Irving Wallace - The Man

“One of the most important,” Dilman corrected him.

“Yes, I guess the others consider theirs just as important,” said Poole.

“They do, and they’re demanding equal time. I don’t want to be abrupt, Leroy, but I’m afraid they won’t let me be as casual about appointments here as I was in the Senate Office Building. So let’s get right on-”

Dilman paused. The French door behind Poole had opened, and Julian was standing there, worried and harassed, and at his elbow was the Secret Service agent called Sperry.

“I-I’m sorry to break in like this,” Julian was saying, “but I went into the ground floor like you said, and this gentleman grabbed me and asked for my pass, and I had none. I told him who I was, but he frisked me, and then said I couldn’t get upstairs until I was cleared.”

Dilman calmed his son with a gesture. “All right, Julian… Mr. Sperry-”

The Secret Service agent came alongside Julian. “Sorry, Mr. President, I was sure he was your son, but I couldn’t take any chances unless he was identified or I was instructed.”

Dilman nodded. “You were correct. Consider him identified as my son, and ask Chief Gaynor to make out a permanent White House pass.” Dilman realized that Poole was on his feet, studying Julian. Hastily, Dilman performed the introduction. “Julian, meet Leroy Poole, the writer you so much admire.”

Julian’s eyes protruded more noticeably as he eagerly stepped forward to shake Poole’s hand. “Gosh, Mr. Poole, this is an honor-”

“A pleasure for me, too, Mr. Dilman. I’d been looking forward to meeting you at least once before completing your father’s biography.”

“I’ve read every one of your articles,” Julian said. “I even heard you lecture once at our school.”

“Your school? I remember your father telling me. You’re at Trafford. I don’t recall-”

“It was the students’ branch of the Crispus Society.”

“I remember,” said Leroy Poole.

Dilman’s cough interrupted the exchange. “Sorry, Leroy, but I am crowded for time… Mr. Sperry, will you take my son up to the second floor?”

“Thanks, Dad,” said Julian. His eyes lingered admiringly on Poole. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Poole.”

When the French door closed, Poole resumed his seat. “That’s a mighty fine boy you have, Mr. President. I don’t remember your telling me that he was a member of the Crispus Society.”

“It’s in your notes, I’m sure,” said Dilman. “In fact, he’s now on one of the national committees at their headquarters. Shall we get on with our business?”

“I’m ready, Mr. President. I’ve been giving some thought to the book-”

“So have I, Leroy. I’ve come to a decision. I don’t like the idea of its publication right now, but I want to be fair. You’ve worked hard and long on it. You’re expecting certain income from it. I have no right to deprive you. So-”

“You have no right to deprive the country,” said Poole, fingers wiping his brow. “The book was conceived as an inspirational story for our people. Due to circumstances, to your elevation, Mr. President, I now feel positive it will be inspirational for all people of this country, no matter what their color. It will lead to an understanding of you, better feeling between the races, and it will present the best image of you, the most accurate one, the only firsthand one extant.”

Listening to Poole’s salesmanship, Dilman remembered hearing from Edna Foster what she had heard a few nights ago from her fiancé, George Murdock, that many members of the press corps had been approached by New York publishers to write their reminiscences of T. C., and several had been asked to write hurried biographies of the new President. It occurred to Dilman that not one of the press corps, who might undertake a paste-up story of him, knew him as well as Poole or was in possession of so many actual facts. If biographies were inevitable, it behooved him to encourage one that might be a good one.

“All right, Leroy,” he found himself saying, “you don’t have to sell me on the biography. I agreed to this, and no matter what has happened, I’ll go through with it. I’ll make only one qualification. When I was a senator, it did not seem unreasonable to permit a Negro publisher to bring the book out. Now that I am, by fate, President of the country, I think that would look wrong. I think the book should be published simultaneously by the Negro press you’ve contracted with and by a reputable white publishing house in New York. I must insist upon that.”

“Suits me fine,” said Poole. “In fact, that’s a great idea. I’ll call my literary agent in New York today. Tell him it has to be two publishers or none. That’ll be no problem. The big thing is the ending of the book. I’ve got to change that. Now there’s a new climax and finish, and we’ll have to talk it over, and-”

“Leroy, I don’t have time any more. I wish I could, but-no more interviews.”

Poole looked stricken. “Senator-Mr. President-Good Lord, I can’t write about you and not tell of your becoming the first Negro President.”

“Don’t get upset,” said Dilman. “I’ll tell you what-you conclude the book on the note of my moving into the White House, which I did today. You end the book where I’ve been President for a week.”

“That’ll still require some interviews.”

Dilman hesitated. “I can’t promise you, Leroy. Here’s what I suggest. Draw up one last set of questions and send them to me through Miss Foster. I’ll dictate the answers some night soon when I have a spare hour. You have my word-I’ll do it soon. If there’s anything you’ve missed, you can poke your head in here once or twice in the coming month. That’s the best can promise, Leroy.”

“It’ll have to do,” said Poole unhappily. “Yes, I’ll manage somehow. It’ll be a good book, I guarantee you.”

“I’m sure it will.” Dilman pushed his swivel chair away from the desk. “That’s it, then. Everything’s settled.” He waited for Leroy Poole to rise and leave, but Poole had not moved. Puzzled, Dilman waited.

“Uh, Mr. President,” said Poole, “there is just one other thing, if you can give me another minute or two.”

“Well-” Dilman began doubtfully.

“Only a minute or two,” Poole implored.

As he watched the beads of perspiration on the writer’s brow increase, Dilman felt sorry for him. He relaxed slightly. “Very well, Leroy, what’s on your mind?”

“All the oppressions going on around the country against our people,” said Poole with urgency. “Especially one case I happen to be following. It seems to symbolize the worst of everything. Have you been reading about the trial down in Hattiesburg, Mississippi?”

“You mean those Turnerite boys?” said Dilman. “I’ve seen it in the morning papers this week. I haven’t followed it closely.”

“It’s a shocking matter,” said Poole with growing agitation. “The Turnerites were peacefully picketing a Klansman. They were violently attacked, one blinded, one crippled for life. They were jailed, instead of their white attackers. Now they’re waiting sentence by County Judge Everett Gage, one of the most flagrant segregationists and vicious warthogs in the white racist underground. The trial was a farce, and it seems to me it is the perfect battleground to stop discriminatory practices in those local Southern courtrooms and introduce some vestige of legal democracy. I keep telling myself the Attorney General should intervene-this is one place he should intervene. Has he sent you a full account?”

Dilman’s forehead had contracted, trying to read Poole’s anxiety and interest in one out of more than a hundred similar cases. “No,” said Dilman. “This is not a Federal matter. It is a state matter, a community matter.”