Irving Wallace - The Man

“But our whole judicial system is being made a clowning-”

“Leroy, I don’t understand you. Why this concern over one obscure and isolated trial?” He paused. “Is it because you’re a Turnerite? I never asked you before. Are you?”

“My God, no,” said Poole. “I’m dragging along with the Crispus Society. I’m too sedentary and timid for anything as vigorous as the new Turnerite Group. It is just that I admire them, as every thinking minority should. This is, after so many words, their first public move, and they’re being legally lynched. That’s all there is to my interest, Mr. President. I have deep sympathy for them.”

Although he was inexplicably troubled, Dilman tried to hold a stern expression on his face. “I’m sorry, Leroy, but I have less sympathy for those Turnerites than you have. I don’t like most of that irresponsible and inflammatory talk their leader has been giving out.”

“Jeff Hurley? Why, Senator Dilman-Mr. President-he’s a great man. I-I had occasion to meet him several times, hear him speak. He’s no rabble-rouser or savage red-neck like those white segregationists. He’s intelligent, kindhearted, and he’s only reflecting the mood of-of the Negro population.”

Dilman felt weak, but would not weaken. “Leroy, we’ve gone over this ground indirectly in our interviews for the book. You know my stand. I’m a Negro, I’m conscious of it, I’m proud of it. I’m more aware of my birthright today than ever before. I want justice done for us, as Negroes, the way I want it for every Mexican and Puerto Rican and Jew and Catholic. But, Leroy, this is still a civilized country we have, educated to abide by the laws enacted by the majority. You don’t get what you want by breaking other people’s heads.”

“In war you do. There is war in this country.”

“No, Leroy, as Americans we gave up that kind of solution at Appomattox. We’ve come a long way by using better means. We’ll go farther the same way.”

“But, right now, you can do so much more for us, for justice, now that you are President,” Poole pleaded.

“Leroy, no matter what I feel inside as a Negro man, I can do no more as an American President than T. C. or The Judge or Johnson or Kennedy did before me.”

Poole came forward, his moonface crunched with anguish. “Then I appeal to you not as a President but as a Negro man. There is one personal act you can perform that would help those Turnerite martyrs and bring the issue more strongly before the whole country. I heard there’s a great attorney come here from Chicago, Nathan Abrahams, the kind of man who is conscious of these injustices. He could save the Turnerites, even with the trial over, then by appealing the verdict and sentence. I know you once mentioned him as an old friend of yours. His prestige would-”

Dilman shook his head vigorously. “No, Leroy. I can’t go to Nat Abrahams. He is an old friend, true. He is in the city. We spoke on the phone only two days ago. In fact, he’s coming to dine with me tonight. But I would not dream of influencing his activity. If you want him so badly, why don’t you call him? Or have that man Hurley do so?”

“Hurley tried. I heard that. He was told Abrahams is tied up on other business right now. But if you, as his friend, with your position-”

“Absolutely no,” said Dilman. “If he can’t do it for Hurley, I don’t feel I should put him in the position of having to do it for me.” Then he added, “Especially since, in spite of what the details of that trial in Mississippi may be, I still don’t like how Hurley is going about things. Sorry, Leroy.”

“Well, I’m sorry, too,” said Poole softly. “Forgive me. I think you are making a mistake.”

“I’ve made many mistakes as an individual,” said Dilman. “I hope to make fewer as this country’s Chief Executive. I’m as conscious as you of my color and of injustices to men of my color. Perhaps what’s happened-my being put in this seat, this office-and acting with dignity and responsibility toward all races in the full view of the whole nation and the world-will, could, do more to break down barriers of prejudice than anything else. It is a dream I hold. I don’t want to destroy it by diverting myself to lesser skirmishes or using my influence on friends. Be patient, Leroy. Much will be done.” He paused. “Our conversation, of course, is privileged. I don’t want to see any of it in your book.”

Leroy Poole rose. “Of course not, Mr. President. One thing has nothing to do with the other… Thank you for your time. I’ll write up some questions for you to answer. I hope to see you again soon.”

He had turned to leave, when he seemed to remember something and hurriedly came back to the desk.

“Mr. President, I almost forgot, but I promised someone to mention this to you. There’s a young lady I met, very well known in Washington-very capable, I’m told-who wants to apply for the position of your social secretary. She’s-”

“I was thinking of promoting one of the girls already on the White House staff. I don’t think anyone from outside-”

“She’s Senator Watson’s daughter.”

Dilman could not conceal his surprise. “Senator Watson? Are you sure? He’s the Southern-”

“That’s right. But his daughter, Sally Watson, is different. I don’t know her well, but we’ve talked. She’s absolutely color-blind, progressive, liberal, and knows everyone in the city, naturally. She’s dying to apply for the job, if it’s open.”

“Oh, it’s open.” Dilman tried to think. At least three top secretaries on T. C.’s staff had resigned. Mary Lou Rand, the First Lady’s press secretary, had been one of them. Miss Laurel, the First Lady’s social secretary, had been another. He hated to examine their real motives in quitting. He remembered the advice given him by T. C.’s widow this morning. Hesper had said that he needed a woman in the White House to manage the many executive social functions. The right woman was imperative. Through the morning, Dilman had thought of hiring a clever and personable Negro girl. Then he had rejected the idea. There was no Negro girl among those he knew who had the social background to conduct formal dinners, play hostess to heads of state and Supreme Court justices and congressmen and ambassadors. There was not one he knew, even if he waived experience, who had the education and poise. Moreover, a Negro girl brought into the White House by him on this level would invite more angry speculation from the press that he was peopling the White House with those of his own race.

Yet, he had thought, a white social secretary invited as many difficulties, if different ones. While he expected that, by making inquiries, he could find the right young lady, one who had mingled in the government and Georgetown set, the idea of having a white girl so close to him in the White House was dangerous. That, too, might create suspicion and resentment. Nevertheless, it had to be someone , and if he was to do what Hesper advised, find an efficient person, it would have to be a white girl.

He considered the name of the one whom Poole had suggested. He had a vague recollection of reading about Sally Watson in the Washington Post, the Star, Zeke Miller’s Citizen-American . As a senator’s daughter, she would know everyone, know what was proper and correct. And Poole had said that she was liberal and open-minded, and “dying” for the position. Gradually Dilman warmed to the suggestion. The act of appointing a Southern senator’s socialite daughter to a social job in the White House might be more valuable than harmful, from a public-relations point of view.

Dilman found Leroy Poole still standing before him, Dilman nodded. “Yes, the position is open,” he repeated. “I was just thinking pro and con, but I suppose that is pointless without meeting the young lady and knowing more about her.”