Higher on adrenaline than the candidate himself, Mark flashed a bright smile and leaned in toward Larry. “That’s a nice sentiment, Larry, showboating in case Sheila Evans or one of her Sentinel cronies is listening in on us. You just do what you know you need to win! Spank Winburn’s ass!”
“Candidates, please report to your marked seats at the table so we can ensure that your microphones are working.” Courtney Jackson, the head of the election committee, was ready to raise the curtain.
Larry exhaled. “I’m out. Wish a brother luck.” He gave Mark a back-slapping hug and planted a brief kiss on Ashley’s lips before entering into the fray that awaited him onstage.
Within minutes the black stage curtains opened and revealed an auditorium full of eager students and faculty. From his seat between the beleaguered Winston Hughes and his true rival, David Winburn, Larry could feel himself swelling. Whether he liked to admit it or not, he was definitely Larry senior’s son. It was showtime.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for taking the time to attend this evening, to hear our candidates for Highland Student Association president put forth their qualifications for office. This speakout is sponsored by the election committee, of which I, Courtney Jackson, am director, with Ann Benson serving as my assistant director. The format this evening will consist of a two-minute opening statement for each candidate, followed by one half hour of questions, which I will read, as they were submitted to the election board by the general student body. From there we will allow open-mike questions from the front of the auditorium for forty-five minutes. We will conclude by allowing another two-minute statement from each candidate. We ask that you observe some speakout etiquette this evening, as we always request. Please refrain from acknowledging any candidate’s statements with applause until they have yielded the floor. Anyone who boos or otherwise openly derides a candidate will be subject to removal from the auditorium. And when asking questions from the front, we ask that you read or state your question within thirty seconds’ time and immediately return to your seat. With that we will begin the evening’s program.”
His legs crossed in front of him, Larry pretended to pick at the right arm of his gray single-breasted Bill Blass jacket. He knew that Winston had won the coin toss earlier in the evening to see who would speak first. He hoped the brother would not hurt himself too badly.
Noisily sliding his chair back from the table, Hughes clodded his way to the lectern, which stood to the left of the candidates’ seats. Larry noticed that his tie was crooked. Didn’t the dude have handlers to catch that sort of thing? The brother was already beginning to show his discomfort with public arenas, as evidenced by a trickle of sticky sweat that was making its way from his right temple to the collar of his overstarched white shirt. Audibly clearing his throat, Hughes leaned a little too closely to the microphone, spurring a loud squawk that caused several students in the front rows to jump in their seats. “Excuse me, my brothers and my sisters. I’ll get the hang of these mikes sooner or later!” Hughes’s chuckling attempt at humor earned only a smattering of faint laughter.
As Hughes painstakingly stated his qualifications for office, along with what he viewed as his most significant policy initiatives, Larry bit his lip every few seconds to keep from laughing. Everywhere he looked, he saw women stifling smirks and men sliding into their seats in naked amusement. Hughes just didn’t have the way about him required to succeed in Highland politics. You had to either be fluid or fiery, or both. Hughes was stiff and awkward, his huge intellect serving no purpose in a forum such as this. That limiting fact aside, his actual policies were sound but were nothing to write home about, and his scholarly method of putting them across did nothing but shoot them over the heads of most of the audience.
Old Winston was quite amusing. As he attempted to play up his credentials, Larry chuckled and slapped his knee good-naturedly. He had nothing to fear from Hughes’s misguided arrows.
As the crowd erupted in laughter at Hughes’s closing sentence, which came out in a sudden nervous squeak, Winburn placed an ebony hand on Larry’s shoulder. “Is this dude serious?” Flashing a knowing smile at his rival, Larry turned back to face Hughes, patting him on the back as he returned to his seat. Regardless of what he and Winburn thought of each other, each greatly respected the other’s political abilities. In that context, it would have been criminal for them not to take mutual delight at Hughes’s ineptitude.
Hughes’s bottom had not hit his plastic seat before Winburn rose from the table. Striding to the lectern with an ethnic bounce that both relaxed the audience and announced his confidence, Winburn attacked the microphone like a lion ripping into raw meat. “Highland, this is your first opportunity to observe the men on this stage and begin to make a judgment about who you want to lead this student body into the next century. Tonight I expect you will want to hear our opinions and policies regarding the critical issues we must address. I am up to the task. But I feel that, tonight, as you consider the type of character you’d like to see in your leader, you should carefully consider what each man up here”—Winburn paused and turned to make a grand gesture to his right, drawing the audience’s attention to Larry and Hughes—“has done up until this point to better this university. And I’m not talkin’ about what they’ve done to bolster their résumé, or line their pockets, either. No, my brothers and sisters, I was always taught that democracy is founded on leaders who represent the people. That means you need a leader who has shown himself to be concerned with the life of the average student here. John and Jane Doe Highland, if ya know what I mean.”
Larry sat back in his seat and enjoyed watching his opponent drape himself in populist garb, painting Larry as an elite, out-of-touch blue-blood. Once he had revved up the crowd with a summary of his policies and his campaign theme, Winburn brought the house down with a concluding shot. “You want this university to take steps toward a safer campus, a more solid financial foundation, equitable distribution of financial aid, and a return to the glorious reputation it so richly deserves. I am the only man on this stage who has already taken steps to make these goals a reality! As liberal arts president, I brought the first job fair for that college to this campus! As your undergraduate trustee, I brought an ATM to the Student Center, lobbied the board to get the students’ choice for trustee, General John Chaney, elected, and oversaw the approval of the King Chapel renovation. People, no one on this stage brings my leadership experience or my knowledge of what you, the heart and soul of this community, want from your university.
“Let me continue my record of service. Superior intellect won’t save us! Lord knows, corporate America won’t save us! Cast your vote for proven leadership. Martin Delany, who cofounded the North Star with Frederick Douglass, once said that ‘our elevation is the work of our own hands.’ Join with me! Let us unite our own hands and elevate Highland to the next level! We can do it, and with your votes on April 21, we will!”
Shaking his head as Winburn high-stepped his way back to the table, Larry took in the roar of the crowd as it rewarded Winburn’s dynamic delivery. He took note of the diverse members of the audience who appeared to have been won over. Some were friends of Larry’s from his business-school classes; others were folk he had become well acquainted with at the many clubs and bars that lined the streets of D.C. Surely these people couldn’t be naïve enough to believe Winburn was his superior in this race?
Undeterred by the frenzied reaction, Larry sprang from his seat and paused a few feet from the lectern. Feeling the inquisitive eyes of the audience on him, he calmly and coolly buttoned the top button on his suit jacket, lingering just long enough to incite a few breathless sighs and exclamations from the more attentive females in the auditorium. Stepping to the lectern, he surveyed his trio of advisers in the front row. Mark, Ashley, and Janis all looked more nervous than he felt. Several rows back, he saw Brandon and Terence, flanked by Monica and Lisa. To the far left, he knew, O. J. was commiserating with a couple of his fellow student
preachers. Time to give these folks what they came for.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you will hear a lot this evening that is designed to distract your attention from one central fact: I am the most qualified candidate before you, and I come with the most concrete plans to aid in the revitalization of this beloved university of ours. Let’s talk facts, shall we?” Taking an opportunity to connect with his peers, Larry grabbed the microphone and stepped out in front of the lectern. “Highland University, when all is said and done, is a business. Now, I don’t believe acknowledging that fact diminishes the worth of this institution. I simply believe that effective management demands that we analyze this university on the basis of what it produces. This university produces the top African-American college graduates in the world. My mission, therefore, as HSA president, will be to enact policies that further the university in producing top students.
“From what I see, we have three major obstacles to that process. First, we have a far-flung student body, the majority of whom live off campus. Second, we have a campus that is not safe enough for any student to walk across after dark. Third, and most crucial, we have a crumbling financial base. Too long we have relied on the goodwill and support of Congress, and now Newt Gingrich and his boys are ready to pull our financial rug out from under us.” Maintaining his sharp focus on the issues, Larry masterfully cupped the audience in the palm of his hand as he forcefully stated his policies. By the time he delivered his closing sentiments, the audience had almost forgotten that Winburn had stood before them moments earlier. “I believe that Highland today echoes the words of our dear departed U.S. congresswoman Ms. Barbara Jordan. Highland students simply want a university that is as good as its promise. I would like to work with you to fulfill that promise. Vote for Larry Whitaker, the Promise!”
As the crowd swelled with applause, Larry exchanged grudging glances with Hughes and Winburn. Returning to the table, he took his seat and met Mark’s eyes. Both he and Ashley could hardly contain themselves. Clearly they were confident, as evidenced by the audience’s reaction, that Larry had just hit a home run.
Thirty minutes later the polish on each candidate’s image was starting to wear thin, to varying degrees. Hughes was clearly beginning to feel ignored, considering that only one of the evening’s questions so far had been directed his way. His answers were beginning to sound increasingly terse, adding to his wooden image. Winburn’s showy exuberance was tempered as several questions forced him to explain his ability to purchase a new car, his first ever, after being elected undergraduate trustee. In addition, he clearly lost out to Larry when responding to questions comparing their approaches to campus security and financial aid. Larry was impressed by how many of the questions he and Mark had designed had made it onto Courtney’s list. Mark’s idea of having several people submit questions had paid off.
Now Courtney was instructing those with questions from the floor to form a line at the front of the center aisle. Larry found he was able to place a name with almost every face in line, identifying most by their political camp just as quickly. There were some exceptions, of course. He was most curious about the presence of Kwame Wilson, the current HSA community relations officer. A tireless activist and member of the Highland Muslims student chapter, Kwame had a reputation and recognizable timbre that were legendary throughout the Highland community. As the most influential member of the HSA cabinet after the president and vice president, he was a painstaking guardian of his political turf. He and Larry had worked together in the cabinet and had fought a few turf battles—as financial adviser, Larry had cut the budget for one of Kwame’s programs last year—but they had agreed to leave their political differences at the door of the HSA office.
The first student stepped to the microphone. Toni Wyatt, who personally knew all three candidates, wore a deceptively sweet smile on her pudgy face. “David, you mentioned the value of your experiences as a student leader. I believe that experience includes learning from our failures. What did you personally learn from the ten-thousand-dollar budget deficit you caused when you set up the liberal arts job fair two years ago?”
As the crowd oohed and ahhed in amused shock, Larry eyed Winburn. The first punch of the night had landed.
Shaken but not stirred, Winburn motioned to Courtney impatiently. “Do I have to respond from here, or can I speak from the lectern?”
Stepping back from the lectern, Courtney extended her arms in his direction. “You can speak from either location, as long as you keep it under two minutes.”
Bolting to the lectern, Winburn was obviously working to maintain his composure. He plastered a sly grin onto his face and gripped the podium. “What I learned, Ms. Wyatt, from my experience as president of the liberal arts student council, is that leadership is not always comfortable. I was committed from Day One to the vision of providing liberal arts majors a ready vehicle through which they could find out about and obtain viable employment. We’ve all heard the jokes that business, engineering, and communications majors like to throw at us, that we don’t know what we want to do with our lives and won’t have anyone willing to hire us. Well, I wanted to put an end to that stereotype. I worked with my council to build a program that was the first of its kind, so, yes, it was bound to have some kinks in it. We did overrun our budget, but I wonder if any of the liberal arts graduates who found jobs through the fair care about that. I’m going to guess not. Part of leadership means doing the right thing, even when it opens you up for attack. Sister, your question has reminded me of that all the more tonight. But that is my honest answer.” Satisfied with Winburn’s passion but unimpressed by the substance of his remarks, the crowd gave him a mixed reception. Winburn suddenly looked to be on edge for the first time since the curtain had parted.
Five questions later, Larry knew he was out in front of Winburn and probably in a different galaxy altogether from poor Hughes. He had defended himself against some silly questions about his handling of payments to this year’s homecoming entertainers, whom he had hired on behalf of the HSA, and had easily deflected a planted question about how someone whose parents were paying his way through school could sympathize with students’ frustrations over financial aid. The way this was going, he would prove Mark wrong; there should be no need for those memos of Winburn’s, at least not tonight. The lead he’d carry out of here would probably hold, as long as nothing disastrous happened in the next few days. Once again, he was going to prove Larry senior’s mantra: Whitakers Don’t Lose.
“My question is for Mr. Whitaker.” Kwame Wilson’s firm baritone shook the auditorium. His back erect and his broad shoulders set in a straight line, the brother was all business.
Wondering why Kwame had singled him out, Larry searched the brother’s face for a clue as to his motivation, an impossible task due to Kwame’s untamed dreadlocks and tinted maple-colored glasses. All Larry could make out was the upward tilt of his head as he began speaking.
“Mr. Whitaker, I believe you have some explaining to do regarding your involvement with Ellis Community Center. You stated previously that you receive no financial return for your services and involvement as a board member.” Before Larry could respond, Kwame’s right hand shot up, clutching a large manila envelope. “I have in my possession copies of canceled checks, for a total of seven hundred and fifty dollars, made out in your name, from the Ellis Center’s bank account.” Ignoring the panicked reaction breaking out around him, Kwame continued. “In addition, I have evidence that the very donations you and the other Highland student board members have been raising for the center are not in fact under the center’s control. They are being held separately in an account that you alone have access to. Sir, if you would be our president, you will have to address these questionable acts.”
The phony revelation seemed to have split the audience down the middle. Mark, Janis, Chuck Dawkins, and all of Larry’s housemates led those who immediately dismissed the allegations.
“Kwame, you oughtta be ashamed!”
“Damn that! Larry wouldn’t do that shit!”
“Next question: what kinda joke is this?”
“Get the hell away from the microphone and sit down!”
On the other side of the divide, Winburn’s supporters, including a beaming Jay Turner, gathered around the mike in defense of Larry’s attacker. As Kwame turned from the mike to take Chuck Dawkins up on an offer to rumble, Courtney moved quickly to restore order.
“Anyone who touches anyone is out of here and will be subject to suspension, immediately!” The sudden shriek in her normally placid voice shocked even the most rabid onlookers. “Everyone will take their seats now, or be escorted out by campus security, who are actually in attendence tonight.” The crowd laughed, rewarding Courtney’s attempt to lighten the mood. “As is standard, Mr. Whitaker is now afforded two minutes to respond to the question.”
“Larry?” Larry snapped to as he felt Hughes’s fishy breath on his right cheek. He had been running for, and winning, political offices since junior high, and he’d never been blindsided like this. He imagined that if he’d been ambushed with real facts, he might better defend himself. But this? He had never even considered being charged with the outrageous crap Kwame had just spun. Instinctively, his eyes searched the sea of faces for Mark. As their eyes locked, Mark took his right hand and quickly flicked it across his neck. Get out, he was saying. There was no point in dignifying this crap with a long response. If he could come up with a wiseass deflection, maybe something borrowed from a Teflon don like Ronald Reagan, he could walk out with at least an even score and pound Winburn with the memos at the next debate, when the effect would be fresher come election day.
Between Brothers Page 20
