by Ralph Reed
“Amen! Hallelujah!”
In the back of the sanctuary, Ross stood in the shadows studying Andy and the congregation like the seasoned political operative he was. He knew from the Federation’s nightly polling that Marie Lightfoot was closing fast. Would she overtake Jefferson in the closing hours? He feared the worst.
Ross turned to one of his harried staff members, who parachuted into the state for the final two weeks. “How many volunteers do we have knocking on doors here?”
“Four thousand, most of them deployed in the panhandle and along the I-4 corridor. Half of those are being paid. At fifty doors knocked per day per volunteer, that’s four hundred thousand doors in the final weekend.”
“I sure hope it’s enough.”
“We’ve done all we can. Now it’s in the hands of the Lord.”
“That’s what worries me,” said Ross.
41
A black Town Car carrying Sal Stanley and his wife pulled up in front of an elementary school in a light drizzle. Stanley stepped into the rain without an overcoat, wearing a charcoal suit and a light blue tie. His reddish-gray hair perfectly combed, a pocket square flawlessly folded, his pasty face looking like a marathon runner at the finish line, he wore a forced smile. Mrs. Stanley walked beside him, her weathered face wrinkled, her hand covered with age spots and blue veins and curled over his arm.
Stanley entered the school through a side door as photographers snapped away. He approached the table where poll workers issued cards for the voting machines. He signed the voter register, took his ballot, and walked to a voting booth, pulling the curtain.
A few minutes later he emerged from behind the curtain, flashing an awkward smile as the camera flashes exploded. He stepped out on to the sidewalk to hold an impromptu election-day news conference.
“How do you feel, Senator?” asked AP.
“I feel good,” said Stanley in a hollow voice. “It’s been a hard-fought campaign. I believe I made a strong case to the people of New Jersey.” Click-click, whir-whir, flash. “Now it’s in their hands. They’ve never let me down before. I don’t think they will now.”
“Did Mike Kaplan’s conviction hurt you politically?” asked ABC News.
Stanley stiffened. “That’s for others to decide. I think the campaign will be decided on the issues, and I expect to win.” He paused. “This is my tenth time on the ballot in New Jersey, and I’ve never lost. I don’t intend to start now.” His eyes began to well with tears. His lower lip trembled. A tear trickled down his left cheek and he pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes, slightly regaining his composure.
“You seem emotional,” said CNN, sticking the knife in. “Is it because this could be the last time your name is on the ballot?”
Stanley’s eyes shot darts. “I expect to be on the ballot and in the U.S. Senate for many years to come. And I expect to be majority leader when the new Senate organizes in January.” He lowered himself into the Town Car. The car pulled away and he was gone.
The stakeout over, the press drifted to their own cars and vans in the parking lot. They had their money shot: a tearful Sal Stanley overcome by emotion on the day that might mark the end of his storied political career. How great was that!
MARVIN MYER’S ASSISTANT BROUGHT A UPS package into his office and set it on his desk. “I thought you might want to open it yourself,” she said. “It’s from Ed Dowdy.”
“Jillian Ann Singer’s lawyer?”
“Yes.”
Curiosity piqued, Myers stared at the overnight package. A book proposal, perhaps? No one would want it with Singer dead. He tore open the package and pulled out a two-inch thick stack of papers, his eyes scanning the contents. When he realized what it was holding in his hands, he nearly fell out of his chair. Dowdy sent him the complete client list for Adult Alternatives, complete with names, credit card numbers, cell phone numbers, and supporting documentation. He tried to breathe but felt no air reach his lungs.
A simple act of self-interested faux generosity, helping Singer obtain a literary agent, nabbed him one of the biggest scoops of his career. When his eye paused at a name on the third page of the stack, he wanted to jump on his desk and do a victory dance.
“Hold my calls for the rest of the afternoon,” he said into the intercom to his assistant.
KERRY CARTWRIGHT HUNKERED DOWN AT Drumthwacket (Scottish for “wooded hill”), the Governor’s Mansion in Princeton. He sat in his study nursing a sore throat with a cup of herbal tea laced with honey. On his laptop he pecked away at what he hoped was a victory speech.
The phone rang. The butler entered the room. “Governor, Jay Noble from the White House is on the line, sir.”
Cartwright picked up the phone. “Jay?” he asked.
“Governor, I just left the Oval and the president wanted me to check in with you,” said Jay smoothly. “How’s it going up there?”
“We feel good,” said Cartwright guardedly. “No guarantees, but it all looks good.”
“We’re going to have a big night tonight, and it wouldn’t have happened without you stepping up to the plate,” said Jay. “I wanted to call and say thanks. The president and I are going to be watching the returns from New Jersey with a great deal of interest.”
Cartwright felt warm fuzzies passing through his body. “I was happy to do it,” he said in a raspy voice. “And I’m glad I did it, regardless of what happens.”
“Well, it’s going to be a good night. For whatever it’s worth, we think you’re going to win.”
“Just remember . . . it is New Jersey,” joked Cartwright. “You know, where dead people vote and Jimmy Hoffa disappeared?”
Jay laughed. “This time the good guys are going to win.”
“We left it all on the field, brother, that’s for sure.” He shifted gears. “What about Florida? What are you hearing?”
“It’s going to be close, but Don should win,” said Jay. “Lightfoot’s widow may win on election day, but she’s lost too much ground in the early vote and absentees.”
“What about the House?”
“It’s on the bubble, but Gerry and his guys should hang on by five to seven seats,” said Jay, his voice like melted butter. “Anyway, we’ll wait until the votes come in. The president will call you later.”
“I look forward to it.”
“We’re happy for you and for New Jersey. Have fun tonight.”
Cartwright hung up the phone and looked out over the manicured grounds of the Governor’s Mansion. If he got lucky, he was going to be only the third person in history to defeat a sitting Senate majority leader. And when Long’s presidency was over, he might be running for president himself. Cartwright took a sip of herbal tea and allowed himself a smile.
Jay hung up the phone and turned around to see Lisa standing in the doorway, her face etched with terror. “What’s going on?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
SHE CLOSED THE DOOR AND sat down across from his desk. “I just got a call from Marvin Myers.”
Jay knew that wasn’t good. “What does he want?”
“He says he’s got proof Whitehead was a client of Adult Alternatives.”
Jay leaned back in his chair and let out a pained sigh. “I was afraid this might happen.” He spun around to face her. “It’s true.”
“What?” Her facial expression was complete shock. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“I wish. Johnny told the president shortly after Perry Miller was murdered.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” asked Lisa, her eyes aflame.
“The president told me and Charlie. He wanted a lid on it. We were hoping it wouldn’t break.”
“That’s ridiculous. Something like this always comes out.”
“Lisa, the president was adamant. He wanted to try to protect Johnny. He wouldn’t let us get in front of the story.” He shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“Well, now what? Needless to say, Myers will post something
on his Web site within the hour, whether we confirm it or not.”
Jay looked at his watch. “Can you get him to hold it until the polls close?”
“I doubt it.”
“We have to. Make it happen. Offer him an exclusive with Whitehead. Heck, offer him the president. We can’t have this break until the polls are closed on the West Coast.”
“And what if he agrees?”
“Whitehead gives Marvin a statement saying he made an error in judgment, it was years ago, he’s reconciled with his wife, he’s forgiven, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah,” said Jay.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Lisa gulped. “So . . . does Whitehead stay on the ticket?”
“That’s above my pay grade,” said Jay. “Just freeze Marvin for a few hours. We can deal with the fallout later. If we’re lucky, it’s a speed bump, and we can get through it.”
Lisa rose from her chair, slightly dazed, and headed down the hall to the vice president’s West Wing office. She thought Jay was delusional. This wasn’t a speed bump; it was a multi-car crash. She wasn’t looking forward to facing Whitehead. And if she couldn’t persuade Myers to hold his scoop until after the polls closed on the West Coast, Hughes would lose in California and they would lose the Senate in the process.
IT WAS JUST AFTER 8:00 P.M. and Ken Klucowski hunched over a laptop in the count room at the Gaylord Hotel in Orlando staring at the county-by-county vote returns on the secretary of state Web site. Klukowski was worried. Jefferson was holding his own along the vote-rich I-4 corridor, but his margin in the panhandle counties was not what he hoped for. If Lightfoot swamped them in Birch’s home turf of Pinellas and Hillsborough Counties (Tampa and St. Petersburg), along with her expected lopsided victories in Dade and Broward, they would lose in a cliffhanger.
Jefferson was climbing the walls, calling his cell phone constantly. Klukowski ignored his calls. The truth was he didn’t have anything to tell him.
One of the propeller-heads on the campaign bounded over, studying his BlackBerry like a talisman.
“What?” barked Klukowski.
“I’ve got some potentially good news,” said the staffer.
“I need some. Feed me.”
“You know how we’re up only 942 votes up in Bay County?”
“Yeah. That can’t be right.”
“It’s not. I just found out that total doesn’t include early votes or absentees.”
“Now we’re on to something. What do those look like?” asked Klukowski.
“According to our county chair up there, we won 62 percent of the early vote. But all the votes cast before Friday for Lightfoot were thrown out. So apparently it’s going to be closer to 75 percent.” The staffer’s eyes widened. “We’re talking four thousand more total votes.”
“Good. We’re going to need them.” Klukowski’s cell phone rang again. It was Jefferson. Klukowski decided to answer it. “Hello, Congressman,” he said abruptly.
“What’s going on?” asked Jefferson. “The numbers on the television don’t look good.”
“They’re going off AP,” said Klukowski. “We’re looking directly at the secretary of state’s Web site.”
“What does it look like?”
“It’s going to be close. It’ll be a long night. The good news is they haven’t accounted for all the early Lightfoot votes that are going to be thrown out.”
“What do you think?” pressed Jefferson.
“We’ve got a shot. If Marie hadn’t gotten in, it was over. But now we’re in a fight.”
“I assume you’ve got the lawyers on full alert?”
“Are you kidding?” said Klukowski, laughing. “I’ve got attorneys pre-positioned in every county in the state. We’re ready to file injunctions tonight in federal court if it comes to that.”
“Good. Keep me posted.”
Klukowski fixed his gaze on the laptop screen and refreshed the secretary of state Web site. He kept a close eye on Duval County, which was Jacksonville. They had a good ground game there. He hoped it was enough.
THE PRESIDENT WAS IN THE residence on the second floor, monitoring the returns on television as they flowed in from around the country. Claire drifted in and out of the room, occasionally pausing to watch the talking heads. Jay stood in the corner of the room, speaking in hushed tones on his cell phone.
The phone rang in the living quarters. Jay cupped his cell phone with one hand and answered the hard line with the other. It was his assistant.
“I’ve got Bill Spadea on the phone calling from New Jersey,” she said. “Do you want to take it?”
“Yes. Put him through.”
Spadea came on the line. “Jay, the governor’s going to win, and it looks like it won’t even be close. It’s five points now, but with most of Bergen County still out, we may hit seven. And we’re going to pick up the congressional seats in the Sixth and the Eighth Districts, too.”
“That’s fantastic, Bill. Congratulations.”
“Who is that?” asked Long, overhearing the conversation.
“Bill Spadea with Cartwright,” Jay whispered. “They’re going to win, and they’re picking up two House seats.”
Long motioned for the phone. “Bill, I’ve got someone who wants to talk to you,” said Jay. He handed the phone to the president.
“Bill, you’ve done a great job,” said Long enthusiastically. “Well done.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Spadea, his knees going weak. The leader of the free world was thanking him! “I’m just glad we could deliver one of the two seats we need to gain control of the Senate. It was an honor. Beating Stanley was icing on the cake.”
“It’s huge,” said Long, pumped. “You guys did a fantastic job.”
“Is Don Jefferson going to make it?” asked Spadea. He was talking shop with the president of the United States!
“We don’t know, but we think so,” said Long. “It’s close.”
“I sure hope he hangs on.”
“So do we, but it may go to a recount.” Long handed the phone back to Jay.
“Bill, don’t wait for Stanley to concede. Have the governor declare victory,” he instructed. “We need the momentum for Hughes in California and the House seats on the West Coast.”
“Will do,” said Spadea. “I’ll get the governor downstairs ASAP.”
Jay hung up the phone and turned to the president. “Well, it took two years, but we got him,” he said matter-of-factly. For Long and Jay, it was sweet revenge. Stanley stole the Democratic presidential nomination from them and was a thorn in Long’s side ever since. Now he was finished.
Long seemed conflicted that the end had finally come. “I’ll give him this: he was an able adversary. The word quit was not in his vocabulary.”
Claire walked into the room just as the networks cut to Kerry Cartwright walking on stage. Red, white, and blue balloons fell from the ceiling, the crowd punching them into the air with their fists as “I’ve Got a Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas blared from loudspeakers.
“I’ve got a feeling that tonight’s gonna be a good night!” the crowd sang along.
“Did Sal lose already?” asked Claire.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Jay. “He’s toast.”
“Serves him right,” said Claire, her voice withering. “He is positively the most evil person I’ve ever met in my life. Oh, thank goodness he lost.”
The phone rang again. Jay answered it. “What?” he asked. “Why?” He paused listening. “I’ll call him right now.” He hung up.
“Who was that?” asked Long.
“Lisa,” said Jay, his face white. “She’s been trying to get Marvin Myers to hold the story about Johnny until the polls are closed on the West Coast. He says he’s got all he needs, and he’s going to post it on his Web site in the next ten minutes.”
“Oh, no,” said Claire.
“Call Myers,” said Long. “See if you can stop him.”
“What if he wants to t
alk to you?” asked Jay. “He’s knows I’m with you.”
Long scrunched up his face. “Tell him I’m otherwise occupied.”
“Alright,” said Jay. He stepped into the kitchen, the semidarkness partially illuminated by a fluorescent light over the sink. He dialed Myers’s cell phone. He answered on the first ring.
“Marvin, it’s Jay,” he said, barely pausing. “Listen, I know what you’ve got, but the veep isn’t going to have a statement tonight. We’re focused on the elections. If you hold off until first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll give you Johnny exclusively.”
“I can’t do that, Jay,” said Myers, brushing off the offer. “I don’t know who else has the documents. I’ve got the story and I’m posting it. It’ll be on my Web site and the Washington Post Web site in minutes.”
“Marvin, come on! Give me a few hours,” Jay pleaded, his voice shaking. “After all I’ve done for you, if you cost us the California Senate seat, you won’t get directions to the washroom after tonight. You’ll be persona non grata around here.”
“Let me tell you something,” said Myers, his voice dripping like acid. “I’ve been in this town for forty years. No one threatens me . . . not even you. I was here before you got here, Jay, and I’ll be here long after you’re gone.”
“Good night, Marvin. I’m sorry it’s turned out this way.” He hung up and walked back into the den.
“Well?” asked Long. “Any luck?”
“No,” said Jay, beside himself. “He’s shafting us.”
Long let out a sigh. “Once this breaks, the late vote will turn against Hughes. Now we really need Jefferson to hang on.”