Yes, for Zeke Miller, the national climate was right to bring out, from the principal witnesses, the last of the evidence against Dilman. There was momentum in the sentiment against the President, and whatever headlines Miller could create and throw forth today would ride with the momentum, until the charges would be too many and too powerful for it to be stopped.
Abrahams did not like the defense’s position. If the prosecution concluded its testimony today, it would be the defense’s turn, either late today or tomorrow, to summon up its own rebuttal witnesses. These were good witnesses, but not colorful, not space grabbers, not names, and they would receive scant attention. Abrahams needed what Miller possessed-a cast of stars-and he had none, not one.
Only a single faint hope remained, Abrahams decided, and that was to make Miller’s stars his own stars. He must build up Julian and Wanda, even though subpoenaed by Miller, as defense witnesses. He must tear down Eaton and Sally Watson, so that resultant headlines would favor the President over his prosecutors. It would not be an easy game to play, if it could be played at all, but, he thought mournfully, it was the only game in town.
He heard an agitated voice call out, “Congressman-Congressman Miller-”
Looking off, he was surprised to see George Murdock, fugitive from the press gallery and Blaser’s collaborator, hastening in his general direction. Then Murdock hurried past him, and abruptly halted. Abrahams poked his head around the pillar, and he recognized Zeke Miller, profile to him, considering the reporter with annoyance.
“What are you doing here?” Miller demanded. “You’re supposed to be up there doing what you’re paid to do.”
“Congressman, I’ve got to speak to you,” Murdock insisted, clawing his acned, pasty face. “That story you and Reb broke this morning-about Mindy passing-”
“Don’t bother me now. I have no time. I’ve got a trial to conduct.”
“Listen-wait-I signed a paper for that girl, promising if she gave me the letter Julian wrote her, I’d never in my life whisper a word of who she is or what she is. I told it to you in confidence-remember? It was part of our deal- you could use everything else I got you, as long as you never used that. You promised, like I promised. You pledged your word.”
Miller’s lipless mouth was drawn back so that his yellowed teeth were exposed. “Boy, I don’t remember making no foolish promise like that there one, you understand? When Zeke Miller makes a promise, he keeps it. You’re not questioning my integrity, you’re not doing that, are you? That wouldn’t be sensible-would it?-for a reporter in an editorial room to doubt the word of the proprietor, would it now? I’ve seen my daddy, in his day, have his cotton pickers thrown off his land for less than that.”
Murdock shriveled. “I-I’m only trying to say-”
“Boy, what burr you got up your behind? You mean an important proud writing person like you is worrying about some cheating cullud girl, some Nigra tar baby who’s painted herself white because she wants to insinuate her class into our class? What’s happening to you, boy? Keep that up and I got a good mind to make you a foreign correspondent and send you off to cover Harlem permanently. Know what I mean? You wouldn’t like that, would you, feller? Come now, would you?”
“No-no-I wouldn’t.”
“Then get yourself back up to that gallery and write like you’re told, and don’t bother Zeke Miller again with any of that Northern weeping-willow crap.” Miller waved off to someone. “Hiya, Senator Watson. Time to get back to the combat field, I guess.”
Abrahams watched Miller leave, in step with Senator Hoyt Watson. Quickly, he glanced at Murdock. The reporter’s face was sallow gray, like a scrap of ancient papyrus. Some kind of involuntary utterance came from him, more moan than sigh, and he turned, head down, and went slowly back to the press gallery, as Abrahams, aching for his humiliation, averted his eyes.
Then, seeing that the Marble Room was quickly emptying, Abrahams tapped out the ashes from his bowl, pocketed the warm pipe, and fell in line behind those returning to the Senate Chamber.
When he took his place at the President’s managers’ table, he could see the Chief Justice already on the bench above, Julian Dilman in the witness chair timidly prepared for anything, and the last of the absent senators squeezing back in behind their desks.
Chief Justice Johnstone’s gavel came down. After calling the court to order, announcing his decision on the point of law which conceded the correctness of the senatorial challenge and therefore required no vote by the body of legislators present, the magistrate ordered, “Senators will please give their undivided attention. The counsel for the House of Representatives will proceed with the examination of the witness.”
Zeke Miller bounced up from his table, came to the front of the podium, and planted himself before Julian Dilman.
“Well, now, Mr. Julian Dilman, we have arrived at the core of the charges in Article II of this impeachment. You have confessed, in a public statement, that you were an early and secret underground member of the subversive Turnerite Group. There is no arguing about that now, is there? We can accept your public confession of membership in full, can’t we? Or do you wish to retract it?”
“I was a member, yes,” said Julian, “exactly the way I announced it last week.”
“I am pleased Mr. Witness confesses to the confession.” Miller waited for the laughter from the gallery to subside, and then he asked, “Before the day of your public confession, did the President, your father, know you were a member of the subversive Turnerite Group?”
“No, sir.”
“You say, ‘No, sir’? Let me explore this further. Did the President, your father, ever make mention of the Turnerites to you, in speech or writing?”
“Well, yes, but-”
“Oh, he
“Yes, he did, but-”
“Why would he inquire if you were a member? Was it just paternal curiosity or did he have suspicions of you?”
“He’d heard I was a member. Someone told him.”
“Ah, ‘someone’ told him,” said Miller. “In other words, he was in contact with someone who definitely knew? He was in touch with other secret Turnerites?”
“No, not exactly-”
“Never mind. The point is that the President had been informed that you, his son, were a Turnerite, and he went to you, and desired for you to confirm the news of your membership?”
“He didn’t know I was one of them, but he had heard a rumor, yes. He was upset. He tried to pin me down. I denied everything. I lied to him, because-because I was afraid.”
“Afraid of whom, Mr. Witness? Afraid of your real boss, the late murderer, Jefferson Hurley-or afraid of your father’s wrath?”
“Both.”
“So you lied to your father. Are you in the habit of lying often, Mr. Dilman?”
“No. But my situation made it necessary that one time.”
“If you could lie to your parent, if you could lie to the President of the United States, might you not be capable of lying to this high tribunal?”
Abrahams leaped to his feet. “Objection, Mr. Chief Justice! Mr. Manager Miller is baiting and leading the witness.”
Miller looked up at Chief Justice Johnstone, all bland innocence. “Mr. Justice, I am merely attempting to establish the devious character of-”
The Chief Justice’s gavel rapped. “Objection sustained. The witness is under solemn oath, Mr. Manager Miller. Avoid further speculation on his veracity.”
Miller shrugged good-naturedly and considered his witness once more. “Let’s see, Mr. Julian Dilman, what have we established up to now? That you were covertly a blood member of a subversive organization. That your father heard about it. That your father confronted you with the fact, and you denied it, you lied to him. Now, from his subsequent actions, we must wonder if your father, the President of the United States, believed your denial-or if he knew more about your affiliation than he had told you. Let us see, let us see. The Turnerites, in their efforts to overthrow the established government of the United States, perpetrated a planned kidnaping of a municipal
