Wilcox was a tall and wiry fifty-one-year-old graduate of the Woodrow Wilson School of Public Affairs at Princeton. He had shone as a young White House Fellow under President Carter, but a bitter loss in a personal bid for Congress in 1982 convinced him he’d rather not be a candidate. In high school he was voted most likely to become a game show host, and he’d finally found his niche as a political strategist. Over seventeen years his list of satisfied clients included nine United States senators, seven congressmen, and five governors, and he’d masterminded Allison’s upset victory over a sitting vice president in the Democratic primaries. In the last few weeks, however, he’d grown concerned about the growing influence of outside consultants, so he’d decided to glue himself to Allison’s side for the bus tour. At the moment, he was reviewing his checklist, seemingly oblivious to Allison’s sweaty exercise attire or to the blurred Pennsylvania countryside in the window behind her.
“The drug problem has reared its ugly head.” He had an ominous voice for a thin man, part of an overall seriousness that was more suitable for a White House state dinner than the frenetic campaign trail. “I think our distinguished opposition is turning desperate. They’re finally trying to make something out of your treatment for depression, back in ninety-two.”
“That was eight years ago. Politically speaking, it’s ancient history.”
“They’re saying you took Prozac.”
“I told you I was in counseling.”
“Are you splitting hairs on me?”
She flashed a sobering look. “My four-month-old daughter was taken right out of her crib, right from my own house. Yes, I was depressed. I was in group counseling. Eight of us. Parents who’d lost children. No, I didn’t take Prozac. But if you ask the other members of my support group, they’ll probably say I needed it. So don’t expect me to apologize for having reached out for a little support. And don’t sit there and act like this is news to you, either. I laid out all the skeletons the day I hired you.”
He grimaced, thinking it through. “I just wish we could put the whole episode in more of a context.”
Her look became a glare. “I won’t make Emily’s abduction part of this campaign, if that’s what you mean.”
“Allison, we can’t just say you were depressed and leave it at that. We need a positive spin.”
“Okay,” she said sarcastically, “how about this? Depression is a good thing. It’s what stimulates ideas. Every invention, every accomplishment stems from depression, not euphoria. Nobody ever said, ‘Life’s swell, let’s invent fire.’ It was the malcontent in the back of the cave who finally stood up and said, ‘Hey, I’m freezing my ass off in here!’ You want something to get done in Washington? By all means, elect the clinically depressed.”
He was deadpan. “Please don’t repeat that publicly. Or I’ll be very depressed.”
“Good,” she said with a smirk. “We could use some new ideas around here.” She took a deep breath. Wilcox didn’t look amused, but she knew he wouldn’t push it. Throughout the campaign she’d nipped every mention of the abduction with some brusque remark-sometimes pointed, sometimes flip-which immediately moved the agenda to less personal territory. “Anything else?” she asked.
“I hate to keep harping on this, but General Howe’s wife has been stumping hard for him lately. Our polls show she’s making inroads. A lot of voters-male and female, Democrat and Republican-are nostalgic about having a First Lady in the White House. We can’t counteract those warm fuzzies unless we define the role of a First Husband. The election is two weeks away, and forty percent of the public still has no opinion on Peter Tunnello.”
“Sorry, but the CEO of a publicly traded company can’t duck out of a stockholders meeting for a rubber chicken luncheon at the VFW.”
“That’s kind of my point. I think he would, if you asked him.”
“How do you know I haven’t asked?”
“Your attitude, that’s how. It started right after the convention, when Howe’s camp floated those ugly rumors that you married Peter just to bankroll your political ambition. Ever since then, you’ve been on a one-woman crusade to shake more hands and raise more money than anybody in history. Don’t get me wrong. The money’s great. But the more you adopt this go-it-alone persona, the more you fuel suspicions about your marriage.”
“This is not a buy-one, get-two presidency. My marriage is my business.”
“It would still be nice if the American people could see you two together sometimes, especially as we get closer to election day. Just a few strategic public displays of affection, like Nancy and Ron Reagan.”
“News flash!” shouted one of her aides. He pitched his cellular phone onto the seat beside him and spun around, facing Allison. “Howe’s about to launch something in New Jersey. Check out CNN.”
Allison moved closer to the main set. Her aides watched intently, straining to hear over the rumble of the bus’s diesel engine. Wilcox raised the volume. General Howe was near the end of a short speech before the National Convention of the American Legion in Atlantic City.
On screen, a handsome African-American man stood tall behind a chest-high podium, facing an enthusiastic crowd. The American flag hung limply on the yellow wall of painted cinder block. A blue and white banner hung from the rafters, proclaiming the campaign slogan, “Lincoln Howe-Lincoln Now!” The house was packed, and the most enthusiastic supporters were strategically standing in the aisles to make the turnout seem even better than it was.
General Howe was an imposing figure, even when wearing a simple business suit and VFW cap. Army regulations prohibited him from wearing his uniform after his retirement, but the larger-than-life photograph in the background reminded voters of his distinguished forty-year career. It was a photo fit for history books: the triumphant general inspecting his troops, dressed in riding boots, bloused green trousers, and short-waisted jacket. His chest was decorated with an array of medals, including a Medal of Honor. Each shoulder bore four silver stars, indicating his rank. To his right was a photograph of Howe in another uniform, old number twenty-two, carrying a football for Army. He was a Heisman Trophy-winning running back in 1961. The best player in college football had given up a promising career as professional athlete to serve his country.
“The thing I remember most about my combat experience in Vietnam,” he said in a commanding voice, “is the eerie feeling of fighting an invisible enemy. As we marched through the thick tropical jungle of the A Shau Valley, gunfire would quickly erupt, men would fall-and then all was quiet. The enemy was nowhere to be seen.
“This presidential campaign has been strangely reminiscent of that experience. Marching along the campaign trail, I get machine-gunned out of nowhere with a barrage of clever sound bites created by my Democratic opponent’s high-paid advisers. When it comes time to stand and fight, however, Ms. Leahy is nowhere to be found.”
A combination of light laughter and applause rolled across the auditorium.
General Howe flashed a serious expression straight into the camera, his voice growing louder. “The American people deserve better than that. So today I issue this challenge. Come out from your hiding place in the Washington jungle, Ms. Leahy. Debate me on the issues, one on one!”
The crowd cheered, but the general kept talking.
“I’m not talking about another round of sickeningly sweet question-and-answer sessions, like those so-called debates we held earlier this month. No more use of a single moderator who would sooner pick up a rattlesnake than ask a potentially embarrassing question. Forget the town-hall format, where the tough questions may or may not be asked. Let’s have a panel of four independent experts. You pick two, I pick two. Let them ask the questions the American people are asking. And let us answer them!”
The crowd erupted into louder cheers. Balloons fell from the ceiling. Supporters clapped their hands and waved their red and blue cardboard signs, chanting, “We want Lincoln! We want Lincoln!”
The television coverage q
uickly shifted back to a stiff and serious anchorman fingering the small audio piece into his ear. “Joining me now from Washington is CNN political analyst Nick Beaugard. Nick, why does this challenge come now?”
The screen flashed a head-and-shoulders shot of a silver-haired reporter before a mock-up of the White House. “If you believe General Howe’s campaign staff, they’ve been trying to persuade the nonpartisan Commission on Presidential Debates to approve another debate ever since the first round failed to produce a clear winner. But the real urgency for the Howe campaign stems from the painful reality of recent trends in public opinion polls. For the eight weeks following the August conventions, General Howe ran neck and neck with Attorney General Leahy. That’s not surprising, since they’re both moderates and, apart from the question of military spending, their stand on the issues is quite similar. Conservative Republicans have recently dubbed the general ‘Lincoln Center,’ an unflattering play on the native New Yorker’s middle-of-the-road politics.
“In the past nine days we’ve seen a dramatic shift. The major polls show that an increasing number of previously undecided voters are now leaning toward Leahy. Today’s CNN/USA Today/Gallup poll shows Leahy up by a whopping six points. A clear victory over Ms. Leahy in a no-holds-barred debate may be General Howe’s only hope. Otherwise, when faced with the choice between a black man and a white woman on November seventh, the American people may well elect their first woman president.”
The anchorman furrowed his brow inquisitively. “Has there been any response yet from the Leahy campaign?”
“None yet,” said the correspondent. “Some say the attorney general is content to sit on her lead. But there are also reports of concern within the Leahy camp as to how their candidate would fare in a debate against General Howe in a format where, essentially, anything goes.”
“All right, thank you. In other news today-”
Allison hit the mute button on her remote control. Her expression had fallen. “I’m already being cast as the chicken. We can’t go another minute with no response to a challenge like that.”
“Let’s not be knee-jerk,” said Wilcox. “We need to check things out, make sure it’s the right thing to do.”
“Of course it’s the right thing. He’s proposing a format that actually forces the candidates to think on their feet. If the previous debates showed anything about his speaking abilities, General Howe has more of the old college football jock in him than the commanding general.”
“Careful, Allison. You’re dealing with a military mentality. Howe wouldn’t invite you to debate unless he were thinking ambush. Before we agree to anything, we need to have a very clear understanding of what he’s proposing.”
“Work out the details later,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Set up a press conference before the rally in Philly. I want to make sure we air my response in time for the six o’clock news.” Her mouth curled into a confident, almost imperceptible smile. “I’d love a good old-fashioned debate with Lincoln Howe. Anytime. Anyplace. Of course I’m accepting the challenge.”
2
All four thousand red velvet seats at Atlanta’s Fox Theatre were filled with partisan politicos. Signs and hats were prohibited inside the auditorium, but the political buttons fastened to lapels indicated an audience fairly evenly divided between Leahy and Howe supporters.
Immediately following Allison’s Monday-night acceptance of General Howe’s challenge, the Commission on Presidential Debates scheduled the debate in Atlanta on Thursday, twelve days before the election. Allison had spent the balance of Wednesday night and all of Thursday studying up on the issues, meeting with advisers, and gathering last-minute tips from her consultants.
Allison stood behind a mahogany podium to the audience’s left. She wore a bright blue St. John suit, and her hair was up in a stylish twist that completed the serious but feminine look that had graced the cover of thousands of magazines. Lincoln Howe was to the right, dressed in a well-tailored suit with a light blue shirt, red tie, and gold cuff links. He’d campaigned in civilian clothes all along, of course, but he had somehow always looked like a soldier caught out of uniform. Tonight, he looked decidedly presidential.
“Good evening,” said the moderator, “and welcome to the Campaign 2000 presidential debates. We have an unusual format tonight. A panel of four distinguished journalists, two selected by each candidate, have absolute freedom to ask whatever questions they wish.”
Allison scanned the audience as the moderator introduced the panel. She shared a subtle smile with her husband, who was seated in the second row. Peter Tunnello was, according to Business Week magazine, “a visionary self-made millionaire” who had pioneered the plastic recycling business-a highly profitable and politically correct line of work for a politician’s spouse. At age fifty-six he was eight years older than Allison, with distinguished flecks of gray in his hair and dark eyes that could charm his wife or chill his enemies. They’d dated casually a few months before Emily’s abduction. He’d never been gorgeous, but if the ensuing tragedy and endless search had proven anything, it was that Peter was that rare breed of man who came through in times of need.
Allison was no slave to intuition, but something in the air-the vibes, the setting-was suddenly making her feel as if tonight could be one of those times of need.
The moderator continued, “As this is the third debate, we will dispense with opening statements and move straight to questions.”
Allison sipped her water, relieved that she wouldn’t have to hear the general recite his résumé yet again. Certainly it was impressive. A Medal of Honor from Vietnam. His bold triumph as the four-star general in charge of the Special Operations Command that had liberated thirty-eight American hostages from heavily armed terrorists in Beirut. The well-earned reputation as a fearless hawk at the Pentagon. She wondered, however, when his strategists would finally realize that all the military machismo was making even his biggest fans nervous about electing a president who might be a little too eager to send their sons and daughters marching off to war.
The moderator turned to the panel. “Mr. Mahwani, we begin with you, sir.”
Abdul Kahesh Mahwani was a radical but respected former president of the National Association of Black Journalists. He’d made a name for himself covering the civil rights movement in the sixties, then turned Muslim and changed his name. His dark shaved head glistened beneath the stage lights. His wrinkled hand shook as he slowly removed the folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his moist forehead.
Mahwani was one of General Howe’s selections. Of the four panelists, he made Allison most nervous.
“Mr. Mahwani, your question, please.”
The distinguished old gentleman shuffled the note cards on the table before him, then laid them aside. He removed his reading glasses and held them in his hand, like a professor with his pointer.
“Congratulations!” he shouted, startling everyone. “Congratulations to both of you, for what will surely be a healthy discussion of important issues.”
He leaned back in his chair, as if he were no longer speaking to the candidates, but to the world. His voice took on the rhythmic cadence of a southern preacher. “Come November seventh, however, the American people will do more than choose sides on issues. They will choose a leader. A person to lead them in this new millennium. A man or a woman who they will call their president.
“This campaign has been utterly bankrupt of any discussion of the character of either candidate. Yet I’m certain that millions of people watching at home tonight are asking themselves some fundamental questions. How can a president lead, if not by example? Is this man, or this woman, a model citizen for our children?”
Mahwani leaned forward for effect, then looked at each candidate-first at Howe, then at Allison. His voice took on a hushed tone, forcing everyone in the auditorium to listen more carefully. “My question to both candidates is simply this: Have you ever broken your marital vow of fidelity?”
Allison swallowed hard. Going first always had risks, but responding first to a question like this one raised special concerns. She thought carefully about the question, measuring her response. She found Peter’s eyes again in the second row. He seemed stoic but supportive. Finally she answered, speaking to the audience at large rather than directly to Mahwani or even her husband.
“First of all, let me say that while I respect Mr. Mahwani’s right to ask whatever he likes, this character question is completely out of step with the tone of the issue-oriented campaign that both I and General Howe have waged so far. I’m proud of the fact that this presidential campaign-unlike many of those in the past-has been conducted in a civilized and informative manner. I’m proud that both candidates have refused to stoop to the character bashing, personal insults, and attacks on family members that have sadly become a trademark of American politics.
“Mr. Mahwani’s question really raises a larger issue. Will we as Americans hold fast to this important step forward we’ve taken and talk about issues, rather than resorting to insults? Or will we move backward to a time when running for office meant open season on a candidate’s most intimate and personal secrets, no matter how irrelevant to the issues in the election?
“Please understand what I’m saying. I can see circumstances where extremely personal questions might be relevant. If a candidate directly challenges the media and puts his or her marital fidelity at issue, that candidate should be prepared to answer some probing questions. If a credible third party comes forth with evidence that a candidate has engaged in immoral conduct, the public should expect a response. I do not think, however, that every candidate in every election should be forced as a matter of course to let the media look inside their bedroom.”
She paused, but her voice remained resonant. “Therefore, in the interest of restoring a level of dignity to American political debate, I decline to answer the question simply as a matter of principle.”
The Abduction Page 2
