by P. G. Abeles
But, Johannsen told his partners after returning from a meeting in D.C., it was like all the Okono policy wonks had missed the last thirty years. The whole “Mr. Gorbachev, take down this wall” thing about a free economy—apparently, they hadn’t been there, missed it. Johannsen believed in safety nets, he even believed in proactive interest rate manipulation by the Fed (although his faith had been shaken in its efficacy in recent months), but he wasn’t really sure what the Okono people were talking about any more. Much of the stimulus money allocated by Congress was still unspent. By the laws of Keynesian economics, that money needed to be in the system already. Nobody had as yet given him an explanation as to why it wasn’t. Even an armchair economist could figure out that with the debt the U.S. government was amassing; there were only two long-term possibilities: default or inflation.
But Johannsen believed that rushing forward on some of the important social programs—programs Johannsen himself supported—might be problematic when the economy was in free-fall and the government had piled up huge deficits. After all, social programs aren’t funded by the government, they’re funded by the taxes the government collects from its working citizens. After all the euphoria of the campaign, Johannsen found himself in the unlikely position of being delighted that a candidate he’d supported had actually won (finally), but no longer sure who or what he had voted for.
He’d been a willing votary, he acknowledged that. Right before the election, a friend had cautioned him about sending the Daily Kos article on Okono’s legislative accomplishments. It wasn’t true, she said. She was a McCracken supporter, so he didn’t entirely believe her, maybe didn’t want to believe her. Right before the election, he’d finally checked it out. He’d had an intern sift through everything for two days. He was genuinely horrified to discover his friend was right. Okono had virtually no legislative accomplishments in the Congress. Most of the 900 bills on the list were introduced when he was in the Illinois state house, and even then, he’d had nothing to do with most of them. Some, Johannsen was chagrined to find out, Okono had actually voted against. Johannsen was embarrassed thinking about it. He couldn’t even remember how many hundreds of classmates, business associates, and friends he’d sent it to. But he knew where he’d gotten it: Appelbaum had forwarded it to him. Appelbaum— who had to have known it wasn’t true.
He’d also finally gotten some insight into Appelbaum and his astro-turfing business. He was now prepared to admit what his wife had suspected long ago. Underneath his pretensions of altruistic idealism, Appelbaum was a beguiler, a charlatan, a shyster. The effulgent glow that Okono had cast had prevented him for seeing Appelbaum for what and who he was. And Johannsen was beginning to question: what else had it prevented him from seeing about Okono?
Chapter Fifty-Nine
April, 2009
London, England
WHEN PRINCE ABDUL-WAHID BIN KHAIR AL DIN entered his London hotel, he was trying to be low- key. Therefore, as he passed through the limestone portals, past the priceless seventeenth century tapestries and ormolu clocks, under the magnificent crystal chandelier, past the four foot high glass vases filled with long-stemmed exotic flowers (a la moderne), Prince Abdul-Wahid had only two security guys instead of the usual half-dozen. Hotel guests having afternoon tea, listening to the tinkling keys of the atrium’s piano, craned to identify the source of the commotion (fame and wealth create a powerful magnet). Catching just a quick glimpse of the prince, they excitedly whispered to each other that it was that famous magician—you know, the one that dated the supermodel! Nobody could think of his name right away.
Of course, what they didn’t know, was that when Prince Abdul-Wahid entered his hotel, the world famous Hotel Edward VII—it was really that, his hotel. The magician, for all his proximity to supermodels, probably didn’t own one of the world’s most sumptuous hotels or, if in the unlikely event he did, he probably didn’t own three.
But Abdul wasn’t moved by the exquisite objet d’art or crystal or gilt, he got enough of that at home. No, Abdul loved London at any time of the year, but he especially loved it in the spring—all that cool, moist, greenery made a welcome change from hot, dry beige sand. Sadly, he wouldn’t have much time to enjoy it. As usual, Abdul was there on business, only this time, it wasn’t his business. He was here as an unofficial member of the Saudi delegation to the Group of 20, or more simply: G20, and he was there to make sure that his king was happy.
The G20 was (normally) a meeting of finance ministers and governors of the central banks of 19 of the top 31 economies in the world. Heads of state didn’t usually attend the G20. In fact, this was only the second such meeting. But with burgeoning social unrest as the result of the growing global recession (everyone had watched as millions of Frenchman had protested their government’s failure to act more aggressively in recent weeks), there was a consensus among world leaders that being seen getting out in front of the issue was politically expedient.
The Saudi king had already had a private meeting with the new U.S. president. Prince Abdul had read the report of their conversation on the plane. Considering the gravity of the economic situation, most of the press remained strangely uninterested in the conversations between the world’s most powerful bankers. Most spent their time attending receptions and gossiping amongst themselves about the stylish first lady’s weirdly droopy right eye—apparently the result of a botox injection gone wrong and part of the “prettying-up” she’d received after the election.
As the meeting was drawing to a close, American journalists were pressuring the President about what the G20 had achieved that would be tangible to Americans. Of course, the question demonstrated a profound misunderstanding of what Okono was trying to do. Securing more money for the International Monetary Fund, while physically located in the U.S., offered no direct economic benefit to the U.S. The IMF was essentially an aid organization lending money to poor countries.
Both the French and the Germans were resisting Okono’s calls for more aid to the IMF. France and Germany were more interested in encouraging cash infusions into their own shaky economies than contributing towards the $1.1 trillion Okono wanted for what they considered “global welfare” in Africa and Asia. After all, they argued petulantly, let China do it. China had become the unofficial ATM of the third world during the last eight years. So be it, they agreed.
But the Americans and Saudis were not nearly so sanguine about Chinese influence, or the French president’s posturing. Abdul knew first-hand that the Saudi king detested the French president, referring to him on more than one occasion as “that obstreperous monkey.” “Let him go,” the king had said privately. But Prince Abdul had cautioned the king, if France’s tempestuous president walked out of the meeting, as he was threatening to do, it would reflect poorly on Okono’s leadership at this, his first international diplomatic test.
There were other concerns, Prince Abdul reminded the king. Aside from the pressing humanitarian considerations of securing the aid for the IMF, there were other aspects as well. Abdul reminded the Saudi king (whose official style included “Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques”) that virtually all of the poorest countries that would receive aid had exploding Muslim populations. The king was obligated to the brothers of his faith. Happily, thought Abdul with a smile, Okono was now obligated to the king.
Hours later, when the members of the G20 assembled for the official picture, reporters were astonished to see Okono bow from the waist upon greeting the Saudi king. The White House immediately began the farcical process of trying to persuade reporters who saw it that they hadn’t seen it, or that they’d seen something else, or better still, that there was nothing to see.
Okono spokesperson Jim Latchky, peremptorily claimed it wasn’t a bow, that Okono was just “tall.” When reporters showed a disinclination to let the matter drop after these first unsatisfactory explanations, the Okono press people showed their irritation with the reporters—there was no bow. Josh Stein helpfully repeated the party line with a headline
that must have strained even his own credulity: “No Bow from Okono,” but the video told a different story. Journalists who conceded that the White House was lying were quick to point out “it didn’t really matter” and dismissed it—after all, it had only been established protocol that American leaders not bow to kings for 200 years. Left on the table, was that in a room full of kings, Okono had bowed to only one.
Chapter Sixty
Rockville, Maryland
THE PHONE RANG. It was Max.
“So are you ready to run a campaign?”
“What?” she asked with a laugh, surprised.
“How about as a candidate?” Max asked.
Lacey laughed, in spite of herself.
“Max, don’t you know? I’m controversial…and besides, as should be abundantly obvious by now, I know absolutely nothing about getting into politics,” she said.
“Jesus, Lacey. Dirty tricks, death threats—You’re already in politics.”
They both laughed.
“Lacey, you may not realize this, but you guys kicked some ass. With no resources, that’s pretty impressive. How many volunteers did you end up with?” he asked.
“A little over 14,000,” she replied.
“Are you shittin’ me?” Max was completely taken aback.
Lacey was offended. “No, of course not.” She continued, “Anyway, why not Betty Jo? I think she’d be an amazing candidate.”
“I agree. I’d still like to meet her.” Max was hard to distract. “But, right now, we’re talking about you. So how about it?”
Lacey was dismissive. “Honestly, Max. I couldn’t. For one thing, I’m not qualified.”
The line went dead for a minute.
“Hello?” Lacey said.
“Why do women always do that?” asked Max.
Lacey was surprised. “Do what?” she asked.
“Lacey, I’ve got guys barely out of diapers who ran the college Democratic club with, like, 20 members—they think they’re qualified. But women, no matter what their accomplishments or skills— never think they’re qualified. You tell me, why is that?”
“Dunno,” Lacey said.
“Why not let the voters decide?” he asked.
Lacey laughed. “Max—Why? Why the sudden interest? Are you a secret lobbyist for some industry that needs to escape regulation?”
Max sighed. “Lacey. Don’t be tiresome. You’re re-running the last campaign. Okono already screwed those hedge fund guys.” They both laughed.
Lacey considered. “So much for avoiding regulation. The angry Transylvanian townsfolk are after them now; and after they gave Okono so much money. Sad for them.”
“Luckily, I’m not easily moved to tears,” replied Max. “Lacey, I want you to think about it.”
“Max, you don’t want me—I’d be a liability. This racist tag is going to follow me like a tin can the rest of my days.”
“Lacey, listen to me. People will meet you, they’ll get to know you, it will go away. Politics is all chance. I’ve been doing this a long time and I know how to hedge a bet. Listen to me when I say this, because I don’t say it often. I’ll gamble on you anytime.”
Chapter Sixty-one
May 2009
Stromsburg, Nebraska
THE FIRST THING HIS FATHER TOLD HIM was that she’d miss the fair. The town put on a Swedish Midsommer Festival every year at the end of June with costumed local children dancing around a maypole. His father always helped out with the Swedish pancake breakfast on Sunday morning, but it was his mother who’d always organized the hundreds of dirndl-wearing, blonde-braided volunteers.
The doctors said it happened suddenly, in her sleep. His father hadn’t noticed until his breakfast didn’t appear, and then he’d gone up to check. Johannsen hadn’t realized his parents had been sleeping in separate rooms. It was nothing, his father said, just that his snoring kept his mother awake. They still had date nights his father said, waggling his brows, in a way that seemed unseemly to Paul under the circumstances.
The wake was at the large Queen Anne style, white clapboard and black-awninged funeral parlor on Main Street in nearby Osceola. His father insisted his mother wouldn’t have wanted a fuss, nothing fancy. Standing in the carpeted entryway greeting the mourners, Joan was, as always, perfect. She made all the right noises, said all the right things. His powerhouse lawyer wife had nothing in common with his housewife mother except maybe nerves of steel, but they’d held each other in high esteem, nevertheless. When Joan spoke of the respect she’d had for his mother, Paul knew she was speaking from her heart.
His father looked lost, as if he’d shrunk two sizes in as many days. They said when a couple had a long and happy marriage, the husband didn’t long outlive the spouse. Johannsen would have to step in—get somebody in to take care of his father, pay the bills. Maybe he could persuade him to move to California? The kids would love it, but he doubted his father would agree to leave his home and friends.
Johannsen was amazed at the number of people that turned up at the wake. Of course, he knew his mother had always been active in the community. When he was in high school, he remembered the mayor telling him his mother ran everything in town. At the time, he’d been aggravated, wishing she were more available for him. Apparently, not much had changed. For three days, the room was packed with a line out the door. People from all her volunteer activities: from the church, from the library, from the hospital, even from the animal shelter. All the people in the town: waitresses, doctors, lawyers, dentists, policemen, merchants—they all came to pay their respects to his mother. He’d never thought to ask his parents what they did with the money he sent them. But now he could see, they’d helped almost every charitable organization in town.
But it was more than that. For the first time in his life, Paul Johannsen realized that his mother had been someone. He’d always seen her as a wife and a mother. After all, she’d never held a job. What he suddenly realized was that she’d held hundreds of jobs—and she’d been really good at all of them. Everyone was saying how lost they felt without her. She’d been so smart, so focused, so energetic. How had he misunderstood who she was so completely?
People were incredibly kind, had so many wonderful things to say. He wished he could remember them all, to tell his children and maybe someday his grandchildren. “This was who my mother was,” he’d say. But he realized he needed these people to tell him. He’d never really known. Over and over, he heard people memorialize all the things she’d done, all the ways she’d helped them, and it ended the same way, over and over “…and she never asked for anything for herself.”
And Paul Johannsen thought back over his 45 years and remembered all the things she’d done for him. From the complicated yucky things, like finding salamanders under rocks for science projects, or learning algebra, to the mundane minutiae of mothering. All the beds and dinners made, and cuts cleaned, and homework helped, suitcases packed, even balls pitched. The den mothering and classroom parenting, and sickroom tending, and they were right, Johannsen realized. Paul Johannsen couldn’t remember a single time his mother had asked him for anything for herself.
Except once.
Chapter Sixty-Two
July 2009
Washington, DC
IT OFFICIALLY STARTED TO UNRAVEL ON THE 20TH OF JULY, but of course, like so much else in Washington, the leaks had been coming for months. The names of the organizations involved were staggering: the New York Times, Washington Post, Newsweek, Time, The New Republic, The Nation, The New Yorker, Los Angeles Times, Baltimore Sun, Salon, The Guardian, The Atlantic, CNN, CBS, MSNBC, NBC, National Public Radio, Politico, Huffington Post, Bloomberg News, among others. Its defenders and aficionados called it simply the J-List, a group of 400 self-described left-leaning journalists, bloggers, newscasters, pundits and policy wonks who had created an invitation-only online enclave on google groups. Its stated intention was to allow its members to share information and opinions in a supportive setting, but at some poi
nt, some of its members at least, had crossed a line. To its critics, JournoList was nothing short of a nefarious organization to control the public’s access to information and shape public opinion—and they claimed to have the email-exchanges to prove it. Of course, as it turned out it wasn’t just public opinion in general. No.
What the J-List members were accused of was a startling pattern of consistently shaping news stories to benefit one man: Okono. As one investigative journalist who examined the cache of email exchanges beginning in 2007 explained: “Again and again we discovered members of JournoList working to coordinate talking points on behalf of then-Congressman Okono.” Another headline described the email evidence more starkly. In an article entitled, “The Vast Left-Wing Media Conspiracy” published in the Wall Street Journal, the author noted “Everyone knew most of the press corps was hoping for Okono in 2008. Newly released emails show that hundreds of them were actively working to promote him.” The most damning emails showed JournoList members working to stifle news stories about Okono and The Minister, with one JournoList member going so far as to advocate false accusations and other Alinsky-style tactics to silence the conservative opposition: “Take one of them—Fred Barnes, Karl Rove, who cares—and call them racists.” Another advocated burying The Minister story by putting those who raised the issue on the defensive. “Refuse to discuss The Minister. Turn it around on them. Ask: ‘Why do you have such a deep-seated problem with a black politician who unites the country?”
As the story broke, the more prominent members of the J-List said nothing publicly and waited for the storm to pass. A few less well-known members waded in with fiery denunciations of the conservative journalists who had exposed the group, claiming that publishing the email exchanges was an assault on both the freedom of the press and their freedom of speech. How exactly that squared with the J-List members’ public support for revealing (and printing) private diplomatic emails from the U.S. State Department obtained by an on-line guerilla watch-dog group, or emails exchanged between scientists promoting an anthropogenic theory of global warming, oil executives, tobacco executives and financial services companies—all of whose emails or private correspondence had become fodder for major news stories in recent years—was not exactly clear. Apparently, ferreting around in people’s ‘sent messages’ was somehow different when it was the journalists themselves being exposed.