Irving Wallace - The Man

“For the most part, about as close as you and I are right here.”

“Previous testimony indicates otherwise.”

“What does previous testimony indicate, Congressman?”

“That you, Miss Gibson, and the man who is now President had a relationship which might be regarded, by some classes, as an illicit liaison.”

“Can you prove that scandalous allegation? What do you possess, beyond a desire to defame the President, to support it?”

“Miss Gibson, circumstantial evidence, strong circumstantial evidence, is enough. The records of your visits and dating together, your telephone conversations, they are enough. The affair is indicated plainly. That is enough.”

“Enough only for backstairs gossips and vindictive persecutors-”

“Watch your tongue, Miss Gibson. You are sworn-”

“Watch yours, Mr. Manager. You have no proof. You have hopes. You have hopes, and hearsay, and indications. And on that you are trying to build a straw Romeo and a straw Juliet. What you are building is a nonexistent affair, a fabrication, and I am the only one in this Chamber who knows the truth, and that is what I am telling you.”

“Miss Gibson, do not insult the intelligence of this court. Do you mean to tell me that you, a grown single woman, enjoyed a friendship with a mature widowed male for five years, and there was no intimacy between you, not once in five years?”

“Intimacy?”

“Come now, Miss Gibson, you know very well what I mean.”

“I suspect I do, and I am appalled. Congressman Miller, the friendship I had with the President was based on mutual respect, common intellectual interests, and the simple pleasure of being together. We had an abiding affection for one another. We held hands. We embraced. We kissed. But, sorry as I am to disappoint you, there was nothing more furtive or lurid that ever occurred.”

“I am not disputing your sincerity, Miss Gibson, but do you mean to tell me that a person like the President-his intemperate habits have already been introduced into-”

“What intemperate habits?”

“Drinking, excessive drinking, for one thing.”

“Drinking? The President? Surely you’re joking. All he ever drank in my presence was carbonated water, celery tonic, and occasionally wine at dinner. Two glasses of wine and he fell asleep. The sight of a bourbon advertisement made him take me home early. You’re joking.”

“And you, Madam Witness, are flippant, excessively so, to the detriment of the person you, understandably, are trying to protect.”

“If I am flippant, it is because your questions inspire only my contempt, and yet I do not think they deserve the honest emotion of contempt, not from a lady and not in a court.”

“I will leave it to the honorable members of the Senate to judge your performance. However, before entering into the serious matter of how your close relationship with the President, your kiss-and-tell Vaduz relationship-”

Abrahams was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor!”

Miller gave a disdainful gesture toward Abrahams. “Forget it. I’ll rephrase… Miss Gibson, before entering into the series of questions designed to extract from you the full story of how you were able to acquire from the President privileged state information, and pass it on to your Communist employers, in support of Article I of the House indictment, I wonder if you would be kind enough to reply to one more question about your friendship with the President. Did the President find your companionship so rewarding, so fulfilling, for five years, that he did not think it necessary to ask your hand in marriage?”

“Congressman, I suspect the implication behind your question is an insult.”

“No offense intended-”

“You are implying, despite my sworn denial, that the President and I did have an affair, and that this satisfied him sufficiently to keep him from proposing marriage.”

“Miss Gibson, you said that, I didn’t.”

“Congressman, when a snake rattles, you know it’s just a rattle, not a bite, but you know the meaning of the sound, and what comes next.”

“Miss Gibson, I will not be diverted by a lecture in zoology. I want the facts of your relationship with the President set before this tribunal. Miss Gibson, after five years, why did the President and yourself not legalize your relationship?”

“Not legalize our relationship?”

“Not marry, Miss Gibson. Why did you not marry?”

“Because he never asked me. I think he meant to, but I think he was afraid.”

“The President-afraid?”

“Of people like you, Mr. Manager, who might think him too black for me, and me too white for him, and who might cry out that our union would be mongrelizing the Congress, where he was once a member, or the White House, where he is now the President. If you are through with the Madame du Barry part of my life, Mr. Manager, can we go on to the Mata Hari part? I’m eager to know how it all comes out.”

Ten minutes later, when Zeke Miller, mopping his wet bald pate, had finished the Mata Hari part and grimly gone back to his table, it was Nat Abrahams’ turn.

Abrahams rose. “Mr. Chief Justice, the President’s managers waive cross-examination. The witness may be dismissed without recall.”

He smiled at Wanda Gibson as she left the stand. Maybe the Senate had another view of it, but for Abrahams, the President’s lady needed no further defense this day or ever. Perhaps, Abrahams reasoned, her flippancy-how difficult the attitude must have been for her, considering her essential seriousness and concern, yet how unwaveringly she had maintained that pose, determined to ridicule the outrageous charges-may have offended some senators, coming, as it did, from a mulatto. Nevertheless, Abrahams believed she had more than adequately defended herself and the man she loved. She required no counsel’s assist. If most of the Senate appreciated her sparring with Miller, her ridiculing of Miller’s charges, then her triumph was not a small one.

Scanning the inscrutable public faces of the senators as they watched Wanda Gibson leave, Abrahams could detect nothing decisive, neither favorable nor unfavorable reactions.

Looking past the podium, Abrahams saw Zeke Miller’s manner change. He appeared to light up. Then Abrahams beheld the witness who was approaching, the witness whose deceptively innocent face was set firmly in cold determination.

Sally Watson, blond hair combed bell-like for the occasion, taupe wool sheath accentuating her feminine contours, mink stole on her arm, had gone up before the witness chair and the Secretary of the Senate.

Tuttle, beside Abrahams, leaned closer. “She looks as if she’s going to be hard on us,” he whispered.

“She will be,” Abrahams whispered in return.

Zeke Miller, rubbing his hands with apparent relish, dipping his head to the seated witness in a gallant welcome, addressed her with the deference he might have accorded Varina Howell Davis-Jefferson Davis’ Varina-flower of the Confederacy.

“Miss Watson, considering the nature of your familial ties, the fact that your brilliant and beloved parent is a member of this august body, considering the ordeal you have recently undergone, it is an act of uncommon bravery and patriotism for you to have volunteered to appear here in public this afternoon. All of us in the legislative branch are appreciative that you are ready to become a collaborator in our search for the truth, in our desire to purify and strengthen the executive branch of our noble government. For my part, I shall attempt to make your appearance as brief as possible.”

“Thank you, Representative Miller.”

“I understand that you have insisted upon coming here against your physician’s wishes?”

“Yes, sir.”