by P. G. Abeles
According to the scuttlebutt, some did. Supposedly, a New York Times reporter received verification from an insider that the Okono campaign had extensive contact with—were essentially directing the efforts of—a massive ‘get-out-the-vote’ operation notorious for registering fraudulent voters. Others claimed a Wall Street Journal reporter was investigating the allegations of caucus fraud. Still other reputable reports surfaced of a prize-winning journalist who claimed to have seen a tape of a damaging speech given by Okono. These stories fueled the internet rumor mill for months, but nothing seemed to come of these inquiries.
Lacey herself had mailed a summary of her op-research on Malinga to veteran journalists she knew through friends. They all thanked her very politely—but never used any of it.
Democrats who weren’t gung-ho for Okono started to feel like adherents of some outlawed religion. McCracken supporters who hadn’t fallen in line with the party rhetoric were derided and ridiculed as dead-enders. Their complaints about Okono fell on willfully deaf ears. It all felt very rabbit-hole-ish. The candidate they knew to be remorselessly corrupt—was almost universally heralded as Mr. Clean.
So when Danny Englund told Lacey and Betty Jo that Okono’s nomination was a kind of coup engineered by the party elite—he was preaching to a ready-to-be-converted choir. Disgusted with the Democrats, Lacey and Betty Jo started organizing McCracken volunteers for Republican Governor Joe Malloy.
Before the meeting, Lacey had raised the issue of the recent allegations of racism. She and Betty Jo had spent a lot of time on the phone firming up the details of their plan, and Lacey already liked her enormously. But more than that, Lacey wanted to be fair to her. “Controversial” is, after all, seldom a good thing in politics. And, although everyone assured her it would all eventually blow over, Lacey was constantly aware that at least for now, she was wearing a label that couldn’t help but make her a liability in the political trenches. Was Betty Jo sure she wanted to be connected to her?
Betty Jo laughed.
“You think I didn’t check you out?” When Lacey looked stricken, Betty Jo took Lacey by her shoulders and looked into her eyes. Lacey noticed for the first time that Betty Jo’s eyes were the color of expensive single malt.
“Lacey, are you a child molester?”
Lacey’s eyes opened wide with shock. She shook her head, quietly, ‘no’
“A racist?”
Lacey still looked stunned. “No,” she whispered.
“Cheat on your taxes? Piggyback on your neighbor’s internet? Steal towels from hotels?”
Lacey shook her head. “No. No. No.”
“Take extra condiments from fast food restaurants?”
Lacey was still shaking her head.
“Okay,” Betty Jo said. “I now know everything I need to know about you, okay?” She looked at Lacey, her eyes twinkling. “I knew who you were the first time I met you. And I know enough about the Okono campaign to know they lie about everyone, including their own candidate. You’re not a racist. You’re a nice suburban mom who collects coats for poor kids in the winter and volunteers for the PTA—am I right?”
Lacey nodded.
Betty Jo continued: “But you happen to have an ability for organizing that is kind of exceptional, kiddo. So, that’s what I know about you. And, one more thing I forgot to mention?”
Lacey looked up expectantly. Betty Jo shook her slightly.
“I know you’re my friend.” Lacey gave her a hug, her eyes filled with tears.
~
One month and 20 days after the last primary, on a hot Wednesday afternoon at the end of July,, the mainstream media reported for the first time that former Democratic candidate for president, Chet Williams, had a love child with a web designer on his payroll. One of the tabloid press had trailed him to an upscale hotel where he met with her and her newborn in a hotel room for 14 hours. As he came out, the reporter attempted to question Williams about the woman and child. Former presidential candidate Williams then barricaded himself in the men’s bathroom. He was rescued 40 minutes later by hotel security.
Chapter Forty
August 2008
Atlanta, Georgia
MIRIAM CARTER WALKED to her Chrysler Crossfire SRT-6 coupe. She’d spent the last two hours with a group, mostly women, of long-time Democrats, the party faithful. What most people who saw the male figurehead in charge of the DNC didn’t realize was that women ran the DNC. Not just the Washington D.C. offices—which were largely dominated by an outspoken group of African American women—but the day-to-day volunteers: the people stuffing the envelopes, manning the call centers, making the donations. They were women, predominantly (although not entirely) middle class, middle-aged white women. And, as Miriam Carter had come to learn, they were mad as hell at the way their party had treated Claire McCracken.
Most obviously, they were infuriated at how they believed the Democratic Party was twisting its own rules to hand Okono the nomination. Why, they asked, had it taken the Democratic National Committee until the last week in May to honor the votes cast in Florida and Michigan? The Republican National Committee, they pointed out, had resolved the same issue in February. Why was the DNC allowing the gross violations of voter registrations by organizations like SEED, who were widely believed by McCracken supporters to have been transporting Okono supporters from polling place to polling place in North Carolina and other states? Where was the DNC in Lake County, Indiana when the Mayor of Gary (and state chair for the Okono campaign) held back the results of his county until midnight—in a move that flabbergasted even CNN’s usually unflappable Wolf Blitzer?
Why had the DNC never addressed the issue of caucus fraud? Despite repeated legal challenges filed by the McCracken campaign, and hundreds of eyewitness accounts from their own workers, why had they never investigated the allegations of cheating? Why weren’t they monitoring Okono’s donations? Why were they allowing McCracken supporters—superdelegates—even members of the Congressional Black Caucus—to be harassed and threatened?
Largely unseen except by insiders, the state conventions were an embarrassment to a supposedly democratic process. In Nevada, where McCracken won by a 51%-45% majority—she ended up with three fewer delegates to the national convention because of intimidation and skullduggery at the district caucuses.
In Washington state, many Democrats who went to the polls February 19th didn’t realize their votes didn’t advance the cause of their candidate. Delegates had been chosen at the caucus ten days earlier. If the primary, for which voter I.D. was required, had counted, Okono would have been ahead by six points. By contrast, Okono’s lead in the caucus, for which no I.D. was required, was a whopping 37 points. In virtually every state that had a caucus and a primary, the same results played out, over and over. In the system used by the Democrats, in which delegates were allocated proportionally, this made a huge difference.
Delegates in Florida, no longer considered sufficiently faithful to Okono (young and idealistic, they’d foolishly assumed he’d favor a new contest and lobbied for a new primary) were summarily replaced with handpicked successors—their new credentials rubber-stamped by an obliging DNC.
Rumors abounded that the DNC headquarters would be moved to Chicago—to the same building as Okono’s headquarters, in fact. These rumors were vehemently denied by the pugnacious DNC chair who, in school marm-ish tones, chastised middle-aged McCracken supporters like toddlers for being taken-in by ridiculous internet rumors. Until, of course, it happened. Almost overnight, the Democratic Party had become the Party of Okono—and the historic aggregation and consolidation of power where the party of many became the party of “the one” occurred as smoothly and with as little outcry as the Anschluss. How could this be happening in an American election?
At some point, the consensus of McCracken supporters changed from a concern that the DNC wasn’t doing its job to mediate between the two candidates, to a conviction that they were actively working to assist the other side. But when the
DNC did nothing to address their concerns, longtime party workers turned would-be whistleblowers were amazed and disturbed to find the media was completely uninterested.
To the reported aggravation of Okono personally, so far McCracken and her supporters had demonstrated a marked disinclination to fall in line. Despite the pundits’ constant refrain that ‘the numbers’ were against McCracken—saying it did not make it so. The margin that separated the two candidates was razor thin—one way or the other, the superdelegates (party stalwarts and elected officials gifted with a delegate’s vote at the national convention) would decide the contest—and, although a majority had now expressed their support for Okono—they were not committed until they cast their ballot on the floor of the convention.
A new rumor began to percolate through the McCracken-supporting ether that the Okono campaign was planning to block a roll call of the states. Even to the conspiracy-minded among them, this seemed impossible—there had been a public roll call at Democratic National Conventions every year since 1852. It was one of the most exciting and memorable parts of convention history. But it was also the one least subject to manipulation and control. The DNC chair denied it—he was shocked—shocked—at how quickly these rumors started and spread on the internet, he said. Until the Okono campaign confirmed it to no less an authority than the New York Times.
Now that the Okono apologists had their marching orders, the consensus flipped—well, why would there be a roll call? McCracken and her dead-enders were just trying to be disruptive (subtext “bitchy”) to demand one. Of course, missing from this leitmotif was the simple truth that there was no issue of anyone making a demand. The fact that the public roll call was a universally acknowledged Democratic tradition whose discontinuance had occasioned horror only days before—was completely forgotten.
Well, so what? Okono had won, his supporters insisted. Making him “prove it” at the convention harkened back to Jim Crow-era Southerners who asked African American voters to demonstrate their literacy by reading—Chinese. It was, Okono supporters whispered, ‘racist’ to put Okono through the same kind of floor fight white politicians had weathered for 75 years. the Political Insider’s Josh Stein wrote an article suggesting that not just McCracken’s political future, but her personal legacy, was at risk unless she quickly got in line and was seen to be working as hard as she possibly could for Okono.
To Miriam, trying to eliminate the roll call was just more Okono-style politics. Not many people outside Chicago knew Clarice Setter. But Miriam did. Okono had been Setter’s protégée—until he decided to run for her city council seat. It was his first election. Setter was a longtime civil-rights activist and well loved in the community. It would be a cakewalk for Setter, the polls predicted. But, at the last moment, Okono had hired attorneys to challenge all the nominating petitions of his opponents. With Appelbaum’s help, he had managed to disqualify every one of his opponents, including Setter –the woman who had given him his start. Okono ran for the seat unopposed, and won. Yes, indeed. Miriam knew Clarice Setter. She had met her when Setter was campaigning for Claire McCracken.
Okono had reason to fear a floor fight at the convention, Miriam believed. Every poll showed Claire McCracken doing better in the general election against Republican Governor Malloy than Okono. Democratic strategists wondered and worried that the polls were so close between Malloy and Okono, a virtual dead heat. If Okono couldn’t beat an old, stiff, white guy—who continued to support an unpopular war, nominated by a party that was in power when a recession appeared on the horizon like a blimp at the Thanksgiving Day parade—well, what was wrong?
A large part of the problem was among women and indepen-dents, like the folks Miriam Carter had spent time with tonight. Pew Research polls were showing that only 43% of white women had a favorable view of Okono, down from 56% in February. Among independents it was the same story, from a 62% favorable rating in February, Okono had recently slid to a discouraging 49%. Most telling were the reasons given. If voters didn’t like Malloy, 73% said it had to do with his politics. However only 54% of those who had an unfavorable view of Okono disliked his politics. His toxic personal connections were what were bringing his numbers down. Miriam had heard the buzz for weeks now: people in the party were saying Okono couldn’t win in the general election.
Miriam unlocked the car doors from 20 feet away. Her good friend, Will Gault, the chair of the Kentucky DNC and a close friend of the McCrackens’, had been insisting on a roll call. Gault was the quintessential small-town southern politician—literally a used car salesman, who had expanded one small franchise in Louisville into three lucrative car dealerships. Before receiving the appointment as state DNC chair, he’d served his time as a state senator for ten years. Not only was Gault popular among the Democratic elite, but he knew where all the bodies were buried in a one-party state where the Democratic controlled legislature buried plenty of political bodies.
Six days before, a man—the proverbial ‘lone gunman’—had entered the Kentucky DNC offices and claimed he wanted to volunteer. He asked for Gault by name, which later struck lots of people as very odd, since neither state senators nor state DNC chairs have what might be termed a high profile. When the receptionist in the outer office tried to deflect him, he pushed his way past her, pulled out a hand gun and emptied his magazine into Gault’s chest—killing him instantly. There was never an opportunity to question the man the police later identified as Raymond T. Watson. After a brief car chase, Watson drove his car into a ditch. According to police at the scene, he emerged from his vehicle (pronounced with suspended consonants) firing at the officers. Understandably, it would seem, they returned fire. Watson died at the scene. All very tidy.
Watson was not known to have ever had any personal or business dealings with Gault or his family. In fact, police were at a loss to identify any motive for the shooting whatsoever. The media briefly covered the horrifying developments. After all, Gault was a longtime friend and stalwart supporter of McCracken. The fact that he had pledged to deliver all of Kentucky’s 37 votes to her at the roll call—though well-known, was curiously uninteresting to the media. They all treated the murder as a freakish accident of fate, which by sheer coincidence took place a week before the Democratic National Convention.
Miriam Carter considered it something else entirely—a none-too-subtle warning of what could happen to people that refused to fall in with the Okono line. Privately, Gault had been insisting to other state chairs that Okono couldn’t win—that the McCracken supporters should take the fight for the nomination to the convention floor. Perhaps, Miriam thought to herself, she was getting paranoid. But she knew that like herself, Gault had been receiving threats—frightening late night telephone calls—on private lines only a restricted few knew. And Gault was famously stubborn about resisting pressure and intimidation. The fact that the reporters who covered the story of Gault’s assassination never mentioned these threats (which the FBI, at least, took seriously enough to investigate), amounted to journalistic malfeasance.
Miriam Carter didn’t want to believe in evil. She knew politics, and politics demanded accommodation. She’d even practiced it herself sometimes. But the idea that there was a sinister force at work to compel support, or silence the opposition? In America? That she found a little far-fetched. But not since her early days working as a civil rights attorney had she experienced this kind of fear. The people around her were genuinely afraid. She saw it in their faces, heard it in their voices. They talked about a “Chicago Machine” that “disappeared people.” All too often, conversations with colleagues had ended abruptly, sadly, when she reiterated her refusal to desert McCracken. “You don’t know these people,” they told her, all but begging her to reconsider. To Miriam Carter, who had always considered politics, and to some extent, life—a game—it was hard to believe.
The inside of the car smelled strangely, sort of like sneakers left out in the rain. As she got behind the wheel, she noticed her hands felt sticky.
She wiped them off, but as she turned into traffic, she noticed they were starting to tickle, like she was having an allergic reaction. Strangely, it didn’t hurt. Just as suddenly, she all at once felt dizzy, nauseated, as if there were a great weight on her chest—which she recognized in a strangely clinical way was her lungs filling with fluid. “I’m dying,” she thought. “No,” she thought, ever precise: “They’re killing me.”
Chapter Forty-One
Detroit, Michigan
THE AFRICAN AMERICAN HOST of the Detroit public access station was putting in his time. He’d already sent his tapes to the big networks and was hoping for a call. Of course, he’d been hoping for about four years. But, he figured, you never know. The show interviewed local newsmakers mostly about regional issues, but he was a big, good-looking guy, affable to his guests, and deferential enough to get some of the more prominent local celebrities. He introduced his guest of the evening as his long-time hero. But in truth, growing up, he’d cared about basketball, not politics, and he barely knew the man’s name. Of course, he hadn’t grown up in the projects, but in a comfortable Detroit suburb, the son of a dentist.