Leave it to Sandra to try to take it up a notch with a juicy explanation of the meaning of abortion.
Hilda Smith stared at the press. Lisa Henderson took a protective step toward her from the side of the ballroom where we were holding the press conference. I didn’t move.
“There were other charges as well, Mrs. Vice President,” Hendricks out-shouted everybody. This was his story, goddamn it, and he wasn’t going to let anyone hijack the moment.
The vice president seemed to stand a bit straighter, grasping the podium tightly. “I can only assume,” she said finally, in a low but strong voice, “that there is no connection between these reported phone calls and Governor Armstrong George. Such actions would disqualify him, in my opinion, from leading this party and country.”
With that, she turned and walked toward Lisa Henderson, who was standing by the rear exit.
“Did you have an abortion?” Sandra Juarez bellowed.
Vice President Hilda Smith turned, and for an instant her eyes seemed truly to blaze. “The next questions will have to be answered by Governor George.” And then she turned and was gone, the doors leading into the back hall of the ballroom swinging behind her.
I was ecstatic.
—
For almost an hour, Paul Hendricks was the most important journalist in America. He had the rarest of commodities at an event in which thousands of journalists were crammed into one square mile, all covering the same thing: Paul Hendricks had a scoop.
The networks all broke into regular programming to report the phone calls. Naturally they mostly tried to seem to be reporting on the outrageous nature of politics, that such a subject could even be raised, but of course that was just an excuse to get out three words: Hilda Smith, abortion. Begrudgingly, Paul Hendricks of CNN was cited as the reporter who broke the story.
But within the hour, frantic reporters started confirming the story as delegates and others in their hometowns started coming forth and saying, yes, they too had received these polling questions.
—
The elevator ride back up to our floor was interesting. There was me, Hilda Smith and her husband, Lisa, and six Secret Service agents. Normally there would have been four agents, but that number had been expanded since the bomb went off and the threat level was raised. The agents stared ahead blankly. It was no secret that most of them would have voted for Armstrong George based on politics, but since Hilda was a decent sort of person and tended to remember their names and the names of their wives and children, they had a certain fondness for her. Plus, if she won, it would be good for their careers, since they would likely become the core detail guarding the next president. That was the most plum job for an active agent, to be at the inner circle, the “hard circle,” as they called it, responsible for the protection of the president of the United States. They might have been inclined to express shock or outrage at what had just been said at the press conference, if only to offer a reassuring word or two, but their training and experience had taught them to simply try to disappear, like dinner guests when the host couple starts to argue. Be invisible.
When we got off the elevator, Lisa and I automatically followed our candidate toward her suite, but when we got to the door, she turned and said, with a strained smile, “Give us some time, okay?” Time? I should have shouted. Time? We don’t have any time, for Christ’s sake. But I didn’t, of course, nor did Lisa. We just nodded and backed away.
When they disappeared, leaving Lisa and me staring at each other, she cut me off before I could say a word. “I need a few minutes too, okay?” And then she headed toward her room.
That left me standing in the hall, just me and the agents. It was the oddest damn thing. The whole world had exploded and nobody seemed to want to talk about it. Eddie Basha appeared and pulled me into his delegate-counting staff room. It was empty, since everyone was moving over to the convention floor, setting up shop in our trailers.
“How?” was all he said.
“What are you talking about?” I shot back.
“Right,” Eddie said.
“I’m appalled that Armstrong George would do such a thing.”
“Unimaginable,” Eddie agreed. “Should offend all decent people everywhere.”
“Particularly his squishy delegates,” I said. “If the son of a bitch has any.”
We laughed. “You think it will change anything?” Eddie asked.
“Hell if I know. But we need to turn out a couple dozen demonstrators at George’s hotel, get some signs made up. ‘No Mudslinging,’ ‘Apologize, Governor,’ that kind of thing.”
“The usual spontaneous demonstration.”
I nodded. “Then do the same at the party tonight for all the delegates, the one out at that Mardi Gras place across the river. We get our people out there and make sure they get on camera. Maybe one of the George delegates gets hot and takes a swing at ’em. That would be perfect. We’ve got to get this bastard on the defensive.”
Eddie made a few calls to his lieutenants. We were at the stage of a campaign when no one would question anything; many of the operatives Eddie and I had brought into the campaign had no previous particular loyalty to Hilda Smith, but we had been through hell together and were close to winning. Then we went back to our floor strategy for the opening session the following morning. It was something we had talked about for months, ever since it was obvious that the convention might be a real event and not a coronation. The final vote on the nominee would come on the third day. Between the opening of the convention and that vote, there would be dozens of other votes, mostly of a procedural or ceremonial nature. But it was possible to pick a vote or a series of votes and try to make them test votes, to use them to gauge how many votes you really had, to probe for weaknesses, to try to peel off a vote here, a vote there, in hopes that once delegates voted with you on one issue, they would stay on your side all the way.
“You know what the son of a bitch is going to do?” I said to Eddie. “It’s what we would do.”
“I don’t want to hear this,” Eddie groaned.
I spelled it out, making all the details painfully gory. “Push an early resolution condemning the bombing—that’s a no-brainer. And tie it in with support for the president’s call for new legislation with an endorsement of support for Protect the Homeland. They know that some of our people can’t vote for that because they think it’s fascist claptrap. Then when a bunch of Hilda Smith delegates vote against the resolution, it looks like we’re defending the bombing or are too timid and pacifist Vermont to really take a hard stance against it. Just confirms that Hilda Smith is too weak to be president. Then we implode.”
Eddie smiled. “That’s good. Very good. So what do we do?”
I got up and stared at the chart of the delegates. Thirty-seven delegates. “We can’t win that fight. So we get ahead of it. We put our own resolution out there praising the president and supporting his call for new legislation. We just don’t name Protect the Homeland. But we beat them to it and get it passed with our people supporting it. They want a fight. We don’t give it to them.”
Eddie whistled. “Could be tough getting all our people to go with it.” He thought for a minute. “But hell yeah, let’s go for it. Run right into this ambush.”
“You got it.”
“But we’d have to keep it a secret before we moved the motion. If George’s people know we’re going to do it, they’ll come up with a counter motion and we’re screwed. We have to surprise them.”
“Floor discipline. It’s what we’ve beat into our people for weeks. We have to maintain total control on the floor.”
“Good luck.”
I shrugged as Ginny walked in.
“Here’s your key back,” she said to Eddie, tossing him a plastic card key. “Eddie and I are having mad sex,” she announced at my look.
Eddie came very close to blushing. It was a shocking sight: Eddie Basha embarrassed. I wondered if it was true. And wondered how I would feel about it i
f it were. I didn’t think I cared.
“You two look like hell,” Ginny said. “Jesus. Let’s go.” Ginny reached out and pulled me upward. “Christ, you’re soaking wet with sweat. You two in here watching porn movies or something?”
“Feeling the breath of the dragon,” I said. I didn’t realize how much I had been sweating. I was that excited—and nervous—about the plans I’d put in motion. It was all so desperate it might just work.
“Right. Well, you know what my old campaign manager J. D. Callahan always said? Screw fear!”
“He sounds like an asshole to me.”
“But a cute one. Come on, Eddie, you’re coming too.”
“Catch up with you,” he said, waving. “Few things to do.”
—
We saw the long lines at the metal detectors as soon as we got close. Then the demonstrators Eddie had quickly organized. This made me feel better right away.
The party was across the river at Perkins Mardi Gras World, a building site for Mardi Gras floats. Colored lasers and floodlights spilled into the sky. The huge floats hovered in the night, looming over the crowd like grotesque gods vaguely tolerating the intrusion of humans onto their turf.
It was the big kickoff event before the convention started, sponsored by the Republican National Committee, with everyone connected to the convention invited. An elaborate system of buses had been arranged to ferry the crowds from the foot of Canal Street over the Crescent City Connection Bridge to the site, just across the river. It was probably a good idea until the NOPD, ATF, FBI, and Secret Service insisted on turning the entire party into a secure site. That meant everyone had to enter through metal detectors and everything from purses to cameras had to be scanned in the new bomb-sniffing boxes. The sniffers were made to work in the air-conditioned environment of an airport or court building, not in the swamp of New Orleans in August. The delays were massive. Hot, mostly half-drunk delegates, alternates, and reporters were spread out in an unruly mess, trying to edge their way closer to the five entrance points. Inside, the lucky ones who had gained entrance were milling about the floats, drinks in hand, listening to the Zydeco Twisters. Some were starting to dance in that awkward, stiff-jointed way that middle-aged political nerds seem to practice. The RNC had held Very Serious Meetings with both campaigns, worried that the two sides might end up in some kind of frat-party brawl, the Georges versus the Smiths. But with the shock of the bomb and the heat, everybody just seemed to want to forget about politics, if only for a couple of hours.
I spotted Sandra Juarez on the edge of the crowd. She had just finished a stand-up in front of the demonstrators and was still holding her mike, while her three-man crew collapsed, looking like sled dogs driven to exhaustion. It annoyed the hell out of me when I realized my heart was racing. Ginny took my arm and steered me away from Sandra. “Bitch,” she whispered hotly in my ear. “What a goddamn bitch.”
“You keep saying that,” I said, laughing, or trying to laugh, amazed that just seeing Sandra could do so much to me. I broke away from Ginny and walked over toward Sandra.
“I’m sorry,” she said, in a low voice, looking around to make sure nobody could hear her. This caught me by surprise.
“So you let George know that Hilda was going to the hospital?”
“No.” She saw my look and reacted. “Jesus, J.D., I told you I was sorry. I didn’t tell him, but you didn’t give me much warning, and I had to pull a local cameraman and he sold the tip.”
“Sold it?”
“A hundred bucks. Can you believe it? What a piece of shit, huh? I felt terrible. I should have called you and told you.”
It struck me that Sandra was being nice. Like there was something that might be more important than the story of the moment or her career. I guess I had seen that side of her early on—I must have, to have fallen in love with her—but I hadn’t let myself think about it very much.
“I’ve got something else for you. Really good. Big,” I said. She looked at me like I was teasing her. “I’m serious.”
“After I screwed the hospital up?”
I was close to her now and I could see the lines around her eyes she hid so well on camera. Ginny had moved behind her and was standing with her hands on her hips, staring so hard that I felt sure Sandra must be able to feel the glare on the back of her head.
“It’s good for me, Sandra. If you break a story, no one will think in a million years I was the source,” I whispered. My heart was pounding so loudly that I wondered if she could hear it.
“Why not?” she asked. “Old girlfriend, all of that. Wouldn’t people think it made sense you were dishing to me?”
“No one that matters in my world,” I said, “because everybody who knows me thinks I really hate you.”
She blinked, her head rocking backward a touch. “I see,” she said finally. “I got it. Okay.”
“Good.” God, it was so sweet to see her actually affected by something I said. A minor victory, but I would take it. You bet I would. “The Colorado Republican Party paid for those push poll calls attacking Hilda. A governor named Armstrong George would be the head of that state party.”
“You have proof?”
“How about a copy of the script?” I handed her a folded piece of paper. “And here’s the name of the phone center. Call them. Ask them who they’re working for.” I slipped Sandra another piece of paper with a typed number on it.
“Does Armstrong George know about it?” she asked, holding the papers in her hand, not looking down at them. She was biting. She was interested enough to worry about people seeing her reading material that was handed to her by me. That was a good sign.
“Come on, Sandra. Armstrong George invented the Colorado Republican Party. You think they would do anything without his okay?”
“But why? It seems so stupid.”
“Let me tell you something about guys like George,” I said fiercely. “He doesn’t only want to win, he wants to crush Hilda Smith. Embarrass her. Humiliate her. Why the hell did Nixon bug the Watergate when he was forty points ahead? Armstrong George is a mean, sick fuck and you shouldn’t be surprised he does mean, sick shit.”
“You sound like you really believe that, J.D.”
I looked around. People were watching us. “Look, I’m gonna yell at you in a second and walk off. Then you yell at me.”
She blinked, confused for an instant, then understood. She nodded.
“It was a goddamn ambush!” I shouted suddenly. I watched her features tighten for a second, then I yelled louder. “Be professional.” I enjoyed the look on her face for a beat more, then turned and strode off, followed by a very confused-looking Ginny.
“Oh, good, J.D. Impressive,” Sandra yelled sarcastically at my back.
Turning, I spoke loud enough for anyone within thirty yards to hear. “When Hilda Smith is president, good luck on your stories, Sandra. GOOD GODDAMN LUCK!”
“Very mature, J.D. Very professional. Just stomp off. AGAIN!”
Again. This hurt. Again. God, she was good.
I took Ginny by the arm and steered her toward the gate.
“You going to tell me what that was all about?” she asked.
Before I could answer, Somerfield George was striding right toward us. He was a guy who did that—he didn’t walk, he strode. Big, long strides. He had his hand out. I have fantasies about refusing to shake hands with guys like Somerfield George, but I’ve never done it. I shook his hand.
“Got a second?” he asked, as if we were meeting at the coffee stand at work. I just looked at him, not sure I was understanding. “To talk,” he finally said, then looked at Ginny. “Just us. Sorry.” He nodded at her.
“I’ll just be over here by the monster with two heads,” Ginny said, walking toward a float under construction.
“She really doesn’t like me,” Somerfield said.
“She loathes you,” I said. “You’re pretty much everything she hates in the world.”
He nodded. “I
get that a lot,” he said. “Because of my dad.”
“Did people like you before your dad?”
“The only time there was a ‘before my dad’ was when I was in the army, and yeah, I think so. I liked the army. I would have stayed.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “The family business. And I had a couple of problems.” He laughed. “You going to do oppo on me now?”
I sighed. “Look, I’m pretty beat to shit and just want to have a beer and hang out and sort of try to be off the clock for an hour or so. What’s up?”
He suddenly looked very serious. “Nice play with the push calls.” He held up his hands before I could protest. “Nicely done. We’re like two boxers beating the crap out of each other in the fifteenth round. So I have a little proposal.”
“Okay?”
“What if Hilda were to run as Armstrong’s VP?”
I looked at him, making sure I wasn’t hallucinating out of exhaustion. “Run as your dad’s veep?”
“It’s the only logical way for both of us to end this and win. And winning is all that we care about, right? You and I, it’s not like we’re in this to save the world.”
I looked around at the partygoers, all just trying to have fun. I wanted to be them. I wanted to be the guy Somerfield George had just described, the guy who only cared about winning. That’s who I had been for most of my time in politics, and I was proud of not caring. But when Tyler had said I’d be happy working for Armstrong George it had shocked me, because I realized he was right, or had been right. That was somebody I didn’t want to be, and somebody I wasn’t going to be anymore.
“Look, Somerfield,” I said, very level, without a trace of anger, “I really respect that you are trying to do what’s best for your dad. Maybe it’s not the easiest thing being a politician’s kid, and I think I get that more than most. You’ve been totally loyal and stand-up and God love you for it.”
The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear Page 15
