Alexander Howard, University of Sydney
The Gridiron Club is one of the oldest, most exclusive journalistic organizations in Washington, D.C. Much like the White House Correspondents’ Association, this secretive, members-only group hosts an annual dinner where writers and politicians exchange playful barbs and raise their glasses in a spirit of conviviality. Tradition dictates the sitting president attends, making it a key fixture in Washington’s social and political calendar.
A fictitious account of this annual dinner features at the start of Fletcher Knebel’s 1965 novel, Night of Camp David, which is back in the cultural spotlight (again). Fiction has an uncanny way of anticipating reality, and this bestselling political thriller – about a US president spiraling into paranoia and delusion – feels eerily relevant in the era of Trump 2.0.
Everything appears to be normal as Knebel’s story gets underway. President Mark Hollenbach, a charismatic Democrat who fought in the Korean War, has just stepped up to the microphone at the Gridiron club. Before him sit “the elite of America’s delicately interwoven political-industrial society, the men who ran the political parties and the big corporations”.
Having taken a few lighthearted potshots at the press, Hollenbach sets his sights on his political rivals. After a brief pause to take a sip of water, he quips that the Republican party’s
capacity for solemnity constantly mystifies me. Perhaps the clue lies in what they say to one another. I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought, and I think I’ve hit on a way to find out.
Hollenbach, who is up for reelection, suggests the FBI be empowered to maintain an automatic tap on all telephones in the country. With a standing wiretap, “we Democrats could learn what mysterious substance provides the glue for Republicanism, what indeed it is they say to one another that makes them so gloomy”.
The audience erupts in laughter, assuming Hollenbach is joshing. But he’s deadly serious. He admits this to the novel’s central protagonist, Jim MacVeagh, an ambitious young senator from Iowa, when he later invites him for a nightcap at Camp David, the secluded presidential retreat nestled in the Maryland mountains.
It would have to be done carefully, with great legal restraints and protection, naturally. But no respectable citizen would have a thing to fear. It’s the hoodlums, the punks, the syndicate killers, and the dope peddlers we’re after. Automatic wiretapping, aided by computers to store the telephone calls, would drive them all out of business.