If Democrats seemed incompetent, Republicans were craven. They’d spent twenty years attacking the legitimacy of the press and of governing itself, so it wasn’t too surprising when their constituents didn’t care about the truth or believe government could or should do anything. Maybe the only shock was that the press itself was so goddamn vulnerable to those critiques and bent over backward to prove their lack of bias through both sides-ism.
After the 2016 election, the truth of it had splashed over Adam: the system wasn’t a thought experiment, and it hadn’t ever been one. Cynicism infected everything, made everything worthless. He’d only been able to pretend because he was isolated from the consequences of government policy as a rich white guy. But if the country couldn’t find some hope again, they might as well pack it in and let the zombies take over.
All of that had churned in his gut for the better part of a year. Fermenting. Growing more corrosive. Then he’d walked into a meeting where a client and senior partner had instructed him to write legislation to attack public sector unions, and he’d said no. Not just no, but hell no.
The truly unfortunate part was his confidence hadn’t lasted, and he’d gone home and had a breakdown. Had he actually trashed his career because of some idealistic bullshit? What the fuck?
He’d marched back in his office the next day and apologized. They’d offered him a one-year sabbatical, and then Chad had hauled him into his lifeboat. Adam wasn’t sure what he’d done had been pure or stupid or both. He was paddling too hard for those kinds of questions.
“Chad knows everyone in the party,” Adam told Maddie. “Hell, everyone in the state. And I’ve spent a lot of time glad-handing in the past five months. We’ve hired a good speech writer, a fundraiser, some PR folks. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need you, if I didn’t think this was achievable. I know what I’m asking is a sacrifice, but you should take this leap.”
She was still now. So very still. Then she leaned back in her chair and crossed one ankle over the other. “That’s…admirable.”
“You make that sound like a bad thing.”
“No. I’m just kind of surprised to hear all of that coming from you.”
“Maybe I’d surprise you a lot if you got to know me.”
“I doubt it.” Her words were sweet-tart. “And besides, I don’t want to be a politician.”
So he threw his hand grenade, the line he knew would get her. “When people like you don’t get involved, who the hell do you think gets in the game?”
She swallowed and turned her attention to the chipping paint on the tabletop.
Nobody wanted to be a politician. Well, scratch that, nobody ethical did, but they were precisely the people who should. Their hesitation was why they had to. Their hesitation meant they’d be better than all the people who hadn’t hesitated.
He tugged a bit more on the strings. “We need people who don’t want to be in politics to get into politics, and you know it too. And to throw one more log on the fire, why can this state elect Democrats to the US Senate and the governor’s mansion, but not to the legislature?”
“The last person to challenge Hoagland was…terrible,” she admitted, though she still didn’t look up. “I can’t even remember his name.”
“Yup. People split their ballots. They voted for Hoagland, and they voted for Democrats in other races. That’s just bizarre. We have to get new blood, better blood, into these races. If we do, we can win.”
Maddie drained her beer and set it aside. Her fingers were fidgety. She was so close to saying yes.
“My job, though,” she finally said. “I’d have to take a leave of absence to campaign. Who would help my clients while I was off on this quixotic clusterfuck?”
He’d had no idea she was so foul mouthed, and he loved it. They’d have to get her to nip that in the bud, at least in public. The fact that she was considering minutiae was fantastic—it showed she was taking him seriously.
“The money part is a bummer. In federal elections, campaigns can pay challengers while they’re running—but not in Montana races. You can continue to work and run for office here, but your job is pretty demanding.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“You’d probably want to take at least a few weeks of leave before the election, and you’d be relying on your savings. I’m not certain if we could slot a temporary replacement in for you or not. When you win, though, you can keep being a public defender. Dual state employment is totally legal since the legislature only meets a few months a year. The pay sucks, but you already know that.”
She blew out a long breath. “I guess you’ve thought of everything.”
“Let’s find out.” At the very least, he had a hundred more arguments, but he suspected if he made them, she’d only get into a defensive posture and he didn’t want her to say no to him again. Repeating that pattern wasn’t helpful.
Also, he hated hearing her turn him down.
He stood up and set some money on the table. He had to trust that he’d done enough. “Let’s agree to this instead: you’ll think about it this weekend.”
“Okay, but—”
“We can stop there. I like okay. I’m going to email you a packet with all the details, and you have my cell phone number. Call anytime. But you should know that Monday is the filing deadline, and you’re the only one I’m asking in this district.”
She tipped her head back to look at him, and he enjoyed the glow of the bar’s neon across her cheeks, down her neck, and along her collar bones. Red and blue on one side of her face, green on the other. He wanted to kiss every divot and shadow—but more than that, he wanted to see her kick Mike Hoagland’s ass.
“There isn’t a Democrat in the race right now?”
“Nope. He’ll be unchallenged unless you get in it.”
“He’s such a waste of space.”
“Let’s knock him off the board, then.” After a few beats, he added, “Please say yes, Maddie.”
She didn’t answer, but he could feel her eyes on him all the way to the door.
3
Maddie tried not to think about her conversations with Adam. If it had been a debate, he’d made a good case: there were clear harms—her current legislator was terrible—and if Adam managed to get more Democrats elected, some advantages.
So instead of pummeling his case as she should’ve, she’d been intrigued.
Clearly that was a mistake.
Take the inherency: she couldn’t win. There were structural hurdles he couldn’t just wave away—there was no fiat in real life.
Plus, his plan had too many steps (effects topicality!) and running to make a point would hurt her job and clients. If it had been a round, she would have run a Heidegger kritik and been done with it.
But this wasn’t debate. When people like you don’t get involved, who the hell do you think gets into the game? Adam’s words floated in her mind at the grocery store, on the treadmill, and when she tried to work.
She knew the answer too: Mike fucking Hoagland. His only constituencies were gas and mining companies and industrial farmers. Actual people, the ones he should’ve been helping, he ignored except to get them worked up about regulation and liberals chipping away at constitutional rights. He’d poisoned the well and was now complaining about the price of bottled water. It was an elegant, if contemptuous, solution.
So Sunday morning, she texted Adam. I’m not saying yes. But when someone runs, aren’t they exactly like their opponents? Thinking they have the all the answers?
He responded almost immediately. The difference is you’re right.
Well, that’s handy.
You have the facts on your side. Plus, there’s no self-interest or grift at play here.
Not from me, maybe. But for you… ; )
Damn it, why had she added a flirty emoji?
Adam was…well, the years had been kind to him. Filling out his lanky frame and adding some maturity. She’d been expecting the same irreverent k
id she’d known, the guy who loved to play Devil’s advocate and took nothing literally, but he’d turned into a thoughtful, idealistic man. Frankly, he’d made her feel like an asshole for assuming the worst about him.
Maddie had wanted to press him, to ask more about it, if only because she’d gone through something similar in college. Sociology classes had changed her from a shallow moderate to someone who wanted to burn the system down and start fresh. That didn’t mean she should accept Adam’s offer, of course—and it definitely didn’t mean she should send him flirty texts—but his transformation threw her all the same.
Luckily, he ignored her emoji misstep and answered, That you’d wonder about this makes me more certain than ever you should run.
That was clearly toadyism, but the rest she couldn’t dismiss as easily.
The next morning, she assembled the day’s mélange of paperwork. She also printed out the required candidacy forms, signed them, and slid them into a file folder. Just in case.
Driving in the pale dawn light, Maddie headed to the county jail for some first appearance hearings—domestic violence, drunk driving, disorderly conduct—and then she met with clients before driving back to her office.
“I know about the hearing at the district court at 11,” she called to Ruth. “I just forgot to print the plea agreement.” Because she’d been distracted by things she wasn’t going to do, like run for political office.
“There’s a message from Judge Roscoe on your desk. Looks urgent. I put it on the top of the pile.”
Juvenile court was the bane of Maddie’s existence because the kids’ stories were crushingly, unrelentingly sad. Parents who were abusive or absent, indifferent schools, homelessness, hunger, a lack of opportunity… Her juvenile clients all too often had never had a chance.
“Thanks. I’ll take a look.”
As her ancient office printer grinded away, she read her messages. At any given time, Maddie might have seventy or even a hundred cases. The week days were for putting out fires and her weekends and evenings were for getting caught up. Every client mattered, every case was important. She couldn’t abandon them.
In staying here and taking this job, she’d made a commitment. She wasn’t flighty and dissatisfied like those other people. She had roots, and they didn’t make her tetchy. She could thrive where she’d been planted, damn it.
But Adam was saying she didn’t have to choose.
It was discombobulating, and she didn’t have time to get turned upside down even if she might be able to do a lot of good there.
Hours later, after she settled one case and took some more calls and did another hearing over a video link, she curled up on a bench outside the election office at the Hill County Courthouse to write a request for admission on her phone.
Decision time.
Adam had said she would be candidate number eight. Eight progressives running in winnable districts. If he stuck around for another cycle, presumably there’d be another eight candidates. Maybe more.
And with control of the legislature, anything was possible.
They could do sentencing and policing reform. They could prioritize treatment and prevention. They could help kids so they didn’t end up in juvenile court in the first place.
On the other side there was the possibility of failure—public, expensive, crushing failure. Plus, it would distract her from her work. It might even suggest she wasn’t satisfied with her work.
But if she wasn’t going to challenge Mike Hoagland, no one was.
She slid her phone away and opened the folder. All paperwork looked the same really—innocuous, boring. If she submitted these papers, though, everything would change.
Through the window into the office, she could see the assistant chatting with someone in the back. The clock behind him read eleven minutes to closing time. Then he turned off one of the lamps.
“We certainly never leave right on time,” she muttered. But later, Maddie would say that being rushed pushed her over the edge.
Legs trembling, she crossed the hall and opened the door. “I, uh, have an oath of candidacy for you.”
The guy chuckled. “You’re squeaking in under the wire. Come on in.”
A few minutes later, she sent Adam a text. Okay. I’m in.
Three weeks later, Maddie stood backstage at her first campaign rally. On the other side of an ad hoc red curtain were her campaign’s mostly high school and college-aged volunteers, her family, Ruth and some other people from her work, and a handful of other supporters. Someone was playing guitar on the stage, and then she was supposed to give a speech. Her. A political speech.
From the moment she’d decided to challenge Hoagland, Montana Tomorrow, Adam and Chad’s company, had taken over.
All of the staff had descended on her house the Saturday after she’d filed. They had opinions about her hair style and clothing, what role her family should play in the campaign, when she should take her leave at work, how they should design her website, and the way she should talk on social media.
Even her personal life.
“Do you have a boyfriend? A fiancé?” Chad had asked. “Any romantic thing that will affect the campaign?”
“Um, no.” She hadn’t had the time or inclination to date since law school, and there was a decided lack of single men—at least ones who didn’t have a problem with her job or politics—in Fallow. “There hasn’t been anything interesting in that department for years.”
She’d glanced across her living room and caught Adam watching her with curiosity, but his attention had immediately skittered toward the fireplace.
Yeah, that was probably safer.
“There doesn’t tend to be a lot of attention on candidates’ personal lives in races like this, but since you’re single, Hoagland’s gonna bring it up.” Chad had grimaced apologetically. “Maybe not directly, but he’ll talk about his family and Montana values. Lots of pictures with of him with the grandkids. That sort of thing.”
“Whereas I’m a cold, lonely career woman who uses taxpayer money to defend violent criminals?”
“That’s what he’ll say, yes.”
“Awesome. So glad I’m doing this.”
“You put yourself through law school and work for the integrity of the justice system. You don’t need to apologize.” Those had been Adam’s first words since arriving at her house. His voice was low, earnest.
She’d wished he’d go back to being an asshole. It was easier when he was an asshole. But matching his tone, she’d said, “I’m not.”
The look he’d given her made her chest burn.
After more questions, the social media and technology guy, Garrett, and the speechwriter, Kendra, had dragged her out to a field on her aunt and uncle’s farm to record a campaign announcement video.
The words had felt sharp in her mouth, and she suddenly didn’t know what to do with her hands. “My name is Madison Clark, and I’m running because I have a progressive vision for Montana.”
Should she say she was a progressive, or should she try to sound like a moderate? Should she lead with criminal justice reform, which wasn’t popular, or go with something softer, like a renewable energy agenda for the Hi-Line?
They did several different versions, but eventually Adam had said, “This isn’t working. She sounds all focus grouped. Let’s do it again, but this time, only talk to me, Maddie. Just off the cuff, tell me why you want to do this.”
“I doubt they’ll let me use that kind of language,” she’d teased.
“See, you’re already better.”
With his smile fizzling in her blood, she’d looked at the camera again. “I’m running because I know the people of my district.”
That felt more natural, more like her, and it was true. “They need better schools and more opportunities. Kids take off because there aren’t many good paying jobs here, but the communities they leave are decimated. Mining is destroying our land and climate change is damaging our agriculture. People are strugg
ling without treatment or rehabilitation options and then ending up in expensive prisons that don’t make us safe and only injure lives and families. I’m—”
She’d wet her lips, trying to think of the right word. “A pragmatist. I’ve spent my life working hard to make our criminal justice system fair. What I realized is I was staunching problems rather than fixing the things that cause them. Mike Hoagland has been in the legislature for more than a decade, and he hasn’t improved his constituents’ lives at all. But I will, and that’s why I’m running.”
A few seconds had ticked by.
“Garrett, did you get all of that?” Adam had asked.
“Yup.”
“The sound levels are good?”
“Perfect.”
“Get it out, then. That’s the one.”
Once they’d edited it and boosted the colors or something to make the wheat behind her impossibly green, it had gone viral.
“You’ve raised nearly $20,000 in two weeks,” Adam had told her over the phone during a daily check-in call.
The number shocked the hell out of her, especially given the $170 per person campaign contribution limit. “Why are all those people giving me money?”
“You’re young, pretty, articulate. You’re passionate about justice. It’s why we wanted you to run.”
“Aww, you think I’m pretty?”
Adam hadn’t answered, just moved on to something else, and she’d wanted the words back. Why did she keep baiting him?
Even now, he leaned against the wall next to her, looking way too attractive in a suit that hadn’t come from Men’s Warehouse and typing on his phone.
When he’d asked her to run, it had sounded personal, like he’d be the one by her side. But Montana Tomorrow was a bigger and more professional operation than she’d realized—and that made her a little sad.
Rogue Hearts Page 5
