Line of Succession

“You mean the Democrats couldn’t scrape up a majority if you tried to seat a new Speaker right now.”

“Something like that. There’s been a lot of agitation. Some of the Southerners seem quite willing to switch sides of the aisle unless we agree to compromise on a Dixiecrat for Speaker. A group of us talked it over—both parties but Northerners mainly. We decided it would be better to wait until special elections have been held or governors’ appointments made, to fill the vacant seats. Presumably that would more or less restore the solid Democratic majority from before. Also it would prevent anybody from accusing us of railroading something through while we didn’t have a full contingent on hand.”

“That didn’t seem to stop you from reelecting Howard Brewster last night,” McNeely said.

“My God nobody believed Fairlie would die—and besides, you know what the alternative was.”

Satterthwaite said, “You still haven’t explained it to my satisfaction. The Speaker of the House, if there were one right now, would be next in line for the Presidency. Ahead of Hollander, even ahead of Brewster. So why didn’t you elect a new Speaker and let him become President?”

“That was the first thing we thought of. But the law doesn’t work that way. The line of succession applies only to officers who’ve held office—and let me quote—‘prior to the time of death, resignation, removal from office, inability, or failure to qualify.’ I mean you can see the point. You simply can’t go and appoint a new Speaker of the House who’s really being appointed to the Presidency after the fact. The only Speaker of the House who was fully entitled to take Cliff Fairlie’s place was the man who held that office prior to the time when Fairlie was kidnapped. That was Milton Luke and of course he’s dead.”

McNeely said, “That doesn’t make sense to me.”

Krayle looked at him. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t know of any law that says you can’t elect a new Speaker whenever an old Speaker dies or retires. You don’t have to wait for the begi

“It’s true we can elect a new Speaker any time we want to, but whoever we elect now is someone who will have been elected to the Speakership after the fact. Don’t you see? Fairlie’s already dead. The law says ‘prior to the time of death,’ etcetera etcetera.”

“But Fairlie isn’t the President. Never has been.”

“The law applies equally to a President-elect. Section Three, Twentieth Amendment to the Constitution. Also the Presidential Succession Act, Three U.S.C. Nineteen seventy-one. Don’t think we haven’t done our homework.”

McNeely collapsed into a chair. He waggled a hand toward Satterthwaite. “Well it was worth a try.”

“You should have known that idea would have occurred to a lot of other people besides you,” Krayle said. “What the hell.”

Satterthwaite said, “I’m not ready to give it up. It appears to me the law applies to people who hold office at the time when the vacancy occurs in the Presidency. There’s no vacancy until noon tomorrow when Brewster’s term ends.”

“There’s one trouble with that position,” Krayle said wearily. “The laws are worded so that the President-elect occupies a sort of quasi-office. When he dies the Vice-President-elect becomes President-elect. When he dies the incumbent Speaker becomes President-elect for all practical purposes. That takes place at the time of death, not the time of vacancy in the White House. I’m not trying to pretend it’s simple or even cut-and-dried, but that’s the way it appears to work. The minute Dexter Ethridge died, Milton Luke was for all practical purposes the President-elect of the United States. That’s the law.”

“I don’t see how you can have it both ways. If what you say is true, then the minute Luke died, Wendell Hollander became President-elect. If that’s true then Brewster can’t supersede Hollander—you can’t make that kind of law retroactive.”

Krayle’s droopy eyes slowly changed shape. “You might have a point there. I don’t think that occurred to any of us.”

“Suppose it occurs to Hollander sometime in the next four years? We could have a hell of a mess—the Presidency up for grabs.”

“What is it you’re getting at?”

Satterthwaite felt the Congressman’s hard stare. Krayle’s eyes burned like gems. McNeely, slumped low in his chair, watched with avid fascination.

Satterthwaite said, “There’s confusion in the laws, that’s obvious. Nobody ever anticipated the unique situation we’re in today—how could they? So no matter what solution is found, someone’s going to, find a legal objection to it.”

“Yes. Go on.”

“I’m willing to accept your interpretation of the laws of succession. Evidently just about everyone agrees with it. But you’ve got to be willing to accept the possibility that if you did go ahead and elect a new Speaker right now, he’d have a legitimate claim on the Presidency.”

“You mean if we elected a new Speaker before noon tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

“Well it would be a disputed claim. It would only make things worse.”

“But such a claim would have a certain legitimacy, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose you could say that. It’s possible to read the law that way. A lot of people would dispute it.”

“But the alternative is to allow Brewster to continue in office for four years in spite of the fact that he’s obviously flouting the whole purpose of the Constitution.”

“Electing a new Speaker would flout it just as much.” Krayle shook his head. “I can’t go along with you. The point you’re ignoring is that Brewster would fight it tooth and nail—and Brewster’s got the mass popular backing to make an awful fight of it, unlike old Wendy Hollander.”

Liam McNeely said, “I think a lot of that mass popular backing would dwindle away in the flick of an eye if you gave the mass populace an attractive alternative.”

Krayle didn’t accept it. “If you think the country’s ready to explode now, what do you think would happen after we got done dividing it up with this fight you’re proposing? And anyhow I’ll tell you something—Congress has been pushed around enough. They won’t stand for more railroading from your direction. If you were going to switch sides against Brewster why didn’t you do it a lot earlier?”

“Because I hadn’t thought of a viable alternative to Hollander. Neither had anybody else. Look, I’m not against Howard Brewster, I’m only against going through with a hell of a dangerous precedent. I think we have to avoid that if we can.”

“We can’t. It’s too late.”

“I don’t believe that,” Satterthwaite said.

“The thing is,” McNeely said, “Brewster might let go voluntarily. Especially if it’s to defer to a popular choice. He knows if he tries to keep office for another four years his hold on the country will be tarnished. Nobody will ever forget the way he got his second term. It’ll rankle. The dissidents hate him already—and a lot of people will join them.”

Satterthwaite let the air settle before he spoke; when he did it was with quiet emphasis. “I know Howard Brewster. He doesn’t want to be hated. I think we may be able to persuade him to support a move to nominate a new Speaker of the House.”

Krayle sighed. “You’ll have to forgive my skepticism.”

“I’m sure it’s justified. But grant us the possibility, will you?”

“In politics just about anything’s possible, Bill.”

“Good enough. Which brings us to the reason we wanted to talk to you. We can’t have the House members scattering again. Can you corral the membership and keep them on tap for the time between now and Thursday noon?”

Krayle tipped his head back to study him narrowly. “I suppose you’ve even got a candidate all picked out for us too.”

“Of course.”

“Yes?”

“The man who almost got the nomination. The man Fairlie wanted on his own ticket—the man Dex Ethridge designated as his Vice-President.”