Senator

by Richard Bowker

  Someone pointed out to him that I had been in a staff meeting until four o'clock on the afternoon of the murder. If Amanda Taylor was already dead at four o'clock, as Everson claimed, then I was in the clear.

  Oh, he said. He hadn't realized. But he pointed out that if he had wanted to use this information to help me, he would have come forward much earlier and spared me the weeks of innuendos that I had been subjected to.

  They asked about the man in the hooded sweatshirt. Everson couldn't really say much more about him. He had tried to give the district attorney as good a description as he could, but he hadn't had any reason to look closely at the man, so there wasn't much he could offer.

  I couldn't have given a better performance.

  "Were you behind this, Senator?" Kevin asked after we had left the studio. "Is that what you were talking about last night—you know, the mysterious phone call?"

  "Let's just say this isn't totally unexpected."

  "Cavanaugh can't arrest you now, right? Not when you have an ironclad alibi."

  "Cavanaugh has a history of not believing Paul Everson," I pointed out.

  "Okay, but arresting you was going to look pretty political even before. Now no one can believe Cavanaugh isn't playing politics. He'd have to be crazy to try it."

  I wasn't entirely sure of Cavanaugh's sanity at this point, but basically I agreed with Kevin's analysis. "We'll just have to see what happens," I said.

  "More likely, he'll arrest Everson," Kevin remarked. "It looks awfully suspicious, him finding her."

  "But what in the world would Everson's motive be?"

  Kevin considered. "I guess you're right. And besides, Cavanaugh tried arresting Everson before. Look where that got him."

  "Good point," I said.

  We headed on to our next campaign stop.

  * * *

  Not the least of Everson's lies during his press conference was his statement that the district attorney believed him when he said that he only wanted to see justice served by coming forward with his information. In fact, Everson told me later, Cavanaugh threatened to stab him to death. "You're a murderer and you're a liar and I'm going to kill you the way you killed your wife!" he screamed at Everson, who was not perturbed. The only reason for him to visit the DA in the first place was so that he could hold the press conference afterward.

  I can only guess at what Cavanaugh did next. There must have been frantic calls to the White House. There must have been a lot of gnashing of teeth and many futile fantasies. When he finally left the office around noontime, the press cornered him, and he was forced to make a statement. He tried to imply that Everson was lying in order to protect me, but it came out sounding as if he were trying to ignore important new evidence. Clearly he hadn't yet figured out what to do.

  Meanwhile, we were out there pounding away on the issues, trying to win the election.

  In the early afternoon we were stuck in downtown traffic heading for another interview when the car phone rang. Kevin answered, and his jaw dropped. "The White House," he managed to whisper.

  I took the receiver away from him. The secretary on the other end let the President know I was on the line; then Charles Kenton was talking in my ear, and I was trying to listen to his sonorous voice while Kevin, shaking with excitement, veered out of our lane and a cabby leaned on his horn and insulted Kevin's mother. "Jim, I just wanted to wish you the best of luck in the election tomorrow," the President said.

  "Gee, that's nice of you, Mr. President."

  "Not at all, not at all. We have our differences, of course, but I do respect you."

  "That's great to know. And of course, the feeling is mutual, sir."

  "Why, thank you. Now Jim, a rumor has reached me that your district attorney up there was thinking of pulling some kind of last-minute hanky-panky with regard to that unfortunate murder case."

  "Oh, my. That's distressing news."

  "Well, I just wanted you to understand that this is not something I condone. I like these battles to be fought fair and square. Governor Finn is a worthy opponent. He may defeat you; he may not. But the voters should decide on the issues, not on some trumped-up murder charge. Don't you agree?"

  "I certainly do. And I appreciate your candor and concern, Mr. President."

  "Not at all, Jim. Not at all. When you get back to Washington, I'll give you a call. Perhaps we can get together for a drink, let our hair down a little."

  "I'd like that very much, sir."

  I smiled as I hung up the phone. Kenton had cut Cavanaugh loose. He was on his own now.

  "Um, what was that about, Senator?" Kevin asked.

  "Oh, politics, Kevin. Just politics."

  The day passed in a blur of events and interviews. Six o'clock came and went, and it was too late to get anything on the evening news, and I figured we were home free.

  Cavanaugh finally called me as we were on our way back to campaign headquarters. "Francis, good of you to check in," I said. "How are things?"

  "You bastard," he replied, "you haven't wriggled out of this yet. I don't care about the damn election. I'll haul you in the day after the election, win or lose."

  "The President called me this afternoon, Francis. He's abandoned you. Finn's abandoned you. Everyone's abandoned you. You're the one twisting in the wind."

  "I don't care. I don't need Kenton or Finn. I can take care of myself."

  "And you can't really expect to convict me, Francis. Not after today. You should be looking for a man in a hooded sweatshirt."

  "You think anyone's going to believe Everson?" Cavanaugh scoffed. "I've got the ME to disagree with him about time of death. I've got you saying her door was locked and him saying it was open. I've got a motive for him to lie. I'll tear him to pieces on the stand."

  "Well, I would think by now you'd have learned not to underestimate Paul Everson. Look, Francis. You've been a good DA; no one can take that away from you except yourself. If you try to screw me, all you'll do is make people forget about everything you've accomplished over the years. They'll think: Oh, yeah, he was the guy who had the vendetta against Jim O'Connor. Don't do that to yourself. When you're retired, don't have your only memories be of your fights against me. It's not worth it."

  "Your concern is heartwarming," Cavanaugh said.

  "And the strange thing is, it's real. I'll see you around, Francis."

  Kevin looked at me as I hung up. "You're being awfully nice to Democrats today," he said.

  "Democrats are people, too, Kevin. Or so I'm told."

  Headquarters throbbed with last-minute crises. Harold was there organizing the get-out-the-vote effort for election day. I went into his office. He was wearing a starched white shirt and a bow tie; his suitcoat was neatly hung on a wooden hanger on the back of the door. He looked like a fussy tax lawyer. He gave me an appraising stare. "Sometimes I think I underestimate you," he said.

  "Please spare me the flattery," I replied. "It degrades us both." I sat down. "Think we'll win?"

  "Our polls, their polls, everyone's polls have it too close to call," he said. "People are making up their minds at the last minute. They'll go into the voting booth and look at the two names and something'll click, and that'll be that."

  "Okay," I said. "It's close. But what do your finely honed political instincts say? What will click when they're in the voting booth?"

  "You didn't help yourself by disappearing last night," he pointed out. "We've had an erratic campaign. That sticks in people's minds."

  "Bobby Finn's had his problems, too. We've hurt him on crime. He's hurt himself in some of his interviews."

  "True." Harold fiddled with a paper clip. "Everson's press conference just might make the difference. Neutralize the murder as an issue. I don't know."

  "I don't know either."

  Harold tossed the paper clip onto the desk. "I would have resigned a long time ago if I hadn't thought it would doom the campaign," he said.

  "Marge was going to enter a convent," I said. "What wo
uld you have done?"

  He spread his hands. "I have no idea. I guess that's the real reason I didn't quit."

  "Well, thanks for sticking around."

  "Don't mention it. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a lot more work to do before this election is over."

  I left him alone. I, too, had more work to do: one last rally to address, then live interviews with all the Boston stations during the eleven o'clock news. Everything went well. They all asked me about Everson, and I gave a stock response: I was glad he came forward with his information. If it helped convince people I was innocent, that was fine, but the main thing was to bring Amanda Taylor's murderer to justice. I hoped the new information would help District Attorney Cavanaugh accomplish this.

  I saw tapes of Bobby Finn's interviews afterward, and he looked good, too. He said something equally bland about Everson and otherwise stuck close to his campaign script: He was more in touch with the people than I was. My last-minute shifts in positions were a cynical attempt to con the voters. He was confident the voters would be smart enough tomorrow to know who was really on their side.

  I went to bed with no idea how I was going to do. I hadn't thought about the election very much lately, and I was having difficulty thinking about it now. I was just doing what had to be done. I wondered if the voters would sense my lack of interest and respond accordingly.

  It occurred to me that I hadn't thought about Carl Hutchins very much lately either. A lot of lives are changed forever on election day.

  * * *

  Election day. A politician's whole life leads up to it. When it finally arrives, you are tortured by thoughts of what remains undone, of what was done badly and now cannot be undone. The botched interview; the unintended insult to the union leader; the parade you were too tired to march in. A thousand ways you could have ensured victory, all forever gone. Massachusetts wakes up and takes its shower and feeds its cat and takes its dog for a walk and thinks: What was I supposed to do today? Oh, yeah, vote. I wonder who's running. And you long for one last chance to reach the voters, to talk to them, to make them understand.

  But it's too late.

  Kathleen was too excited to speak. She wanted to take the day off from school—a first for her—but we turned her down. We pretended to eat breakfast together, but no one had any appetite. Then Liz dutifully accompanied me to the polls. We smiled for the photographers as we went into the high school to cast our ballots. When we came out, a reporter asked Liz whom she had voted for.

  She smiled and said, "It's supposed to be a secret," and everyone laughed.

  "What are you doing today?" I asked in the car.

  "I have classes," she said.

  "Kathleen is counting on tonight," I reminded her.

  "We'll be there."

  Kevin dropped her off at the house, and then we headed downtown.

  I had Kevin stop at a couple of polling places so that I could shake a few hands and give some encouragement to the folks standing out in the cold holding my signs, but I was just killing time. When we finally reached headquarters, there was little for me to do but bother the people involved in the get-out-the-vote operation.

  It was hard to believe the operation would make much difference. Over a million votes would be cast today. How many would we pick up with all the computerized lists of probable supporters, all the poll watchers checking off names, all the phone people ready to call the supporters who hadn't shown up by late afternoon? Still, it was one of those things you had to do in a modern professionally run campaign. The race was too important to leave anything to chance.

  And yet so much of the result would be due to chance—or, at least, to things over which neither candidate had any control. Women liked me, maybe because I'm handsome; what could Bobby Finn do about that? A factory closes in Springfield, and I pick up some votes because workers are unhappy and they take it out on the governor. An old lady in Osterville once knew a fellow named Finn who was a nice guy, so she figures Bobby must be a nice guy, too. Another old lady's Social Security check is always late, and she blames the people down in Washington: another vote for the governor. Over a million people out there, looking at the names on the ballot, making their decisions; over a million different reasons why they choose whom they choose. Candidates spend next to nothing and win; candidates spend millions and lose. It is a strange business. It is the most important business in the world.

  I went into Marge's office and went over the victory speech she had written for me. She had circles under her eyes; her ashtray was overflowing. "This part where I thank Liz," I said. "Can't you punch it up? You know, make it more loving?"

  "I figured you could do some ad-libbing there," Marge replied. "I don't want to do all the work for you."

  "I suppose I can come up with something. Now, where's the concession speech?"

  Marge shook her head. "I don't do concession speeches."

  "It comes with the territory, Marge."

  "You've never lost," she pointed out.

  "You've never been my media coordinator during a campaign before."

  "And I'm never going to be your media coordinator again. I'm going to become an air traffic controller, some job where I can handle the pressure."

  I gestured at the photograph of Marge talking to the Famous Correspondent at the postelection party six years ago. "Still, there's nothing like winning," I said.

  "Do you believe that?" Marge asked. "Honestly, Jim. I want to know."

  I considered. "Winning matters if you're sure you're right. I guess lately I haven't been so sure I'm right."

  She suddenly leaned forward and put a hand on mine. "A politician doesn't have to be right all the time," she said, "but he has to be a good man. You may not believe it, Jim O'Connor, but you are a good man."

  I grinned. "Why don't you come up and visit me in my hotel suite tonight."

  "I just might do that."

  I went back to my office and called my father. "Vote early and often," I said.

  "Oh, Danny came over and took me first thing this morning."

  "Good for Danny."

  "He got that job, you know."

  "Even better for Danny. Now if only I can win this election, we'll both have jobs. Are you coming tonight?"

  "Well, I don't know. It'll go awfully late."

  "No, it won't. I'll be making my victory speech by eight-thirty. Danny'll pick you up."

  "Oh, well, I don't know."

  I called Danny. Melissa answered. "You're coming tonight, right?" I said.

  "Oh, Jim, it doesn't seem—"

  "My father's dying to come, and I promised him you and Danny would take him. Bring the kids. Nobody has to talk to a Republican if he doesn't want to."

  "Jim, about the—you know. The confession." She whispered the word. "We talked about it a lot, and we thought, maybe after the election, when it wouldn't hurt you."

  "That's up to you two," I said. "Honestly. Anyway, I hear Danny got that job. Tell him congratulations."

  "He's really changed, Jim. If only—"

  "Come tonight, Lissa. We'll talk about it after the election."

  Finally I went to the hotel to await my fate. Kevin and I looked into the ballroom. Workers were putting up a huge banner with my name on it; a technician was checking the sound system, which squealed whenever he tried to speak; a janitor lazily mopped the floor. In a few hours the ballroom would be the scene of either the biggest wake or the biggest party the hotel had seen—well, since the last election.

  "They say turnout's heavy," Kevin murmured.

  That wasn't a good sign. Casual voters are lower on the socioeconomic scale and therefore tend to vote Democratic. "A snowstorm would have been nice," I said.

  We went upstairs to the suite, which was filled with TVs and phones. Liz and Kathleen arrived a little while later. Kathleen started to pace the room as if she had been taking lessons from Sam Fisher. She was wearing a blue silk dress, and she looked so much like a grown-up that I could scarcely stand it.
Liz was quiet, distant, preoccupied: the usual. I had room service send up dinner, but our appetites hadn't improved since breakfast. Our minds were on the voters. In the real world people were getting out of work now, finishing supper, thinking: The weather's not bad, TV's lousy, maybe I'll go vote. And at the polling places the lines were getting longer. People were standing there impatiently, thinking: defense, the crime rate, Amanda Taylor, the wheelchair shocker, O'Connor's black hair, Finn's grammar, Amanda Taylor. Thinking: The damn Subaru needs a new muffler; I'm gonna do it, I'm gonna ask Marcia to marry me; Leverett Saltonstall, now there was a senator; my back hurts; this line is too long, I'm going home; all those politicians are the same anyway.

  "Can we turn on the TV?" Kathleen asked.

  "There's nothing to watch," I said. "No returns to report till after the polls close at eight."

  "Maybe they've done some exit polling."

  "Where did you learn about exit polling? You must be hanging out with the wrong crowd."

  "Daddy."

  "The stations are holding back their exit poll data till after eight," I explained, "so they don't influence the vote."

  "Well, we can't just sit here."

  "Eat your chocolate mousse," I said. "That's what I'm going to do."

  Once dinner was over, I allowed the parade of visitors to begin. Kevin was the doorkeeper, but there were a lot of people who deserved a few minutes with the candidate on election night, so I let him be lenient in granting admittance to the inner sanctum.

  Besides, talking to visitors kept me from becoming as nervous as Kathleen.

  Everyone was optimistic; they all told me they were sure we'd won. But what else can you say to the candidate? Too bad you screwed up in that debate, Jim. Lousy strategy the last couple of weeks, Senator. You really snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.