u ChAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Look at those guys. They must have bought up every tie in town with red, white, and blue on them.” Andrew said. he and Max sat at the coffee table in the Michigan farmhouse, drinking Stroh’s beer and gnawing at roast venison ribs that had been marinating in Mom’s secret sauce for a week. The freezer in the utility room filled with wild game each fall, and by midsummer, it was nearly empty. hunting season is big business in the upper Midwest, and if they aren’t hunting, they’re preparing to hunt or feeding on the previous season’s bounty.
On the large flat-screen monitor were two conventions running simultaneously in split-screen mode, the Democratic convention in blue on the left, and the Republican convention in red on the right. Each had been preserved in real time and summoned for review. Speaking at the podium, the incumbent paused frequently for the applause to subside. he had accepted his party’s nomination for president forty-five minutes earlier, and this was as euphoric as the attendees had been all week. he was definitely preaching to the choir. On the other side of the screen was the challenger, a grizzled veteran of Congress who was in the process of exceeding all records for the length of an acceptance speech. he had been going at it for over an hour and a half, and his face was becoming more purple as he spoke.
“This is where old Bob Cunningham has a stroke! Watch!” Andrew held the zoom control in his right hand, and centered on Cunningham’s face. As he approached the crescendo of his message, his voice rose higher than usual, and the sweat began to appear on his forehead. Then it happened. A purple streak ran up the right side of his face, and his eyes rolled back into his head. he slumped onto the podium, which was ominously draped with an American flag like the caskets that bring soldiers home from war. Two dark-suited men appeared from the side of the stage and held him up by his elbows. As they carried him hurriedly off-camera to waiting paramedics, it was apparent that the party’s candidate for president was gravely ill. his immaculately shined black shoes left dual tracks across the stage.
u ChAPTER SIXTY-ThREE
The nation watched in shock as the endless loops of commentary spewed forward from the media. The clip of Cunningham’s public demise was disseminated almost instantaneously. By this time, Scarlett was forty-five minutes into her own speech, lost in the glory of her words and creating a furor among the uninformed. Strange though, the back of the crowd became silent, and a murmuring rose as people looked down at their wrist monitors. Soon, an assistant spoke into Scarlett’s communicator.
“he’s dead. Cunningham is dead. Wrap it up.”
Scarlett stopped in mid-sentence, as if she had suddenly lost her teleprompter notes. her face turned pasty white, and it appeared for a moment that she might pass out. She looked from side to side, bewildered, waiting for a voice in her ear to tell her what to do next. Without a sound, she turned her back to her audience, searching desperately for her aides. They were waving for her to leave, but she didn’t seem to notice. The audience was so preoccupied with the news that they barely noticed her exit from the stage.
“What does this mean?” Scarlett was clearly perplexed. her trademark smile was replaced with a look of grim concern.
“Somebody tell me what comes next,” she rasped into the microphone. She scurried for the limo as staffers and security spoke in hushed tones into their communicators. An aide attempted to usher her into the limo and put a finger to her lips. “I will not be hushed! This was all unplanned! This just can’t be!” As her head was being inserted into the back seat of the limo, her fading voice could be heard to say, “Someone needs to pull a knot on this, and . . .” the door slammed shut as the tires sprayed gravel on the remaining spectators.
The chief of security leaned over and buckled her into her seat, setting the environmental and security controls located in the seat back. “Miss Scarlett, I’m taking you the airport, and then we’ll soon be flying to Washington to meet with the party. It looks like you won’t be waiting until January to sit with the big boys.”
u ChAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
I’m the front-runner,” said Samuel hilton, the gun-control candidate. he had never been at the top, or even received more than 4% of the national polls, but a poll of duck hunters sponsored by Foster Gates propelled him to the top when Cunningham took his untimely exit from the race.
“I’m the front-runner,” announced the Reverend Billy Brooks, who had just been named the front-runner by the American Way Party, as the result of a poll taken of one thousand Baptists in New Jersey, together with a poll of viewers of the popular anachronistic TV show Our Family home, set in the idyllic fictional Ohio town of Millville. The broadcast reached twelve million viewers nationwide. “I stand before you today in a state of sorrow,” he stated with utmost sincerity, his head held high in the posture of a Baptist preacher. “America is at a crossroads. We need to restore family values and avoid the excesses that led to Mr. Cunningham’s premature death. We need to keep the family intact, refrain from society’s vices, and return to the days when people didn’t have to worry about locking their doors when they went out. We will not lose our values to those who seek to change our way of life.”
Forrest Carruthers was in Arkansas, where his power base had established its national office in the small town of Quincy, where the only two-story building was the church, which he had prominently placed in the background. Its famous three-story cross was prominently displayed behind him as he spoke. “I may be an old dog, but I learned to fetch long ago. I’m going for the position that Mr. Cunningham so aptly filled, God rest his soul.” his wife hustled him off the stage.
Two days later, it was announced that the Carruthers campaign was folding its tent and going home, as the campaign coffers had been depleted. The real reason was that Carruthers had lapsed into the early stages of Alzheimer’s, and the microphones had recorded his statement about how he was going to kick Dick Nixon’s ass in the general election.
At the airport, Scarlett was mobbed by the press and took the opportunity to make a short statement from the steps of the plane as her staff stood behind her. “I am the party’s candidate for president now, and we will take this campaign across this great country. I want every American to know that I appreciate your support in this time of great sorrow.” Scarlett’s speechwriters, who saw her present status as presidential candidate by default as their best opportunity to boost her standing in the polls, had wasted no time in preparing her speech.
her running mate’s death bounced her up to third place in the AP and Reuters polls, and she was sure to maximize her press exposure in the ensuing days. On stage and in front of cameras on an exhausting schedule, her face was everywhere. In the rush to prepare her for
MARK E. BECKER
the appropriate words to say in the nation’s time of grief, however, her handlers forgot to prepare words of substance for her.
“Scarlett, can you tell us, upon your running mate’s demise, what is the future of your run for president,” asked Rita Orbot, an independent news gatherer for YouTube.
“I can’t worry about that now. It’s not important. We need to attend to Bob’s funeral, which will be tomorrow at 11:30 a.m. A horse-drawn carriage will take his body for internment at Arlington National Cemetery. It’s a closed service, and afterward, there will be refreshments at party headquarters. Invitations have been e-mailed to three thousand selected friends of the family.” Instead of her trademark red suit, Scarlett chose a proper black ensemble but wore a white pearl necklace so as not to look too depressed.
“As the front-runner, do you have any comment on the issues of the day, particularly, the issue of illegal immigration, which has come back in the news due to the recent measures by our present administration to support amnesty for those twenty million people who are here illegally?” Rita had been trained well. A reporter never gives up the opportunity to ask another question when the microphone is in use.
“I don’t care about that now. If it was up to me, I’d put them all on a
bus and send them back to where they came from!” Scarlett stepped into a black stretch limo and was off. Rita stood there for a moment before realizing that she had just recorded the best sound bite of her career.
Max issued a statement on his website. “I’m sorry he’s gone. I’m thinking about his family, as I’m sure you all are. he left behind a wife and two young children, and I’m calling upon all Americans, young and old, to give a dollar to his family, to be matched dollar for dollar by his party. his campaign owes it to him. It’s the right thing to do.”
Within twenty-four hours, direct deposits by contributors to the Cunningham Widow and Orphan Fund had topped all previous single-day contributions to Cunningham’s presidential campaign fund when he was alive. It seemed that America cared more about his family than his run for the White house.
u ChAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
That son of a bitch! If we put up matching funds, we’ll drain our campaign fund down to nothing, while Masterson propels his sorry ass into the lead, and there’s nothing we can do about it!” National Party Chairman Victor Miniver pounded his diminutive hand on the rolltop desk in the party conference room, while Scarlett, fifteen consultants, and a number of hastily assembled state party chairmen looked on in silence. They didn’t know what to say, and it probably would be masochistic to interrupt Victor in mid-tirade.
“I assembled the dream team of Cunningham and Conroy to steal the presidency, and Dammit!” he began choking, perspiration coating his red face like he had just stepped off a treadmill. he reached for the glass of ice water that Scarlett had just poured for herself, and without asking for permission, downed the contents in six gulps. With water dripping off his chin, he continued. “We got more money contributed to his wife and kids than we did to the campaign, and all of those ads we bought and paid for before that . . . that . . . son of a bitch dropped dead is all in the toilet! hell, we may as well run them anyway. We can pick up a few sympathy votes for whomever we choose to take his place.”
They were each silently wondering whether Miniver was blaming Cunningham or Max for the unexpected woes of the campaign, but it was not time to ask any questions. “And Masterson drained the rest of our funds by pulling this stunt! how would it look if we showed our disrespect by refusing to pay? We may as well get caught lighting puppies on fire. This campaign is dead.”
Scarlett took advantage of the pause to stand and face Miniver. She’d had about enough of Miniver’s histrionics. She had come to this meeting to obtain the blessing of the party leadership and to discuss who would be her running mate. “Victor, it appears that the idea of the vice president being qualified to step into the role of president has been lost on you . . .”
Miniver charged in Scarlett’s direction, veering off at the last section to pick up a newspaper from his desk. “Read this to everyone. I’m not the only one who feels this way. Our polls back them up. You were brought on board to balance the ticket and get us the female votes. I’m in the business of getting people elected. I don’t give a damn about what you do once you get there.”
Miniver turned his back on the room as Scarlett read the lead editorial of the Manchester Union Leader: “When New hampshire partisans are asked to defend the state’s first-in-the-nation primary, we talk about our ability to see the candidates up close, ask tough questions, and see through the baloney. If a candidate is a phony, we assure ourselves and the rest of the world that we’ll know it. Scarlett Conroy is such a candidate. New hampshire residents and Independents must vote no. Bill Cunningham was our choice. We now endorse Max Masterson for president of the United States.”
MARK E. BECKER
“They can’t do that . . . can they?” raged Scarlett at nobody in particular.
“Actually, they can, and they did, and we’re going to do nothing about it.” he was a political boss. A small man, diminutive by all accounts, but if a person’s qualities were tattooed on his forehead, “Shrewd” would be the word displayed on the head of Victor Miniver. “I want you to know that you are not my choice for president. You were the decided choice of the committee, and I voted against you. The party has no faith in your ability to attain the presidency.”
Scarlett was intimidated by the sheer meanness of the man, but she wasn’t about to let him belittle her in the presence of the party heads with whom she had so faithfully networked throughout her political career. “But the vice president succeeds the president,” she muttered, looking for support on the faces of the twelve males who surrounded the conference table. None of them made eye contact with her, and she knew that they had discussed and decided her future before she got off the plane.
Miniver wasn’t through intimidating, and he sneered at her words. “You aren’t the vice president, he wasn’t the president, and at the rate of your erosion in the polls since Cunningham dropped dead, you won’t even come in a distant third.”
he was ruthless. She could tell by the slight affirmative shake of heads that her chances of convincing them otherwise were somewhere between “Not a chance” and “hell, no.”
“We have the New hampshire primary in three days, followed next Tuesday by the Northeast primary. If it wasn’t for the fact that you and Cunningham were the consensus picks, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I predict you’ll go down in flames.”
It was Scarlett’s turn to show her rage, but her lack of practical experience in screaming at people forced her to delay her saying anything until she could pull her persona back together. She sat silently, her hands tingling. Although the temperature of the room was too cold for her comfort, she felt her cheeks flush. She was too much of a lady to cuss, and even though the urge to strangle a weasel like Miniver had passed through the minds of many candidates before her, she maintained her dignity. After all, her proper upbringing from a childhood of cotillions and Junior League socials would forbid any kind of angry response. She chose to deal with this in her own way.
Standing without a word, she gathered her purse and coat, then turned toward Miniver. She couldn’t bear to look him directly in the eye for fear of losing her composure and focused her glare on his forehead. her campaign was dead in the water. her reputation was not as a hard-charging leader, but as a popular public figure with a knack for getting her face in the news without getting arrested. She knew that, and the despair produced by Miniver’s harsh appraisal of her chances passed through her like a wave of ice water.
“I trust that you haven’t had time to find another man to take Cunningham’s place in this election, so I will tell you now. You will be looking for two candidates to run against Blythe. I hereby withdraw my name as the party’s candidate for the vice presidency, and I will be asking the party’s delegates to support me in my campaign for the presidency as an Independent.”
Scarlett’s face and hair took on a similar hue. “Mr. Miniver, you haven’t seen the last of me, and by the time the sun sets on the horizon, every registered voter in every state, every woman, man, and child, will know what you have done here today. I wish you and your henchmen every success that you deserve, and no more. Good day, sir!”
Before Miniver could respond, she pulled open the heavy conference doors and made her escape. As the doors closed, she heard Miniver squeak angrily, “You won’t get my support, and you won’t get more than twenty percent of the popular . . .”
u ChAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Cunningham’s death happened so close to the New hampshire primary that it was too late for the ballots to be changed. The voters cast their ballots the old-fashioned way, following the Yankee tradition of going to the polls in the many small towns across the state. Although all of the regional primaries had gone to electronic voting from the security and comfort of the internet, New hampshire chose to remain a rebellious vestige of the past. The state constitution mandates that New hampshire hold the first primary in each presidential election, and they weren’t about to change a thing.
It didn’t appear to be important to New hampshire voters that the
y were casting their vote for a dead man and a running mate who had just resigned from the party. In fact, they took perverse pleasure in overwhelmingly voting for Cunningham and Conroy. Voters who would have otherwise voted for Blythe and Case crossed over to ensure a substantial victory for the Cunningham and Conroy ticket, a vocal symbolic protest that signified the degree of angst the voters felt toward party politics, and more significantly, toward politicians themselves.
Max was a close second, followed by the incumbent, a distant third. Seated in the Oval Office, Blythe watched the returns broadcast on a virtual screen. Ted Schoolcraft, his presidential advisor, sat in a plush chair in the corner, careful not to be in the president’s line of sight when the eruption occurred, which he was certain would happen shortly after the polls closed and the results were broadcast. he could have excused himself and gone into hiding at that moment, but it was his job to be there, and he was prepared for the wrath of Blythe.
Blythe was furious that he had been beaten by an Independent. “Ted, what I’m seeing here is a new trend, and it’s got me worried.” Blythe was unusually subdued, but Schoolcraft knew from experience about the low rumbling preceding most large explosions, and from the look on his face, he knew it was coming—and soon. Blythe stood suddenly, knocking a tray full of chicken wings onto the carpet, oblivious of the mess. he addressed the screen directly, as if he was talking to the many political commentators, self-appointed advisors, and consultants hired by the networks to cast their spin on the election.
“how in the name of Geronimo did I finish third place to a dead guy and an Independent?
Who am I running against, anyway? I didn’t even get my own party to vote for me!” he paused, noticed a particularly plump chicken wing that remained stuck to the tray, and snatched it off the floor. he didn’t bother to use a napkin, wiping the grease from his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. As he stared at the numbers on the screen, he hopped from foot to foot and pondered his next move.
At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) Page 18