So despite Leif’s growing popularity as a country-rock singer and the name he’d made for himself—at least among those following the peace proceedings in the Middle East—he was way behind his opponent in experience and campaign funding, and his curious choice for running mate had now rallied even more ammunition for his opponents to use against him. And this time there was no Ray Silas to lead the way.
With his selection of Janine Secour, Darren’s star had risen even higher.
And with his selection of Jordan Greene, Leif’s had fallen a little.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Still, Leif’s poll numbers defied all the naysayers.
Coming out of the first four-day event in the Crescent City, Leif had climbed to within a two percent margin of Darren in the polls. Following the second convention in Charm City, Darren’s popularity had inched a little further ahead and he was favored over Leif by ten percent of the popular vote.
“He’s still too close for comfort,” Darren often grumbled to Pete Connor, his closest aides, his family, his wife—basically whoever was within earshot of late.
After the first presidential debate, Darren had originally proclaimed that Leif Mitchell wasn’t even worthy of his time and attention. Now, with the polls showing the gap between them narrowing nearly every day, Darren had to watch what he said in public, increasingly venting his disgust in private.
Chessa grew weary of his constant surly attitude, and late one night after he came home in a particularly bad mood, she couldn’t help but offer the suggestion that he do something about it.
She watched as her husband visibly struggled to hold back his temper, grunting instead of yelling a retort and grabbing a bag of chips and a soda instead of reaching for the closest bottle of anything alcoholic.
Sometimes I think I preferred him when he was drinking, she thought, surprising herself. She had heard an Al-Anon member or two say the same thing out loud at a meeting and often thought the person daft. Now she understood. At least then he wasn’t holding it all in, ready to explode. At least then he could take the edge off. Yeah, I never knew what would happen next, but now I feel like all I’m doing is waiting for the next big storm. I see it brewing, gathering force. Hurricane force.
“Why don’t you try to get an interview on the news or with the paper and go over the issues again? That’s what voters should care about, not your personalities.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Darren growled at her, smashing the nearly empty potato chip bag between his hands. “I have no control over the polls.”
“Well, at least you’re still ahead,” Chessa offered, attempting to cheer him up, trying to keep things peaceful.
“Not far enough,” Darren said, slumping down in an armchair in their living room. “Every time I get a little bit ahead, he does too.” And then he sat up straight, his face lit up. Uh oh, here it comes, another one of his brainstorms, Chessa realized. She had seen that face before. “Instead of trying to get ahead, I think I just need to bring him down.” Darren stood and started pacing the room with agitation. “I need a drink to help me think.”
And before Chessa could protest, Darren reached into the liquor cabinet nearby—there was one in nearly every room of the house—and drank a few gulps of bourbon straight out of the bottle, no ice, no glass.
Soon he was smiling mischievously, his brain hatching a plan.
Chessa quietly slipped up the stairs without him even noticing her exit. She instantly knew intuitively that she would be sorry for what she had wished for just minutes ago.
CHAPTER 13
The commercials started off somewhat innocently enough that early fall.
The first was a contrast of the two candidates. Clips of Darren in public service showed a young man the day he was going off to serve in the Marines, then in his late twenties giving a speech at his alma mater, next as a US Senator dynamically speaking before Congress, and finally as the man today on the campaign trail. These were interspersed with shots of Leif giving a country-rock concert, singing at the Kentucky Derby, grooming a horse at Little River. The commercial ended with shots of Darren and Leif juxtaposed: the former looking very professional in a suit and tie, the latter with a five-o’clock shadow dressed in beat-up jeans, boots, and a cowboy hat. The narrator at the end said, “Who is this guy, Leif Mitchell? And why should Americans trust some backwoods cowboy singer to lead them? We know who Senator Richards is, that he’s a legitimate candidate for United States president, and the only real choice for voters.”
The commercial played everywhere and often, costing millions, but only had a small impact on Leif’s popularity ratings. So Darren’s creative campaign staff writers launched an even more negative series of commercials to follow it in just a week’s time.
The first to air portrayed a young towheaded boy of about eight running through a cornfield. At first he looked playful, then a look of panic came across his face and he ran faster. A somber male announcer’s voice-over said, “If things keep going the way they are, our children will have no place to run from an economy that is dangerously close to collapsing again.” The next camera shot showed Leif Mitchell and President Martin Greene standing in the White House shaking hands, smiling. “President Greene couldn’t boost the economy, with his focus on Middle East countries instead of ours. And now his former son-in-law, Leif Mitchell, has the same wrong focus.” Another shot showed Leif over in Israel, shaking hands with Israeli adults and hugging their children. “If you elect him, we’ll have nothing left to give our own children.” In the final footage, the blond-haired boy was standing hunched over, as if cold and hungry, and was reaching out his hand, looking up with doleful eyes like Tiny Tim. “Like Charles Dickens said, ‘Charity begins at home.’ I’m presidential candidate Darren Richards, and unlike my opponent, I plan to stay in the United States and work with those here at home struggling to find jobs, earn a living, get ahead, and live the American dream.”
The second commercial showed Leif once again shaking hands with Israeli leaders and citizens. Interspersed with that visual were shots of various negative side effects that, according to the announcer on the commercial, were the direct result of President Greene’s tenure in office—problems that would only worsen if people voted for Leif Mitchell. The shots showed a homeless bum, a huge oil spill in the ocean, gas prices rising. The voice said Leif Mitchell’s plan to increase military spending in the Middle East would only make the poor in America poorer. The next shot showed a teenager who looked just like the same blonde-haired boy from the prior commercial making a drug deal on a dim street corner. “Protect America…vote for Darren Richards. He’s a family man. He cares about our families.” While this last line was read, the camera showed Darren and Chessa standing together waving to the crowd at the convention. They were smiling, happy.
When Chessa saw it air, she had to admit to herself that she looked pretty good, and she looked happy. She only wished she felt the way she appeared.
Leif, who didn’t have a tenth of Darren’s coffers, stuck to a more grassroots campaign, which included minimal television advertising, his commercials remaining positive and sticking to his agenda to keep America safe by keeping peace abroad, creating jobs to boost the economy by supporting big business through incentives and a ban on tax hikes, and a “less is more when it comes to government” motto. He was pro-life and pro-prayer and argued that God had created America as a great nation and that America owed God its gratitude. And he stated that America should show its gratitude accordingly, as the founding forefathers had planned—by saying the Pledge of Allegiance with its “one nation under God” at all public functions and singing songs at all national events like “America the Beautiful,” with its ode to the divine Creator, expressed in the words, “God shed His grace on thee.”
He also promoted his relatively humble beginnings and faith that God would lead him to victory if it be His will. He spoke at shopping malls, American Legion halls, churches, wome
n’s societies, unions, and religious groups—anyone who would have him.
His campaign staff, led by the energetic boy wonder Logan Reese, worked from the same headquarters that Leif had set up when he ran for governor. Leif worked from his home base at the governor’s mansion but was rarely there, flying all over the country to get his message out while Logan kept the office humming.
Meanwhile, Darren was increasingly sulky around everyone seeing that the commercials, aired during prime-time shows, the network news, and even NFL games—and costing him tens of millions of dollars—were still not affecting his opponent very much.
“I just don’t get it,” Darren said one night after he and Chessa had finished dinner. “A year ago no one had ever heard of Leif Mitchell. This guy starts out as a nobody, a horse farmer. Okay, so he wins as governor. Then suddenly he’s a leading presidential candidate, and nothing I say or do will defeat him. I thought with Ray Silas dying the guy wouldn’t stand a chance. But it’s like he’s untouchable, being guided or protected by something, someone powerful.”
“Maybe you’re reading too much into it all,” Chessa offered, still trying to be the dutifully supportive wife and cheerleader and pacify him. “You’re still in the lead, right?”
“Not by much. The election’s only two months away. I’ve got to come up with something.”
“I don’t see how your commercials can get much tougher,” Chessa said out loud, instantly wishing she hadn’t.
“Whose side are you on anyway?”
Chessa saw the gleam of derision in her husband’s eyes, then watched as his countenance changed from dour to delighted with himself, again brightening with an apparent idea. “Hmmm…you’ve just hit on something.”
“That your commercials can’t get any tougher?” Chessa was puzzled.
“No, that they’re still not tough enough. We’re holding back. We just need to find the nail to drive in the coffin, so to speak.”
Chessa willed herself not to frown, trying to hide what she was feeling. This doesn’t sound good, she thought. I can’t imagine how his commercials could get much nastier.
Up until lately she had thought her husband was making progress spiritually and emotionally, treating her with more respect and keeping his anger at bay. But now…now he’s acting just as sick as ever, she realized. Why did I think he would change?
And that night Chessa got on her knees and said the Serenity Prayer, asking God for the grace and strength to do the next right thing, and to do His will, whatever that might be.
Darren and Pete Connor were having a brainstorming session one crisp autumn afternoon in their Manhattan headquarters office on Ninth and Broadway when a young college intern burst through the front door, out of breath, and claimed he had “the answer.”
“You’re not going to believe this,” the young man said excitedly, out of breath from hurrying past cubicles where staffers talked on phones soliciting contributions, typed up databases for direct mail campaigns, and monitored all of the social media and news.
“Calm down and come into my office.” Darren beckoned the student—a scrawny Asian teenager wearing an NYU sweatshirt and baggy jeans—to enter the enclosed private room in the back of the first-floor offices. He sat down behind a large desk, motioning for Pete and the kid to sit across from him. Behind him hung a huge red, white, and blue poster on the wall with his photo that read “Senator Darren Richards for President.”
“Have a seat, take a deep breath, and tell us.” Darren leaned back in his typical composed state, rolling up the sleeves of his starched white shirt.
Pete crossed his arms, obviously impatient that he and his boss were being interrupted. He too wore a dress shirt and pants. He had kept his well-built physique from his college football days, when he and Darren had met and become instant buddies. Although he was clearly a little leery of the Asian student’s excitement and how urgent his message could possibly be, Pete didn’t say anything since Darren was in the room and appeared willing to give the kid his attention.
The student sat down breathing heavily and opened a book bag he had been carrying. He pulled out a rumpled piece of paper and pushed it across the desk.
Darren’s eyes opened wide in genuine surprise. In his hand he held a copy of a medical release form from MedStar Washington Hospital Center signed by Wendy Mitchell. At the top it clearly stated the words “Voluntary Informed Consent for Medical Abortion.” He gazed at the paper, his mouth wide open. “Shut the door behind you,” he softly commanded the intern, who obeyed him with a small smile of satisfaction.
Darren slid the paper over to Pete, whose mouth dropped open as he read it. “Where did you get this?” Pete’s tone was incredulous.
The student proceeded to tell them that he knew someone who worked as a nurse at the hospital and had come across the form, copied it, and given it to him to bring to the campaign office.
“No offense, son, but why should I believe this is legitimate? You need to tell me who this nurse is, how he or she found this paper, and then why in the world that person would give it to you.” Darren kept his tone even in an effort to conceal his amazement.
The Asian boy looked down, obviously worried.
“You want to protect this person, huh?” Darren asked. The boy nodded. “Well, I’m sorry, son, but without that information this is useless. But let me tell you what—I give you my word that no one outside of the two of us here in this office will ever know what you tell me.”
“It’s my mom,” the boy said almost inaudibly. “She wants me to do well in America. She wanted me to get some credit here and figured if I help you, you’d remember me when you become president of the United States. My dad died a few years ago, and my mom doesn’t speak English very well. She scrapes together all she has for me to attend the university. She wants me to become someone important one day. I’m majoring in political science.” The student looked at each of them and smiled with pride.
“Okay, I believe you so far.” Pete learned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “But how did your mom get this in her possession?”
“She was the nurse on duty when Mrs. Mitchell had her abortion.”
“Shhhh.” Pete held his forefinger up to his pursed lips and then motioned with his hands for the boy to keep his voice down.
“She was instructed to shred the paper immediately, but she had already made a copy, as she usually did, for safekeeping,” the boy whispered. “This is the copy.”
Darren and Pete exchanged glances and allowed themselves a smile of satisfaction, delighting in the wondrous possibilities this would open up. Darren suddenly rose and shook the young man’s hand across the desk. He saw in his bright eyes the hope that he would be rewarded. “Thank you, young man. I can assure you that I will remember you when it comes time to fill my new staff after I’m elected.”
The student grinned, thanked him, and sauntered out of the offices. Darren knew he was probably lying to the young fellow. He didn’t even like Orientals. But, the consummate politician, he said what he needed to say to accomplish the mission at hand.
Chessa thought perhaps she was imagining things when she heard what sounded like a champagne cork popping. But minutes later she found out her hearing was correct.
Darren entered their master bedroom carrying two stemmed flutes in one hand and a chilled magnum of Dom Perignon in the other.
He was smiling victoriously.
“Did I lose track of time? Did you win the election already?” Chessa tried to be light and witty to mask her feeling of foreboding upon seeing the champagne and her husband’s already giddy demeanor. It looks like he’s already drank a bottle, she thought.
“No, silly, although when I tell you what I just found out, you’ll see why we have reason to celebrate the fact that I am now a shoo-in. But first—a toast to my wife, the next First Lady of the United States of America.” Darren poured the bubbly into the glasses, handed her one, clinked his glass to hers, and downed his contents in one
gulp. “Now wait until you hear this.”
Darren imparted to Chessa all he had learned that afternoon from the young intern. “Can you believe it? That arrogant country singer has the whole world believing he’s pro-life and pro-family when in fact his own wife had an abortion! Wait until we run a commercial about this!”
Chessa must have been frowning outright because Darren stopped smiling and was staring at her. “So once again you’re not happy for me?” His smile flipped downward into a menacing grimace. “I’m beginning to think you’re not going to vote for your own husband.”
Chessa couldn’t help but look at the empty glass in Darren’s hand as he stood beside the bed where she sat, propped up against some pillows, the book she had been reading overturned in her lap. He had already poured and drank four glasses while telling her his juicy story. She had inadvertently counted.
He saw her eyes turn dark green as she gazed at the empty glass. “Come on, Chessa!” Darren was clearly exasperated. “This is only champagne in a tiny glass. I wanted to celebrate the good news with you. I’m done now.” He put the cork back in the bottle and sat it down on an end table.
“It’s not just the drinking, Darren.” Chessa found the words slipping from her mouth before she could stop them.
“Then what is it?” She could see anger starting to brew as he began to pace the floor in front of the bed. “You would think my own wife would want to celebrate with me, but instead, here you are, being all negative and worried again.”
“Are you sure this is true? And even if it is, do you really want to go down this path?” Chessa startled herself with her outburst. Why do I care?
“Of course it’s true. After the kid came in and talked to us, Pete Connor vetted him and verified everything. And what do you mean, ‘down this path’?”
The Peace Maker Page 19
