by Greg Sandora
“Do you know that as fact, Jack? Has anyone worked up the numbers? What about just sticking with creating more American Jobs?”
“No, Bud, listen the tobacco companies are always romancing the Senate with the twenty five billion in tax revenue from cigarettes. What they neglect to mention is - the country spends two hundred fifty billion on directly related healthcare costs. Use the same logic and get everybody going.”
“Will do!”
“Bud, last thing, I gotta go. We need someone who can really whip the crowd up.”
“I got just the guy in mind, Jack.”
“Good, have our guys get some of the local businesses to sponsor hot chocolate and stuff to keep em warm out there. Pass out blankets if you have to - just keep this going until I get up there.”
“Okay, got it - there’s just one last thing I want to tell you about. The latest NIM News Poll has you neck in neck with Griffin, so I ordered the ads increased through the Primary on Tuesday. It goes against my gut to taper off now!”
“Good call, Bud, I’ll see you on Sunday, bye.”
My mom always told me opportunity is when preparation and luck meet, this was one of those times. I wish she were awake to see this.
We had been playing a powerful ad since our announcement and it was gaining traction with voters:
A male announcer slowly reads the copy in a friendly but authoritarian voice, “Your groceries are high, health care and college costs are out of control - if you can still afford them. Millions of Americans are being forced for lack of better alternatives to work for subsistence wages.”
All while the camera pans across vacant and run down factories, “We are a nation that produces little and borrows much."
The pictures show workers in a fast food drive thru window then transitions to customers waiting in long lines at a Big Box Retailer while the copy reads: “More and more, our employment amounts to service jobs, filling orders, waiting on each other. Even then companies refuse to hire so you wait.”
“Our nation can’t go on like this - we need to produce washers, dryers, televisions, and cars again.”
The narrative continues over scenes of busy factories and workers in China.
“China produces our products and American Companies sell them here. RCA used to make Televisions right here in America.”
There’s a screen shot of an Asian worker attaching RCA Logos onto television sets.
“We have to create good paying jobs in America. We have to create our own Energy.”
Spoken over fields of plenty, then a bio mass plant. The pictures brighten and soft music begins in the background.
“Jobs that really pay the bills free us from wage slavery. We Can Power our Future. We Can! Bring America back to when American manufacturing was the envy of the world.”
Focus groups had reacted positively to the ad and many said they would be prompted to action after seeing it. Even so, what we were experiencing at Faneuil Hall had caught us by surprise, we had no idea we would gather a crowd of a thousand waiting for a debate.
I had been standing outside of Mom’s hospital room while talking to Bud. After the call, I stepped back in.
Nurse Casie said, “Her vitals are good, she hasn’t responded to me yet, but she did move her right arm towards her face.”
I reached over and held my moms hand, rubbing her arm, “Mom, it’s Jack. Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can.”
I waited but there was no pressure from her hand.
“Casie, let me give you my cell number. Would you call me if there is any change at all?”
“Yes, Senator, and I will give it to my change of shift.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sunday morning Kathy and I were up drinking coffee together sitting in our favorite overstuffed chairs facing each other, each to one side of a big white mantled fireplace. I remember her deciding to paint the mantle white to match the rest of the trim in the living room. The sun was shining through a colonial window at the far end of the room, softly lighting the yellow gold color of the walls. Kathy decorated the room in a color that changed with the amount of light in the room.
We refinished the hardwood floors and placed matching deep red oriental rugs in front of the fireplace and in the sunroom - three steps down from the living room across from us. Kathy said “It’s cold out this morning, but I like the snow.”
An inch or two of snow had fallen overnight and the rustle of the wind was blowing it around the L shaped sunroom.
Kathy said, “Jack, I’m going to stay here with the girls and be near your mother.”
“That’s probably a good idea; I’ll go up this afternoon for the debate and then fly back right after.”
“Jack, I don’t want to bring up a sore subject but Roger was at the hospital earlier and was asking for you to call him.”
Roger and I had a falling out. It was over a real estate deal he had gotten the Colonel involved in back in ’05. Roger talked Dad into investing 20 million dollars in a mid rise golf community in Naples, Florida. The project started and everything was going well; Dad was so proud of Roger.
I even thought this was good for them both and at least it kept him busy and out of trouble. They got a Regional Bank to finance the bulk of the 110 million dollar price tag. The plan was for four hundred and ninety units along one edge of the Naples Municipal Golf course. The idea was sound enough; there would be golf and the view but lower fees for the purchasers.
Everything was pre-selling back then and the project sold out before the foundation was poured. Roger had a wacky girlfriend at the time who he listened to and over the objections of the architect he made several design changes during construction of the first building. One of her bright ideas was to remove the floor to ceiling windows facing the golf course and make them half the size with a three-foot knee wall blocking the best part of the view from the upper floors. She thought it would make more room for furniture.
The market was so hot, buyers didn’t care, placing deposits of ten percent on asking prices of $250 to $750 thousand. Appraisals were coming in for double the original purchase price, so Roger and the bank were allowing people to buy up to ten units each, reducing the required deposit for multiple units. Things were so crazy in Florida, the bank gave approval to build four hundred of the units - none of the usual safeguards were in place. In the meantime, the builder delays cost too much time and the market softened.
To cut costs, since the units were already sold, Roger figured he would cut each building down to just two elevators, the minimum allowed by county code. Had the project finished on the original schedule, Roger would have made out fine.
During the nearly two years of delays, the market tanked. Due to pressure from Congress, Uncle Sam had reduced the regulation and oversight of the banks. Eager to capitalize on the rising values, banks loaned money to people on the strength of the rising market.
When the bubble burst, not one single investor showed up to close on a unit. Federal regulators seized the bank and, in a deal arranged by the Fed, it was absorbed by a larger one. Roger walked away from the one-hundred-million dollar paper loss. Today the property is just sitting with a chain link fence around it, waiting to be liquidated by Freddie Mac. Lucky for Dad and Roger, the property was held in a corporate name - Sunshine Investment Partners, along with the bank, each with third shares and no personal liability. The Colonel is still out twenty million and Roger is back in Kentucky, but I’m the one who will have to explain the mess to the press.
When this gets out it’s going to highlight my father’s wealth, my brother’s issues, and link the real estate mess to our family name.
Had Roger just let the project go forward on schedule without his girlfriend’s input, the units would have been completed on time and sold.
The phone rings, Tip’s name pops up on the screen, “Hi, Tip.”
“Jack, how’s your mother doing?”
“The same. She has been resting and we’re all w
aiting for her to wake up and speak to us.”
“She’s in our prayers Jack.”
“Kathy and I are just sitting in the living room having coffee. What’s up?”
“Two things, Jack. We picked up a transmission last night; one of the bugs we placed when we visited the prince signaled back from a location about three miles out from the palace, probably a dump heap.”
"You’re serious, what did you get?”
“We think the conversation took place in the palace, but the bottom line is they want F-16’s when you get in office.”
“F-16’s, that’s wild. Anything about cutting back on bio-energy?”
“Don’t shoot the messenger but from what I heard on the tape lets just say they aren’t too concerned."
“That’s not what I would have expected.”
“To paraphrase, they don’t think we can get it done.”
The Saudis had purchased F-15 fighter jets 5 years before in a 29 billion dollar arms deal with the United States. They were obviously banking on purchasing the latest technology available to beef up their arsenal when we took office.
“Well, Tip that’s not all bad, why not let them stand as a deterrent to Middle East aggression as long as they stay a step behind us in technology. We can tie them up with the State Department for a couple of years hammering out the details and then there’s the production time. By then the F-16 will be older and it won’t matter. I’ll tell them the deal has to be done through the proper channels but we can get them.”
“Jack there is one comfort - those F-15s we sold them have a kill switch, they’re programmed to drop out of the sky if they ever show hostile towards one of ours. Our planes have a jamming device that turns off weapon systems and engines if we ever have the need.”
“They have no idea?”
“It’s untraceable, deep in the programming, and you can’t fly those things by wire, it’s all computerized.”
“That’s good news, what else?”
“Jack I am very concerned about the crowds forming up in Boston. I have a friend who was a former commander with the Swiss Guard that I’ve called in to help with security up there.”
“Tip, do you think that’s necessary? If the press finds out, they’ll have a field day - showing me incapable of walking into Faneuil Hall without protection - before we even win a primary. It will look presumptuous on our end; people hate that.”
“Jack, this guy has guarded two popes - they’re experts at blending into a crowd. I’m telling you, with the crowd up there, even with a barrier line, the Boston Cops are not going to be able to control against some crackpot that jumps the barricade and lunges at you. I need to know we have people who can take care of any situation that develops. Your message is hitting home with a lot of people. Crowds can quickly develop into a mob and get difficult to control. If it happens, we don’t want to be second-guessing ourselves later. Jack, I really have to insist you go along with me on this.”
“Alright, Tip, but make sure these guys blend in. I don’t even want to know who they are.”
A wealthy merchant built Faneuil Hall, modeled after an old English market place, in 1742. It was probably one of the most impressive structures of its day. A three-story brick building, with a large bell tower that sits high above the front entrance and granite steps leading up to two very large heavy doors.
It’s testimony to the expert craftsmanship - the doors open easily due to the perfect weighting and balance.
The first floor is comprised of thirty-five or so small shops, each separated by brick walls with open fronts. The second floor was built for holding large indoor meetings and houses a large hall. I’m sure that back when Faneuil Hall was built, 34 years before the revolution, the shops were filled with the hustle and bustle of commerce. The center hallway design, with its 10-foot ceilings, flowed out into large outdoor areas, which held the horses and wagons.
Kathy and I used to visit Boston regularly and would stop by Faneuil Hall for lunch. Once inside the big doors, today you’ll smell dozens of food establishments along both sides of the 200-foot length. In the evenings, we would take in a comedy show in the upstairs meeting area. The most fascinating thing about the place is the rich history; the first floor opens into a large central area, soaring three stories high with seating all around. Where the founding fathers once met are high bars with stools and long tables with benches where busy office workers grab a quick lunch today. I’ve never been when the place wasn’t packed. Many just stand or sit outside if the weather suits, spilling out onto the now open brick paved pavilion areas on all sides of the building. The restaurants are also the destination for people hungry after shopping at all the new stores that have sprung up in buildings all around the historic site.
Once on a visit with the family, a street magician was performing at the front entrance; we stopped for a while to watch. It was fun when he picked Bethany out of the crowd and did a portion of the act with her as the helper. That day after we ate lunch, we grabbed a cannoli at the bakery, the irresistible last shop on the right as you leave the hall. People walk in Boston and we spent the rest of the afternoon walking the freedom trail from Faneuil Hall to Boston Commons. It’s hard to resist the intoxicating aroma of honey-roasted peanuts; once the girls get a whiff, we have to stop for a bag or two along the route.
Kathy loved to shop all along the way. I would sit outside, have a cup of coffee, and enjoy watching all the people. Usually there would be a singer or musician performing in the middle of the street, closed for pedestrian traffic. You can feel the subway rumble below your feet. Sometimes we would stay in town overnight and take the T to Fenway Park for a Red Sox Game.
I knew this area well. It’s the perfect city; so rich with the past, to talk about the future.
I arrived at Logan Airport at 7 p.m. a little later than planned but I hated leaving my mom. I stayed in Kentucky by her side as long as I could. Tip was waiting for me with a car when the pilot taxied over to a private area along the south end of an old terminal.
Tip said, “Jack, there’s a crowd of about 5000 people assembled outside on the pavilion. Bud has someone down there that’s been stirring them up for the last hour or so.”
We arrived at Faneuil hall about 30 minutes before the debate’s scheduled live airtime of 8 pm. Even though Tip had told me about the crowd, I wasn’t prepared. Driving up, the Boston Cops had closed the side street between the building and the parking garage to the North side. The driver pulled up as far as he could toward the Bell Tower end.
People pushed up against the car enough that we could feel it bouncing, like when you test the shocks on a used car to see if they’re any good. The cops quickly cleared a path up to the building. I followed Tip out of the car into the chill of a January wind that felt much colder without an overcoat or the sun.
It gets dark around 4:30 this time of year in the Northeast. As we entered through a cold, dark police line toward the building, I saw a man to my left jump over the barricade, lunging towards me. Tip stepped over, and, with a quick snap of his arm, the back of his hand slammed the guy square in the center of his face. The guy fell back into the police who quickly covered him.
“This is crazy, Tip,” I said as we ascended the granite steps through the heavy black doors.
A quick memory flashed in my mind about the Boston Police. They beat up a kid we knew of years ago because he mouthed off on the street in front of the Red Sox stadium. I thought they might do the same again.
Tip said, “Good thing we’ve got our guys out there, Jack.”
We hurried through the police rope line set up in the center of the hallway, past hundreds of onlookers calling out to me as we entered the large open area. Bud arranged for us to be met at the main entry door on the second floor. As we climbed to the top of the staircase, I heard a young man’s voice call out, “Senator, please follow me. I’ll take you to your dressing room. I’m Vic Miller, Associate Producer with KIM News, it’s [LM8] great to meet yo
u sir.”
“Likewise, Vic.”
“We’ve got to get you into makeup; there’s only 25 minutes till airtime and we are live.” Vic had a nervous voice and he whisked us into a backstage area lined with small dressing rooms.
We entered through a small door and met Melanie, who was waiting for us. Tip stood by the door as Melanie introduced herself, guiding me into a chair in front of a mirror as you’d see in a hair salon. She stood behind me and stuffed black linen into my collar to keep from spoiling my white shirt. She arranged the cloth to cover my blue suit.
“We don’t want to get any makeup on your shirt,” she said.
Melanie was young and spent the whole time telling us about herself. She was a single mom with a 4 year old daughter, Stephanie, tattooed into one wrist and Judy, her mom’s name, on the other. I could see her in the mirror talking behind me. Her brown bangs were bobbie pinned off her face. The rest of her hair was styled in a severe angled cut, long in front with the back of her head shaved short. Melanie obviously worked hard for a living. Her story gave hint of her struggle although she wasn’t complaining, “Senator I am going to vote for you! I’ve seen your ads on TV and I think you’re exactly what this country needs.”
I could tell she was a tender person under the dark eye shadow and bright red lips alternating between a smile and motion.
“Thanks, Melanie, I appreciate that. Are you from the Boston Area?”
Small talk is definitely not my specialty. Some folks can talk for hours about anything. I’ve never had a talent for it. I heard Vic’s voice nervously interrupting as he popped back into the tiny dressing room, ”Senator we’ve set up screens outside for the crowd to watch the debate. I’ve never seen this many people gathered for an event like this; it is amazing, the effect you’re having on them.”
“The people outside, Vic?” I quizzed.
“No, everywhere - at the mall, the gas station. I was at the grocery store this afternoon and all people could talk about was - we need to make our own energy.”
