Schoolcraft nodded in agreement. “Let’s get back to work—as if that will do any good.” he flipped the lights off as he walked out of the room, leaving Walsh standing in the dark.
u ChAPTER NINETY-FIVE
Max stood at his assigned podium as the television crew scrambled to make last-minute adjustments to sound and lights. he was early. he wanted to get familiar with the venue for the debate, and the audience would not be seated for another hour. By that time, he would be calmly waiting for the signal to take the stage with only Andrew Fox and Bill Staffman to keep him company. As he looked out over the empty seats, the feeling that his father was watching was unshakeable. Silently, he thought of the long journey that had begun when he was an infant and of the senator who became his father. If John Masterson had lived, he would have had the best seat in the house. If he had been able to give last-minute advice, he would have told Max to stick with the plan he had crafted to get his son to that stage.
When the feeling diminished, Max walked slowly back to the room to Andrew and Bill for last-minute advice. he would have preferred to have time to himself, but solitude is impossible during the last days of any political race. Andrew launched into his pep talk before the door closed.
“No speeches, right?”
“No speeches,” Max replied.
“No messages longer than a sound bite, right?” Staffman
chimed in, realizing that the time for preparation was long over for his young candidate. he had resigned himself to following the maxims for so long that it was second nature, any new words would be a distraction.
“I’m sticking with the plan,” replied Max. he walked over to a desk in the corner of the room. The lamp illuminated an envelope. The writing on it was familiar. The words were simple: Mr. President.
Max tore into the envelope as Andrew said, “Luke Postlewaite and Mom are going to be in the audience tonight, and Luke gave me this for you.” Inside was a copy of the original draft of the maxims, along with a handwritten card. In his father’s distinctive script, there were two lines:
Stick with the plan and release your fear. You have taken the journey, now reach the destination.
Max stood at the podium, calm and perfect, dressed in a charcoal-blue suit and red, white, and blue striped tie. his healthy tan was real, acquired on the ski slopes and beach trips he managed to use as backdrops for his many sound bites. he refused the assistance of a hairdresser or makeup. he didn’t need anything but encouragement.
Noticing activity to the side of the stage, he saw Scarlett surrounded by a swarm of assistants. They were busy patting and combing, all talking at once. Scarlett stood in the middle reviewing the flash cards she had trimmed to fit in the palms of her delicate hands. Until the cameras began broadcasting, she would remain in the wings and take advantage of her unique ability to attract attention. She wore her trademark red politician suit, with a blue satin scarf.
She, too, was perfect.
When the moderator approached his desk, the lights came on and so did the cameras, capturing every angle and activity in the room.
When she was certain that the broadcast of her image was imminent, Scarlett stepped onto the stage and began brushing her long auburn hair, then took her place behind the podium on the left side of the stage. The center podium remained empty, and nervous broadcasters began demanding reports on the whereabouts of the president.
Greg huffington sat at the back of the audience. he had wangled a pass from the League of Woman Voters after threatening to sue the organizers after being tackled trying to force his way into Scarlett’s dressing room. he was sporting a hematoma on his hip the size of a softball, and he limped when he walked. The bruise on his left temple was still tender, but it could be covered with makeup now that the swelling had gone down. he wanted to be in the room when Blythe annihilated his opponents with his skillful debating. All electronic devices had been removed from members of the audience, and security was high. huffington felt naked and gagged, lacking the ability to ask questions. To compensate, he planned to do an immediate report outside of Wait Chapel, the debate venue at Wake Forest University, where his network had erected lights and sound. The fall foliage provided a colorful backdrop.
Accompanied by his team of assistants, Blythe appeared and strode confidently toward his place in the center of the stage. he smiled and moved behind the podium. If he had been scanned for electronic devices like the others present in the room, he would have had to forfeit the tiny microphone inserted inside his ear canal. The president of the United States does not submit to security checks, and his calm exterior belied the fact that he would be fed answers from a secret location at the first sign that he was faltering. Inside the makeup, though, the inebriated man would soon face his largest audience, and his highdefinition image would be viewed by everyone, everywhere.
“Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen, please be seated. It’s time to introduce our candidates,” began Roger Forrestal, retired news correspondent for the now-defunct CBS News. “The rules, as defined by resolution of the League of Women Voters, are unchanged. For the benefit of the viewers who have not participated in our previous debates in this election, I will review them before we begin.” he quickly read a summary of the rules, stressing that the questions for this debate had been submitted by the viewers and the subjects had been changing on a daily basis for the past six weeks. “For the first time in history, the candidates have had no advance notice of the topics and have had no ability to propose or reject the questions I have been provided. To ensure the integrity of this process, I have left them sealed in the envelope before me.” With great drama, he tore open the envelope and extracted the contents.
Forrestal had been the default moderator since the start of the presidential race, and the rules defined by the League of Women Voters had not changed despite the efforts of the candidates to determine the questions to be asked in advance. Any candidate that could predict the questions would hold a significant advantage. The ten questions to be asked were anonymously collected and guarded by the League, and to avoid corruption, they were changed constantly. The candidates could speculate, but they would lack the rote statistics that most annoyed the voters. Without advance preparation, there could be none of that. For the first time in a long time, the debate participants were in the dark.
The cameras panned the candidates. Max and Scarlett stood still, attentive to the announcement. Blythe, however, had his back to the podium, whispering loud enough to be heard by most of the others in the room. The microphones picked up the rest of his words, which were broadcast to the world. “Dammit! Where’s my teleprompter? Walsh! Don’t just stand there like a retard! I’m not going to debate these two freakin’ Independents without my notes! Get out here, now!”
Walsh stood out of the glare of the cameras. Nothing short of a cattle prod was going to get him out on that stage, and he considered leaving the building before the president of the United States had a full meltdown in front of the world. Out of duty, he stood fast, but glanced for the nearest exit.
Blythe realized that he had his back to the audience and turned, reaching for the podium. In his inebriated state, he missed his handhold by a good two inches, sprawling face-first onto the hardwood stage. Immediately, Secret Service agents emerged from hidden locations and rushed toward the president. Trained to immediately protect the president from any perceived harm, they piled on top of him to protect his life from threats to his well-being. No training could protect Blythe from himself, and it was several minutes before the pandemonium subsided.
Scarlett stood at her podium, covering her mouth with her hand, regretting that she had left her mirror in her purse and wondering whether they would be afforded an opportunity to freshen up. By the time Blythe resumed the podium, his hair was reminiscent of a Nick Nolte mug shot. his makeup had dissolved in sweat, and his face was red from exertion and self-abuse. Max was rock solid and waited impassively as Blythe continued to self-destruct.
> “Let’s continue, but first let me ask you, President Blythe, do you feel as if you are able to go on?” Forrestal was attempting to restore order, but it was a tall order. he had no hope of erasing the start of this fiasco, and he knew that things could conceivably degenerate into pure chaos at any moment.
“Yeah, let’s get this over with,” replied Blythe, a droplet of sweat forming at the end of his nose. The cameras focused on the dangling drop and gave the viewers an unflattering close-up.
u ChAPTER NINETY-SIX
Back home in the real world, Bob, Phil, and Jerry remained glued to the big-screen TV at Jesse’s Tavern, which they had reserved for the occasion. Like other sporting events, they began betting on the only pending activity that could result in a winner or loser—that lone dangling drop on the end of the president’s nose.
“I’ll betcha five bucks that he’ll never notice it, and I’ll pay ya triple if it falls onto his podium,” began Phil.
“hell, I’ll throw in another pitcher of Bud if it doesn’t fall off before the first question,” contributed Bob.
Jerry reached for another chicken wing and considered his wager. While the drop continued to cling to the end of the president’s nose, he upped the offer significantly. “I gotcha all beat. I’ll buy both of you dinner at Buddy’s Steak house if he even leaves the stage on his own two feet.”
Forrestal managed to maintain his own composure, and determined to get the show on the road, he scanned the first question. With a brief smile, he directed his gaze at Blythe. “Mr. president, the first question is for you, and you alone. The voters want to know, if you were given the opportunity to ask your opponents one question that defines their fitness to be president of the United States, what would you ask them?”
Blythe looked dumbfounded. In all of the weeks of preparation for the debate, the possibility of him asking a question of Max Masterson and Scarlett Conroy, even one, had never entered his mind. In his condition, he reacted before he could regain his poise, and he attacked to respond to this perceived ambush. “I haven’t thought about it much, but what I really want to know is how these two goddamned Independents expect to beat me in this election. I have all of the experience, and they have none.”
Walsh and Portman cringed from the sidelines. “This campaign is going down in flames,” whispered Portman.
Stunned, the audience was silent. Forrestal wasted no time in turning to Max. “Mr. Masterson, you will be allowed two minutes to respond.” Max paused and directed his gaze into the cameras. “I won’t need two minutes to respond. It’s a simple question, and it deserves a simple response. Bad experience won’t win an election. My ideas are fresh, and his are rotten to the core.”
The audience erupted in loud applause as the cameras focused again on Blythe, who glared menacingly in Max’s direction. The cameras resumed the close-up of Blythe’s face. The droplet had tripled in size and fell from his nose, making an audible plop as it splattered on his podium. It was quickly replaced on his nose by another one as his face took on a sheen that no amount of makeup could conceal.
The guys at the tavern were beside themselves. This was becoming real entertainment, and they laughed with delight at Max’s direct jab at Blythe. They had long ago decided that Max was the candidate who would be getting their vote, but they clung to the precious few words he spoke, memorizing the simple messages. “I guess I’m paying for the beer tonight,” said Bob. Phil knew he owed money to his two old friends, but they all knew that nobody would attempt to collect if Phil picked up the evening’s tab. It was too early to predict whether Jerry would be buying them dinner, but the entertainment value of the event unfolding on the big screen made it all worth it.
“Senator Conroy, you will now be given two minutes.”
Scarlett had waited for this moment all of her life. “Mr. Forrestal, I would like to start by taking this opportunity to thank all of the people who are responsible for tonight’s debate, and especially the League of Women Voters, who have been so kind to sponsor this event, a duty they have assumed once more for the benefit of all Americans.” She launched into a prepared speech, touting her accomplishments as a politician and as a woman. Where her resume was thin, she added the record of renowned women in history to hers, as if she had been there and done that; experience by affiliation. She was poised and confident, a supremely accomplished public speaker, and she filled the two minutes with well-rehearsed and packaged words. There was only one problem; she never answered the question.
While Scarlett spoke, Blythe tried to look past the bright lights into the dark recesses of the backstage area. If he had been successful, he would have realized that Walsh and Portman had stealthily made their exit for the less volatile comfort of a hotel bar in the holiday Inn closest to the debate venue, safe from the wrath of the president, who was beyond the point of salvaging his last shred of dignity.
“Mr. Masterson, you have the next question. As you already realize, we are giving each of you the opportunity to ask questions of the other candidates before we go to questions composed by the voters, and this is an opportunity to inform America that each of you possess the integrity and vision to lead. Max Masterson, you’re up,” said Forrestal in his best announcer’s baritone, energized by the path the debate was taking.
Max anticipated that he would be asked a crucial question, but he had to devise his answer to attack Blythe’s record and avoided boosting Scarlett’s performance. Employing his characteristic economy of words, he turned to face the president. “I want to know how you are going to salvage America from the mess we are in and lead us to the prosperity that is our destiny.” By addressing Blythe directly, he avoided having Scarlett respond before Blythe.
“Mr. Blythe, would you please address the question first,” intoned the moderator.
The cameras zoomed in close, and Blythe’s face filled the screen. In the age of high-definition imaging, no minor flaw could be hidden. Every pore could be examined in detail, and the president had managed by this time to smear his stage makeup with the back of his hand, and run his hands through his carefully coifed hair, giving the viewer the impression that he had just emerged from a barroom brawl. he puffed from exertion, despite the fact that he had been standing still for the entire time. his eyes were glazed, and he wobbled slightly. he paused longer than was comfortable and glared once more at Max.
“You son of a bitch,” he muttered in a low growl. “You think you are so smart, so perfect, so ready to lead.” he launched himself from his podium and charged toward Max, raising his arm for a punch. Max calmly stepped left and feinted right as the president of the United States swung without the slightest contact. Blythe’s momentum propelled him off the stage, his head ending squarely in the lap of Roger Forrestal. The veteran announcer managed to recover his poise almost instantly and proclaimed, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this will conclude tonight’s debate. Thank you and may God bless America.”
The lights were lowered as Blythe was extracted by Secret Service, his feet never touching the floor. Unaware that both of his assistants had left the building long before his outburst, he screamed, “Plan B! Plan B! Get Darkhorse on it immediately! Do you hear me?” his voice disappeared he was carried through the heavy security doors.
From the hotel bar, Portman and Walsh turned to each other in astonishment. “I’ll be damned. We still have a job, and he is still the president,” proclaimed Walsh.
“Yeah, but what do we do now?” responded Portman.
u ChAPTER NINETY-SEVEN
At 4:30 p.m. on the day after the final debate, a hasty press conference was called at the White house. Press Secretary Wiley Carlson read an official release and took no questions. Paper copies of the release, on official White house stationery, were distributed to all members of the press in attendance, which read, “Tomorrow’s conclusion of the final debate between President Warren H. Blythe, Scarlett Conroy, and Max Masterson is postponed until further notice. Regrettably, President Blythe has contracte
d influenza and will be unable to participate further. Ms. Conroy and Mr. Masterson have graciously agreed to reschedule the debate to a time and place to be announced upon President Blythe’s recuperation . . .”
The news of Blythe’s withdrawal came as a surprise to the Masterson and Conroy camps. Not only were they not informed of the postponement, they also did not agree to the cancellation. Blythe’s handlers had gambled that neither campaign would contradict the official announcement in an effort to deflect any negative public sentiment that would result.
Max went into a momentary scowl upon hearing the news, and then he smiled. Andrew Fox and Bill Staffman waited for the inevitable maxim that would come forth from Max. Instead, it was a question. “Bill, is the Kennedy Center reserved for tomorrow night? I want to make a speech.”
u ChAPTER NINETY-EIGhT
On the day of the speech, two days before the general election, Max fullfilled his pledge. he had vowed to America that he would not make any speeches during the campaign, but the campaign was over, and it was his last opportunity to get his message across before the vote. Unlike typical stump speeches, his was designed long in advance, by a man who was now long dead, and he now realized that he had been rehearsing it since he was old enough to speak. he knew the words by heart, which was the source of each syllable. he believed, and he wanted America to believe.
In response to numerous requests for speaking engagements, his staff had issued a press release that, finally, Max would be speaking on the day scheduled for the final debate before the election. This had the effect of delaying a substantial portion of early voting across the country in anticipation that this speech would be the one that would help people to decide which candidate should become the next president of the United States.
Blythe and Conroy took the day before the election off from campaigning, as is the tradition. They were smug in their assessment of the polls. Projections for both the challenger and the incumbent showed close results, but with victories for each depending on which poll one chose to believe.
At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) Page 26