by P. G. Abeles
What Stein did have, and this was kind of a miracle, was access. Somehow, perhaps because he was in New York, and they were all in Washington, Stein was the IM buddy of most of the up-and-coming Democratic power brokers. Whether Stein checked the information they fed him before publishing his column was an issue Tweed had raised in more than one executive session.
Tweed was upset. “Jesus, Josh—tell me this woman’s a racist.”
As usual, Stein was eating something loudly into the mouthpiece. “Who gives a shit? She’s just some little fucking housewife from Connecticut.”
“Maryland…who went to Smith…” said Tweed.
“Whatever. Who gives a fuck?” replied Stein. Tweed tried not to let his irritation show.
“Smith is, like…I don’t know… one of the most liberal colleges on the East Coast. Tell me Josh, what’s a racist doing at Smith?” asked Tweed.
Stein was uninterested: “How the fuck should I know. Look, I took it from an AP article.”
“AP’s not what they used to be,” said Harrison.
“Whatever. Your opinion. Thanks for sharing,” Stein replied caustically.
“And the AP didn’t accuse her of anything more than a sort of prank. You were corresponding with her. You had her email, her phone number. You specifically did not ask her to comment. Do you get that it looks bad?” Tweed asked.
“Whatever. The husband’s whole family are racists.” Tweed struggled to keep his composure.
“Josh—you ever heard of the Morris Trust?”
“No. Who fucking cares?”
“The husband’s family started it.”
“So. Big deal. I’m happy for them.”
“You know what the Morris Trust does, Josh? The only thing the Morris Trust does?”
“Obviously, you’re going to tell me.”
“They give money for programs…programs for little black kids, Josh.”
“And I care about this…why?” said Stein rudely.
“Because if her lawyer gets your lily-white ass on the stand, she’s going to ask you how much money you give to little black kids, Josh.”
“This conversation is pointless.”
“You purposely mis-portrayed the event to downplay it. That’s going to look like bias. You said there were 50—basically—dead-enders there.”
“So—what the fuck’s your point?” replied Stein.
“Jesus. Josh. There were 6,000 McCracken supporters…diehard Democrats… on a fucking conference call with the REPUBLICAN candidate—didn’t that strike you as the story?” asked Tweed.
“Whatever.” Stein was still uninterested.
“And then less than 20 minutes after you post it directly on the internet—without passing it through editorial or legal, I might add— the Oceanic and all your JournoList list-serv buddies have it. That looks like collusion,” added Tweed.
“Cooperation,” said Stein.
“Not if it’s not true,” replied Tweed.
“Who’s going to know?” responded Stein.
“Her lawyer told me the only person that applied to the club was white,” Tweed answered.
“So?” Stein’s voice was muffled by his sandwich.
“If it’s true, and she’d be an idiot to lie…where’s the racism? White people discriminating against other white people?” asked Tweed.
Stein was petulant, aggrieved: “I don’t see why you’re making such a big fucking deal about this…” he said.
Tweed was getting exasperated: “Do you have anything—anything—that says this woman’s a racist?”
Stein became defensive.
“Look. She’s a fucking cunt who impersonated a black woman on a chat room,” he said.
Tweed replied: “I looked. She impersonated an old lady. She never specified any race in her profile. Jesus, Josh. She used a pseudonym to hide her identity on the internet. Millions of people have done that.”
Stein was unimpressed: “Whatever. If she was so fucking proud of what she was doing, she would have used her own name.”
“Like you use your own name when you comment on your own pieces?” asked Tweed.
Stein paused; he hadn’t realized Tweed knew he was praising himself in print. “Don’t be an asshole. All the reporters comment on their own stuff.”
Tweed was prepared to concede the point: “Right. Under pseudonyms. Jesus, Josh—a lawyer could tear you apart.”
There was silence.
Tweed spoke: “Josh—you got this from Appelbaum, didn’t you?”
There was a pause.
“So what if I did?” Stein answered.
“She’s got malice.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Stein was sensitive about his lack of education.
“You can’t win a lawsuit for libel unless the person can prove that the smear was intentional. The AP article, okay—but your article was a leap—and the stuff going up on your buddies blogs is even worse. You purposely smeared this woman, Josh. Worst of all—you did it at the direction of the Okono campaign because she and some of these other McCracken people are saying stuff that Okono doesn’t want people to hear. Not exactly a Murrow moment.”
“Screw you.”
Tweed continued. “And you did it intentionally, with pre-meditation, with no effort to check the facts, or even speak to her…and she’s a private citizen—as you so aptly said, ‘a fucking housewife.’ The lawyers are telling me that’s considered–bad faith, malice—maybe even ‘extreme malice,’ said Tweed.
Stein was skeptical. “Some fucking cunt from Connecticut is going to sue me?”
“Maryland, and she probably has a case,” replied Tweed.
Silence.
“Stein?” Tweed wasn’t sure the reporter was still on the line.
Stein was thinking out loud:
“No way she does it. She’s too scared.”
Tweed could feel the vein in his temple throbbing. Stein didn’t seem to realize the exposure he’d created for himself or the paper.
“Why do you think so?” he asked acidly.
Stein blurted it out:
“Because the link I used had her address and phone number. She’s getting death threats.”
Tweed was horrified.
“Jesus. Is that true? How do you know that?” he asked.
The swagger returned to Stein’s voice.
“Let’s just say I have my sources. This is hardball. She’s just some mom. She’s got little kids. No way she wants more of what I can dish out.”
Tweed closed his eyes. He was a decent man. Stein had crossed so many journalistic and ethical boundaries, it made his head spin. The internet could get ugly and out of control very quickly…and there were a lot of nuts out there. His reporter was essentially inciting violence against a soccer mom with little kids because she wasn’t supporting Okono. He said, slowly, considering.
“Josh—don’t you have little kids?”
“Yeah. Two. One on the way. What’s your fucking point?”
Tweed took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He should fire him on the spot…for being a bad reporter and an asshole. Worse than that, Tweed had seen his soul, Stein was the devil.
“Never mind,” was what he said.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Rockville, Maryland
THE PHONE RANG. Lacey, dreading it, picked it up anyway.
“Get out of bed.” It was Max.
“I’m not in bed.”
“Under the bed?” he demanded.
“No,” she replied.
“Closet?”
“No.” Lacey laughed. “I was thinking of a long trip to the Hebrides, though.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“Islands off Scotland. Very Remote. Many sheep. No internet.”
“Lacey.” Max’s tone was scolding, but kind.
“Did you talk to a lawyer?” he asked.
“Sure. Everyone in our family is a lawyer,” she replied.
“And?” he
asked.
“Well, naturally, there are lots of different opinions. But, in a nutshell: it’s hard to prosecute, expensive, and even in the unlikely event we win, there’s not usually a big reward…And, of course, the publicity from the trial just keeps the allegations on replay.”
There was silence as Max absorbed her words.
“How expensive?” he asked
“Couple hundred grand,” she replied, “The paper will have lawyers and they’ll drag it out as long as possible to make it as financially painful for us as they can. Their insurance will pay all the costs on their side, so they don’t care.”
“So do it,” Max said.
“Max,” she said patiently. “I don’t have a couple of hundred grand lying around. What do you suggest? I take my kids’ college money?” said Lacey.
“But you’ll win,” he said confidently. “The guy was totally out of line.”
There was a bitterness in Lacey’s voice Max had never heard before.
“Knowing something and proving it are two very separate things. Anyway, you’re a lawyer, it’s not as if the party that’s in the right necessarily wins,” she reminded him.
Max considered:
“This really pisses me off. Stein is such a fatuous turd; a completely insufferable little fink,” Max said.
“So they say,” replied Lacey. The fact that Stein was a huge jerk didn’t make her feel better.
Max continued: “Listen, you have to defend yourself.”
“Max,” Lacey paused. “I don’t know what to do. Some people say answer every allegation you can—wherever it appears. Other people tell me not to say anything. They think the more I deny it, the more they’ll go after me. I’ve basically felt like I was going to vomit from the moment I read it. And, I’m scared, Max. We’ve been getting calls at the house, threats…people saying things like I’m a racist bitch who deserves to die and they know where I live…that they know I have little kids.” Her voice broke. Max could hear it through the phone line. Lacey was right on the edge.
“You need to go on TV,” he said.
“What?” Lacey was horrified. “And say what? I’m a really nice person?”
Max laughed. “Well, you are a nice person, Lacey.”
Lacey was amused in spite of herself. “Max, that’s not helpful. Besides, I said really nice.”
Max continued, “Really nice, okay? Look. People have to see you, get a sense of who you are. Lacey, I’m telling you… it’s the only way,” he said.
“Oh, shit,” she said, unpersuaded. “I feel nauseated just thinking about it. I’d be terrible.”
“Well, then that’s not so bad,” Max said teasingly. “You just told me you’ve been ready to vomit for days.”
Lacey ignored him. “Max. Honestly. I don’t know anything about television,” she said.
“True. But you know plenty about public speaking. You’ll be fine. You don’t have to dazzle them with your intellect. People just have to see you as a real person.”
“Ugggghhhh. No, Max, no. I don’t want to…” Lacey was pleading.
“Lacey, I’m going to set it up. You have to do it, okay? You can’t let them get away with this,” he replied.
“But, you—! You can’t set it up. Okono’s your guy.”
“First, of all, let me just be frank: there’s some weird shit going on with this guy. We’re supporting this guy in spite of who he is, not because of who he is. That never really works out. Second—” Max paused, as if considering how much he wanted to say “… let’s just say I develop a conscience where my friends are concerned.”
Lacey sighed.
“Max, you’re a good man,” she said.
“Yeah, whatever. Don’t tell anyone, you’ll ruin my reputation.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
New York, New York
ON THE LAST DAY OF JUNE, a curious article ran in the “Bits” section of the New York Times Technology page. Entitled “Google and the Anti-Okono Bloggers” The veteran reporter queried:
Did Google use its network of online services to silence critics of Okono? That was the question buzzing on a corner of the blogosphere over the last few days, after several anti-Okono bloggers were unable to update their sites. The bloggers in question, most of them supporters of Claire McCracken and all opposed to Congressman Okono, received a notice from Google last week saying that their sites had been identified as potential ‘spam’ and Google had removed their websites until further notice.”
After their initial stonewalling, Google reluctantly admitted to the Times reporter that apparently “mass spam emails” (presumably generated by Okono supporters) had “flagged” the sites to Google as spam or as containing “inappropriate content,” resulting in their automatic suspension. When asked how many messages Google would have needed to receive to trigger the automatic suspension, the Google spokesman at first declined to name a number. When alerted by the reporter that the McCracken supporters believed Google themselves might have been involved in the chicanery, he became more forthcoming. “Well, not less than 100,000, probably,” he said thoughtfully. “But frankly,” he said, sounding harassed, “we can’t figure out why the system flagged these sites as having inappropriate content. As to designating them as spam, this isn’t something your average user could do. I mean, we still can’t figure out how they did it, and we’re, you know…geeks.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
July 2008
Columbus, Ohio
MAX WAS RIGHT. Or at least partially right, Lacey thought. Although she still couldn’t watch the YouTube videos of her appearances on the national news shows without cringeing, almost immediately Lacey received thousands of sympathetic emails. Mostly they were from other McCracken supporters who felt manhandled—either by the Okono campaign directly or by what they considered the media’s unflattering and unfair depiction of their candidate. They poured out their stories of skullduggery and malfeasance in emails that went on for pages. She also heard from people with whom she’d volunteered locally. One or two told her she’d become too controversial to lead the local group. But many more, in fact the overwhelming majority called and sent emails offering their unqualified support. Lacey had been through enough and was more than willing to step aside. They refused to consider it. “Don’t you dare,” they told her. They were not giving in to bullies and thugs, they said, and they weren’t letting Lacey give in either. And something about this unexpected but ultimately overwhelming evidence that she was not alone gave her the courage to keep going. Within a week, she had a plan.
News anchors and pundits pontificate about swing states and swing voters. But to anyone analyzing voting records in the United States, an unmistakeable pattern emerged. As it turned out, it wasn’t so much a question, for example, of how Ohioans voted. Every four years most areas in the state swung predictably into the red or blue column. The breakdown—the true predictor of an election’s outcome—was by county, specifically the few swing counties in the battleground states. Looking at historical data, pollsters had figured out which counties those were—and although the information wasn’t exactly secret—it wasn’t utilized by either the campaigns or the media to the degree you might expect. Lacey thought that was a mistake. Since time was short and their resources were limited, this narrow focus on a few counties in a few states gave the plan a kind of elegant simplicity that made it seem, well, possible.
Lacey laid it all out, then sent her plan out in an email to the leaders of some of the other McCracken groups. Within 20 minutes her phone rang. The voice was ladylike, but rushed; a woman who liked to get things done quickly.
“Lacey, I’m Betty Jo Overton. I lead a large group of McCracken supporters in Ohio.” The woman paused. “I like your plan.” Lacey was silent, surprised. The voice on the phone continued. “In fact, I love your plan. I have to tell you—” she paused chuckling, “over the years I’ve worked on a lot of Democratic campaigns and I’ve seen a lot of strategy plans...”
&n
bsp; “Uh...huh,” Lacey replied.
The woman continued. “And mostly I just think they’ve got their heads stuck up their asses.” There was something sort of compelling about the juxtaposition of the woman’s cultivated tone and tough talk
Lacey laughed, relieved.
“And I don’t?”
“No,” Betty Jo laughed. “I think your plan might actually work. I’m calling to offer my help. But I think there’s someone you ought to meet.”
~
His looks did not inspire confidence. Nor did the chain smoking. Or the ponytail. He spoke in the “dese and dose” vernacular of the rust belt, and his tales from the campaign trail with the McCracken campaign sounded more like braggadocio or invention than experience. But he talked about how poorly the campaign had been managed, spending $30 million dollars in Iowa—only to come in a humiliating third. Not to mention how few voters in Iowa were even Democrats. The campaign, he pointed out, could have put each one of them on a plane to Disney World for what the campaign had spent per Democratic head—and Lacey and Betty Jo knew that was true. And like millions of people, before and after, who judge a person’s veracity on how nearly his views coincide with their own, they believed him.
Lacey and Betty Jo were not hard-nosed political operatives—and so, they reasoned, perhaps understandably, that maybe Danny Englund was the kind of ‘real deal’ back-room pol one imagined died out with LBJ. Who knew? Maybe he had some sort of native political genius—like a later-day Kenny O’Donnell. They were flattered that he was reaching out to them to help. It was all very hush-hush, of course. Englund reported that the McCracken team had real reservations about whether Okono should be president. There were things they knew—things that as Democrats it was impossible for them to reveal—about the presumptive nominee of their party. Nobody spelled it out, but, of course, most in the room had read enough to give them suspicions.
Lacey, it turned out, had a hidden talent for opposition research. With what they now knew from the information Max had provided about the suspicious Okono donations, not to mention Okono’s weird ties to The Minister and Connor’s investigation of Joey Ali, Okono seemed stranger and stranger as a candidate for national office. Whole years in his résumé appeared to be missing. Okono’s campaign had rejected the request of a New York Times reporter, who was doing a fawning profile, to give the name of even one friend from college the reporter could interview. The fact that all of this was ignored by the press—that people who actually tried to press the point were mocked and ridiculed—made it all start to feel a little conspiratorial. Surely, the McCracken supporters thought—literally week after week—someone in the press was going to start doing a little investigating, start asking some questions.