The Man

official. Despite this, as the Attorney General has testified in writing, the President refused to outlaw the society which had been responsible for this outrage. Instead, he appointed a friend and tenant of his, a Nigra lobbyist, to talk and deal privately with the Turnerites. Then, when your organization committed foul murder, the President still refused to condemn your friends until he was forced to bend to the pressure of the Justice Department and outlaw your organization. Would that not clearly indicate that Hurley had threatened to expose you, unless your father, the President, went soft on the Turnerites? Would that not clearly indicate your father, the President, knew his son was a member of a lawless society, and, to protect his son, treated with the Turnerites, went easy on them, until a life was lost? Would that not indicate that your father, the President, putting his own interests, the interests of his family, before the interests of his high office, was guilty of high crime and-”

“That’s not true!” Julian protested. “He didn’t believe I was involved, and he made no deals with them.”

“How do you know, Mr. Julian Dilman? You weren’t there when the President’s emissary was treating with the Turnerites.”

“Neither were you!”

Miller’s face darkened. “You are being insolent, young man. Who taught you your manners? The Commie terrorists and Nigra extremists in your crowd? Or the President himself?”

“Objection!” Abrahams called out.

Miller held a hand up to the bench. “Never mind, Mr. Chief Justice. I retract. I fear the younger generation can often be provoking… Very well, Mr. Julian Dilman, your father had heard you were a bona fide member of this violent, now outlawed, society. Let’s find out what nefarious activities you performed while serving-”

Half listening to Miller’s continuing examination, Nat Abrahams jotted notes on the pad before him. Miller, he realized, was making his best of a bad thing. Miller had failed to prove that the President knew of his son’s membership and had therefore promised the Turnerites he would go easy on them if they kept Julian’s membership quiet. Yet, proof or no proof, Miller was succeeding, by using the tactic of repetition. In lending some credulity to the charges in Article II. Had not the President “heard” his son was a member and accused him of it? Therefore, he might possibly have “known” for certain. Had not the President appointed a “friend,” instead of a government official, to arrange a compromise with Hurley through Valetti? Therefore, he may possibly have been party to an underhand “deal.”

After five minutes more, Miller concluded his examination, and Nat Abrahams stood before the shaken young Negro boy.

In as kind a tone as possible, Abrahams said to Julian, “Since the House managers have no witnesses, no firsthand evidence whatsoever, that the President believed you were a Turnerite, that the President made a deal with the Turnerites to protect you, the charge embodied in Article II stands or falls completely on your word. Julian Dilman, you have taken solemn oath before the Senate body, at the risk of being charged with perjury, that you will here tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God. You are entirely cognizant of that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did the President, in a private room at Trafford University, ask you if you were a member of the Turnerite Group?”

“He did.”

“And you told him you were not a member?”

“I told him I was not a member.”

“Did he believe you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he ever bring up the subject again?”

“He did not, sir. He believed me.”

“In short, Julian Dilman, as far as you know, the President was satisfied from that day on that you were not a member of the Turnerites?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Therefore, he would have no reason to compromise himself with the Turnerites in order to protect you?”

“He would have no reason whatsoever, sir.”

“You have told the learned manager of the House that the President did, on several occasions, discuss the Turnerite movement with you, other than discussing your own possible involvement. Is this so?”

“Oh, yes. We talked about them. I mean, he didn’t discuss the Turnerites with me. I discussed them with him. I always brought them up.”

“Why did you bring them up?”

“I felt worried about secretly belonging, without his knowledge, and wanted to convince him that the ideals of the Group were good ones. Then, at the time, I believed in the society, and he did not, and we used to argue about it.”

“What were the President’s feelings about the Turnerites?”

“He thought they were all wrong. He detested them. He hated every extremist and pro-violence organization, black or white, left or right. So we would argue. But now I can see my father was correct.”

“Julian Dilman, one thing puzzles me. Allow me to pose the puzzle in the form of several questions. You were a member, yet you never told your father about it. Why did you not tell him? Why did you lie about this one thing? You informed Mr. Manager Miller you were afraid of revealing the truth to the President. What were you afraid of?”

“Well-”

“Were you afraid of breaking your pledge of secrecy to Hurley?”

“Only a little. That was the least part of it.”

“What was the major part of it, then? Were you afraid of your father’s disapproval?”

“I-I knew how much he was against those extremists. I knew how much he hoped for me and expected of me. I knew that if I told him, he-he would be horrified, and disappointed by the way I’d turned out, and think less of me. I knew he loved me and-I didn’t want to lose his love.”

“I see.”

It was a fine moment to dismiss the witness, but Abrahams knew that one more question needed to be asked. “Is that why you finally confessed your secret? It was your secret, and you might have kept it forever. Yet, last week, you made it known to the press and the world. What compelled you to do so? Why did you-when it was no longer necessary-jeopardize your character, make your veracity questionable, and give ammunition to the smallest and weakest part of the House managers’ indictment?”

“Why?” Julian paused. “Because-I guess because I was so proud of my father’s integrity-and-and ashamed of my own lack of it-and my own ambition was to grow up to be a man like he was, and is-and I decided the way to start was to be honest like him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Witness.”

After Julian had left the witness box, Abrahams returned to his table. He could not calculate, from the reaction of his associates or that of the senators, how effective his cross-examination had been. He decided that if it had accomplished nothing else, it had shown the legislators that the President’s son was sincere and trustworthy, and that although Julian had lied once, it was not likely that he was lying under oath today. If this image had been created, Abrahams decided, it was something, little enough, but something, a small victory. And perhaps the scale of justice (or injustice) so heavily weighted against his client had been lightened, and was better balanced, if only a trifle.

Suddenly Abrahams realized that Miss Wanda Gibson had been summoned, and was already standing before the Secretary of the Senate, right hand raised.

The Secretary of the Senate droned forth, “You, Wanda Gibson, do affirm that the evidence you shall give in the case now depending between the United States and Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth: so help you God.”

“I do, so help me God.”

“The witness will kindly be seated.”

It pleased Abrahams to see her there, so composed, so attractive in her blue jersey dress and matching