Jim McGill 04 The Last Ballot Cast, Part 1

by Joseph Flynn

  “You’re saying finding us, dealing with us is a matter of economics?” Todd asked.

  Crosby said, “If we lay low and don’t cause any trouble, why should people spend money trying to find us?”

  “Because we might cause trouble,” Todd said.

  “That is a consideration,” Anderson agreed, sounding disturbingly professorial to Todd’s ear. “But is the trouble we might cause worth the expense of mounting a nonstop effort to find us? Wouldn’t it be a better use of resources to simply be ready for us the next time we raise our heads above the underbrush?”

  “Are you saying we’d be allowed to remain free as long as we don’t cause any harm?” Todd asked.

  “It’d be more expensive to take us in again: shelter, clothe and feed us for years,” Crosby said.

  Measuring everything in dollars and cents was driving Todd to distraction but before he could muster a further argument, Anderson provided a geopolitical example as a bulwark to Crosby’s point.

  “Look, Doc, Saddam Hussein would be on his throne in Baghdad today if he’d let the nuclear inspectors in to see whatever the hell they wanted. If he’d shut the fuck up about the U.S. on top of that, nobody in Washington ever would have paid for that war. Hell, we’d be buying oil from the bastard and he’d still be free to pile up the skulls of his own people.”

  “What Olin is saying in his picturesque way,” Crosby said, “is it’s always about the cost — in dollars or pride.”

  Having absorbed as much of the lecture on Realpolitik 101 as he could take, Todd asked, “Do you think anyone would look for us here?”

  Anderson laughed. “What, in Ottawa, Illinois? I’d say we’re pretty safe here.”

  “The next twenty or thirty years,” Crosby added with his own chuckle.

  “Though I might prefer to be locked up back in Virginia,” Anderson said, still amused.

  “Take the next exit,” Todd told him.

  The Oval Office

  Chief of Staff Galia Mindel stood before the president’s desk for the first time since she was released from the hospital. She and the president looked at each other and smiled, two survivors. Patricia Darden Grant came around her desk and embraced her old friend.

  “I am so happy to see you again,” she said.

  Galia’s voice had a slight rasp. “Now, you know how I felt when I heard you were all right.”

  “Both of us must still figure in some higher power’s schemes.”

  Galia said, “Yeah, let’s hope we get renewed for another term.”

  Patti returned to her place behind the desk.

  The chief of staff took her seat opposite the president.

  She said, “In the give and take of favors, I thought I was one or two up on Mr. McGill. Now, I’ll have to be his handmaiden for life.”

  The president shook her head. “Jim’s not big on household help. I’ve been told that whenever we leave the White House, I’ll either have to learn to cook or put up with his efforts.”

  “I’ve heard he’s not half-bad in the kitchen.”

  “He’s not, and he says we can always eat out, if Congress doesn’t take away my pension.”

  Galia smiled. Then her face became serious.

  “I wouldn’t be here without him, Madam President,” she said.

  “Jim kicks himself for getting to you later than he says he should have.”

  Galia shook her head. “Men.”

  “God love them, the good ones anyway. Well, are you ready to get to work? I’m going to shake things up again. Make your life harder, in other words.”

  “What are you going to do, Madam President?”

  With a woman whose very presence in the Oval Office was a rebuke to history, chances were the president was not talking about half-measures.

  The president reminded Galia of her idea of running with Jean Morrissey.

  “I’ve decided she’s the one I want for a running mate.”

  While the chief of staff was busy mulling an all-female ticket, Patti dropped the other shoe.

  “Galia, our campaign is not going to do any TV advertising.”

  “I beg your pardon,” the chief of staff said, as if she hadn’t heard right.

  “I’m not going to do any TV interviews either,” the president added.

  “What?”

  “And I’m not going to participate in any televised debates.”

  “I’m sorry, Madam President. My pain meds must be affecting my hearing. What I think I just heard doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You heard me just fine, Galia,” the president said, “and I’ll tell you why it makes perfect sense.”

  Indiana University — Bloomington, Indiana

  Sheryl Kimbrough and her journalism class, “Cutting Through the Bull-Puckey,” sat and watched the TV at the front of the classroom with rapt attention. Sir Edbert Bickford was being interviewed on WWN by his new managing editor of broadcast news, Ethan Judd, recently hired away from the New York Times.

  Sheryl had prepped the class by telling them, “The combination of Ethan Judd and WorldWide News is only slightly less unlikely than a three-legged horse winning the Kentucky Derby. Judd is such an old school guy he isn’t registered to vote as either a Republican or a Democrat and he might punch you on the nose if you ask him about his political views.”

  “More people are calling themselves independents than ever before,” a student said.

  “Yes, they are,” Sheryl agreed, “but the truth is they’re moderates who tend to vote with one party far more often than the other party. Saying you’re an independent is often just a way of telling a party’s base voters, ‘Don’t take my support for granted, buster.’ Being largely free of ideological preferences, however, is still relatively rare.”

  Another student suggested, “Some people, it seems like they agree with the last person who talked to them. That’s not independent either. Just means you’re too lazy to think for yourself.”

  “That’s why you see placards with candidates’ names on them set up as close to polling places at the law allows,” Sheryl said. “But Ethan Judd is the genuine article. His entire reputation is built on a dedication to finding the truth, telling it clearly and fully and letting the consequences be what they may. So having him sign on with Sir Edbert Bickford, the champion of the radical right, can mean only one thing.”

  “Somebody sold out,” came a voice from the back of the class.

  “Exactly,” Sheryl said.

  She knew where she’d put her money, but kept that to herself.

  Judd opened the interview by coming straight to the point, “Sir Edbert, why in the world did you hire me?”

  The media mogul gave his new employee a thin smile.

  “Because, Mr. Judd, I consider you to be the best at what you do.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Getting to the guts of a story and putting the whole bloody mess on the table for everyone to see.”

  The look Judd gave his new boss had once been described as the last thing a rabbit sees before it becomes a raptor’s lunch.

  “Did you hire me, Sir Edbert, because you think I can help save you from prosecution by the Department of Justice?”

  “I’m hardly a naive man, Mr. Judd, and you’re not a genie. If the attorney general means to prosecute me, I’d be astounded if he changed his mind based on a hiring decision I made. On the other hand, I don’t like the way the public perceives me at the moment. I’m neither Charles Foster Kane nor Joe McCarthy. I’m a principled conservative. I hired you with the expectation that I’d become a subject for clear-eyed examination by you as fast, if not faster, than any other prominent figure.”

  Judd pressed on. “Wouldn’t any investigative reporting I do on you be tainted by the fact that I work for you?”

  Sir Edbert replied, “I’m wagering that your work product will dispel any doubt that you’re beholden to anyone, including me.”

  “You know that by hiring me, then, the whole t
one and most of the content of your news operation will change?”

  “That thought has occurred to me,” Sir Edbert said, forming a smile even thinner than before.

  “You’re not worried about that, if the people you previously favored should take power in Washington?”

  “What’s the worst that could happen? If I’ve already been convicted of a federal crime, they’ll cut my ration of gruel by half? If I’m still at liberty but out of favor with the politicians and the public, I’ll have to follow Ringo Starr’s advice when he was asked what he’d do if the Beatles lost their popularity.”

  “And what was it Ringo said, Sir Edbert?”

  “I’ll just have to sit on my yacht and sulk.”

  This time, Judd and Sir Edbert shared smiles that were genuine.

  Judd asked, “Will you support a Republican for president, as you always have?”

  “I think Vice President Mather Wyman would make an excellent president. On the Democratic side, I think it’s possible Patricia Darden Grant could grow to greatness if she were to be reelected. As a British subject, of course, I’ll not be allowed to vote for either of them.”

  “What about True South?” Judd asked. “Do you think they might come up with a worthy candidate?”

  Sir Edbert shook his head. “My understanding is that True South is essentially a vanity vehicle for the ambitions of Senator Howard Hurlbert. I think the whole enterprise will pass from the scene without much notice … but the matter of notice on WWN is now yours to decide.”

  “Yes, it is,” Judd said. “Thank you for your time and candor, Sir Edbert.”

  Sheryl turned off the classroom TV.

  Before she had the overhead lights on, a student voice said, “That English dude is up to something.”

  Waiting for everyone to stop blinking as the fluorescents flickered into life, Sheryl agreed and said, “Five hundred words for our next class. What is Sir Edbert Bickford up to?”

  She looked forward to reading each paper closely.

  The responsibility of casting her electoral college vote weighed on Sheryl just then.

  The Oval Office

  The president asked her chief of staff, “Most people hate most political ads, you agree?”

  “Yes, and everybody hates traffic jams, but people keep buying cars.”

  Patricia Darden Grant waved the comparison aside. “True but irrelevant. People love cars as symbols of personal freedom. People regard TV commercials as intrusions on their free time. Cars get washed and waxed. Commercials get zapped.”

  “Debating point to the gentlelady from Pennsylvania Avenue,” Galia said.

  Patti said, “Galia, if we refuse to run TV spots —”

  “We’ll get run over by Mather Wyman’s negative TV spots.”

  “Do you really see that, Mather going negative?”

  Galia considered the question. “Not him personally, but his people, yes.”

  “I don’t think so. You saw how Mather handled the situation at Salvation’s Path. He jumped on it. He took charge immediately. Any minion in his campaign who tried to go negative would be on the street so fast his head would spin.”

  Patti wasn’t going to tell Galia that the vice president had shared his deepest secret with her and would fear being outed as a gay man by someone in Patti’s camp — Galia — if not the president herself. That wasn’t the case. Patti had told no one. Would tell no one. Mather had nothing to fear on that count.

  Even if knew he was safe from exposure, Patti felt he wouldn’t run a dirty campaign.

  That wasn’t the kind of man Mather Wyman was.

  Patti’s moment of reverie dissipated and she saw Galia peering at her.

  Trying to read her mind. A feat Patti wasn’t sure was beyond Galia.

  “What about Howard Hurlbert?” the chief of staff asked.

  “What about him?” the president said. “We know he’ll take the low road. We know the Super-PACs on the right will do the same. Those TV spots will have to be countered by equivalent forces on our side of the struggle, but not by us.”

  “We have equivalent forces?” Galia asked.

  “Not that we have foreknowledge of, but there certainly are interested persons and organizations who will want us to win. My guess is the money behind each side will be comparable, but the right should be divided between the GOP and True South. You know, going third party is the nicest thing Howard Hurlbert has ever done for me.”

  “The money might be about the same,” Galia said, “but the right will be meaner in the way they use it.”

  “So we’ll be smarter. Not only get more bang for the buck, but win more hearts. One thing we’ll be doing, Galia, is figure out how much money we might have spent on TV spots in a given city or state and when we visit there we’ll donate that amount to local charities. We’ll help poor people pay their heating bills. We’ll help veterans find jobs. We’ll buy books for libraries.”

  The chief of staff brightened. She was beginning to see the possibilities.

  “By doing good we’ll do well. We’ll get free TV time.”

  “All without calling the other guy a jerk.”

  “What about the other things you mentioned? No TV interviews, no TV debates.”

  “Every major broadcast outlet has a Web presence. We’ll do webcasts with no arbitrary one-minute or two-minute time limits for responses. We’ll let questions be asked and responded to fully.”

  Galia laughed. “Some of your brethren do like to go on at length.”

  The president said, “If my opponents want to bore people, let them.”

  “You’ll let True South in on the debates?”

  “I’m praying Howard won’t chicken out. Having him onstage will only make Mather and me look better. One traditional medium we will use is radio.”

  “Radio?” Galia asked.

  “Of course. We can’t ignore that. Americans from the Greatest Generation to the Baby Boomers grew up with radio. It’s familiar, it’s comfortable and I have a fairly nice voice.”

  Galia thought, you and your henchman, both. Maybe you could work up an act.

  What she said was, “There could be an echo of FDR there.”

  “What better way to introduce myself as a Democrat?” the president asked.

  Gerrard Smith International Airport — Cayman Brac Island

  Jackie Richmond flew to Cayman Brac from Montego Bay, Jamaica on a twin engine Beech Model 99. He’d never in his life had any trouble flying in a big commercial jet; making the one hundred and fifty-three mile trip in the puddle jumper almost made him leave a puddle in his seat. The flight was bumpy throughout and there were two times when the plane dropped like a stone for hundreds of feet. Both times Jackie was just about to start screaming for … he didn’t know what. God sure wasn’t going to help him. Then the plane grabbed hold of the sky — he didn’t have a clue how — and started flying forward again.

  None of the other eight passengers aboard looked the least bit bothered.

  The two Rastamen in the open cockpit were humming along to Bob Marley.

  At least they weren’t smoking dope. They landed the plane smooth as silk, too, but the runway didn’t appear until the very last moment. Made Jackie wonder how the hell you practiced landings like that. Touch down a second too early, you were in the water. A second too late, there was water on the far side of the runway, too.

  The pilot and copilot bumped fists when the plane came to a stop.

  Like they knew they’d pulled off a good trick.

  Jackie showed the passport he’d bought in Key West as he got off the plane. He tipped a guy five dollars to carry his suitcase to a taxi. Five minutes later, he was at a marina, eyeing his next mode of transportation, a twenty-six foot motorboat called a Whaler Outrage. Seemed a lot damn smaller that Carina Linberg’s fifty-foot sailboat. But the Whaler had twin 225-horsepower outboard engines. Jackie always liked packing plenty of horsepower.

  The boat also had a steering wheel.
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  It wasn’t a car, but he was sure he could drive the thing.

  Wouldn’t have to worry about raising or lowering sails.

  If he had to turn pirate and steal his first boat.

  He hid that thought behind a smile and introduced himself to the guy he’d chartered the boat from, a black guy who maybe had some Asian in him, Cap’n Thurlow. Guy stood maybe four inches shorter than Jackie. Had wiry arms and legs that looked strong. But there wasn’t much to him and one good shove from behind should send him overboard.

  Not to be overlooked was the knife Thurlow wore at his waist. The blade had to be six inches long, and from the shine on it was probably sharp as a razor. After Thurlow took Jackie’s suitcase and welcomed him aboard with a cold beer, Jackie asked him about the knife.

  “You use that blade for your morning shave?”

  Thurlow laughed. “Got me a fine electric razor for that. The knife’s for cleaning fish.” The captain untied the lines and said, “Sit back and relax, Mr. Richmond. We got us a fine day for being out on the sea. Get you to Grand Cayman before you know it.”

  The captain gave Jackie a look and said, “You know, a white man like you, I better get you some sunblock. Don’t want you lookin’ like a lobster when we get to George Town.”

  Jackie hadn’t thought about that, felt he’d picked up some color in Key West, but why take chances? He walked up to the console with Thurlow, got a good look at the layout of the controls. Accepted the sunblock from the captain.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Looks like your controls are pretty simple.”

  “A Whaler’s easy to operate. It’s the sea that can be tricky.”

  “But not today.”

  Thurlow shook his head. “Today’ll be smooth. You want another beer just give a yell.”

  Jackie said he would. He took a seat in the aft of the boat, rubbed the sunblock on his face and arms. Took a boonie hat out of his bag and put it on. Wearing the hat and his sunglasses, he didn’t think Carina Linberg or anyone else would recognize him.

  His whole plan was to sneak up on whatever the situation was in Grand Cayman.

  Somebody stealing the money out of his bank account, that wasn’t an accident. It was personal. Somebody was looking to hurt him. Taking his money had been a damn good start. Luring him into a trap, too, that’d be even better.