Advise and Consent (35 page)
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Authors: Allen Drury
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #Genre Fiction, #Political, #Contemporary Fiction
“Granted,” he said. “There is that possibility. You believe it to be a likelier possibility, in such a case, than the possibility that a firm stand would change Russia’s policy and so not only prevent an overt attack but perhaps turn her efforts into a channel leading more directly toward peace.”
“Such is my conviction, Senator,” Bob Leffingwell replied.
“And you feel it advisable that the United States not cling too arbitrarily to some of her traditional principles of fair dealing and honest negotiation in her relations with the Russians, since that might prejudice an accommo-dation leading to peace,” Brigham Anderson went on.
“I don’t want her to abandon her principles, Senator,” the nominee said. “I simply want her to apply them with more discretion.”
“And you believe that by applying them ‘with more discretion,’ peace can be achieved,” Senator Anderson said.
“I think it may be greatly advanced,” Bob Leffingwell said.
“And you do not wish the United States to remember past betrayals and past refusals to co-operate and past bad faith, but to erase all that from her national memory and go forward in the hope that this time the Russians are at last prepared to deal with us honestly and in good faith?”
“I believe nothing is to be gained by rehearsing past grievances,” the nominee said. “I believe there is hope in tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Brigham Anderson said. “And you do not care to state the terms on which you would negotiate for that tomorrow, because you believe they would have to be dictated by circumstances existing at the time of negotiation.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bob Leffingwell.
“And therefore you feel you have no choice but to keep this subcommittee and the country in the dark as to what your real intentions are in this matter so desperately vital to America,” the chairman concluded. Bob Leffingwell gave him again that quick, sharp glance and smiled.
“Well, now, Senator,” he said, “that is an oversimplification that perhaps does not do me justice.”
“I’m sorry,” Senator Anderson said. “If there is anything I want to do you, it is justice, Mr. Leffingwell. And I intend to. Let us say, then, that you deem it the better part of discretion in your approach to the office to which you aspire and have been appointed, not to tell your countrymen what you have in mind for their future?”
“If that is as fairly as you can state it, Mr. Chairman,” the nominee said, “I suppose I must agree.”
“I am simply reflecting the record, Mr. Leffingwell,” Brigham Anderson said.
“I thought I had been clearer than that,” Bob Leffingwell said.
“Again that is a matter of individual judgment,” Senator Anderson said pleasantly. “I trust my own is clear.”
“I think so, Senator,” Bob Leffingwell said, his smile a little less comfortably confident than it had been.
“Good,” Senator Anderson said. “I wouldn’t want anyone to be in doubt on that, any more than I would want to deliberately misstate you. And if there is one thing to which you are passionately and completely and loyally devoted, it is the United States of America, is that right?”
“Yes, sir,” the nominee said firmly.
“A devotion that you will find reflected, I think, in the Senate of the United States, which must pass upon your nomination, and whose members will as earnestly arrive at their own conclusion as how best to express it as you have arrived at yours,” the chairman said quietly. “We can only pray, as our friends in England put it in their trials of state, that God may send us all a safe deliverance.”
“I do so pray, Senator,” Bob Leffingwell said soberly.
“The subcommittee will stand in recess until ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” Brigham Anderson said.
Working their way through the milling crowd, out the great oaken doors of the Caucus Room and down the long marble corridor, the senior Senator from Connecticut and the junior Senator from Wyoming said nothing for the first few steps. Then Fred Van Ackerman said explosively, “By God, I hope we can get this over and get him confirmed damned fast. It’s mighty important to world peace. I think he’s a really great man.”
Stanley Danta laughed in his pleasantly noncommittal way.
“If we can just keep Seab from getting too rambunctious in the next couple of days,” he said.
His companion snorted and suddenly gave Senator Danta an insight into a very shrewd mind at work.
“Hell, that old has-been,” he said scornfully. “He’s a historic monument, that boy. You know where your real trouble is coming from, if it comes, don’t you?”
“Tell me,” Senator Danta said.
“It’s coming from Brig,” Fred Van Ackerman said. “Well, thanks for your patience in Interior Committee, Stan. See you on the floor.”
“Right,” Stanley Danta said and went on, considerably more thoughtful than he had been a moment ago.
But later in the Senate it appeared that Senator Van Ackerman’s dismissal of the senior Senator from South Carolina might be a trifle hasty, for in his usual fashion Seab managed to precipitate several angry exchanges on the subject of Bob Leffingwell before, during, and after the concluding debate on the Federal Reserve bill in which Murfee Andrews emerged triumphant in the final voting over Taylor Ryan and Julius Welch. By the introduction of a comment here, a question there, once even a short, sharp exchange of his own with Tom August and Lafe Smith, he managed to keep the pot boiling; and during the lulls in the debate conferred quietly on the floor and in the cloakrooms with some twenty-five of his colleagues, getting from at least seventeen of them considerable indications of support. And when the session ran late with unexpected trivia—Jack McLaughlin of Georgia felt he had to speak for an hour on price supports for peanuts, Marshall Seymour of Nebraska was mad at the Federal Trade Commission for another hour and a half, and Newell Albertson of West Virginia spoke for three hours more on the necessity for a shake-up in the Bureau of Mines—he went downstairs for one of the potluck dinners put together by the Senate Restaurant for night sessions and spent it at a table with John Winthrop and John DeWilton encouraging those gentlemen in their suspicions of the nominee. So it was not wasted effort, he reflected as the bell rang for adjournment at ten twenty-three and the great light in the Capitol dome that always burns above the town for a night session went out; but it was not until he had returned to his apartment in the Sheraton-Park and was beginning to think about bed that he had any real idea at all of how he would proceed on the morrow. Then a trembling finger touched his doorbell and as had been the case in many a bitter battle over five violent decades, luck once again proved to be with him and it all came clear.
***
Chapter 4
“Pidge,” Brigham Anderson said firmly, contemplating the small, defiant five-year-old figure seated before him at the breakfast table, “I want you to eat your oatmeal.”
“But I don’t want to eat my oatmeal,” his daughter pointed out in a tone of reasonable logic.
“But I want you to,” her father said.
“Why?” she demanded.
“So you can grow up to be a big girl,” the Senator explained patiently.
“Won’t I anyway?” Pidge asked.
“Not so fast,” her father said.
“I don’t want to be a big girl fast,” Pidge said.
“Ellen,” her father said in a tone that usually produced results, “please eat your oatmeal for me.”
“I’ll eat it for me,” Pidge said with a sunny smile and proceeded to do so for at least ten seconds before she stopped.
“Why don’t we have something else for breakfast?” she asked.
“Because Mommy wants you to have oatmeal,” Brigham Anderson said.
“Do you have oatmeal too?” his daughter inquired.
“You know I have oatmeal,” the Senator said.
“Does Mommy want you to have oatmeal too?” Pidge asked.
“Yes,” the Senator said.
“Why?” Pidge asked.
“Just because she does,” Brigham Anderson said.
“So you’ll grow up to be a big boy?” his daughter asked.
“Yes,” the Senator said.
His daughter gave a derisive crow.
“You’re a big boy
already
,” she pointed out in a scornful tone.
“Come on, now,” Brigham Anderson said. “That’s enough chitchat. Suppose you go on and eat some more. Otherwise Daddy is going to be very annoyed with you.”
“Will you spank me?” Pidge inquired with interest.
“I may,” the Senator said.
“
Will
you?” she demanded.
“Do you want me to?” her father asked. Pidge looked thoughtful.
“Not exactly,” she said.
“All right, then, eat up.” her father suggested.
“I guess I will, a little,” she agreed.
“A lot,” the Senator said.
“A little
first!
” his daughter exclaimed indignantly.
“And then a lot after that?” her father asked.
“I’ll see,” Pidge said thoughtfully.
“So will I see,” the Senator said. “I’m going to stay right here and watch you until you do.”
“You have to go to work,” Pidge observed.
“Not until you eat all your breakfast,” Brig said.
“You’ll be late,” his daughter told him.
“They’ll wait for me,” the Senator said.
“You’re important, aren’t you?” Pidge asked, impressed, and in spite of his best intentions Brigham Anderson laughed.
“Not very,” he said.
“You aren’t
really
mad at me, are you, Daddy?” Pidge said in a tone of happy discovery.
“No,” the Senator said, “but I could be if you don’t finish your breakfast.”
“I’ll bet you wouldn’t be even then,” his daughter said.
“You’d better not try me too far,” the Senator said. “I can be fierce.”
“You wouldn’t really spank me, would you, Daddy?” Pidge asked.
“I do sometimes, don’t I?” Brigham Anderson asked.
“When I’m naughty,” Pidge agreed.
“Aren’t you being naughty now?” the Senator asked.
“No!” she exclaimed firmly.
“You aren’t eating your oatmeal,” her father pointed out.
“Yes, I am,” she said, and took several mouthfuls before she stopped again.
“Why isn’t Mommy up?” she asked.
“She didn’t feel like it just yet,” Brigham Anderson said. “She wanted to sleep a little more.”
“Is she all right?” Pidge inquired seriously.
“Yes, she’s fine,” the Senator said. “She just wanted to sleep a little more, so she asked me to feed you.”
“What shall I do when you go?” his daughter asked.
“Then it will be all right for you to go and wake Mommy up,” the Senator said.
“Is she mad at you?” Pidge asked.
“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “How about three more mouthfuls, and then it will all be gone.”
“I hope it can be fixed,” his daughter remarked as she took another spoonful.
“You know what you are?” her father asked. “You’re a precocious child.”
“What’s cocious?” she asked.
“You,” he said. “Two more mouthfuls now.”
“I’ll bet she isn’t really mad at you,” his daughter said comfortably.
“I said she wasn’t,” the Senator pointed out. “One more mouthful.”
“Daddy,” Pidge said thoughtfully.
“What?”
“I really love you,” she said.
“Well, that’s good,” he said, giving her a hug. “I love you, too.”
“Good,” she said, hopping down briskly. “I think I’ll go wake Mommy now.”
“Fine,” Brigham Anderson said. “Pidge!” he said reproachfully as she reached the door. “You didn’t finish this last mouthful after all.”
“You can have it, Daddy,” she said graciously.
“But I have my own,” he protested.
“You need more,” she called back as she started up the stairs. “You’re bigger.”
Half an hour later, having hastily grabbed a pile of bills and papers from his desk and sprinted to the car, he was driving slowly along Constitution Avenue toward the Hill in the morning rush when he spied a familiar figure trudging briskly in the bright blue, rapidly warming day. He pulled over to the curb, opened the door, and gave several cheerful toots on the horn. Mr. Justice Davis hopped in with alacrity.
“I know I’m interrupting a pleasant walk,” Brigham Anderson said. “But have a ride.”
“This is good of you, dear boy,” Tommy Davis said. “It really feels like spring today and I was enjoying it, but your company is always a pleasure, particularly these days when you’re so involved in important matters.”
“I am, rather,” the Senator agreed as he threaded his way back into the main stream of traffic and moved along past the White House on the left and the Washington Monument on the right. “I could wish I wasn’t, but I seem to have been chosen.”
“I noticed from the papers this morning,” the Justice said with satisfaction, “that things seemed to go very well yesterday.”
“Is that what the papers said?” Senator Anderson inquired. “I saw the
Post
gave it the full treatment, but I haven’t seen any others.”
“Well, actually,” Tommy Davis said, “I’ve only seen the
Post
and the
New York
Times
myself. The
Times
ran the text of Bob’s remarks just like the
Post
did.”
“I Believe,’” Senator Anderson said in a quizzical voice. “Yes, I saw the
Post
had gone to town on it.”
“But it was such a natural, my boy,” the Justice said. “So spontaneous and so moving.”
“And so off the subject,” Brigham Anderson observed as they came alongside the National Gallery. “Can I leave you at the Court?”
“No, go on to the Senate,” Tommy Davis said. “I’ll walk over to the Court from there and get one more little breath of spring before I go in. I don’t see how it was off the subject at all. I thought it was directly on it. Surely his beliefs in America indicate his fitness for the office.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want someone who didn’t believe in America, that’s for sure,” the Senator said.
“Do you anticipate much trouble on the confirmation?” the Justice asked and gave him an intent look. Brigham Anderson shrugged.
“Some,” he said.
“But of course you’re going to be for him,” Tommy Davis suggested. The Senator smiled.
“Stop pumping me, Tommy,” he said. “You know what the Constitution says: three equal and co-ordinate branches, each in its own little niche. Don’t try to invade the Legislative, now.”
“My dear boy,” Justice Davis said amiably. “I wouldn’t dream of it. But naturally I am interested, because I am so pleased with his nomination and consider it so important for the country that it be confirmed speedily and by a large vote. And of course your wholehearted assistance would greatly advance this.”
“I don’t know,” Senator Anderson said thoughtfully. “I’m not very happy with the way it went yesterday, myself. Fine sentiments, but a deliberate avoidance of specifics.”
“For reasons he made perfectly clear and reasonable,” Mr. Justice Davis said.
“Yes,” Brigham Anderson said. “Well, I don’t know.”
“Surely you won’t oppose him!” Tommy Davis said in a tone approaching dismay. Brigham Anderson smiled.
“I don’t know,” he repeated.
“Oh, dear,” Justice Davis said in an aggrieved voice. “Oh, dear. I can sense you’ve already made up your mind to.”
“Not really,” Brig said. “We'll see.”
“This worries me,” Justice Davis said frankly. “Your opposition would really mean something. I wish there were some way to change your mind.”
“That’s hard to do once it really gets made up,” the Senator said. “But don’t worry about it too much, Tommy. It isn’t yet.”
“But it’s getting there,” the Justice suggested. Brig smiled.
“We'll see,” he said again. They had reached the Hill and he passed alongside the Old Office Building, then swung back into one of the circular drives leading to the Capitol, and parked. After they got out the Justice stood for a moment as if reluctant to let him go.
“Well, my dear boy,” he said, “I do hope perhaps you will find reason to moderate your view in the next few days. We need you in the liberal cause.”
“Someday I’ll come over to your chambers,” Senator Anderson offered jestingly as he tucked his papers casually under his arm, “and you can give me a seminar in what a liberal is. You’re one of the certified specimens of the breed, and you ought to know.”
“I’ll be glad to,” Tommy said. “I do hope this will work out all right.”
“He’s getting a fair hearing,” Senator Anderson said. “You will concede me that.”
“Admirable,” Tommy Davis said with conviction. “Do think hard, dear boy.”
“None harder,” Brigham Anderson said.
“And thanks very much for the ride,” the Justice added.
“My pleasure,” Brigham Anderson said, shook hands, and walked off toward the office building. Justice Davis stood for several moments watching thoughtfully as his stocky, compact figure grew smaller in the distance; then with a sigh he started to turn away and head across the green lawn of the Capitol Plaza to the Court. As he did so his eye was caught by a small brown manila envelope lying on the ground near the car. He thought it might be the Senator’s and started to call after him; then thought it might not be and decided to take it along. He had a curious nature, did Mr. Justice Davis, and he could always run it over later in the day if it turned out to be Brig’s.
The Caucus Room was crowded again, Seab noted as he entered it shortly before ten, and it was the same kind of crowd: earnest, rather frowzy young housewives, their earnest, rather unkempt young husbands, many students, some teachers, some Foreign Service types; all of these, he perceived, having the same rather uneasy, rather defiant, almost desperately emotional look about them. These were Bob Leffingwell’s applauders, the eager laughers, occasionally the surreptitious and bitter hissers. Opposed to them was a scattering of middle-aged women, equally earnest, equally belligerent; their settled and prosperous husbands; a few professional people who might be lawyers or doctors; here and there, in both camps, a few genuine, wild-eyed fanatic types who had long since passed the point of no return on Bob Leffingwell and all other matters. Through the crowd ran a leaven of bright-eyed, pink-cheeked, freshly-scrubbed young servicemen from some nearby base, looking awed and baffled and puzzled by it all. Aside from these, Seab could see, it was a gathering that wanted blood, and he thought with a rather grim satisfaction that he had some for it.
None of this appeared on his face, however, as he moved into the room and found himself inevitably facing a circle of questioning newsmen.
“Senator,” the
Washington Post
said, “what can you tell us about your questioning today? Do you think you can finish in one day?”
“Well, sir,” Seab said comfortably, “you all know how much I want to oblige the
Washington Post
. Yes, sir, you know for sure. So if the
Washington Post
wants me to finish in one day, I’ll surely try real hard. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for the
Washington Post
. Of course,” he added dryly, “some may depend on the witness, you know. He may want more time.”
“I doubt if he does, Senator,” the
Post
replied with a smile, and Seab smiled, too.
“I expect,” he said gently, “the
Washington Post
knows a lot more about what the witness wants than I do.”
“What do you plan to go into, Senator?” the
Baltimore Sun
inquired. “Your old feud with Mr. Leffingwell?”
“No, sir,” Seab said. “No, sir.”
“You mean you aren’t going to mention that famous episode at all, Senator?” the
Newark
News
asked with a wink. Senator Cooley winked back and decided that if they really wanted him to confuse the issue, he would do so; it might serve to put everybody off balance a little.
“Well, sir,” he said slowly. “I might, you know; I just might. Just a little bit. Just a little.” At this they all laughed knowingly, and he went on, knowing they would consider the reality the cover-up and the cover-up the reality. “Of course,” he said, “there might be more serious things involved. Seems to me the country is involved; seems to me the whole world, maybe.”
“You aren’t really interested in that, are you, Senator?” the
Providence Journal
asked knowingly, and Seab grinned with contempt in his heart.
“Why should I feud with anybody?” he asked innocently. “Besides, I never feuded with him. We just didn’t see”—and he gave his sleepy grin—“eye to eye.”
“What specific things do you intend to question him about, Senator?” AP asked. Seab smiled.
“Specific things?” he asked. “I didn’t know anybody was supposed to be specific around here. Specific? Seems to me we’re freed from being specific by the witness’s example.”
“I thought he was specific enough,” the
Baltimore Sun
said challengingly. Senator Cooley nodded.
“Enough for you, maybe,” he said. “Some others didn’t seem so happy. No, I expect, gentlemen, I shall just question the witness on a few little things that need clearing up. You must admit there were a few—little—things?”