by Reed Sprague
The day was grueling, but the work was well worth it. Alex had engaged Jennings, just as Dominici had said he must, and he had done so without uttering a bad word about him. Media interest in Perez’s candidacy was off the charts.
At four forty that afternoon, Dominici’s phone rang with a call he really didn’t want. It was a producer for Hancock’s only real competition during the eight o’clock hour. It was the only phone call Dominici hoped would not come. Sam Brighton was cable news’ most boring commodity. His producer was calling to speak to Perez, to set up a live interview between Brighton and Perez that would be broadcast that evening. Brighton embodied everything Hancock despised about the media. Brighton was nice, though, and far less edgy than Hancock. Viewers seemed to like him; however, they watched Hancock more, by a margin of five to one.
It was a dilemma for Dominici. The increased exposure would help, of that Dominici had no doubt, but an interview granted to Brighton this early on might infuriate Hancock, and Hancock was unforgiving. He might turn on his new friend, Perez, as quickly as he had embraced him just fifteen hours earlier. Brighton was too nice to state publicly that he had been turned down by Perez, so Dominici gambled.
“Mr. Perez is not available. He’s preparing for tomorrow’s news conference. He’s really running tight today. As soon as he’s done preparing for the news conference, he has to go to see his parents. It’s very important to him. You know, personal stuff.”
While Brighton was known as a nice guy, his producer was not. “This is Cheryl Thompston; I have to speak with Mr. Perez now. It will take only a few minutes. Is he there, near the phone? Please put him on. Thank you.”
“Ms. Thompson,—” Dominici began his sentence, mistakenly using the wrong salutation and mispronouncing the producer’s last name.
“My name is Mrs. Thompston. Please place Mr. Perez on the line. Is he afraid to face our questions? He seems to have established himself as quite a rising political star. We just wanted to ask him a few questions before his interview tonight with Mr. Brighton.”
“I really appreciate your call, Mrs. Thompston, but Mr. Perez will not be available. It’s just impossible. I’m sure you understand.”
“No, I do not understand. I need ten minutes of his time now, and tonight’s interview will take less than that. Please put him on. I’m on a tight schedule.”
“I’m sorry, but today’s schedule is tight for us as well—really impossible. We’ll get back with you at a later time,” Dominici said. “Goodbye, and thanks for calling.”
Thompston hung up without saying goodbye and without getting a commitment for an interview.
Dominici and Perez were in the driver’s seat. The campaign funds were flooding in, but Dominici hoped that reporters wouldn’t ask about that. He wanted Perez to seem poor, ethical, smart and dedicated, and eventually abused by Jennings. He wanted the consummate underdog—every campaign manager’s dream.
The news conference was a success. Reporters gloated over Perez. Softball questions were tossed gently to him, not thrown hard at him, and he responded respectfully, articulately, with intelligence and a sense of humor. The only tough question came when a reporter baited him with a derogatory question about Jennings. “Thomas Jennings seems to some to be a rich, detached lawyer who is aggressively seeking this seat in order to gain for himself. Do you see him that way?”
“Mr. Jennings is a fine attorney, and one that I will respect even more for accepting my victory with the class and dignity that I’m sure he has.” The reporters chuckled. Perez was a natural with them.
By the morning of day twenty–two, everything had changed for the better for Perez, and things were far worse for Jennings. Caught completely off guard by the ascension of his unexpectedly formidable opponent, Jennings seemed to be on the defensive when asked about the race, especially when the subject of Perez’s campaign came up.
Jennings had not scheduled his time to include an actively–engaged campaign. His work schedule at his law office was overwhelming. He had believed that he could take on all the professional work he wanted while allowing his public relations people to promote his campaign and carry him in his royal victory chair to his new office in D.C. His plan to coast to victory with minimum effort was in big trouble.
The media were sensing that their once–promising messiah was a mere wounded mortal. Jennings was bleeding. One by one the members of the media were exchanging one savior, Jennings, for the other, Perez. Dominici was right all along. He did not make mistakes when it came to campaign strategy.
CHAPTER THREE
Dominici’s daughter, Kathy, saw her father being interviewed on one of the cable news channels; she also noticed Alex. She couldn’t help but to notice him. She took one look at the TV screen while Alex’s face was shown, and began to feel particular physical feelings that she was embarrassed to feel. Still, she liked the feelings, and she thought she might like Alex as well.
Her father looked good, she thought—cleaned up, and seemingly back on track. She missed him. Even given the years of hard feelings, she was still his little girl after all. Kathy drove down from Atlanta to see him after twelve years of estrangement. She hoped he would embrace her and forgive her and reconcile with her, just as she intended to embrace him and forgive him and reconcile with him. She also admitted to herself that her motives were not entirely pure: She wanted to meet Alex, too.
Kathy was a lovely woman, inside and out. She was physically small, highly ethical, independent and determined, pretty and feminine, intelligent and caring. She drove six hours to see her father—and to meet Alex. She went to her father’s home, arrived at about three in the afternoon, and knocked on the door. He was not expecting her so he had gone to the office supply store to pick up a few things. Alex answered the door.
He was even more than she believed he would be. Yes, he was handsome, even more handsome than the TV showed him to be. He was beautiful. She wondered why it took so long to finally lay eyes on a man like him. She was tempted to lay other things on him as well.
Kathy was the most beautiful woman Alex had ever seen. He was awestruck by her beauty. And her gorgeous eyes! Her smile melted Alex. Where did all this come from? She was dropped into his presence from heaven, he just knew!
“Hi, I’m… uh… Kathy, uh Dominici. Is Mr. Domin— I mean, my father, is he home?” she said to Alex.
Though he wanted to appear to be cool and collected, Alex stumbled his way to uttering absolute nonsense—words that exited his mouth with all the grace of a whooping crane as it exits the marshland on takeoff.
“Oh, uh, aaah, let’s see. Dominici, he’s your… he’s not here. Will be returned in fifteen, thirty minutes. Should, I guess, come in and wait for he to return, don’t you think?”
Not exactly smooth.
Alex and Kathy sat and talked for twenty minutes before Dominici returned home from the office supply store. By the time he pulled into the driveway, the two of them were laughing at their initial awkward greeting.
Kathy became unbearably nervous as she heard the sound of her father’s car door close, then the outer screen door that led onto the front porch, then the front door to the house. Then, there he stood, facing her.
There was no hint of the anger and long–simmering bitterness between the two. They both melted. Tears streamed down their cheeks. They embraced, as Kathy had hoped they would. When one attempted to release the other, they both hugged all the tighter. Words were not necessary, and there were few of them. After five minutes of silent reconciliation, talk began, but not talk of reconciliation. Reconciliation had already taken place and was accepted by both. It was talk that grows out from reconciliation already achieved.
Alex decided to leave, to give them time to get caught up. Kathy didn’t want him to go. Almost like a middle school student would want her boyfriend to stay to get to know her and her father, Kathy wanted Alex to stay. It was better that he leave, though, and so he did. Kathy and her father stayed awake talking until
two o’clock the next morning.
“Alex, where are you?” Dominici asked Alex on the phone at five thirty the next morning. “You were supposed to be here at five fifteen.”
“What time did you go to bed, Dom?” Alex asked, in disbelief that he was awakened by a ringing phone at that hour.
“Two o’clock; three hours ago. Listen, I’ve got to get a jump on things today. We’ve got to get together early. Jennings is angry. He’s spouting off, using irresponsible wording. He’s bent on destroying you. We have to take advantage of him now. If we wait too long, someone will get to him and tell him to shut up. It’ll be too late then.”
“Dom, what are you talking about?”
“A debate. We’ve got to challenge him to a debate. He’s over the top. He’ll pop off and come across as negative and angry. It’s what I’ve been waiting for.”
“I’ll be there in an hour or so.”
“Hurry up.”
Alex arrived at Dominici’s house at six forty–five.
“You’re late,” Dominici said, as Alex exited his car to come inside the house.
“I know I’m late. You’ve told me five times.”
“Come on inside. I’ve got to go over my idea with you. I’m excited.
“Listen, Alex; Jennings said some outrageous things on the late news last night. He must have decided that the way he’s going to deal with your surge in the polls is to cut you off at the knees, then stab you in the back as you’re falling to the ground.”
“He better not have said anything slanderous about my family or me. I’ll sue him.”
“He said you were ugly; you thin–skinned baby.
“Listen, listen. Pay attention. We want him to say bad things, ugly things, even slanderous things. He’s said them, okay? Now we’ll take him up on his offer for a debate. He didn’t think we would do it when he offered last month. I stalled him on purpose so he wouldn’t think we would deal with him face to face. We will face him, though. You will, calmly and with complete composure, prove that he is a liar and a bitter man. And you will prove that without using those words.”
“I don’t get it. So what; he’s a lawyer,” Alex said.
“Funny, Alex. Real funny,” Dominici replied.
“Heroes and messiahs don’t engage in lying and they’re not bitter. They respond to attacks calmly with absolute truth. Remember what this game is about? By the time I’m done prepping you for the debate, he will come off as the devil and you as the savior. Then the media will turn on him like a pack of wolves, not because of his lies — they don’t care so much about that — but because his throne will be tainted.”
“How do we go about asking him to debate?” Alex asked.
“We don’t ask him to debate. Not directly. We submit to a requested interview, purportedly to answer questions the media has about his charges against you. Then we ask the media for the debate that they planned to sponsor anyway. He’s on record with them as having asked us for the debate. He’ll be in a no–win situation. He’ll realize that as soon as he sees your interview, and he’ll be so upset that he’ll probably go jump off a bridge.
“And I’ve got more news, good news.”
“What’s going on?”
“The republicans have given up. They’re out of the race. The official reason is that their candidate can’t take the pressure on his family because his mother and brother are both extremely sick. My inside source there tells me that the illnesses provide a convenient excuse for the republicans to pack it in.”
“What’s the real reason?” Alex asked.
“The republicans are afraid of an embarrassing and humiliating defeat at the hands of an unknown newcomer.”
“Jennings is well known. He’s not a newcomer,” Alex said.
“No. Not Jennings. It’s you they’re afraid of. You’re the odds on favorite now, even though you’re behind in the polls. The experts know that you’ve got the momentum now, and that Jennings is worried. Being worried is one thing; acting worried is another. He’s acting as if he’s worried. I think he has good reason.
“Anyway, we’ll set up the debate for next Thursday night at UF. That’s when the media wanted to hold it, so it’ll be good all the way around. It’ll be perfect timing. The primary is only a month away,” Alex explained.
Hancock’s network announced that it would carry the debate live; Brighton’s network announced that they would not broadcast the debate at all.
The debate began as most modern day political debates do—handshakes, acknowledgments, fake but polite gestures and greetings, and the moderator’s final introductions and admonishments. All who were to appear on camera checked the monitors to see how they looked in the limelight. Last minute primping was done rapidly, hopefully without drawing too much notice.
The audience was young, probably an average age of around thirty. And undoubtedly some were naive. It was a safe bet that most were of above–average intelligence.
Jennings swung wildly at the first pitch, trying to hit a home run. Perez remained calm. “So, Mr. Perez the question posed to me by the moderator was, ‘Do I believe that my opponent is qualified for the job?’ I will begin by saying outright that you are not qualified. You have no experience, and clearly you can’t even keep a job. You’re unemployed and you were dismissed from the FBI after only a year or so? How can that be? You trained for so long. Why would they, shall we say, ‘allow you to resign’ after only a short period?
“Other than that one temp job, what is your work history? I see no meaningful employment at all on your record. College, college, college, but not work, work, work. You may have the remainder of my time to add to your three minutes for your rebuttal. I believe I have two minutes remaining.”
Perez didn’t expect such a blatant attempt to discredit him. This was rough and tumble Florida politics, and Perez came to fully understand that reality in a hurry. He heard Dominici’s quiet yet clear voice telling him to be calm and to remain in charge of the debate by moving forward. Leave Jennings in the mud, where he decided to put himself. Just because he places himself there, Dominici had said during the debate preparation, does not mean that Alex should join him.
“My work life began when, at age ten, I worked in the fields of America’s farms and in her chicken coops. I worked mostly in Idaho, but also in other states, including Florida and Georgia, to earn money to pay my college costs. I had plans then to graduate from college. At the age of seventeen, after having graduated from high school and after having worked on and off seven years in the fields and chicken coops, I completed one year of college—undergraduate work at UF. I then entered the Army and was deployed to fight in Afghanistan. Upon returning from the war, a fourteen–month tour of duty, I enrolled at UF and went on to earn my bachelor’s and master’s degrees. I did not work while I was in college. I wanted to focus on my studies.
“After earning my master’s degree, I enrolled in the FBI academy, served for six months in the intern program there, graduated, then worked for three years as an FBI agent. I voluntarily resigned from the FBI in order to run for this office because I didn’t feel that it would have been fair to the FBI for me to take time away from my responsibilities there to campaign for public office. And because the FBI frowns on its agents doing that.”
Perez was on his way to a media enthronement. He had quietly and effectively refuted Jennings’ attack. Jennings was now on the defensive. He appeared agitated and bitter. Worse, he came across as an attack dog. His follow–up only made things worse.
“Mr. FBI Agent, I am very much confused. Do you mean to tell me that you voluntarily resigned from a most–coveted position as an FBI agent, one of the most sought–after positions in all of law enforcement? All because you’re a crusader for the people? Come on, Mr. Perez, the voters of this district are not that naive.”
“Here, Mr. Jennings; here’s a copy of my resignation letter to the FBI. And here’s a copy of the FBI’s letter to me accepting my resignation. And, final
ly, just to make sure I demonstrate to you that my employment at the FBI was okay as well, here are copies of four commendations I earned and copies of the two superlative annual evaluations I received from my superiors. As you will see from the documentation, Mr. Jennings, there were no problems between the FBI and me. My resignation was submitted by me without pressure from my supervisors.”
The debate continued much the same: Jennings making one outrageous accusation after another, and Perez quietly and effectively refuting each with clear evidence and constructive proposals for the future rather than sludge–like responses to the mudslinging. A new hero had been created—a quiet, effective, positive leader had emerged; the media’s new Dominus. Perez had supplanted Jennings. The new race was on. Jennings was now chasing Perez.
The local newspapers, and even the national media, were elated at the news of their new anointed one. News accounts now consisted of coverage of the rich, detached lawyer verses the quiet and confident war hero competing with each other for Florida’s third congressional district seat. Polls taken the day before the election showed a statistical tie, although officially Jennings was a point or two ahead. That was perfect, Dominici thought. He and Perez could play the underdog role to the very end. Perez would campaign throughout the district, north to south, on the day before the election. The day of the election he would reverse and go up from north Orlando, west to Gainesville, then over to Jacksonville Beach. Perez was relentless.
By eleven o’clock the night of the election, it was clear that Perez had won. Dominici did it. Against all odds he brought his candidate to victory. The vote totals were close, but Perez captured a clear fifty–two percent of the votes to Jennings’ forty–seven and one–half. It was a stunning victory, and one that set the standard high for Perez. His victory was clear, and so was his mandate. He was to represent the people. The same media that swung things in his favor would be watching him closely to see if he delivered. He would need to be careful. Even Hancock would like nothing more than to expose the new messiah as an apostate.