Irving Wallace - The Man

“Honorable gentlemen, we of the House do here and now charge the President of the United States with contemptuously breaking a major law of the land, a law almost unanimously passed by Congress, a law not vetoed by his pen. We, of the House, do here and now charge the President of the United States with summarily removing from office the Secretary of State of the United States without the legal consent of the Senate, and of so doing not because his first Cabinet member had been disabled or was incompetent, but because his first Cabinet member advocated policies that were and are desired by the majority of the American people. For this adherence to democracy, our Secretary of State was beloved by the American people as he was beloved by our late President. And because our Secretary of State earned this popularity, because he was the next in line to succession of the Presidency, because his popularity posed a threat to the uneasy holder of that primary office, he was fired illegally by a horn-mad, jealous, spiteful President. For this vicious act, honorable gentlemen, we of the House do here and now charge the President of the United States with violation of the Constitution of the United States.”

Zeke Miller paused, sucked in his breath, drew back his shoulders, lifted his arms high above his head in an evangelistic posture of beseeching both the Lord above and the Senate below.

“Fellow Americans!” he shouted. “I close our argument with the prayer that the historic warning be emblazoned from this memorable day of justice undertaken, to the day of reckoning and final judgment in this Chamber. Fellow Americans, kill the beast before the beast kills you!”

The galleries broke out into an unrestrained burst of applause, and here and there senators, and the majority of the House members behind them, came to their feet, clapping their hands. Zeke Miller gave a short nodding bow, turned on his heel, and went swiftly to his table, where his colleagues waited, all standing, faces wreathed in smiles of congratulations and triumph.

From above, Chief Justice Johnstone’s gavel fell steadily, its pounding drowned out by the tumult and clamor.

Nat Abrahams, arms still crossed over his chest, sat grimly, observing the spectacle, the animated congressmen and spectators, the swiveling television cameras. He knew that Miller had scored, hit low, scored high.

Engaged in a trial, Abrahams always divested himself of self-delusion, not hope but self-delusion. The opposition, he calculated, was far ahead at this point. They would have to be caught. It would not be an easy matter overtaking them. Miller’s hour and twenty minutes of oratory had worn down the senators, undoubtedly exhausted the attentiveness of millions of television viewers. How could reason hold them now? When you were sated with a rich feast and heady wine, what taste would there be for health foods and the milk of kindness?

Behind Abrahams, the Chief Justice’s gavel monotonously pounded, and gradually the din of mob celebration began to subside.

Aware of activity to his left, Nat Abrahams looked down the table. Felix Hart had passed an open note to Priest, who read it, nodded, gave it to Tuttle, who glanced at it noncommittally, and then handed it to Abrahams.

Abrahams stared at the note. “Nat,” it read, “that was rough. We’ve lost them, unless you can bring them back sharply. Need an immediate attention grabber, what writers call a narrative hook. Suggest you discard agreed-upon opening, and alternate as well, and go all out with third possibility we discussed. What do you say?” The note was signed “Felix.”

Abrahams’ mind had already been made up. Taking up a pencil, he scrawled across Hart’s note, “I say YES!”

He passed it back, observing each of his associates read his reply. He waited for their decision. Felix Hart was the first to answer, vigorously nodding his approval. Then Joel Priest ducked his head twice in affirmation. Abrahams waited upon Tuttle, who sat with his jaw on his fist, thinking. Tuttle’s head turned. “Hate to fight their roughneck style,” he said gruffly, “but when you’re set upon in a dark alley by ruffians, guess you got to knee as well as punch. No choice, Nat. Yup, better bring that audience back, right quick, or nobody’ll know we have a case or a President.”

Abrahams was relieved, and now edgy but eager for the counterattack. He glanced behind him and upward.

The sputtering Chief Justice had hit his gavel down one last time. The Chamber had finally lapsed into silence. Abrahams’ gaze returned to the senators at their desks. While respectful and half attentive, most of them were slouching and slumping in attitudes of relaxation, as if they had heard it all, as if there was no more to be said, as if the show was over and only the necessary and boring closing formalities of the first day remained.

The Chief Justice had rolled his chair forward and leaned across the side of the rostrum.

“Mr. Managers for the President,” he called down, “are you prepared to proceed with your opening statement?”

Adjusting the knot of his tie, Nat Abrahams came swiftly to his feet, hearing the crack of his knee joints and feeling the strained pull on his back and calf muscles.

Facing the Chief Justice, he replied, “Yes, Mr. Chief Justice. I am instructed by my associates to say that we are ready to proceed with our evidence against the Articles of Impeachment exhibited by the House of Representatives against the President of the United States. I am Nathan Abrahams, Your Honor, and I have been assigned to present the opening testimony for the defense.”

“Very well, Mr. Manager Abrahams, proceed with the evidence.”

Abrahams lifted a document from the table. “Mr. Chief Justice, before undertaking the defense, I should like to offer first, on behalf of the managers, a certified copy of the oath of the President of the United States, which I will now read.” He read aloud from the document: “ ‘I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of the President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.’ Signed, ‘Douglass Dilman.’ ”

Handing it up to the Chief Justice, Abrahams announced in a voice penetrating enough to be heard not only by the presiding officer but by the legislative jurors, “That is our prime exhibit, and the cornerstone of our case-evidence, first, that Douglass Dilman is the legal President of the United States, and evidence, second, that he was and is fully cognizant of his oath of office, which we contend he has entirely lived up to and is continuing to live up to, and which contention we shall support through select witnesses and further certified evidence. Now, Your Honor, I shall enter upon my opening argument.”

Walking slowly to the spot on the carpet between the rostrum and the jammed Senate benches, his face rigidly set and unsmiling, Nat Abrahams was prepared to begin. He had left his multitudinous notes on the table. He had committed to memory every fact and shred of evidence. All the stored knowledge he possessed of the case, provoked by his opponent, had been electrified, and now pulsated with life inside his brain, waiting for his summons. He required no written reference. He was alert, anger controlled, ready as he would ever be to even the score. If it was possible, he would do it. He would try.

“Mr. Chief Justice, gentlemen of the United States Senate, fellow citizens,” he heard himself say, surprised at how firm and even was the pitch of his address. “As the document I have turned over to the Chief Justice of the United States confirms, we have for President of the United States a man, a man who has sworn, before the presiding officer now seated on the bench above, that he will preserve, protect, and defend our Constitution and our nation under God. We have, I repeat, a man for our President of the United States.