Irving Wallace - The Man

From somewhere, musical chimes interrupted Dilman’s specifications of activity past and future. What remained was the immediate present. The hands pointing to the Roman numerals on the Empire clock told him it was eight-thirty. The south windows, on either side of the clock, were spattered with rain. For several seconds Dilman listened to the downpour outside. Often, in the past, he had found that a rainy day had a comforting effect upon him. It confined one’s activities. It heightened one’s appreciation of shelter. It made one feel, if one was indoors, apart from the uncontrolled nature of the universe, safe and apart from it, and in complete repose. Perhaps the pleasure was primitive, harking back to the dry Paleolithic man, snug near the fire in his cave, as the tempest raged outside. Yet, this morning, the rain disappointed Dilman. It seemed the enemy’s rain, imprisoning him, daring him, adding portentous urgency to the need for survival. His was an unquiet cave.

Quickly, Dilman knotted his tie, buttoned his suit coat, slipped a handful of cigars into one pocket and hastily made his way back to the Monroe Room for his last exchange, this first judgment day, with the one who had sacrificed so much in an attempt to save him.

Nat Abrahams was there, scanning and discarding the newspapers that Dilman had left behind.

“Quite a splash you’re making, Doug,” he said. He held up the front page of the newspaper in his hands. The banner headline announced:

MOST DRAMATIC TRIAL IN HISTORY BEGINS TODAY.

Beneath the headline, side by side, were two photographs. One was a picture of Dilman being hustled off the platform at Trafford University while eggs erupted around him. The other was a shot of members of the Senate at their desks in the Chamber. The bold caption read:

IN THIS CORNER THE PRESIDENT

IN THIS CORNER THE SENATE-

ONE MAN AGAINST ONE HUNDRED-ARE THOSE THE RINGSIDE ODDS AGAINST DILMAN?

“Yes,” said Dilman. “Did you see the lead? Read it.”

Abrahams brought the newspaper into his line of vision. He read aloud:

“ ‘At precisely one o’clock this afternoon, in the hallowed Chamber of the United States Senate, there will unfold what promises to be one of the most memorable trials in the history of the Western Hemisphere-rivaling in drama and importance the great trials of our civilization-those of Socrates, Jeanne d’Arc, Galileo, King Charles I, Mary Queen of Scots, Lord Warren Hastings, President Andrew Johnson-and matching in raw sensationalism and fevered public interest the lesser trials of our time-those of Aaron Burr, the Tichborne claimant, the cadet Archer-Shee, John Brown, Sacco and Vanzetti, John T. Scopes, Bruno Hauptmann. For the second time in the history of the United States, a Chief Executive of the land will go before the tribunal of the people’s Senate to be judged guilty or not guilty of high crimes and misdemeanors-’ ” Abrahams suddenly crumpled the newspaper and cast it aside. “Bunk,” he said. “Thank God the people will be able to see it for themselves on television. I think that’s an advantage, don’t you, Doug?”

“I don’t know,” said Dilman.

“I think so. If we didn’t have television, we’d have, in effect, a closed chamber hearing, sort of a secret kangaroo court, with the senators less responsive to their constituents’ wishes. The news of the pros and cons would be funneled out by maybe twenty-five regulars of the White House press and maybe one thousand other correspondents, and everything could be angled for reader interest rather than truth. As it stands now, the people will be able to see for themselves what goes on and make up their own minds, not get the story second or third hand through other minds. For the first time in history, an impeachment will be judged not only by the senators and press, but by the voters concerned. You’ll have 230 million judges, Doug, not merely 100.”

“Is that necessarily good?”

“Not necessarily, but probably. The masses become impatient with absurdity much faster than a narrow group of locked-in legislators. Witness what happened to Senator Joe McCarthy. I’ve always thought that if we’d had television back in 1868, President Andrew Johnson’s impeachment trial would not have lasted three months, but three weeks, if that long. The people would have seen through the politics and prejudices of the so-called impartial judges, their congressmen, and they’d have risen up and demanded Johnson’s acquittal at once. In fact, they would have probably demanded that two-thirds of the Senate be impeached. No, Doug, I’ll take my chances on the electronic eye. If it helps us in no other way, it at least guarantees us that Zeke Miller and Bruce Hankins won’t dare to bamboozle their Hill clan with any bigoted anti-minority sleight-of-hand.”

Dilman had unwrapped his first cigar of the morning. He lighted it, enjoyed the aroma briefly, and then took a chair across from Abrahams. “Well, Nat,” he said, “now we’re alone, the two of us, a few hours before the showdown. Truly, what do you think are my chances?”

“Honest to God, I can’t say, Doug. Usually, going into any trial, I have a suspicion of what may happen, I can make an educated guess as to the outcome. But this impeachment business is so unique-the procedure so damn irregular-that no matter how much homework you’ve done, you can’t predict what is going on in those 100 senatorial heads today or what will be in those heads two weeks from today. After all, we have only a single precedent to go by. Just as the newspaper said, there’s only been one Presidential impeachment trial before this. Of course, that gives us several guideposts-” He stopped, and considered Dilman. “How familiar are you with the Andrew Johnson trial?”

“Shamefully ignorant of the details, I’m afraid,” Dilman confessed. “I remember some of it from school, and side reading, of course. And lately the papers have been full of it, highly colored, and the radio and television have been dinning it in our ears, but somehow, I’ve been unconsciously avoiding it. I don’t know. I have the impression that President Johnson was given a bad time of it. My survival instinct tells me not to relive his hell when I’m about to undergo one of my own. It’s like-I’ll tell you what-like you’re about to face an unusual life-or-death major surgical operation. You know there’s been one similar case. Well, you’re not inclined to study the gory details beforehand. You sort of prefer to shut your eyes and let them roll you in, the mystery of it still a mystery, holding your layman’s blind high hopes before you go under.”

Abrahams had listened solemnly, full understanding in his face, “Yes,” he said. “Nevertheless, if you can bring yourself to it, I believe you should try to understand something of that other impeachment trial.”

“If you think so, Nat. But why?”

“Because, far from being dead history, the facts of it will become a living part of your own trial. I repeat, it is the single precedent both sides have to go by. The House managers and the four of us will quote from it, refer to it, whenever it is to advantage, you can be sure. Furthermore, not surprisingly, President Johnson’s impeachment crosses and touches yours in several important areas. I do recommend you acquaint yourself with the salient facts, Doug.”

“All right, then, I will.”

“I’m not saying you must go out and get some weighty tome from the Library of Congress. I know you haven’t the time. But-” He leaned sideways, riffling the file folder tabs in his briefcase on the floor. “I have something here, if I can find it… ah, here it is.” He came up with what appeared to be a stapled typescript. “We all read what we could on the Andrew Johnson trial. Then Tuttle condensed the proceedings of that trial into eighty pages, for easier reference.” He handed it across the table to Dilman. “Take a look at it when you can. Of course, the great amount of offstage byplay, the cloakroom hanky-panky, isn’t in there-”