“The President-afraid?”
“Of people like you, Mr. Manager, who might think him too black for me, and me too white for him, and who might cry out that our union would be mongrelizing the Congress, where he was once a member, or the White House, where he is now the President. If you are through with the Madame du Barry part of my life, Mr. Manager, can we go on to the Mata Hari part? I’m eager to know how it all comes out.”
Ten minutes later, when Zeke Miller, mopping his wet bald pate, had finished the Mata Hari part and grimly gone back to his table, it was Nat Abrahams’ turn.
Abrahams rose. “Mr. Chief Justice, the President’s managers waive cross-examination. The witness may be dismissed without recall.”
He smiled at Wanda Gibson as she left the stand. Maybe the Senate had another view of it, but for Abrahams, the President’s lady needed no further defense this day or ever. Perhaps, Abrahams reasoned, her flippancy-how difficult the attitude must have been for her, considering her essential seriousness and concern, yet how unwaveringly she had maintained that pose, determined to ridicule the outrageous charges-may have offended some senators, coming, as it did, from a mulatto. Nevertheless, Abrahams believed she had more than adequately defended herself and the man she loved. She required no counsel’s assist. If most of the Senate appreciated her sparring with Miller, her ridiculing of Miller’s charges, then her triumph was not a small one.
Scanning the inscrutable public faces of the senators as they watched Wanda Gibson leave, Abrahams could detect nothing decisive, neither favorable nor unfavorable reactions.
Looking past the podium, Abrahams saw Zeke Miller’s manner change. He appeared to light up. Then Abrahams beheld the witness who was approaching, the witness whose deceptively innocent face was set firmly in cold determination.
Sally Watson, blond hair combed bell-like for the occasion, taupe wool sheath accentuating her feminine contours, mink stole on her arm, had gone up before the witness chair and the Secretary of the Senate.
Tuttle, beside Abrahams, leaned closer. “She looks as if she’s going to be hard on us,” he whispered.
“She will be,” Abrahams whispered in return.
Zeke Miller, rubbing his hands with apparent relish, dipping his head to the seated witness in a gallant welcome, addressed her with the deference he might have accorded Varina Howell Davis-Jefferson Davis’ Varina- flower of the Confederacy.
“Miss Watson, considering the nature of your familial ties, the fact that your brilliant and beloved parent is a member of this august body, considering the ordeal you have recently undergone, it is an act of uncommon bravery and patriotism for you to have volunteered to appear here in public this afternoon. All of us in the legislative branch are appreciative that you are ready to become a collaborator in our search for the truth, in our desire to purify and strengthen the executive branch of our noble government. For my part, I shall attempt to make your appearance as brief as possible.”
“Thank you, Representative Miller.”
“I understand that you have insisted upon coming here against your physician’s wishes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because you felt that no affidavit could adequately reveal what injury and humiliation you have suffered?”
“I believed the Senate should know what I know, sir.”
“We will proceed. Why did you, one week after Douglass Dilman assumed the Presidency, apply for the position as his social secretary?”
“Certainly not for reasons of personal advancement, Representative Miller. My father, as you know, has always been able to educate and care for his family. I had heard-because of my wide acquaintance in Washington-I had heard that many of the White House staff were resigning, since their loyalty had been only to T. C. Also, I had heard that Miss Laurel, the First Lady’s social secretary, was leaving the White House with her. I read and heard that the new President had no woman to bring into the White House to assist him with the ordinary refinements and duties that only a lady versed in the social amenities could help him with. Of course, at that time I did not know he had a grown daughter passing herself off as a white person in secret.”
“No, none of us knew that, Miss Watson.”
“I knew also that it would be difficult for President Dilman to find someone to fill a specialized position such as social secretary. Because of his-his background-his lack of knowledge of formal entertaining-it would make the position doubly burdensome. Few qualified ladies were prepared to undertake such responsibility for such meager recompense.”
“So you applied as a duty, in the same way a socialite might lend herself to hospital work?”
“If you want to put it that way, yes. I wanted to be of use, to do my part in maintaining the continuity of the social life in the White House.”
“You felt you were qualified?”
“I believed so. I had attended Radcliffe. I had handled the entertaining of account executives for an advertising agency in New York. I had often served as my father’s hostess. I believed that I was qualified, and apparently I was, for the President hired me during my first interview with him, and often congratulated me on my ability in managing his limited social affairs.”
“Did you find the position agreeable, Miss Watson?”
“In every respect except one.”
“Except one? Do I dare inquire in what area you found the position disagreeable?”
“I don’t mind. It is time the-the truth came out. Some of my friends begged me not to take the position. They said it was known that the President had been, well, carrying on with an unmarried white woman-of course, I later learned she was an unmarried mulatto woman-and that his morals were questionable. I ignored that as the inevitable rumor that precedes every new President into office.”
“You were generous, Miss Watson.”
“I don’t like to listen to petty gossip. And at first, the first few weeks, I believed that I was right. President Dilman behaved circumspectly. But then-”
“Go on, please, Miss Watson. Then what happened?”
“I don’t know. He-the President-seemed to begin to feel more confident about his office, his belonging up in the White House, and once the mourning for T. C. ceased, and he knew he was really the head man, his behavior altered. It was at first subtle, but it altered.”
“Can you give us any instances?”
“Oh, yes. His language became more imperious, coarser, and he was more demanding. Since we had many matters to confer about daily, he would insist, more and more frequently, that I come to see him in his bedroom or study, during the morning, while he was still in his pajamas. Sometimes he would demand that I stay on later at night, to meet with him the same way, and sometimes he drank in my presence and became heady.”
“Heady, Miss Watson?”
“Intoxicated. Perhaps Miss Gibson was right. He cannot hold drinks. Nevertheless, he drank. When he was under the influence of drink and we were alone-he would never permit me to bring another member of my staff along, not even his former secretary, Miss Fuller-he would become excessively informal. By that I mean he would make flattering allusions to my appearance, my features or my clothes. It made me uncomfortable. I hated to see him this way, and each time I couldn’t wait to leave him. I’m not a child, but there was something about him, the way he stared at me, that made me afraid.”
“I see. Until the night we shall discuss in a moment, the awful night he gave his true intent away, had President Dilman made an improper advance or gesture toward you?”
“No. He hinted at-at our dining alone sometime-spending a social evening together-but he never came out with it. I think he was inhibited by the possibility of gossip or what my father might say if I repeated it.”
“And, no doubt, he was put off by your own demeanor?”
“Oh, definitely. I was chilly and businesslike with him. It was so difficult, especially knowing, as I did, of his affair-or whatever you wish to call it-with another woman on the side.”
“But the President never touched you, physically, until the night in question?”
“No. If he had, I’d have quit on the spot, and told my father.”
“Miss Watson, we have arrived at the awful scene, the one that inspired the House of Representatives to condemn the morality of the nation’s President in Article III. I refer to the evening that the President, as specified
