by Warren Adler
“I guess you haven’t much of a choice. Your Democratic competitors are a bunch of assholes—gutless.”
“What do you think, Chuck?”
“I don’t know, Don. I’m not sure.”
“You know how a politician’s record keeps popping up.”
“No doubt about that.”
“The truth always wins out in the long run.”
“Yes, it all comes out in the wash.”
“I’m a victim, Chuck. A victim of fate. I simply will not let fate defeat me. I believe in my sense of mission. I believe in my political posture. And frankly, Chuck, if I may be immodest, I think there are lots of people in this country who need my political viability. The poor, the outs, the minorities, the victims. Maybe they’ll understand. But I think I owe it to them to try to make them understand. Or should I roll over and die? There has got to be a voice on the other side, a strong voice.”
“It’s worth a shot, Don. And let the chips fall where they may.”
“I hope to hell they believe me.”
“I always say that if you tell the truth you’ll be believable. That’s the way we run this goddamned paper.”
“Thanks, Chuck. I’m glad I asked your advice. Keep your fingers crossed.”
“You know how I feel.”
XXX
“Let’s try it from the top again, Senator,” Davis said.
“My fellow Californians. The tragic events of the past weekend have, as you know, received quite a lot of attention in television and newspapers. Judging from the letters, telegrams, and telephone calls that I have received from you, my constituents, I felt it only appropriate to explain to you this tragic episode—”
“Strike ‘explain,’ ” Davis said. “That was one word that was bothering me. You’re not explaining. That smacks of justifying. I don’t trust the word.”
“How about ‘outline’?” Don asked, pencil poised.
“Yes, that might make sense,” Davis agreed. “Try ‘outline.’ That’s more—”
“Honest,” I said.
“—outline to you this tragic episode.”
“Too many ‘tragics,’ ” Davis said. “Gilding the lily. How about, ‘to inform you directly about the events surrounding the accidental death’—?”
“That’s even better,” Don agreed. “Yes, I like that.”
“ ‘—to inform you directly about the events surrounding the accidental death of one of our most dedicated staff members, Marlena Jackson, a woman of rare intelligence, wit and charm. Miss Jackson had joined a group of our staff people for what is quite commonplace in Washington, the ‘working weekend,’ to complete the ‘Report on Minority Education,’ a project of the subcommittee of the senate on education, of which I am privileged to be chairman—’ ”
“Are you sure we’re covered on that, Don?” I asked. “It came as a surprise to see it in the draft. Christine, I didn’t think it was finished.”
“Absolutely,” Christine said. “On Friday, I asked Albert Barker, the subcommittee executive director, to give me a copy of the draft. I actually packed it in the senator’s briefcase. I hadn’t remembered it until Davis, here, began dictating. There are all sorts of people who could substantiate that fact.”
“But did he specifically assign Marlena to work on it with the senator on that weekend?” I asked.
“No, not specifically,” Don said. “But I do have some prerogatives as senator. Also, and this is the clincher, Marlena had a great deal to do with the report in a substantive way. I’d say we’re covered.”
“All right,” Davis said. “Let’s continue.”
“ ‘This report is one of the most important documents ever undertaken dealing with this subject. It brings together all the arguments and alternatives which we, in the Congress, must come to grips with if we are ever to arrive at a sane way to improve the quality of education in an environment that offers equality of opportunity.’ ”
“Good,” Davis said. “I like that. Very statesmanlike. As long as we don’t get into specifics.”
“How can we do that?” Don said. “I haven’t even read the damn thing.”
“I better read it quickly,” I said. “Especially after what you’re going to say about it.”
“ ‘We in California know what it means to enjoy our beaches. The simple pleasures of tossing a ball around and jogging along the water’s edge is one of the true delights of the seashore. You all know how much I love sports and exercise. I’ve always believed that the way to clear one’s mind for further work was through these means, and I encouraged such activity among my staff.’ ”
He paused. “You know, I like that.” He went on.
“ ‘Miss Jackson, along with the others, joined us. If ever there was a moment that one would wish to eliminate in one’s life, it was that moment when Miss Jackson, by some inscrutable act of pure chance, slipped along the water’s edge, and, again, with the intervention of fate, found herself swept into the tide. It all happened so quickly. It was as if the ocean had fingers which suddenly gripped her and dragged her into it.’ Do you think it’s dramatic enough?” Don asked.
“A little purple, perhaps. But the way you say it, I think it sounds very sincere, very probable,” Davis said.
“You don’t think it needs even more drama. It seems too matter-of-fact.”
“It sounds fine.”
“I want them to believe it. Because it’s true.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” Davis said.
Don paused and shook his head.
I had a suggestion, scribbled hastily on the back of an envelope.
“How about something like, ‘One moment she was there, full of vigor and energy, and another moment she was fighting for her life in an angry sea.’ ”
“Great, Lou. Terrific. Let me put it in.”
“I agree,” Davis said. “It gives a more vivid picture, a scene of tragedy, the struggle, life and death.”
Don finished penciling it in and continued.
“ ‘—My administrative assistant, Lou Castle, and myself, quickly jumped in after her. Both of us, products of the California shore, were strong swimmers. Ladies and gentlemen, I have never in my life been so close to death. (I’ll look them square in the eye right here.) The tides were beyond conception in their strength. I am thankful to God that I am alive, but deeply saddened that all my efforts, all of the efforts of Mr. Castle, were not enough to save the life of this fine young woman. As I told her bereaved father, we tried and failed. When she went down below the surf, she simply disappeared. We never saw her alive again.’ ”
“I think that’s wonderful,” Davis said. “Now if only you keep the delivery on that level, it will be perfect.”
“God, I feel sorry for that girl,” Don said.
He continued: “ ‘—That is the simple truth. You, my constituents, are entitled to know this directly from me. I would not be here today unless, in my judgment, it were not absolutely necessary to dispel the confusion about this episode. After all, it does involve your senator. You have a right to know the facts without benefit of other interpretations by the middlemen of the press, radio, and television.’ ”
“Doesn’t ‘middlemen’ sound too harsh?” Davis asked. “It seems hostile. I mean, there’s no point in getting the press down on us.”
“I think maybe you’re right. How about simply striking everything after ‘interpretations.’ They’ll know what we mean.”
“I’ll buy that,” Don said.
“ ‘But most of all, you have a right to know that there was no immorality involved. Miss Jackson was a woman of the highest moral character. Any attempt to cast aspersion on the conduct of either Miss Jackson or myself is false, and, I might add, insulting to me and my family.’ ”
“Instead of ‘false,’ ” Davis said, “how about ‘simply not true.’ I wish I could give you a logical reason for the change. It just sounds so much more sincere.”
Don made the change without argumen
t.
“ ‘I have been your senator now for nearly fourteen years. My principal consideration has at all times been the wishes of the people of California. I believe in this country, in its promise and its dreams. But all of us, yes, all of us, are victims of the vicissitudes of fortune, accidents of fate. They come from out of the blue, a kind of misguided missile from a cosmic force too illusive to understand. The simple fact is that, by the same random selection that snuffed out the life of Marlena Jackson, I have been spared. One cannot accept such a reprieve from death without a resurgence of devotion.
“ ‘Therefore, I have only one objective now, to get on with the unfinished business of this great country, to vote my conscience on those matters that profoundly affect this and future generations. These are critical times.’ ”
“Beautiful,” I said. The guy was good.
“When you say that,” Davis said, “emphasize strength. Perhaps you could narrow your eyes. I’ll have the cameras come in close. You’ve got to look like the Rock of Gilbraltar.”
“ ‘We had chosen a beach house for our worksite for two reasons,’ ” Don continued. “ ‘The first was that it was away from the distractions of Washington and yet only a few hours’ drive from our homes. The second was that it enabled us to refresh ourselves along the seashore and take normal relaxation, between sessions of work on the report.’ ”
“I wonder if we need mention who gave us the beach house?” Don asked.
“I’d rather not. Why insert another personality if we don’t have to?”
The beach house had been lent to us by a neighbor of Don’s in Washington, who, with his family, was touring Europe. He was also a bit of a swinger, although he had quite a respectable façade. Even though he would know how to field any inquiries, I agreed that it was not necessary to inject another personality into the speech.
“ ‘We had put in ten hours the first day and starting again at 6:00 A.M., we began another long day of work which lasted late into the afternoon. At approximately 4:00 P.M., I adjourned the working session and suggested some physical relaxation along the beach—’ ”
“Strike ‘physical,’ “ Davis said. “I didn’t quite catch that in the second draft.”
“These are critical times,” Don practiced. “I’ll emphasize ‘critical.’ These are critical times.” He grimaced. “Do you think I need more material here to accentuate what I mean, like threats from abroad, inflation, energy crisis.”
“I doubt it,” Davis said. “It’ll look too much like you’ve set up a straw man. Too much like the president’s method. Too hollow. Just make the statement and forget it.”
Don nodded and continued: “ ‘My wife, who sits by my side today, with my mother in her home, is weathering this episode with the same devotion—’ ”
“ ‘Devotion.’ ‘Devotion’ seems to mean that they are sticking with you through thick or thin. That’s the wrong word. We need one that says they’ve been put upon and are bearing up, but that they know you are telling the truth.”
“You’re right. I hadn’t noticed that,” Don said.
“How about—” I looked at the copy of the speech in my hands—“ ‘join with me in sending condolences’?”
“Yes,” Don said. “I think you’re right. Even the reference to wife and mother is a bit heavy.”
“It’s pure corn,” Davis said. “But desperately needed—”
“. . . ‘my wife and mother in whose home I am delivering this message join me in expressing the deepest sympathy to the family of Marlena Jackson. Thank you and good night.’ ”
“I think it’s fine,” Davis said. “But there is one thing that has me disturbed. Do you think it needs a black reference? We did it in the earlier statement.”
“I don’t know,” Don said. “I thought of that as I was talking, but rejected it. I think it’s an unneeded complication.”
“I doubt if there’s any political mileage in it,” Davis pointed out. “It’s probably inappropriate.”
“I think any time you call attention to her blackness, you hurt yourself,” I said. “There are too many people who just hate blacks. Someday you might need those rednecks and nigger-haters.”
“You’re probably right, Lou.”
“My own view is that intercourse with black women is acceptable, has long been acceptable as a kind of good old Southern tradition. My rejection of the appellation is because we’ve characterized her as being brainy, body-less. Let’s just forget about skin color.”
“Now we’ve got to work on delivery, Senator. I think you’ll do the dramatic parts with great feeling. But you’ve got to guard against overplaying your hand and giving it too much slickness. I wish you could memorize it, but that would be leaving too much to chance. I’ll work out the technical details so that you can read it from a crawl or cue cards.”
“I’ll have five hours on the plane to practice it.”
Christine went into the study to type the final draft. Don slouched in his easy chair and scratched his head.
“I hate to ask,” he said, smiling, “but how the hell are we doing out there?” He had deliberately avoided reading the newspapers.
“You really want to know?” Barnstable answered. He had sat watching us silently without comment. He was seething with anger. We all ignored it. You could read the sad news on his face.
“No, I guess not.”
Barnstable had already given us a kind of summary. Nasty letters, telegrams, phone calls. Reams of newspaper copy with innuendo piled on innuendo. Davis, to his credit, had foreseen all this as the first wave. It was, literally, only innuendo, not fact. Vagueness dominated. Nobody could pin down anything more than suppositions. The police chief had apparently continued to be tight-lipped. And none could penetrate Mr. Jackson’s grief. There were no witnesses. Reports were reduced to careful speculation. The political columnists had a field day. Though they were unable to assess the long-term impact on Don’s political career, most of them agreed that he was out of the contention for the presidential stakes this year. Who didn’t know that? Eaton and Nevins went so far as to write his political obituary for all time. Finished, they said. But that wily old fox Antwerp was not writing him off so fast. True, he had written, the American people were a bunch of middle-class hypocrites, but they were ready to be told what to believe, and, Don, as the columnist pointed out, had always been, “a master of the media.” That’s cynicism for you.
“Who gives a shit what any of them say?” Don said, slipping further down in the easy chair. “We’ll play it one step at a time.”
XXXI
Don’s Chevy Chase house sits on a rise surrounded almost entirely by trees, accessible only by a sweeping driveway which approaches upward, winds past the front of the house, and dead-ends into a wall with barely room for cars to maneuver into the garage.
There is no sidewalk on the street, only a low wall that stretches along the frontage of the property. At dusk, the inevitable knot of reporters and photographers still kept their vigil at the foot of the driveway. Montgomery County police manned the cordon, letting through only those who had been cleared in advance.
The rest of that day was taken up by preparing the final draft of the speech and putting the senator’s office staff to work getting the California trip confirmed and preparing the technical details of the broadcast. All day long, messages had been relayed that Senators Hopkins, Wilson, and Mudd had wanted urgently to speak with Don. We all knew what they wanted. The three had, in the folklore ways of Washington, made themselves available for the Democratic nomination. Publicly, of course, they all denied it. Apparently, most political strategists were in agreement on that one point of reticence. Don’t start the active seduction scene until the girl is salivating and ready. Just stand there with the bulge in your pants and wait.
Hopkins, Wilson, and Mudd, like Don, were not amateurs in the political game. Hopkins, a World War II hero, had parlayed his notoriety to the senate from Oklahoma. He was now fifty-six, had l
earned to discipline his drawl in places where the drawl was not an asset, and had put together a solid organization that could provide strong coverage in the South and Southwest. Wilson was older. He had made two unsuccessful nominating runs before, but couldn’t get it out of his system. Running for the presidency had become an addiction. He had one enormous failing. He talked too damned much, and, although he was popular with special interests such as labor, the blacks, the Jews, and others who formed the core of the liberal establishment, he could not quite shake the “flannel-mouth” image. He was from Michigan. Mudd was a Virginian, a middle-of-the-roader. Lincolnesque in appearance, with a great capacity to put away booze. He was the most entertaining speaker in the senate. Besides, he and his family were the tobacco people from Virginia and he had a personal fortune of astronomical proportions. Even jaded Washington had a special place in its heart for the super rich.
All three felt the need to speak to Don, and all wanted to do it separately. Like vultures, they had smelled blood and knew that Don’s political carcass was ripe for the stripping. When the speech had been disposed of, the matter of the senators had to be dealt with.
“Their strategy is obvious,” Barnstable pointed out. “They’ve written us off as an acceptable candidate. They also know that we’ve had to make the same decision. Now they need our people, our know-how, our money sources, and your tacit support, although they wouldn’t want it to be made as a public commitment. They’re going to fish like crazy for those who would be expected to be our delegates. What they don’t know is that none of them can win.”
“Hey, Jack, you can’t tell a politician that. He always thinks he can win, even when he’s being a realist.” Don smiled.
“If you can’t see one of them without the other at this time, you’ll be starting a Donnybrook within the party.”
“Individually, they’re great guys,” Don said. “We’ve had great times together. That Hopkins—he’s insatiable. But when it comes to the presidency, that’s a whole different ball game. They’d cut out their mothers’ hearts and eat them if they thought it would get them the grand prize.” He said it as if he, himself, was indifferent to the possibility. “If I know those boys,” Don said, “they think I’m pretty broken up personally about all this. That’s because that’s the way they would react. They probably think I’m contrite, unable to function, and that I’ve holed myself up here to weather the storm.”