“What deadline?”
“Sasha wants the speech by midnight.” My breath catches in my throat. “And I—I don’t think this is good enough.”
I point to the words on the monitor and Trey reads over my shoulder. “Baby girl, I’m sure this is fine. Great, really. The fact that you’re still doing it for me is amazing.”
“But it’s not going to change anything,” I say. “It’s all the safe stuff. All the legislation we’ve already proposed.” I read him a few lines, and then more lines, gaining momentum as I scroll to the following page.
He looks uncomfortable.
“See? I knew you’d hate it.”
Trey shakes his head. “It’s not that.” He moves to open the door that’s ajar between my inner office and our main office, his domain. “Joel? It’s going to be a little longer.”
“Joel’s here?” I scoop my hair off my shoulders and pull it around the side of my neck. “God, Trey, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”
Trey flicks his hand, shooing away my objection. “Don’t worry, OK? I just saw the light on and I was worried about you. We were just going to eat.”
The mention of dinner sets my stomach off again, a growl Trey hears. “Go. Go eat. I still have time to finish and fix it. If I can.”
Joel hovers at the door between the offices. “It’s OK, Trey. If you need to take a rain check and take care of things, I understand.”
He shrinks back from the doorway but I stop him. “Wait.”
I beckon him in. “I’m sorry to slow you guys down. I’m just having some last-minute doubts about this.” I turn to Trey. “You guys go eat. I’ll get it done.”
Trey and Joel exchange a look and I see strength in their connection. It’s the kind of look I want from Jared, wherever he is in America right now. Longing churns in my gut. I need him to tell me it’ll be OK.
“It’ll be OK.” This, from Trey. My wan smile telegraphs thanks. “You want to try it on us?”
“I already derailed your plans. You go.”
“Congresswoman Colton, I’d be happy to listen.” Joel’s voice is quiet but calm.
“Try us.” Trey sits on my loveseat and Joel joins him. He motions for me to speak.
And so I do. I stand behind my desk and read off the monitor as if it’s my teleprompter. I talk through my proposed legislation and when I get to the end of the words I typed, I am empty.
“That’s all I’ve got so far,” I confess. It isn’t enough. It isn’t good enough.
Trey tents his fingers and rests his chin on them. “Where’s your story, baby girl? The Grace behind all of the laws and proposals?”
“They know all that.”
“I don’t,” Joel chimes in. “I mean, I know your background a little. But I didn’t hear you connect with it. It sounded like a politician’s regular bullshit.”
Trey’s brows shoot skyward, shocked by the directness of Joel’s critique. But Joel isn’t cowed by the look and instead laces his fingers through Trey’s. They’re together in this.
I wish Jared were holding my hand like that right now.
Personal. That’s what this speech needs to be. It’s about connecting people—a couple of thousand from Trey’s high school to the personal tragedies scattered among them.
If they can’t feel for the dead, maybe they can feel for the living. The left behind.
“I think I know where I need to go with this.” I offer Joel a warm smile. “Thanks for listening. You heard what I needed to say through all my bullshit.”
“I’m pretty good at listening to bullshit,” Joel counters, nudging Trey in the ribs. “The trick is, these kids can smell it a mile away. You show up and give them bullshit, they’ll tune you out. Give them the real you and they’ll follow you anywhere.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Political consultants say there are six stages in every candidate’s journey.
Jared waxes philosophical at the end of our long, long day, when we close the miles between us with a phone call. I missed my chance to tell him I’m pregnant because he’s on the road again after less than twenty-four hours inside the Beltway.
I curl up to the rich timbre of his voice.
“First there’s The Introduction,” Jared says, and I snuggle up on my couch, sip my Sleepy Time tea, and enjoy playing student to this man who has made politics his life’s work. His passion.
“For Sarah Palin, it was her line at the convention. She said, ‘You know the difference between a hockey mom and a bulldog? Lipstick.’ And that was the moment when America got her.”
“Was mine when Shep announced me at the convention?”
“No, it was before. The Introduction’s style over substance. It’s when you make your first lasting impression. When the photos came out and the Rick Knox interview aired—and you shot a cannonball through Darrow’s campaign—that’s when people sat up and started paying attention.”
“What’s next?”
“The Measure. The second stage is the only one when substance trumps style. You’ll see reporters try to undermine a freshly minted candidate with hard, policy-wonk questions.”
I hmm in recognition. “That’s why you drilled me so hard up front. Why you wanted me to know everything, right away.”
“Right. At this stage, the press doesn’t really care about the answers. They just want to measure a candidate’s intellect and accomplishment. And if they can make you look like a dumbass, they call it a win.”
I groan. “Great. Why didn’t you tell me it would be so much fun before you signed me up?”
“Because it is so much fun.” Jared chuckles. “The third stage I call ‘Miss Congeniality.’ People decide whether you’re likable, if they want to put up with you for four years or more. They want to identify with you and they also must be intrigued enough to keep watching.”
“Intrigued? I’m not a mystery.”
“But you should be. John McCain had that nailed. His whole backstory, how he came back from being a prisoner of war. That’s intrigue.”
“But he was up against Obama. And he lost.”
“Obama had even more intrigue. Even with boring Biden on the ticket, Obama had enough intrigue and likability to beat what both McCain and Palin brought to the table. Compared to other elections, 2008 was dynamite. Most fun I’d had in years.”
“So I’ve got to have intrigue. You don’t think being a woman, my family history, and now my mystery man are enough?”
“They’re a good start, sweetheart. Even though that picture’s caused us plenty of problems, it creates intrigue. And nothing kills a career faster than indifference. Just ask Bush Senior.”
“What’s the fourth stage? You’re making elections sound more like pageants, or that game where you place your bets on where a chicken shits.”
That draws a full-on belly laugh out of the phone from Jared. “That’s a thing?”
“It is. It’s called Chicken Bingo.”
“God, I love you. You always know how to keep it real.” Jared hums, a deep rumble from his chest. I warm from the sound, feel it through my blood and bones. His sounds, those contented happy sounds, delight me to no end.
“So what’s the fourth stage?” I ask, even though my body is begging for sleep and my eyelids are drooping. I just want him to keep talking to me, to send me off to my dreams with that voice.
“We’re not there yet.”
“You won’t tell me what’s next?”
“I’ll tell you, but you won’t believe me. You won’t believe the fact that it’s inevitable. And you’ll have to get through it before we can move on toward November.”
“Tell,” I insist.
“It’s called The Gaffe. Everyone does it. It’s John Kerry saying he voted for funding before he voted against it, or Romney talking about entitlement. It’s Rick Perry saying he’d do away with three government agencies, and then he couldn’t name the third one during a presidential debate.”
I laugh. “I thought you s
aid winners had to gaffe?”
“They do. Obama said some voters cling to guns and religion. He got kicked hard for that.”
“Well, then, I’m ahead of you. I already did my gaffe when I talked to Rick Knox with a hot mic.”
“Doesn’t count.” Jared’s judgment is absolute.
“What? That’s not fair. I should get double credit for the photo. I did my gaffe. Let’s move on.”
Shit. Is he just waiting for me to screw something up?
“Can’t, darlin’. I might not be much of a student of history, but I’m a student of politics. For every successful candidate’s arc toward a major election, there’s a gaffe. And it always happens next.”
***
The microphone squeals and the kids let out a collective moan of discontent. The principal, a regal black woman in the loudest muumuu this side of Hawaii, wraps up her glowing introduction and hands me the mic.
Camera shutters click. I count more than a dozen TV cameras trained on me from tripods, with several more shoulder-mounts capturing cutaway shots and crowd reactions.
“Today I’m supposed to talk about gun control legislation.” I begin, and I see the kids’ eyes glaze over. “I’m supposed to tell you what we’re working on at the Capitol that’s going to keep you safer.”
I pause, borrowing from Sasha’s coaching about letting the moment linger. “But you don’t care.”
I take the first page of my speech and crumble it in a ball, dropping it to the side of the lectern. And just like that, kids sit up straighter. They focus. They see me.
“I want you to think about something. Don’t raise your hand. Just think—do you know someone with a gun? Someone whose parents own a gun?”
A few nods, and I have their attention.
“And how hard do you think it would be to get that gun? I mean, is it locked up in a safe? Does it have a trigger lock? Or is it stowed in someone’s bedside table, or in a closet?”
I glance at Sasha and her eyes are wide. Her face telegraphs, Don’t do this, but I’m already doing it. Trey, on the other hand, leans forward in the front row, his attention as rapt as the kids behind him.
“If you don’t know someone with a gun, close your eyes. You don’t need to see this. But if you do know someone, if you know that gun is unsecured, keep your eyes on me.”
Dead silence echoes through the gym, only camera shutters breaking its breathlessness. I hold up my palm and few kids have their eyes closed. I shudder to think what that means about the prevalence of guns in this neighborhood.
I do a countdown with my fingers, still in silence. Five, four, three, two, one. I repeat it with my fingers, four more times.
“There. That’s about how long it takes between instances of gun violence in America. And it could affect someone you know.”
The exercise hits home as heads swivel around, kids looking at their friends to see the reality of it.
“Let’s try this. How about everyone born in January, February, March and April stand up?”
There’s rustling and a low murmur as the kids comply.
“That’s a third of you. And one in three people in the U.S. know someone who has been shot. You can sit down. Now, how about Mrs. Jacobsen’s French class? Can you stand up please?”
Kids rise. “There are thirty-two of you. And that’s how many Americans are murdered with guns every day. Add to it Mr. Ruiz’s classes—all of them—and you’ve got the one hundred and forty people who are treated from gun assault in an emergency room daily.”
I run through my stats, making each one personal, making each one connect with the volume of violence. And then I tell my story. How Seth and Ethan were shot by a deranged gunman in the Willamette Mall shortly before Christmas five years ago. How that spurred me to become a U.S. congresswoman and ultimately put me on the path to be the Democratic vice presidential nominee.
“I never saw the shots that killed my family. But chances are, you’ve been a lot closer to the action. More than one in five teenagers—kids just like you—have witnessed a shooting. And I’m here on behalf of one Washington High’s former students, my chief of staff and dear friend Trey Adams, because he matters to me, his little brother Trent matters, and every one of you matter.”
“You matter,” I repeat, this time more forcefully. “You matter in this fight, in this opportunity to change the world and your future. You matter when you speak up and say something, when you tell a teacher or a counselor that something’s not right.”
I get some nods and I eyeball the rest of my notes. They don’t matter. Not really.
“The rest of this?” I pick up the sheaf of speech papers. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just words on paper. Everyone knows actions speak louder than words. Your actions will define your future. My actions will define mine.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I board the private charter with Sasha and take a seat in the rear cabin, listening to the hum of the plane as the pilots do the run-up. The flight crew move efficiently around us and virtually every staffer onboard has a laptop or tablet in front of them.
We’re a machine. We each have our assignments.
Traveling media fill the forward cabin, with a panel of restrooms forming a wall between us. The flimsy separation forces us to speak in hushed tones as we plan for the next stages of this campaign.
I close my eyes and recline in my seat, exhaling for what feels like the first time in days. I didn’t have a gaffe. Maybe the speech didn’t go down the way Jared and Sasha planned, but I made the right choice.
My peace is interrupted by Sasha’s insistent tap on my elbow. “You’ve got to see this.”
She hands me a tablet and I tuck one of the earbuds dangling from it into my ear. It’s a clip from a right-wing talk show from this morning, a four-person panel discussing the major issues for the upcoming vice presidential debate.
The blonde just right of center is unmistakable. Lauren Kennedy Darrow. Former first lady of California. Spokeswife and puppetmaster for former California governor Aaron Darrow. She faded into the background of the Democratic National Convention when Shep beat Darrow for the party’s nomination, but now she’s back.
Like a bad penny. Like a nightmare.
“Candidates need to be held to standards that will serve the public good,” she says, and the hairsprayed male anchor nods vigorously for her to go on. “Can the American public trust a woman who refuses to explain what this means? Or who this is? We don’t know what else she’s hiding.”
I suck in a breath and exchange a look with Sasha. Her lips form a grim line.
“Congresswoman Colton’s compromising position here suggests she might not exercise good judgment in other aspects of life,” another talking head agrees. “I think she needs to come clean, so that voters can make a decision based on the facts, rather than speculation.”
“The facts show that the Conover-Colton ticket could be liability for America unless they start building alliances to reassure voters,” Darrow adds.
“What are you suggesting?” the moderator asks. “Your husband has been notably cagey about endorsing Conover since his eleventh-hour loss of the nomination.”
Lauren tosses her hair behind her shoulder, as if an endorsement is merely an afterthought. “My husband has always considered endorsements carefully, because he wants what’s best for America. It can’t be a given that he’d follow the Democratic herd when his moderate policies and ability to work with both parties has been one of his greatest accomplishments.”
My mouth drops open and I look to Sasha, who nods, confirming that this is exactly what I think it is. Darrow could endorse the Republicans. He’s sent his wife to the talk show to test the waters.
If we lose Darrow’s backing, we could lose several swing states. “Now’s the time to mend fences,” Sasha murmurs.
I pull the earbud out and push the tablet back toward Sasha, unwilling to hear any more. No way in hell do I want to mend fences with Lauren, who hired someone
to take these photos and then released them to the media.
She manufactured this frenzy and somehow managed to keep her hands clean. No one but Jared and I know she was behind it.
The photos’ release spurred viewership of The Rick Knox Show, where I skewered Darrow’s campaign for being in the pocket of the gun lobby. That made plenty of Democratic voters angry about Aaron Darrow’s opposition to gun control policies, but it also endeared him to moderate Republicans.
Is he courting them? And if so, for what purpose?
“I can’t mend fences with her … or them,” I tell Sasha. “Their campaign is corrupt—their policies are whatever makes them most electable.”
“It’s not a bad strategy,” Sasha counters.
“Whose side are you on?” My voice rises with frustration.
“Yours. I’m here for you. But you can’t just dismiss the Darrows because you and Shep won the nomination. The Republicans are gaining ground and killing us on fundraising. If Darrow doesn’t endorse us, it would be a huge blow to our momentum.”
I scrub my hands across my face and massage my temples. “It would be a total clusterfuck, is what it would be.”
“True,” Sasha says. “So here’s what we’re going to do about it….”
***
By the time our flight lands, I’ve done four short one-on-ones with the journalists on our flight, including one for National Public Radio, a stringer for the Associated Press, and political correspondents for the Globe and Tribune.
I stuck to my issues. I talked policy but injected each issue with stories and soundbites. And I handled each of their questions about that man in the photos.
“Do you plan to have a family again?” one reporter asked.
“Where does your significant other live?” another one asked.
“Can you tell us if you’re still seeing the man in the photos?”
“How should we describe this man? Is he a boyfriend or just a date? Is he in politics? How long have you known him? Is he an American citizen?”
The Phoenix Campaign (Grace Colton Book 2) Page 9
