He still held the receiver, and now he brought the mouthpiece closer. “No, Leroy, nothing can change my mind. I will instruct the Department of Justice to observe the law immediately. I have no more to say.”
“I have,” said Leroy Poole. “One last thing. Listen. You indict the Turnerites for criminal subversion, and you indict your own son, too. You hear me? You indict your own son. Maybe it is news to you, but Julian is one of us. Julian is one of our secret members assigned to the Crispus Society, to get at their private files of statistics on cases of white persecution, like the information that Hattiesburg was a hot place to begin our crusade. If you condemn us, you-”
Dilman’s hand clenched the telephone until his fingers were nearly bloodless. The nausea that welled high in his throat was not of fear but of disgust. He said, “You’re no better than Hurley-you’ll do anything-you’re a rotten, sick liar, dragging my boy into it.”
“Am I?” said Poole. “Okay, Big Man, ask him-and then let’s see what you’ll do!”
He banged the telephone in Dilman’s ear.
Douglass Dilman stood motionless, the receiver still poised at his mouth and ear. Kemmler and Lombardi were right, and Poole had confirmed it. And they were right about another thing, too. There was no room in America for Turnerites, black or white. They were savage. They were vicious. No tactic, no matter how slimy and foul, was too low for them to accept, with their psychotic minds, and to brandish as a club. Kidnaping. Murder. Now-family blackmail. The Lord damn them and curse them every one.
He jiggled the telephone for the White House operator, and demanded she get him Edna Foster.
When his secretary came on, he said, “Miss Foster, I’m coming down to the office. Ring up Attorney General Kemmler. If he’s not home yet, leave a message with anyone there. Tell Kemmler to come back to the White House immediately. Say the President has made up his mind and must see him at once.”
“Yes, Mr. President. Will that be all?”
“All?” He wondered: Could there be more? Something nagged. “Uh, one last thing. Before you go home, Miss Foster-that letter you wrote to Trafford University, turning them down-tear it up. I’ve changed my mind. Write Chancellor McKaye I consider it a privilege to accept that honorary degree, and I’m glad to accept the invitation to make the principal address. Inform him I will speak not only to his student body and faculty, but to the nation, on a policy decision of national importance. Have you got that, Miss Foster?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“And then write a short note to my son-to Julian-tell him I’ll be at the school on Founders’ Day, and that I want him there, because-because after the ceremony-I want to have a private talk with him about a matter that concerns us both. Is that clear, Miss Foster? Leave both letters on my desk for signature, and then go home. Now, you’d better get that call in to Kemmler first.”
He hung up, and then he strode to the door, opened it, and went into the corridor. The ever-present Otto Beggs was still on duty.
“Is the show over with?” Dilman asked.
“Fifteen minutes ago, Mr. President. They kept it going with encores, hoping you’d get back. The guests are gone. Except there’s one gentleman-”
It was then that Dilman sighted Nat Abrahams slumped on a red chair in the Main Hall, puffing his pipe. Abrahams came to his feet, waved, and started toward Dilman.
“I thought I’d hang around a little bit,” said Abrahams as he approached, “in case you needed a friendly ear. I was worried the way you left the East Room. Anything I can do, Doug?”
“Damn kind of you, Nat. Thanks. There’s nothing anyone can do for me tonight-except me.” Dilman tried to smile. “Believe me, Nat, I’d rather be talking to you than to the Attorney General. But he’s the one I’ve got to go downstairs to see.”
Nat Abrahams nodded agreeably. “Another time, then.” His eyes did not leave Dilman. “I’m not prying, Doug, but is everything all right?”
“Nat, everything is lousy, and I’m afraid it’ll get worse. Maybe I’ll be able to tell you about it someday soon. Anyway, what was that girl singing in there before? Yes. ‘I’ll lie in de grave and stretch out my arms’ and ‘Lay dis body down.’ That’s what I’d like to do tonight, Nat.”
“Not yet, Doug.”
“No, not yet… Good night, Nat. And, Nat. Don’t let your kids grow up to be President. They deserve better. Remember that.”
V
FOR RELEASE AT 11:00 A.M. EDT
Office of the White House Press Secretary
THE WHITE HOUSE
ADDRESS OF THE PRESIDENT AT THE FOUNDERS’ DAY CEREMONY, TRAFFORD UNIVERSITY, NEW YORK, AFTER RECEIVING AN HONORARY DEGREE IN PHILOSOPHY.
COPIES OF THIS SPEECH ARE BEING DISTRIBUTED TO THE PRESS AT TRAFFORD UNIVERSITY AND FROM THIS OFFICE.
Chancellor McKaye, my fellow citizens:
It is a great pleasure for me to participate in this ninety-second celebration of the founding of your illustrious school. I am deeply gratified by the academic distinction being conferred upon me. This is not simply because the award has been given by a Negro university to one who is Negro, but because the award has been given by an institution-whose program and teachings have risen above the narrow confines of racial thinking-to one who is working as an American member of our national community and not as an Afro-American member of our country.
Indeed, it is about our relationship to our nation as a whole, as Americans, and nothing else, that I wish to address you today. You are aware of the racial unrest in our country. You are aware, also, that the Department of Justice and I have been studying evidence of the activities of these super-government, super-American societies and organizations, composed of extremists of the right and left, of white and black, responsible for fomenting such dangerous unrest in these critical…
IT was a cool, shining autumn morning, and President Dilman, feeling slightly ridiculous in his tasseled mortarboard and warmed by his dark gown, sat comfortably on the outdoor, flag-decorated stage, basking in the sun, only partially attentive to Chancellor McKaye’s laudatory introduction.
Except for the Washington press corps, predominantly white, seated in rows down to his left, busily engaged in reading and marking the mimeographed advance release of his address which Tim Flannery had passed out minutes before, the sea of faces stretching before and around him was black. The faculty and alumni, the ones he could see clearly because they were directly below in folding chairs, appeared interested and hospitable. The mass of the student body beyond, crowded and standing (and Julian probably among them, having rejected a place on the platform), represented a jagged inky blur offering no visible clue to its friendliness or hostility toward him. The fact was, they were there, orderly and silent, and to Dilman this seemed a good sign.
While he was no judge of crowds, Dilman guessed that there must be more than three thousand persons present, an amplitude of humanity that blanketed every foot of the rectangular grassy quadrangle, and the walks and shaded malls leading into it as well. What gave the scene its added dignity, even majesty, were the old stone buildings, vine-covered, rising behind the audience, the Social Science Building, Medgar Evers Memorial Library, the School of Law Building, and Garrison Hall, the student union.
Trafford University was, he told himself again, a gracious and resplendent school and campus. He would never understand why Julian had not made peace with it.
He shifted in his chair to enjoy the sun more, and was surprised again at the lack of tension and fatigue in his body. Certainly he had every reason to feel tired. His administrative duties in recent days had been hectic. He had affixed his signature to the African Unity Pact, previously ratified by the Senate. He had, after some brief soul-searching, allowed the insulting New Succession Bill to become law, not with the approval of his signature but by letting it remain in his desk drawer for ten days and a Sunday, whereby it had automatically become a statute. He had released, through Flannery, his only comment on the New Succession Bilclass="underline" that he had not been able, in good faith, to sign it or yet to veto it. Since he doubted its constitutionality, he preferred it to be the House’s law and the Senate’s law until it could be judged properly by the Supreme Court in the first test case that should arise.