Ballots and Blood

by Ralph Reed

  “We’re not going to let it happen,” said his campaign manager with bravado. “That’s why we flood the zone. You want to soak up as much earned media as you can, look senatorial, show a lot of gravitas.”

  “You convinced me,” said Jefferson, rising from his chair. The rest of the campaign team occasionally took to calling the campaign manager Geppetto behind his back. “But nothing today. The state is traumatized. People are in shock. Nothing until tomorrow.”

  “I’ll start calling back the stations and networks and report back with a game plan,” said the press secretary.

  Jefferson signed off and reached for the corned beef sandwich. He was suddenly hungry. What a crazy campaign, he thought. At the beginning he was given no chance, then he was leading, then he was written off when Lightfoot bolted the party, then he was leading again, then he was dead because of the ACS scandal. Now he was alive again. If he was a cat with nine lives, he pondered, how many did he have left?

  40

  Bob Long sat in the small anteroom off the Oval Office, eyes locked on the television screen, straining to hear every word. Joining him were Charlie Hector, Truman Greenglass, and Lisa Robinson. They were watching live coverage of Momar Salami ranting before the Iranian parliament in Tehran.

  “The imperialist empire of the United States, completely under the spell of the Zionist entity and Jews in the American media, thinks it is the boss of the entire world,” said the English translator in a calm, measured voice. It was a stark contrast to the image of Salami in a brown suit, white shirt, and no tie, cutting the air with a clenched fist, his eyes aflame. “Does every nation in the world have a right to a nuclear energy except Iran? We are signatory to the nonproliferation treaty. Israel is not. Is that a problem for the U.S.? No!” Salami preened for the cameras, even as the mullahs seated behind listened impassively.

  “We will not allow America to dictate the destiny of our civilization,” Salami shouted, his face flushed. “I have ordered our military commanders to take steps to stop commerce with the U.S. and its hirelings from flowing through Iranian waters.”

  Long arched his eyebrows. “Well, there it is. He’s closing the Strait.”

  There was silence for a moment as the gravity of the situation sunk in. Greenglass spoke up. “We should get Jock and the Chiefs on the phone to assess options.”

  “Tell them to come to the Situation Room,” said Long. “If I take military action, I want to look them in the eye. Charlie, I assume we can do that before the end of the day?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hector.

  “Should we alert the media you’re meeting with the national security team?” asked Lisa.

  Long frowned. “No. I don’t want to play cowboy. Or show my hand just yet. We’ve been clear in saying we will keep the Straits open.” He stood up. “Our actions will speak for themselves when we’re good and ready.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Lisa.

  The phone on the end table rang. Hector walked over and picked it up. He turned to Long. “It’s Dart,” he said, referring to Bryan Dart, the secretary of the Treasury.

  “Put him through,” said Long. Hector handed him the phone. He listened intently, grunting occasionally. “Thanks, Bryan. Keep me posted.” He hung up.

  “What did he want?” asked Hector.

  “He said west Texas crude has already shot up to over $60 a barrel,” said Long. “Bryan says it could go to $85, maybe higher.”

  “That’s $5.00 a gallon gasoline,” said Greenglass.

  “That’s why Salami’s doing it,” said Long. “Oh, and Bryan also said the Dow’s down three hundred points already.”

  “That’s the market’s reacting to a possible war with Iran,” said Greenglass.

  “That didn’t take long,” said Hector.

  “Nope,” said Long. “Fasten your seat belts, everybody. We’re in for quite a ride.”

  Everyone filed out. Long gazed at the television, deep in thought. Lines at the pump and skyrocketing gas prices could cost him control of the Senate and the House, both of which were on the bubble. And it wasn’t just Congress that hung in the balance. Unless the U.S. military reopened the Strait of Hormuz, the U.S. economy—not to mention Europe—would be on the brink of recession. Forty percent of the world’s oil passed through the narrow passageway of Hormuz. Cutting off the world’s oil supply would send the entire global economy into a tailspin.

  MARIE LIGHTFOOT STEPPED IN FRONT of a bank of microphones at her late husband’s campaign headquarters in Miami, surrounded by beaming supporters who held up yard signs bearing the words, “Marie Lightfoot for U.S. Senate.” The ink on the signs had barely dried.

  Lightfoot seemed strangely composed and confident for someone still absorbing the news of the death of her husband and eldest son. Her demure mouth and high cheekbones suggested a feminine softness, while steely blue eyes revealed inner resolve. She wore a proper black dress at the knees with black pumps. Her trim figure and black hair with light brown highlights to hide the gray made her look younger than her sixty-two years.

  “I have never had political ambitions, and this campaign is not about me,” said Lightfoot, her voice filled with pathos. The emotion filling the room was palpable. “This is about the things my husband stood for throughout his career and devoted his life to advancing. It is about the people of Florida.” She glanced down at her notes, collecting her thoughts. “The more I thought about it, the more I realized the only thing worse than losing Dolph was allowing the things he believed in to perish with him. I can’t let that happen. So with a heart still heavy with his loss but inspired by his example and determined to finish the work he began, today I announce my candidacy for the United States Senate.”

  The supporters waved their signs and cheered and applauded. Still cameras flashed to capture the image.

  “We want Marie! We want Marie!”

  “I look forward to carrying on Dolph’s work in Washington,” said Lightfoot, seeming to gain her footing as she talked. “Should I be fortunate enough to be elected to the U.S. Senate, I will work hard to grow the economy, bring about a new era of fiscal responsibility while preserving our solemn commitment to our children and seniors, especially in the areas of education, Medicare, and Social Security.” She raised her finger to the click and whir of camera shutters. “I am not running to be a placeholder. I am running to be an advocate for Florida. I may be a grandmother, but I haven’t forgotten how to clean up a mess. Washington is a mess, and it needs a grandmother to clean it up.”

  More cheers and applause all lapped up by a press corps hungry for the narrative of the widow slipping on the brass knuckles to honor her husband’s memory. The election was only five days away. With Marie Lightfoot’s entrance, the campaign took another bizarre turn into the unknown.

  KATE COVITZ STOOD IN THE foyer of a large home in Beverly Hills, surrounded by a crowd of about two hundred women. The women drank Chablis and sparkling water and nibbled on sushi appetizers. Emily’s List endorsed Covitz and bundled individual contributions totaling over $500,000 to her campaign. It was all about the money now. Covitz and Hughes blanketed the state with a blizzard of television and radio ads. The campaign invited the media to the event, which stood to the side, video cameras, microphones, and steno pads poised. They wanted to highlight Hughes’s antiabortion views and boost Covitz’s support among women. No one saw coming what happened next.

  Covitz, in a pastel blue pantsuit with heels and a white blouse, wielded a handheld microphone in both hands. Her buttoned coat pinched her waist, her make-up was flawless, her hair coiffed. But her eyes were tired, with dark circles, and her crow’s feet showed.

  “Thank you all for coming,” she said into the mike. “It’s become a cliché, but I truly believe next Tuesday is the most important election of my lifetime. And not just because my name is on the ballot.” She pivoted on her heels, chin thrust forward. “Arrayed on one side are forces that want to take us backward. Back to a time when women’s rights
were not part of the agenda, when women could not control their own bodies. On the other side is a future based on freedom of choice, economic opportunity, and caring for the least among us. In the end this is not about me and my opponent. It’s about California. It’s about America.”

  Someone started to applaud and others joined in. Covitz nodded in acknowledgment. “Now I don’t want to make this personal with either my opponent or the president,” she said. The mention of Bob Long’s name elicited scattered hisses and moans. “I worked well with the president when he was governor of California. He was pro-choice then, you may recall. Apparently he changed his mind.” The room laughed knowingly. “Everyone has a right to change their opinion. But when it comes to something like the Constitution, people are looking for consistency and character. When it comes to reproductive rights, I have never wavered, and I never will as long as I am in the U.S. Senate.”

  The room broke into loud and sustained applause. Covitz glanced at her aides, tapped her watch, and raised her eyebrows to signal she wanted to take questions. “The staff is going to give me the hook here in a minute because I have to get to another event,” she said. “But I’ll be happy to answer or dodge any question you might have for me.”

  Several hands shot up. Covitz pointed to a middle-aged, demure woman in a chocolate business suit that matched her brown eyes. A staff member handed her a microphone. “Senator, there seems to be a double standard for women in politics. Women are asked different questions, they are held to a different standard, and they are forced to deal with things in a campaign male candidates are not. I wonder how you deal with it?”

  Covitz leaned forward slightly, her eyes focused. “There is a double standard,” she said, her voice soft and vulnerable. “I’ve never complained about it. It’s a price I’m willing to pay for women who cannot run themselves but need a voice.” Her eyes locked on the questioner. “It’s been hard not only for me but for my family.” Her eyes began to well and her voice cracked. “It’s hardest on my children. They didn’t sign up for this. They don’t like seeing their mother attacked.” She paused, choking back tears, patting her heart. The media contingent snapped to attention, sensing a possible meltdown. “But I keep going. And you know what keeps me going? The knowledge that as tough as it is on me, it’s tougher on so many other women who live paycheck to paycheck, who work two jobs, who take care of their children or parents, often without the benefit of anyone to assist or support them, and they never, ever get any credit for it. I have lived their life. I know what it means. I want to fight for them. And with your help I will continue to do so.”

  “We love you, Kate!” shouted someone in the back of the room.

  “Thank you,” she said as the room broke into loud applause. “I love you, too.”

  Several reporters hustled out of the room to tweet the audio of Covitz’s emotional answer, which would soon run on every television station in the state and every news network in the country. Her allies praised her for showing her softer, personal side, while critics accused her of making a final play for a sympathy vote. Covitz’s emotional display would dominate the airwaves and the blogs for two days. Would it help or hurt her? No one knew.

  The following day the Los Angeles Times, which broke several front-page stories about her husband’s financial troubles, weighed in with its endorsement at last. “We have made no attempt to disguise our disfavor for the business practices of Senator Covitz’s late husband. But we never viewed his misdeeds as grounds to disqualify her,” the editorial stated. “While Mrs. Covitz was an officer of her husband’s companies for a time, there is no evidence she had knowledge of or participated in any attempt to evade income taxes. Indeed, her attorneys have announced plans to settle with the IRS. Senator Covitz has accomplished too much for the people of California to remove her now, especially when the alternative is someone with little to recommend her except her fidelity to an extremist agenda and her unquestioning loyalty to Bob Long.”

  It was a backhanded compliment, but it was the endorsement Covitz needed. Her media consultants dropped her existing closing TV ad in LA and replaced it with a spot built around the Times endorsement.

  ANDY STANTON’S G-5 DESCENDED INTO Pensacola as the sun set over Florida’s panhandle, the lodestone of social conservative voters in the Sunshine State. The sun hung low over the Gulf in the distance, its rays of orange and red dappling the seemingly endless expanse of pine trees. Andy looked out his window, gazing at the beauty, and felt the adrenalin kick in. It was Sunday night before the election, and the Faith and Family Federation was turning out the pro-family vote for Don Jefferson. The plane taxied to a stop and the ladder lowered to the tarmac. Andy, Ross Lombardy, and the rest of his entourage loaded into a line of black Cadillac Escalades, which whisked them the short distance from the airport to their destination, Calvary Chapel, the largest evangelical megachurch in the panhandle, with more than six thousand members.

  When the motorcade arrived, Stanton ducked into a holding room, its door guarded by security. The room echoed with the sounds of hymns being sung in the packed sanctuary. Even through the walls Andy’s party could make out the familiar words.

  “In my life, Lord, be glorified! Be glorified!” sang the congregation.

  Andy sucked on a throat lozenge and downed a bottle of water, hydrating for his speech. “When do we go?” he asked. He was getting antsy.

  “We hold here for five minutes,” said Ross, tapping his watch.

  “But I want to go now. I want to join the praise and worship,” said Andy plaintively.

  “The pastor doesn’t want to distract the congregation.” Ross shrugged. “Andy, you’re the featured speaker at the biggest church in the panhandle two days before the election. Please humor me!”

  Andy laughed. He glanced at his body man. “He’s got an answer for everything.”

  The door opened a crack. It was one of the associate pastors. “Dr. Stanton, we’re ready.”

  They filed out of the holding room and walked down a carpeted hallway, then stepped through a side door into a darkened wing off the main stage. The pastor was leading the congregation in prayer. From the shadows a female figure appeared. Andy recognized the woman instantly as Twinkle Starr (her real name), a female country singing sensation of yesteryear whose career had since faded. At one time she sold millions of records and packed concert arenas throughout the country.

  “Pastor Stanton, I’m Twinkle Starr. It’s an honor to meet you,” she said. She wore a form-fitting, sequined gold top, skinny jeans embroidered with matching gold thread, and black cowboy boots with gold-tipped toes.

  “I know who you are, and the honor is mine,” Andy gushed, his eyes drinking her in. “I’ve been a big fan of yours for years!” He was struck by how tiny she was in person and how artificial her appearance, with fiery red hair, large eyes, and china-doll makeup. “One of my wife’s favorite songs is ‘Well-Behaved Women Ain’t Never Made History.’”

  Starr smiled, revealing gleaming white teeth. “That was a good one for me.”

  “I’m surprised to meet you here. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m good friends with Don Jefferson through my first cousin, who lives in Florida,” Starr replied. “So I’m singing here tonight and then performing on Don’s fly-around tomorrow.”

  “Good for you! God bless you, sister.” He leaned over, whispering in her ear. “I think we’re going to win.”

  “Me, too.” She hugged him, then she and Andy posed for some quick photos. Other members of Andy’s entourage lined up for pictures as well.

  A voice came out of the semidarkness. “Dr. Stanton, this is your cue.”

  Andy snapped to attention in time to hear the pastor say, “Please welcome one of the most influential men in America today, an advisor to presidents, a pastor, a broadcaster, and, most importantly, a man who preaches the gospel in season and out of season, when it’s popular or unpopular, ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Andy Stanton!”

 
; Andy bounded up on the stage as the crowd rose to their feet in a standing ovation. He hugged the pastor and stepped to the pulpit, soaking in their love. In the back of the sanctuary, there were several cameras on sticks, including FOX News, CNN, and ABC. Andy made a mental note to himself: don’t say anything stupid.

  “Thank you, thank you, God bless you!” He raised his hands, signaling for the congregation to sit down. “What a privilege to occupy the pulpit, if only for an evening, of one of the greatest churches not only in the Florida panhandle but in America. And what a joy to share this evening with my good friend and your pastor, one of the finest pastors of any church in the country today. You are truly blessed to have this man.” He pointed at the pastor as the congregation broke into appreciative applause. The pastor nodded and smiled.

  “Brothers and sisters, in thirty-six hours the American people will go to the polls,” said Andy, his hands gripping the edges of the pulpit, his face a portrait of earnest zeal. “Actually, here in Florida you’ve already started voting. But before we cast our final ballots, we need to pray.”

  “Amen!” shouted several voices.

  “We need to pray for forgiveness. Before we point the finger at the liberals, the radicals, and secularists, if we want to know how our country got into such dire straits, we need to look in the mirror.” The crowd murmured in assent. “We allowed this to happen. We failed to be the watchmen on the wall. We cowered in the comfort of our stained-glass ghetto while our cities were on fire and families disintegrated and marriages broke up and our children were swept up by drugs and crime. It is we who must repent, brothers and sisters.”

  A smattering of applause rippled through the sanctuary. Andy was just warming up.

  “After we humble ourselves, we must pray for God to forgive us and heal our land,” said Andy, now on a roll, stepping to one side of the pulpit. “We need modern-day Esthers and Nehemiahs who will stand up and rebuild the walls of our society, which have been broken and violated because of our disobedience and failure to honor God.” The applause built to a full-throated cheering. People began to rise to their feet and raise their hands to the heavens. “Now is the hour of decision! We must fall to our knees and rededicate ourselves to restoring ourselves, our homes, and our country to dependence upon Almighty God through Jesus Christ, the strong Son, our Savior and Redeemer!”