Night of Camp David Read online

  “Pat,” he said, very slowly, “believe me, I’d rather find my own daughter with a deranged mind than to have this forced on me. And why, in God’s name, would I want to right now? You probably don’t know it, but Mark called me into his office and said he wanted me to be his running mate. I didn’t start this vice-presidential business. He did. It was all his idea. He proposed it and planned it. The write-in in Wisconsin is all his doing. I’m not exaggerating a bit. So, obviously, if I keep quiet now, I’ll be Vice-President next January 20. You know that, Pat. The Republicans don’t have a chance against Hollenbach. So why would I want to spoil all that?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering, Jim,” said O’Malley quietly, “but I’m not getting an answer.”

  “Now look, Pat. Don’t make me go into all that jazz about the system, the Constitution, and the country. Sure, we all honor them, and we’d do anything to preserve them. But it’s more simple than that. I’m beginning to think of myself as a pro at this business even if you don’t think so. And, as a tradesman, I don’t want some crazy man running my business at the top.”

  O’Malley grinned, suddenly, for the first time since he’d poured the Scotch. “You’re talking my language,” he said. He reached out for MacVeagh’s glass. “You need a refill, and so do I.”

  When he fetched the drinks and seated himself again, O’Malley hoisted his glass and smiled. “I like you, Jim. I always have. No, of course I don’t think you’ve lost your buttons. But that doesn’t mean I come to the same conclusion you do. I’ll grant you that Hollenbach has a mean temper, but, Christ, man, I’ve seen a dozen worse in my time.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t describe those nights at Aspen the way they were,” said Jim. “His eyes, the way he looked, the gloom, and that torrent of words. If you’d heard and seen what I did, Pat, you wouldn’t be doubting.”

  “Maybe, and maybe not,” said O’Malley. “Another thing bothers me. Even if you’re right, perhaps it’s a temporary state, as Griscom indicated. What makes you think that something has to be done right now?”

  “The meeting with Zuchek in Sweden, of course. I don’t think a man suffering a mental ailment—of whatever nature or duration—should be representing the United States in any two-man conference with a guy as tough as Zuchek.”

  “Zuchek? Sweden?” asked O’Malley. “What are you talking about?”

  “You mean you don’t know about the summit conference—for April 20—that the White House has just announced?”

  O’Malley shook his head. “Nobody tells me anything in advance any more.” His small smile was bitter. “They don’t even trust me around an arena these days.”

  “The White House made the announcement about five o’clock,” said MacVeagh. “That’s why I called you and said it was urgent. It is. We’ve got to stop Hollenbach from going to Sweden.”

  “Assuming, that is, that your analysis of Hollenbach is correct.” O’Malley unwrapped another cigar and went through the tedious ritual of lighting it. “Let’s backtrack a minute. As I get it, there’s only one person besides yourself who has observed Mark in one of these tantrums that you claim are evidence of a persecution complex.”

  MacVeagh shook his head. “No. Two. You saw one instance yourself. You just admitted that.”

  “I don’t count that,” said O’Malley. “That was just a case of a man who got so angry he said things he didn’t really mean.”

  “But it’s all part of the pattern,” insisted MacVeagh.

  “Not if you don’t concede the existence of a pattern.”

  “Good Lord, Pat. How much corroboration do you need?”

  “Well, for one thing,” said O’Malley, studying a fat smoke wreath, “I think if I were making a similar accusation I’d be willing to reveal the name of the woman you say heard this eruption over Davidge.”

  “I can’t, Pat.” MacVeagh’s tone was pleading. “I’ve told you we were very close. Isn’t that enough? Why do I have to drag her into this—to say nothing of my wife?”

  “Ah, man and woman. And they talk about deceit in politics…” O’Malley’s voice trailed off.

  It occurred to Jim that O’Malley must be comparing his own situation to that of MacVeagh. He had been broken from the vice-presidency for a violation of ethical standards involving finances, and now here was a young senator, with only a fraction of O’Malley’s experience, being selected for the same office despite an offense that both Hollenbach and O’Malley would consider more repugnant than O’Malley’s own lapse. Jim could sense that this big, friendly man before him felt the injustice and yet, curiously, he knew that O’Malley would never say a word about Jim’s marital transgressions. O’Malley had his code. “Man and woman” relations were never to be mentioned.

  “Jim,” said O’Malley, “I can’t buy your conclusions, even though I know you’re telling me the truth as you see it. But, assuming for a moment that you’re correct, why come to me? What can I do about it?”

  “That’s obvious, Pat. You’re the man who has the inability agreement with the President. As I understand it, and I’ve read an awful lot on the situation recently, you’re the only one who can act. You’re the one man who can invoke the disability clause.”

  “Clause?” asked O’Malley. “You mean the disability thing in the amendment we put through a few years ago?”

  Jim nodded.

  “That provides,” said O’Malley, “that the President can declare himself in writing, stating he’s unable to continue in office. Or, lacking that, the Vice-President can take over with the written consent of a majority of the Cabinet.”

  O’Malley took a sip of his drink and studied MacVeagh over the rim of his glass.

  “Obviously you don’t think President Hollenbach would put anything in writing indicating he’s of unsound mind?”

  “No, of course not,” replied Jim. “But you can take over the presidency with written backing from a majority of the Cabinet.”

  O’Malley set his drink aside. His lips shifted his cigar to a corner of his mouth in a curious movement that left the cigar tilted belligerently upward. He stared at MacVeagh and shook his head as though in rebuke.

  “I guess you haven’t thought this thing through, young fellow,” he said. “The provision we passed in the sixties after the hearings of the Birch Bayh committee was all right as far as it went, but nobody ever supposed it could be used to handle anything as complex as a mental ailment. A heart attack, a stroke, some obvious and apparent physical accident, sure, then anybody can see the President is disabled. But this mental stuff is something else. It’s all too hypothetical, too sticky. It’s like trying to find a dime in a pot of glue.” O’Malley shrugged. “I wouldn’t want any part of it,” he added, “even if I were convinced you were right.”

  MacVeagh persisted despite his feeling of dismay. “But Pat, paranoia—and that’s what I guess it is with the President—could be even worse than a physical handicap. Imagine a paranoiac bargaining with Zuchek or suddenly facing a major decision on use of the bomb.”

  “I grant all that,” said O’Malley, “but look at the practicalities. How would I ever convince a majority of the Cabinet on the evidence you have? There wouldn’t be one chance in ten. In addition, the President of course would hear about it, and then there’d be sheer hell to pay. It would tear the administration apart.”

  O’Malley blew a fat, gray smoke ring which floated lazily upward and slowly disintegrated. Jim, watching it, felt his own hopes of action dissolving, yet he felt an inner compulsion to press on.

  “You’re talking about the Constitution and the amendment,” said MacVeagh, “but how about your own special agreement with Hollenbach? Under that, you’re required to act if you have evidence the President can’t carry on his duties.”

  “Required!” O’Malley snorted and looked at MacVeagh in disbelief. “You can’t be serious, Jim. Have you r
ead the agreement?”

  “Of course,” said MacVeagh, somewhat testily.

  O’Malley hoisted himself out of his chair and walked to the bookcase. He drew down a tan, ridge-backed volume.

  “This is my annotated volume of the Constitution,” he said. “Mark has the original of our agreement, but I keep my copy in the front of this book. Here, read it.”

  MacVeagh took the paper. It was a single-spaced typewritten sheet, dated three days after the Hollenbach inauguration, signed in ink by both men and impressed with the presidential seal.

  Agreement between Mark Hollenbach, President of the United States, and Patrick J. O’Malley, Vice-President of the United States.

  The undersigned state it to be their joint intention that under no circumstances shall the continuity of government be permitted to be broken by reason of inability of the President to discharge his duties. Even a hiatus of a few days might do irreparable damage to the nation. Following the precedent established by Dwight D. Eisenhower and Richard M. Nixon in the 1950’s, and adhered to since by their successors, the undersigned agree:

  1. That upon clear evidence that Mark Hollenbach is no longer able to discharge the duties of the office of President, Patrick J. O’Malley shall act promptly to set in motion the procedures provided by constitutional amendment and by law.

  2. That, upon such clear evidence, Mr. O’Malley shall in no case delay longer than 24 hours in carrying out his obligations under Point One (1) above.

  The undersigned have studied all prior agreements between Presidents and Vice-Presidents and have taken special note of a letter written by former President Eisenhower to Senator Birch Bayh of Indiana on March 2, 1964. Mr. Eisenhower concluded that letter on the problem of presidential inability by stating:

  “There is, of course, no completely foolproof method covering every contingency and every possibility that could arise in the circumstance now under discussion. We must trust that men of good will and common sense, operating within constitutional guidelines governing these matters, will make such decisions that their actions will gain and hold the approval of the mainstream of American thinking.”

  The undersigned realize, with General Eisenhower, that not every contingency can be foreseen. We have decided, therefore, to keep this agreement, as embodied in Points One (1) and Two (2) above, as simple and as broad as possible, thus affording the utmost elasticity to cope with unforeseeable events of the future, while at the same time stressing the need for dispatch in ensuring continuity of government.

  The undersigned rely on mutual good faith and trust to carry out this agreement in the spirit of the Constitution and the laws of the United States of America, and they urge the citizens of the United States to accept this agreement in similar faith and trust.

  Mark Hollenbach

  Patrick J. O’Malley

  When MacVeagh finished reading, he held the paper toward O’Malley, indicating the first numbered paragraph with a finger.

  “There,” he said, “ ‘Upon clear evidence,’ you ‘shall act promptly.’ It doesn’t say ‘may.’ It says ‘shall.’ You’ve got no alternative. You’re required to act.”

  O’Malley shook his head and smiled gently. “Jim, you ought to have better sense than that. You’re skipping over the most important words—‘upon clear evidence.’ Clear evidence? What clear evidence do I have that Mark is unable to discharge his duties?”

  They were standing by the bookcase, and MacVeagh grasped O’Malley’s elbow, pulling the larger man toward him.

  “What the hell do you want, Pat?” His voice rasped with frustration. “Jesus, do you need a medical report, signed by fifteen psychiatrists? Or a vote of Congress? Or an affidavit from the dean of Johns Hopkins medical school, or something else that would take us umpteen months to get hold of? I tell you the President of the United States isn’t in his right mind.”

  O’Malley pulled his arm away, slid the paper inside the book again, and replaced it on the shelf. Then he put his arm around MacVeagh and guided him to his chair. O’Malley didn’t speak again until he’d lowered himself into his own easy chair and taken another swallow of bourbon. Then his voice was low and friendly.

  “Look, Jim, I know the pressure you’ve been under, and I can imagine the anguish you’ve suffered before you could bring yourself to come talk to me. Believe me, I do. An outsider might not, but anybody in our business knows there’d be a lot of sleepless nights before a United States senator would make that kind of a charge that you have—even in private.

  “But, young fellow, you just don’t understand the circumstances under which that agreement with Hollenbach was made. In the first place, I didn’t have a thing to do with writing it. Hollenbach just called me in one afternoon, three days after the inauguration, and asked me to read it. He said the Attorney General had written a long, legal document, but it was too cumbersome and complicated, so he’d just written one of his own. He asked me if I wanted to make any change. I said no, it looked all right to me. So we signed three copies and sent the last one to the Attorney General.

  “Now, in the second place, I’ll never forget what he said afterward. He said, ‘Pat, this thing is just for the record and it doesn’t mean a thing.’ He said he was sound of mind and body, that the only thing he’d ever had was a slight heart murmur some years before, but that it was all gone now. And then he added, with a laugh, that he didn’t want me ever trying to invoke the agreement on mental grounds. He said he was no Woodrow Wilson and never would be.”

  MacVeagh had calmed as he listened. He rubbed the bridge of his nose pensively.

  “In my book, Pat,” MacVeagh said, “Mark Hollenbach is a lot worse off now than Wilson ever was. At least, Wilson’s trouble had a physical source. He’d had a stroke, and there was always the expectation that he’d recover. But with Mark it’s a psychic thing, a case of a disordered mind that may never be set right again.”

  “We’re talking at cross-purposes, Jim,” said O’Malley. He was puffing on his cigar again, his head tilted back against the chair. “You see, you’re convinced that Mark’s mind is deranged, and I’m not at all sure of it. And so we come down to a basic dilemma of presidential disability that has vexed constitutional lawyers ever since the document was drafted almost two hundred years ago. Let me go into a little history for you.”

  O’Malley talked, slowly and patiently as though instructing a college seminar. The Vice-President sketched the history of dispute and inaction over the “inability” subsection of the Constitution. He recalled how Vice-President Chester Arthur had declined to assume the presidential duties even though President Garfield lay wounded and almost inert for eighty days before his death from an assassin’s bullet, and how Vice-President Tom Marshall let Mrs. Wilson and the White House physician, Cary Grayson, virtually run the country during almost two years of President Wilson’s incapacity. No man, said O’Malley, could ever act lightly in attempting to remove the President of the United States. The office, if not always the man, commanded a respect and an awe that almost amounted to reverence. And so it should always be, said O’Malley. As the Vice-President talked, his jowls wobbling and his fleshy hands waving points of emphasis, Jim realized how little he really knew of this Irish politician who resembled a cartoonist’s version of a Tammany boss. O’Malley obviously had steeped himself in the history of a vice-president’s relationship to his superior. What’s more, he brought to the subject a sense of fitness and proportion that no amount of scholarly research could develop. Pat O’Malley, decided MacVeagh, was a wise man. The Vice-President talked uninterrupted for half an hour.

  “I’ve always thought,” he concluded, “that the best solution—there is no perfect solution—is the one we’ve got right now, the one enacted under the Johnson administration. It may be cumbersome, but it’s workable.”

  “It doesn’t seem to be working now,” observed Jim wryly.

 
“The machinery’s there,” retorted O’Malley. “You just don’t have the evidence—or the confidence—to use it. You want me to take the initiative, and I won’t do it. I wouldn’t make a move any more than did Chester Arthur or old Tom Marshall.”

  “Would you,” asked MacVeagh, “if you were convinced his mind was abnormal?”

  O’Malley flipped a lengthening ash into the green ashtray, frowning and studying the act as though it were a complex mechanical operation. He shook his head. “No, Jim, I wouldn’t—not without solid backing from the leaders of the party. In the special circumstances existing right now, a move like that would rip the country to pieces. Have you forgotten Art Jilinsky and the Kennedy memorial sports arena?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well, then, who do you think would believe me now?” O’Malley’s tone was caustic. “They’d say I was an ugly old crook, bent on revenge for being dumped as vice-president. And what about Hollenbach? Assume he’s the paranoid you think he is. Why, he’d be patronizing and righteous, and he’d dismiss me as a meddling fool. Let’s face it, Jim. The country would either drown me in ridicule or I’d be written off as a power-mad scoundrel who was trying to get even.”

  It was full night outside now, and Jim could feel his resolution being smothered in the folds of darkness. It was as though the last window light had winked off in a blind alley. He made a final effort.

  “Look, Pat,” he said. “You say you wouldn’t invoke the agreement unless you had the solid backing of the leadership. I know you have reservations about everything I’ve said, but couldn’t it be true that your doubts are compounded by your own particular position at this time? Suppose, then, you let me tell my story to a small group of leaders whom you’d name. The Cabinet, we both realize, is too unwieldy and too prone, frankly, to leak anything that’s said. But a small group could meet privately, with a stipulation that everything said was off the record. Then, if the group didn’t believe me, that would end it. But if it felt action was necessary, then you’d have real support to invoke the agreement and go to the Cabinet formally. Or maybe some further investigation could be figured out. What about it?”