He realized that Chief Justice Johnstone was speaking. “The managers of the impeachment on the part of the House of Representatives will please take the seats assigned to them.”

Led by Zeke Miller, the five opposition managers made their way to the chairs behind the oak table to the right of the rostrum at the far end. Of the group, only Representative Miller did not sit. Instead, he raised a hand to catch the Chief Justice’s eye.

“Mr. President of the Senate,” Miller called out, his voice highpitched, “we are instructed by the House of Representatives, as its managers, to state that since the Senate has already taken process against Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, that he now be made to appear at the bar of the Senate in his answer to the Articles of Impeachment heretofore preferred by the House of Representatives through its managers before the Senate.”

The Chief Justice plainly scowled. “Are you suggesting, Mr. Manager Miller, that the President of the United States be present to answer the Articles against him?”

“Mr. President of the Senate, I am suggesting that he appear in person, or have competent persons appear on his behalf, so that his trial may proceed with punctuality.”

“I am quite well acquainted with the proper procedure, Mr. Manager Miller,” said the Chief Justice, sniffing. He waited, while Miller shrugged and sat down. Johnstone then squinted at the rows of senators. “I have been informed that the President of the United States has retained competent counsel, and that counsel was duly sworn in at noon. I understand that the President’s counsel have been awaiting notification to appear. They are in the Vice-President’s suite attached to this wing of the Capitol. Will the Secretary of the Senate bring them before the bar?”

Seeing the Secretary of the Senate clamber down from his marble counter and start toward the doorway behind which he stood, Nat Abrahams nervously turned to seek his associates. He almost bumped into Felix Hart, directly behind him, as Priest and Tuttle quickly joined them.

“Okay, gentlemen,” said Abrahams, “what’s the look of the defense counselors to be-cheerful confidence? Remorseless concentration? Benign aloofness?”

“Unalleviated terror,” said Hart with a grin.

“Well, if you’re going to quake, Felix, restrict it to your boots, not your jowls. Set, Walter? You ready, Joel? Swell-”

Abrahams turned around just as the police and page boys parted for the hurrying Secretary of the Senate. He stopped short breathlessly at the sight of Abrahams.

“We couldn’t hold back,” Abrahams said with a smile. “We’re raring to go.”

The Secretary did not smile. He beckoned them with his hand. “This way, gentlemen.”

Nat Abrahams walked into the Senate, followed closely by Tuttle, then Priest, with Hart bringing up the rear. Abrahams directed his gaze to the back of his escort’s neck, trying to avoid any and all of the almost two thousand pairs of eyes following his progress past the senators at their desks. He came to a halt, arms stiffly at his sides, while his three colleagues formed a group around him.

The Secretary of the Senate announced the appearance of the defense managers, and identified each of them aloud by name. When he had finished and returned to his first-level chair, the Chief Justice squinted down at Abrahams.

“You are the authorized counsel retained by the President?”

“We are, Mr. Chief Justice,” replied Abrahams. He extracted a document from his left coat pocket, and unfolded it. “I have here, Mr. Chief Justice, President Dilman’s authority to enter his appearance which, with your permission, I shall read.”

“Proceed.”

Abrahams read aloud, “ ‘Mr. Chief Justice. I, Douglass Dilman, President of the United States, having been served with a summons to appear before this honorable court, sitting as a court of impeachment, to answer certain Articles of Impeachment found and presented against me by the House of Representatives of the United States, do hereby enter my appearance by my counsel, Nathan Abrahams, Walter T. Tuttle, Joel B. Priest, and Felix Hart, who have my warrant and authority therefor, and who are instructed by me to ask of this honorable court that they fully represent me in this court of impeachment. Signed, Douglass Dilman.’ ”

Abrahams folded the document, handed it up to the Secretary of the Senate, who lifted himself from his seat to receive it and turn it over to Chief Justice Johnstone.

“The court stands so instructed,” said the Chief Justice. He gestured toward the vacant chairs and oak table to his left. “Will the managers of the President of the United States please take the seats assigned to them.”

As Abrahams and the other three promptly found their places, the fifth chair was quickly occupied by Leach, the perspiring White House stenotypist, who hoisted a weighty briefcase to the table, unstrapped it, and then shoved it toward Felix Hart. While Abrahams’ partner began to distribute legal papers, pads, pencils, Leach located a note in his breast pocket and passed it down the row. Tuttle handed it to Abrahams, who opened it.

The lettering at the top of the half sheet read The White House. Beneath it, hastily penned, was the following:

Dear Nat, Before going to work, I got down on my knees beside the Lincoln bed and I prayed for the Lord Almighty to join in judging our cause and our worth. I don’t know if He heard, but I was kind of loud, so maybe He did, or maybe St. Christopher did. Anyway, make yourself heard beyond the Senate Chamber, just on the chance He is Up There listening. Win or lose, you try for Heaven. But give them Hell. Your eternally grateful friend, Doug Dilman.

Tenderly, Nat Abrahams refolded the note and deposited it in his pocket. He would be heard loud and clear, he silently pledged, but first the traducers and haters would have to be heard.

Chief Justice Johnstone’s bass was booming across the Chamber. “The Senate is now sitting for the trial of the Articles of Impeachment. The House of Representatives and the President of the United States appear by counsel. The court is now prepared to hear the opening arguments.” He bent to his right and looked below. “Gentlemen managers of the House of Representatives, you will now proceed in support of the Articles of Impeachment… Senators will please give their undivided attention. Proceed-proceed-Mr. Manager Miller.”

Had Zeke Miller dared to wear galluses and snap them before this dignified assembly, as he had often been pictured doing during campaigns in the Deep South, they could have been no more real than the illusion of them at this moment. He exuded humble folksiness, as he hooked his thumbs into his lapel buttonholes and came in short, uneven strides to center stage. His stained teeth were bared, and his thin lips curled in an attempt at a winning, self-deprecating smile, as he examined the faces of the expectant senators.

“Mr. Chief Justice and gentlemen of the Senate,” he began, “it was on a similar day to this one, back in 1868, that your honorable predecessors sat forward in their chairs in this Chamber to hear and judge evidence against another Chief Executive of the United States, who had attempted to render ineffective the constitutional prerogatives of the legislative branch of government and who had otherwise proved himself unfit for the highest office in the land and a detriment to the domestic well-being of our beloved nation. The fact that, by the luck of a single vote, he escaped removal from the Presidency in no way lessens the integrity and patriotism of the House of Representatives that had the courage to impeach him and the Senate that had the onerous duty to try him. Had the charges against him been more objectively drawn, fewer in number and better prepared, he would have been driven from office, crude and malevolent turn-coat that he was, and although my native South would have suffered more intensely, time and good judgment would have tempered vengeance, and American justice would have prevailed the sooner. Nevertheless, the legislative branch of the government of our fathers proved then, and it proves today, that it will forever serve as the watchdog of democracy over incipient tyrants who are elevated to the executive office by accidents of fate.