Suddenly Poole was distracted by a movement from Gladys Hurley. She had opened her imitation-patent-leather purse and found her compact, and was phlegmatically examining herself in the mirror.

As she returned the compact to the purse, Leroy Poole said, “I was just reviewing the case, Mrs. Hurley. I think we have everything on our side.”

She said, “I hope so, Mr. Poole.”

He said, “Of course, we’ve got to allow for anything to happen. If-if it goes the wrong way-you remember our discussion last night, don’t you? I mean, we’re of one mind about that?”

She said, “Yes, sir, if that’s what’ll save my boy.”

Satisfied, Leroy Poole began to consult his wristwatch for the twentieth time, when the corridor door opened.

A White House policeman said, “The President is back. He’ll see you now. Right this way to Mr. Lucas’ office. He’s the engagements secretary.”

Hastily, Mrs. Hurley and Leroy Poole followed the policeman across the checkered tile of the hallway, until they were shown into a modest antechamber with two brown desks. Shelby Lucas, the bespectacled engagements secretary with the Hapsburg lip and undershot jaw, was standing.

“Mrs. Gladys Hurley? Mr. Poole? Sorry to have delayed you,” he said. “The President had to attend a ceremony, and he’s only now returned. I’m afraid he’s running behind schedule, but you may have ten minutes.”

Poole liked the sound of that ten minutes. Bad tidings took more time. One did not snuff out another’s life without lengthy explanations. Good news needed no hour hand.

Lucas had opened the door beside his broad desk, signaled his visitors, and they obediently followed him through a little corridor. Lucas rapped, opened the next door, and announced to the occupant inside, “Mr. President, Mrs. Gladys Hurley and Mr. Leroy Poole.”

They went inside, and Douglass Dilman, on his feet beside his desk, shook Mrs. Hurley’s hand, murmuring some amenity, and then he took Poole’s fat hand. “Hello, Leroy. It’s been some time. Do sit down over there by the fireplace. It’ll be more comfortable.”

Poole trailed his miscast mother to the sofa, waited for her to sit stiffly, then sank into a cushion beside her. Dilman, the appeal folder in one hand, sat in the ornate Revels chair. He opened the folder in his lap, licked his thick lips, and peered down at the first page.

Poole strained to discover a clue to the decision in the President’s face. His visual exploration detected the fatigue of one overtaxed, detected stress, detected despondency. But no facial feature provided a hint of judgment made.

“Mrs. Hurley-Leroy-” Dilman said, turning a page, still reviewing the bound folder, “I have given considerable time to reading, and re-reading, your request for clemency. It is well conceived and well put together. I have also, since, received the report and recommendation on your appeal from Attorney General Kemmler and his staff. I want you to know that I am fully cognizant of every aspect of the case, from the public protest activity of the Turnerites that inspired Judge Gage to treat the demonstrators harshly, imprisoning them for ten years, to the details of the retaliatory action by Mr. Hurley and his accomplices. I have studied the FBI reports on the kidnaping, and on the shooting in Texas, as well as the transcripts of Mr. Hurley’s interrogation by local police officers and Federal agents, the statement of Mr. Hurley’s refusal to defend himself once his witness would not be admitted under the conditions his attorney requested.”

Quickly, Poole blurted out, “Jeff Hurley pleaded guilty only after he and his attorney were promised a deal. They promised him an unpremeditated manslaughter sentence and imprisonment with eventual chance for parole, if he would plead guilty. So he pleaded guilty, and then the Federal judge double-crossed him and slapped the death penalty on him.”

“Yes, I saw that in your brief, Leroy. But the only affidavits you could supply, to support the existence of such a-such a deal, were those signed by Mr. Hurley and his attorney, who are concerned parties. You have no impartial confirming evidence to this deal. According to the United States Attorney’s investigation last week, the other participating parties-the United States Commissioner and Federal judge-vehemently, and under oath, denied that such a deal was ever made, and so did the stenographer present at all meetings.”

“Well, they’re liars,” said Poole. “What do you expect them to say now?”

Dilman nodded. “Be that as it may. I simply wanted both of you to understand that, busy as I am, I have given this case much study and reflection. Now, besides your eloquent appeal, I also have here on my lap the Attorney General’s remarks and recommendation, as I said.” Dilman lifted his head and gazed at Mrs. Hurley. “The Attorney General recommends, without reservation, that clemency be refused and the death sentence stand as ordered.”

Mrs. Hurley did not move or speak, but Leroy Poole, his round forehead perspiring, jumped up indignantly. “That Kemmler-that lousy rotten racist-”

Dilman ignored the writer and resumed addressing Mrs. Hurley. “Of course, as President I have the right to disapprove the Attorney General’s recommendation, override it, return the papers with instructions that they be revised according to my wishes. This rejection of a Justice Department recommendation is the exception to the rule. It has been exercised by Presidents in the past, but in very, very rare instances.”

“Well, thank God, thank God you got that right to do justice,” Poole cried out, and sat down, anxious thyroid eyes fixed on the President’s mouth.

Dilman appeared to gather his strength.

“Mrs. Hurley, I was once an attorney myself, and as an attorney, and now the last judge in this case, responsible for the ultimate decision that must be made on the life of your son, I must tell you honestly-I cannot-I cannot, with any pretense at honesty, countermand the recommendation of the Attorney General. There is nothing here, none of Leroy’s so-called new findings, that convinces me that the decision of the Federal court was wrong, the Department of Justice was wrong, and that your son should not be punished, as he is to be punished, according to the law of the nation and not according to my personal beliefs, for kidnaping and for murder. Mrs. Hurley, it grieves me, but I must reject this appeal to commute the death sentence. I am sorry. I hope that-eventually, if not now-you will understand.”

Leroy Poole fell back into the sofa, covering his face with his hands. His anguish was too overwhelming for an immediate protest or contention. It was as if he had been axed, split from head to toe, by a black brother whom in his desperation he had decided to trust.

To his surprise, he heard Gladys Hurley speak, and her voice was low and composed.

“Mr. President,” she said, “when they stuff my boy into that gas chamber, they’re doin’ to him like the Nazis once did to the Jews-they’re punishin’ him and killin’ him off for what he is, an’ not what he did.”

“Mrs. Hurley, believe me,” Dilman said with intensity, “if I could prove that-prove it-I would commute his sentence immediately. I cannot prove it. Jefferson Hurley is a confessed kidnaper and murderer. The essential truth is that he was a self-appointed Messiah of our people, taking the law into his hands, and the government cannot condone such action. I have no grounds on which to give Jefferson Hurley his life, to overlook his crime, except the fact that he is black like I am, like the three of us in this room are, and if I commuted his sentence, he would be getting preferential treatment, special consideration which a white kidnaper or murderer would not get in this office. Can’t you see that, Mrs. Hurley?”

“No,” she said flatly. “I see one thing. He’s goin’ to die because of his skin. The Federals and Southerners are puttin’ him to death because he’s a black man who won’t crawl, like the Senate is puttin’ yourself to death because you’re a black man who suddenly stopped crawlin’.”