Elimination

by Ed Gorman

  He was skillful enough to twist any question he was asked into a mini-rant about his idea of taking the government back.

  But at the twenty-four-minute mark – I was keeping close time – he made his first mistake. Asked about how he could support yet another tax cut if he wanted to balance the budget, he said, ‘Right now there are men and women out there who are planning to make this country ours again.’

  ‘Are you advocating armed insurrection?’

  ‘I’m advocating driving the criminals and treasonists out of D.C.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to several militia groups who seem to believe in armed revolution.’

  ‘That’s your interpretation, not mine. I’ll speak to any group that loves this country as much as I do.’

  He was shrewd but it was too late for that. In an off-year election such as this one the opposition generally took many more seats than the president’s side. Dorsey had muted himself in the past three weeks and, coupled with the millions being poured into TV by his uncle, had caught up with us. But that night his vague response to the question about the militia groups capping his entire greatest-hit routine suddenly sounded threatening. He brought the old doubts about his wisdom back into focus.

  The second twenty minutes were all Jess. She sounded sane, judicious and full of the kind of quick detail that impresses the electorate.

  Dorsey stumbled. He started using words like ‘responsible’ and ‘cooperative’ and phrases such as ‘the common good.’

  The third twenty minutes was a fifteen-minute triumph for Jess, but right in the middle of it Dorsey had a good five-minute stretch attacking her for some of her more controversial votes – controversial in this age of plutocrats. Money for science, education and cancer research could be made to sound wasteful and Dorsey did a fine job of making them all sound like that. Jess was able to wrest back the lead by saying that she had an aunt at the Mayo Clinic right now suffering from breast cancer and she was glad she’d cast the Obamacare vote. She asked if there was a single person in the audience who had not been touched by the cancer of a loved one, and not just once but at least two or three times. I think a few of the people on his side of the aisle wanted to join the standing ovation our side gave her. She’d slashed his throat and he spent the last few minutes writhing in death.

  Then came the questions from the audience. Predictably, the plants for both sides did their sleazy best. Boiled down, the questions were either ‘Are you still having sex with the family dog/cat?’ or ‘If you had a chance to renounce your Russian citizenship, would you do it?’

  They were too predictable, in fact. A fair share of the audience was starting to leave. I saw it as a pretty easy slog for both Jess and Dorsey. He managed to turn aside our bombshell question with an armada of anti-media and patriotic rants that won hearty applause from his side and some actual boos from ours. The son of a bitch never managed to answer a question straight on; in boxing that was called slipping a punch. In politics that was called making your case.

  Dorsey’s four previous questioners, despite the fact that they weren’t naked and hadn’t once mentioned Sasquatch, still had about them the faint stench of fanaticism. Two of them had glassy-eyed grins on their faces when they asked their questions, as if their queries would leave Jess gibbering and resigning. One of the other two wore a red, white and blue lapel pin large enough to serve a pizza on. And the fourth turned and gave two thumbs up to the stage before he stepped to the microphone.

  But the good one, the one Dorsey had saved for the real shiv in the belly, was as upper-middle-class presentable as the woman from the Voters’ League itself. Maybe mid-fifties, gray-blonde chignon, gray Armani suit and impeccably patrician face and poise. There was even a touch of Jackie O in her voice.

  ‘Congresswoman Bradshaw, since you are so actively pro-choice I feel it’s fair to ask if you, personally, have ever had an abortion?’

  Jess handled the question with simple and believable grace. ‘I’m not an advocate for abortion as some people claim. I’m merely saying that girls and women should have the choice of how to deal with their bodies. And no, I have not personally ever had an abortion.’

  A cool, convincing answer. A quick survey of the panel’s faces told me that they agreed with my assessment.

  ‘You’ve really never—?’ the woman jabbed again.

  But halfway through her question they cut her mike.

  This part of the evening had finished.

  SIX

  I headed immediately for the bullshit room, as it is so fondly called by operatives and press alike.

  Adjacent to the auditorium was a small room filled with fine arts of various kinds. This would be used for more personal events. Right now maybe as many as thirty reporters and twenty camera people packed the place. The one absolute law governing the aftermath of a debate is that your man or woman, no matter how much evidence there is to the contrary, won the debate. Pounded the opponent into dust. Clearly entranced the audience and confiscated the vote of every man and woman in the auditorium.

  But we really had won, so all I had to do was brag. Well, I had to tell at least a few lies to earn my keep.

  Reporters, especially the TV type, love tabloid journalism. Slash, disembowel. But tonight they had to know that we’d won without much trouble.

  ‘How’re you feeling, Conrad?’

  ‘As if I could go ten rounds with the world champion.’

  ‘The world champion of what?’

  ‘You name it.’

  Polite smiles.

  ‘What did you think of Dorsey’s performance?’

  ‘Which part? Canceling cancer research? Loyalty oaths? Or advocating violent overthrow?’

  ‘You’re accusing him of advocating armed revolution?’

  ‘I don’t have to accuse him of anything. It was implied in everything he said.’

  ‘Think tonight’ll help you in the polls?’

  ‘Absolutely. The congresswoman was at her best and Dorsey was at his worst. I’m surprised his campaign manager hasn’t attempted suicide by now.’ Realizing I sounded too arrogant, I said, ‘It’s simple. Jess is the serious candidate here. She has a vital interest in making government better and that means saving the parts that work and getting rid of the parts that don’t. But you have to do this carefully, intelligently. The well-being of millions of people is at stake every time a major policy change is made. That’s why you want a person who has respect for her job. Serious respect.’

  On the other side of the room there were cheers as Trent Dorsey held his clenched hands up in the air the way a winning boxer does. He was following the number-one law of the bullshit room – despite all evidence to the contrary. He was proclaiming himself the winner.

  Over the next fifteen minutes the questions changed as a few of the right-wing bloggers drifted over here. They’d undoubtedly been using their questions to promote Dorsey’s agenda. They’d saved their venom for us.

  ‘There’ve been rumors in the past that Congresswoman Bradshaw has had a long-standing drinking problem. Is that what we were seeing tonight?’

  ‘There’ve also been rumors that she’s had a prescription pill problem. Was that her problem tonight?’

  ‘Do you think we’ll hear more about Congresswoman Bradshaw’s abortion?’

  I almost grabbed the little prick. All three of them were little pricks – three slight, dishwater-blond college-age boys in white shirts, blue blazers and gray slacks; the uniform of the salvation teams that come to your door to save your soul and annoy the shit out of you. Each blazer bore the crest of the local right-wing Christian college, Holy Shit University as I called all of them. They wanted our country turned into a theocracy. I devoutly did not.

  These three were here to aggravate me into handing them a news story. BRADSHAW MANAGER ASSAULTS HOLY SHIT REPORTER.

  Abby, who had been a little late getting here, grabbed my arm with surprising force and stepped forward to face the clone who’d asked the last quest
ion. It was a much prettier face than mine to put in his face and, because of that, more intimidating. All I could do was maybe throw him around a little.

  ‘You came over here to make trouble. Go back to Dorsey’s side,’ Abby said.

  ‘We have a right to ask questions.’

  ‘Really? Do you work on the school paper? Or ever taken a journalism course?’

  The clone actually blushed. But he managed to say, ‘We serve the Lord in other ways.’

  His fellow clones nodded.

  ‘Then you’re not reporters. You’re troublemakers.’

  The first clone took a step forward. ‘We’re here to expose the congresswoman for the demonic forces she represents in Washington.’

  The second clone said, ‘She’s one herself.’

  I was waiting for their eyes to start glowing the way the Devil-inclined do in horror movie posters.

  I’d calmed down sufficiently to do to Abby what she’d done to me: take her by the arm. We’d been in the room forty minutes and the important reporters were starting to make their way to the nearest bars. There was no point in staying here.

  We walked out.

  Abby said, ‘This is one of the happiest nights of my life. We did so damned well.’

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ I said, ‘but I need several hundred drinks.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Abby said. ‘There’s a place called Drink Up about two miles north of here. It’s a decent place to get hammered.’

  ‘How about if I meet you there in twenty minutes or so? I’m going to the dressing room to check on Jess.’

  ‘Great,’ Abby said. ‘See you soon.’

  She pirouetted, then skipped for maybe five yards and then shouted over her shoulder, ‘We’re going to kick ass, Dev!’

  Laughter and the pop of a champagne cork.

  I knocked and peeked in.

  Jess sprang from her seat in front of the mirror and came over to me with her arms extended for a hug. Over her shoulder I could see Ted with a champagne bottle and a grin. Katherine was standing beside him.

  ‘I was so worried I thought I was going to faint at times.’

  ‘May I have some, Dad?’

  He hesitated. Then, to Jess, ‘You think it’s all right, honey?’

  ‘She’ll be fine, Ted,’ Jess said.

  They were a family again – supposedly, anyway.

  But obviously one of Dorsey’s questioners had gotten to Jess. With a frown – she had been embarrassed by the attack and was not in a forgiving mood – she said, ‘I did not have an abortion.’

  ‘Oh, Mom,’ Katherine said. ‘We know you didn’t. And even if you had, so what?’

  ‘Hey, Jess, we’re supposed to be celebrating tonight, remember?’ Ted was master of ceremonies again.

  Jess toasted him with what remained of the champagne in her glass.

  ‘That’s right, we’re celebrating,’ Katherine said. But the brightness in her eyes and voice had gone.

  I listened for five more minutes but didn’t really hear; I talked for a few minutes but probably didn’t make much sense. I just wanted to leave and join Abby.

  Then I was outside in the cold autumn night, the shadows hiding the assassin who waited, not for me, but for Jess.

  SEVEN

  The bar was a small neighborhood place with country songs and one of those female pub owners Graham Greene had once described as having ‘a great public heart.’ When she said, ‘Nice to meet you,’ you had the feeling she actually meant it. Her name was Mae Tomlin. She wore a Chicago Cubs T-shirt and a welcoming smile. I told her I was with the Bradshaw campaign. She said she was on Jess’s side.

  I joined Abby in a booth.

  ‘Whew and double whew.’ She drew a small hand across her brow and said, ‘And whew again.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I’d say Dorsey is one unhappy guy about now.’

  ‘Most likely.’

  ‘Does that make you happy?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Me, too. I know he’s got a terrible temper. He’s probably taking it out on his whole staff.’ She sipped her wine. ‘I don’t know what Jess would’ve done if she’d lost tonight. I have to say she’s not holding up very well this time around.’

  ‘This is the tightest race she’s ever had.’

  ‘I know. I guess I never realized how much being in Congress means to her.’

  ‘The big thing is she got through it.’

  ‘Did you see Joel writhing in his chair?’

  ‘He always writhes. It’s like he’s a little kid in a theater with a horror movie on the screen. He does everything except slap his hands over his face.’

  ‘Every time she paused or seemed even a little bit rattled I thought he might get up and run out of the theater.’

  Over the next few drinks I got her up to speed on most of the gossip in our Chicago shop. She loved the breaking news about two affairs and was sad when she heard that one of her favorite older operatives was retiring because his diabetes was taking his vision.

  I was about to order another round when I happened to glance at the bar and noticed Mae holding her cell phone to one ear and sticking a finger in the other so she could hear above the jukebox. Then she jerked the finger from her ear and waved me over.

  She slapped her cell phone down and shouted to a man standing next to the jukebox. ‘Unplug it, Al.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ he shouted back.

  ‘Damn straight I’m serious. Now unplug it.’

  Not exactly a big job. The man pushed the jukebox away from the wall, leaned down and pulled the plug from the socket.

  The abrupt end to the music startled enough people that Mae didn’t have to shout for attention anymore.

  Her eyes addressed mine before the other customers. ‘My brother just called. He’s still at the university. He said that somebody tried to assassinate Congresswoman Bradshaw when she was leaving the debate tonight. That’s all he knows for sure at this point.’

  Abby and I were out of the booth and half running for the door. I was saying the dirtiest words I could think of under my breath. Some of those emails I’d read this morning flashed into my mind as I got the car started.

  One of those haters or somebody very much like them had delivered the ultimate message tonight. They really did want to take over the country by any means necessary.

  Flashing red emergency lights wounded the chilly, cloudy night sky – two patrol cars and three unmarked police cars, a boxy ambulance and a fire chief’s red sedan, though why it was here I didn’t know.

  The press was being kept a hundred yards or so from the rear doors of the building by a sizable cop in his uniform blue winter jacket. By morning the national press would add to the melee. After the attempted assassination of Congresswoman Gabby Giffords – though she had survived, six had died and thirteen others had been wounded – this would be more evidence that we were truly a gun-crazed country. The foreign press would love it especially. Unfortunately, good and sane people really could make the argument that we had become one of the most violence-crazed countries in the world.

  On the way here the radio had informed us that Jess had not been hurt, nor had anyone else. The shooter had escaped.

  We had to park even further back than the press. Yellow crime-scene tape had cordoned off a large portion of the parking area. By now well-wishers and zombie hunters had arrived; the first to reassure themselves that she was fine and to pay tribute, and the second to wish that she’d really been killed – for political reasons or just because they liked the idea of somebody getting murdered. A near miss was better than nothing.

  The night now smelled of cigarette smoke, gasoline from idling engines and a strong hint of winter. Near the doors I saw Ted talking to a group of reporters. For once his drama queen style was probably appropriate.

  I hadn’t had time to emotionally confront what had happened here. The only thought I had now was about the hunt – finding the bastard who’d tried to k
ill Jess.

  The first cop I saw, I asked, ‘Any idea where Congresswoman Bradshaw is?’

  Suspicion, of course. ‘And you’d be who?’

  ‘Her campaign manager.’

  ‘You have proof of that?’

  I took out my wallet and showed him.

  ‘He’s really the campaign manager,’ Abby said.

  ‘All this proves is that he’s really this Dev Michael Conrad.’

  ‘I just want to know if she’s been taken off the premises here.’

  ‘No, she hasn’t.’

  He walked away and we walked on.

  ‘What an asshole,’ Abby said. Her rage was matched by her sorrow – her voice was trembling. She was much closer to Jess than I was. All I could think of was killing whoever had taken a shot at her.

  ‘Just doing his job.’

  ‘Oh, right, I forgot you were a cop once. At least, sort of. And you guys stick together. The thin black line.’

  ‘Blue.’

  ‘Oh. Right. “Blue.”’

  Abby stopped to talk to a reporter she knew; I walked toward Ted.

  Five uniformed men and women were working a wide area with flashlights and evidence bags. Two others were on the roof of a large black storage shed. The shooter might have fired from there.

  For the next fifteen minutes I walked around. I overheard policemen, average people, reporters. Every once in a while you hear useful things this way. In my army days I’d worked briefly out of Honolulu, where a man who’d been an informant for us had been stabbed to death on the beach at night. I’d been following him but was waylaid by a major traffic accident. By the time I got there, he was dead. But there’d been a party on that section of beach that night so I’d walked around, listening to people talk. A young woman had complained to her friend that a man had practically knocked her down as she was leaving the restroom and her shoulder hurt badly. I’d got his description and we were able to find the killer two days later.