The iCandidate

by Mikael Carlson

  The parking lot outside the theater has emptied considerably, but media vans are still parked there, along with a smattering of other vehicles. I approach my car only to see a silhouetted figure leaning against the driver side door. As a woman, I should be unnerved by this considering the circumstances, but I can’t think of an instance where any attacker would be inclined to wear a skirt and high heels.

  “Your boy put on quite a show tonight,” I hear as I get closer.

  “He’s not my boy, but yeah, I think he did very well.” I am beginning to wish he was my boy, or more appropriately, my man. Too bad Jessica got to him first.

  “Oh, right, I forgot. You’re the impartial journalist who hates having her integrity challenged.”

  “Only by sleazy political operatives working for a crooked, has-been congressman who is either too stubborn or stupid to know when it’s time to get out of the game.” Those words felt good to say. “What do you want, Madison?”

  “Such harsh words, Kylie. Can’t I say a quick hello to my big sister? I mean, we haven’t talked since back in New York when you were accusing me of trashing your career.”

  “Yes, it’s been a pleasant few months, hasn’t it?” I say with as much pleasantness my voice will allow me to conjure. “Given the results of the debate tonight, I thought you’d be off finding a big, soft pillow to cry in.” Or smother yourself in, you arrogant bitch.

  “You think this is over?” she asks menacingly. “I’m just getting started. I’m going to beat you Kylie, I swear to God I am!”

  “This isn’t about us, Madison. We’re not the candidates. I don’t even work for Bennit.” She is taking this more personally than I thought she ever would.

  “Don’t kid yourself. You may fool others with your ‘deep cover’ journalistic garbage, but not me.”

  “You need therapy, Maddie.”

  She gets within inches of my face. I begin to wonder if the remaining press lingering in the parking lot are about to be treated to a cat fight. If so, I’d bet the deli clerk would wish he was here. Madison is no Jessica, but girls fighting is always entertaining, with or without Jell-O. So if she makes a move, I’m sure he’ll see it anyway. Images of me gauging out her eyes would be eleven o’clock news material for sure.

  “I am going to wipe the floor with you,” she states in a quiet, yet menacing voice. “And when I’m done, you will need an army of shrinks to put the pieces of your life back together. You wanted a war, well, now you’ve got one.”

  I pucker my lips and kiss the air between us. A little lame in terms of a response, but the coolest thing I could come up with at the moment. Disgusted, she struts off toward the visual arts building without looking back. I find myself almost disappointed she backed down.

  My sister doesn’t intimidate me, but she cannot be underestimated either. A desperate Winston Beaumont and a bloodthirsty Madison Roberts make a volatile and dangerous combination. Once again, she has unwittingly given me another piece of information.

  They will be coming for us. Dealing with Roger Bean and Winston Beaumont is enough to keep anyone busy. Now, with Madison adamant about destroying me in the process, I just added another person to worry about.

  I’ve done my best to help Michael Bennit every way my journalistic skills and contacts can afford. As I climb into my car, I’m lost in a singular thought. Despite my best intentions, I only made matters worse for him.

  .

  -FORTY-SIX-

  BLAKE

  Candidates seeking office generally make use of whatever vacant space is available for their headquarters in some geographically desirable part of the district. Ours is no exception, despite the millions of dollars in the Beaumont campaign coffers. We occupy old retail space in a strip mall like any other candidate would.

  The main area is called the ‘war room’, and features rows of long tables, folding chairs, and plenty of phones. Outside of the call center, other small meeting areas are set aside for managing various aspects of the ‘get out the vote’ effort. As most retail spaces offer nothing in the way of offices, Roger had some temporary walls erected to allow the congressman a quiet place to confer in peace with members of the staff.

  Other than the extra added spaces, Beaumont Campaign Headquarters is your typical political election command center. Well, typical for everyone except maybe Michael Bennit who has managed to become the frontrunner running his effort out of a coffee shop.

  Pollsters were out in full force after the debate last night. Every major polling organization got one in the field, and we contracted our own for the district to verify the numbers. They aren’t good, which is why the key players of the Beaumont for Congress staff are crammed into his small, makeshift office.

  Congressman Beaumont is seething behind a desk while Roger, Madison, Deena, and I are gathered around it waiting for Marcus to arrive with the results.

  The national polls already published their findings on websites and reported them on the morning news shows. The conclusions vary, but the one thing they share in common is the bottom line containing the only information of importance at the moment. Despite having an eighty percent approval rating last spring, we’re now losing.

  This is not a national race like a presidential election, so nobody cares what some country bumkin’ in Arkansas thinks. The only important numbers belong to the poll of likely voters in the Connecticut Sixth District, and the bad news we’re expecting to be delivered about them.

  “Well?” Congressman Beaumont demands, as Marcus enters the minuscule office and wedges himself into the crowd around the desk.

  “Uh, sir, well, uh, we've slipped,” Marcus says with dread.

  “No shit, Marcus. By how much?” Roger asks impatiently.

  “Well, uh, the polling data ... well it has a, uh larger margin of error than we—”

  “Eleven points, congressman,” I say, reading the paper in Marcus’ hand. “Bennit now has an eight point lead outside the margin of error.”

  Marcus stares at me incredulously. I wasn’t eager to deliver the bad news, but let’s just rip the band-aid off and get it over with. Roger rubs his forehead and the congressman just glares through my soul with piercing eyes.

  “Now is not the time to grow a set of balls with me, Blake.”

  “Yes, sir,” is what I say, ‘whatever’ is what I mean. If they had listened to me to begin with, we wouldn’t be staring defeat in the face.

  “Sir, maybe we should view this as an opportunity.”

  “Oh, shut up Deena!” the congressman barks. “We have spent millions on this campaign. An eleven point deficit is the best you all can do?”

  “Sir, Bennit scored big last night and—”

  “I don't want excuses, Madison! I expect results!”

  The room grows eerily still as the congressman grabs a copy of The Times off his desk and sticks it in Deena’s face. The pixie startles at the aggressive gesture and, as a result, everyone, including Roger, collectively takes a step back.

  “All the press is talking about is Bennit and those misfit students of his! You can't get our message out, and you failed miserably in prepping me for the debate,” he rants.

  “Sir, I—”

  “I said shut up! You add no value to this campaign. I have no idea why I keep you around. Get out of my sight.”

  Deena doesn’t move, her body immobilized by fear and face frozen in shock. The congressman has a temper, but on his worst day has never been this enraged.

  “Did I stutter? I said get out!” he shouts, throwing the newspaper at her. This time, Deena’s fight or flight instinct kicks in, and choosing the latter, wastes no time in pushing for the door and getting out of the office. In a way I feel bad for her. While I don’t much like her, I thought she did a good job during debate preparation. It was just not executed well on stage. Unfortunately, there’s no point in trying to tell Winston Beaumont he failed without risking earning myself a pink slip.

  “Marcus, you’re dismissed too. I need
to talk to the others.” While Deena may be shocked and wounded at her dismissal, Marcus getting out of the office reminds me of a kid racing to the swing set at recess.

  “With due respect sir, it’s not Deena or Marcus’ fault,” Roger says to his old friend. “You know that. Now, we have less than a week before the election.”

  “I’m aware of that, Roger. It’s time for you all to earn your paychecks. If I am not reading about how Bennit uses hookers or is supported by the Nazi Party while drinking my coffee tomorrow morning, the only thing you’ll ever do again in D.C. is visit monuments.”

  “We checked his background. It's clean. Why are we—”

  “Didn’t I warn you once before about questioning me, Blake? Stop thinking and do what I tell you. I want Bennit destroyed! Now!” he says, pounding the desk as he rises to his feet.

  “A small little scandal isn’t going to get it done, congressman,” Madison says. For the first time in months, I’m relieved she takes my side.

  “Madison—”

  “Hear me out, sir. I’m not saying we shouldn’t go negative, but the story has to be something scandalous enough to dominate headlines and not easy for Bennit to counter and dismiss.”

  “You have something in mind?” Roger inquires.

  Beaumont calms down as Madison details her plan. Roger listens intently, weighing the political ramifications as only he can do. I am sick to my stomach listening to her.

  “Roger?” the congressman asks when Madison finishes.

  “It could work if executed properly. At a minimum we’ll bring back some independents and cross-over democrats whose support for Bennit is soft at best.”

  “One more thing, sir,” Madison continues. “I can’t be the one who leaks this to the press. There can be no appearance this came from our campaign. We’re late in the game. Leaving a trail linking this to us will label you petty and desperate.” Which he is, but I’m not about to say that.

  “Roger, you are good at this sort of thing. Do you think—”

  “Blake should do it,” Madison blurts out, cutting off the congressman mid-sentence.

  The blood drains from my face. How could she say that? Why? Actually, I think I know why. She knows I have disagreed with some of the tactics we used during this campaign. She may have even noticed me talking to Chelsea during the debate. Either way, she knows I won’t support this course of action. This is payback time for what I did to her earlier in the campaign.

  “He has the contacts in the media to get it coverage and the ability to make this stick through Tuesday,” she implores through the evil grin on her face. “Trust me, sir, he’s your man for this.”

  I am living the textbook definition of ‘set up for failure.’ If I go through with this, I destroy innocent lives. Bennit doesn’t deserve this, and neither does Chelsea or the rest of his staff. If we discovered something that was true, that’s one thing, but this?

  If I don’t do it though, we lose the election. No scheme I can come up with is going to make up enough ground following our dreadful debate performance. I wouldn’t have even debated this with myself three months ago, but now? Bennit and Chelsea have proven themselves to be worthy adversaries. Beaumont doesn’t deserve to win. I need to tap dance my way out of this.

  “This is a terrible idea, sir. I understand the premise, and earlier in the race I’d be all for it. But sir, we are days away from the finish line and there are too many ways the ploy can go wrong before then. Perhaps if we focus on—”

  “Madison, can you excuse us for a moment?” Roger asks. “We need a word in private with Blake.”

  Madison winks at me as she spins on her heels and leaves the small office, closing the door behind her. The congressman, who had been pacing in the small space behind the desk, now settles back in his chair. Roger sits on the corner of the aging piece of furniture and turns towards me as a clear indication he is with Beaumont, and against me, if I protest.

  “All right, Blake. You’ve done this sort of thing before without flinching. Why are you hesitating now?” Roger asks, getting straight to the point.

  He sounds almost sincere with his question. I never experience problems talking myself out of jams like this, but now I’ve developed some sort of mutism. The words simply aren’t coming. I can’t tell him the truth, so I rack my brain for some reason or excuse this won’t work. Unfortunately, logic is being overruled by emotion. Still, nothing is coming. Seconds tick by and now my time has run out.

  “I don’t give a damn, Roger,” Winston states unequivocally. “Blake, you wanted a seat at the big boy table. Look around, you’ve made it. This is exactly where you wanted to be. You earned the right to be here, but now you need to earn the right to stay. You will do this, understand?” All I can do is nod.

  “There is no place in politics for a conscience. You can deal with the guilt over whatever little ethical dilemma you’re having once we win. Until then, get this done.”

  “We’ll discuss the details in a few minutes,” Roger utters as I leave without acknowledging him, pulling the door closed behind me. It was like the congressman was reading my mind. Did my face betray me? Does it matter? He’s right, this is exactly where I wanted to be.

  “I can do this,” I murmur to myself in the futile attempt of being convincing. I’m fooling myself, because deep down I know I really don’t want to.

  .

  -FORTY-SEVEN-

  CHELSEA

  I may be the figurehead of a campaign to send a popular teacher to Congress, but tell that to my other teachers. While many of them support what nearly every student in the school is working toward, they certainly aren’t letting our education suffer because of it.

  There are five days left until the voters decide whether months of hard work pays off, and here I am, sitting at the dining room table, laboring over another science worksheet. I haven’t even had time to open the book. The time I have spent on the campaign has let the homework pile up, so I need a night away from my duties at the coffee shop to catch up. After the science work, I need to finish a backlog of math problems and read half of Romeo and Juliet for my English class.

  Dad is in his chair in the living room watching CNN. His hearing is shot after a day of work at the factory, so I can hear the TV as if I were sitting next to it. Luckily, there has been nothing of any interest to keep me from focusing on my academic responsibilities.

  “This just in to the news desk,” the anchorwoman announces. “The AP is reporting that candidate for Congress Michael Bennit may have engaged in inappropriate sexual relations with one of his students.” So much for nothing of interest.

  I pop out of my seat like a snake crawled on it and race the short distance to the living room where Dad is leaning forward in his chair. He breaks his gaze from the screen only to peer up at me with trepidation, as the woman on CNN continues.

  “These allegations come mere days before the election and claim there is an ongoing sexual affair between Bennit and his campaign manager, Chelsea Stanton.”

  Wait, what?

  My father practically jumps out of his chair with such force that I have to move a step or two away from him to avoid getting knocked over. “This latest allegation is bad news for a campaign already forced to address other earlier assertions about student conduct including cheating, pirating, underage drinking and illegal drug use.”

  She continues on, but I’m too stunned to listen. Did she really announce to the world that I’m sleeping with my teacher? I’m still processing the information when I look over at my father.

  “What the hell is she talking about, Chelsea?” Dad says with anger in his voice and fists clenched.

  “What?” I ask innocently, half not hearing him, half still not comprehending what I just heard.

  “Don’t play dumb with me missy! What happened between you two?”

  “What do you mean? Nothing!”

  “Don’t lie to me!”

  “Lie to you! Dad! How could you possibly …” I los
e the handle on my emotions as tears begin streaming down my cheeks. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. How could he think any of this is true? Doesn’t he trust me?

  “Chelsea,” he consoles as he realizes how upset I am.

  “Nothing happened, Dad,” I blurt out between sobs. “They’re lying. Why would they do that?”

  He reaches for me and I step away.

  “No! You believe them over your own daughter!” I scream, the emotion of the moment blocking out any logic. “What kind of parent are you?”

  “Chelsea, listen to me! I never said I believed them! But you spend a lot of time with him and he’s very persuasive—”

  “Dad!” He’s not like that!”

  “Okay, okay,” he assures, reaching for me again.

  I push him away, even though his embrace may be the only safe place for me right now. How could my father question me like this?

  “No! I want to know! Why would you believe them?”

  Dad’s anger morphs into something far more surprising. His instinct to protect me has given in to his fear of having hurt me. For me, reading Dad’s face is like a linguist reading Spanish. Neither of us has to study it too long to figure out exactly what it means.

  “You’re all I have left, Snuggle Bear. I’m sorry, I overreacted. I know you’re a better person than that,” he chokes, fighting back his own emotions. “You’re my little girl and I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

  Tears begin to well in his eyes. He pulls me into his arms and gives me a hard hug. I bury my face into his chest, trying to find some comfort there.

  “How could you believe I would do that? Why would you believe them?” I sob, my wounded voice muffled by his shirt. “You know I would never do that.”