Author's note: Have just two chapters plus an afterword remaining, so I'll put my shoulder against the wheel and see how much I can get done today.
August 8th, 1974
With the timeline restored and our heroes relocated to the present, it only remained for the rest of history's squalid tragedy to play out.
The House Judiciary Committee voted to recommend impeachment to the full house on July 30th; the so-called "smoking gun tape" was released by court order on August 5th, eroding the President's remaining support; Republican Congressional leaders met Nixon two days later, convincing him that he no longer had the votes to remain in Congress and leaving him to draw his own conclusions.
And now he had made his decision. And he announced it in a speech both contrite and defiant, exposing all the raw agonies and hurts coursing through his mind.
"I have never been quitter. To leave office before my term is completed is abhorrent to every instinct in my body. But as President, I must put the interest of America first."
No doubt he thought, as he often did, of 28 years in public life, alternately loved and hated by the American people, a Rorschach test for the postwar era. Few seemed to regard him as human, as a man with dreams and ambitions of his own, that could never be fulfilled because he could never overcome the gaping wounds in his soul.
"I have never been a quitter. To leave office before my term is completed is abhorrent to every instinct in my body."
Not quitting for the son of a small town grocer and a saintly Quaker mother, who saw two brothers perish in childhood, who went to Whittier and Duke and bore the snubs and sneers and slights of higher-placed classmates to get ahead, who gave up a cushy desk job for military service, who had to fight, claw, scrap his way into Congress, then to the Senate, then beg Ike and the Nation to be their Vice President, that he was neither a quitter nor a crook...No quitting, ever, no matter the odds or the humiliation that line the road to deliverance.
The litany of decades, sixty years of resentment, played through his mind constantly. And he couldn't help thinking, despite it all, despite his best-laid plans and a Hail Mary pass that fell just short of the end zone, that they'd finally won.
"But as President, I must put the interest of America first. America needs a full-time President and a full-time Congress, particularly at this time with problems we face at home and abroad."
He still had Rabbi Korff, still had Reverend Moon, still had his family (poor Julie, he thought, dragging her reputation through the mud on his behalf - maybe the one sincere regret he had about the whole thing) and 24 percent of the American public on his side. But just about the only Congressman still on his side was Earl Landgrebe, a pathetic Bible thumper from Indiana who told the Today show that "I'm going to stick with my President even if he and I have to be taken out of this building and shot." Real heroes were not made of such absurd bluster, only fools.
"To continue to fight through the months ahead for my personal vindication would almost totally absorb the time and attention of both the President and the Congress in a period when our entire focus should be on the great issues of peace abroad and prosperity without inflation at home."
You don't know what you'll be missing, you sorry, sanctimonious fuckers.
"Therefore, I shall resign the Presidency effective at noon tomorrow."
Let someone else clean up the mess you bastards have made.
"Vice President Ford will be sworn in as President at that hour in this office."
Just thank God you don't have to deal with President Agnew.
Charles Gleeful didn't look much like a messiah when he arrived at Washington National Airport just after dark, wearing a shabby gray sport coat with an American flag pin on one lapel, a cross on the other. Besides which, it seemed an odd night to return, all things considered. Reporters who knew about his trip speculated whether he hoped to be a comfort to the President right before his resignation. Others might have known that the IRS filed formal charges against him two days earlier, that the State Department had just revoked his visa, and that the Paraguayan government refused to give him asylum.
Or maybe, at this point, he was deluded enough to think that his mere presence in the Capitol might trigger the reckoning he'd hoped for, despite everything that had happened in the past few weeks. It had been decades since Reverend Gleeful had much connection with reality.
Either way, the moment he stepped off the plane he was greeted by about a half dozen policemen, along with two men in drab civilian dress. Gleeful faced the first man, a middle-aged gentleman with thinning blond hair and coke-bottle glasses.
"Mr. Gleeful, Brad Jurgovich, Internal Revenue Service," he said, nervously brushing his nose with the back of his hand. "You understand that I'll have to take you into custody?"
"Yes, I understand," Gleeful nodded, dignified, resigned, pointedly refusing to make eye contact.
"We can take you directly to the car," Jurgovich offered. "No handcuffs or anything unless you resist arrest. We saw a few reporters lurking around outside, it might be best to avoid them."
Gleeful nodded in acknowledgment, allowing the IRS men to lead him through the airport.
It was a slow night, with only a few tired business travelers around. As they approached the parking lot, a single reporter approached with a cameraman snapping pictures. The rest, surely, were preoccupied with the President.
"Reverend Gleeful," the reporter asked, "Tom Sandusky of the Washington Star. We've received word that the President will announce his resignation tonight. Do you have any advice for the President?"
Gleeful blinked as Jurgovich pulled on his arm, trying to pull him away from the reporters. But the old ham couldn't resist a microphone.
"It is a shame that this country has been brought to such a sorry state. The President has made mistakes, but he is only human. As I have been saying, it is our duty to follow God's will and forgive the President, moving on to the business of serving God and uniting the country behind him. I see no reason to think otherwise, and hope the President will reconsider."
"But Reverend, are you saying that the most recent tape does nothing to change your position?"
"I know nothing of tapes, only the Word," Gleeful said, pompously.
"What does it say that one of the President's most ardent supporters is a man headed to prison for tax fraud?"
"Only that the sinful have conspired against the righteous. Nothing more or less."
Jurgovich was growing impatient and he tried to intercede. His partner gestured for the police to clear the reporter away.
"Mr. Gleeful won't be taking any more questions," the IRS man said, sticking a hand in the photographer's camera.
Gleeful stared serenely past the fracas before him, ignoring as the cops swarmed around the reporter and cameraman, as the IRS agents tried to talk their way through. None of this nonsense mattered, he thought. If there is justice in the world, God would see him through and allow him to continue His work.
I am Reverend Gleeful; I cannot be defeated.
He didn't even notice the man with shaggy hair dressed in an ill-fitting dress shirt, stepping out from behind a pillar. Though he approached him from the front, he didn't see him raise a long-barreled Colt Python and aim at his head. He wasn't alive to see the cops riddle his assassin with a dozen bullets from multiple angles, as his IRS escort watched in confusion and terror.
His last moment of consciousness, before the bullet destroyed his brain and ended his life, was spent thinking about how lucky America was to have him. Even if they got rid of Richard Nixon, he was here to stay. His victory was only a matter of time.
Forgive. Love. Unite.
There were still a few dozen people in the Capitol that evening watching the President's speech, some congressmen, some aides, some reporters who were on hand, mostly, to record their reactions. Oliver Pemberton joined a group of congressional leaders watching impassively on a television screen. Most seemed relieved or angry, even the Republicans. He waited until Nixon formally announced his resignation to walk out, struggling to maintain his dignity and composure.
All this work for nothing, he thought, raging in his head. We came so close - so close to saving the President, and more to the point, so close to bringing about the Day of Reckoning. And all that was left was this petty, squalid show that made America look like a banana republic. It might as well have ended the week before.
He hadn't spent long in General Haig's custody. The Chief of Staff had cut a deal with the Congressman, exchanging immunity for any information about remaining conspirators. He was the one who clued Haig on to Gleeful's plan to return to the United States; he didn't knowingly betray him, but soon inferred that this amounted to a death sentence. He spent the next few days in a daze, wondering what, if anything, he and the Church's remnants could salvage from the debacle.
The previous day, John Rhodes had asked him to join him, Hugh Scott and Barry Goldwater for their fateful trip up to the White House. All three men were as partisan as anyone on the Hill, but also understood political realities perfectly well. Pemberton, however, refused. Despite the impeachment votes and the latest tapes, despite this sign that the President, despite the failure to affect Reverend Gleeful's will...he still believed. And if everyone else would reject it, he would reject them.
The last person to see Pemberton alive was the Capitol policeman, Rick Gomez, who chatted briefly and amiably with the Congressman about his family. Pemberton waited until the policeman left, walking to another part of the office complex, then locked himself in the door.
He took out his Luger, which he hadn't touched since the fight with Ariel Schuyler and Rick Anderson and their cohorts. It had a single round left in the clip. He looked around again at the pictures adorning his wall, at his family, at the image of Reverend Gleeful, at the fallen President who'd dragged so many down with him.
But when he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, the last thing he thought about was his son.
