(1964) The Man (103 page)

From the moment that he had sent for her, to the time he had awaited her arrival, Leroy Poole had expected Gladys Hurley to be such a mother, a parent the complete antithesis of her sublime son. And what confounded Poole the most last night, when he had set eyes upon his idol’s mother for the first time, was that Gladys Hurley appeared to be the Olympian mother incarnate. Nothing about her, neither her appearance nor her manner, had contradicted her son’s heroic proportions.

Secretly, emotionally, Poole had been pleased that Gladys Hurley was worthy of her great son; secretly, intellectually, Poole had been distressed. He had wanted, when he went before President Dilman in these critical moments, someone to supplement himself and his own appeal in the confrontation. The brief that he and the lawyer had prepared, Poole hoped, would provide the argument that would be acceptable to Dilman’s intelligence, what little there was of that. The mother, he had hoped, would be the woeful and pathetic universal mother, perhaps the mother of Dilman’s own childhood, who would shake and soften Dilman and reach his deepest feelings.

For once, in the shrewdness of his preparations, Leroy Poole had prayed for a nauseating pudding of a mother, a weeper, a mammy talker, a servile, menial mother, a shawl and Good Book mother, a breast-beating, psalm-sniffling, kneeling, begging mother capable of making the hardest heart crack. Instead, he had been handicapped by Gladys Hurley, and the final touch to his grand design had been botched.

He inspected her now. She was tall and thin, neat and respectable in her dark Sunday-meeting dress. The gray in her hair had been blue-rinsed. Her square, taut, dignified visage was as impassive and tough as that of a plains squaw. She carried silence like a sword. Except for her lack of formal education, which showed itself during her brief forays into speech, except for her work-roughened hands, except for the stoicism in her bearing, there was nothing that betrayed the oppressed and embittered Negro mother. She was worthy of Jefferson Hurley, yes, but she was wrong, all wrong, for a sentimental yahoo like Dilman.

Nevertheless, between them, they would have to make do, Leroy Poole decided. The cautious confidence he had brought along with Mrs. Hurley to the White House now became surer as he recalled his lengthy petition for executive clemency, his detailed review of the unjust trial and sentence, his documentation of new evidence (the prejudicial remarks to the press by the Federal judge presiding, the refusal of the court to grant immunity to the one surviving Turnerite—since Burleigh Thomas was dead—who had participated in the kidnaping with Hurley but escaped, and had been prepared to vouch for the fact that Judge Gage had threatened Hurley’s life before and after the kidnaping, as well as other new and important facts), and his closing moving plea that the President commute Hurley’s death sentence to life imprisonment.

Leroy Poole wondered how carefully Dilman, with his self-absorption, the distractions occasioned by his impeachment, had studied the appeal. The last time he had spoken to Dilman—it seemed another age by now—he had been threatening, even insulting, to the President. Would the residue of his resentment weight the scales as part of the President’s judgment? Poole feared it might and then he did not. For when he had last been here in Miss Foster’s office, she had come straight from Dilman to inform him that the President had promised he would see that the cumbersome process of appeal for Presidential clemency would be expedited. If Dilman had still borne him a grudge, he would not have made the concession.

Indeed, Poole had definitely received cooperation from the Department of Justice. His appeal of the sentence, in the case of the
United States v. Hurley
, had been rushed through all five stages. His application had been swiftly processed. His affidavits, in the hands of the appointed pardon attorney and United States Attorney, had been rapidly investigated, considered, acted upon, and the Attorney General’s personal recommendation, along with the original appeal, had moved speedily on to the President. Now the petition for clemency was on the threshold of the fifth and final stage—notification of the President’s decision.

Surely, Poole thought, the Dilman who had read this appeal could no longer be the faint, vacillating, half-ostrich, counterfeit-white Dilman he had known months ago as a senator and as the repugnant subject of his hack biography. Surely, Poole thought, the Dilman who read this appeal had been altered by the events around him, which would explain why Dilman himself was unjustly on trial (yes, even Poole would concede this, because, as Dilman’s smart attorney had said on television today, he was being indicted under an invisible Article of Impeachment directed at his black skin).

Suddenly Poole was distracted by a movement from Gladys Hurley. She had opened her imitation-patent-leather purse and found her compact, and was phlegmatically examining herself in the mirror.

As she returned the compact to the purse, Leroy Poole said, “I was just reviewing the case, Mrs. Hurley. I think we have everything on our side.”

She said, “I hope so, Mr. Poole.”

He said, “Of course, we’ve got to allow for anything to happen. If—if it goes the wrong way—you remember our discussion last night, don’t you? I mean, we’re of one mind about that?”

She said, “Yes, sir, if that’s what’ll save my boy.”

Satisfied, Leroy Poole began to consult his wristwatch for the twentieth time, when the corridor door opened.

A White House policeman said, “The President is back. He’ll see you now. Right this way to Mr. Lucas’ office. He’s the engagements secretary.”

Hastily, Mrs. Hurley and Leroy Poole followed the policeman across the checkered tile of the hallway, until they were shown into a modest antechamber with two brown desks. Shelby Lucas, the bespectacled engagements secretary with the Hapsburg lip and undershot jaw, was standing.

“Mrs. Gladys Hurley? Mr. Poole? Sorry to have delayed you,” he said. “The President had to attend a ceremony, and he’s only now returned. I’m afraid he’s running behind schedule, but you may have ten minutes.”

Poole liked the sound of that ten minutes. Bad tidings took more time. One did not snuff out another’s life without lengthy explanations. Good news needed no hour hand.

Lucas had opened the door beside his broad desk, signaled his visitors, and they obediently followed him through a little corridor. Lucas rapped, opened the next door, and announced to the occupant inside, “Mr. President, Mrs. Gladys Hurley and Mr. Leroy Poole.”

They went inside, and Douglass Dilman, on his feet beside his desk, shook Mrs. Hurley’s hand, murmuring some amenity, and then he took Poole’s fat hand. “Hello, Leroy. It’s been some time. Do sit down over there by the fireplace. It’ll be more comfortable.”

Poole trailed his miscast mother to the sofa, waited for her to sit stiffly, then sank into a cushion beside her. Dilman, the appeal folder in one hand, sat in the ornate Revels chair. He opened the folder in his lap, licked his thick lips, and peered down at the first page.

Poole strained to discover a clue to the decision in the President’s face. His visual exploration detected the fatigue of one overtaxed, detected stress, detected despondency. But no facial feature provided a hint of judgment made.

“Mrs. Hurley—Leroy—” Dilman said, turning a page, still reviewing the bound folder, “I have given considerable time to reading, and re-reading, your request for clemency. It is well conceived and well put together. I have also, since, received the report and recommendation on your appeal from Attorney General Kemmler and his staff. I want you to know that I am fully cognizant of every aspect of the case, from the public protest activity of the Turnerites that inspired Judge Gage to treat the demonstrators harshly, imprisoning them for ten years, to the details of the retaliatory action by Mr. Hurley and his accomplices. I have studied the FBI reports on the kidnaping, and on the shooting in Texas, as well as the transcripts of Mr. Hurley’s interrogation by local police officers and Federal agents, the statement of Mr. Hurley’s refusal to defend himself once his witness would not be admitted under the conditions his attorney requested.”

Quickly, Poole blurted out, “Jeff Hurley pleaded guilty only after he and his attorney were promised a deal. They promised him an unpremeditated manslaughter sentence and imprisonment with eventual chance for parole, if he would plead guilty. So he pleaded guilty, and then the Federal judge double-crossed him and slapped the death penalty on him.”

“Yes, I saw that in your brief, Leroy. But the only affidavits you could supply, to support the existence of such a—such a deal, were those signed by Mr. Hurley and his attorney, who are concerned parties. You have no impartial confirming evidence to this deal. According to the United States Attorney’s investigation last week, the other participating parties—the United States Commissioner and Federal judge—vehemently, and under oath, denied that such a deal was ever made, and so did the stenographer present at all meetings.”

“Well, they’re liars,” said Poole. “What do you expect them to say now?”

Dilman nodded. “Be that as it may. I simply wanted both of you to understand that, busy as I am, I have given this case much study and reflection. Now, besides your eloquent appeal, I also have here on my lap the Attorney General’s remarks and recommendation, as I said.” Dilman lifted his head and gazed at Mrs. Hurley. “The Attorney General recommends, without reservation, that clemency be refused and the death sentence stand as ordered.”

Mrs. Hurley did not move or speak, but Leroy Poole, his round forehead perspiring, jumped up indignantly. “That Kemmler—that lousy rotten racist—”

Dilman ignored the writer and resumed addressing Mrs. Hurley. “Of course, as President I have the right to disapprove the Attorney General’s recommendation, override it, return the papers with instructions that they be revised according to my wishes. This rejection of a Justice Department recommendation is the exception to the rule. It has been exercised by Presidents in the past, but in very, very rare instances.”

“Well, thank God, thank God you got that right to do justice,” Poole cried out, and sat down, anxious thyroid eyes fixed on the President’s mouth.

Dilman appeared to gather his strength.

“Mrs. Hurley, I was once an attorney myself, and as an attorney, and now the last judge in this case, responsible for the ultimate decision that must be made on the life of your son, I must tell you honestly—I cannot—I cannot, with any pretense at honesty, countermand the recommendation of the Attorney General. There is nothing here, none of Leroy’s so-called new findings, that convinces me that the decision of the Federal court was wrong, the Department of Justice was wrong, and that your son should not be punished, as he is to be punished, according to the law of the nation and not according to my personal beliefs, for kidnaping and for murder. Mrs. Hurley, it grieves me, but I must reject this appeal to commute the death sentence. I am sorry. I hope that—eventually, if not now—you will understand.”

Leroy Poole fell back into the sofa, covering his face with his hands. His anguish was too overwhelming for an immediate protest or contention. It was as if he had been axed, split from head to toe, by a black brother whom in his desperation he had decided to trust.

To his surprise, he heard Gladys Hurley speak, and her voice was low and composed.

“Mr. President,” she said, “when they stuff my boy into that gas chamber, they’re doin’ to him like the Nazis once did to the Jews—they’re punishin’ him and killin’ him off for what he is, an’ not what he did.”

“Mrs. Hurley, believe me,” Dilman said with intensity, “if I could prove that—
prove
it—I would commute his sentence immediately. I cannot prove it. Jefferson Hurley is a confessed kidnaper and murderer. The essential truth is that he was a self-appointed Messiah of our people, taking the law into his hands, and the government cannot condone such action. I have no grounds on which to give Jefferson Hurley his life, to overlook his crime, except the fact that he is black like I am, like the three of us in this room are, and if I commuted his sentence, he would be getting preferential treatment, special consideration which a white kidnaper or murderer would not get in this office. Can’t you see that, Mrs. Hurley?”

“No,” she said flatly. “I see one thing. He’s goin’ to die because of his skin. The Federals and Southerners are puttin’ him to death because he’s a black man who won’t crawl, like the Senate is puttin’ yourself to death because you’re a black man who suddenly stopped crawlin’.”

Poole had recovered his wits. “It’s the invisible prejudice law against him!” he shouted. “Same as there’s the invisible Article V of impeachment against you!”

Dilman said sternly, “Mrs. Hurley—Leroy—however we feel about the prejudice that we know exists—and we feel as one in this—there is still the law of the land we live under, our law, the law that keeps us a civilized community and not a pack of roving barbarians. In this case I am the final symbol of that law. Despite the passionate forensics of my good friend and advocate on the Senate floor today, you heard his invisible Article thrown out of the court. It does not enter into my trial, and will not, unless he can legally prove I am being prosecuted as a Negro and not as a criminal. There is little chance he can prove that. And there is no way for you to prove Jefferson Hurley is going to the gas chamber simply because he is a Negro. Jefferson Hurley is going to the gas chamber because, as a man, he committed a crime against men, and against their law. If I am convicted by the Senate body, and punished and disgraced by removal from office, it will not be because I was tried as a Negro but as a government official who committed high crimes. I may have other feelings or views about this, but in court there is the law, and I will abide by it shortly, as you must abide by it now.”

Mrs. Hurley’s inflexible composure broke slightly. “There is—is more than law, Mr. President. There is human bein’s’ compassion, one for the other, there’s that, and sometimes it’s above the law.”

To Poole it appeared that Dilman, perturbed, shaken, would reach out to touch her hand. He did not. He said softly, “Mrs. Hurley, I am not inhuman. I have a son, too, and I know, and I can feel for you.”