Irving Wallace - The Man

Miller had the blue handkerchief out again, and angrily mopped his wet face.

Talley wrung his hands nervously. “Zeke, he was voted into the Senate-”

“By damn Northern Communists,” interrupted Miller.

“Nevertheless, he was voted into the Senate, and the Senate voted him President pro tempore, and legally he was in the line of succession. I don’t see what you can do about it.”

“Aha!” exclaimed Miller. “That’s why I brought Casper Wine over here. He knows the Constitution so thoroughly, he could’ve signed it with Hancock. A group of us who are concerned about what’s happening to our country, who believe in justice, we met most of the night and this morning, and we brought Casper in with us, to find out what could be done before Dilman becomes President.”

“He is already President,” said Eaton calmly. “I saw him sworn in last night.”

“Illegal procedure’s what you saw,” said Miller. “Casper and the rest of us have covered that point. There are plenty of loopholes in the Succession Act. We’re fixing to have the whole thing nullified. We’re getting up this preliminary challenge for the House Judiciary Committee. I’m here because I’m of the mind that you should be the first to know what we’re doing, Mr. Secretary. After all, if we win, you’re the one person directly affected. If we can disqualify Dilman, then you’re the one to replace him, by special election, if necessary. We’re only trying to make you President, Mr. Secretary.”

“I should be grateful,” said Eaton coldly, “but I am only interested in upholding the law.”

Miller had spun away. “Casper, read them our findings.”

Casper Wine was already tugging a massive legal brief out of his brown case.

Eaton shook his head. “We don’t have time to hear a reading of any brief. President Dilman is on his way here, and there is a good deal of business to transact… Mr. Wine, forget any reading. Tell us in your own words what you have in that appeal.”

Casper Wine squinted despairingly through his convex spectacle lenses at Miller.

Miller shrugged, then said, “Okay, give it to them in a capsule, Casper.”

The myopic constitutional attorney brought the legal brief up high, close to his eyes, until it all but obscured his face. Slowly he peeled the pages, reading to himself, and at last he lowered the brief to his lap. He began to speak in a hesitant falsetto, his magnified eyes not on Eaton or Talley but roaming his brief, the carpet, the shoes of his sponsor.

“It is difficult-uh-difficult to reduce our appeal to a few generalities without-uh-without reciting our researches into precedent, previous Acts-uh-Acts of Succession and constitutional history,” he said. “I shall attempt to condense our case.” His eyes closed behind his fat lenses, and then his eyes and his mouth opened. “If you will read the Constitution, you will see under Article II, Section 1, Paragraph 6, that should both the President-uh-President and Vice-President die, then Congress shall have the right to declare-I quote-‘what Officer shall then act as President’ until ‘a President shall be elected.’ Now then, Congress three times passed bills clarifying-uh-clarifying the succession, and the last bill in 1947 provided that the Speaker should be next in line, the President pro tempore of the-uh-the Senate after him, and the Secretary of State after him. Under this bill of 1947, within the framework of the Constitution, it is highly questionable if-uh-Dilman, this Douglass Dilman, can be sworn in, that is, can become in actuality President of the United States. First, the wording of the Constitution makes it clear-uh-clear that the successor must be an ‘Officer,’ and the weight of legal opinion is that Dilman as a Senator, and the Speaker before him, and the-uh-the Secretary of State after him are not technically officers at all. If Dilman is not an ‘Officer,’ how can he be eligible to become President?”

Talley turned to Eaton. “That’s a point, Arthur.”

Eaton wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Too weak. I think it is doubtful if you can overturn an Act of Succession on a minor semantic issue.”

“We shall see,” said Casper Wine. “But let us suppose-uh-suppose you are found to be right, Mr. Secretary. Next, we come to a stronger challenge. The Constitution states plainly that the successor shall-uh-shall-and I emphasize this-shall ‘ act as President’ until ‘a President shall be elected.’ In short, Senator Dilman may act as President, in an honorary custodial sense as he acted as chairman in the Senate, until a special election is held across the country to give us a new and legal President for four more years.”

Once more, Eaton was shaking his head. “I don’t see that. In the recent past, eight Vice-Presidents succeeded eight dead Presidents, and they did not act as Presidents, they performed as Presidents.”

“True, but they performed unconstitutionally,” persisted Wine. “The first mistake was made when William Harrison passed away in 1841. The Cabinet informed and addressed his successor, John Tyler, as Vice-President of the United States, Acting President, which was correct. Tyler, wishing the power, honors, and title of full President, ignored-uh-ignored the Cabinet, and made himself full President and spoke-uh-spoke of his ‘accession to the Presidency,’ despite protests of many senators. Other successors merely followed his high-handed illegal custom. Almost all-uh-all of these successors have been challenged in the press. Harry Truman and Lyndon Johnson were so challenged. But nothing more happened.”

Zeke Miller jumped into view, and stood over Eaton. “This time, Mr. Secretary, we’re seeing to it something happens. We’re abiding by our beloved Constitution. If Dilman is not an officer, he is not eligible for the Presidency. If he is an officer, then he is eligible to act as President only until we can have a special election in this country to vote for a legal President-hopefully, Mr. Secretary, yourself.”

Eaton stood up. “Forget about me. I am not the issue.”

“You are the issue,” said Miller excitedly. “Six former Secretaries of State have become Presidents, but no President pro tempore of the Senate ever did. You are our best candidate.”

“Congressman Miller,” said Eaton wearily, “you can have no candidate for another year and five months, because you have a President… Mr. Wine, I appreciate your legal briefing. I can have no part of it. I will not deter you or the Congressman from presenting your findings before the House Judiciary. I can only remark that I must serve President Dilman until I am told not to do so.”

Congressman Zeke Miller began to grin. “Fair enough, fair enough. You let us carry the ball, and you stand by. Believe me, Mr. Secretary, you won’t regret it.” He sought his briefcase, and signaled Casper Wine to his feet. He paused before Talley. “I’m looking out for all of us, Governor. I am all-fired determined, by legal means which exist, to prevent that there Dilman from selling out our heritage to that parcel of black terrorists in the Turnerite gang and to those whining hymn singers in the Crispus Society and NAACP. You can tell Dilman he can play President for a couple days, but you better also tell him not to go to the expense of moving into the White House.” He winked. “I like that old House, I like the color it is right now.”

After Miller and Wine had gone, the clatter of their footsteps on the tile corridor quickly receding, the Fish Room was silent. Eaton and Talley did not look at one another. Eaton occupied himself inserting a cigarette into his silver holder and lighting it. When he had taken several puffs, he met Talley’s gaze.

“I do not like that man, I do not like him at all,” Eaton said.