The Pledge (32 page)

“No, I live on Twenty-ninth Street. Mr. Bacon lives on Seventy-sixth Street.”

“I have no other questions of this witness,” Button said.

As far as Bruce and Molly could see, like running a race, it was clear the courtroom today and get them out of here and do it in all speed. Bruce's father took the stand as a character witness. Sylvia spent half an hour eliciting facts about Bruce's innocence and all-American Eagle Scout patriotism — to the point where it turned Bruce's stomach. He did not enjoy the picture his father painted; he saw that picture reproduced a thousand times, in the young West Pointers he had met overseas, in the clean-cut CIA operatives, in young men scurrying around Washington; yet his father told only the truth without exaggeration, his son Bruce Nathaniel as he had raised him and seen him.

“Did I do all right?” he asked Bruce afterward. Dr. Bacon seemed to his son to have lost weight, a man smaller, thinner, pleading with the world to leave his son, who had done no wrong, alone. What was happening could not be happening, because in his world there was no place for it, no reason for it, no comprehension of it. His friends at the hospital club discussed Senator McCarthy and his two assistants, Cohn and Schine, as if they were creatures in another world, with mockery and distaste and occasionally laughter, but never as participants in their own lives. What had happened to his world? His wife blamed it on Molly Maguire, but sitting next to her at dinner, he had to reject his wife's assessment.

Molly was no longer the wary, defensive woman who had come to dinner that night. She watched Bruce with a loving eye that missed nothing, her manner gentle and caressing without being obviously so. She was a strong woman, broad hips, a wide pelvis. As a medical man, he noticed that. She would bear children easily.

“We must not be too upset, any of us,” Sylvia told them. “If we lose here, we can appeal it, and even if we lose the appeal, it's very rare that a contempt sentence is more than a few months in prison, and even then it's usually suspended. There might be a fine of a few thousand dollars.”

“We won't worry about the fine,” Dr. Bacon said.

The next day, Sylvia made her closing statement. The first part dealt with the traditional role of congressional committees, as instruments with which to gather information to be used in framing legislation. “And that is entirely proper,” she said. “Without the right to gather information, Congress would be partially blinded, and it is fitting that no information should be denied to a congressional committee, even this one. But this committee is not being used in the sense that it was intended for. It has been turned into an instrument of terror. It has undermined the Bill of Rights, and in its new guise, it has created a climate of fear that pervades this nation. You may say, If one is honest and has nothing to hide, why should he fear the Un-American Committee? All he has to do is to tell the truth. But what purpose does the truth serve when the government can procure a professional witness like Lucas Gregory, who will swear to anything? Here, during the past few days, you have seen an honorable and gifted man put on trial for no crime, for no wrongdoing, for no harm done to anyone, accused falsely and put in jeopardy, his good name darkened, his place in society so damaged that all his work and reputation as a brave and generous war correspondent have been tarnished. For years, risking life and limb beyond the call of duty, he brought into millions of American homes the story of a great and terrible war against tyranny and the same subjugation of the human spirit that you have witnessed in this courtroom. I plead for a verdict that will find him innocent of anything but human decency and a proper love of his country.”

On the other hand, Albert Button, Federal attorney, was brief and to the point: “The act of being contemptacious consists, among other things, of refusing to answer questions put to one by a duly constituted congressional committee. The record shows that Bruce Bacon has so refused. You heard the record read and you heard the refusal stipulated. The Congress of the United States found the defendant in contempt, and this finding has been verified in this courtroom. I ask you to find the defendant guilty of contempt of Congress.”

Judge Wilson, in his charge to the jury, repeated the Federal attorney's explanation of the contempt of Congress process. Then he went on to say, “Many extraneous matters have been brought into this trial, and without speaking to their merit or lack of merit, I must tell you that none of those extraneous matters are at issue. The only thing at issue is whether the defendant, Bruce Bacon, has engaged in contempt of Congress. You know precisely what such contempt consists of. You will now discuss the evidence presented and decide upon a verdict.”

The jury filed into the jury room, the court was adjourned, and Bruce and Sylvia joined Molly and Dr. Bacon in the witness room. Dr. Bacon was wondering whether it made sense for him to remain in Washington. He had canceled all surgery for these two days, and he wondered whether the jury might be out for the rest of today into tomorrow.

“I think not,” Sylvia said unhappily. “This is one of those hand-writing-on-the-wall things. They'll take a vote and vote guilty, which they have most likely finished by now, and then they'll stretch it to a half hour to make it look otherwise than ridiculous.”

“Oh, no,” Dr. Bacon said. “I can't believe that. I listened to your closing remarks, and they were most eloquent. I don't see how anyone could be unaffected by them.”

“But the jury didn't listen,” Sylvia said bitterly. “They were thinking that in a few hours it would all be over and they could go home and shuck this commie case. The jury have their jobs and their families to think about, and they will not be drawn into ideology.”

As she finished, an attendant came to usher them back into the courtroom. The jury were filing into the jury box and taking their seats. The foreman remained standing.

“Have you come to a verdict?” the judge asked the foreman.

“We have, Your Honor.” The foreman handed a slip of paper to the attendant, who handed it to the judge. Judge Wilson read it and handed it back to the attendant. The attendant handed it to the foreman, and then the attendant said, “Everyone please rise.”

The foreman said, “We find Bruce Bacon guilty of contempt of Congress.”

It was exactly thirty-one minutes since the jury had left for the jury room.

ENTER HERE

   

T
HREE WEEKS LATER
, they returned to Washington for the sentencing. After a meandering homily, Judge Harwood Wilson sentenced Bruce to a year in Federal prison, minus a day, and set bail at five thousand dollars. Until now, he had been free on his own recognizance; now, found guilty and sentenced to prison, he was subject to a reasonably high bail — or perhaps unreasonably high, according to Sylvia. Molly's reaction was tears. Bit by bit, the action against Bruce was splintering her pretense at a tough, unbreakable will.

Sylvia fought to remain calm, to be a pillar of assurance and strength. More and more, Bruce was coming to appreciate this slender, gentle woman, self-effacing on the one hand, rocklike on the other. She offered both of them the hope of the appeal, and that hope lasted the three months that passed between her filing and the decision. In that time, the important factor in Bruce's life was the signing of a contract with the Temple Press in San Francisco for the publication of his book. With that, the years since the war would not have been wasted and meaningless. He had at least an anchor to the world he had returned to.

His folks gave a small party in very quiet celebration. They had become as involved with the book's publication as he, and they brought about a dozen old friends of Bruce and the family together.

Molly refused to come, and when Bruce pressed her, almost in desperation, she stubbornly refused to be persuaded.

“No,” she said, “it's out of the question. I'll be damned if I'll be exhibited as a curiosity, the cheap Mick from Boston, with the wild red hair that probably came out of a bottle. Well, mine did not come out of a bottle! No,” she went on, easing a bit, “that's not for me, Bruce. I'd only spoil it. You go and enjoy. The party's for you.”

“That's crazy,” he said. “What's come over you?”

More tears again. She lay in his arms, sobbing. “Oh, Jesus,” she said, “I can't do it. I can't make a year without you. I can't. Bruce, my life's coming apart. It's coming apart at every seam.”

“Suppose it were me instead of you — I mean you picked up and sent to prison, and I'm out here waiting.”

“You're a man.”

“I hope. But there's more strength in you than I ever dreamed of having, and I'm not going to jail. Sylvia says the sentence is as outrageous as the trial. She feels we can get a reversal in the Court of Appeals.”

“Come on, darling, Sylvia's not that foolish. Not one of the convictions have been reversed in the Appellate, and we've drawn a judge named Prettyman, and according to Sylvia, he's death in these cases. My dear God, Bruce, I want you to hope, but it'll be worse if you hope too much and then all our hopes are shattered.”

Molly did not go to the party, and Bruce's mother took heart. She felt that if only Molly could be taken out of the picture, everything would reverse itself and her son would not have to go to prison, and as unreal as such a conclusion might be, a part of her believed it. She was psychologically unable to accept the fact that there could be a lack of justice in her country. Such things happened elsewhere, not here; and she was most careful and gentle as she asked Bruce whether Molly was ill.

“She couldn't come,” Bruce said shortly.

But Molly was right about the Appellate Court, and some six weeks after the party that Molly had refused to attend, that court rendered its decision.

Sylvia Kline called Bruce and asked him to come down to her office, but instead of the formal cool handshake that usually went for greeting between them, she threw her arms around him, held on to him for a long moment, and then pulled away, embarrassed and full of apology. She bent her head, pulled a tissue from a box on her desk, wiped away her tears, and said, “Please sit down, Bruce. Forgive me. You don't know how hard I practice not being sentimental, but this — it's like everything I believe in washed out.”

“They turned us down.”

“Yes.” She tried to keep back more tears. “Let me read you something. It's a few paragraphs from the majority decision. You have to understand what is happening.

“‘If Congress has power to inquire into communism and the Communist Party,'” Sylvia read, “‘then it must have the very same power and the very same and wholly legal right to identify the individuals who believe in communism and those who belong to the Party. The nature and scope of the program and activities depend in large measure upon the character and number of their adherents. Personnel is part of the subject. Moreover, the accuracy of the information obtained depends in large part upon the knowledge and the attitude of the witness, whether present before the committee or represented by the testimony of another. We note at this point that the arguments directed to the invalidity of this inquiry under the First Amendment would apply to an inquiry directed to another person as well as to one directed to the individual himself. The problem relates to the problem of inquiry into a matter which is not in violation of law.

“‘In our view, it would be sheer folly as a matter of governmental policy for an existing government to refrain from inquiry from potential threats to its existence or authority until danger was clear and present. And for the Judicial Branch of government to hold the Legislative Branch to be without power to make such an inquiry until the danger is clear and present would be absurd.”'

Then Sylvia added, “It's very scary.”

“In other words,” Bruce said, “you don't need a crime, you don't need a witness. You just put people in jail when you wish to put them in jail.”

“That's about it.”

“And now it's my turn. When?”

“There's still the Supreme Court. They have refused to hear any of the other cases, even when the First Amendment was invoked, and we're rather naked when it comes to constitutional argument. You invoked nothing. You simply told them to go to hell and be damned, which was very brave of you, but doesn't help us now. Also, it's very expensive.”

“Do we have any chance?”

“Bruce, what can I tell you? There's always a chance of something, but nothing has changed. Truman is still President. McCarthy is still the honcho night rider, and people are more terrified than ever. It might give you a few more months on the outside, but I must be honest, and the way I see it at this point, nothing can alter the verdict. The bitter truth of it is that the Supreme Court cannot hear these cases. If they reverse on even one case, it would break the dam, and they haven't enough guts to do that.”