McKenzie won the coin toss and elected to close, letting Aguilar go first.
For the first couple of minutes or so, there were no surprises. Aguilar launched into his life story: Mexican immigrant, TV reporter, small businessman, etc. McKenzie had become so familiar with his opponent’s background he could recite it himself, so he spent the time surveying the audience. There were only a handful of Hispanic faces, he noted. Most of them were in their twenties—students, possibly. But there was one gentleman in a suit in the back. Small business owner, perhaps? Keep an eye on that one. The rest of them seemed to be friendlies, retired government employees. My people, he thought. Jenn was in the far corner in the back and gave him a confident nod. Good work, Jenn!
When it was his turn, he graciously praised his opponent. “I am pleased to see that our Republican friends have finally had the wisdom to nominate someone who doesn’t look like most of them,” he said. “Diversity is our strength. That is why I have always supported comprehensive immigration reform. We absolutely must resolve this humanitarian crisis at our borders and keep ICE from breaking up families and putting children in cages.”
Something was wrong. He didn’t feel the warm ripples of agreement flowing from the audience. There was even a hint of hostility he was unaccustomed to. What was it?
When he began talking about his opposition to the Trump tax cuts for millionaires and billionaires, he began to see what it was. There were four middle-aged white women sitting in the third row, directly in front of him. At first, he had thought they were ARFE workers, placed there strategically by Jenn. But now he could see they were scowling at him. Scowling! Unbelievable. He made a note to find a more sympathetic face and engage that person directly in the next round.
“Our first topic this afternoon revolves around health care. Congressman, you have said publicly that you support Medicare-For-All. Mr. Aguilar, you are opposed. Why?”
Aguilar leaned into the microphone, thanked the moderator for the question, and then he did the unthinkable: He actually stood up.
“Let me tell you a story,” he said, walking up to the front of the stage, where he could almost touch the audience. “My late wife originally came from Venezuela. My parents were Mexican. Came here legally, by the way.”
The scowlers broke into good-hearted laughter. So they were plants, McKenzie thought.
“Look at Venezuela today,” he went on. “The country is imploding. They say that over the past year, the average citizen in Venezuela has lost over forty pounds—and that’s not because dieting has suddenly become a thing.”
The scowlers laughed again. Damn!
“Like Cuba and many other socialist countries, Venezuela has free health care. Free health care for all! Just think of it! Medicare-For-All is a hallmark of socialist countries. Today in Venezuela, nobody can find a doctor because all the doctors have fled. In Canada, where some doctors remain, people have to wait weeks to see someone. Is that what we want for this county? Socialized medicine? Long waits to see a doctor? Rationed health care services? Government bureaucrats determining who gets a heart transplant, and who dies? I believe we need to return to a free market system, with patient choice and market pricing and the doctor-patient relationship at its core.”
The moderator turned to him. McKenzie took his microphone from the stand and turned to address him instead of the audience.
“Before getting to health care, I’d like to ask our moderator if it’s okay for me to stand to address the audience, or would he rather have us sit behind the table, as we had agreed?”
He caught Jenn’s eye at the back of the room. She was nodding her head ever so slightly in approval. That’s right. Take back control.
Richard August pulled on his wispy beard and nodded. “You’re right, Congressman. If you and Mr. Aguilar would remain seated, that would be best.”
“Now, as to Medicare-For-All,” he began.
McKenzie explained how our health system was failing. People were having to pay more and more for insurance, while the drug companies were making billions and billions of profits by gouging consumers.
“But you voted for Obamacare!” one of the scowlers called out.
“Madame,” said the moderator. “Please don’t interrupt the Congressman.”
He couldn’t believe they had actually heckled him. Not just scowled, but heckled! This was supposed to be his home turf.
“Actually, I never voted for Obamacare,” he said icily. “I was first elected after it became law. But I am proud to admit that I support it—with some necessary changes. That’s what Medicare-For-All is about.”
The next question was about McKenzie’s plan to set a national minimum wage of fifteen dollars an hour, so he got two minutes to make the case. He carefully avoided looking at the scowlers but found a good ARFE member just to their left to engage. He must have been seventy-five if he was a day and had a lachrymose tick in one eye, causing him to dab at it with a handkerchief. McKenzie smiled and never took his eyes off the man.
“Twenty-dollar Big Macs,” one of the scowlers heckled.
“Madame, that’s the last time I’m going to warn you,” the moderator said. “Please reserve your comments until after the debate.”
How can they get away with it, McKenzie wondered? If I tried something like that—what? What would Aguilar do? Would he whine and complain? No, he would turn it to his advantage! Of course!
“Would a fifteen-dollar national minimum wage raise the price of some consumer goods? Yes, of course it would,” McKenzie said, looking directly at the hecklers. “But the prices that would go up are already so ridiculously low that I doubt it would affect you, Madame, or anyone in this room. But the fifteen-dollar wage would dramatically affect those at the lowest rungs of society, who are just barely making ends meet as it is. We are talking about fundamental fairness here, not Keynesian economics or having to pay a little more for a hamburger.”
That was better, he thought. As he set the microphone back in its stand he snuck a glance at Jenn. She nodded her approval.
It went on like that for the rest of the hour. Aguilar was in the zone. He appealed directly to the ARFE members, telling personal stories, moving his body and gesturing almost rhythmically. The charisma just oozed off of him, even seated. Nevertheless, McKenzie felt he was holding his own. He was asking the audience to cut through the marshmallows and consider hard facts. And always, remember who the real enemy was: President Trump.
“Donald Trump has demeaned the presidency,” he said. “He says things on a daily basis that no president would have ever dreamed of saying before. America has become a laughingstock around the world.” Turning to his opponent, he gave a wry smile: “And do you think Mexico is going to pay for that wall?”
He paused dramatically, daring Aguilar to speak, but his opponent merely gave a friendly shrug, as if he didn’t know the answer. “Not a chance,” McKenzie told the audience.
Now it was time for their closing statements. Hugh McKenzie tuned out his opponent as he methodically ticked down the mental list of what he was going to say. Fix the immigration mess Trump has created. Medicare-For-All, not Trump’s health care for none. Minimum wage. Election reform. And of course, the Green New Deal, because in twelve years the planet faced a deadly ultimatum. If we don’t act by then to reverse the course we are in, science tells us we will never be able to dial back the deadly spiral of catastrophic global warming. Whole nations will go underwater as the icecaps melt. Forests will burn. Crops will be scorched so bad it’ll make the Dust Bowl look like springtime in Florida. We can’t afford to take these risks, which my opponent shrugs off. I am asking for your support to send me back to Congress for another two years to work on your behalf.
He saw the yellow card flash below and sat up straight. It’s time to put this one away, McKenzie thought.
But Aguilar just blew through his time, without even
a pause. The timer held up the red card, but he appeared not to notice. She waved it several times without getting his attention. Finally, the moderator jumped in.
“Mr. Aguilar, I’m afraid your time has expired.”
Aguilar was in the middle of a story. He was talking about his career as a war correspondent, and everyone in the room was rapt with his every word.
“I do apologize, Mr. August. But I wonder if the audience would indulge me for another two minutes? They of course should give the Congressman an extra two minutes, as well. What do you think, folks? May I finish my story?”
The scowlers howled their approval, thumping their feet and clapping. To McKenzie’s dismay, people started clapping in the back of the auditorium. And then in the middle. Soon enough, they were calling out, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” from all over. Aguilar turned to the moderator sheepishly.
“What do you say, Mr. August?”
The moderator threw up his hands in acquiescence. “Reset the two-minute clock,” he said to the timer.
What was so important for him to blow through his time, McKenzie wondered? He started to tune in, but he couldn’t figure out why Aguilar thought telling war stories would advance his cause. These are my people. They’re hard-core Democrats. Most of them are against war. All wars. The Iraq war was a disaster. And now we have a president just itching to go to war with Iran. Why should they sympathize with that?
“And so, in early January 2009, they sent me to a small town in Israel way down in the Negev desert on the border with Gaza. It was called Sderot. The producers back in New York insisted we all wear these huge bullet-proof vests. I’m sure you’ve seen them. It makes you feel a bit ridiculous, but you know what? They said if we didn’t, it would void both our health coverage and our life insurance! My wife would have killed me if I had done that!”
Everyone laughed. Even McKenzie found himself giving a small huff. Where was this going?
“You may remember, these were the final days of the George W. Bush administration. It was called Operation Cast Lead. The Israelis knew they had one last chance before Obama took office to do serious damage to Hamas.
“Why was that so important? Because Hamas was launching thousands of rockets—more than four thousand, if I remember correctly—into Israeli towns and villages. That’s why they sent me to Sderot. It was getting pounded day after day.
“Sometimes we did our live feed from the air raid shelters. One time we were down there with local residents for an entire day, babies and moms, old men and women. Most of the young men had been called up to military service.
“But if you listened to just about any other news channel, all you heard about was Israeli aggression, the Israeli invasion, indiscriminate bombing. Already people were accusing Israel of war crimes.”
Aguilar paused dramatically and turned to McKenzie. You’ve got to be kidding, he thought.
“One of them is sitting right next to me here at this table. Congressman Hugh McKenzie.”
The timer held up the yellow card. Aguilar pressed on.
“Perhaps in your time, Congressman, you can explain to folks here why you accused Israel of committing war crimes when in fact all she was doing was defending herself? You were still in the state Senate, down in Annapolis. That makes it all the more extraordinary. How can you call yourself a supporter of Israel when you make common cause with Israel’s enemies?”
A prolonged hissing came from the audience, and it wasn’t just coming from the scowlers but seemingly everywhere. This was not how he was intending to conclude. But McKenzie knew better than to respond immediately to such a hot button accusation. That was a beginner’s mistake, and he was anything but a beginner.
“I have four minutes, right?” he asked the moderator.
“That’s right, Congressman.” Robert August turned to the timer. “Four minutes.”
McKenzie picked up the microphone, his lips pressed together, red in the face. For a good fifteen seconds, he said nothing, just shaking his head. It’s good at times to show your anger, he thought. Let them feel how unjust this is.
“I’m going to get to that scurrilous accusation in just a minute. But first, let me conclude by sketching out my plans for making sure American prosperity benefits all Americans, not just millionaires and billionaires.”
And so he gave his closing speech pretty much as he had been intending, except that he drew it out a bit longer. When three minutes had gone by, one of the scowlers piped up.
“What about Israel?” she called out.
“I’m getting to Israel,” he said flatly.
“Answer the question!” another one said.
“Mr. Aguilar is referring to a letter that was being circulated by the Council on American Islamic Relations, a widely respected civil rights organization, that was signed by more than sixty members of the Maryland Senate and House of Delegates, including quite a few from his own party.”
“Did you sign it?” an older man called out. It was the man with the lachrymose twitch whom McKenzie had thought was on his side.
“Sir, this was a letter being circulated by a well-respected civil rights group, and the stories we were hearing out of Gaza were horrific. Of course I signed it. It called on Israel to respect the Geneva Conventions and to refrain from targeting civilians. It did not accuse them of war crimes.”
The timer held up the yellow card. McKenzie could feel the sweat run down the back of his shirt.
“I hope this incident has been instructive of the kind of misrepresentations and outright lies my opponent has been using in this campaign. I would ask that you look at my record, and vote your values. Who do you want representing you in Washington, a man who will say anything to get elected? Or someone with a proven track record of helping those who have been left behind by the Trump economy?”
The moderator banged down his gavel, and the room erupted in applause, but McKenzie wasn’t fool enough to think it was directed at him.
8
From then on, it only got worse.
A few days later, McKenzie was heading into the Capitol with his driver, skimming the Washington Post and the New York Times with the local traffic station playing in the background. Both papers enthusiastically reported on plans by the Democrat nominee for president, Governor Cheryl Tomlinson of Illinois, and her running mate, Senator Vincent Bellinger of New York, to roll out their Medicare-For-All proposal that evening at a Town Hall meeting near Scranton, Pennsylvania. Sounds like they’re channeling good old Joe Biden, McKenzie thought. Too bad about what happened to him after winning the primaries.
But Tomlinson was a great choice—undoubtedly the Democrat who had the best chance of beating Donald Trump. She had grown up on the south side of Chicago and spent much of her youth as a gang member, running crack for the Black P Stone Rangers. Weren’t they somehow tied to Jesse Jackson? A vague memory of some right-wing hit job on the revered civil rights icon stirred in the back of his mind. That’s right, Shakedown: Exposing the Real Jesse Jackson. And that photograph of Rev. Jackson sitting at the feet of Jeff Fort, the notorious gang leader who was sent to jail for life on terrorism charges. The Reverend pretty much disappeared from politics for years after that! Tomlinson paid her dues, did time in jail, where she came to Jesus and found her husband, who went on to become a charismatic preacher once they were released. She ran the business side of his ministry, building it into a mini-empire, with books, speaking tours, and a mega-church just down the street from the Rev. Louis Farrakhan’s Mosque Maryam. Known locally as “Mrs. T,” she was elected governor six years ago in her first-ever run for elected office.
He made a note to watch the Town Hall meeting that evening, most likely from his office in the Rayburn building.
Then he heard his name.
“Joachim, turn up the radio, please!” he called to the driver.
“…But you know the truth: I
t’s health care for none. Nelson Aguilar knows you deserve to keep more of your hard-earned pay. Let’s send Congressman McKenzie home to his family. Vote for Nelson Aguilar on November 3rd. Paid for by Americans for the Dream.”
Paid for by who? he thought. Must be a Super PAC. So that’s in addition to the $2.5 million he’s already raised. Nice.
He picked up his iPhone and called Jenn.
“Did you hear the attack ad on WTOP just now?”
She had not.
“Well, turn it on and keep listening. Get someone to make a transcript. And get Stan Harris to do a run on the Super PAC. It’s called Americans for the Dream. I want to know how much they’ve raised, how much they’ve spent, who their donors are, the works. See if there are any cross-overs between the campaign and the Super PAC. That could be illegal. And see if any of our media buyers know any of theirs. We need all committee chairs for an hour this afternoon at the DNC. Coordinate with Lisa in my office to find the best hour for me.”
Next he dialed Derek Greenwald, his finance chairman. His secretary said he was just heading into a meeting. “Tell him it’s Congressman McKenzie and he needs to get back to me within the next half hour,” he said.
After that, he dialed Mark Margolis, his pollster. It rang three times. Four. Mark wouldn’t dare not pick up the phone, he thought, not with the amount I’m paying him.
“Mark, I need you to do a quick tracking poll this morning. No, nothing on specific issues. Just the quick and dirty. Approval rating. Name recognition. Who you’re voting for in November. Maybe a presidential preference. Keep the universe manageable, but I want you to pay special attention to demographics. Hispanic. Jewish. Soccer moms. We need it for this afternoon’s staff meeting. Ask Jenn for the time. And I’ll want you to run some comparisons as well to see the trend lines.”
The Election Heist Page 3
