Kemmler was unable to conceal his dismay. “But, Mr. President-you’ve got to do something.”
Dilman had started for his desk. “I intend to. I want to satisfy myself on one question. And then I will do something.”
He dialed Edna Foster, and requested her to put through a call to the Reverend Paul Spinger at the Crispus Society Building. Standing, telephone in hand, he suggested that the others make themselves comfortable. Talley and Flannery retreated to the sofas, but Clay Kemmler refused to sit. He went to the French doors and glumly looked out at the south lawn.
In less than a minute, the Reverend Spinger’s concerned voice greeted Dilman.
“Reverend,” Dilman said into the mouthpiece, “have you heard what’s happened down in Hattiesburg?”
“Yes, Mr. President, it’s dreadful. Those irresponsible and ornery gangsters couldn’t have done a greater disservice to our cause.”
“I agree with you, Reverend. Now I’ll tell you why I’m calling. I have here in the office with me the Attorney General, as well as Governor Talley, and Mr. Flannery. We’ve been discussing the abduction, and the possible repercussions it will have. We must be prepared to act. Reverend, do you consider the kidnaping as something done by an isolated bunch of hotheads or as something instigated by Hurley and his Turnerites?”
“Mr. President, I can’t say. Certainly we have no information here, one way or the other.”
“All right, you don’t know.” Dilman looked over his shoulder at Kemmler, whose back was still to him. “Reverend Spinger, we’ve touched upon this matter many times, but I have never put the question directly to you. Now I am going to do so, and do so officially.” He could see Kemmler turning to catch every word. Dilman concentrated on the telephone. “Since many Crispus Society members left you to form the Turnerites, it is imperative that we know what ties you have, if any, with the Turnerites. I must-”
“None, Doug, you know that.” Dilman could detect the fervent emotion in Spinger’s voice, as the clergyman went on. “We disapprove of Hurley, his threats, his inciting activities, just as he and his group disapprove of us, of our adherence to legal procedure, our qualified support of the Minorities Rehabilitation Program, our-”
“Then, Reverend, you disavow any ties with the Turnerites. Two final questions. Has your organization now, or at any time, by any means, ever financed the Turnerites?”
“The answer, Doug, is an unequivocal no. Not now, not before, never.”
“Never. Very well. Then the second question. Do you have any information as to who is financing Hurley’s group?”
“I have no factual information, Mr. President,” replied Spinger, more controlled. “There’s been some hearsay-you know, Valetti, the-”
“I’m not interested in hearsay, Reverend.” He paused, then asked, “Have you ever met Jefferson Hurley? Do you know him?”
“I’ve appeared on several speaking platforms with him, at one or two rallies, on a television show once, that’s the extent of it.”
“Does he have a fairly high regard for you, Reverend?”
Spinger grunted. “He thinks I’m a doddering and reactionary has-been who ought to have been interred long ago.”
“I see,” Dilman said. “Would Hurley speak to you if you requested a meeting?”
“I don’t know why not… yes, I think he would.”
“Very well, Reverend Spinger, I’ll tell you what we’re up to, here. When the news of the kidnaping gets out today, we expect an uproar, and considerable unrest and agitation. Based on some evidence in the hands of the Justice Department, I have been asked to outlaw the Turnerites-”
“Doug, don’t do it, don’t do it unless you are positive,” Spinger pleaded with passion. “You have no idea how this might affect the Negro community. It might give the impression that you’re in the hands of vindictive whites, that you’ve been whitewashed, so to speak. It would create a terrible reaction against you, your administration, and, worse, create automatic sympathy for Hurley and his Turnerites. Our people might look upon them as the persecuted underdogs, identify with them in a way they have not done up to now. Our people might begin to equate the Crispus Society with any repressive government action, and pull out on us, and-”
“Wait, Reverend, I haven’t said I’m ready to disband the Turnerites. I’ve only said it is under consideration, until I have the facts, all the facts. You have as great a stake in ferreting out the truth as I have. I want you to do something for me, if you can.”
“Anything, Mr. President. Whatever you say.”
Dilman measured his words carefully. “Reverend Spinger, I am appointing you my official representative, the President’s intermediary, to meet with Jefferson Hurley for a discussion of this whole affair.” As he spoke, Dilman’s eyes shifted from Kemmler’s reaction of disgust, to Talley’s expression of bewilderment, to Flannery’s show of approval. He drew the mouthpiece closer to his lips. “Reverend, I want you to locate Hurley, and converse with him by phone, if you can’t in person. I want you to find out, as best you can, whether the Turnerites are behind this crime or not. If he denies any part of the crime, as he has done already, I want you to tell him exactly what the Justice Department is considering doing. And I want you to tell him that if he wants to prove himself clean, and keep his organization intact, he must publicly condemn the Hattiesburg crime, and come forward to open his financial records for your eyes. If he will do this, I can promise him I will not enforce the Subversive Activities Control Act. If he refuses, I will promise nothing. Are you prepared to undertake the assignment, Reverend Spinger?”
“I am, Mr. President. When should I begin?”
“You begin this minute, and report your findings to me directly. Good luck, Reverend.”
After he had hung up, he remained still, knowing the others were gathering before his desk.
Dilman lifted his head. “That’s it for now, gentlemen.”
Kemmler was doing a poor job of containing his displeasure. “You’re making a mistake, Mr. President.”
“You might be right,” said Dilman. “I think it would be a greater mistake to act in haste.”
Talley had sidled up alongside Kemmler. “Mr. President, I’m still inclined to agree with the Attorney General. Reconsider, please. The appointment of Spinger only delays the inevitable. It may make the administration appear weak and vacillating and-and even encourage more lawbreaking and violence-I mean, giving the Hurleys encouragement to go on and commit more crimes because we’re reluctant to do anything but talk.”
“I’ll have to take the gamble, Governor.” He looked at Kemmler, who was still seething. “Give Spinger twenty-four hours,” Dilman said in a conciliatory voice.
“Then give me twenty-four hundred more FBI agents,” Kemmler snapped. “Okay, you do it your way, Mr. President. I’ll be in my office, sitting on my hands. The responsibility for whatever this leads to is in yours.”
Dilman suffered a sudden ache of abandonment and a sinking heart, as he watched the Attorney General stalk out of the Oval Office.
As he lowered himself into his swivel chair, he met Tim Flannery’s questioning eyes. Dilman’s fingers touched the loose-leaf folder. “I guess some revisions are in order for the press conference, Tim. What are they going to ask me now-and what am I supposed to say?”
After drawing up to the curb in his rented Ford, a block from the Capitol, Nat Abrahams kissed his wife, reminded her where to pick him up and when, and then relinquished the wheel of the car to her. He waited until she had safely driven off, then he walked to the stairs of the Capitol and slowly mounted them.