company of Romans trapped and decimated in an ambush? He wrote, ‘The three hundred Fabiae were not defeated, they were only killed.’ Remember that when it gets real bad. It’s enough to make it worth while. Now go, and God bless you.”

Dilman returned The Judge’s powerful handshake, and then he was surprised to find the Missus, holding his coat and hat on her pudgy arm, waiting at the door. Dilman allowed her to assist him with his overcoat. When he took his hat, and began to thank her, he could see that her eyes were brimming. Impulsively she went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Be brave, Douglass,” she said. “There’s lots of us who need you.”

Too choked by emotion to reply, Dilman fumbled for the door-knob. As he opened the door, he heard the immediate chorus of shouts from the photographers beyond the porch, but louder than the rest was The Judge’s admonition behind him.

“Braveness is good,” The Judge had called out, “but a smart lawyer is better. Get one, and get one fast, the best there is, Mr. President!”

From over his shoulder, Dilman forced himself to smile at The Judge. “I’ll try,” he said. “I know the best attorney there is-but he wants to be a farmer like yourself, so it’s hard to say if he’ll be able to take time off from his harvesting. I’ll try, you bet. That’s all a man can do.”

Behind the closed doors of their bedroom on the sixth floor of the Mayflower Hotel, Nat Abrahams finally hung up the telephone receiver and remained standing over the instrument, lost in thought.

At last, mechanical as an automaton, he wandered past the double bed to the window. He stared down into darkened Connecticut Avenue, his mind still on the call he had taken, hardly aware of the early evening foot and vehicular dinner traffic in the street below.

The glow from a neon light across the way caught the glaze of the window, and its angled illumination intensified the reflection of himself in the glass. He realized then that he was attired in his best suit, dressed for a festive night out, and with a start he remembered that Gorden Oliver and Sue were still waiting for him in the living room of the suite. His activity in the ten or fifteen minutes before the telephone had interrupted him was instantly revived.

Gorden Oliver, professionally hale and hearty, his ruddy New England features aglow, his brandy cane in one hand, an impressive manila envelope in the other, had arrived precisely on time. With the air of one Caesar conferring a laurel wreath upon another Caesar, he had handed the long-delayed final draft of the Eagles Industries employment contract to Abrahams. While Sue, bubbling and pretty in her rose sheath dress, had mixed the high-balls, Abrahams had sunk into a corner of the sofa to review one last time the legal language of a contract he had almost committed to memory during these past months.

As he read on, Nat Abrahams had tried to shut his ears to the cheery conversation between Sue and Oliver, to the lobbyist’s political gossip and anecdotes and Sue’s merry, appreciative responses. Only once, when he had covered the paragraphs announcing his astronomical salary, bonuses, deferments, stock options, had he been forced to look up. Oliver had been patting his narrow-shouldered, tight-fitting, tailor-made suit coat importantly, and telling Sue that nothing was too good for the spouse of Eagles Industries’ soon-to-be-number-one barrister, and therefore it was only befitting to cap the occasion with a regal dinner at Billy Martin’s Carriage House in Georgetown, the swank restaurant on Wisconsin Avenue so renowned for its cuisine. Sue Abrahams had squealed with delight, and Nat had enjoyed seeing her so happy, and then returned to the contract.

That had been his only distraction until he had finished his reading of the contract and raised his head to Gorden Oliver. “Okay,” he had said to the lobbyist, “this is it. Now you want my John Hancock?”

“Sure do!” exclaimed Oliver, uncapping his gold fountain pen. He had handed the pen to Abrahams. “Historic occasion. Sign all copies where they’re x’d and initial in margins where stamped.”

As Abrahams spread the numerous copies on the coffee table before him, and, with pen in hand, bent over the original, the second distraction of the evening had occurred.

The telephone had started to ring.

Sue had leaped to her feet. “I’ll take it,” she had said to her husband. “You go on and get that over with.”

Yet Abrahams had held the pen poised over the contract, not touching the point to the sheet, waiting to hear whom the call was from.

Sue had cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “Nat,” she had said, “it’s the White House for you.”

Abrahams had placed the pen on the table and quickly stood up. “I’ll take it in the bedroom,” he had said.

And then, going into the bedroom, before shutting the door behind him he had heard Gorden Oliver cheerily call out, “Well, that’s the only other corporation I’ll give equal time to-even though Eagles is more solvent.”

The call had lasted no more than three or four minutes, and Abrahams had mostly listened in the quiet room, his festival mood gradually receding and being replaced by one of serious concern.

Now, as he stood at the hotel window, the call had become the dominant prodder of his judgment and conscience, and it was difficult to ignore it and resume the business awaiting him on the coffee table in the living room. Yet his wife was there, his new career partner was there, his future was there. With reluctance he left the solitude of the bedroom.