Irving Wallace - The Man

Douglass Dilman stood up.

He had not done well, he knew. Yet he was curiously relieved. For he had done what he had known from the first must be done: he had made the invisible Article V a part of the conscience of the court, and tomorrow he would be judged on it and nothing less.

Stepping down from the witness stand, then crossing past the podium and the table of opposition managers, he could see a crowd of press photographers, along with witnesses and page boys, jammed before and around the doorway to the Senators’ Private Lobby through which he would reach the President’s Room of the Senate. Then, as he moved toward the milling mob, he recognized Wanda’s distressed face among those waiting for him.

That moment, he knew that there was one act left undone that he now wished done. In seconds, they would surround him, begging him to pose, and he would agree, yes, he would agree, but not before insisting that Wanda pose side by side with him. To some, it might be a small thing, but to him, it was of dominant importance. Yes, he would call her to him, because she was so beautiful, because she was so courageous, but, above all, because he must let her know that today, perhaps, he had finally earned the right to stand in public by her side.

Now, at eight forty-five in the evening, and for the first time since Dilman had become President, certainly for the first time in many weeks, Arthur Eaton felt in high spirits.

Arms folded across his vest, the ankles of his outstretched legs crossed, he sat back in the soft armchair and continued to watch the drama ooze out of the trial on the brilliantly colored television screen near the built-in bar of his living room. Chewing on the stem of his empty silver cigarette holder, Eaton followed Nat Abrahams as he plodded through his examination of the last of the defense witnesses.

For Eaton, the trial was all but ended. Except for a few bad moments in the afternoon, when his own name had been bandied about in the low exchange between Abrahams and Sally Watson, it had been a glorious and heady day. Even when President Dilman had unexpectedly taken the witness stand, no doubt denigrating himself further in the public esteem by his undignified self-pleading, and collaborated with his counsel on that defensive pap about Eaton attempting to usurp his powers, Eaton had not been dismayed. He had known that Zeke Miller would, when his turn came, demolish the President, and Miller had succeeded in so doing. Much as Eaton had formerly disliked the Southern legislator, he had been forced, more and more, to admire him for his clever (if barbaric) forensics. In fact, Eaton had told himself while watching the House manager make mincemeat of the President, if Miller were not handicapped by his inherited racial intolerance, he might make, very well might make, an excellent Attorney General in the Cabinet of a new Administration.

Eaton surmised that not only for himself, but possibly for the millions viewing the live spectacular on television, the dramatic climax of the trial had been the foolhardy exhibition of President Dilman on the witness stand. Why had he risked it? Had he expected, under his counsel’s soft guidance, to sway the Senate and public to his side by his posture of persecuted martyr? If so, he had failed miserably. Zeke Miller had shown him for what he was, for the entire nation to see, not martyr but satyr, not public official but pitiful fool. That had been the high point: Dilman’s fall.

All else that had followed before and after the dinner recess, and what Eaton could see now on the screen, was tiresome and technical and would change no votes. Tomorrow morning’s closing addresses by Miller and Abrahams, while they might provide some pyrotechnics, could do no more than underline and emphasize, and then summarize in capsule, the strongest contentions of both sides, all of which were already known. There was nothing left to feed into the Senate’s computing mind. The data had been fed. What was left, of interest, historic interest, was the answer that would be spewed out. When would the jurors vote? He remembered. They would vote tomorrow at two o’clock in the afternoon.

Arthur Eaton wondered which suit he should wear tomorrow afternoon.

The doorbell sounded, followed immediately by the heavy clanging of the antique brass front-door knocker.

Eaton came out of the armchair, perplexed. He had expected no visitors tonight. And Kay, it could not be Kay. He had sent the car to the airport after her only twenty minutes ago, and besides, her flight from Miami was probably not in yet.

Eaton opened the door, and then, to his amazement, he found himself staring at Sally Watson.

“Well, President-elect-by-the-Senate, aren’t you going to let me in?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, Sally. Of course, please do come in. I guess I was surprised. I thought you’d be busy, and-I was expecting someone else. I’m going to be tied up in a little while.”

“Goody for you, my hero,” she said. “Well, I’m not tied up, only fit to be tied.”

She went into the living room. Eaton closed the door and hastily followed her. She opened her leopard coat but did not remove it.

Pirouetting on a spiked heel to confront him, she jerked her thumb toward the television set. “Licking your chops, Arthur?”

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t be senile, Arthur.” She considered him. “I haven’t been made very welcome. I guess it has been as long as I thought.”

Unhappily, he stepped toward her and kissed her lightly on the lips. Her breath was acrid with the fumes of whiskey, and he stepped back quickly, fighting to hide his reaction.

“Don’t tell me, Arthur. Let me guess. Multiple choice. Is she drunk, or sorta drunk, or very drunk?” She tried to snap her fingers, but they missed. “ Very drunk . Kee-rect!”

“Sally, what’s going on with-?”

She lifted her hand for silence. “Multiple choice number two. Is she drunk because she hasn’t seen or heard from him for eight days, or because he has broken three standing dates, or because he hasn’t answered six calls she made in forty-eight hours? Answer-not one but all, all , kee-rect! Fooled you, didn’t I?”

“Sally, be reasonable. With this trial going on, every move I make is watched. Besides, I’ve been busy-”

“I know, darling, busy and ill-what is the illness called?-oh yes, Presidential fever. That’s all that is ailing you, my hero.”

“Well, what the devil is ailing you?”

“Happy to tell you.” She walked farther into the room. “Am I allowed to take off my coat?”

“Sally, I wish you could, but I am expecting company in a very short time.”

“Okay. A drink, then.”

He was reluctant to go to the bar. “Sally, don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“You bet I’ve had enough-enough of everything-so one more of anything won’t hurt.” As he reluctantly started for the bar, she added, “And shut off that damn television.”

Eaton quickly complied. Then, as quickly, he poured a Scotch on ice for Sally, and a soft drink for himself.

“Here you are, dear,” he said, handing her the Scotch.

Accepting the drink in one hand, she tapped his glass with the other. “You used to do better than that, when you asked me to take off my coat and more.”

“There is a conference tonight. I’ll have to have a clear head.”

She drank at length, then she said, “All right.” She brooded over the glass, then she said suddenly, “Let’s have it out, Arthur. Are you trying to give me the brush, or what?”

“Give you the brush?”

“Are you trying to drop me? You know, you know, Galileo’s law or whoever it was. You hold something. You get tired holding it. You let go. It falls down and goes plop. You’re free of it.”