“I know I’m a man,” he said in a semiscream, loud enough to gather everyone’s attention.
“What architect drafted the plan?
Is it for me or you to know? Please listen.
X marks the spot, a man’s heart stops. Why? Because it drains fire when it cries.
X marks the spot in a temple, fear not. Why? Because lust burns.”
Skillet then walked across the room and for dramatic effect looked toward the crystal chandelier in the ceiling.
“Ask a neighbor, ask a friend. To chronicle the time when.
A man could walk the street. With his head back and feel proud.
Feel proud to be a man, a soldier without pause.
A warrior for the cause. Leader for us all.
In the forties they called him Shorty, or Barry, Wayne, or Sal.
A man unafraid of work, and providing for his child.”
I saw Brandon in the growing crowd. He looked so innocent and I felt bad for a moment because I had not been totally forthcoming with him. But I resolved that I couldn’t be, because even now I didn’t know what the truth was regarding my feelings for Henry. Brandon looked like a kid at the circus as he watched Skillet spin words into gold. I walked over in front of him and he wrapped his arms around me snugly as he rested his chin on my head, and we listened together.
“So you call yourself a man?
Do you know what that entitles?
Do you know from whence you hail?
From what seed you survived?
And for you what forefather died?”
The combo continued to play Train and the sax soloist was in rare form. The crowd around us grew larger, entranced by the brother we had all thought was a little crazy when we were growing up together in my old neighborhood. His insanity had now come into vogue. As Skillet prepared for his finale, he did a decent imitation of James Earl Jones, cupping a little boy’s face as if he were looking out a window, and going a tad overboard in the drama department.
“Should I call you a man
because you understand
that an absent father is no father at all?
Therefore I know I am a man,
an impeccable man,
a God-fearing man,
A sober and upright man,
a man with faults,
a man with vision,
A man with a dream,
who has fulfilled his dreams.
An educated man,
a simple man,
a woman’s man,
A man’s man,
a complex man,
a talented man,
A troubled man,
a black man,
because when my son stands,
He’ll be a better man . . . than me.”
Folding his outstretched hand into a fist, Skillet brought it securely over his heart and bowed his head. After a brief pause to make sure he was finished, the now large gathering applauded. Brandon clapped with his hands above my head and then returned them lovingly around my torso, pulling me closer toward him. As I closed my eyes, enjoying this gentle man’s gentleness, he kissed me on the top of the head. Brandon had incredible lips. Whatever the man kissed would always feel better and I melted, like chocolate rain, right into his arms.
Brandon spent the rest of the day glad-handing public officials and swooning over the Miami Dolphin players who were there as I tried my best to avoid making eye contact with Yvette Shaw. If anyone had told me three weeks before that I would meet Leslie up close and personal, speak to Henry on the phone, talk to Herbert, have Herbert imply that they have mentioned my name, and take my number for Henry to call me, I would have wanted to drug-test the person. But it all happened in 1995. So when Brandon squeezed my hand while we walked toward his car, I wondered if I’d ever really be over the junior senator from Florida.
Chapter 6
Washington, D.C.
November 8, 2000
NBS News Studio
2:30 A.M. EST
“Welcome back, America. We will alert you as to the latest developments on the assassination attempt on the vice president and his condition, as well as the latest news developments on the reported plot against Senator Henry Davis of Florida. But first we would like to update you on the race for the White House. As you may or may not be aware, Governor Tom Baldwin of Arizona has given his concession speech, effectively making this a two-horse race. As of thirty minutes past the hour, here are the latest results. We are projecting that Oregon with her seven electoral votes will go into the Steiner fold. But the election headline news for this hour is this: Davis Bounces Back!
DAVIS 229
STEINER 226
BALDWIN 126
“That’s right. After sustaining losses in his home state of Florida as well as New York, it was not looking good for the first African-American senator from the deep South since Hiram Rivals. But with victories in South Carolina, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania, as well as the Lone Star state of Texas, Henry Davis is making a strong charge tonight to become the first president of color in the history of the country. Let’s swing down to the Fountainebleau Hotel and our correspondent Butch Harper. Butch, we are told that the crowd has returned. Can you fill us in?”
“If I may borrow your headline, Frank, you are exactly right. When the news was reported that an assassin was in the building, this place cleared out like a group of young Republicans at a Greenpeace rally. But a little later after it finally stopped raining here, we in the press corps noticed that the crowd actually became larger. It may also have something to do with the closeness of the race at this time.”
“Tell me, Butch. Has there been any official word from the FBI or any other law enforcement agency regarding the reported threat on the life of the senator? Was it just a diversionary ruse?”
“There is still no official word. But there are those who believe, shall we call it, the ‘ruse theory.’ I have attempted to get the inside story from several of our key sources, and as of yet, all we have is speculation.”
“Butch, I am going to ask you to hold on for a second as we swing due north to our colleague in Illinois, Judith Finestein. Judy, what are the latest developments from the Steiner campaign?”
“We are awaiting a briefing by Steiner’s press secretary, so I will be quick. Here is what has been confirmed. Vice President Ronald Steiner was shot twice. Once in the right shoulder and again in the left leg or thigh. There was a report floating around that a major artery may have been severed, causing a great loss of blood and putting him in critical condition. That part of the story, we are unable to confirm. But we will keep you posted.”
“Thank you, Butch Harper from Miami and Judith Finestein from Chicago, Illinois. Before we send you to a commercial break, America, I will remind you that as of this hour, Senator Davis has a small lead, and we are told he is running well ahead in Utah and Kansas, and the all-important race in California. We reported an hour ago that the man who wins the Golden State of California will, in all likelihood, win the election. All indications thus far point to that being true. We will be back in a moment.”
Fountainebleau Hotel
Presidential Suite
Tension filled the air in Suite 1701 as Henry, Herbert, Marcus, a few other advisers, and media representatives listened to the partylike atmosphere next door and the televised reports from the various news agencies on the ballroom floor.
“California will be good to us, I just know it. The bear won’t hibernate tonight. We’ve spent too much damn money and time to lose it,” Herbert said as he slid his foot from his shoe and rubbed his sole on the shin of his weight-bearing leg.
Henry said nothing.
“We’re going to win, Henry. We are going to pull this shit off, man. Don’t you realize that?”
Henry sat stoically.
“Don’t tell me you scared now, Henry,” he said, looking at his brother. “All night long when I was scared you were telling me it looked good. We gonna win this thing, ma
n.”
“Marcus?” Henry said soothingly.
“Sir?”
“Did they bring up my suit?”
“The one we had in our limo? Yes, sir. Would you like me to go get it?”
Looking back at Peter Jennings on television, he replied, “No. I just want to make sure it’s not wrinkled when we make our victory speech.” As the words fell from his lips, the tension was lifted by laughter and clapping hands.
Standing in the midst of the gathering, Herbert raised his hands and said, “I just want to say something here and now. Where is the young man from Ebony?
A bony man raised his hand from the back of the suite.
“Great. What about the young lady from U.S. News & World Report? Is she here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think we also have a photojournalist from Life magazine here. Steven Mizzel?” As his name was announced, the photographer clicked his lens into place and walked toward the front of the room.
“Fantastic. I wanted to make sure you all were here to chronicle this moment. You can feel free now to take as many snapshots as you like, and I appreciate your cooperation in not taking pictures of us earlier.” Looking down, he said to his brother, “I’ve always loved you, man. Always have. I have envied you, coveted what was yours, fought you, fought for you, was embarrassed by you, missed you, been proud of you, and hated you. But more than all of those things,” he said, looking at Henry, who had his undivided attention, “more than all of those things, Henry, I’ve loved you.” A collective “aww” went up in the room as Henry stood and hugged his brother.
“Now, sit down!” Herbert said, looking at the room. “The floor is mine. Years ago we were brought here in the bowels of ships against our will. We were not asked to come. We were forced to ride, and I concur with Dr. King when he said, America has not fulfilled its promise to us. And when I say ‘us,’ I mean all Americans. She’s given us a bad check because we are only as strong as our weakest link. But this morning America prepares to take a quantum leap toward making good on her promise.”
A few members of the campaign clapped as the photojournalists angled their shots to get both brothers in one photograph. In the rear of the suite a security guard opened the door and tried to look at Penelope’s credentials as she stormed through and said, “Goddamn, son! I’ve been in here fifty times tonight. Move the fuck out my way!”
“My brother,” Herbert continued, “had this dream when he was fifteen years old. When he was fifteen, he knew he would not just run for president. He knew he would win. In the Davis household the first one to the TV decided the station we watched. We would race each other home after school, to see who would be the one to pick the program. He wanted to watch Huntley-Brinkley, and I wanted to watch Bugs and Road Runner. Who knows where we would be this morning if I’d been a step or two faster.
“Throughout this campaign, hell, even before it when he got the flop sweats on Meet the Press”—laughter sprinkled the room—“I knew he would bounce back. Why? Because he’s the walking, talking embodiment of a winner.” Henry looked down at his lap as Herbert paused to contain his emotions. “And he will put this country back on course to fulfill its promise to all of its citizens, white, black, Hispanic, Asian, and female. All its citizens.”
At that moment Penelope walked over to Henry and whispered in his ear as everyone clapped and smiles of confidence showed where none had existed moments before. “Guys, gals, I’m sorry to go on like that. I just want to finish by saying, remember our campaign song. Tonight we will indeed change the world.”
And then the clapping stopped as Henry shouted, “What do you mean missing! You all can’t find Leslie?”
HENRY
Although we’d not made any public announcement regarding our intentions to run, by 1998 all cylinders of the “Davis for President” engine were moving along at a feverish pace. In February of that year I released a few of my positions on issues in book form. Leslie and Penelope wanted me to entitle it Courage Undaunted, but thinking that was a little too self-aggrandizing, I went with the more academic title of The Courage to Change Vs. the Compulsion to Compromise.
The book spoke of how people from all walks of life had the guts to change the course of their lives, and some even changed the history of the world. I also outlined a detailed plan whereby we could save the rain forest without creating a monetary crisis for the rest of the world, reduce the threat of chemical warfare, and essentially end homelessness in twenty years. To many people’s surprise, the 915-page book spent nineteen weeks at the top of the New York Times bestseller list, and after I did Oprah and 60 Minutes in the same week, our presidential favorability numbers were at an all-time high. In nearly every historically black college as well as many other major universities across the country, “Run Henry, Run” groups organized. Newspapers around the country ran articles favorable to my entering the race for the good of the country, and people started sending in donations for a candidacy that had yet to be declared.
We put together a presidential exploratory committee and it was determined that we could raise over seventy million dollars over the duration of the campaign, which was much more than even we expected. With this information we planned to announce in Miami around Christmas of ’98. Why so early? We wanted all of the potential threats to the Democratic nomination to look at the poll numbers, see how much we had raised for the campaign, and decide it was not worth it for them to enter the race. In every major poll across the country we were ahead of everyone, including Vice President Steiner, by seven to ten percentage points. After the announcement I was literally on the road all but two days a month. Actually I wanted to campaign those two days as well, but Herbert thought it best I spend time with Leslie and get some rest.
In April I flew home to attend Easter Mass with Leslie, and I think Penelope had arranged for every major news organization in America to have a photographer there. Walking down the steps of the cathedral holding hands, we cast the Rockwell image we wanted to present. It was wholesome, it was apple pie, it was Americana. But as we sat in the limo, she sat on her side and I on mine, and we did not say a word to each other. Earlier that day we’d spoken, but not as husband and wife, more like two business partners after a board meeting. We both knew something was happening, but I did not make the effort to correct it. Every moment I was awake I gave the run for the White House every fiber of my being. I ate one meal a day, willed myself to survive on four hours of sleep and as a result the other candidates and our marriage ran a distant second.
One day in May I called home and Leslie was not there. She usually got home around seven and would spend time with her various projects, such as Feed the World and the Sickle Cell Foundation. She was always very predictable. But this time the answering machine picked up. I didn’t leave a message. I called again an hour later, and once again, no answer. This was strange. We’d been married fifteen years, and I always knew where she was 99 percent of the time. It was not a jealousy complex, but when you’re in the public eye and on the road as much as we are, it’s comforting to know where your spouse is in the event of an emergency or if you just feel like hearing her voice.
When I got home that night I asked her if she had done anything special and she said, “No.” I didn’t want to sound like Detective Friday and give her the “Well, on the night in question” routine, but I did want to know the truth.
“No, I didn’t do anything,” she said. “I just came home like I usually do and watched television. Oh yeah, I did go to the beach for a while to clear my head.”
I knew she was upset and I should say or do something to comfort her. But I couldn’t. Before I knew it, I’d walked out to the garage. Since we had a limo service donate the use of one of their cars to the campaign, we rarely drove. I saw her Mustang still had the canvas cover on it, and I knew she would never take the time to remove it and put it back on by herself with my car there at her disposal. So I looked in my car and I saw a newspaper on the seat
from a month earlier. The same newspaper I left on the seat the last time I drove the car. She could have driven it and just left it there . . . but I doubted it.
After eating dinner, we both went into the den. She sat in her recliner and I relaxed on the sofa. I turned the TV on CNN and muted the sound. As we sat there, we both read books and neither of us said a word to the other.
The next day while I was working in the downtown Miami office, I decided to call her to quell the tension. Herbert had arranged it so I would have an extra day in town, and I did not want to spend the time in the midst of a cold war. I called the house and there was no answer. It took all that I could to block out what I thought might be happening, which was the last thing I needed at this time. My poll numbers were beginning to drop substantially. Before I got in the race, everyone was excited about the possibility of the country electing the first black president. But as soon as I made the official announcement, we noticed the numbers starting to slip. Granted this had not come as a surprise. It happened to Kennedy in ’80 and more than likely kept Cuomo and Powell out of the race in ’84 and ’92. We just never expected an avalanche. And then California senator Chuck Clayburn announced that he was forming a presidential exploratory committee and my surefire nomination was up for grabs.
I worked in my Senate office in Miami that night well past nine o’clock. And that was when I got the phone call on my cellular. “Henry, do you mind if I go to Europe for a few days?”
“Europe,” I said, putting down my pen and sliding back in my chair. “What’s in Europe?”
“An international women’s conference. I was invited by Ann Fudge. You know, the president of Maxwell House?”
“Yeah, I know Ann well. So when is this trip?”
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