When the French door closed, Poole resumed his seat. “That’s a mighty fine boy you have, Mr. President. I don’t remember your telling me that he was a member of the Crispus Society.”
“It’s in your notes, I’m sure,” said Dilman. “In fact, he’s now on one of the national committees at their headquarters. Shall we get on with our business?”
“I’m ready, Mr. President. I’ve been giving some thought to the book-”
“So have I, Leroy. I’ve come to a decision. I don’t like the idea of its publication right now, but I want to be fair. You’ve worked hard and long on it. You’re expecting certain income from it. I have no right to deprive you. So-”
“You have no right to deprive the country,” said Poole, fingers wiping his brow. “The book was conceived as an inspirational story for our people. Due to circumstances, to your elevation, Mr. President, I now feel positive it will be inspirational for all people of this country, no matter what their color. It will lead to an understanding of you, better feeling between the races, and it will present the best image of you, the most accurate one, the only firsthand one extant.”
Listening to Poole’s salesmanship, Dilman remembered hearing from Edna Foster what she had heard a few nights ago from her fiance, George Murdock, that many members of the press corps had been approached by New York publishers to write their reminiscences of T. C., and several had been asked to write hurried biographies of the new President. It occurred to Dilman that not one of the press corps, who might undertake a paste-up story of him, knew him as well as Poole or was in possession of so many actual facts. If biographies were inevitable, it behooved him to encourage one that might be a good one.
“All right, Leroy,” he found himself saying, “you don’t have to sell me on the biography. I agreed to this, and no matter what has happened, I’ll go through with it. I’ll make only one qualification. When I was a senator, it did not seem unreasonable to permit a Negro publisher to bring the book out. Now that I am, by fate, President of the country, I think that would look wrong. I think the book should be published simultaneously by the Negro press you’ve contracted with and by a reputable white publishing house in New York. I must insist upon that.”
“Suits me fine,” said Poole. “In fact, that’s a great idea. I’ll call my literary agent in New York today. Tell him it has to be two publishers or none. That’ll be no problem. The big thing is the ending of the book. I’ve got to change that. Now there’s a new climax and finish, and we’ll have to talk it over, and-”
“Leroy, I don’t have time any more. I wish I could, but-no more interviews.”
Poole looked stricken. “Senator-Mr. President-Good Lord, I can’t write about you and not tell of your becoming the first Negro President.”
“Don’t get upset,” said Dilman. “I’ll tell you what-you conclude the book on the note of my moving into the White House, which I did today. You end the book where I’ve been President for a week.”
“That’ll still require some interviews.”
Dilman hesitated. “I can’t promise you, Leroy. Here’s what I suggest. Draw up one last set of questions and send them to me through Miss Foster. I’ll dictate the answers some night soon when I have a spare hour. You have my word-I’ll do it soon. If there’s anything you’ve missed, you can poke your head in here once or twice in the coming month. That’s the best can promise, Leroy.”
“It’ll have to do,” said Poole unhappily. “Yes, I’ll manage somehow. It’ll be a good book, I guarantee you.”
“I’m sure it will.” Dilman pushed his swivel chair away from the desk. “That’s it, then. Everything’s settled.” He waited for Leroy Poole to rise and leave, but Poole had not moved. Puzzled, Dilman waited.
“Uh, Mr. President,” said Poole, “there is just one other thing, if you can give me another minute or two.”
“Well-” Dilman began doubtfully.
“Only a minute or two,” Poole implored.
As he watched the beads of perspiration on the writer’s brow increase, Dilman felt sorry for him. He relaxed slightly. “Very well, Leroy, what’s on your mind?”
“All the oppressions going on around the country against our people,” said Poole with urgency. “Especially one case I happen to be following. It seems to symbolize the worst of everything. Have you been reading about the trial down in Hattiesburg, Mississippi?”
“You mean those Turnerite boys?” said Dilman. “I’ve seen it in the morning papers this week. I haven’t followed it closely.”
“It’s a shocking matter,” said Poole with growing agitation. “The Turnerites were peacefully picketing a Klansman. They were violently attacked, one blinded, one crippled for life. They were jailed, instead of their white attackers. Now they’re waiting sentence by County Judge Everett Gage, one of the most flagrant segregationists and vicious warthogs in the white racist underground. The trial was a farce, and it seems to me it is the perfect battleground to stop discriminatory practices in those local Southern courtrooms and introduce some vestige of legal democracy. I keep telling myself the Attorney General should intervene-this is one place he should intervene. Has he sent you a full account?”
Dilman’s forehead had contracted, trying to read Poole’s anxiety and interest in one out of more than a hundred similar cases. “No,” said Dilman. “This is not a Federal matter. It is a state matter, a community matter.”
“But our whole judicial system is being made a clowning-”
“Leroy, I don’t understand you. Why this concern over one obscure and isolated trial?” He paused. “Is it because you’re a Turnerite? I never asked you before. Are you?”
“My God, no,” said Poole. “I’m dragging along with the Crispus Society. I’m too sedentary and timid for anything as vigorous as the new Turnerite Group. It is just that I admire them, as every thinking minority should. This is, after so many words, their first public move, and they’re being legally lynched. That’s all there is to my interest, Mr. President. I have deep sympathy for them.”
Although he was inexplicably troubled, Dilman tried to hold a stern expression on his face. “I’m sorry, Leroy, but I have less sympathy for those Turnerites than you have. I don’t like most of that irresponsible and inflammatory talk their leader has been giving out.”
“Jeff Hurley? Why, Senator Dilman-Mr. President-he’s a great man. I-I had occasion to meet him several times, hear him speak. He’s no rabble-rouser or savage red-neck like those white segregationists. He’s intelligent, kindhearted, and he’s only reflecting the mood of-of the Negro population.”
Dilman felt weak, but would not weaken. “Leroy, we’ve gone over this ground indirectly in our interviews for the book. You know my stand. I’m a Negro, I’m conscious of it, I’m proud of it. I’m more aware of my birthright today than ever before. I want justice done for us, as Negroes, the way I want it for every Mexican and Puerto Rican and Jew and Catholic. But, Leroy, this is still a civilized country we have, educated to abide by the laws enacted by the majority. You don’t get what you want by breaking other people’s heads.”
“In war you do. There is war in this country.”
“No, Leroy, as Americans we gave up that kind of solution at Appomattox. We’ve come a long way by using better means. We’ll go farther the same way.”
“But, right now, you can do so much more for us, for justice, now that you are President,” Poole pleaded.
“Leroy, no matter what I feel inside as a Negro man, I can do no more as an American President than T. C. or The Judge or Johnson or Kennedy did before me.”
Poole came forward, his moonface crunched with anguish. “Then I appeal to you not as a President but as a Negro man. There is one personal act you can perform that would help those Turnerite martyrs and bring the issue more strongly before the whole country. I heard there’s a great attorney come here from Chicago, Nathan Abrahams, the kind of man who is conscious of these injustices. He could save the Turnerites, even with the trial over, then by appealing the verdict and sentence. I know you once mentioned him as an old friend of yours. His prestige would-”
Dilman shook his head vigorously. “No, Leroy. I can’t go to Nat Abrahams. He is an old friend, true. He is in the city. We spoke on the phone only two days ago. In fact, he’s coming to dine with me tonight. But I would not dream of influencing his activity. If you want him so badly, why don’t you call him? Or have that man Hurley do so?”
“Hurley tried. I heard that. He was told Abrahams is tied up on other business right now. But if you, as his friend, with your position-”
“Absolutely no,” said Dilman. “If he can’t do it for Hurley, I don’t feel I should put him in the position of having to do it for me.” Then he added, “Especially since, in spite of what the details of that trial in Mississippi may be, I still don’t like how Hurley is going about things. Sorry, Leroy.”
