Elimination Read online

  He’d had a failed marriage, two trips to rehab for alcoholism and several serious investments that had gone wrong. Ted’s offer to work in the Washington office was seen by most people as an act of pity. But they were wrong. Few Congressional offices worked as smoothly and efficiently as Jess’s office.

  While Joel ate, the three of us gossiped about the latest D.C. rumors. Half of them were outright lies started by bitter enemies, but some of them were at least funny, especially a high-ranking congressman so fed up with the bathroom wait at a fancy party (apparently he was too drunk to realize there were two other bathrooms on the first floor of the mansion) that he pissed in a goldfish bowl.

  It was always fun to hear Joel laugh. Even his eyes gleamed. The high drama and high silliness of Washington had given him his own world to play in. And find acceptance in. Even a few of the people on the other side – the ones who showered at least once a month and visited their dentists at least once a decade – admired and liked Joel. He’d also made a good number of friends through the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings that many Hill staffers attended. Joel went four times a week.

  Abby said, ‘You know they’ll hit us with something at the debate. Have one of their questioners try to put Jess on the spot with something reprehensible.’

  Joel said, ‘Dorsey’s people love hanging abortions on other candidates. In this district you’ve got almost a majority who are right-to-life.’

  Abby said, ‘They also like that three-way thing.’

  ‘Wrong district. Won’t work here. Very conservative voters. That’s unthinkable to them. They wouldn’t believe it.’ He slipped out of the booth. ‘Well, if I don’t see you two before, I’ll see you at the debate. Thanks again for coming out here for a couple of days, Dev.’

  ‘My pleasure, Joel.’

  After he’d gone, Abby said, ‘I’ve always wanted to date a boy like him. Just, you know, out of curiosity.’

  ‘What stopped you?’

  ‘Are you kidding? I couldn’t find any. I was in the wrong crowd.’

  ‘The curse of being a cheerleader.’

  ‘You’ll never let me live that down, will you, Conrad?’ But she’d started giggling.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I never will.’

  THREE

  We’d heard rumors that men (and maybe women) with guns would show up that night to protest against the appearance of our congresswoman, who had apparently just returned from ‘Islamia’ where she’d learned how to implement Sharia law and had helped to plan the ultimate invasion of Islamists on the red, white and blue soil of the USA.

  This was happening in all sections of the country; the gunslingers wanted to show off their hardware and their strange, perplexing views of our Constitution.

  It was fully dark by six o’clock so the temperature was in the high thirties by the time the debate attendees showed up.

  With my head still full of all the threatening emails I’d read, I stood outside the entrance of the university auditorium watching people come inside. The crowd was about what I expected.

  In the old days the supporters of the other side would generally have been better dressed and more reserved. But such issues as abortion, gun rights, gay rights and education had changed the (if you’ll forgive the jargon) psychographics.

  Driven mostly by women, the shift to our side had been in process since the first Bush administration. This left the male vote heavily in favor of people like Dorsey, and you could see that in his supporters. Blue-collar and white-collar merged and their behavior was boisterous as they filed into the building and then into the auditorium.

  But they were no less boisterous than the women and men on our side, who were hoping for an outright knockout.

  There were six uniformed police officers bundled up in winter jackets and caps. Security was always heavy for these events. Some directed traffic as parking spaces began to disappear, while others walked the perimeter military style.

  I didn’t pay any particular attention to the old, tan-colored van. I saw it swing into the large parking lot and then be directed to a spot far down the line.

  I went back to assessing the people walking inside the building. There was a lot of laughter, a lot of camaraderie, a lot of anticipation. A good old political debate, and it was encouraging to see that both sides had turned out so many people.

  I heard the shouting before I was able to see, far down the wide central lane, what was going on. A pair of men toting AK-47s were walking fast toward the building. They were being pursued by another pair of men, these two happening to be police officers.

  Let the drama begin.

  The odds were greatly against the show-offs shooting anybody. What they wanted was to prove they had the right to bring guns of any kind anywhere they chose. This was the Second Amendment argument the gun nuts were always yapping about. They wanted attention and they would certainly get it. Within a few minutes some of the TV newspeople inside would hear about the confrontation outside and they would be out here with cameras and microphones making history. At least on the ten o’clock local news.

  More officers joined in. Three of them stepped in front of the pair with the weapons and blocked their passage.

  People were still parking and walking toward the door. But now they stopped and began to form a crowd. Not many of them looked happy about the weapons. They’d likely seen incidents like this on TV so pretty much knew the script – men and women with AK-47s were walking into chain restaurants. This had happened several times in our country lately. But seeing men with AK-47s on TV was different from seeing them only yards away. The TV people, maybe half a dozen of them, forced me to stand back as they bolted from the door as if the building was being engulfed in flames.

  A gift from the gods.

  An angry TV debate.

  And guns!

  The police had maneuvered the duo off to the side and even further down the wide lane. Three police officers dealt with them while the other three split up the crowd and waved it on to the building.

  The conversation of those filing in had changed. It was no longer about their candidate or the debate. It was instead about the pair with the weapons. With one exception – a rather staid older man in a pinstriped suit and rimless eyeglasses – I didn’t hear anybody defend the show-offs. He was talking about the Founding Fathers and how they would have approved making stands like this one. Apparently he’d been beamed down from the mother ship just in time for the debate.

  I wish I had an explosive ending for this little tale. Fortunately, I don’t. The cops, who handled it very well, quietly convinced the boys to save themselves and the taxpayers a lot of time and money by heading back to their van and going anywhere they chose – sans their weapons, which, even with the insane right-to-carry law in effect, were still illegal when displayed this way.

  The duo complied. I was too far away to hear what was said but I knew there had been a few sharp words (‘Constitution’ could be heard several times). Then the tone started to sound downright civil.

  The TV folks returning to the building moved much more slowly and looked much less alert than they had rushing out of the building. A few minutes of guys with big, frightening guns was all right but, hell, nobody had even pushed or shoved anyone. Damn. Maybe the anticlimactic ending made for bad TV, but as the night played out I would remember it as a portent.

  FOUR

  The modern TV debate requires the kind of schooling few candidates are prepared for. If it’s done properly, the staff spends all available time pounding facts into their employer’s head. Every possible issue, every useful piece of the opponent’s backstory and several useful attack lines – hopefully ones that at least sting if not wound. All of these are put on cards so they can be studied over and over. There is also time spent on anecdotes that will indicate how concerned the candidate is about the common welfare. Other anecdotes are used to demonstrate how unconcerned your opponent is about the plight of average people.

  Fin
ally the campaign manager and the staff settle on two or three points that the candidate will make again and again in the course of the debate. Catchwords and catchphrases. If the voters remember nothing else they will hopefully remember these words and points.

  Then, usually for the campaign manager comes the showbiz side of the debate. What kind of clothing, what kind of makeup, what kind of lighting. You have your makeup person, your speech coach and your personal TV dude. You can spend as long as a full day working on the stage where the debate will be held. You use a stand-in to make sure that you get every aspect of appearance and angle the way you need it. Earlier arguments would have resolved which reporters would be asking the questions.

  The real wild card that night would be the audience questions. Fifteen minutes had been reserved for that. I had planted three voters – hopefully at least one of them would get through – ready and eager to humiliate Dorsey. Of course, he’d have his own plants ready and eager to ask Jess humiliating questions. For us this would be the wildest of wild-card moments. What had their oppo research rattlesnakes turned up on us?

  I walked backstage. Rain dripped from my Burberry, so I tore it off and parked it on a chair next to a security guard, reasoning he’d watch over it for me. I asked him where I’d find Congresswoman Bradshaw and he said room four.

  Backstage was crowded. As I worked my way toward Jess’s room I saw two of Dorsey’s people talking to a collection of reporters. They’d be telling the same kind of lies I usually did. Just earning their paychecks.

  When I got to the dressing room I knocked and heard the unmistakable sound of Ted in full lecture mode.

  ‘Honey, they want to see you warm. They want to see you maternal. That’s where Dev and Abby are wrong—’

  My knock interrupted him. Dev and Abby dumb; Ted brilliant.

  A Washington columnist favorable to us once noted that ‘lovely Congresswoman Bradshaw and her handsome husband Ted eschew the party scene, staying home to study issues their constituents are avid about.’

  I would stand the columnist up against the wall and open fire for his use of ‘eschew’ and ‘avid’ and for telling the kind of lie Washington insiders would gloat over while they sipped their martinis.

  In fact, the Bradshaws had to be dragged from the various balls and parties and ‘dos’ they attended four or five nights a week. She’d spent her summers in the Hamptons and studied for two years in Paris, where she’d done some modeling. He’d spent his teens and early twenties trying to fashion a professional tennis career for himself, but having failed that, he married Jess and took up the task of trying to fashion a political career for his wife. In addition to looks and money, they had what all politicians need: a neurotic – not to say psychotic – ambition to not only stay in office but to advance in office.

  One more term in the House and Jess would announce for Senate.

  I admired Jess more than liked her. She had that slight air of condescension all wealthy liberals have when they address the woes of average people, but her relentless battles fought for the poor and the helpless overcame it. She also had the same condescension for people she employed, including me and my staff.

  Ted was a pain in the ass. They’d had two campaign managers previous to me and they both had the same problem – having Ted override their decisions. Jess had almost lost one election cycle because Ted insisted that they do things his way.

  Ted loved being on TV. Some in the press (even the so-called ‘liberal’ press; if only they really were all that liberal) felt that the two had a Bill and Hillary Clinton problem. He was bright and shallow, known to stray from the marriage vows most folks attempt to honor. He’d always wondered why Bill Clinton had gotten in trouble over a simple blow job. ‘What the hell? Who hasn’t gotten a blow job here or there?’ I assumed he never asked Jess this question.

  In taking the job I’d made Jess honor a blood pact. Jess and I were the final authorities. If she sided too often with Ted, I would quit; if Ted went around me on an issue, I would quit; and if Ted had any contact with the press without prior agreement with me, I would quit.

  I took care of his TV lust by having a media buyer in Chicago help me set up a half-hour TV show for Ted on Saturday afternoons. She got many sponsors because Ted would interview people on both sides of the aisle and talk about what the guests had done to improve the lives of people across the state. Sponsors loved it because it made them look patriotic and civic-minded, and Ted loved it because it was enough of a success to get him invited to Rotary Clubs and schools to speak.

  As I was saying, my knock interrupted Ted telling Jess that my (and Abby’s) idea was dumb and his, of course, was brilliant.

  The room was small, holding only a makeup table complete with a mirror encircled with some electric bulbs and a counter packed with mysterious items for beauty, three wooden chairs and a movable metal rack holding empty hangers.

  ‘I’d say she looks pretty damned good,’ Ted said.

  ‘How’re you feeling, Jess?’

  ‘Oh, not bad, Dev. I just hope I don’t fuck up. I’m really nervous about this.’

  ‘Oh, honey, you’re not going to fuck up. Tell her, Dev; tell her she’s not going to fuck up.’

  I said, without smiling, ‘Did you hear that, Jess? Ted said you’re not going to fuck up. That’s good enough for me.’

  They loved their jousting.

  ‘Dev, would you please tell Ted for me he’s an idiot?’

  ‘Just remember, honey, maternal. That way you’ll get the “lady” vote.’

  Ah, yes, the much sought-after ‘lady’ vote. I had tried, Abby had tried and Jess herself had tried to convince Ted that in this era voters wanted strong female candidates. They didn’t care if the candidate was good in bed or even good in the kitchen. Women were the equal of men in this arena (personally, I would have been happier if the Congress was sixty percent women) and voters wanted women who exemplified strength.

  ‘I’m doing this for your sake, honey.’

  What happened next was one of those moments you never forget. Years later it would come back to me and still have impact.

  Their daughter, Katherine, was sitting on a folding chair in a corner. She was the image of her mother, that indelible a match right down to the freckles across the perfect nose.

  She was wearing a brown dress that made her all the more slender. Low heels and carefully brushed blonde hair completed her conservative look. She knew how to dress for her mother’s public. She’d been very sick for a time and was still pale.

  She said, ‘Just be strong, Mom. Stand up to him every time he lies.’

  And that was when Ted turned on her. ‘Since when did you start giving your mother advice? Everything you tell her is wrong. You should be out there with the rest of the crowd. In fact, get the hell out of here right now!’

  I suppose her ‘be strong’ suggestion went against his ‘be maternal’ idea, but there was a hysteria in his voice that was chilling. Ted had once slapped a male staffer. He did not like to be told he was wrong.

  But Katherine was his daughter. And she sure hadn’t deserved his rage.

  ‘Oh, honey, don’t get so worked up. It’s not good for you,’ Jess said.

  ‘I know. I’m just worried about the polls, Jess. That’s all.’

  This startled me. Shouldn’t she have been soothing Katherine? And shouldn’t he be apologizing to Katherine?

  But all Jess said was, ‘Don’t be upset with your dad, Katherine. You know how overwrought he can get.’

  Katherine wasn’t as hurt as I thought she should be, either. ‘Oh, I’m used to it. If I got upset every time he yelled at me, I wouldn’t have time for anything else. I just wish he’d take Xanax the way you and I do.’

  ‘Well, I need to get going.’

  Ted strode to Jess and kissed her on the cheek. Then he went to the door and was gone.

  It was a full minute before anybody spoke once he was gone.

  ‘Poor Dad. I feel so sorry
for him.’

  ‘Yes, honey, so do I.’ Jess kissed Katherine’s forehead.

  Apparently it was me, not them. This was the way you treated your daughters these days.

  FIVE

  What we were about to see was the civilized equivalent of a prize fight. There wouldn’t be any blood but there would no doubt be injuries. And while neither fighter would end up in the hospital, one of them might end up doomed to looking back on this night forever. Going over and over it, reliving with exquisite pain all the ways they’d humiliated themselves and lost the election.

  The stage was filled with hurrying, scurrying TV techs checking sound and lighting. I turned around to get a look at the imposing auditorium. Lots of laughter and hellos and good lucks as the crowds chose their preferred side of the aisle. About half of them were in stylish attire for men and women alike. Again, like a prize fight.

  Abby, Ted, Joel, Katherine and I sat next to each other in the front row on our side of the auditorium.

  There was applause as the two candidates walked onstage. Jess waved and smiled. She took up her position behind the podium.

  Trent Dorsey wore a dark suit with a white shirt and a red power tie. The grin that was always close to a sneer was firmly in place as he situated himself behind his own podium.

  A middle-aged woman from the Voters’ League walked to center stage and, much like a referee, gave us a quick lesson in proper behavior for TV debates.

  Then the three reporters filed onstage and took their seats behind a desk. I was familiar with all of them. A conservative, a liberal and a young woman who seemed to be an actual independent thinker.

  The fun started.

  Judged by boxing standards, I had to give the first twenty minutes of the sixty-minute debate to Dorsey. He was his usual bellicose – read asshole – self.

  He played all his greatest hits.

  ‘It’s time all the real patriots in this country take our country back.’ … ‘Have you ever wondered how many people in Congress actually go to church on Sunday?’ … ‘Are you comfortable knowing that homosexuals are teaching in our public schools?’ … ‘Now the government is running our healthcare system, more teenage girls than ever are getting pregnant. But it doesn’t matter because they can just get a free government abortion.’ … ‘Wouldn’t you like to wipe that superior smirk off the face of liberals when they’re talking about people who own a lot of guns?’