Preserve and Protect (40 page)

“Mr. President,” Roger Croy says, “I move this committee stand in adjournment, pursuant to temporary injunction, until the pending suit has been decided.”

“Second! Second!” cry many voices, and “Question! Question!” cry many others. There is some suspicion that the voices are not entirely confined to bona fide members of the Committee, but in any event it doesn’t matter, because the President brings his gavel down with a crash on the lectern.

Abruptly it is still again.

“It seems to me,” he says firmly, “that while the Committee is legally bound by the terms of this temporary injunction pending decision of the case, nonetheless the Committee as a collective body also has a right to decide what legal course it should take in this situation, over and beyond simply adjourning, which is a perfectly valid motion under the circumstances.

“Now, the only time and the only place in which the Committee is gathered as a committee, and can be under this injunction, is right here and now. This is the only chance we will have, if we disband pursuant to call
after
decision of the case, to decide what we should do as a collective body. Therefore, if Governor Croy would be willing to withhold his motion for a moment, so that we might decide—”

There are cries of, “No! No! Abide by the law, abide by the law!” countered by shouts of, “Put it to a vote! Let’s decide! We have a right to decide!”

Again the President terminates the uproar with his gavel.

“I am aware,” he says with a certain comfortable irony, as a trained ear tells him that sentiment is beginning to move his way a little, “that the President of the United States is in a somewhat questionable position defying an injunction, and I am not defying it. I am simply saying that we have a right now, while we are still together as a body, to decide what course we should pursue in the new situation posed by the injunction.

“Now, we can have a vote on the motion to adjourn, but I am not sure it would carry, Governor. In this purely procedural situation, the chair would hold, if the Committee will support me, that a simple majority vote of the membership must prevail. When it comes to selecting a nominee, as you know, each state’s vote has the same numerical value as it had in the convention. But here, I should think, a simple majority must prevail. Does that seem unreasonable?”

He pauses and inwardly holds his breath; but by some miracle, nobody challenges. “Very well. On that basis, Governor, do you wish to press your motion to adjourn immediately?”

He stares down again upon Roger P. Croy, stately, handsome, and obviously doing a lot of thinking. In a moment the thinking produces a slow shaking of the head and the thoughtful comment:

“Not, perhaps, at the moment, Mr. President. Possibly there is some logic”—and he raises the graceful hand again as protesting murmurs break out here and there—“to considering this carefully for a moment. It is certainly a situation without precedent, and perhaps we should give it thorough consideration while we are, as the President says, gathered in one place as one entity.”

(“That’s a mistake,” Walter Dobius whispers with an angry dismay to Frankly Unctuous. “Oh, that’s a mistake! Don’t do it, don’t do it!”)

But Roger P. Croy, persuaded by no one knows what considerations, possibly just the calm reasonableness of the President who seems so calm and so logical as he skates on legal thin ice and emotions which could at any moment take the meeting out of his hands, has already done it.

The President wastes no time.

“Very well. Does anyone wish to speak or make a motion on this issue?”

Out of the babble and talk Lyle Strathmore of Michigan is first on his feet.

“Mr. President!” he says, and his voice rings out commandingly. “I move that this Committee take an immediate appeal against the temporary injunction to the U. S. Circuit Court of Appeals.”

“Second!” screeches Lizzie Hanson McWharter as the room again explodes in angry sound.

“Question!” caterwauls Anna Hooper Bigelow.

“Now, just a minute!” shouts Roger P. Croy, coming suddenly out of his curious complacency which apparently has not been curious at all but part of a shrewder strategy than the President’s. “I move to amend that motion to state that this Committee take an immediate appeal to the Supreme Court. Specifically, since the Court is in summer recess, to the presiding Justice of the District Court for the District of Columbia,”

“Tommy!”
Bob Munson says explosively to Lafe Smith.
“Christ!”

“Second!” screams Esmé Stryke, and “Question!” shouts Milton S. Oppenheimer of New York.

For just a moment the President hesitates, but he knows there is nothing for it. Under parliamentary law the amendment must be voted upon first.

“Mrs. Bigelow,” he says with a fair show of calmness, as though by pretending the vote will go the way he wants it to, he can make it so—a tactic that sometimes works in the House, and just might here—“I would appreciate it, and I am sure we all would, if you would repeat the role you filled so ably at the convention. Would you please act as secretary of the Committee and call the roll?”

“Mr. President,” Anna Hooper Bigelow protests, “please let someone else—” But there is a return of amicability for a moment as they all cheer and clap, and finally Anna, looking flustered, comes forward and takes her place beside him at the lectern.

“The vote is on the motion of the distinguished National Committeeman from Oregon,” the President says. “All those in favor will say Aye, those opposed No, the Secretary will call the roll.”

“Alabama!” says Anna Bigelow, and at once the deep divisions here flare into the open for all the world to see.

“Madam Secretary,” Helen M. Rupert says in a voice that remains steady with some difficulty, “on this motion, as it was in the convention, Alabama is divided. I cast my vote Aye.”

“Madam Secretary,” says Henry C. Godwin at the desk beside her, “I vote Nay.”

And as Anna Bigelow goes on down the proud parade of states, it swiftly becomes apparent that the bitter differences on policy, which became so clear in the many split delegation votes on the nomination of Harley Hudson, are just as strong today. Many of the smaller states remain consistently united for either the Jason cause or the Knox—Tobin Janson and Mary V. Aluta of Alaska voting firmly No, Henrietta McEwan and Elliot B. Whitaker of Nevada voting firmly Aye, the President and his colleague Jessica Edmonds Clark voting No for Colorado, Alice Lathrop Smith and Ewan MacDonald MacDonald voting Aye for Wyoming. Many of the big states are consistent too—consistently divided. From California, where Esmé Stryke defiantly votes “Aye!” and Asa B. Attwood defiantly counters “Nay!” through Illinois, where Ruth B. Stillson votes No but Malcolm N. Sherman votes Aye, to New York, where Milton Oppenheimer votes Aye but Janette Wilkins Vandervoort votes No, it is obvious that the Committee, like the convention, is a horse race.

As Anna proceeds, however, the excitement grows, for it begins to appear that this time a trend may be developing. Some states that were divided before, such as Minnesota and Ohio, are not divided today; and although they don’t even think of it, so intently are they concentrating on their own concerns right here in this small room, outside on the sweltering lawns, in the city, across the nation, over the watching world, the tension again becomes almost unbearable. For it appears that in a handful of four small—small? Fantastically large—votes, the fate of Roger Croy’s motion, and perhaps the fate of his candidate, will be decided.

“On this vote,” the President says quietly, confirming what the world has already counted, “the Yeas are fifty-five the Nays fifty-one and the motion of the Committeeman from Oregon to amend the motion of the Committeeman from Michigan is agreed to. The vote now comes”—he raises his voice above the excited noises that at once break out—“the vote now comes on the motion of the Committeeman from Michigan, as amended. All those in favor—”

But Mary Baffleburg is on her feet:

“I don’t think that any vote we take in this Committee should be by voice vote! It’s all too important! I demand a roll call!”

There is, for once, unanimous agreement in the National Committee with Mary Baffleburg. A shout of approval goes up, the President nods and directs Anna Bigelow to call the roll. Again the tension rises, but the Jasonites find they have no worries.

“On the motion of the Committeeman from Michigan, as amended,” the President says, “the Ayes are fifty-five, the Nays fifty-one. The motion is agreed to and an immediate appeal will be taken to the presiding Justice of the District Circuit.

“The chair,” he says, with an amiable smile which serves to restore at least a temporary good humor to the proceeding, “would love to appear before the Supreme Court himself, but he does have a few things to tend to at the White House. Obviously, however, arguments will be heard and counsel will be necessary.

“Now, you understand, all of you, I hope, that in the very act of taking an appeal to the Court, there is implicit the Committee’s official position that it is opposed to the injunction and its terms. But obviously”—he raises his hand as good feeling vanishes again and angry murmurs begin—“obviously, if I may be permitted to say so, this does not reflect the very closely divided sentiments in the Committee.

“The motion is simply a mechanism, I take it—you will correct me, Governor,” he says dryly—“simply a mechanism for getting it before the Court in the hope that the Court will deny the appeal and thereby uphold the injunction and force us to reconvene the convention.

“Therefore, both sides, it seems to me, will undoubtedly wish to be represented by counsel. If I may be permitted to speak for those who oppose the injunction”—he pauses with a questioning look; there are no objectors—“I think perhaps we should meet in caucus to select—” But his attention is attracted by a hand in the audience, moving quickly and then as quickly stilled. His eyes search for and find its owner, who nods, almost imperceptibly but with a calm, almost fatalistic determination.

“I think,” the President says smoothly, “that perhaps by virtue of the authority vested in me as chairman of the caucus—”

(“Chairman of a caucus that hasn’t even been held!”
The Greatest Publication
exclaims, torn between helpless laughter and rage. “What a railroad!”)

“—I may now make our selection. I hereby appoint the Honorable Robert A. Leffingwell—”

“Oh,
no!”
cries Mary Baffleburg, and there are several other Knox supporters who cry out with an equal dismay. But a majority seems willing to accept the President’s judgment, or at least unwilling to offer an open challenge to it.

“—as counsel representing those members of the Committee opposed to the injunction. I assume those favoring it will select the distinguished gentleman who offered the amendment.”

“We want Roger P. Croy, if that’s what you mean,” says Ewan MacDonald MacDonald of Wyoming in the clipped brogue his children call “playing the Old Country.”

“That’s who I mean,” the President agrees with a smile. “And now, Governor Croy, if you care to reintroduce your motion to adjourn—”

But again the telephone rings, and he breaks off with a wry, “Somebody must be watching.”

The stenographer, still looking perturbed, picks up the receiver, listens for a moment, holds out the instrument without a word to the President.

“Hello?” the President says. “Oh, hel
lo,
Tommy!”

The room is instantly silent.

“Yes … Yes … Oh, I would think so. Yes, that should be time enough for adequate preparation, I would think. Anyway, you’re the boss, now: you name it, we’ll be there … okay, fine … Fine, Tommy … Fine, Tommy … Yes,
fine,
Tommy. Thank you!”

He hands the telephone to the stenographer, turns back to the Committee, the guests, the cameras, the microphones, the pencils, the city, the nation, the world.

“That was Mr. Justice Davis,” he says, with only the slightest hint of amusement in his eyes. “Justice Davis informs me that he will hear arguments on the appeal in his chambers at two p.m. tomorrow. And now, Governor—”

“I move,” says Roger P. Croy, “that the Committee stand in recess, subject to call of the Chair after decision has been rendered upon the appeal.”

“Without objection,” the President says, “it is so ordered.”

And the Committee, preceded by the President, who is whisked swiftly away in his limousine to the White House, passes gossiping and exclamatory back through the heavily guarded Center (which will remain under twenty-four-hour security for the duration) to the waiting Army cars, which whisk members swiftly away to their heavily guarded quarters in Fort Myer.

And the guests and the media hurry back by their own various routes and means to their respective homes and offices, there to tell, retell, write, rewrite, broadcast, rebroadcast, the events of this dramatic day.

And the crowds, not so sullen now, more lighthearted, almost festive as they seem to see their candidate’s apotheosis ahead, begin to break up into little groups and go wandering off among the trees along the river, there to bring out picnic lunches, strum guitars and sing, or to go straggling on toward the center of the city, where they will wander aimlessly through the stores and along the broad, hot avenues until night comes and they can sleep in preparation for their rendezvous tomorrow.

And the world—except for that little handful of it which is preparing for tomorrow’s bitter debate in the Security Council, returns to the business of living filled with wonder about what will happen next.

And the nation—except for those 535 who comprise the Congress of the United States and must prepare themselves for tomorrow’s bitter debate on the antiriot bill—gradually unwinds and relaxes and goes back to its normal pursuits, though it too is filled with wonder and a deep, unshakable apprehension.

And the focus of history narrows down to Mr. Justice Thomas Buckmaster Davis of the United States Supreme Court, who, notifying his secretary that he will see no one, finally takes from his wall safe the sheaf of copy paper he has not touched since he put it there, settles back in the quiet of his hushed, luxurious office and slowly, carefully, begins to read.