Off Message

by A. C. Fuller

  "That's right."

  "You're who I spoke with last night?"

  "I really don't see what could be so urgent. Mr. Mast is quite busy."

  "I won't take much of his time. Thanks for arranging this."

  Brenda leads me through a large living room into a small study off the kitchen. "Mr. Mast will be right with you," she says as she leaves.

  The room is dimly lit. The shades are drawn, and the dark green walls are illuminated only by two floor lamps. From my seat in a leather armchair, I can barely make out the photos of Mast with Presidents Reagan, Bush, and Clinton that adorn the walls along with a framed American flag and a large map that shows the key battles of the Civil War.

  Behind an oak desk a bookshelf displays twelve Tom Clancy novels and about fifty copies of Mast's book, A Flag of Promise.

  When he enters, he looks surprised to see me. "Ms. Rhodes?"

  I stand and shake his hand. "Didn't your assistant tell you I was here?"

  "She did. Yes."

  "You looked…I don't know…like you didn't expect me."

  He gestures to the chair, and I sit again. In a matching armchair across from me, Mast crosses his right leg over his left, and leans away. "She did tell me you were here. Busy time, as you can imagine."

  "Ahh," I say, but I wonder whether he looked surprised because he was nervous.

  "Mrs. Mast isn't fond of me having private meetings with young women. I assumed you'd have someone with you. An assistant or...." He clears his throat. "Brenda will be right back."

  It takes me a moment to figure out what he's talking about. "You don't want to meet one-on-one with a woman because you're afraid of how it might look?"

  He nods, but doesn't say anything. We sit in silence until Brenda returns and sits on an antique wooden chair off to the side, legal pad on her lap.

  "What's this concerning?" Mast asks abruptly.

  "I'm here to follow up on our call from a few days ago," I begin. "I know you are busy, and I'll be as brief as possible. It's come to our attention—the attention of the Ameritocracy team—that you have violated the campaign finance rules of our competition." I pause, setting the briefcase on my lap and tapping it like it contains the smoking gun.

  Mast frowns and glances at Brenda, who stops taking notes to meet his eyes. Neither seems angry. Neither speaks. They look like they've been in tougher situations and are poised to attack.

  I won't give them the opening. "We have evidence that you received in-kind donations in the form of payments to a book marketing company that purchased books, indirectly benefiting you. We also have proof that your wife's firm was hired by multiple people and companies, that she received exorbitant fees for work that was never completed. We believe these payments were an effort to support your campaign financially."

  I have more planned, but I pause to gauge his reaction. To my surprise, the stern face is gone, and he's smiling. "May I stop you for a moment?" he asks.

  "I do have more evidence, much more, but if you'd like to respond, please do."

  "Cecilia Mason has spent roughly ten million dollars on her Ameritocracy campaign, more than twice what I've spent. Are you having a similar meeting with her?"

  "I'm not, but—"

  "I didn't think so. Is it because she's a woman, because she's more liberal, maybe?"

  "No, it's because she didn't break the rules." I say it as firmly as I can, but I've already allowed him to change the subject, which means I'm losing.

  Mast straightens his back and speaks firmly but without malice, like a sharp lawyer trying to nail down the facts. "Cecilia Mason has spent ten million dollars of her own money on the campaign. Money she earned in the real estate business, a business often made possible by shady dealings with officials in local governments."

  "Hold on!"

  "No, please let me finish. You walked into my home and accused me of something, and please let me finish. Cecilia earned her wealth through shady deals, by bribing city officials. Two of her companies had to file for bankruptcy, leaving small businesses and taxpayers with the cost of her failure. Yet she's rich anyway, and because of your rules she's able to spend anything she wants on her campaign. What was I doing while she was drinking martinis in Manhattan high-rises? Winning American wars. I come back and sell a lot of books, and now I have to listen to this? My wife has a little success with her firm and I have to listen to this on her behalf? Frankly, Ms. Rhodes, I'm offended."

  It's hard to know where to start. The stories about Cecilia Mason's past have been floating around for a few decades, but nothing's been proven. As to his other points, I can't disagree entirely.

  When I started Ameritocracy, I considered three financing options. The first was to put a cap on campaign spending—$1,000 per month, maybe $5,000. I chose not to because capping spending would have limited our reach and slowed our growth. It wouldn't have solved the problem of inequality, either. No matter where I set the limit, I would have had some candidates who could spend it and some who couldn't. The second option was to fund every campaign through donations to Ameritocracy—to give all the candidates a percentage of the donations to use on their campaigns. The problem was, at the beginning, we didn't have many donations. Splitting the tiny pot between all our candidates would have meant no one had money to spend. Again, this would have stymied our reach and growth. The third option was to allow candidates to spend their own money. Not a perfect solution, but the best of three bad choices.

  I take a moment to gain my composure, then say, "Mr. Mast, you're trying to change the subject. As Mr. Dixon and other candidates have shown, money is not the only way to the top. Mr. Dixon spent almost nothing on his campaign and he's been in the top five for months. And I could name a dozen candidates who spent hundreds of thousands of dollars and failed to crack the top hundred because their messages didn't resonate. The issue isn't how much you've spent, it's how you got the money."

  "This 'evidence' you have, where did you get it?"

  "I can't say, but we do have proof." I press my feet into the floor, gathering strength. He stares at me and I stare back. "Mr. Mast," I say firmly, "I'm here to encourage you to drop out of the competition."

  Mast glances at Brenda, who stops scribbling in her notepad and glances up. They exchange a look I don't understand, then he smiles at me. "And why would I do that?"

  "I believe you are a good man, Mr. Mast. I respect your service. I respect you. I don't think you're out to harm the country. I believe that you believe in Ameritocracy. As you know, we had to eliminate a top contender from the competition three months ago. We don't want to have to do it again."

  The last line is a threat, and he knows it. His shoulders tense and rise slightly as he leans forward and points a finger at me. "You know, young lady, it's not often I get threatened in my own home."

  "I'm simply explaining the situation. Drop out, or I'll kick you out."

  "Why would I give you the easy way out?"

  "Because if you don't, we'll make sure people know how you funded your campaign."

  Mast walks to the oak desk in the corner, where he opens a long glass case and pulls out what appears to be an antique rifle. "Are you a student of the Civil War, Ms. Rhodes?" He steps toward me, displaying the weapon. The black barrel is sawed off about halfway down, the wooden stock so dark it almost matches.

  "I know a little," I say.

  "The South did an admirable job rapidly developing munitions factories, but the North had a leg up because of their established industrial base. Some believe that's what won the war for the North. Can you believe that? That history could turn on a simple fact like the North having enough factories to produce ammunition faster?"

  "I don't know."

  "This weapon was used by a Confederate soldier during the battle of Gettysburg. Many southern infantrymen brought rifles from home and sawed off the barrels for close combat fighting. Picked this up at an auction a few years ago."

  "Do you have any memorabilia from the Un
ion army?" I ask.

  Mast sits, placing the rifle across his lap. "Would you like to hold it?" he asks, ignoring my question. He holds it out to me before I can respond.

  I set the briefcase on the floor and take the gun. The stock is sticky, the barrel corroded. "I've never held a gun."

  "Heavier than you thought, I bet."

  It is. Whatever he's getting at, though, I want no part of it. I offer it back to him.

  "No, Ms. Rhodes. You keep it. In fact, point it at me. Right at my chest." He stares at me with a ferocity he hasn't yet shown, then laughs softly. "It's not loaded, don't worry."

  I glance at Brenda, who nods as though this is perfectly normal.

  "Point it!" he demands. "I want you to know what it feels like to point a gun at me."

  In his speeches and videos, Mast usually comes across as reasonable. Though I disagree with many of his positions, his résumé alone is enough to convince people he's a man who has earned his opinions and deserves to be listened to. I've never seen this side of him. He doesn't like being challenged, and now he's testing me. At least I think that's what he's doing. It's possible, I realize with a sinking feeling, that he's just insane.

  I set the gun on the floor. "No."

  Mast smiles strangely, picks up the gun, and walks to the desk. After placing it back in the case, he folds his arms and turns to the bookcase like he's looking for a favorite volume. "I didn't think so."

  I stare at his back, speechless, until he turns and hands me a hardback copy of his book. "Read it. You might learn something about America. Happy Valentine's Day, Ms. Rhodes."

  With that, he strolls out, leaving me with Brenda, who smiles politely. "I'll see you out."

  I expected the meeting with Mast to take longer, hoped it would take longer. Ideally, I would have convinced him to drop out, then we would have planned his departure from the competition in the way that did the least amount of damage to Ameritocracy.

  Because I respect Mast, I hoped to get rid of him cleanly, allowing him to retain his dignity. But Plan Bluff was an absurd fantasy from the beginning. Men like him don't quit because of a little bump in the road. So with an evening to kill before my early-morning flight, I have time to try my backup plan, the only option I have left.

  It's time to get Mast the coverage he deserves.

  23

  The Thomas Jefferson Memorial sits on the south side of the Tidal Basin, in a direct line with the White House. Designed to pay tribute to Jefferson's love of classical architecture, it reminds me of the Parthenon in Rome. I'm greeted by a series of marble-stepped terraces that lead up to a shallow dome supported by twenty-six columns, also white marble. Climbing the steps, I pull my jacket up around my neck to fend off the chill.

  "Mia." A woman's voice echoes from the top of the stairs, but I don't see her.

  Entering the dome, I walk a few yards around the perimeter before Gretchen Esposito steps out from behind the large bronze statue of Jefferson.

  "Sorry." She looks up from her phone. "I got a text right when I saw you. Let's walk."

  I hold up the briefcase. "I have the information I promised on the phone."

  "Be patient. There's no rush, is there?"

  "There kind of is."

  "Everyone always thinks the story they're pitching is the most important story out there. It's not. The most important story is always the one you don't hear about."

  I'm not sure what that means, but she's right that I'm here to pitch her a story and that, to me, it's the most important thing in the world.

  She points up at a quotation carved into the marble. "Do you recognize that?"

  I read the full quote, which runs around the top of the wall where it meets the curve of the dome.

  I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.

  "Sounds vaguely familiar," I say. "I haven't read Jefferson since college."

  "It's from a letter he wrote to Benjamin Rush before the election of 1800, maybe the most significant election in history."

  "I know all about it. Sometimes it makes me think that, as screwed up as things are right now, they've been worse."

  She laughs. "That's a nice way to spin modern America. Not as bad as 1800! You might be right. The press was way worse back then. Totally controlled by the parties. Jefferson was dubbed an atheist, a devil-worshipper, and worse. And his affair with Sally Hemings was already out, too. In the run-up to the election he caught massive pressure from Christian groups to support religion publicly. In 1786 he'd signed the law formally separating church and state in Virginia. We take all that for granted now, but Jefferson fought like hell for it, and lost for a couple years before he won."

  "Interesting, but—"

  "But what does it have to do with Robert Mast, with the story you want me to write?"

  "Well, yeah."

  "It doesn't. It has to do with you, Mia."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You know I talked to David Benson about you before he…before he died."

  "I heard the podcast."

  "No, I talked to him off the record, before we recorded the episode."

  The mention of DB still stings, but I'm curious where she's going with this. We've walked halfway around the interior of the dome, and she stops in front of a quote from the Declaration of Independence carved into the wall. "People are so flawed, so limited," she says, and her voice is different from the podcast-ready tone she usually has.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Jefferson wrote many of the most eloquent words about the need to end slavery, yet owned slaves and didn't do nearly enough to make his lofty vision a reality. David Benson—and I'm not comparing him to Jefferson—genuinely wanted to do good. He thought he was doing good by entering Ameritocracy. I've covered five presidents, and I knew before the interview that he didn't have what it takes. Democrat, Republican, Independent, you have to take so much shit from the opposition, from journalists, from voters, even from allies. Jefferson could withstand it, Benson wouldn't have." She pauses. "He couldn't even withstand a Twitter mob. I hate how it ended, but he deserved to have his stuff aired in public. Benson was a sleaze."

  She's rambling. "I'm sorry, but can we talk about Mast?"

  "Just a sec, I didn't get to tell you what he said about you." She begins a slow walk back in the direction we came. "He said you inspired him with your ordinariness. Told me he's gone to a hundred fundraisers and political events and he'd take you over any ten politicians or political activists he'd met. Did he try to sleep with you?"

  "No!"

  "I was curious because, well, he tried to sleep with everyone. I'm as old as his mom and he made a pass at me before the interview. Maybe it's because he knew Peter was into you."

  "Maybe," I say. "I'm really cold, so can we—"

  "I just thought you should know. Jefferson was also a sleaze by any modern standard. I'm sure you've got flaws, too. But I don't want to live in a world where we're defined by the worst thing we do, rather than the best. And I thought you should know how he saw you. I'm thirty years older than you, Mia, and I've come to admire you. Mind if I give you some free advice?"

  "Sure."

  "It's the opposite of the advice I've given a hundred young reporters and politicos over the years. When they ask me how to become a power broker in D.C., I usually tell them to run the other direction. This town eats people alive. Not you, though. I've been watching, and you're good at this, Mia. Naïve, maybe, but you'll learn fast. Ameritocracy ends in five months, right?"

  "Four and a half."

  "Right. I don't think you'll end up with a winner who can take the White House. Mast was your best shot and if what you told me is true, his run at the top of your leaderboard is over. In four and a half months you're going to have some decisions to make. You're a young woman." She eyes me up and down. "Attractive, and your hair makes you stand out. Memorable. You'll get six-figure offers from the cable news networks the minute Ameri
tocracy ends. They'll want your brand on their stations. Before you decide what to do, ask yourself whether you want to spend the rest of your life in front of a green screen so CNN can put your floating head between a Republican and a Democrat."

  She's right about the offers. I've already gotten one from the BBC in London. They want me to appear three times weekly to comment on American politics. Gwen's advice is sound, but I wonder whether it's intended for me, or for herself thirty years ago. "Do you regret being a journalist?"

  She leans on a column and for the first time, looks me in the eye. "Sometimes I wish I'd been in the game, instead of writing about the game. Podcasting about the game. When I started, it was harder for women in politics, especially one whose parents were born in Mexico. Not that journalism welcomed me with open arms, but it was doable and I made a career of it."

  "A great career. You ever consider running for office?"

  "Thought about a run at California's fifty-first district ten years ago but...well...you young girls can do whatever you want."

  "So, what do you think I should do?"

  "When Ameritocracy is over, think about staying in politics. Real politics." She says it with an air of finality, like it was the line she was building toward for the last ten minutes. She begins walking again, this time toward the front of the memorial.

  Following her, I say, "Let me tell you a little about the story I have."

  "I know the story you have. I'm guessing you went to see Mast to get him to drop out and it didn't work. Right?"

  "Right."

  "You found evidence that he got money, but it's all kinda vague, right?"

  "Right."

  "And you don't want to do a rerun of the Thomas Morton scandal. Mast is too respected to be taken down that easily."

  "And our proof is shakier."

  Gretchen seems to be thinking as we descend the terraced marble steps. "Mast has always been a dumbass. Hell of a general, but if he'd gotten a decent social media manager he could have won Ameritocracy in a walk without bending a single rule."