Admit The Horse

by P. G. Abeles

  For Harrison, the moment was bittersweet. He could hardly remain unmoved by the other African Americans around him, some quite elderly. Physically, they’d already sacrificed something to be here tonight. With no chairs, many stood for hours. The press of the crowd made actually getting to a porta-potty extremely unlikely. The night was freezing, the wind whipping off a gray and choppy Lake Michigan. By any standard, it was uncomfortable. But, of course, they would see this night; this historic night —a night many of the elderly people in the crowd never believed they would see in their lifetime, never see in America. To them, Okono was an outsider who’d been lifted up by the American dream. By stint of hard work and natural ability, this man, this proud African American man, now took his place with the gods of the world, first among many. It had once seemed impossible, unthinkable. Now it was accomplished fact, history. An African American man had just become the most powerful person in the world, and part of Harrison couldn’t help but feel grateful and happy that this should be so. He cried because it was Okono.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  February, 2009

  Menlo Park, California

  OUT FOR HIS DAILY JOG in the unchanging California sunshine, Paul Johannsen paused to consider the events of the past few weeks. Well, they all sure were happy. WHO-HOO! A Harvard man back in the White House (how sweet was that?). Well, of course, technically the last guy was a Harvard man, as well (Business School, in fact), but how exactly that came about wasn’t totally clear. In fact, most elections were not that much different than an enormous, national Harvard-Yale game —if the public but knew! But Okono!!! That was news! The kids had been excited for weeks, felt like they were really involved in the election. God, what a great country! For the first few weeks after the inaugural, they had all been walking on air.

  The first tiny prick in the balloon came at dinner with a friend from Harvard, Tom Marshall. Tom was one of those masochists who’d done a combined business/law degree and his tenure had overlapped with Okono’s. Tom had supported Okono, he told Johannsen. But not everything the campaign was saying about Okono’s career at Harvard was totally accurate, he’d told Johannsen in confidential tones.

  “Like what?” Johannsen had pressed him. He could tell his friend was uncomfortable, but Johannsen had now raised more than $350,000 for Okono. He’d invested in the guy. He wanted an answer.

  Marshall was uncharacteristically indirect, almost apologetic.

  “Well, you know, you look at his career.” Marshall shrugged. Johannsen regarded his old friend a little coldly.

  “Go on,” he said simply. Marshall might be uncomfortable, but he wouldn’t walk away from a challenge. Marshall squared his shoulders.

  “Okay. Well, for example, he was president of the Law Review. That’s pretty much a guaranteed Supreme Court clerkship, but Okono didn’t even get one of the circuit courts. That’s pretty unusual.” Johannsen rushed to interrupt. Tom raised his hand.

  “And let’s be fair—it wasn’t discrimination—you’ve got some very good judges who would love to promote a black guy.”

  “So? Maybe it was a lean year for Harvard?” Johannsen suggested combatively.

  Marshall shrugged. “Seven students from our graduating class ended up with Supreme Court clerkships…at least two of them were executive editors on the Law Review—under Okono.”

  Both sipped their drinks in silence. Johannsen pressed the point.

  “Okay, so why not Okono?” Johannsen was practically radiating hostility. Marshall looked him in the eye. “Look, I’m not saying this to piss you off. Maybe we should just drop it, okay? Hooray, Okono won, and leave it at that, okay?”

  Johannsen couldn’t leave it. “No, I need to know. Tell me.”

  Marshall shrugged. “Look, I don’t know. But I know he never wrote any articles for the Law Review, and that was considered sort of strange.”

  “What, none?” Johannsen was appalled.

  “None that were printed,” Marshall replied.

  Johannsen persisted: “But didn’t he graduate magna cum laude?”

  Marshall laughed. “Yeah, well…we’re talking Harvard,” he said with a smirk “What are the statistics I read? Something like 96% of our class graduated; 82% with honors.”

  “Yeah, but how did he get elected president of the Law Review—there had to be some reason?” Johannsen had insisted.

  Marshall shrugged, noncommittally. “Well, he’s a likeable guy, charming. People thought he was cool. You know, we had all these blowhards—just dying to show off how smart they were all the time. Okono just kind of…listened. And he was a little older than the average student. But it definitely wasn’t his grades. I mean, I know he wasn’t in the top 10%—probably not in the top 30%, just going by what people said at the time. And, you know, the election was sort of complicated…” Marshall left the sentence hanging.

  Johannsen didn’t know. “No, what do you mean?”

  Marshall continued. “Well, first of all, I think 19 people put their names in, but it was really between these two guys—both brilliant— battling it out—I think there was something like fifteen votes called without a clear winner.”

  “Yeah. So? Is that so unusual?”

  Marshall shrugged. “Actually, it is. Four or five votes would generally be considered normal. As I understood it, Okono was chosen as a compromise candidate, and with everything that was going on on campus, people latched on to the idea and went with it.” Marshall sipped his drink.

  “Wait. What do you mean ‘everything going on on campus’?”

  “Oh, man, you remember?” Marshall continued, shaking his head. “Roderick Drumm was calling for all those sit-ins on campus to protest that there were no tenured African American women on the law school faculty. People were carrying signs ‘Homogeneity breeds hate’–shit like that. There was definitely some major consciousness raising on the whole race thing.”

  Johannsen considered. “Yeah, I guess I do kind of remember that. But that was a good thing, I thought?”

  Marshall rushed to reassure his friend. “Hell, yeah. I mean there ought to be African American women on the law school faculty. I don’t believe in quotas exactly—but everyone needs to get the same consideration—the same shot. Personally, my memory was that the women didn’t get tenure because they were shitty teachers—but the real issue was that there were few women generally and no African American women, so people reasonably assumed maybe there was discrimination. Obviously, diversity’s always a good thing.”

  Marshall continued. “Look, I’m not saying Okono’s not a bright guy. I think he probably is. And who ever really knows why someone gets chosen for some of these things? Maybe I’m just jealous—here’s this guy from my class elected President of the United States, right?” Marshall laughed at himself, shaking his head.

  “Right,” said Johannsen unconvinced.

  “I’m just saying…” Marshall looked around the room as if he didn’t want to be overheard, “from my, maybe limited, perspective, Okono’s Harvard career was not the home run the campaign makes it out to be. This idea that people were just knocked out by the guy’s brilliance. That wasn’t really the case. That’s all. And it wasn’t a discrimination thing. The people, at the time, who were most disappointed in him were the other black students. You know, they felt like he had this historic opportunity, and he basically wouldn’t bestir himself to do anything with it.”

  Afterward, Johannsen admitted to himself that Marshall’s revelations had been a minor disappointment. But Johannsen reminded himself to be realistic. Who didn’t re-cast their résumé to show themselves in the best possible light? The last president had also gone to Harvard, and they knew his grades—no way he got in without a few high-placed calls being made. Of course, the situation had been slightly different. Okono’s predecessor had no intellectual pretensions—in fact rather to the contrary—he seemed to relish being a dope. But a replay of the last administration was precisely what Johannsen had been committed to
avoiding.

  No, Johannsen decided, Okono’s Harvard career shouldn’t be an issue (although Johannsen was surprised the press hadn’t made more hay out of it). But, there were other issues; things that mattered. Some of the choices to fill key posts weren’t exactly the kind of “change” Okono supporters had hoped to see. But, Johannsen, reflected, he was a businessman, and he wanted to be fair. He understood that sometimes pragmatic decisions had to be made that trumped, for a time, at least, one’s ideals.

  He confessed that he wasn’t exactly clear why Claire McCracken had been selected for a position in the new administration. Throwing a former opponent a bone as a sop to their supporters he understood. But they weren’t talking about some do-nothing, well-paid sinecure. As one of his partners pointed out, she was being chosen for the toughest job there was, the position in which you put the smartest, most intellectually agile person you can find—the very face of the Okono administration abroad. The meme throughout the campaign had been that McCracken was a gorgon coasting on her husband’s coattails, and was so divisive, so corrupt and so untrustworthy, her candidacy was anathema to the pure-hearted, new politics Okono-ites. But, if all that were true, why would they choose her as Secretary of State? What was the real story?

  Paul Johannsen wanted all the right things: he wanted clean air and good education, and ecologically responsible fuel alternatives, and affordable healthcare, and civil rights for gays and an end to mountaintop mining. He wanted the U.S. to be strong, but act with honor. He wanted a responsive, transparent democracy and an end to the ‘imperial’ powers assumed by the executive branch in the last administration. Essentially, he wanted Utopia and he wanted it wrapped in a bow and delivered to his multi-million dollar Eichler-designed glass walled, light-filled house in Palo Alto (or, alternately, the summer house on the Vineyard). For $350,000, he thought that’s what he was getting with Okono.

  The transparency, at least, hadn’t happened. Johannsen had heard from friends in the media that reporters who had been covering the White House for years were crying foul about the secrecy and lack of access. Johannsen had watched Okono’s perennially tongue-tied Press Secretary Don Phipps’ daily briefings on C-SPAN on a few occasions, and been less than impressed. The guy was arrogant to the point of being supercilious, he thought. Press Secretary Phipps seemed aggravated just having to talk to the peon reporters. And it wasn’t just Phipps. The Okono-ites were all a bit regal, as if the reporters and public had not yet fully grasped the degree to which the Okonos expected them to be grateful for taking on such an onerous job on their behalf. Antoinette was widely quoted as saying her husband was “…one of the smartest people you will ever encounter who will deign to enter this messy thing called politics.” Ayiyiyiyi! Johannsen thought. Not good! In Johannsen’s view, even if it were true, well, it just set the wrong tone. Wasn’t this administration supposed to be dedicated to serving the interests of the American people for a change?

  Worse, facts began to emerge that the fleshy-faced press secretary had spearheaded a 527 political PAC whose television spots attacking a fellow Democrat in 2007 had become a by-word of smear and innuendo. Perhaps worst of all, Phipps’ attack ad had argued that the other Democrat’s lack of military and foreign policy experience made him unqualified for high public office—the same charge which could be reasonably leveled at Okono. That political operatives were a pretty cynical bunch who used whatever argument best suited their purpose at the time, was not exactly news. However, it was not exactly the “new politics” Okono’s supporters had been promised. As the editor of an Okono internet fanzine commented dispiritedly: “Every time I see Don Phipps as the campaign’s voice, I get further and further from seeing Okono as a transformative figure.”

  Johannsen sighed. It was like all the nuttiness about Okono’s birth certificate and whether Okono had been born in the U.S. and was eligible to be president. Of course, it was ridiculous, Johannsen thought. Hollywood actresses aside, why would Okono’s mother, an American citizen, opt to travel to the third world to give birth? It made no sense. But to some extent, Johannsen thought, it was the campaign’s own fault. Because, however nutty some of these “birther” people appeared, they hadn’t made the story up. The whole controversy began when Okono’s African relatives claimed in the media that he was born in Nigeria.

  Now, of course, Johannsen thought, people say lots of things—particularly people wanting to claim a world leader as a native son. But critics pointed out that the Okono campaign had now spent more than $800,000 in legal fees to resist providing an original birth certificate—something most people are required to hand over to obtain a driver’s license. It seemed a reasonable question. Anyone could see the document the Okono campaign was flashing on all these news programs was not going to satisfy their critics. And, in fairness, Johannsen thought, where was the signature of the doctor and the name of the hospital? Anyone could produce the document they were showing in PhotoShop. Hell, Johannsen thought, he could do it himself.

  And why were the Democrats fighting legislation that required future candidates to provide all documents currently required under the Constitution to the FEC before their names were placed on the ballot? Surely, that eliminated any future question? Shouldn’t the Democrats favor that kind of transparency? What was the big deal? Cable news pundits spent so much time trying to ridicule and mock these “birther” people—why not address the issues they raised, and put an end to it?

  Proud, over-eager relatives aside, Johannsen didn’t believe Okono was born outside the United States. More likely, he thought, Okono was sensitive about something else, his parent’s marital status or a funky middle name, perhaps. But, Johannsen was still idealistic enough to believe that no democracy was ever served by secrecy. If the campaign hadn’t tried so hard to restrict the public’s access to Okono’s school and health records (and everything else for that matter), in all likelihood, he thought, this movement wouldn’t have gained the traction it had.

  Worse, the Okono-ites persisted in pretending that any criticism of the Okono Administration’s policy initiatives was part of a vast, right wing racist conspiracy. The allegations grabbed some headlines. But, in the end, Johannsen thought, it wouldn’t wash. As far as policy disagreements, Johannsen didn’t think it should come as a surprise to the Okono Administration that not everybody in the country was a Democrat. In fairness, Republicans had opposed healthcare reform since the 1970s (under, you know, white presidents), how was it suddenly a racial issue? As for criticism of Okono and his ties to SEED recently making headlines, Johannsen knew for certain, now, that most of the opposition research on Okono had been done by liberal Democrats. McCracken supporters were the fons et origo of much of the resistance to Okono. And Johannsen was forced to concede: McCracken supporters had their own, legitimate reasons to distrust Okono.

  There were lots of ways to defuse the anger, Johannsen thought. But, in his opinion, the Okono team were handling it all backwards. Instead of trying to engage their opponents, as Okono had promised to do, the Administration simply used one of its press organs to go after its critics and smear them into silence. One of his best friends, a McCracken supporter, a person Johannsen respected, had started to refer in Orwellian fashion to the Okono Administration as “The Ministry of Truth.”

  Johannsen was also concerned that a lot of issues on which Okono the candidate had campaigned no longer seemed to be priorities for Okono the president. Environmental activists, women’s groups, advocates for gay rights—had all been disappointed in the first months of his administration. Not simply because the administration wasn’t pushing more aggressively, but because the Okono administration was pushing in the opposite direction.

  The Okono guys were so skilled at crafting their message, it covered up the surprising amount of inaction. Lots of photo-ops covered by White House photographers and thoughtfully provided after the event to Okono fanzines like the Huffington Post and Daily Kos—but no access by real reporters to the event itself. B
ut perhaps that was to be expected from an administration that had assembled the largest press team, and smallest policy team in U.S. history.

  Social issues were complicated. Johannsen got that. It wasn’t going to be possible for Okono to make everyone happy. Incremental progress was better than no progress at all. But Johannsen was becoming more and more concerned about the administration’s handling of the economy. They’d invited him to sit in on a few round table discussions with other money guys (he recognized a number of them as major contributors). After all, Johannsen reflected, Okono certainly had the connections to Wall Street. But most of the meetings had been bullshit.

  The Okono decision makers were all academics; what they knew about how markets worked, was what they had read in a book. When the Wall Street guys weighed in with an opinion (usually diametrically opposed to the academic’s own), the Okono economists cocked their heads in a patronizing and surprised way as if they considered it some kind of marvelous trick that the bankers had learned to speak. Worse (and this still shocked Johannsen), it was rapidly becoming apparent, that none of the Okono people actually believed in free market capitalism.

  When the Republicans had accused Okono of being a socialist during the campaign—Appelbaum had laughed it off, a suggestion as outlandish as believing the government was keeping alien cadavers at a remote government facility in Nevada. “What will these crazy Republicans think of next?” Appelbaum had reassured him with a wink and a chuckle. And it was nutty, right? After all, nobody believed in communism or socialism any more, right? It was a failed system. And all the European countries that had embraced socialism were re-trenching after they essentially bankrupted much of their tax base. South American countries that nationalized industries had learned the hard way that you had to incentivize risk and hard work, and you couldn’t do either if the government was providing everyone with the same paycheck.