Dillon shifted his weight, a subtle act of inclination toward Richard, but also an act enabling a glance toward the agent in the rear. He wanted that bastard to be taking this down, and he was.
He said, "It must seem very clear to all of us now that, regarding Vietnam, we are at a crossroads, and if we make the wrong choices here, then the words 'mistake' and 'crime' will fall short of describing what we have done. The behavior of authorities in Chicago, like the behavior of the government in this case, indicates how at risk our society is. People in authority, in uniform, if you will, are not infallible. Nor are we immune to the viruses of disorder that seem to be in the very air now. In such a situation, what will see us through is a rededication both to the principles of law and to the commitments we have made as a nation. We often say that the end does not justify the means, but in Vietnam only the end—a stable, free and democratic government in Saigon—will justify the terrible means we've had to use. But such an end abroad will not be achieved by an American government that ignores principles of freedom and democracy at home. That, your honor, is why your ruling in this case is so important. Don't rule against the war in Vietnam. Help end it justly by ruling in favor of the Constitution of the United States."
Dillon lifted his hand and placed it on Richard's shoulder. "And your honor, if, before offering our formal assent to the motion to dismiss, I may add one further, personal note."
"You may, indeed, General."
"Thank you, your honor." Dillon squeezed his son's shoulder, but did not look at him. "I said we're at a crossroads. Perhaps, at some previous crossroads, we took a wrong turn in this country, without knowing it. The impasse over Vietnam tells us that the way we've been doing business in this country is not working, and by 'we,' I mean men like you and me, sir. And it seems to me our only hope is if our successors begin to make decisions that are radically different from ours. If they don't, then the world is finished. Unsettled as I am by it, what I recognize in my own son is the uncompromising will to change the direction in which we are headed. He and I disagree, as I said, on almost every particular, but on the level, as my Jesuit teachers would have called it, of the universal, it is not that we disagree. It is that I learn from him, and as a nation, my hope is that we can learn from all the people like him."
Thirty feet behind Sean and Richard sat Cass. If her husband was describing a crucial recognition, she was having one of her own. A recognition not of something in Richard and not of something new. She was recognizing in Sean an explicit manifestation of what she'd first sensed in him one desperate night on a corner in Canaryville across from the Stone Gate. She had, in the first instant of her feelings, been right about him, and that knowledge justified, fulfilled and, in some way, to her, sanctified the whole life they had had together.
Sean Dillon sat down.
The judge tapped his gavel on its disk almost gently. "This case is dismissed," he said.
All rose. Everyone left the courtroom except Sean and Richard and Cass.
Sean and Richard, awkward, turned away from each other and stepped toward the railing where they met Cass. She embraced them in turn, Richard first. Still she was what they had in common, and as if once more her expression freed theirs, they faced each other at last.
Richard, staring directly into his father's eyes, said, "This is not how I wanted it."
"There was no chance he'd rule against the war."
"But Dad, he didn't even rule against the Selective Service abuse. He
let the government off the hook. What about all those other cases? Did you just bring them up to force the issue?"
Sean shook his head. "No. What Hershey is doing is wrong, and I'd like to stop it, stop it all. Daley and Hoover too. But I can't. To stop the abuse in your case, I'm willing to let go of the others. That's all."
"But Dad, you said—"
"I've said a lot of things, many of which I regret. What matters most now is ending the war. Isn't that how you feel?"
"Yes."
"Believe it or not, it's how I feel too. No one is sicker of this thing than I am. And if I am still going back to the Pentagon after all of this, it's to help stop the killing, and get our boys home."
"Then just stop it, Dad. That's how to end the war. Just end it."
"It's not that simple, Rich. That's how we still differ."
"You said we differ on the particulars, but not the universal. All I see are the particulars, Dad. The bodies. The rest of it is bullshit."
"You are wrong. Someday you will see that."
For the first time ever, in an exchange on this subject, they spoke to each other without anger. That seemed a miracle to Sean, but instantly he corrected himself. Not a miracle, but the result of hard work, his and Richard's, and also Cass's. A victory, yes. But not yet something to celebrate. Dillon felt as deflated as his son so clearly did. They stood in silence, peering into each other's eyes, seeing flecks of the same refusal. Truce was not the same as peace. Sean turned and led the way out of the courtroom.
In the corridor he saw the hovering figure of the agent; now Dillon noted the man's blazer and gray slacks. He crossed toward him. "Identify yourself, please."
The man began to back away toward a corner. Sean pressed him. "Who sent you?"
Instead of answering, the man tried to push past Sean into the corridor proper, to get away, but Sean took his arm. It was impossible to know who'd sent him. Though the man's shoes were highly polished, plain-toed military issue, he could still be with the Bureau. The JCS. The air force. The White House. It didn't matter. "Whoever you're reporting to," Sean said, "I want you to add something. Say: General Dillon is not resigning. Don't misunderstand what he did here today. He's in this, fulfilling the oath of his commission until that commission is withdrawn.
Tell them that. Tell them they'll still have to deal with me. Got it? I'm still here."
Sean released the man, who found it possible to muster his dignity and to walk away without running.
Cass came up from behind, to put her arm around Sean's waist. "I'm still here too," she said.
Sean looked at her and smiled sadly. "We won't be here for long, sweetheart."
"Do you suppose we'll have to go back to Canaryville?"
"Nope, not there either. A
real
move this time."
Cass shrugged. "I'm ready. I've been saving cardboard boxes for a while now."
Sean laughed. "You have no way of knowing this, but even if they fire you, the U.S. government provides the boxes."
"They may not—for you."
And then they both laughed.
Finally Sean looked over at Richard. "I could use a lift back to work."
"What about your driver?"
"I released my driver a couple of weeks ago. I use the motor pool. I wanted to arrange a promotion for Sergeant Kingfield while my recommendation still carries weight."
"You've seen this coming?"
"What's that song of yours say, about not having to be a weatherman? What about a lift, Rich?"
Richard realized his father was inviting him to revisit one of their most precious forms of intimacy, Richard as his father's driver, those late night rides home, when they crested the ridge above the Potomac, the blue and red runway lights of Boiling and National both gleaming magically.
But it was impossible. All those particulars. He shook his head sadly. "Not to the Pentagon, Dad. I can't drive you there."
Cass saw the awful hole beginning to open up between them again. She touched both their elbows. "I was hoping we might all three stop at Arlington. We could say that prayer we never finished ... for Mr. Crocker ... and for ... everyone."
Sean said, "I'd like to do that." He would walk to the Pentagon from there, across the fields of the dead. It would concentrate his mind.
Cass looked at her husband gratefully, but she saw now added to his
clenched teeth and tight fists a vacancy of the eyes, as if he were seeing already the last destruction of his hopes. What would it be like, watching him retreat into an even greater solitude?
Richard was focused on Cass. He thought of Stephen Dedalus, who refused to pray with his mother, and of Meursault, who refused to mourn his. He knew at last not only that he lacked any such capacity, but that he didn't want it. "So would I," he answered.
The three left the courthouse then. They squeezed into the front seat of the old baby-blue convertible, Cass in the middle. They rode with the top down, glad for the wind in their faces, for a reason not to speak. They went the length of Constitution Avenue, around the Lincoln Memorial and across the bridge.