Establishment (21 page)

“Was this an action of the Lavette Foundation?”

“No. The Lavette Foundation does not raise money from private sources. I undertook this personally.”

“And how many persons contributed to this private subscription?”

Barbara thought for a moment, trying to remember the people she had gone to. “Eighteen—or nineteen.”

“Were any of these people members of the Communist Party?”

“I have no idea. It's the last thing in the world I would have thought of asking any of them.”

Again Jay consulted with the congressmen. Then he walked to one side, and Drake took over.

“Mrs. Cohen,” Drake said, “please give the committee the names of the people who contributed to this private fund of yours.”

It was the question Barbara least expected. Afterward, she realized that she should have anticipated it from the very beginning. A tortuous, twisted road of questioning had finally led to it; still, she should have known. It had always been the same. Every investigation ever undertaken by this committee led to the same goal: names. Names were all they were interested in, names that could be used to spread an ever-widening network of fear and suspicion. She thought of one old lady in San Francisco, a woman of eighty-two years, who had given her a thousand dollars because, as she put it to Barbara, “these people fought for our values, my dear. And now they are sick and in need. You don't desert such people.” Barbara thought of the same old woman brought here to Washington by subpoena, sitting before this committee. She thought about a professor at Berkeley who had given her a hundred dollars. She only had to name him and he would work no more, not at the University of California, not at any other university. She thought of Dr. Kellman, who had given her two thousand dollars. Would the hospital close its doors to him, refuse him operating privileges? She had read of such cases. She had read the newspaper accounts of all the hearings before this same committee, read them with that fine air of detachment and security that the average citizen has reading the morning newspaper. And now she was no longer an average citizen. She was sitting in the House Office Building in Washington, and the question was put to her.

Harvey Baxter was watching her.
Why doesn't he say something?
she asked herself. Jay was watching her. Drake was watching her, his tiny eyes fixed on her.

“No!” she said.

Jay said, “You were asked to name the people who contributed to this private fund for the Hospital of the Sacred Heart. Will you please name them?”

“No,” Barbara said, “I will not.”

“Could I have a moment?” Baxter asked. He whispered to Barbara, “You can't refuse to answer, Barbara. It constitutes a contempt. We can't even cite the First Amendment, as the Hollywood writers did. It simply doesn't apply here. You opened the door, and now you must supply the names they want.”

“And become an informer? And turn people who trusted me over to these pigs? Are you out of your mind, Harvey?”

“You are my client, and my duty is to my client. I will not allow you to walk into a contempt citation over a ridiculous matter like this.”

“Harvey, please shut up,” she whispered. She said to Jay, “No, Mr. Jay, I have no intention of naming the contributors.”

“You realize that we can subpoena your books and records?”

“The only books and records of these contributions are in my head. But if there were books and records, rest assured that I would destroy them before you got your wretched hands on them.”

“Oh, my God,” Baxter whispered. “Don't say any more.”

“Mrs. Cohen,” Drake said, “do you realize that by refusing to answer this question you are placing yourself in contempt of this committee?”

“I don't fully understand what that means,” Barbara said slowly. “I would like to think it means that I have contempt for you and your associates. That would be correct.”

“We are through with this witness, Mr. Jay!” Drake shouted over a ripple of noise and laughter from the press. “Get her out of here!”

***

On the plane back to California, Barbara realized she was actually feeling sorry for Harvey Baxter, and she found herself saying, “Do cheer up, Harvey. It's not the end of the world, not by any means. We were both of us equally dense in never imagining that it would go this way.”

“Why didn't you tell me about those contributions? I'm your lawyer, Barbara.”

“Because it never occurred to me, Harvey. Not in a thousand years could I have guessed that they would care that a few friends of mine gave me money for medicine. Who could imagine that such a thing would be frowned upon, even by those creeps?”

“We should have anticipated it.”

“And if we had, what difference would it have made? I wouldn't give those bastards the names under any circumstances. Oh, let's forget it. Washington! Never, never have I been so happy to be out of a place! I would not go back there if they decided to make me the first woman President. I would shift the capital to Omaha, Nebraska, or to Tulsa, Oklahoma. Those dreadful, stupid, bigoted men! Well, it's over, and God willing, Bernie's craziness is also over. Wouldn't it be nice if he were home, waiting for me when I get there? He might even be at the airport. Mother knows what plane we're taking. That would be a very nice surprise.”

“It's not over,” Baxter said unhappily.

“You mean the contempt? I'm not going to worry about that.”

“I'm afraid I must, Barbara.”

“Very well. What will they do? Put me in jail? Flog me?”

“The first step is for them to cite you, and I'm sure they will. Jay said as much. Then it goes to a vote of Congress. If Congress votes to support the contempt citation, it goes to the Justice Department, and they issue a warrant for your arrest and trial.”

“As a master criminal? As a Russian agent?”

“It's not a laughing matter, Barbara. If you're found guilty at the trial, they can sentence you to as much as a year in prison. Of course, I don't expect it to come to that, but we must look the whole process in the face. The one ray of sunshine is that the contempt can be voided at any time right up to the point when the judge pronounces sentence—and even after that.”

“Harvey, you are impossible,” Barbara declared. “Will you stop being a lawyer for a moment and be an ordinary American citizen. They do not put people in jail for what I just did. I know these are stinking times, but it is still the country I was born and raised in.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Baxter said bleakly.

“Now just what do you mean by voiding a contempt?”

“It's very simple, Barbara. The contempt consisted of refusing the names. I don't think you would have to give them all eighteen names. Perhaps even if you gave them three or four—with the consent, of course, of the people involved—they might very well void the contempt. I spoke to Jay about that, and he appears inclined—”

“Harvey!”

“No need to get angry.”

“I will be angry, very angry, if you mention that again. If I must go to jail, I'll go. I don't think it's in the cards, but if I must, I will. Right now, I don't want to think about it. Or talk about it.”

“Would you consider giving me the names?”

“No!”

“Does that mean you don't trust me?”

“It means nothing of the kind,” Barbara said more gently. “I do trust you, Harvey, and I think you've done your best to protect me and help me. I do appreciate it. But this is something I must do alone and share with no one, not with you and not with Bernie. You must stop thinking of me as a helpless woman. I'm not helpless and I'm not weak. Now I want you to do me a favor. I want you to read your copy of the
Washington Post
for the next hour and just let me sit here and think. I have a good deal of thinking to do.” She patted his hand. “And you're not to worry.”

Jean was waiting for them at the airport in San Francisco. Until they dropped Baxter off at his home, Jean spoke only of Dan, of his rapid improvement, and of the two days of rain they had just experienced. She had telephoned Eloise, and Barbara's son was doing fine, eating his fill, and apparently not missing her a great deal.

When they were alone in the car, Jean said, “Was it awful?”

“While it was happening, yes. It was nasty. They brought up the past, things that had happened to me in France, and I'm afraid I reacted very emotionally. Now it's over, and I don't want to think about it.”

“Was Harvey helpful?”

“Not very. No. Poor man, he did the best he could.”

“Dan thinks he's an idiot.”

“No, he's not an idiot. It's just that he refuses to believe what is happening. Most of all, he can't believe that it is happening to a Lavette or a Seldon or however he thinks of us.”

“Well, neither can I. My house or yours, baby?”

“Mine, mother. I want to get out of my clothes, and there might be something from Bernie. I know you haven't heard because you would have told me.”

“No, I haven't heard.”

At the house on Green Street, Barbara thumbed through her mail. Nothing from Bernie there and no cables under the door. “Do you know,” she said to her mother, “I talked myself into believing that he would be here or at the airport, waiting? I sat on the plane rehearsing to myself how I would tell him about my day in Washington. I planned to be so clever and bright about it. I was thinking about how Dorothy Parker might tell it if it had happened to her. I do love Dorothy Parker. Why can't I write the way she does?” She plopped into a chair, put her face in her hands, and began to cry.

“Honey, are you crying because you don't write like Dorothy Parker or because you haven't heard from that silly husband of yours?” Jean stood in front of her, watching her helplessly.

“I'm all right, mother. I'm just dog tired. I hardly slept at all last night. You would think that with all I've been through in the past, this wouldn't matter so much. But it was so rotten, so absolutely rotten.”

“How did it come out, Bobby?”

“Have you a Kleenex?” Jean handed her a tissue, and Barbara dried her eyes. “I thought I was over the tearful syndrome. I still don't dare use eye make-up for fear I'll have black gullies running down my cheeks. Oh, I was doing fine until the end, and then they began the business of names. They wanted to know who contributed to the medicinal fund for the hospital in Toulouse, and when I refused to tell them, they found me in contempt.”

“I gave you money for that. Why didn't you tell them? I couldn't care less.”

“Mother,” Barbara said, “be an angel and don't discuss it any further. All I want now is a bath and my bed. We'll talk about it tomorrow. I'll pick up Sammy, and I'll bring him with me to the hospital. About four o'clock. Will you be there then?”

***

The Associated Press had covered the committee hearing in Washington, and the leading San Francisco papers, the
Chronicle
and the
Examiner
, ran the story on the front page. For the past four decades, the Lavettes were news and had made news in San Francisco, and from nine o'clock in the morning, Barbara's telephone rang intermittently. She had already left the house and was on her way to the Napa Valley, so she was spared the newspapers' calls until she returned early in the evening with Sam.

John Whittier was less fortunate. After he had explained to several callers that he had absolutely no idea where Thomas Lavette could be found, he stopped all calls and spent the best part of the day reflecting on the grief the Lavette family had brought him since he decided to marry Jean Lavette seventeen years before. A telephone call from Tom at Nicasio, which his secretary decided he should accept, did nothing to ease his anger.

“That damn sister of yours,” he shouted at Tom, “is totally irresponsible!”

Tom tried to calm him. Whittier then wanted to know what on earth Tom thought he was doing, hiding up there in Marin County.

Tom repeated the conversation to Lucy. It brought a smile to her face, and Tom found himself smiling in response. “Whittier,” Tom said, “is a horse's ass of the first water. He's terrified of Ronny Brinks, who runs the Republican organization in the city.”

“I know Ronny.” Lucy nodded. “Ronny is nothing. Ten thousand dollars would buy Ronny. Another five would buy his wife and children. I think it's time we put John Whittier to pasture.”

Again the “we,” but now Tom welcomed it. Earlier, Lucy had driven to the village and had picked up the San Francisco and Oakland newspapers. She had read the stories carefully, particularly a background story in the
Oakland
Tribune
, in which the writer drew a colorful picture of what had happened in the hearing room.

“How do we put John Whittier to pasture?” Tom asked. “I agree with you, but how?”

“There are nice ways, and there are other ways that are not so nice. Nice would be to tell him that he deserves a rest and ask him to resign. Not so nice would be to dump him. Daddy owns twelve thousand shares of stock in Great Cal Shipping. If he votes it with your stock, that gives him a majority position. Unless you have compunctions?”

“About John? No, none.”

“Good. Then when the proper time comes, John will take a well-deserved rest. Now, about this business in Washington,” Lucy went on, “I'm rather glad it happened.”

“Why?” Tom asked in amazement. “It's loused everything up.”

“Has it? You know, Tom, I never shared your enthusiasm for politics. It's a boy scout notion that politicians and their stupid legislatures run this country. That's a romantic illusion. This country is run by an establishment of finance and power. My word, deep down you are a Seldon. You should know that. I can appreciate your desire to play the political game. It's the best game in town for a man who doesn't grow up, but I refuse to think of you as a small boy. From what I know of your sister, she is not going to back down, and this case will become something of a
cause célèbre
! What are they going to ask of you? To denounce her publicly? That would hardly help your image. No, my dear, far better to own a politician than to be one. There's only one name for the game, and that's
power
, and the power of politicians is an illusion.”