Wisconsin’s McCarthy — elected to the Senate in 1946, in part by courting Communist support (“Communists have the same right to vote as anybody else, don’t they?” he’d asked rhetorically) — had been for several years a key Pearson source of inside info about his congressional colleagues and their secrets. I knew McCarthy because I followed leads he provided Pearson, about the so-called “five percenter” influence peddlers.
But earlier this year, after a national magazine rated him our nation’s worst senator, McCarthy bragged to Jack Anderson that he had come up with “one hell of an issue.” Shortly thereafter, McCarthy gave a speech to the no doubt bewildered little old ladies of the Republican Women’s Club of Ohio County, declaring to have “in his hand” a list of 205 members of the Communist Party, currently operating in the State Department, with the secretary of state’s blessing.
Never mind that within a day the list had dwindled to “fifty-seven card-carrying Communists”... or that Communist Party members hadn’t carried “cards” for years. McCarthy had made himself an instant household word... and a feared man in Washington.
Only, Drew Pearson didn’t fear anybody in Washington or anywhere else.
“Before he’s through,” Pearson was saying, “no one’s reputation will be safe — the whole political process will be poisoned.”
“He’s got a real, rabid following.”
“That’s why he’s got to be cut down now, before he becomes a walking national disaster area. Frank Sinatra? A Communist? Good Lord, where would such lunacy stop?”
“You’re losing a hell of an informant.”
“My best on the Hill,” Pearson admitted. “A good source, but a bad man... McCarthy’s already caught up in the demagogue’s compulsion toward escalation. He upgrades ‘fellow travelers’ into Communists, and pro-Communists into spies!”
“Well, your friend Estes has provided him the blueprint for witch-hunting. You have that coonskin cap to thank.”
Pearson’s nostrils flared, his eyes hardened. “Don’t compare the two, for God’s sake! Estes is a sincere, honest man, a true servant of the people. There’s something... pathological about McCarthy, some inner demon that pushes him to take extravagant risks.”
I shrugged. “Maybe he’ll undo himself.”
An eyebrow lifted. “Waiting until that time would be a risk too extravagant for me to take. I’ll handle this in my own fashion.”
“How?”
He nodded toward his battered old typewriter. “With my usual weapon — my column, my radio show. Within the coming weeks, every American will learn that their esteemed Red-busting hero has committed a laundry list of transgressions.”
Pearson began to enumerate: State Judge McCarthy had sold “quickie” divorces to campaign contributors; he had violated the Wisconsin constitution by running for Senate without resigning from the bench; his disbarment had been recommended by the State Board; he’d falsely attributed lavish campaign contributions to his father and brother, who didn’t make five grand a year between them; he retained his judgeship while serving in the Marines; he’d cheated on his income taxes; and he’d exaggerated his war record, a much publicized “wound” a phony...
None of it seemed terribly impressive to me, frankly — McCarthy sounded like a typical politician. But Pearson knew just how to parcel this stuff out, and really put a guy through the meat grinder.
As I watched the tips of Pearson’s waxed mustache rise ever higher as the columnist smiled, listing the Wisconsin senator’s various sins (assembled by Anderson, no doubt) — soon to be shared with the American public — it came to me that Joe McCarthy was about to really find out what smear tactics were all about.
On this cool, quiet Sunday night in September, under a starless sky, the Mall — that wide expanse of green, extending a mile and a half up from the Washington Monument to the Capitol Building — was bathed in light by streetlamps, thousands of luminous orbs lining the pavement, crisscrossing this most accessible of parks. The Capitol Building seemed a glowing crown in this sweeping array of marble, grass, and floodlights. Unencumbered by the rush of people — save for a few tourists attending the church of their government — the Mall gave Washington a sense of pageantry, of elegance, of order. How Joe McCarthy fit into this was anybody’s guess.
One of three white marble buildings facing the Capitol grounds, the Senate Office Building — inevitably nicknamed the S.O.B. — was at First and B Street, near the northeast corner. Capitol Hill was all but deserted, and even nearby Union Station — where I’d parked my rental Ford — seemed underpopulated.
