do.”
“Under no circumstances.” The rain strafed the glass in a fresh attack. McShane laughed, mirthlessly. “Oh, we shall have to lead Miss Canner to think that what she is doing is useful, and we’ll let the public get the same idea. But she is not involved in any substantive way with our work. She does not learn our secrets, or our client’s. Is that clear?”
“Yes, but—”
McShane cut him off. “It shall be your task to supervise Miss Canner. Tell her that she will henceforth have legal work to do. But make sure that none of it carries any significance whatsoever.”
“Are you asking me to lie to Miss Canner?”
“No, Hilliman. I am ordering you to lie to her.” Jonathan had never known the little man to be so gruff; or so furious. “Now, go on. I have to get ready for a meeting.”
“I have nothing on the calendar, sir.”
Again McShane spoke with unanticipated sharpness. “Well, my goodness, Hilliman, I did manage to find my way to an appointment or two before you came into my employ.”
As Jonathan reached for the doorknob, McShane called his name, held up a single finger. “Hilliman. A word of warning. If you share another of the firm’s confidences with that woman, that will be the end of your career at Dennard & McShane.”
CHAPTER 4
Unease
I
“ A BILL OF impeachment,” said the President, “is a remarkable thing.” He adjusted his glasses and peered down at the printed pages on his desk. “So many words to express such a simple idea.
We want you gone
. That is what they are saying.” He looked up. “The charges don’t really matter.”
“They matter a great deal,” objected James Speed, the attorney general, who was expected shortly to resign his office to assist in preparation for trial. “They are petty and foolish. This is a conspiracy of your enemies. The entire country will see that, sir.”
The President’s office was crowded: Lincoln, Speed, McShane, and Jonathan, as well as Secretary of War Edwin Stanton. This time Jonathan had sat outside for two hours before being invited in to take a letter—a letter, albeit, that nobody had yet gotten around to dictating. It was Thursday morning, two days after the House vote, and the entire country thought Lincoln was doomed. So did Bessie Hale, whom Jonathan had now met not once but twice for dinner, and who fairly glowed with the untutored excitement of an innocent to whom change is always thrilling. It is time for Lincoln to go, Bessie enthused. Everybody knows he is not the man he was, she said: not since he was shot in the head two years ago! Not since his wife died last year! And McShane, just two days ago, had hinted at the same thought. But Jonathan, who had not met Lincoln during the war years, found the postwar edition enormously impressive: erudite, confident, decisive.
“Are you with us, Hilliman?” said McShane, sotto voce.
Jonathan blinked. “Yes. Of course, sir.” He glanced at his notes in the dim, skittering daylight. The weather outside was filthy. The weather in Washington was always filthy: filthy rain in the summer; filthy snow in the winter. “You just said that if the House should indeed vote out a bill of impeachment, the lawyers will seek as much time as possible to file a response in the Senate.”
“Try to pay attention,” McShane hissed, tapping the paper.
Jonathan colored. His only function was to listen and take notes and keep his own counsel. He commanded himself to look where his employer was pointing. The list of charges against the President was only tentative. The House of Representatives had adopted a bizarre process through which it first voted to impeach, then appointed a committee (known as the Managers) to draft the actual charges, and last of all would vote on whether to endorse the charges and send the case on to the Senate. The paper on Lincoln’s desk was the result of the deliberations of the Managers. If, as expected, the full House endorsed the document next week,
“Under no circumstances.” The rain strafed the glass in a fresh attack. McShane laughed, mirthlessly. “Oh, we shall have to lead Miss Canner to think that what she is doing is useful, and we’ll let the public get the same idea. But she is not involved in any substantive way with our work. She does not learn our secrets, or our client’s. Is that clear?”
“Yes, but—”
McShane cut him off. “It shall be your task to supervise Miss Canner. Tell her that she will henceforth have legal work to do. But make sure that none of it carries any significance whatsoever.”
“Are you asking me to lie to Miss Canner?”
“No, Hilliman. I am ordering you to lie to her.” Jonathan had never known the little man to be so gruff; or so furious. “Now, go on. I have to get ready for a meeting.”
“I have nothing on the calendar, sir.”
Again McShane spoke with unanticipated sharpness. “Well, my goodness, Hilliman, I did manage to find my way to an appointment or two before you came into my employ.”
As Jonathan reached for the doorknob, McShane called his name, held up a single finger. “Hilliman. A word of warning. If you share another of the firm’s confidences with that woman, that will be the end of your career at Dennard & McShane.”
CHAPTER 4
Unease
I
“ A BILL OF impeachment,” said the President, “is a remarkable thing.” He adjusted his glasses and peered down at the printed pages on his desk. “So many words to express such a simple idea.
We want you gone
. That is what they are saying.” He looked up. “The charges don’t really matter.”
“They matter a great deal,” objected James Speed, the attorney general, who was expected shortly to resign his office to assist in preparation for trial. “They are petty and foolish. This is a conspiracy of your enemies. The entire country will see that, sir.”
The President’s office was crowded: Lincoln, Speed, McShane, and Jonathan, as well as Secretary of War Edwin Stanton. This time Jonathan had sat outside for two hours before being invited in to take a letter—a letter, albeit, that nobody had yet gotten around to dictating. It was Thursday morning, two days after the House vote, and the entire country thought Lincoln was doomed. So did Bessie Hale, whom Jonathan had now met not once but twice for dinner, and who fairly glowed with the untutored excitement of an innocent to whom change is always thrilling. It is time for Lincoln to go, Bessie enthused. Everybody knows he is not the man he was, she said: not since he was shot in the head two years ago! Not since his wife died last year! And McShane, just two days ago, had hinted at the same thought. But Jonathan, who had not met Lincoln during the war years, found the postwar edition enormously impressive: erudite, confident, decisive.
“Are you with us, Hilliman?” said McShane, sotto voce.
Jonathan blinked. “Yes. Of course, sir.” He glanced at his notes in the dim, skittering daylight. The weather outside was filthy. The weather in Washington was always filthy: filthy rain in the summer; filthy snow in the winter. “You just said that if the House should indeed vote out a bill of impeachment, the lawyers will seek as much time as possible to file a response in the Senate.”
“Try to pay attention,” McShane hissed, tapping the paper.
Jonathan colored. His only function was to listen and take notes and keep his own counsel. He commanded himself to look where his employer was pointing. The list of charges against the President was only tentative. The House of Representatives had adopted a bizarre process through which it first voted to impeach, then appointed a committee (known as the Managers) to draft the actual charges, and last of all would vote on whether to endorse the charges and send the case on to the Senate. The paper on Lincoln’s desk was the result of the deliberations of the Managers. If, as expected, the full House endorsed the document next week,
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