Preserve and Protect (42 page)

“In a situation which has to create its own precedents, because there are none,” Tommy went on, “the first seems to be, I gather, that there are no counsel present for the official position of a majority of the Committee as defined by its vote yesterday—namely, in favor of the appeal against the injunction, but in reality
for
the injunction, and for the suit. Rather than designate counsel for this rather topsy-turvy situation, the Committee has simply split into its two factions and each has selected its own counsel.

“This would seem a further justification for the position”—he looked quite severely at the tiny press table, then smiled as the UPI put his arm over his face in mock contrition—“taken by the Court, that it should hear the merits of the case which prompts the temporary injunction, as well as the merits of the injunction itself.

“Now: since we have to have some order of procedure, the Court is going to arbitrarily make the selection of the first speaker on the basis of positions
vis-à-vis
the appeal. Therefore the Court will now call upon the Honorable Robert A. Leffingwell to open the arguments for the appeal, and such other arguments as he may wish to present against the case below.

“The Court will then call upon Mr. George Harrison Wattersill, to argue against the appeal, and to present such other arguments as he may wish to present for the case below.

“After that the Court will recognize the distinguished Majority Leader of the United States Senate, the Honorable Robert D. Munson, if he desires to supplement or expand the remarks of Mr. Leffingwell, to be followed by the Honorable Roger P. Croy, to supplement or expand the arguments of Mr. Wattersill.

“Each side will then have the opportunity, through a single spokesman, to rebut.”

(“My God,” the
Newark News
whispered, “we’ll be here all night.” But Tommy had thought of that, too.)

“Because of the great—I might even say, the overwhelming—concern in this matter,” he went on with a somewhat hesitant smile that George Harrison Wattersill immediately decided to act upon, “and because of the great necessity to expedite it so that the National Committee may know immediately how to proceed hereafter, the Court is arbitrarily”—he paused, took a breath and then licked his lips in a nervous little gesture that only confirmed George Wattersill in his intention—“the Court is arbitrarily going to restrict arguments on each side to one and one-half hours, to be apportioned internally as counsel may decide between themselves, and rebuttal to one-half hour for each side. In this way—”

But George Harrison Wattersill was on his feet, every line of his body rigid with disapproval, his face suffused with a respectful but overpowering indignation.

“Now, Mr. Justice,” he said in a tone that nicely mixed sharpness and supplication, “if Your Honor please! This is indeed, Your Honor, a most overwhelmingly vital matter, in which the future fate of this nation and the fate of the world insofar as this nation contributes to or affects it are involved, as Your Honor most truly says. How, then, are we to present—on either side, if I may speak for my able friends opposite—the facts and the arguments upon which this Court may reach a fair and just decision? Now, I do not say, Your Honor,” he added with a respectful haste, “that Your Honor cannot reach a fair and just decision on brief arguments, but is it fair to the two sides here? Is it fair to the candidates—to the nation—to the world—to restrict us to such arbitrary and hampering limitations? I submit respectfully this is hardly a democratic procedure, if Your Honor please!”

“Your Honor,” Senator Munson inquired in a dry drawl from his side of the table, “who said this is a democratic procedure? Isn’t it true—need I stand, incidentally?”

“No, certainly not,” Justice Davis said promptly. “Considering the quasi-informal nature of a hearing in chambers, and considering”—and he gave a sudden twinkle that somehow disturbed George Harrison Wattersill a great deal—“your advanced years, the Court thinks all counsel may remain seated if they wish. If they wish to stand, that is all right, too. It is up to them.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Bob Munson said, interpreting Tommy’s humorous mood exactly as George Harrison Wattersill did. “As far as I’m concerned, I’ll let George, here, do the leaping, even if I’m not quite as ancient as you think.”

(“Oh, God,” the general director of the
Post
said savagely to Walter Dobius in front of the television set in his office downtown. “Isn’t everything so God-damned
chummy!”
“I don’t like it,” Walter said with a worried frown.)

“I was going to say, Your Honor,” Senator Munson resumed, “that of course this is not a democratic procedure, in the sense that anybody can take a vote on whether we talk at length or not. Now, counsel knows that as well as I do. This Court has absolute constitutional authority to set any rules it pleases. This Court isn’t democratic—it’s an arm of democracy. Counsel knows that.”

“Counsel will not split hairs, I will say,” George Wattersill snapped, “with the distinguished Majority Leader. I am simply saying that we on our side are going to be very seriously restricted if we are subject to any such close and arbitrary course of procedure. While I know,” he said with a grave worry, “that such is not the intention of the Court
at all,
still I am very much afraid this can only be interpreted by everyone who is watching or listening as being simply a fortuitous, gratuitous, and I am sure most highly welcome, advantage for the Secretary of State, Mr. Knox.”

(“Tommy won’t like that,” Orrin remarked with a sudden amusement to Beth, Dolly and Lucille in front of the set at “Vagaries.” And Tommy didn’t.)

“Well, now!” he said with a tartness that told George Wattersill he had gone too far, “I think counsel has gone too far. There is no intention to give anyone any advantage about anything. There is an intention to expedite this and get it over with, in the national interest and the world interest. This Court resents any implication or imputation of such a motive. Counsel knows better than that.”

George Harrison Wattersill looked positively crushed.

“I apologize most humbly, Your Honor,” he said with a confused, beseeching air. “I am afraid my desire to present a well-rounded case—a desire which Your Honor, as a lawyer, surely cannot criticize—led me to protest too vigorously. We on our side do have, we believe, a well-rounded case to present. Of course,” he said thoughtfully, “those who have fewer facts perhaps understandably need less time. (The two Bobs stirred, but decided simultaneously to hold their tongues.) It will be difficult to present the sound arguments we believe we have, but of course we will be bound by Your Honor’s wishes. I
do
apologize, Your Honor, most humbly. Most humbly.”

And he sat down, shaking his head in a sad, bewildered fashion. Roger P. Croy leaned over and put an arm around his shoulders with a fatherly, comforting air.

(WATTERSILL CHARGES KNOX COURT ADVANTAGE, the next edition headlines said. Throughout the country and around the globe, many millions agreed.)

“Counsel should watch his language,” Tommy said, more mildly. “Now, if Mr. Leffingwell wishes to present his arguments, perhaps we can begin.”

“Your Honor,” George Harrison Wattersill interrupted, contrite and humble still. “I do appreciate your courtesy and kindness to one who perhaps allowed a certain—I can hardly say youthful”—he smiled exactly the right kind of smile, a little shy, a little abashed, a little boyish, a little self-deprecatory—“perhaps lower-middle/middle-aged might be better—enthusiasm and impulsiveness to run away with him.”

“Yes, yes,” Tommy said with just the faintest show of a rising impatience. “Please let Mr. Leffingwell begin now.”

“Georgie, I think you’d better,” Lafe Smith remarked to Cullee Hamilton in the Delegates’ Lounge at the UN. “The last time that boy let impulsiveness run away with him was when he couldn’t control himself at the age of six months. After that one initial mistake, he’s known exactly what he was doing, ever since.”

“I’ve always found him an awfully tiresome character when he’s been before House committees,” Cullee agreed. “I get awfully fed up with this fake humility and these fake blunders that always wound up in such propaganda advantages. Look at them over there,” he said with some disgust, pointing to a group in front of one of the television sets that had been placed around the enormous room for this momentous day. “Japan, Congo Leopoldville, Ceylon and Bolivia think he’s absolutely great.”

“They all think he’s great,” Lafe said. “Look at all those eager, happy, laughing faces, all around the room. I don’t see how they can tear themselves away for the Security Council meeting.”

“When we’re the target,” Cullee said dryly, “they’ll manage. Anyway, the general services people have put ten sets in the room next door, so I dare say we’ll all be nipping in there when things get dull in the Council.”

But contrary to his expectation, things did not get so very dull in the Council, for no sooner had they taken their places than they became aware of a rustling and a murmuring and a behind-the-hand gossiping around the big green circle which seemed to promise some surprise for the arrogant, overconfident, deplored and mistrusted United States.

It must be, they decided, something more than the resolution introduced by France and the Soviet Union which urged continued recognition of the Obifumatta government in Gorotoland and dispatch of a UN force to reopen the fighting. They were pretty sure they could count on Britain to veto that one, and knew that if Britain didn’t, they would. So it did not worry them particularly.

Nor were they much more concerned about the second resolution, introduced by Britain, France and the Soviet Union, condemning the threatened U.S. blockade of Panama and pledging “all efforts of this organization, both collectively and in the realm of individual members acting within their rights upon the seas,” to break it. That, too, could be vetoed if necessary. But it might never have to be if the resolving powers could be convinced that America meant business in her drive to defeat Felix Labaiya’s “Government of the Panamanian People’s Liberation Movement” and its threat to the Canal.

As the meeting prepared to pull itself cumbrously together, late as always in typical UN fashion, it appeared that this last might take some doing, for the British Ambassador, easing quietly into his seat beside Lafe, looked as upset and affronted as he had the last time they had seen him.

“Claude,” Lafe said with a challenging good humor, “good afternoon. How are you?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Lord Maudulayne said crisply. “Better, since it appears that the National Committee is going to be permitted to select a reasonable and responsible candidate.”

“Oh?” Cullee said, his tone beginning to bristle as he leaned forward to talk around Lafe. “Is that how he looks to you?”

“Anyone,” Lord Maudulayne said with a sort of strangled indignation.
“Anyone,
to break this damnable chain of wars and more wars, crisis on top of crisis. Don’t you people realize
the world must have peace?”

“Oh, my God,” Lafe said in a weary voice, making no attempt to conceal his tired disgust from Vasily Tashikov, watching already from across the circle. “Not you, too.”

“Yes, we too!” Claude said sharply. “My Government are sick of it. Sick of it, sick of it!”

“Well, don’t get hysterical,” Cullee said in a deliberately blunt tone. “We know you’re frustrated, but don’t let it get you down.”

“We are not, I submit,” Lord Maudulayne snapped, “as frustrated as an Administration whose answer to everything is war and more war.”

“And you honestly believe,” Lafe said slowly, staring thoughtfully straight at Tashikov, who finally looked away, “that America lives and functions entirely in a vacuum: that no one else in this world commits aggression or upsets the peace of the world: that no one else in this world ever does anything to bait or provoke us: that no one else in this world is ever guilty of anything detrimental to peace: that we have no genuine interest whatsoever in preserving peace: that our only motive is conquest and aggression: that it is all the bad old United States, exclusively and entirely the only evil-doer in all the world.” He turned to stare at his seat-mate. “You honestly and truly believe that.”

“Well,” Lord Maudulayne said, looking down and shuffling the papers on the desk in front of him. “Well! Naturally not. Naturally not! Only fools believe that. But I do believe, and my Government believe, that in recent decades it has become too easy for you to resort to force.”

“Easy
for us, my God?” Cullee demanded. “With the number of Americans we’ve had killed and the amount of money we’ve spent and the way we’ve spread ourselves around the world to pick up where you left off?
Easy
for us? Oh, come on, now!”

“Nonetheless,” Claude said stubbornly, “the face you show to the world is the face of war and the policy you follow is the willingness to make war. And you frighten the world, and you accomplish little.”

“All we accomplish,” Cullee said bitterly, “is to save you all from being overrun. And what in the hell thanks do we get for it?”

“Why shouldn’t we go our own way?” Lafe asked quietly. “What do our friends—strange friends!—do to help us? Why shouldn’t we just follow our own policy, for our own self-interest, do what we think is right
for us,
and let the rest of you sink? Is that what you’d like? Vasily over there would be very happy to take you all over if we didn’t spend our lives and substance to stop him. Why should we continue to protect you? Can you think of one good reason?”

“But that’s ridiculous,” Lord Maudulayne said. “Now, that
is
ridiculous.”

“No, really,” Lafe said. “I’m not kidding. I want to know.”

“If it isn’t obvious,” Lord Maudulayne said coldly, “I’m afraid I can’t explain it.”

“Somehow, Claude,” Cullee said dryly, “we just knew you couldn’t.”

“I believe we have a session to attend to,” the British Ambassador said, still coldly, as the Ambassador of Cymru, this month’s President of the Council, gaveled for order.