Preserve and Protect (41 page)

6

It was morning in the home of George Harrison Wattersill, and already there was the stir that developed when Daddy had a big case. Today the stir was greater than usual, and it had been going on most of the night, which made it seem even more important. Strange cars had come and gone at the handsome old twenty-room house on Foxhall Road (result of a thousand cases in the Right Cause for the Right People at the Right Time) ever since mid-afternoon yesterday, and in them had come and gone a strange parade: LeGage Shelby, Fred Van Ackerman, Rufus Kleinfert; Roger P. Croy and six fellow members of the National Committee; Walter Dobius, Frankly Unctuous, and several other prominent columnists and news commentators; several members of Congress; a deputation of ministers; a delegation of students and professors from Georgetown Law School.

There had been conferrings in muffled voices behind the big oaken doors of Daddy’s study. Sometimes the voices had surged upward in heat and anger, sometimes they had sunk to a murmur so confidential that it hardly seemed anyone was talking at all. Afterward most of the visitors had gone out on the steps to pose for pictures and be interviewed before they went away.

“This is probably my biggest case,” Daddy had told the
Post
when it called yesterday afternoon right after Roger Croy announced his selection to head the Jason team when it appeared in Justice Davis’ chambers. And Daddy, with his sure instinct for drama which had won him so much fame, was milking it for all it was worth.

For Daddy was indeed a famous man, and carefully filed in his study, he had the articles, the headlines and the picture layouts to prove it.

“GALAHAD IN THE COURTROOM,”
Look
had called him when he had secured release of the saboteurs who had ruined two moon shots at Cape Kennedy: “George Harrison Wattersill Fights for the Defiant and the Dissident.” “WATTERSILL FOR THE DEFENSE,”
Newsweek
had burbled at the time he sprung four flag desecraters and six draft-card burners: “A Daring Advocate Upholds Freedom’s Cause.” “DEMOCRACY’S DEFENDER,”
The Greatest Publication
described him admiringly at the time he was successfully conducting the defense of three union leaders who had tied up 100,000 tons of war materiel and thereby caused the unnecessary deaths of American soldiers. “G.H.W.,”
Life
had reported only last week: “Washington’s Most Dynamic Young Lawyer Saves Its Most Wanted Rapist.”

On George Harrison Wattersill’s shelves could also be found the writings with which he had embellished and given further status to the glamorous and glorious career that had shot him into orbit at the age of twenty-six, never to fall.

There was the sober study of “Rules of Evidence,” for the
Journal of the American Bar Association.
There was the article for
Readers Digest:
“What
You
Can Do If Your Teenybopper Gets Into Trouble.” There was the thoughtful piece in
Fortune:
“Has the Law Become Too Big a Business?” There was the swinging piece for
Seventeen:
“Hey, Kids, Stay Clear of the Fuzz!” And there was the book, published only three weeks ago and already soaring to the top of the non-fiction best-seller list on a wave of flattering reviews from the
Times, The New Yorker, Time, Newsweek, The Greatest Publication,
and
Book World:
MY CLIENT, LIBERTY: The Story of “Democracy’s Defender,” by George Harrison Wattersill.

It was said, and truly, of George Harrison Wattersill, that his clients, whether they be rapists, saboteurs, draft dodgers or common murderers, had one trait in common. They were Against—against law, against order, against common decency, against society, and against their own country. They were the sick of an anarchic age, and so, perhaps, was he, for all his beautifully tailored good looks and his aristocratic courtroom manner. And because he had very early in his career perceived that the Against were the darlings of the media, he gave them his abilities and they automatically gave him the publicity and prominence that meant fame and fortune.

There were some critics, both at the bar and outside it, who marveled at how adeptly George Harrison Wattersill could twist his conscience and his principles to fit his clients and his reputation. But solemnly he would repeat in interview after interview the sentence that had become his trademark:

“Freedom is indivisible. It is indivisible for you, for me, for the rapist and for the demonstrator. (Slowly and gravely) Freedom … is … indivisible. If you live by that guidestone, all else falls into place.”

“How marvelous, how brave,” cried all his admirers as they boosted him still further up the ladder of publicity. “How shrewd and smart for Georgie Wattersill,” darkly murmured his detractors as they tried to pull him down.

But it couldn’t be done.

“Georgie is our darlin’, our darlin’, our darlin’,” they had caroled at the most recent Gridiron Club show. “Georgie is our darlin’, our Young Cavalier!”

The sentiment was well-nigh universal in all the opinion factories that Really Count.

George Harrison Wattersill could happen, probably, only in America in the latter half of the twentieth century. But there was no doubt that he had happened, and happened big.

So now at thirty-eight “this most brilliant young lawyer anywhere,” as
Commentary
had called him, this “gallant defender of the indefensible” as the
Saturday Review
(perhaps not quite saying what it had intended) hailed him on the occasion of his guest editorial urging a treaty to restrict nuclear weapons to the twenty-seven mutually hostile and suspicious nations which now had them, was approaching his biggest case.

It would be, he thought, short and sweet. Given Tommy Davis for a target, he and his clients were confident they knew exactly the approach they should take, because after all, wasn’t it all set anyway? All they had to do was help the Justice put a respectable face on it—“Give him enough arguments to make him look good and satisfy the boobs,” George had remarked, with a certain disrespect for the great American public whose freedom he so gallantly defended every day of his life—and it would all be over in two hours’ time.

“Just leave it to me,” he had assured Governor Jason when the Governor telephoned a little while ago to check on progress. “We’re going to be so smooth they’ll never know what hit them.”

“Don’t underestimate Bob Leffingwell or Bob Munson,” Ted had advised. “And don’t go in overconfident about Tommy.”

“Overconfidence is not my habit,” George Wattersill had replied crisply. “But you have talked to him, I understand?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well,” George said, dismissing doubt. “It worked with old Hempstone on the District Court, didn’t it? He handed down that injunction quickly enough.”

“Not without a price,” Ted replied. He uttered a dry little chuckle. “I suppose the perfect pay-off would be when Tommy retires—”

“Tommy will never retire,” George Harrison Wattersill said with a laugh. “He likes that job too much.”

“Well, I repeat,” Governor Jason said. “Don’t go in overconfident. We can’t afford any slips at this point in the game.”

“Leave it to me,” George Harrison Wattersill said calmly. “I know my town.”

And as Washington, or those very few of it who were going to be privileged to squeeze into Justice Davis’ chambers, began to arrive at the Supreme Court shortly after one p.m., it appeared that George Wattersill did. He had assistance, of course, for again NAWAC was out in force, its massive contribution to the week’s events transferred from the troop-ringed, but temporarily deserted Kennedy Center, to Capitol Plaza and the streets around the Court. Here his skillful hand was immediately noticeable, for today the aspect was solemn, dignified, respectful, polite, and the banners were far from yesterday’s obscenities, which had been stored temporarily at COMFORT headquarters downtown. Now in place of such things as ONE SHOT, TWO SHOTS, THREE SHOTS, FOUR/THE CAUSE OF PEACE HAS PLENTY MORE, and the infantile but satisfyingly offensive F.
old
U.
p,
C.
razy
K.
nox!,
they offered only such mild suggestions as FAIR PLAY, MR. JUSTICE—AMERICA COUNTS ON YOU, and, LET LAW DECIDE/NOT FRATRICIDE. It appeared to Bob Munson and Bob Leffingwell as they arrived, to be greeted by a few mildly resentful murmurs but no overt outburst, that there were even a few relatively clean shirts and scrapes in the front rows, a few faces that looked as though they had actually been washed.

“Georgie wants everybody respectable today,” Senator Munson remarked.

Bob Leffingwell snorted.

“It isn’t going to do him any good inside.”

It certainly, however, did him and his cause some good outside, because the nation and the world, again largely immobilized and attentive, today had an impression of orderly, decent, responsible protest. The dignified atmosphere was increased by the arrival of George himself, accompanied by Roger P. Croy, who, as Lafe Smith had remarked to Cullee during the convention, would manage to look dignified in a Japanese massage parlor. The combination of George’s alert, intelligent face and Roger Croy’s imposing white-topped visage, gave world viewers an instant feeling of solidity, determination, strength and supreme confidence. The two Bobs, in contrast, while looking solid, determined and strong, also looked worried, somber and actively concerned about their cause.

By five minutes to two, everyone who had a reason to be there was in the leather-lined, book-filled, comfortably cluttered room where Mr. Justice Davis was accustomed to discuss pending cases with his clerks, entertain his friends at little private luncheons, write his opinions, or just sit and read. With a firmness that matched the President’s, and had quite surprised, puzzled and upset the media, he had sharply reduced the number of people and the amount of equipment that might be in the room. At best it was tiny and would hold no more than fifty comfortably. He had reduced it even further by announcing that he would permit one pool cameraman, one sound man and one reporter for television; two radio correspondents; two still photographers and two reporters from each of the two wire services; and three newspaper correspondents. These had been chosen by lot at emergency meetings last night of the Congressional gallery committees for the various media. The outcry was not as bitter against Mr. Justice Davis as it had been against the President, because Mr. Justice Davis, after all, was one of the Good Guys; but his decision did make for a lot of practical difficulties in coverage, there was no doubt about that. But Tommy, though they did not know it, had made up his mind on certain things and intended to stick to them.

For this brief moment, the power of America rested with him. He was, as the President had told him, the boss. And literally nobody on earth could overrule him.

Add to the fifteen media representatives, himself; an official stenographer for the Court; a stenographer for each side; two of his young law clerks (thrilled almost to the point of tears at the opportunity to participate in this historic occasion) to keep water glasses filled and scratch pads replenished; the four lawyers for the disputants; and the Marshal at the door, and he had what he considered a manageable group of twenty-six individuals.

This, he thought now as he peered quickly around at them while the bailiff closed the door and locked it, was quite enough. He cleared his throat, took a sip of water, and, somewhat nervously yet firmly, began to speak.

(“I don’t think he looks very well, do you?” the
Newark News,
one of the three newspapers chosen, whispered to the
Arkansas Gazette.
“He’s really on the spot,” the
Gazette
whispered back. “Oh, is he?” murmured the
Boston Herald
in some surprise. “I thought it was all cut and dried.”)

If this was indeed the case, there was no indication from Justice Davis. His opening remarks were brief, impartial and straight to the point.

“Petitioners,” he said, for once enunciating slowly and distinctly as if conscious of the uncountable millions whose eyes and ears were upon him, “appear here pursuant to a decision of the National Committee yesterday, to appeal the temporary injunction issued yesterday morning by the U. S. District Court for the District of Columbia.

“Said injunction required the suspension of National Committee proceedings pending decision of the suit entered in the District Court on behalf of the National Committeeman from Oregon, the Honorable Roger P. Croy, and Mrs. Esmé Harbellow Stryke, National Committeewoman from California. This suit has been joined by a newly formed organization known by the acronym ‘NAWAC,’ which this Court understands to mean, ‘National Antiwar Activities Committee.’

“The temporary injunction has been complied with by the National Committee, which now stands in recess pending decision of present appeal to this Court.

“The suit filed by Governor Croy, Mrs. Stryke and NAWAC, seeks a permanent injunction prohibiting the National Committee in its own right from selecting candidates for President and/or Vice President and requiring the Committee to recall the convention which adjourned in San Francisco two weeks ago, and to direct said convention to select said nominee and/or nominees.

“The effect of overturning the temporary injunction on appeal would of course be to free the National Committee to resume its deliberations immediately and to decide by its own free vote, if it so pleases, whether to reconvene the convention, or to dispense with that procedure and select nominees in and of its own right to do so under the rules governing the party.

“Therefore, this Court would hope that appellants and counter-appellants would address themselves today not only to the validity of the temporary injunction and whether or not it can, in fact, be issued legally by the court below; but also, and perhaps more importantly, to the basic questions raised by the pending suit in the court below.

(“He doesn’t have the right to go into that, does he?” the AP murmured. The UPI gave a snort, swiftly suppressed as Justice Davis, Bob Leffingwell and Roger P. Croy all gave him sharp glances. “This Court can do anything,” he whispered. “Anyway, who’s going to stop him? God?”)