George Jakes took Verena Marquand to the Jockey Club for lunch. It was not a club, but a swanky new restaurant in the Fairfax Hotel that had found favor with the Kennedy crowd. George and Verena were the best-dressed couple in the room, she ravishing in a gingham check frock with a wide red belt, he in a tailored dark-blue linen blazer with a striped tie. Nevertheless, they were given a table by the kitchen door. Washington was integrated, but not unprejudiced. George did not let it get to him.
Verena was in town with her parents. They had been invited to the White House later today for a cocktail party being given to thank high-profile supporters such as the Marquands—and, George knew, to keep their goodwill for the next campaign.
Verena looked around appreciatively. “It’s a long time since I was in a decent restaurant,” she said. “Atlanta is a desert.” With parents who were Hollywood stars, she had been raised to think lavish was normal.
“You should move here,” George told her, looking into her startling green eyes. The sleeveless dress showed off the perfection of her café-au-lait skin, and she surely knew it. If she were to move to Washington, he would ask her for a date.
George was trying to forget Maria Summers. He was dating Norine Latimer, a history graduate who worked as a secretary at the National Museum of American History. She was attractive and intelligent, but it was not working: he still thought about Maria all the time. Perhaps Verena might be a more effective cure.
He kept all that to himself, naturally. “You’re out of the swim, all the way down there in Georgia,” he said.
“Don’t be so sure,” she said. “I’m working for Martin Luther King. He’s going to change America more than John F. Kennedy.”
“That’s because Dr. King has only one issue, civil rights. The president has a hundred. He’s the defender of the free world. Right now his major worry is Berlin.”
“Curious, isn’t it?” she said. “He believes in freedom and democracy for German people in East Berlin, but not for American Negroes in the South.”
George smiled. She was always combative. “It’s not just about what he believes,” he said. “It’s what he can achieve.”
She shrugged. “So how much difference can you make?”
“The Justice Department employs nine hundred and fifty lawyers. Before I arrived, only ten were black. Already I’m a ten percent improvement.”
“So what have you achieved?”
“Justice is taking a tough line with the Interstate Commerce Commission. Bobby has asked them to ban segregation in the bus service.”
“And what makes you think this ruling will be enforced any better than all the previous ones?”
“Not much, so far.” George was frustrated, but he wanted to hide the full extent of that from Verena. “There’s a guy called Dennis Wilson, a young white lawyer on Bobby’s personal team, who sees me as a threat, and keeps me out of the really important meetings.”
“How can he do that? You were hired by Robert Kennedy—doesn’t he want your input?”
“I need to win Bobby’s confidence.”
“You’re cosmetic,” she said scornfully. “With you there, Bobby can tell the world he’s got a Negro advising him on civil rights. He doesn’t have to listen to you.”
George feared she might be right, but he did not admit it. “That depends on me. I have to make him listen.”
“Come to Atlanta,” she said. “The job with Dr. King is still open.”
George shook his head. “My career is here.” He remembered what Maria had said, and repeated it. “Protesters can have a big impact but, in the end, it’s governments that reshape the world.”
“Some do, some don’t,” said Verena.
When they left, they found George’s mother waiting in the hotel lobby. George had arranged to meet her here, but had not expected her to wait outside the restaurant. “Why didn’t you join us?” he asked.
She ignored his question and spoke to Verena. “We met briefly at the Harvard commencement,” she said. “How are you, Verena?” She was going out of her way to be polite, which was a sign, George knew, that she did not really like Verena.
George saw Verena to a taxi and kissed her cheek. “It was great to see you again,” he said.
He and his mother went on foot, heading for the Justice Department. Jacky Jakes wanted to see where her son worked. George had arranged for her to visit on a quiet day, when Bobby Kennedy was at CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia, seven or eight miles out of town.
Jacky had taken a day off work. She was dressed for the occasion in a hat and gloves, as if she were going to church. As they walked he said: “What do you think of Verena?”
“She’s a beautiful girl,” Jacky replied promptly.
“You’d like her politics,” George said. “You and Khrushchev.” He was exaggerating, but both Verena and Jacky were ultra-liberal. “She thinks the Cubans have the right to be Communists if they want.”
“And so they do,” Jacky said, proving his point.
“So what don’t you like?”
“Nothing.”
“Mom, we men aren’t very intuitive, but I’ve been studying you all my life, and I know when you have reservations.”
She smiled and touched his arm affectionately. “You’re attracted to her, and I can see why. She’s irresistible. I don’t want to badmouth a girl you like, but . . .”
“But what?”
“It might be difficult to be married to Verena. I get the feeling she considers her own inclinations first, last, and in between.”
“You think she’s selfish.”
“We’re all selfish. I think she’s spoiled.”
George nodded and tried not to be offended. His mother was probably right. “You don’t need to worry,” he said. “She’s determined to stay down there in Atlanta.”
“Well, perhaps that’s for the best. I only want you to be happy.”
The Department of Justice was housed in a grand classical building across the street from the White House. Jacky seemed to swell a little with pride as they walked in. It pleased her that her son worked in such a prestigious place. George enjoyed her reaction. She was entitled: she had devoted her life to him, and this was her reward.
They entered the Great Hall. Jacky liked the famous murals showing scenes of American life, but she looked askance at the aluminum statue Spirit of Justice, which depicted a woman showing one breast. “I’m not a prude, but I don’t see why Justice has to have her bosom uncovered,” she said. “What’s the reason for that?”
George considered. “To show that Justice has nothing to hide?”
She laughed. “Nice try.”
They went up in the elevator. “How is your arm?” Jacky asked.
The plaster was off, and George no longer needed a sling. “It still hurts,” he said. “I find it helps to keep my left hand in my pocket. Gives the arm a little support.”
They got off at the fifth floor. George took Jacky to the room he shared with Dennis Wilson and several others. The attorney general’s office was next door.
Dennis was at his desk near the door. He was a pale man whose blond hair was receding prematurely. George said to him: “When’s he coming back?”
Dennis knew he meant Bobby. “Not for an hour, at least.”
George said to his mother: “Come and see Bobby Kennedy’s office.”
“Are you sure it’s okay?”
“He’s not there. He wouldn’t mind.”
George led Jacky through an anteroom, nodding to two secretaries, and into the attorney general’s office. It looked more like the drawing room of a large country house, with walnut paneling, a massive stone fireplace, patterned carpet and curtains, and lamps on occasional tables. It was a huge room, but Bobby had managed to make it look cluttered. The furnishings included an aquarium and a stuffed tiger. His enormous desk was a litter of papers, ashtrays, and family photographs. On a shelf behind the desk chair were four telephones.
Jacky said: “Remember that place by Union Station where we lived when you were a little boy?”
“You could fit the whole house in here.”
George looked around. “You could, I guess.”
“And that desk is bigger than the bed where you and I used to sleep until you were four.”
“Both of us and the dog, too.”
On the desk was a green beret, headgear of the U.S. Army Special Forces that Bobby admired so much. But Jacky was more interested in the photographs. George picked up a framed picture of Bobby and Ethel sitting on a lawn in front of a big house, surrounded by their seven children. “This is taken outside Hickory Hill, their home in McLean, Virginia.” He handed it to her.
“I like that,” she said, studying the photo. “He cares for his family.”
A confident voice with a Boston accent said: “Who cares for his family?”
George spun round to see Bobby Kennedy walking into the room. He wore a crumpled light-gray summer suit. His tie was loose and his shirt collar unbuttoned. He was not as handsome as his older brother, mainly because of his large rabbity front teeth.
George was flustered. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I thought you were out for the afternoon.”
“That’s all right,” said Bobby, though George was not sure he meant it. “This place is owned by the American people—they can look at it if they like.”
“This is my mother, Jacky Jakes,” George said.
Bobby shook her hand vigorously. “Mrs. Jakes, you have a fine son,” he said, turning on the charm, as he did whenever talking to a voter.
Jacky’s face had darkened with embarrassment, but she spoke without hesitation. “Thank you,” she said. “You have several—I was looking at them in this picture.”
“Four sons and three daughters. They’re all wonderful, and I speak with complete objectivity.”
They all laughed.
Bobby said: “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jakes. Come and see us anytime.”
Though gracious, that was clearly a dismissal, and George and his mother left the room.
They walked along the corridor to the elevator. Jacky said: “That was embarrassing, but Bobby was kind.”
“It was also planned,” George said angrily. “Bobby’s never early for anything. Dennis deliberately misled us. He wanted to make me look uppity.”
His mother patted his arm. “If that’s the worst thing that happens today, we’ll be in good shape.”
“I don’t know.” George recalled Verena’s accusation, that his job was cosmetic. “Do you think my role here could be just to make Bobby look like he’s listening to Negroes when he’s not?”
Jacky considered. “Maybe.”
“I might do more good working for Martin Luther King in Atlanta.”
“I understand how you feel, but I think you should stay here.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
He saw her out of the building. “How is your apartment?” she said. “I have to see that next.”
“It’s great.” George had rented the top floor of a high, narrow Victorian row house in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. “Come over on Sunday.”
“So I can cook you dinner in your kitchen?”
“What a kind offer.”
“Will I meet your girlfriend?”
“I’ll invite Norine.”
They kissed good-bye. Jacky would get a commuter train to her home in Prince George’s County. Before she walked away she said: “Remember this. There are a thousand smart young men willing to work for Martin Luther King. But there’s only one Negro sitting in the office next to Bobby Kennedy’s.”
She was right, he thought. She usually was.
When he returned to the office he said nothing to Dennis, but sat at his desk and wrote a summary for Bobby of a report on school integration.
At five o’clock Bobby and his aides jumped into limousines for the short ride to the White House, where Bobby was scheduled to meet with the president. This was the first time George had been taken along to a White House meeting, and he wondered whether that was a sign that he was becoming more trusted—or just that the meeting was less important.
They entered the West Wing and went to the Cabinet Room. It was a long room with four tall windows on one side. Twenty or so dark-blue leather chairs stood around a coffin-shaped table. World-shaking decisions were made in this room, George thought solemnly.
After fifteen minutes there was no sign of President Kennedy. Dennis said to George: “Go and make certain Dave Powers knows where we are, will you?” Powers was the president’s personal assistant.
“Sure,” said George. Seven years at Harvard and I’m a messenger boy, he thought.
Before the meeting with Bobby, the president had been due to drop in on a cocktail party for celebrity supporters. George made his way to the main house and followed the noise. Under the massive chandeliers in the East Room, a hundred people were into their second hour of drinking. George waved to Verena’s parents, Percy Marquand and Babe Lee, who were talking to someone from the Democratic National Committee.
The president was not in the room.
George looked around and spotted a kitchen entrance. He had learned that the president often used staff doors and back corridors, to avoid constantly being buttonholed and delayed.
He went through the staff door and found the presidential party right outside. The handsome, tanned president, only forty-four years old, wore a navy blue suit with a white shirt and a skinny tie. He looked tired and edgy. “I can’t be photographed with an interracial couple!” he said in a frustrated tone, as if forced to repeat himself. “I’d lose ten million votes!”
George had seen only one interracial couple in the ballroom: Percy Marquand and Babe Lee. He felt outraged. So the liberal president was scared to be photographed with them!
Dave Powers was an amiable middle-aged man with a big nose and a bald head, about as different from his boss as could be imagined. He said to the president: “What am I supposed to do?”
Dave was a personal friend, and not scared to let Kennedy know when he was irritated. “What am I going to tell them, for Christ’s sake?”
Suddenly George stopped being angry and started to think. Was this an opportunity for him? Without forming any definite plan, he said: “Mr. President, I’m George Jakes, I work for the attorney general. May I take care of this problem for you?”
He watched their faces and knew what they were thinking. If Percy Marquand was going to be insulted in the White House, how much better it would be if the offender were black.
“Hell, yes,” said Kennedy. “I’d appreciate that, George.”
“Yes, sir,” said George, and he went back into the ballroom.
But what was he going to do? He racked his brains as he crossed the polished floor toward where Percy and Babe stood. He had to get them out of the room for fifteen or twenty minutes, that was all. What could he tell them?
Anything but the truth, he guessed.
When he reached the conversational group, and touched Percy Marquand gently on the arm, he still didn’t know what he was going to say.
Percy turned, recognized him, smiled, and shook his hand. “Everybody!” he said to the people around him. “Meet a Freedom Rider!”
Babe Lee grabbed his arm with both hands, as if afraid someone was going to steal him. “You’re a hero, George,” she said.
At that moment George realized what he had to say. “Mr. Marquand, Miss Lee, I work for Bobby Kennedy now, and he would like to talk to you for a few minutes about civil rights. May I take you to him?”
“Of course,” said Percy, and a few seconds later they were out of the room.
George regretted his words immediately. His heart thumped as he walked them to the West Wing. How was Bobby going to take this? He might say Hell, no, I don’t have time. If an embarrassing incident resulted, George would be to blame. Why had he not kept his mouth shut?
“I had lunch with Verena,” he said, making small talk.
Babe Lee said: “She loves her job in Atlanta. The Southern Christian Leadership Conference has a small headquarters organization, but they’re doing great things.”
Percy said: “Dr. King is a great man. Of all the civil rights leaders I’ve met, he’s the most impressive.”
They reached the Cabinet Room and went in. The half-dozen men there were sitting at one end of the long table, chatting, some smoking. They looked in surprise at the newcomers. George located Bobby and watched his face. He looked puzzled and irritated. George said: “Bobby, you know Percy Marquand and Babe Lee. They would be happy to talk to us about civil rights for a few minutes.”
For a moment Bobby’s face darkened with rage. George realized this was the second time today he had surprised his boss with an uninvited guest. Then Bobby smiled. “What a privilege!” he said. “Sit down, folks, and thank you for supporting my brother’s election campaign.”
George was relieved, for the moment. There would be no embarrassment. Bobby had switched to automatic charm. He asked Percy and Babe their views, and talked candidly about the difficulties the Kennedys were having with Southern Democrats in Congress. The guests were flattered.
A few minutes later the president came in. He shook hands with Percy and Babe, then asked Dave Powers to take them back to the party.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Bobby rounded on George. “Never do that to me again!” he said. His face showed the strength of his pent-up fury.
George saw Dennis Wilson smother a grin.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Bobby stormed.
George thought Bobby was going to hit him. He balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to dodge a blow. He said desperately: “The president wanted them out of the room! He didn’t want to be photographed with Percy and Babe.”
Bobby looked at his brother, who nodded.
George said: “I had thirty seconds to think of a pretext that wouldn’t insult them. I told them you wanted to meet them. And it worked, didn’t it? They’re not offended—in fact they think they got VIP treatment!”
The president said: “It’s true, Bob. George here got us out of a tight situation.”
George said: “I wanted to make sure we didn’t lose their support for the reelection campaign.”
Bobby looked blank for a moment, taking it in. “So,” he said, “you told them I wanted to talk to them, just as a way of keeping them out of the presidential photographs.”
“Yes,” said George.
The president said: “That was quick thinking.”
Bobby’s face changed. After a moment he started to laugh. His brother joined in, then the other men in the room followed suit.
Bobby put his arm around George’s shoulders.
George still felt shaky. He had feared he would be fired.
Bobby said: “Georgie boy, you’re one of us!”
George realized he had been accepted into the inner circle. He slumped with relief.
He was not as proud as he might have been. He had carried out a shabby little deception, and helped the president to pander to racial prejudice. He wanted to wash his hands.
Then he saw the look of rage on Dennis Wilson’s face, and he felt better.