The Latina President...and the Conspiracy to Destroy Her

by Joe Rothstein

  Hal: I love screwing you.

  Tenny: Now let’s get back to screwing the people.

  And so on. Coarse stuff. Gross stuff. Stuff designed to leave lasting images of a naked Tenny, a promiscuous Tenny, a corrupt Tenny willing to use her body and her money to grasp political power.

  Another image: “Tenny” and “Hal” half-clothed in a cheesy motel room after sex. Starry-eyed Tenny, looking much older than her years, handing Hal a stack of hundred dollar bills.

  Tenny: “Damn you’re good, and worth whatever you charge.”

  Photocopies of Tenny’s contributions to LOLA and Hal’s political campaigns added to the unseemly picture.

  And it wasn’t all just sex.

  L.A. Lights was accused of being something of an underground railroad for drug pushers and dangerous cartel members. Dowling’s campaign matched criminal records with some who were helped at L.A. Lights when Tenny was prominent there. Two men who turned to L.A. Lights for meals and beds and were later arrested by federal marshals told the media that L.A. Lights was a well-known haven for people like themselves trying to evade criminal charges in Mexico. Dowling demanded investigations by state and federal enforcement agencies.

  Sex and crime. For a while during the campaign, these were the only two campaign issues the media cared about.

  Leading the media charge were publications owned by L. Irving Pounds, Hal’s father-in-law. In deference to his daughter, and despite the heat and ridicule Pounds endured for it from his friends and fellow business elites, Pounds had endorsed Hal for governor. No one would accuse Pounds of betraying the business community this time. His media attacks on Tenny took on the armor of a holy crusade. Daughter Sally had agreed to join the road show announcing Tenny’s appointment as a way to soften future attacks. Ben and Lee’s strategy seemed to work well at the time. The photos of them all together, Tenny with Hal and Sally, were upbeat and charming. But against the backdrop of the political attacks that followed, the images just added more spice to the story. The worst was the cartoon of the three of them in a bed under the caption “My turn!”

  Sally was mortified. For a while she buried herself in child and home management. As the campaign intensified, she and the children spent more and more time anywhere but in California.

  The money being spent against Tenny was extraordinary, even for California, a state familiar with table stakes political spending. Most of it was funneled through dark money groups technically independent of Dowling’s campaign committee. More than once Tenny had to dip deeply into her own fortune to keep pace.

  Tenny under siege. It was an entirely new political experience for her. Maddening, hurtful, embarrassing. But all of the positive early media had worked to make Tenny a familiar and trusted figure to millions of California voters. In personal campaigning she was proving to be strong and resilient. The attacks hit her hard as Tenny, but she did not seem to flinch as the Candidate. Her immigration reform speeches and media had solidified the Latino vote beyond any majority ever seen in California polling. Her economic reform intensity increased as election day drew closer. It was a magnet for independents, campaign volunteers, and rally crowds, and it was a stark contrast to an opposition campaign built largely, not on issues, but on attacks on her character. A year’s worth of advance positive media, the media campaign designed by Ben and Lee over martinis at Rehoboth, Delaware’s Big Fish restaurant, was proving worth the $50 million that campaign had cost. As a result of it, the attacks she was enduring proved counter-productive to its attackers, riling voters who felt they knew Tenny well enough to reject the charges. Dowling’s negative numbers increased as voters redirected their anger to Dowling for subjecting her to a gutter-level campaign.

  This was both puzzling and disheartening for the small group meeting in Palm Springs to plan the final weeks’ push to defeat her. Top Republican figures from Washington and Sacramento were there. So were representatives of many of the industry groups that felt threatened by her senatorial power.

  Cal Burns, their polling guru, was fielding new numbers daily. “She’s where she’s been for weeks,” said Burns. “We got her down to fifty-three percent, down ten from where she started but now we’ve flat-lined at fifty-three and can’t get Kip above forty-three.”

  “There must be some weakness we can play to,” said Reese Rollins, lead consultant for Kip Dowling’s campaign. “Give us something to work with.”

  “Sex isn’t working,” said Burns. “As many people think it’s romantic as think it’s awful. And the more you hit her on that L.A. Lights thing, the more people see she spent years as Mother Teresa. But she did hang onto her Mexican passport until she got into politics. Tie her back to that Aragon company she worked with. Maybe she never really left. Maybe she’s been secretly working with them to get business away from American companies. Maybe it’s a jobs thing. Any good research on that?”

  Rollins turned to Sam Moncrief, the chief lobbyist for California’s banking industry and ad hoc leader of the industry’s campaign to defeat Tenny. The money flow through Moncrief had been virtually bottomless. Experienced political operatives had never seen a gusher like the one Moncrief controlled.

  Now Moncrief imperceptibly shook his head to Rollins. The issue might have promise, but the campaign couldn’t go there. Only Moncrief and a few others knew the money gusher’s source. There were hints that it was Aragon money. No proof, of course. Moncrief picked up the money in cash from an associate in a San Bernardino bank, who said his contact was someone in San Diego. Across the border was Tijuana Nacionale and its regular delivery of pesos for dollars exchange. Beyond that, who knows. And for this purpose, better not to know. Without doubt, someone in Mexico wanted to defeat Senator Tennyson so badly that he had a wide-open check book and an enormous free flow of pesos to back it up. Best not to turn the spotlight there.

  Reese Rollins got the signal from Moncrief.

  “I don’t think so, Cal” he said to his pollster. “What else have we got?”

  

  Ben’s Journal Entry

  Almie

  I celebrated Tenny’s election by treating myself to a day at Santa Anita. Santa Anita is such a beautiful race track. The horses are magnificent. I could stare at them for hours in the paddock. Like royalty, which in the horse world they are. Fast horses get bred to fast horses to make faster horses. Horses bred to run longer distances come from horses with distance pedigrees. It’s a science and art and it really works.

  Since Tenny’s campaign just ended I had her on my mind while I was watching these bloodline products today and thought of hers. Centuries of royalty. It works in horses. Does it in people? That’s the way the world used to work. Once a king always a king. Until they bred some idiot who blew away the family jewels. How to explain Tenny? Is there some divine right about her? Aragons rule! When I think of all the people in California I know who would give their birthright to be a U.S. Senator. They live the dream with every breath, every word, every action. Now, here’s Tenny. Just a few years from even knowing what Congress is. Never registered. Never voted. Whoosh, she circles the field and beats them all home.

  Of course we had to enter her into the race. That’s because she looked like the best choice. But the way she did it. Once Hal appointed her she flew out of the gate like no one I’ve ever trained. The Republicans threw everything they could think of at her. Nearly every other candidate I’ve worked with would have been blown away if they were hit with all the nasty stuff, backed by unlimited money. It hurt. It cut. It brought her down a bit. But all her positives overcame their negatives. She just attracts and inspires disciples like some kind of mythical goddess. And for someone who’s never done this before...I watched her get stronger as the going got tougher.

  On my bedroom wall now I keep a photo of Secretariat winning the Belmont stakes. He won by thirty lengths or more, like he was in a different race than the horses chasing him, horses that were the best in their generation. He made them look like
pack mules. What I love about the photo is that Secretariat’s front legs are extended as far front as nature allows. His hind legs are so far back they’re almost out of the picture. Three of his hoofs are off the ground. He’s flying. Just flying. The ultimate competitor. Straining every muscle to win.

  Somehow, Tenny does the same thing to people, voters, in elections. But if I had a picture of her doing it she wouldn’t be straining. For her it’s effortless. Natural. What kind of bloodlines create such a person? I read Kirstin Downey’s book about Queen Isabella, the book called the Warrior Queen. Are we looking at a bookend here? Half a millennium later? It’s scary.

  Love, forever (mean it!)

  Ben

  20

  The night streets of Zona Dorada in Tampico, Mexico once were alive with young people heading to popular bars and travelers searching handicraft stalls for exotic bargains. That was before the murderous gangs decided to compete for control of this port city. Now, one takes quick steps through the dark, else they risk kidnap or worse. Tourists keep their distance. Many of those with wealth are gone, leaving their colonial mansions for others to live in, loot, or burn.

  The priest and the woman having a late dinner were two of only six in the Fiesta Inn coffee shop designed for dozens more. Staff leaned against walls or made only intermittent appearances. There was little to do, few to serve, much time to think of better ways to spend one’s life.

  The woman was United States Senator Isabel Aragon Tennyson. It would have been extraordinary for any of those in the hotel, where she was staying, or in the coffee shop, where she was dining, to recognize her. She was clothed for invisibility. Unremarkable black slacks, a white sleeveless blouse for this warm May night, a simple, beaded brown necklace. Recognition odds were higher for her companion, the priest, Father Federico Aragon. His mission had taken him through this region before. Tonight he was here to meet his sister.

  Tenny did not check out of her suite at the Four Seasons hotel in Mexico City before flying to Tampico late on this day. She would return to Mexico City early tomorrow morning to continue as a member of a U.S. Senate delegation studying narcotics and arms traffic illegally crossing the United States–Mexico border. Tomorrow the group would travel to the Mexican side of the border with Mexican government officials. Tonight she was here to talk with Federico. Not idle talk. By phone days earlier, Federico had said something that alarmed her. So alarming that she felt the need to risk being chided by her Senate companions for “sleeping out” so that she could meet with Federico here, tonight, in one of the most violent cities in all of Mexico.

  “Were you followed here tonight?”

  “I can never be sure, Bell, but I don’t think so. They don’t follow me everywhere. You know, they don’t like to sleep on the floor or miss meals.”

  “I’m serious, Federico.”

  “So am I. It’s true. There are times when they don’t even try to hide that they’re watching. Other times I just get a quick look and they duck. But most of the time I don’t think they follow me at all.”

  “Do you know who they are?”

  “It could be anyone. The cartels. The Mexican government. Maybe even the bishop is just checking up on me.”

  Tenny shook her head and closed her eyes.

  “You’re hopeless,” Federico. “No one follows you because they want to do you good. You’ve been at this life so many years already. Find a church or a mission somewhere else. Come to the United States. I’m sure they can use you somewhere other than wandering from village to village. I mean it. Not a day goes by when I don’t worry for you.”

  Federico turned his attention to the bowl of vegetable soup and bread before him. He had the look of someone who did not eat often or very much when food was available. His robe hung from him with little structural support. He was not a large man. In Jesuit dress he seemed even shorter than his five foot seven frame. His brown hair, once thick and coarse, was now mostly memory.

  “When I told you I was being watched, it was for your safety, Bell, not mine.”

  “My safety?”

  “Yes. I first noticed it after your election last November. I don’t know exactly. Maybe in January, February. And I didn’t see it myself. A young man in a village I was visiting. I was staying with his family for a few days. He mentioned it. Padre, he said, who is that person following you all day? I wouldn’t have known. Why would I know? Who suspects that they are being followed? But after this young man told me, I did pay attention. And there was a man following me. I don’t know if he was trying to hide or was just careless. I was surprised, of course. So I decided the next day I would just go ask if I could be of service to him. Many are too shy to ask. But he was gone the next day.”

  “And it happened again?”

  “Many times since. Once I actually did speak with my shadow. I asked if there was anything I could do for him. No, padre, he said. Would you like to walk with me? I asked. No, padre, he said again. May I ask why you follow me? I asked. I am being paid to follow you. By whom? I can’t say, he said. And what is it you hope to learn? I asked. I don’t know, he said. When they ask me what you did while I was watching, I tell them. Who asks you? I can’t tell you, he said.”

  “How extraordinary.”

  “Yes. My followers seem to be simple people. Not dangerous at all, and I believe they have little idea why they follow me. But they need the money and it seems a harmless occupation.”

  “It sounds like someone is paying these people not actually to watch you or get information, but just to let you know you’re being watched.”

  “Or they want you to know I’m being watched. And that’s why I told you. I am nothing to them. But you are important. If your enemies are paying people to watch me, they may be sending you a warning.”

  “Then you are in danger.”

  “I’m in more danger from the idle bandit or militia gang or disease or the drunken husband. These things I am conscious of every day and I take precautions. I mean no harm to anyone. But what you are doing is certainly a threat to powerful people.”

  Since her election, and with the prospect of six more years in the U.S. Senate, Tenny had reloaded for combat with the bankers, brokers, and others from Wall Street who had been her campaign foils. She had promised voters she would fight for change, and she meant it. The seed of mission had matured since that awful night learning from Federico the truth about Groupo Aragon. New branches sprouted with every new casualty of class warfare who walked through the doors of L.A. Lights. Federico had his mission. She had hers.

  “Help as you can,” Federico would counsel. “Help as you can. Dear Bell, you can only change things for the times, not the eternities. For eternities, the money changers have walked the earth and mostly ruled. They were in the temple distressing our Lord. Our own ancestors in Castile and Aragon could do no more than the purses of the wealthy would permit. It was the bankers and merchants of Venice and Genoa and elsewhere who held the strings to those purses. Use what power you have to achieve the possible. Don’t squander it on unlikely quests.”

  Federico had taken Jesuit vows of forgiveness. Not Tenny.

  “Isabella defeated the bankers, Federico. Columbus returned riches beyond anyone’s dreams. She was able to cut those strings on the royal purse and turn warring provinces into a rich and powerful Spain. She wasn’t timid. Oh, I’m sorry, you know I meant ‘timid’ as no reflection on you. You are anything but timid. It’s personal bravery that allows you to do what you do. Power is to be used. Our family has used its power to crush people. I intend to use whatever power I have to cut cords of bondage and in a way free the serfs of our time.”

  They had had these talks before. Many times. But not like this. With Federico possibly becoming a target as a result of what she saw as her mission in Washington, D.C. This conversation had been too disturbing. She had little appetite for food.

  “Come with me, Federico. Tomorrow. Come with me to Mexico City. I can’t give up my work, and you needn�
��t give up yours. You’ve helped so many here. Others need help in other, safer places.”

  “We can’t run from callings and be at peace, Bell. Look, tonight we are in one of the most dangerous cities in all of Mexico. But we’re secure because we are careful. We don’t tempt danger. If I were to wind up in a shallow grave somewhere I would be of no good to anyone—me, you, our people, or the Church. I have no intention of leaving this world until the Lord says it’s my proper time. I have what you might call good survival skills and a network of those who look after me.

  “For my mission, I know my dangers, my risks. If you consider it your mission to threaten some of the richest and most powerful people in this world, you must be aware of yours.”

  White House Years

  21

  About 10,000 people each year are diagnosed with tumors in their pituitary gland. As cancers go, pituitary brain cancer is one of the least deadly. Most are benign. Statistically, 60 to 90 percent of those diagnosed with pituitary brain cancer are still alive ten years after diagnosis.

  The tumor found next to Reed Guess’s brain tested malignant. A surgical team at Bethesda Naval Hospital probed through his sinus cavity deep above the back of his throat and removed the pituitary gland immediately behind it, a routine procedure. Whether all the cancerous cells were removed with the tumor could not be guaranteed. These things take time and frequent, close medical monitoring.

  Guess could have continued his campaign for president with a reasonable chance of living through one, or possibly even two terms in the White House. The Iowa caucuses and New Hampshire primaries were just four months away. He led all the polls against his only serious challenger, Virginia Senator Roderick Theodore Rusher, champion of what could be called the conservative wing of the Democratic Party. The Republican primary was a stampede of eighteen candidates with no clear favorite. Guess had better odds of becoming president than he did of being cut down by brain cancer before he could serve.