Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

Marshall’s voice had risen in a crescendo, his emotion giving him strength. His was a spellbinding presentation. The Ohioan had the undivided attention of every member of the committee. No one fidgeted, and there were none of the hushed conversations among committee members that often take place during presentations of prepared testimony. Eleanor Justica even waved off a staff member who came to give her a message.

Marshall drank more water and stretched his shoulders in the manner of someone trying to loosen tight neck muscles.

“Would you like to take a break, Senator?” Green asked.

“Hell, no,” said Marshall. “I’m just getting wound up.”

Green smiled, and saw many others in the committee room smile, too. Old, weird Harold was captivating his audience.

But a delay in the proceedings was inevitable. Bells rang and lights lit up around the perimeter of the hearing-room clock, signaling a Senate floor vote. With apologies for the delay, the committee members left to say yea or nay to the Presidential nomination of a controversial conservationist to a key position in the Interior Department. The nomination had become a battle between those who would preserve the pristine qualities of large tracts of undeveloped land and those who saw the land as a source of commodities: oil, gas, coal, timber, gold, silver, uranium. The vote would be close, and party leaders expected every senator to be present.

Committee members began returning forty minutes later. Even if word had not preceded them that the nominee was confirmed, the reporters could have predicted it from the look on their faces. The environmentalists were smiling; their opponents, if not grim, certainly looked businesslike. Marshall appeared several minutes later and resumed his place at the witness table. He spoke a few words with his attorney and then turned to face Hugh Green.

“Senator Marshall, I apologize for the interruption, but you know the importance of that vote as well as any of us.”

“I was aware of the importance of it, Senator Green,” Marshall said. “I must say, however, I had hoped for a different outcome.”

“That was clear from your vote, Senator. Are you ready to continue?”

“Ready and eager,” Marshall said and picked up where he had left off.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there seems to be a great deal of concern that on two occasions, I sent members of the staff of the Senate Transportation Committee to Dulles Airport to confer with a high official of the National Transportation Safety Board on what level of blame would be placed upon the Converse Fan engine for that horrible, tragic accident in April. Were my inquiries construed by the NTSB as pressure to take it easy on Converse? I don’t think so. I hope not. I surely don’t want any repetition of that awful day, and I would do nothing to prevent the NTSB from carrying out its mandate.”

Marshall let his voice drop so low those in the room could barely hear him, although those watching on television could hear him quite well. He began with his head bowed and slowly raised it until his eyes looked directly toward the cluster of television-camera lenses trained on him.

“Three hundred and thirty-four lives. Three hundred and thirty-four sets of hopes and dreams. All gone. Could anyone contemplate the enormity of the tragedy and not want the reason for it discovered? Could anyone look at the television, the magazines, the newspaper pictures of the loss of innocent life and not want to do everything, every little thing, to prevent a repetition of the carnage? The members of this committee have known me for years. Is there any one of you who could say with certain conviction that I am a man who would see innocent people killed and do nothing to prevent it happening again? Do those of you who dislike me think me such an ogre that I would knowingly, willfully, stand in the way of a thorough investigation? Or in any way attempt to influence the judgments of the men and women dedicated to finding that flaw or that one mistake that, if corrected, would ensure there is never a repetition of the tragedy? Do you think me that kind of man? Frankly, I can’t believe that you do.

“In my years in the Senate, I have been consistent in my votes to aid the oppressed, the downtrodden, the homeless, the hungry, the sick and the dying and the poor and the dispossessed. I have, on occasion, voted against the will of my party’s leadership because of my conviction that we must look out for each other or humanity surely will perish. Some critics have suggested I’m in the wrong party. I don’t think so. Humanitarianism is not indigenous only to Democrats. It has been my history, my life—” he raised his eyes to the cameras again “—my record, that people’s welfare comes first. That is why I fought to bring Converse to Youngstown. There were people who needed jobs, people who needed paychecks, people who needed their dignity restored. Would I have risked myself to help the company that saved my hometown? Yes. Of course. Without a second thought. But would I have risked the lives of thousands of innocent people who board airliners every day as an act of faith? No, ladies and gentlemen.” He began to shake his head. “No. No. No. No. No. No. No. Never.”

Suddenly Marshall looked pained, not physically, but emotionally. His voice cracked. “I have too much regard for human life—and for what is lost when a human life is snuffed out before its time—to ever, ever do anything to risk that happening to anyone.”

He opened his hands to the committee in a gesture of supplication. “Judge me. And if you must, judge me harshly. But tell me one thing. My conscience is clear, and I am at peace with what I have done. How many among you can make that statement?”

There was a pause of nearly ten seconds before Hugh Green drew in a deep breath of recognition that Marshall was finished.

“That was an eloquent statement, Senator Marshall,” Green said. “You are an eloquent man. Our chief counsel, Mr. Brent Hammond, is scheduled to handle the first round of questions for you but—” he glanced up at the wall clock “—I see it is nearly 12:30, and I think this would be an appropriate place to break for lunch. Without objection, we are in recess until two o’clock.”

As committee members, reporters, Senate staff, and public spectators filed out, Marshall remained at the witness table, reflecting on his impact.

“You were good, very, very good,” Woody Vredenberg told him.

Harold Marshall cast his attorney a withering look of disdain. “Screw that,” he said and began to gather up his papers. “I was brilliant. I was totally fucking brilliant.”

Green gaveled the afternoon session to order at six minutes past two o’clock.

“Senator Marshall,” he said, his deep voice commanding quiet in the room, “I anticipate being able to complete our questioning by five o’clock, at which time you will be permitted to make a closing statement, should you so choose. Is that satisfactory?”

“Completely,” Marshall agreed. “Although I am here for as long as you need me.”

“We appreciate it, Senator. All right. Mr. Hammond, who has taken charge of our staff investigation, will open the questioning. Mr. Hammond will have an hour, after which each of the six members of the committee will have twenty minutes apiece. I think that should bring us to five o’clock and give everyone a chance to be heard. Mr. Hammond.”

Brent Hammond was a serious lawyer, in his mid-thirties, with longish blond hair falling to his collar, perhaps to make up for what he was losing above his forehead.

As the six members of the committee made their opening statements, Hammond remained intent on the substantial pile of documents before him. But when Marshall made his opening statement, Hammond stopped reading and focused on the Ohio Republican, his eyes never leaving Marshall’s face. If Marshall noticed, he didn’t react outwardly. But Steve Pace noticed and concluded Hammond’s hard gaze would have unnerved him.