The Senator and the Priest

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “Only one glass of whiskey, Senator,” my wife warned me.

  Leander Schlenk appeared on screen from the Crispjin headquarters at the Fairmont.

  “It looks like poor little Tommy Moran is going to be buried,” he chortled.

  Joe McDermott got off the phone.

  “It’s mostly small rural counties south of 1-80.”

  I felt a bit like Moses who had seen the promised land and then lost it.

  The kids dug out their instruments and began to sing.

  The night dragged on. By midnight we had caught up and the lead swayed back and forth. The media said the race was too close to call.

  Ric reported that the news was good from DuPage.

  The mayor and his wife had joined us, unobtrusive and low key as always.

  “In the old days, they used to take the ballot boxes home out there and count the votes in their basements,” the mayor said, “then when all the others were in, they’d report their tallies. A lot of Democratic candidates lost in those basement tallies. Then in 1960, Mayor Daley held back some precincts along Milwaukee Avenue where the Polish people voted. After DuPage gave Nixon the lead, we reported those precincts and won by seven thousand votes. It’s changed a little out there.”

  As the night turned into morning, neither of us led by more than a thousand votes. The talking heads on the tube talked on as they must, though they had nothing to say. It was one of the closest senatorial elections in Illinois history. Still too close to call.

  The kids put away their musical instruments and went to sleep. Claims of victory continued from the Crispjin headquarters. We were silent. I told my staff I didn’t want anyone down in the ballroom trying to spin the numbers.

  “There’s lot of people down there waiting to hear from you, Senator,” Dolly warned.

  “They’ll have to wait till the Senator has something to say.”

  At two-thirty there seemed to be a little movement in our favor. We were ahead by fifteen hundred votes and that lead seemed firm.

  Leander Schlenk complained that it looked like another Cook County election theft.

  Then Channel 3 reported that given the unreported precincts it was mathematically impossible for Senator Crispjin to win. They declared me the apparent winner.

  “Dolly,” I said, “go downstairs and tell them we’ll proclaim victory when the lead looks safer.”

  Inch by inch, with agonizing slowness and occasional setbacks, we crept further ahead. Three thousand votes, thirty-five hundred, four thousand votes.

  “He’ll never concede, Joe,” I said. “I don’t blame him. He thought he had it all sewed up. His people told him it was a cinch. He’s shattered. He’ll demand a recount, so would I if I were in his position.”

  “It’s all punch cards,” he said. “He can’t turn around this outcome.”

  At five thousand votes the remaining Chicago TV stations agreed that I was the winner. At fifty-five hundred, national TV agreed and the Daily News joined the fold.

  “We carried DuPage by twenty-five thousand,” Ric shouted.

  The kids began to sing.

  When, at four-thirty we reached a lead of six thousand, I said calmly, “I think I’ll go down and join the celebration!”

  Then an angry Senator H. Rodgers Crispjin appeared on the screen.

  “I want to assure all my supporters here,” he stumbled as he tried to read the text of a handwritten statement, “that I do not accept this rush to judgment. I am convinced that the Daley organization has stolen another election. We will demand a recount and go into federal court to seek an injunction. I do not propose to accept this crime without serious protest.”

  “His poor wife is crying,” Mary Margaret said.

  The mayor congratulated me.

  “Same old stuff, Tommy. He didn’t say what relief the injunction would seek.”

  “Overturn the DuPage County vote, probably! … Come on guys!”

  So we paraded down to the grand ballroom in triumph. The board said we were ahead by 7,825 votes with 99 percent of the vote counted.

  The kids led the way, playing some kind of Mexican military march.

  I confess I exulted in the cheers. The great unknown lay ahead. But we’d won. Mary Margaret hugged me fiercely.

  “I’m here to claim victory,” I said simply. “I understand that Senator Crispjin is not conceding and is demanding a recount. That is certainly his right. In his position I might do the same thing. However, if he is looking for fraud, he should consider his old stronghold of DuPage County which Mr. Sanchez tells me we carried by twenty thousand votes! That, folks, is a revolution in Illinois politics.”

  All the women in my family were hugging me and weeping. I had a hard time not sobbing with them.

  “We set out, without much expectation of winning. We wanted to demonstrate that one could do well in a state-wide election without spending a lot of money, without my soliciting any contributions, and above all without any dirty tricks, any negative campaigning, and without any attack ads. I’m sure that our victory is substantial enough that it will not be overturned. But at least we proved that it could be done.”

  Then I thanked everyone beginning with my resilient family. Mary Margaret gave me a list so I wouldn’t miss anyone.

  I concluded by saying it was time for all of us to go home and get some sleep because tomorrow would be another very busy day. I also told my kids and the Sanchez kids that both the Monsignor and the Principal said they didn’t have to go to school tomorrow.

  Laughter and cheers.

  So far I hadn’t let anyone down.

  The media cornered me as the cops and the Reliables led me towards the back exit

  “Will you move to the Beltway?”

  “I think so. Have to talk it over with the family.”

  “Have you chosen your staff yet?”

  “No time to think about it.”

  “Is Senator Crispjin a sore loser?”

  “I would never say anything like that.”

  “What do you expect the results of the recount to be?”

  “Maybe we’ll pick up a few more votes.”

  Actually we won by more than ten thousand votes. Despite the daily stories in the Examiner and the constant complaints of the Crispjin staff, it was a clean victory. Nevertheless, his lawyers went into federal court and requested an injunction to invalidate the election on the grounds of vote fraud. The court rejected the plea. The United States Attorney did his own investigation and could find no evidence of serious fraud. Yet the litigation persists even today. The Supreme Court turned down the case twice.

  Was my opponent a sore loser? Everyone seemed to think so. They also thought he would try to unseat me six years hence. When asked about that I said I would not make up my mind about running again for a long time.

  CHAPTER 17

  “YOU’RE NEW here in the Senate,” said the minority leader, slumped deeply in his huge chair. “Just elected and all with some new and interesting ideas.”

  He reminded me of the late “Tip” O’Neill, a New England Democrat with red face, white hair and twinkling blue eyes, not quite as tall as Tip, but in better shape. Like all of his kind, he eliminated the letter “r” from the middle of his words (his son had attended “Fodham” down in New Yok) and compensated for it by adding the letter at the end of words (“Atlantar Geogiar”).

  “But quiet and harmless,” I said, sparring with him as I had done for a half hour.

  “Got a lot of phone calls from Senators the day you were elected?”

  “Only Democrats.”

  In early December my election was actually certified. Senator Crispjin and the Examiner had struggled mightily to prevent certification on the grounds of “blatant and systematic fraud” and demanded that the courts intervene to change the outcome. They first had sought an injunction that the state election commissioners show cause why they should not reverse the outcome. The federal court ruled that it lacked jurisdiction. They then
turned to the state courts which summarily dismissed their motions that there was no persuasive evidence.

  In the meantime the Examiner had begun a drumbeat demanding that to end the “confusion” I should concede the election.

  My brother phoned from Panama to urge me to concede.

  “It’s the only honorable thing to do Tommy. Everyone knows that Senator Crispjin won the election. You should be a good loser. When we were kids I tried to teach that you should always be a good loser. People respect you when you do that. You’ll earn a lot of respect if you concede.”

  “We won fairly,” I replied.

  “That’s not true, Tommy. You know it’s not true. If you do go to Washington you’ll always be under a cloud.”

  The conversation ended when he said, “I’ve got to get to work. There’s a lot to do down here. I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”

  Every time a new motion was filed, Leander Schlenk had claimed triumph for honest elections.

  APPEALS COURT LIKELY TO RULE FOR SENATOR

  Veteran legal observers are saying that the attempt of little Tommy Moran to steal the election from Senator H. Rodgers Crispjin will not survive an emergency hearing in the Illinois Appellate Court tomorrow morning. The Court is not subject to the political power of the Chicago Machine. It has always supported honest elections. It is likely to rule unanimously that Senator Crispjin was reelected.

  A week later I was talking to the Minority Leader who apparently did not take the legal battle seriously. Neither, for that matter, did I. It was, however, a nuisance, though I wasn’t the direct target of any of their motions.

  “I’ve got a nice, large office for you on the second floor of the Dirksen building, facing the Capitol.”

  This was an unheard-of prize for a freshman Senator.

  “I won’t turn it down.”

  He laughed, he had laughed a lot during our conversation.

  “Are there any special committees on which you’d be wanting to serve?”

  “If I had my druthers, I’d like Judiciary and Armed Forces.”

  He wrote the names down on a small sheet of notepaper, the only item on his vast oaken desk.

  “Judiciary because of immigration and Armed Forces because of the routine raping of women in the military.”

  It was a statement not a question.

  “I’m told that there is a lot less work in Judiciary than in other committees.”

  “That’s true … Now you won’t be flying back to Chicago every weekend, I hear. Moving your family here, I’m told.”

  “I gather a lot of my colleagues spend two or three nights here and the others at home with their families.”

  He cocked a suspicious eye, “Well I don’t know how important that is. They spend a lot of time with their constituents and raising money.”

  “I don’t raise money.”

  “So they tell me—no negative ads, no asking people for money, and no campaigning till after Labor Day … Interesting ideas …”

  “They might not work twice.”

  “And if they do it will be hard on a lot of people,” he laughed again. “Generally, the first thing a man thinks about when he arrives here is reelection. After the first one it’s not so difficult.”

  “I don’t know whether I’ll like it here and whether I’ll do a good job. I won’t make up my mind about reelection for a few years—like five.”

  He sighed and squirmed in his desk. “They said you were different and I’m beginning to believe them.”

  “Irish Catholic kid from the west side of Chicago. Haven’t been many like that around here.”

  He grinned. “That’s for damn sure … Mind if I make a few suggestions?”

  “I was hoping you would.”

  “Your lobbyists are all over the place.”

  “Tell me about it. Three of them have already offered to do a nice reception for my swearing-in. I declined.”

  He smiled thinly.

  “First time does no harm.”

  “Slippery slope.”

  “Just the words I was about to use … They’re nice friendly fellas, most of them. And they’d do anything to please you and make you happy. And your wife and kids too. They don’t ask all that much either. Except maybe to own your vote.”

  “Pick up their markers, as they say in Chicago.”

  “The point is not to leave too many markers around for anyone to pick up.”

  “I think I’ve dropped a few already this afternoon.”

  His whole body shook.

  “I figured you being Irish and all, you’d be into loyalty no matter what favor I offered. Still and all, it doesn’t hurt to sink some roots, does it now?”

  “Whenever you need my vote, Senator, you got it!”

  “That makes things a lot easier.”

  “If you don’t stand by your friends, who will you stand by,” I repeated a Chicago political adage.

  “You’ll find a lot of people wanting to be friends, Senator. Lobbyists, business leaders, people with lots of money, media folk, people over at the White House, cabinet people, everyone. And yourself with a beautiful wife.”

  “I noticed that too.”

  “Everyone needs friends. The trick of it is to realize that a lot of them will eventually want something from you.”

  “More markers.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “A United States Senator is one of the most powerful men in the world. He has a lot less money than he has power. There will be minefields of bribes lying in wait for you. I think you’re smart enough and agile enough to recognize them and turn them down.”

  “God help me if I don’t.”

  “No one else will, Tommy. No one else will. They’ll spoil you rotten too. Weekend trips to the best golf courses in the country. Skiing in the Alps. A trip to Africa during recess. A lecture in St. Petersburg, Superbowl tickets. The Kentucky Derby. You name it, you’ve got it, all expenses paid and expensive souvenirs for your wife and children. A dozen bottles of expensive wine. Anything you want.”

  “I’d be a sucker for the occasional bottle of Bushmill’s Green. Beyond that I don’t want anything on your list. And when I fly somewhere I’ll pay my own fare.”

  “We don’t pay senators enough money. One hundred and sixty-five K in a city like this for men, most of whom would earn at least a half million any place else … We’re dirt poor compared to the men we have to associate with: lawyers, lobbyists, corporate executives, oil people. We have little tricks now in which an outside committee recommends tiny wage increases. Our opponents in elections use that against us. If the country wants to eliminate the worst corruption here, they have to give us as much money as the typical lobbyist. That’s not going to happen, Tommy.”

  “If we can’t make a go of it on my wife’s billable hours and my royalties, then we’ll go home.”

  “Your wife has the same convictions?”

  Bluntest question yet.

  “All she wants is to buy things that are on sale, better yet to get them wholesale. Seriously, her convictions, as you call them, are stricter than mine.”

  “Daughter of that fella who takes pictures?”

  “I’m sure you’ve talked to him already, Senator.”

  Another big laugh.

  “She’s working for her law firm here. Supreme Court kind of stuff?”

  “Appeared there several times. Won her cases.”

  Long pause.

  “You are a talented and attractive couple. I presume you don’t fool around?”

  “Wouldn’t dare.”

  “There will be a lot of attention focused on you. I’ve seen older men than you lose their balance. I don’t want to sound like that Polonius fella. You seem to have your head screwed on proper. I just thought a word from me might be a little help.”

  “Word of warning.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Point taken … and gratefully.”
r />   We both stood up.

  He extended his hand.

  “When you get settled in, Eileen and I would like to have you over for supper sometime. Nothing elaborate.”

  “We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Of course his wife’s name was Eileen. What else would it be?

  He walked me to the door of his office, opened it and then stepped out in the corridor with me.

  “It’s been bad days for us in the last twenty years. We did some dumb things and missed some great opportunities. Should never have let the insurance people torpedo Hillary’s health insurance thing. The tide is turning, though it will take the next four to six years to do it. Then we should have a good long run. They wouldn’t be far from wrong who might say that you can do a lot.”

  Properly vague, as Irish predictions tend to be.

  “Sounds like fun,” I said being equally vague.

  I took a taxi back to our new house on Q Street where my wife and mother-in-law were reveling in the decoration and furnishing of the place. The Ambassador was playing gin rummy with Mary Ann—and consistently losing to our Good Witch of the West Side. I was constrained to recount in full detail the conversation with the minority leader.

  “He likes you, Tommy,” my wife said, her eyes wide in admiration. “He really likes you.”

  “What’s not to like?” the Ambassador asked.

  “Gin!” squealed our middle child. “You lose again, Gramps.”

  Our next big initiation meeting was with my Chief of Staff and media person, both women, both five or six years older than us, both handsome, both veterans of service in the senate, both recommended by the minority leader and both a little skeptical of us. My campaign staff all had personal and professional reasons for staying in Chicago, though Joe McDermott had taken over my Chicago office.

  Christine Taliferro (pronounced Tolivar), our Chief of Staff—once called administrative assistant when the job was a lot easier—was a Protestant from the hill country, Eastern Kentucky just at the end of West Viriginia.

  Manny (short for Emanuela) Rodriguez was Dominican, hence both Black and Hispanic and Catholic.

  They were especially skeptical of my wife, who had taken them seriously when they said it would be an informal Saturday in my new office, and dressed in jeans, tee shirt, and windbreaker for the warm mid-December day.