Irving Wallace - The Man

“Mr. Justice, we have just been subjected to the most insolent performance I have ever been witness to in my many years on this floor. That Mr. Manager Abrahams, on behalf of the President, should dare to insult our intelligence, impugn our integrity, by implying that we fly under false colors, that the four Articles under consideration are lies created to mask some horrendous racial plot, that he should dare assail the honesty and human decency of the Senate of the United States, and the House as well, by charging that we want that miscreant Dilman out of the White House because he is black, and not because he is incompetent, offends me, offends every one of us, beyond conceivable expression… Mr. Chief Justice, I demand that the manager’s offensive grandstanding tirade be stricken from the records forever. I suggest that he be reprimanded by the chair for attempting to convert this august Chamber into a Turnerite meeting hall. I demand that he not be permitted to discuss again his ludicrous and inciting fifth Article, this rabble-rousing figment of his imagination, at the pain of being ordered to withdraw from the case and from this Chamber for the remainder of the trial. I trust, Mr. Chief Justice, that you will instruct Manager Abrahams to confine himself strictly to a discussion of the evidence against his client that is known, that exists, that is the subject of this impeachment trial, and if he should arrogantly persist in disobeying, that he be held in contempt of court!”

As the flushed Senator sat down, his colleagues and the House members crowned him with a smashing round of applause.

Nat Abrahams had turned to the bench. “Mr. Chief Justice-”

Chief Justice Johnstone nodded. “What say you to the objection, Mr. Manager Abrahams?”

“It was not my purpose or intent to incite or inflame through demagoguery, or to imitate the manner and method of the opposition,” said Abrahams calmly. “I submit, Your Honor, that it is President Dilman’s difference of color that has antagonized his opposition, and inspired them to build their cleverly diverting Articles of Impeachment. I submit that the President’s color will in turn color and affect the mind of every prosecution witness, and a majority of the jurors, and largely to the detriment of my client. I submit this is the real hard-core issue, and no mere figment of my imagination. I stand prepared to offer concrete evidence in the form of affidavits-signed editorials from newspapers, speeches in the Congressional Record , off-the-record statements made by biased Senators-to prove that the President’s color is the central issue of this trial. I am prepared to contend with the four Articles as voted, to fight them with all my heart and soul, but I suggest that they are windmills, Your Honor, and that the real dragon to be slain is racial prejudice. I beg your leave to be permitted to speak further, with as much restraint as possible, and when it is appropriate, on this invisible Article of indictment.”

Chief Justice Johnstone huffed, gathered his judicial robe around him, and looked past Abrahams toward Senator Hoyt Watson.

“The Senator’s objection is sustained,” he announced. He peered down at Abrahams. “The counsel will not allude to a fifth Article again in this trial, but devote himself solely and entirely to the four Articles before this court. Proceed as directed, Mr. Manager!”

Abrahams tried to accept the rebuke graciously. Turning his head from the bench, he could see his three associates watching him, and while their faces remained phlegmatic, there was applause in their eyes.

Slowly, Abrahams continued around until he was once more face to face with the Senate. Legally, his accusation was stricken, but in fact the entire nation had heard his charge, and now it was a living issue that would hang over the conscience of every man in the days to come. If he could no longer allude to the fifth Article, it was nonetheless now made visible for all to see and reckon with. Officially, the color prejudice against President Dilman had been segregated from this hostile and limited Chamber, but now it ran rampant across the breadth of the broad country.

By his reckless offensive into the exposed high ground of truth, Abrahams decided, he had lost hard votes for Doug Dilman as a President on trial for impeachment, but perhaps he had won something more important for Doug Dilman as a man. He hoped that his choice of tactic had been the right one, and that Doug would, somehow, understand.

Inaudibly, Abrahams sighed. Well, he told himself for the last time, the truth was in the open. He had done what had to be done, in a manner most repugnant to him, but there had been no other choice for one who believed his cause was just.

And now, he could see, he had accomplished something else, also. He had won the eyes and ears of the Senate, the House, the galleries, the entire nation. He had them even as Zeke Miller had not.

Satisfied with this one victory, Nat Abrahams, relieved to be able to resume the role of attorney once more, quietly began to address his audience again.

AT approximately a quarter to three in the afternoon, Edna Foster had suddenly turned off her television set, blotted the loathsome spectacle from her screen if not from her mind, impulsively changed into a severe suit, set a hat on her bunned brown hair, pulled on her transparent olive-colored raincoat, telephoned for a taxicab, snatched up her umbrella, and gone downstairs to wait for it.

Now, at a quarter after three, she walked purposefully through the puddles of rainwater gathering across the circular driveway leading from the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance to the West Wing lobby of the White House. What she had relived, during the short taxi ride, she continued to relive intensely, unmindful of the steady drizzle spattering upon her umbrella overhead.

It had been a horrible week of lies, lies and indecisiveness, and she was glad she had finally brought it to an end.

She had seen George Murdock only once after her return from Paris and his belated return from the extended visit to New York City.

Their meeting had taken place during the early evening of the day that the President’s impeachment had been introduced into the House of Representatives. It had not been her best evening, from the moment George had picked her up to the moment he had left her at her apartment door after dinner, because her mood had been at such odds with his. She had been stunned and unhappy over the fantastic attack on Dilman. George had been alive and gay because of his new high-paying job with the Zeke Miller chain of newspapers, which he had announced to her that night. She had hated his taking the job, somehow equating it with her misery over the threatened impeachment, and not even George’s naming an actual marriage date had improved her mood. She had desperately tried to evince some pretense of pleasure, but she had failed. She had hoped that a long evening together-she was relatively at liberty, with the President off on his tour of the Midwest, Far West, and Atlantic Coast-would work its miracle, restore her joy in the knowledge that she would soon be Mrs. Murdock, but then George had had time for only a short evening. He was, he had apologized, toiling nights as well as days now, to impress his new employers, anxious to get off on the right foot. Then, after he had hastened away to the Washington Citizen-American Building, and she had wearily returned to her living room, the orderly, well-regulated, promising personal world around her (which excluded the Dilman part of her world) had disintegrated completely (because Dilman could not be excluded from it, after all), and since that time, by choice, she had not seen George again.

The events of that unforgettable night still haunted and possessed her like a recurring hallucination. She had been too occupied with the last of her work during the hours before seeing George to inquire into every detail of the impeachment charges, to watch and hear the indictments read on television and radio, or read them in the newspapers. During her incessant typing, and hectic taking of telephone calls, she had become aware of several of the general charges. Something incomprehensible about the President having broken the law in his firing of Eaton, she had heard. Something ridiculous about his having frequent bouts of intoxication. Something utterly absurd about his having made improper advances toward that stupid, spoiled Sally Watson. But not until George had left her so early, and she had been able to kick off her shoes and be alone with the day’s newspapers, had she fully read all four of the Articles of Impeachment.