The Candidate

by Paul Harris

  Mike paused. He leaned forward, his voice a whisper. “That change was thanks to you,” he said. “He will owe it all to you.”

  The woman’s face snapped up and Mike shot backwards, his chair scraping on the floor. She looked at him now. Her eyes flared up to the size of saucers. Her breath came in ragged heaves and her whole body tensed, like a cat about to pounce. Her arms were on the desk and seemed rigid, the muscles in her hands bulging.

  Mike backed off, realizing with icy dread, something he had not truly understood until now. This was a woman who tried to kill a man. She waited patiently for hours upon hours with that sole purpose. The eyes looking at him now were those of a killer.

  And then the moment passed.

  Her head sagged back down and her body slumped. Mike, a cold sweat on his palms, sat there. It was his turn to be silent now. He remained so until the guard came back.

  “She say anything?” the guard asked. He jerked his head in the direction of the woman.

  “Not a thing,” Mike answered. But she didn’t need to. Mike learned something without words. This woman was not mad. She was not deranged and without reason. She was a killer with a purpose.

  * * *

  OUTSIDE IN the cold, fresh air, Mike walked across the prison parking lot to his car. It was a relief to be out of the jail. His heart was still beating fast and he felt sweat freeze on his forehead as an icy blast swirled across the tarmac. He walked intently with his head bowed, so it was not until the last moment that he noticed a female figure leaning casually against his car, waiting for his arrival.

  “Gotcha,” Lauren said.

  Mike opened his mouth but no words came out.

  “I knew you guys were looking into the shooter. But I had to follow you to make sure it was true,” she said. The note of triumph in her voice was unmistakable. Then she winced theatrically and shrugged her shoulders by way of apology.

  “I’m sorry, Mike. You’re not mad about this are you?”

  Mike gathered his feelings, finally realizing that he was actually more impressed than angry. Not only did Lauren have the right sources in the campaign to get a lead, she had the balls to actually follow his car to see where he was going. But did she know anything new? He thought fast. She did not know about the cleaner at the Havana. She did not even know about the motel. She could follow his car but she could not follow his investigation.

  “No,” he said. He laughed before adding, “But I’ve got nothing for you. That woman in there hasn’t said a word since she was arrested. She still hasn’t.”

  He opened his car door.

  “Come on, Mike. Gimme something. It’s been cold waiting for you to come out.”

  Mike smiled again. He was actually enjoying this as long as he didn’t have to give away any secrets. “I’ve got nothing for you, Lauren,” he repeated. He winked at her as he shut the door and started the engine. Within seconds she was a shadow in his rear view mirror, gazing after his retreating car, no doubt already compiling her next blog post.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE ROAD ACROSS Kansas reached ahead of Mike like a rope stretched tight against some invisible peg past the flat horizon. He drove for hours barely moving the steering wheel, past Kansas City, past Lawrence and Topeka. Briefly the highway climbed up into the Flint Hills, where the old prairie grasses were never turned into farmland. The sudden beauty of the country shocked him and he pulled over at a rest stop, getting out of the car under a winter sky that suddenly cleared and bathed the landscape in beautiful sunshine.

  He stood there for a moment of peace and freedom, untied at last from the heated atmosphere of the campaign back in Iowa. He felt the ever-blowing wind in his hair and the faint warmth of the winter sun. The sky felt big again; a gigantic dome of blue, not the glowering gray that seemed to have hunkered down in Iowa, barely above head height, for the last month. A sudden explosion of feathers in the brush took him by surprise and a prairie chicken hurtled into the sky. He laughed and got back into the car and started driving again. Soon the landscape of the Flint Hills was just a receding bump on the horizon and the road to Garden City beckoned again across the plains.

  As his car ate up the miles and hours, the view gradually changed. The terrain, already virtually flat, seemed now to defy belief and become even more so. Western Kansas was a harsh landscape and ploughed fields surrendered to tougher soils that could only sustain herds of lanky cattle foraging on the short grass. He drove by Greensburg, Dodge City and Cimarron and finally into Garden City itself. It was a beaten down looking place, dominated by the hulks of the meat-processing factories on its outskirts and ringed by black-earthed cattle feed lots, where untold millions of cows from across the Midwest were fattened up on grains before being driven to the waiting slaughter houses.

  Though small and isolated out on the plains, Garden City was a familiar name to Mike. The meat plants acted as a notorious candle, enticing thousands of illegal immigrants like moths to its flame. Even in Florida Mike knew hundreds of men and women who would suddenly abandon the fruit fields for a shot at labor they could not imagine being even more harsh than the work they already did. Usually, though, they discovered a deep disappointment. Conditions in the meat plants were dangerous, pay was low, and raids by la migra were a permanent part of life. Most workers soon found they had merely swapped the backbreaking toil of fruit picking for the equally-tough task of wielding huge cutting knives on a never-ending production line of cow flesh. It cost many a finger or two before they moved on yet again.

  But Mike got lucky in his quest to find Ernesto Benitez. He knew a handful of union organizers and community activists out here, part of an informal network to which his own organization back in Florida belonged. One man in particular, Ivan Tobar, was an old friend who moved from Florida a year ago, following the trail of the immigrants. Tobar spent every waking hour of his week touring the trailer parks and cheap flophouses where the workers lived, informing them of their rights, calming their fears and trying to help them grasp at the better lives they sought. If anyone in Garden City knew of the arrival of Benitez — just another face in the anonymous flood of people flowing through town — it would be Tobar.

  Mike checked into a roadside motel and then drove out to find Tobar’s house. It was a collapsing bungalow in a dilapidated looking subdivision. A wire screen was half-hanging off the door frame as he knocked. He heard the rustle of someone coming into the door and then felt the firm grasp of Tobar sweeping him up in a bear hug.

  “Mike! You made it! Welcome to my little slice of paradise. Sorry, the weather isn’t as warm as Florida,” he said.

  Mike instantly felt the stress of the drive and his mission to find Benitez melt away in the warmth of his friend’s smile. Tobar took him inside into the living room, a place almost devoid of furniture save for a beat-up couch and a flickering TV It resembled the home of a student or unrepentant bachelor. Tobar went into the kitchen and returned carrying two cans of beer. He popped open one and handed the other to Mike, before the two men settled on the couch.

  “So, you’re with the Hodges campaign, huh?” Tobar asked. “Didn’t you hate all politicians?”

  “Yeah, I know. But this guy feels different somehow.”

  Tobar raised an eyebrow.

  “I know that sounds trite,” Mike said. “But I mean that. He can change things. He can even change things in a town like this, make it better for people. Stand up for the little guys.”

  Tobar was silent a moment. “Really?” he said. “Because we sure could do with some change around here.”

  His voice was strained, carrying it with the unimaginable tensions and stresses of his work. “I thought Florida could be bad. But out here, it’s like no one cares, man. This place is a machine and it chews up people more than the cattle. The immigrants come here, work for a pittance, then leave minus a finger or la migra sweeps them up. And the companies just roll on, raking in the profits.”

  Mike glanced out the window. Outside it was no
w dark. Tobar swigged his can and went to the kitchen to fetch another. When he came back he stood in the doorway and looked at Mike closely.

  “So what can I do for you, Mike? It’s good to see you but no one comes to Garden City on vacation.”

  Straight to the point. Typical Tobar. Mike did not beat about the bush either. He told Tobar he was looking for the cleaner of the room of the woman who tried to kill Hodges. He said he just wanted to talk. Nothing else. “The guy’s not in trouble. We’re just covering our bases here.”

  Tobar looked at him warily. “You for real on this?” he asked.

  Mike nodded.

  “You know, if I can find him here, your candidate will owe us a favor,” Tobar said. “If we get his back now, we’ll want him to have our back in the future. These guys need a friend in the White House.”

  Tobar was striking a deal. But it sounded like a good one. Mike offered his hand and Tobar took it.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Tobar said.

  * * *

  DEE OPENED her eyes with surprise. She could not even remember falling asleep. But, as she glanced at her watch and saw that it was 6:00 a.m., she realized she must have dozed off at her desk. She was still in the back office of the campaign headquarters in Des Moines with the final polls and newspaper clippings spread in front of her. She shook her head and stumbled over to the coffee machine to make a cup of noxious, caffeine-laced liquid. Just before she put it to her lips, she paused and then fished in her handbag for a tiny bottle of gin poached from her hotel room’s mini-bar. She poured it into the cup and gulped it down.

  “Happy election day!” she toasted to herself and walked out into the room.

  None of the score or so of people already there was surprised to see her. In fact, Dee collapsing in her office and spending the night was a common occurrence over the last two weeks of the campaign. Now, on election day itself, few expected her to be anywhere else.

  Dee felt the distant buzz of the alcohol hit her system. It gave her a welcome thrill, drilling through the tiredness in her mind like sunshine poking through clouds. She felt her mood shift; her excitement begin to kick into gear and the adrenalin start to move through her veins. This was it. Everything in this whole race had been building up to this final hurdle and now they had to jump it. It was do or die time.

  “Morning people!” she shouted. “Today I am going to make your lives hell. But tonight you will thank me for it!”

  In a frenzy of activity she whirled from desk to desk, haranguing staff, shouting at volunteers, balling out aides. She had no time to think, she was just running on pure instinct. Everything had to go right. The volunteer teams carrying placards had to be on the street corners, the teams of drivers giving people lifts to the caucus venues had to pick up every single one of their targets, the weather reports were crucial. They needed sun. Without it, just the old and determined would show up. Hodges’ appeal went to the young and the students too; the working moms; the unemployed and the immigrants. Sunshine meant those groups were more likely to turn out. One single mistake, one overlooked voter, could mean the difference between life and death for this campaign. It was Dee’s job to make sure that did not happen.

  Around noon, Hodges and Christine came into the headquarters. Unlike the staff members, the candidate and his wife had enjoyed a leisurely morning. Forbidden from directly campaigning, they had slept in and indulged in a late breakfast. They looked relaxed as they moved attentively through the frenzied room, stopping to thank volunteers and staffers alike. Finally, they got to Dee and she ushered them into a back room, clicking the door shut behind them. It felt like a little island of peace and quiet on a stormy sea.

  “How’s it going, Dee?” Hodges asked, settling down into the chair. There seemed something at ease about him as if, with judgment about to be decided, he at last felt liberated from the strain. He had done all he could.

  “It’s looking good,” Dee said, and then flashed a grin. “But how the fuck would we really know? An Iowa caucus is one of the strangest elections in the whole of the free world. I’d be lying if I said I knew for sure what’s going to really be on the minds of these folks.”

  That was the truth. Dee had worked and crafted this campaign in meticulous detail. She helped Hodges form himself into the very image of a president in the making. After the shooting, they ran a flawless campaign, dominating the headlines, attacking their opponents and rising in the polls. Nothing went wrong. She knew that. But did she really know what was going on? She was essentially just placing a gigantic bet. A bet that all their careers relied on.

  Hodges shrugged. He reached out and grabbed her shoulder with his hand, something she had seen him do a hundred times with ordinary Iowans. Suddenly she felt his power and charisma; felt the blue-eyed gaze falling on her. It was like an electric shock. For the first time she understood what is it was really like to meet her candidate.

  “I trust you, Dee,” he said simply, his eyes boring into hers.

  And, for the first time in weeks, Dee knew — truly knew — that it would be okay.

  * * *

  MIKE SAT on the bed of his hotel room in Garden City surrounded by the remains of a takeout pizza and a six-pack of beer. Both merely filled his stomach and dulled his head. They did not actually calm his nerves as he obsessively switched through the cable news channels as they covered the unfolding Iowa caucuses.

  Across Iowa, almost 500 miles away, people trooped to school gymnasiums, town halls and even just people’s private homes, to hold mini-debates about the candidates. They separated into different groups, backed a side and then tried to persuade each other to change their minds. Eventually, after a long excruciating delay, the final tallies fed through to Des Moines to be announced. It was an archaic process; a mad hangover from an earlier age. But it was how American presidents were born.

  Mike sat up as he watched a shot of Hodges come onto the TV. The Senator sat in a roadside diner, somewhere in Des Moines, and waved to passers-by as he shooed away any TV news crew that got close to him. Mike sent Dee a brief email over his Blackberry and begged her for the latest news. He got a prompt reply:

  “Trust in God and Jack Hodges (if you can tell the difference any more).”

  Mike tried to laugh, but his throat was dry despite the beer and he felt a pressure building up in the front of his head. He got up and paced around the room. This was awful, he thought. If they did win, how would he cope with the pressure of New Hampshire or South Carolina and beyond? Let alone the actual presidential campaign. But he was getting ahead of himself. They needed to beat Stanton before dreaming of that. Suddenly, his thoughts were disturbed by his ringing phone. He looked at the screen. It was Tobar’s number.

  “I’ve got him for you, Mike,” he said. “Ernesto Benitez. He arrived a week ago and signed up with the big Cargill plant. He’s sharing a trailer with some other guys there I know. I’ll email you the address.”

  Mike felt a glow of relief cut through his anxiety.

  “Thanks, Ivan. I’ll try and catch him tomorrow”

  “Do it early. His shift will start before sunrise.”

  “I owe you one,” Mike said.

  “Senator Hodges owes us one,” Tobar replied. “Let him know we helped. I hope this Benitez will speak to you, but nearly everyone here is skittish around outsiders. Good luck.”

  Mike glanced at the television and noticed with a shock that the first results were coming in and Harriet Stanton was well ahead. A handful of tiny caucuses had reported from rural areas and she already had more than 50 percent of the votes. Hodges was back in sixth place with just three percent. A stab of panic gripped Mike and he reached for his final beer. He flipped the tab and poured the liquid down his throat, not removing his eyes from the TV screen. He knew the first results were meaningless. They represented a few hundred voters. But he could not stop a primal thought from entering his mind. All of this work for what? We’re in sixth!

  Another slew of caucuses re
ported. Hodges ticked up. He hit eight percent now and Stanton slipped to 40. Hodges was in fifth place, bunched with a handful of other candidates. It was excruciating. But gradually the results flowed in, coming from bigger and bigger caucus meetings. They swept through the college towns where Hodges focused so much of his campaign’s strength and out into the blue collar suburbs of Des Moines, Davenport and Sioux City. From fifth place, Hodges’ numbers broke from the pack. Suddenly he was in third, notching up 15 percent. Then he was in second, just 12 points behind Stanton. Then ten points behind. Then eight points. Then five.

  Then it was over.

  Stanton won with 33 percent of the vote. But Hodges was second with 28 percent. It was an astounding result. Mike leapt up from his bed and called Dee. She answered the phone, or at least he thought she did. He could hear nothing on the other end but the sound of screaming, partying, cheering and cries of joy. He knew what she was doing. No words could describe their achievement so she held up her phone at their campaign headquarters and let the sounds travel down the line. Mike laughed and danced on his bed, fizzing his beer like a champagne bottle, giggling and whooping like a schoolboy.

  * * *

  THE NIGHT air was so cold that it penetrated the car’s wheezing heating system as Mike steered it down a dark lane towards the trailer park address that Tobar emailed him. It was 4.30 a.m. and yet he realized he might already be too late. The men and women who worked the early shifts in the meat packing plants were already on the move, freezing half to death as they hitch-hiked to work or jammed themselves like sardines in mini-vans.

  The road Mike followed was pitted and rough but broad and he was surprised to see a long line of cars and SUVs parked to one side. He drove slowly past them, aware also of shadowy figures milling about, adjusting clothes, putting on helmets. What the fuck? Mike thought. Then he understood. Immigration. La migra. There was going to be a raid. Shit.