Irving Wallace - The Man

Analyzing it now, weighing the effect of the defense’s own cross-examinations, Abrahams was able to see better what progress the opposition had made. Miller had done a fairly good job, not legally but emotionally, in shoring up Article I, charging the transfer of secrets through Wanda Gibson. Until three-quarters of an hour ago, he had offered no witnesses on Article II, the Julian-Turnerite charge, except one affidavit, from the Attorney General, relating the President’s delaying tactics on the banning of the extremist society. As yet, Miller had made little progress on the specifications of Article III. He had made no mention of Sally Watson, and the witnesses he offered to prove the liaison with Miss Gibson, favoritism toward Spinger, political partisanship, and intoxication had been so vague and irrelevant, and had been so rattled under the relentless cross-examinations of Abrahams and his colleagues, that Article III had become more an embarrassment than an asset.

Miller’s case for Article IV, that the President had broken a law by firing Eaton in defiance of Congress, had been more impressive for the quantity of his witnesses than for their quality. Under Abrahams’ ceaseless bombardment, many of the witnesses had lost their assurance and authority. However, the question of whether the President had removed Eaton because he believed his Secretary of State was usurping his Presidential powers, or because he feared his popularity, was still not settled. And the question of whether the President had removed Eaton without consulting the Senate because he believed the New Succession Act to be unconstitutional and therefore believed that there was no need to consult anyone, or whether he had merely determined to defy and humiliate the legislative branch, and be headstrong and break a law, was still not decided. To this moment, the battle over Article IV was probably a draw.

Today, Abrahams guessed, Zeke Miller would be unloading his big artillery in one concerted and smashing effort to scatter the defense and send it into hopeless retreat. Today, no doubt, Miller would bring forth those who were still missing: Wanda Gibson to build up Article I, Sally Watson to save Article III, Secretary of State Arthur Eaton to clinch Article IV, just as he now had on the stand Julian Dilman to prove Article II. Miller would try to bring his case, through the evidence of these witnesses, to a peak in one shattering afternoon, rocking the public and the Senate with the President’s criminality, so that nothing Abrahams or the defense managers could offer in rebuttal, after that, would be able to halt, or even slow down, the assault.

Why, Abrahams asked himself, had the House managers determined to crowd the best of their case into a single afternoon? Because, he decided, they felt the timing was right, the climate never better.

The steady if gradual shift of sympathy and support to President Dilman, among the public, had faltered in the last nine days. Miller’s weather eye was keen. Eight days ago the President had admitted to the nation that he might, if necessary, sacrifice the lives of an all-white American fighting force in the defense of a little-known African nation. The Negroes and liberals approved, but the larger part of the nation boiled with resentment. Then Julian had confessed to his Turnerite affiliation, and while the majority of twenty-three million American Negroes may have been sympathetic once more, and some whites impressed, the greater part of 230 million Americans were increasingly suspicious of the President’s past activities. Now, this morning, Zeke Miller’s revelation about the President’s daughter passing for white, with the President’s knowledge and lack of disapproval, would once more turn the Negro population against him and infuriate most of the white population. And, Abrahams saw, even Doug Dilman’s profoundly moving explanation of his daughter’s passing, and of his own role in it, would fail to counteract the damaging publicity. For the rest of the press, who had missed Miller’s sensational scoop, were trying to make up lost ground by excerpting portions of the President’s remarks, lifting them out of context, angling and distorting them to make headlines anew and sell copies of their newspapers.

Abrahams rubbed his shoulders against the pillar, put a flame to his pipe again, and considered the situation. Yes, for Zeke Miller, the national climate was right to bring out, from the principal witnesses, the last of the evidence against Dilman. There was momentum in the sentiment against the President, and whatever headlines Miller could create and throw forth today would ride with the momentum, until the charges would be too many and too powerful for it to be stopped.

Abrahams did not like the defense’s position. If the prosecution concluded its testimony today, it would be the defense’s turn, either late today or tomorrow, to summon up its own rebuttal witnesses. These were good witnesses, but not colorful, not space grabbers, not names, and they would receive scant attention. Abrahams needed what Miller possessed-a cast of stars-and he had none, not one.

Only a single faint hope remained, Abrahams decided, and that was to make Miller’s stars his own stars. He must build up Julian and Wanda, even though subpoenaed by Miller, as defense witnesses. He must tear down Eaton and Sally Watson, so that resultant headlines would favor the President over his prosecutors. It would not be an easy game to play, if it could be played at all, but, he thought mournfully, it was the only game in town.

He heard an agitated voice call out, “Congressman-Congressman Miller-”

Looking off, he was surprised to see George Murdock, fugitive from the press gallery and Blaser’s collaborator, hastening in his general direction. Then Murdock hurried past him, and abruptly halted. Abrahams poked his head around the pillar, and he recognized Zeke Miller, profile to him, considering the reporter with annoyance.

“What are you doing here?” Miller demanded. “You’re supposed to be up there doing what you’re paid to do.”

“Congressman, I’ve got to speak to you,” Murdock insisted, clawing his acned, pasty face. “That story you and Reb broke this morning-about Mindy passing-”

“Don’t bother me now. I have no time. I’ve got a trial to conduct.”

“Listen-wait-I signed a paper for that girl, promising if she gave me the letter Julian wrote her, I’d never in my life whisper a word of who she is or what she is. I told it to you in confidence-remember? It was part of our deal-you could use everything else I got you, as long as you never used that. You promised, like I promised. You pledged your word.”

Miller’s lipless mouth was drawn back so that his yellowed teeth were exposed. “Boy, I don’t remember making no foolish promise like that there one, you understand? When Zeke Miller makes a promise, he keeps it. You’re not questioning my integrity, you’re not doing that, are you? That wouldn’t be sensible-would it?-for a reporter in an editorial room to doubt the word of the proprietor, would it now? I’ve seen my daddy, in his day, have his cotton pickers thrown off his land for less than that.”

Murdock shriveled. “I-I’m only trying to say-”

“Boy, what burr you got up your behind? You mean an important proud writing person like you is worrying about some cheating cullud girl, some Nigra tar baby who’s painted herself white because she wants to insinuate her class into our class? What’s happening to you, boy? Keep that up and I got a good mind to make you a foreign correspondent and send you off to cover Harlem permanently. Know what I mean? You wouldn’t like that, would you, feller? Come now, would you?”

“No-no-I wouldn’t.”

“Then get yourself back up to that gallery and write like you’re told, and don’t bother Zeke Miller again with any of that Northern weeping-willow crap.” Miller waved off to someone. “Hiya, Senator Watson. Time to get back to the combat field, I guess.”