own defense. Like himself, President Andrew Johnson had wanted to be heard and had been kept silent by his managers. In the end, perhaps, Johnson’s managers had been proved right. But somehow, this second Presidential impeachment trial in American history was different, basically different, from the nation’s first. The first had been important, aside from the opposing two philosophies on reconstructing the defeated South, because it pitted the legislative branch of government against the executive branch. President Johnson had been tried for being an obstructive politician. This second impeachment trial, however, was vastly more crucial to the United States. The basic issue was not the differences between two powerful branches of government. The basic issue was the hushed and invisible Article V of the impeachment. Dilman knew that Abrahams was right. As President, he was not being tried for being an obstructive politician. He was being tried for being a Negro.
Yet, the real reason for the historic trial would never be heard again on the floor of the Senate. The trial had gone its way, with oratory and testimony, and suddenly, tomorrow, it would be done, and at no time would the Senate have been forced, or the public outside have been forced, to examine themselves openly so they would understand why they were voting as they did. What had there been, these cruel days, to represent President Dilman? The interrogation of witnesses on peripheral charges, the speeches on evasive indictments. And now, tonight, more witnesses, more affidavits, offered to the Senate and the nation on what they preferred to hear and see, not on what they should hear and see.
Soon the sounds of battle would be stilled. Dilman would be ousted, condemned like Mindy to wander the country and the earth in disgrace. And more than Mindy-he was aware of this in a flash of clarity now-it would be his own fault for not helping to emphasize the nature of the real accusation against him for all the world to know. It would be his failure for not insisting that the public be forced to see for itself, firsthand, what it was really voting upon, and for not letting the people decide then whether they could, after voting, live with only satisfied minds, eyes, eardrums, or whether they needed to be able to live with their consciences, too.
He started moving toward his desk. It was John F. Kennedy, he remembered, who had so truly written of the Andrew Johnson impeachment trial: “Two great elements of drama were missing: the actual causes for which the President was being tried were not fundamental to the welfare of the nation; and the defendant himself was at all times absent.”
This time, he told himself, the great elements of drama would be fulfilled. This time America must not be lulled with a sugared half play, but must suffer, with him, the harsh play in its entirety. This time it had to be shown that the cause for trial was fundamental to the welfare of the nation, and it could be shown in only one way.
He lifted the telephone from the white console, and he instructed Edna Foster to locate Nat Abrahams for him, wherever he was in the Senate building.
Waiting, he thought Nat Abrahams would not be pleased by his casting aside of this one remaining garment of cowardice. No, Nat Abrahams would not be pleased. And might not understand. There was only one who might totally understand his act. Mindy would understand, at last.
He heard Felix Hart’s voice on the telephone, and Dilman said that he urgently wished to speak to Nat Abrahams. In a half minute, Nat Abrahams was on the other end.
“Nat, is it true you are putting on your defense witnesses between five-thirty and seven, and the rest later in the evening?”
“Yes.”
“Nat, I’ve thought about it. I want our invisible Article V opened up again-I want it there for everyone to see and hear-”
“But, Doug, you remember the ruling. We can’t-”
“There is one way we can.” He held his breath, and then he said it. “Nat, I’m coming right over to the Senate. I have made up my mind to testify. I am going to be your first and key witness.”
“Doug, you are the President of the United States.”
“I am the black man President of the United States. I don’t care what I’m asked or what I say. I only want to stand up there and be seen and heard by my judges. I know my appearance can lose it. But I also know this- something more may be finally won.”
By twenty minutes to six o’clock, as darkness covered Washington, D.C., the illuminated rectangular Chamber of the Senate of the United States was ready. Until this crucial moment, it had been filled for every speech and every witness, but now the word was out, and for the first time the vast room was crammed to overflowing with incredulous humanity. Not only was every seat occupied, but every square foot of standing space.
From his high seat, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, swathed in his black judgment robe, peered out of his wrinkled, sunken face, peered down at the kinky-haired, grim, thickset black man who stood directly below him, facing the Secretary of the Senate, right arm raised.
“You, Douglass Dilman, do affirm that the evidence you shall give in the case now depending between the United States and the President of the United States shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth: so help you God.”
“I do.”
“Please be seated, Mr. President.”
The Chief Justice’s gavel struck. “As presiding officer, I once more admonish strangers and citizens in the galleries to maintain perfect order and profound silence… Senators will please give their attention… Gentlemen of counsel for the President, you may now begin your examination for the defense. Proceed with the first witness.”
Douglass Dilman gripped the knob ends of the arms of the witness chair, and stared out at the rows of blurred men, his jurymen, his impeachers, men who would decide, perhaps had already determined, his fate. Strangely, their faces were individually unclear. Angled up toward him there was nothing more than a blended disc of whiteness, curiously punctuated by gleaming varicolored dots of eyes, the eyes around the aquarium in the old bad dreams. He could not see them. It did not matter. He was here. They could see him. They could see their black conscience.
Then there was only one before him, the one he could trust. He had conceded Nat Abrahams but a single promise. He would keep his answers concise and to the point. He would, if possible, not permit himself to plead, rise to any bait, or digress. He was ready.
Nat Abrahams was speaking. “You are Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, solemnly sworn on the Holy Book to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of your country to the best of your ability?”
“Yes, sir, I am Douglass Dilman. I have sworn to that oath.”
“You are appearing here, before the tribunal of the Senate, at your own request?”
“I am.”
“You are fully conversant with the charges in the four Articles of Impeachment brought against you?”
“I am.”
“Mr. President, let us swiftly take up the indictments, one by one, and hear your replies, from your own lips, as to their truth or falsity… Mr. President, did you know, at any time before the day of his confession to the fact, that your son, Julian Dilman, was a member of the activist Turnerite Group?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“Did you request that the Reverend Paul Spinger perform as an intermediary between the government and the Turnerite leaders because you wanted to make some kind of special personal deal with them, or because you wanted to have them come forward and confess or deny the Hattiesburg crime, and open their books to the government?”
“No, I wanted no special personal deal. I gave the Reverend Spinger his only instructions in the presence of the Attorney General.”
“Then you deny the allegation in Article II that you unlawfully hindered the Department of Justice in its prosecution of the Turnerites because you were in conspiracy with the Turnerites?”
“I unequivocally deny that allegation, sir.”
“Why did you delay the outlawing of the Turnerites, as charged?”
“Because, sir, more facts were required in order to make certain, beyond any reasonable doubt, that this extremist society could be prosecuted legally, under the Subversive Activities Control Act. In our society, every citizen, no matter what his religious or political persuasion, is innocent until proved to be guilty. Once the facts
