Preserve and Protect (48 page)

“That is all that we have contended, Your Honor. That is all we want. We want the great responsibility to rest, not with 106 men and women, however honorable and however worthy—and no encomiums of mine can increase what the world already knows to be their manifest integrity, their supreme competence—but with the even greater integrity and still greater competence of the great convention—to which, after all, Your Honor, all these 106 did belong and will belong again, so that their voices will by no stretch of the imagination be silenced.

“This, we think, Your Honor, is the purpose of the suit pending below, of the temporary injunction issued below, of the argument here. We submit that our only purpose and our only aim is to secure, not a narrow, limited, possibly emotional democracy of 106, but a vigorous, active, solemn, broadly based democracy of more than 1,000 drawn from all the broad reaches of this broad land, bringing to their awesome deliberations not just a handful of hearts and minds, Your Honor, but many hearts and minds to represent
all
the people.

“We have so argued, and we do so argue, Your Honor: not to restrict or hamper the National Committee—not to control it—not to command it—not to interfere with its free exercise of its free choice—but to help it—to encourage it—to assist it to do what mankind cries out for it to do.

“The Committee needs your protection and your strength. Your Honor. It needs this Court to free it from pressure and from fear so that it may make the truly democratic choice. ‘Help it!’ cries the nation. ‘Help it!’”—and his voice sank once more to its low, husky, nerve-tingling appeal—
“‘Help it!’
cries all mankind.…

“Your Honor,” he said presently when, after a great and obvious struggle, his emotions were once more under control, “we too thank you for your patience, your kindness, your decency, your attention. Never was democracy better served by better servant than it has been served today by the Honorable—the very Honorable—Mr. Justice Davis.

“Your Honor,” George Harrison Wattersill said quietly, “we rest.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wattersill,” Tommy said with a courtesy so impersonal that no one could interpret it, though millions tried, “thank you, Mr. Leffingwell, Governor Croy, Senator Munson. Thank you, too, our friends of press, television and radio, and thank you, Mr. Marshal, the clerks, the secretaries, the official stenographers, for your patience. Thank all of you for your patience during this long, tiring afternoon.

“Thank you all, everywhere”—and for a moment he looked straight into the camera with a small, shy, somewhat hesitant smile of vague politeness and benign good will—“for your patience and attentiveness too. We hope you have received some understanding of how our democracy works. It is not very perfect, but it does work.”

(“We hope,” the
Boston Herald
whispered as they gathered their notes and prepared to go.)

“The Court would suggest to all the press,” Tommy said, “that it be prepared for a decision later this evening, possibly around ten p.m. in the main chamber of the Supreme Court. The Court does not feel that this matter should be delayed.

“This hearing is now concluded.”

“So what do you make of it?” the President asked half an hour later, when the Majority Leader, as requested, called from “Vagaries” where he and Dolly were entertaining Lucille Hudson, the four Knoxes and Bob Leffingwell for dinner.

“I don’t quite know,” Senator Munson said thoughtfully, “but I have the impression he’s on our side, surprisingly.”

“So do I,” Bob Leffingwell said from the extension phone in the study.

“And so do I,” the President agreed, “but of course we could always be mistaken. There’s a powerful pull in the other direction, and he’s not particularly noted for going against his political convictions.”

“More ‘social convictions,’ isn’t it?” Bob Munson suggested. “In the sense of social welfare, that is. On the whole, I think Tommy’s pretty fair-minded, at heart.” He chuckled. “And certainly he couldn’t have been more judicial today. My goodness! He did the Court proud.”

“It goes with the office, you know,” the President said. “Look at me, now, old stumbling, bumbling Bill Abbott, still got straw in his ears, still got the lead of Leadville in his pants after forty years in this town, doesn’t know which fork to use at your wife’s parties—”

“Sure, sure,” Senator Munson said.

“—but when I’m on the job here, by George—or rather, I should say by somebody else, after the performance George put on this afternoon—by Tommy, I really haul on the mantle and get dignified.”

“That’s what happened to Tommy,” Bob Leffingwell agreed. “At the moment he’s the Supreme Court of the United States, and that’s a body with a good deal of dignity, in working hours. He’s no mean Justice, when the occasion requires. He just called me a minute ago, incidentally.”

“Oh, did he,” the President said.

“Yes, we told him where we’d be in case he needed any further clarifications. He wants me to come see him at eight o’clock.”

“Before the decision. Alone?”

“Alone.”

“Do you know why?”

“I think so,” Bob Leffingwell said slowly.

“Can you tell me?” the President asked.

“Not now,” Bob Leffingwell said. “I will … I’m glad you went to Oak Hill Cemetery this afternoon,” he said, apparently without connection. The President of course got it at once but made no comment.

“Yes. I thought perhaps I should emphasize a few things just by being there.”

“Was Walter?” Senator Munson asked.

“Lots of newspaper people and a good many from the Hill, the diplomatic corps and the Green Book,” the President said. “It was a sizable funeral. Flowers only, from Walter. Big ones, but that’s all. I suppose he couldn’t face it.”

“A funny man,” Bob Leffingwell remarked.

“Hysterically,” the President said. “How are the Knoxes bearing up?”

“Feeling good,” Bob Munson said. “I think they’re slightly hysterical too from Orrin’s day of being the world’s punching-bag.”

“Relieved me of the pressure a little, anyway,” the President said with a laugh. “Give them my love. And Lucille. And Dolly. And also, Robert A. Leffingwell, give my love to Tommy, too. Tell him I think he did a magnificent job of conducting the hearing, win, lose or draw on the decision. And tell me what you can later about your mystery. She never told me all the details, poor gal. So you do it.”

“I shall,” Bob Leffingwell promised. “Good night, Mr. President.”

“Good night.” There was a click from the extension, and: “Bob Munson—”

“Yes, sir. Bill, Mr. Speaker, Mr. President, sir?”

“That’s my problem,” the President said glumly. “Jawbone still had the House stalled when they adjourned an hour ago, and your friend Van Ackerman successfully did the same to the Senate. At least he didn’t threaten violence, though. It was all pro-peace and antiwar, with the threat left out.”

“Everybody was arguing on a noble plane today,” Senator Munson said dryly. “That was part of the strategy. The violence will come back tomorrow if the decision doesn’t go the right way.…What do you want done on those two sections of the bill, incidentally?”

“I want them modified, naturally,” the President said. “But,” he added grimly, “I want a few people scared shitless, first.”

“I’m not sure we can hold them in line,” Senator Munson said thoughtfully. “There’s a very strong sentiment, particularly in the House, for going all the way. Whether we can scare people as you want but still get enough amendment to make it reasonable, I don’t know. They may want all or nothing.”

“Well, try,” the President said.

“You know I will, Bill.”

“I know you will. Incidentally, I think you two did a magnificent job yourselves, this afternoon. I was proud of you.”

“Be proudest of Bob,” Senator Munson said. “He did the most—and also had the most to lose, and the most to live up to, in doing what he did.”

“I’ve changed my opinion of him a lot in recent days,” the President said.

“So have many people,” Senator Munson said. “Some for the better, some for the worse.”

“I hope he values the ones for the better.”

“Oh, he does. He’s come a long way.”

“And may go further if we can get this country straightened out and back on the right path again.”

“We must,” Senator Munson said.

“We must,” the President agreed.

“What we
must
do,” George Harrison Wattersill said earnestly in Patsy’s enormous living room in Dumbarton Oaks, “is get this country straightened out and back on the right path again. That is what you will do, Governor,” he said, beaming down upon Ted from his position beside the grand piano, where he stood with a Scotch-on-the-rocks in his hand.

“I hope so,” Ted said gravely. “I hope so. I am not so sure, after this afternoon, that it is going to be so simple.”

“Why is that, Governor?” Roger P. Croy asked with some surprise and a trace of alarm. “Were you dissatisfied with—”

“Oh, no,” Ted said. “Not at all, Governor. I thought you both did a magnificent job.”

“We tried,” George Wattersill said modestly. “We tried, because we are both so deeply aware of the enormous importance of your cause, and the great—I might say, the desperate—necessity that you win this battle. Not only the nation but the whole world needs you, Governor—”

“Yes,” Ted interrupted, “you’ve stated that, George. We know that. Thank you. Don’t think I’m ungrateful,” he added quickly, as democracy’s defender looked a little crestfallen. “I am most humbly grateful for all that you both did. No, it was Tommy who puzzled me a little. I think,” he said carefully, “he’s got something on his mind.”

“I thought he presided very fairly,” Patsy said, coming in with a tray of
hors-d’oeuvres
she had decided to serve herself, rather than let the maid do it, because this was a very confidential talk that shouldn’t be overheard by outsiders. “Having to put up with all that nonsense from Bob Leffingwell and Bob Munson would be enough to drive ANYBODY around the bend. But he remained perfectly calm and pleasant, I thought, even when they were doing their best to confuse the issue.”

“They did try,” Roger P. Croy said with a reminiscent smile.

“But we wouldn’t let them,” George Wattersill said with satisfaction. “We kept returning to the single, fundamental point. I really thought Justice Davis was impressed. Aside from that one early question, he said very, very little.”

“Perhaps that’s what worries me,” Governor Jason said with a smile. “It’s so unlike our little friend to be so silent.”

“Well, you must remember, Governor,” Roger Croy said, “he was representing the Court, of course; in fact, he was the Court, at that moment. That is quite a responsibility for a single Justice, and I am sure any undue gravity”—he also smiled—“was due to that.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Ted said; and then, lightly, because he knew his sister could sense what the others would not, that he was genuinely worried, “Pat, what on earth have you cooked up there to make us fat?”

She gave him a quick, shrewd glance.

“Just some odds and ends to tide us over. I know Roger and George will have to be back up at the Court before long to hear the decision, so I thought we’d just have a few nibbles now, and then go to the Jockey Club or the Gangplank or some place like that where we can be seen, for the victory dinner afterward, I think,” she said with a certain grim relish, “they should SEE us being victorious. Some of them DESERVE it!”

“You sound quite Madame Defarge-ish,” George Harrison Wattersill said with a laugh, helping himself as she brought the tray around.

“Pat’s my commander-in-chief when we go over the barricades,” Governor Jason said. “Incidentally,” he added, more seriously, “I do want to commend you on the demeanor of the crowds outside the Court. I understand that was your doing, and I thought it was very sensible. I trust it marks the beginning of the end of the sort of outburst that has disfigured this campaign to some extent.”

For just a second both Roger Croy and George Wattersill looked at him with curious expressions, half-puzzled, half-quizzical. Then Roger Croy said carefully,

“You did not transmit the order to George through Senator Van Ackerman, Mr. Shelby and Mr. Kleinfert at his house this morning? They gave him to understand that—”

“No, I saw no necessity,” Ted said, taking a plate and several
hors-d’oeuvres
as Patsy came to him. “They had already assured me that from now on they were going to control their people and not permit things to get out of hand. I saw no reason to reaffirm this with them. Apparently there was no reason to. They did it, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” George Wattersill agreed quickly, dismissing whatever doubts he might have in favor of the cause he believed in, “and it was a most shrewd decision, which I am sure they would not have reached had it not been for the prior discussion they had with you. It showed not only an astute appraisal on your part of the realities of presenting a good image to the country and the world, but it also was a gesture of genuine responsibility, I thought. It is the sort of thing which makes your leadership so valuable to the cause of world peace. And makes me,” he said with his flair for gracious phraseology, “so humbly grateful that I have been selected to work, in some small capacity, at your side.”

“No small capacity at all,” the Governor said. “An indispensable capacity, I should say. We will want you with us for the duration, if you would be willing.”

“Nothing,” said George Harrison Wattersill gravely, “would please me more.”

“Well, good!” Patsy said, setting down the tray, taking up her own Scotch and soda, raising it high. “Let’s drink to THAT, and to the gathering of all good friends and the confounding of all Ted’s enemies!”

“And to Mr. Justice Davis,” Ted said, lightly again but still, she could sense, uneasy. “May he do the right thing.”

“For US,” Patsy said.

“For us,” he echoed.

And with a hearty laugh they all did drink to Tommy Davis, who of course would do the right thing. They knew he would, because, as Patsy added a moment later, he simply HAD to.

“Miss Wilson,” he had said quietly over the intercom when the Marshal had escorted him back to his office through the deserted, echoing marble corridors shortly after six p.m., “will you please have the kitchen send up a small bowl of tomato soup, a chicken sandwich, and some vanilla ice cream. Tell them to knock and leave it, please. Thank you.”

And ten minutes later when he had heard, first the chink and tinkle of china and silver on the cart, and then the dutiful knock, and then the silence left by someone going away, he had gone to the door and brought it in himself, because he did not want anyone or anything to destroy his concentration in these final hours when he was alone with his case, his conscience and his God.

He wondered now, as he pushed back his half-eaten snack and stared in profound thought at the sheaf of notes from a dead hand which lay before him on the desk, what they were all doing, while the world waited for him to speak; and knowing his Washington, he could guess fairly well.

He could imagine that the two sides, confident yet worried, were talking and speculating—as they were. He could see members of the National Committee at Fort Myer or, with their Army escorts and guards, visiting friends or attending parties around Washington to await his decision—as they were. He could see his friends of press and television, already gathering in the chamber, gossiping nervously, jockeying for vantage point and position as the harassed press officer of the Court tried to find space for everyone and keep everyone happy: and this was happening. He could visualize the steamy thousands of NAWAC, still outside on the lawns, singing or drinking or even, behind the hospitable bushes of Capitol Plaza, making love—and this was occurring. And all across the country and the world—what George Harrison Wattersill, that flamboyant young man, had called “yea, the great globe itself”—he could imagine his countrymen and all the scurrying races of man, trying to tend to the business of ordinary living that must be done, but not able to concentrate very much because their minds were occupied so intensely with him—and this, too, was the fact of it.

For these few remaining hours, no man on earth was more important, or more obsessively on the minds of other men, than Mr. Justice Thomas Buckmaster Davis of the United States Supreme Court.

And how did he feel about it? Well, certainly not egotistical, he could say that honestly. Certainly not self-important, for his importance now transcended self. Certainly not worried, for here, too, the demand upon him was so great that he could not afford worry. And certainly, he told himself, and was quietly surprised and pleased to find that it was true, certainly not afraid, either of history or of himself.

Once long ago when Mr. Justice Davis was a very small boy, his father, who had been a lawyer before him and had been chief justice of the New York state supreme court, though he had never risen as high as his son, had said to Tommy: “Don’t be afraid of what life may bring, for men of character find that they have the strength to do what must be done.”

And he had always found this to be true, for under his gossiping and his busy-bodying and his bustling about among the famous men and issues of his time, Tommy, in his own fussy, quirky, inimitable way, was a man of character, and he had found his father’s statement to be sound.

He thought with some amusement now that he had probably confounded them all with his demeanor at the hearing. They had probably expected him to be as voluble and gossipy as his reputation said he was, and as his friends privately knew him to be. Perhaps Bob Leffingwell had expected him to be as nervous and upset as he had been on the day Bob had given him that sheaf of notes. But he hadn’t been, because he had conducted himself as what, after all, he was: Justice of the Supreme Court.

And also, he had read that sheaf of notes.

He could reconstruct very vividly now, for in fact he still felt it, the horror and dismay that had swept over him when he had gone patiently through Helen-Anne’s scribblings to the end. At first he had experienced a little difficulty with her slap-dash reporter’s abbreviations and rusty, catch-as-catch-can shorthand, but his days as a law clerk had come to his rescue and it had not taken him long to piece together what she had to say.

The unholy trinity of violence in the streets had held a meeting, right enough, first with Ted Jason and then, after he had left, with someone else; and Tommy could understand, after he had read through the details as an excellent reporter had been able to piece them together, both why Bob Leffingwell could have been so upset in his office and why Governor Jason could have been so calm and confident.