Seven Days in May

Thursday Noon

Jiggs Casey smiled as disarmingly as he knew how while Morton Freeman gulped the last inch of his second gibson and jerked the luncheon menu toward him. The gingham tablecloth wrinkled with the movement and the empty cocktail glass splintered on the floor. The television writer glared at Casey.

"Christ, I can't stand neutral people," he complained. "They make me nervous. I said I'd see you as a favor to Shoo, but you sound like a dish of Jell-o."

"I don't want to get into a political discussion, Mr. Freeman. I just want to find out a few things."

Freeman peered through his black-rimmed spectacles and pushed a jumble of hair back off his forehead. He glanced around the crowded restaurant as though seeking allies. Casey felt vaguely like a foreigner, as if he should have shown his passport to the headwaiter.

"I can't figure you, Casey," Freeman said. "You say you want the lowdown on MacPherson so Washington can cut off his water, but you won't commit yourself on anything. Don't you ever stick that big fat neck of yours out?"

It had started peacefully enough. Casey recognized Morty Freeman at once from Shoo's description. When they were settled in a back booth at The Bowl, he stated his business simply, if untruthfully. He said he was a Democrat, in a modest federal job, one of many friends of President Lyman who were concerned about the increasing virulence of Harold MacPherson's attacks on the administration and the nuclear disarmament treaty.

Freeman promptly plunged into a passionate denunciation of nuclear weapons and previous United States policies, praising Lyman for "having the courage" to understand that "the Communists want to live too." When he went on to declare that Eisenhower-Kennedy distrust of the Russians had set civilization back two decades, Casey offered a mild dissent. Freeman rushed on anyway. He blasted military officers as "latter-day Francos," damned the Republican party, the Chamber of Commerce, and the American Medical Association, and called Lyman "the only world statesman since Nehru."

When Casey suggested that the two men represented completely different philosophies, Freeman stopped talking and looked at his luncheon companion as if he had just noticed him for the first time. "Say," he said, "just where do you stand?"

Casey tried to backpedal into a compromise, but Freeman blocked his retreat. Casey decided he had better concentrate on simply holding onto his temper long enough to get out of this place with some information. Freeman continued to demand that he take the stand and testify.

"Look," Casey finally said, "I've stuck my neck out once or twice, but that isn't my job right now. I'm trying to get some facts that will put MacPherson where he belongs, and what I believe about birth control or aid to Yugoslavia hasn't a thing to do with that. Are you going to help me or not?"

Freeman squeezed into the corner of the booth. "How do I know you're not some frigging FBI agent and this isn't some trick to blacklist me?"

Good God, Casey thought, they complain about Scott having right-wing oddballs on his side. Well, it looks like Lyman has managed to collect at least one lulu from deep left field. He covered the thought with a smile.

"You don't, unless you think Shoo, who happens to be an old friend of mine, would deliberately trap you. Come on, let's talk sense."

"Piss on you," said Freeman, but his belligerence began to fade. "Let's order, since you're buying, and then you ask your questions-and maybe I'll answer them."

Casey revised his plan of attack while the writer buried his head behind the menu card. They both ordered lunch, but Freeman decided he needed a third gibson first.

"Actually," Casey said, "I only want a couple of things, in confidence. The main thing we need is some idea of the relationship between MacPherson and General Scott, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs."

"They're thick as thieving bastards," said Freeman bitterly. "Scott's been up to Mac's place in Connecticut two or three times. Mac has had some of those private 'briefings' for conservatives only. You know, the General tells 'em that Social Security is original sin and that we're all going Communist tomorrow. They love it, and they all line up to back him for President."

"Are you serious about Scott running for President?"

"You kidding? Of course he is. And MacPherson wants to be the big kingmaker."

"When did these sessions take place?" Casey asked.

Freeman clutched his drink as though it was about to run away. "He had one last winter sometime, then one in April. I remember the last time because Mac had me come up there to work out some changes in a show, to get in something Scott said. The usual craperoo."

"What about this Saturday night? We hear he's cooking up something special."

"You got me there. He won't tell me a goddam thing about this super one-hour special of his. Which is something for him, because he pays me seven hundred a week as a writer just so he can pump me dry. Claims he's gonna write this one himself." Freeman grimaced. "I advise you to buy earplugs, Casey. Mac can ooze like ointment, but he can't write his own name."

"Then the gossip columns are right? I mean, he has asked for time from the network?"

"Oh, sure. He did that last week, and he got it, too. He told me this morning that RBC has agreed. He'll get the whole hour, six to seven, no sponsor. He's putting out sixty-five grand of his own for the time."

"Does he have to submit his script?" Casey asked.

"No, he doesn't. Technically he's supposed to, but they've got an unwritten understanding on that. He's never libeled anybody. He just calls anybody he doesn't like an ignoramus, which is supposed to be fair political comment."

Freeman rattled on about MacPherson, delving with practiced relish into his personality as though he were a psychiatrist analyzing the devil. Casey's attention waned. Freeman had run out of facts, and his opinions were hardly worth the price of the lunch, which, when the check arrived, turned out to be $12.75.

"Only one thing puzzles me," Casey said as he paid the bill. "If you hate MacPherson so much, why do you work for him?"

Freeman flashed his first real grin. "He bugs me so bad I spend everything I make trying to forget my work. Any decent liberal commentator who offers me a job can have me at bargain-basement rates-down to six ninety-five a week."

Casey followed Freeman out, turning his head slightly away from the diners packed into the little restaurant. His New York mission was ending and he felt he had failed. He had been able to do little more than confirm what they already knew or suspected, and he surmised that Millicent Segnier's tax return wouldn't count for much in this kind of struggle. He thought of Girard. What a lousy thing to happen to a swell guy. And what a spot it puts the President in. Still, Miss Townsend said Girard had telephoned good news. Was anything pinned down? He wondered how soon he could get a plane out of La Guardia.

On the sidewalk under the canopy, Freeman squinted in the sunlight. He jabbed a finger at Casey's chest.

"You don't look like the man for it, but for the sake of sanity, I hope your bunch can dump MacPherson and Scott both."

Casey held out his hand. "Well, thanks, Mr. Freeman. I'll keep anything you've told me under my hat."

Freeman ignored the offered handshake and his voice bristled with parting sarcasm. "Try taking sides sometime, Casey. It'll do you good to bloody your nose for something you believe in. So long, pal."

Casey watched him walk off along the street. Sonny, he thought, if I didn't have to get back to Washington, I'd bloody someone's nose for something I believe in-right now.

At the White House, Jordan Lyman chewed absently on a sandwich while he read the sheets of news copy brought him by Frank Simon. There were three adds to the first story he'd seen that morning, each supplying a few more details, and then a new night lead, apparently written by a correspondent who had reached the crash scene:

upi-104

(crash)

la granja, spain---smashed and charred wreckage strewn over a barren castilian hillside was all that remained of the giant trans-ocean jetliner which crashed here early thursday.

police and rescue workers were still combing the scattered fragments of the plane for the bodies of passengers, who included paul girard, 45, appointments secretary to president lyman.

wing and engine debris was found some distance from the main wreckage, indicating a terrific impact. cause of the crash was undetermined, although the pilot had radioed the madrid control tower shortly after his take-off for new york that he had "mechanical trouble" and was returning f o the spanish capital for repairs.

airline officials said they hoped to be able to find out what had gone wrong. though most of the aircraft burned, officials hoped to salvage cockpit instruments and recording devices that might give them a clue to the accident, worst trans-ocean crash in five years.

5/16-W0232PED

Well, thought Lyman, that ends the chance of finding a small piece of paper that might force Scott to resign. About the only remaining hope of any substantial evidence would be a report by Clark-good God, why doesn't Ray call?-from El Paso. But Lyman realized with a sinking sensation that even proof of a secret base, not authorized by the President, would be a flimsy basis for firing the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and his fellow four-star generals. The nation simply would not understand why a popular officer should be dismissed for taking measures, even in secret, to safeguard communications facilities.

Perhaps Chris is right, he thought, and we'll have to move openly.

Almost as bad was Saul Lieberman's report. Lyman felt like a preacher whose congregation suddenly deserts him on the morning of the ground-breaking ceremony for a new church. But at least this one, he thought grimly, I can cope with. In fact, a plan was already beginning to shape up in his mind. It was bold and risky, but it just might work.

Esther opened the door just enough to put her head into the office. "Dr. Kramer reminds that you're due in his office for your physical in five minutes," she said.

Lyman stepped through the French doors onto the veranda that led around the rose garden and across from the west wing to the mansion, where his doctor had a ground-floor office.

At least the weather had improved. The early-afternoon sun shone through a thin drifting cloud, and there was the pleasant smell of the grass, newly mown that morning. Lyman heard a blue jay, creaking like a garden gate, and saw the bird fuming at a sparrow in the big magnolia tree. He nodded to a Secret Service agent standing unobtrusively against the wall.

Dr. Horace Kramer, Lyman's long-time personal physician who had left his practice in Columbus to attend the President, chatted about the break in the weather as he busied himself with the weekly checkup: stethoscope, the inflated band on the arm for blood pressure, a lighted magnifier probing eyes, ears, nose and throat. When Kramer had finished he sat on a stool and swung his stethoscope idly, looking at his patient.

"How long has it been since you had a vacation?" he asked.

Kramer was a swarthy man, with deep-set eyes that dwelled diagnostically on his patients.

"I've been up to Blue Lake two weekends this spring," Lyman said defensively.

"I said a vacation, Mr. President." Kramer's voice was patient but firm.

"Well, let's see," said Lyman. "There was that week at the lake last summer."

Kramer shook his head, his eyes never leaving Lyman's. "That just won't do either, Mr. President. You had two conferences a day that week, and by my count you went fishing only three times."

Lyman said nothing. His thoughts were far from the clinic, on a hillside in Spain, on a handsome general in the Pentagon, on a desert waste in the Southwest.

"I'm going to be blunt, Jordan," Kramer said. "Your blood pressure is up again, and I don't like it one little bit. From now on you're going to obey orders. You go away and stay away at least two weeks. You can have one conference each week and damned few phone calls."

Lyman shook his head and smiled wanly at the physician. "I can't, Horace. We'll just have to wait until July-until after the treaty goes into effect."

Kramer tried a new tack. "If you don't care whether you ruin yourself, think of my reputation. How can I make any money back in Columbus if you die on me?"

Lyman grinned. "That's easy. You'd just announce that you were pleased to bury your biggest mistake."

Kramer shrugged his shoulders as Lyman took his coat from the hanger and put it on. He walked back toward his office, unaware that his doctor stood in the clinic doorway watching him go. The physician dropped his stethoscope on his desk and turned to his nurse, who had re-entered the office after Lyman left.

"It doesn't make any sense," Kramer said to her. "We elect a man President and then try to see how fast we can kill him. I sometimes think it's a perpetual race to see which breaks first-the President or the country."

Jordan Lyman paused to look at the magnolia tree again. The birds had left and the only sound penetrating his consciousness was the distant drone of an airplane. It reminded him of Paul Girard and of an institution that seemed suddenly to be crumbling about him. This time he walked unseeing past the Secret Service man.