Admit The Horse

by P. G. Abeles

  Lacey shook her head sadly. “It’s all one way or all the other, and nobody’s willing to criticize people on their own side, no matter how outrageous their practices. There’s no incentive to tell the truth and let the chips fall where they may. Think about it. When banks or corporations hide information from the public—or just don’t disclose information that’s relevant to the consumer’s decision-making—we consider that cheating, fraud. And the press and politicians usually scream the loudest about the betrayal of the public trust. But when the press and politicians parse what information they allow us to know, so that we make the ‘right’ decision as voters—how is that different? Don’t they have an obligation to the public trust, as well? Why is our money more valuable, more protected, than our votes, or by extension the democratic process?”

  Connor shook his head sadly. “I don’t know, Lacey.”

  Suddenly, she laughed. “I’m sorry, Connor. I’m really on my soapbox today, I guess. Not that any of this is new, except to us. Politics and sausages, right?”

  They spent a few minutes eating their lunch. Finally Connor asked quietly:

  “Do you think McCracken ever had a chance?”

  Lacey considered: “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “We thought we would wave our pithy signs and hand out our carefully researched little flyers and that would make a difference. Looking back, we were so naïve. I mean, who are we, right?” Lacey looked at Connor with a rueful smile.

  “I think none of us ever sees the whole picture. I used to just think that was happenstance. Now I’m not so sure the media ever covers any issue completely or fairly. Special interests are so entrenched, so corrupt…I guess I just never realized it before,” she said softly.

  Connor watched the street scene. Did he agree with Lacey? He was trying to decide. With all his years in law enforcement, he’d seen some pretty shady deals go down.

  “Well, even though she didn’t win the nomination,” he said thoughtfully, “I can’t help remembering that more people actually voted for McCracken than voted for Okono. A point that the press have conveniently forgotten,” he said with a laugh. “I guess I want to believe that means something.”

  Lacey nodded, but remained silent.

  “I just read something I thought was interesting,” Connor continued. “18% of McCracken supporters did not vote for Okono.”

  Lacey was surprised. “Wow. Really? That’s more than I would have thought,” she said.

  “Yup. If you consider that a lot of her supporters were women, and women tend to be more liberal than men…and yet they either didn’t vote or voted for the Republican? Well, that’s a pretty staggering indictment, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I guess,” Lacey replied.

  “And you know what else?” said Connor.

  “What?” replied Lacey.

  “At the convention, after McCracken released her delegates—the press reported that Okono’s nomination was unanimous?”

  “Uggh. How could I forget? I was there, remember?” Lacey said, shaking her head.

  Connor continued.

  “It wasn’t unanimous. No matter what happens for public consumption in the hall, they’re required to have a paper ballot. One-third of the delegates still voted for McCracken.” Connor paused. “I know it was really hard, but I think we made a difference, maybe just enough to get people to start asking questions. The American people are smart, Lacey.”

  Both were silent. Lacey spoke first.

  “Connor did you ever wonder…?” There was a long pause.

  “Wonder if we were right about Okono?” Connor completed her sentence. Lacey looked down at her salad. Connor could see she had lost her appetite.

  She continued. “I guess…yeah.” She paused. “We had so much damning information on him—but if it was as powerful as we thought, why didn’t anybody ever run it, why didn’t anybody ever print it?”

  “You just said it. The press are on his side,” said Connor

  “But the press are still people, Connor,” Lacey said. “Is there ‘group think?’ Absolutely. But think about it. You get forty people looking at an event, you end up with forty different versions of what happened. So why not with Okono?”

  She paused as if groping for an explanation. “I mean, we’ve both seen it: people feel this weird, visceral, emotional connection to Okono, that just kind of sends their brain into neutral. It’s not that they defend Okono, or justify his actions. Mostly they won’t even listen to the evidence before they decide. If I say anything remotely critical about Okono, my relatives put their hands over their ears and start humming like they’re three-year-olds. And on issues they care about—like FISA and gay marriage. I don’t understand it. Suddenly, they all think I’m a right-wing Bircher just because Daniel and I didn’t support Okono.” She laughed an uneasy laugh. “Why is that? Do you ever wonder if it was us? Maybe we had ‘group think?’ Maybe we were so busy believing Okono was a bad guy we only saw the stuff that supported that? Can all those millions of people be wrong? I mean, honestly, Connor, was it us?”

  Connor thought about all the time he’d served in law enforcement, more than 20 years. He thought about Antwone Green, doing a favor for a friend. He thought about Joey Ali and his indefinitely suspended sentence. He thought about the slums created by the cupidity of Okono’s top advisors and friends. He thought about Okono supporters threatening and intimidating women and senior citizens at the caucuses. But, mostly, he thought about Miriam Carter. He’d never met her, but like many investigators, he’d formed a kind of post-mortem bond with the victim. It was hard not to be impressed by her canny intelligence and joie de vivre. He admired the incredible integrity of the way she’d lived her life. Honest, strong, fair. Miriam Carter had been the real deal, an African American hero, an American hero. It was hard not to feel he owed her something.

  He turned to Lacey, and he could see she needed an answer. At some point, she had decided she needed to know more than she needed to be right. She’d put a lot on the line. They’d all put a lot on the line—because they thought they were doing the right thing—but they’d been like small voices in the Stygian darkness. Connor considered a moment.

  “Naw. Lacey...the guy’s a crook.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Washington, DC

  APPELBAUM LOVED TO PORTRAY HIMSELF as an idealist. And the Washington press corps had mostly bought it. Soft-spoken and conciliatory, he had learned a long time ago to measure his words carefully and get a little tearful when he talked about the unfulfilled promise of the Kennedys. As The Minister (who was no fan) had pointed out, Appelbaum was the master of promoting black candidates to white voters, but really cared nothing about black voters. It was true. Appelbaum never really cared about black voters because he had always assumed black voters would take care of themselves. Campaigns for black candidates in Detroit, Cleveland, D.C., Houston, and Philadelphia had borne out the wisdom of his strategy.

  But, of course, the story wasn’t really that Appelbaum knew how to sell a black candidate or a white candidate; the real story, the untold story, was that Appelbaum could sell anything and did. And, his corporate clients—who wanted to build support for laying fiber-optic cable, or using coal to fire their electric plants (such a disappointment to all the public interest attorneys fighting mountaintop mining in West Virginia) or investing in nuclear power, or bidding for the Olympics—they didn’t pay him the big money because he was an affable guy. It’s a truism of the modern world that idealists are so rarely worth $7 million dollars. And Appelbaum, the original “red diaper baby” (his mother used to be a journalist on a communist screed), wanted the big money.

  It was a mystery he would never understand, how the McCracken campaign had missed the basic strategy of the race. They had never understood the incredible importance of the caucus states or realized how vulnerable they were to manipulation. And they had given away one of their most critical advantages when they had agreed to censure Michigan and Florida. So
me in the Okono campaign thought they might be able to swing Florida. Appelbaum never believed it. If those primaries had counted, it would have diffused whatever bump the campaign got in South Carolina. And, really, who were they kidding? Rural, poor South Carolina vs. the industrial might of Michigan or the wealth of Florida? South Carolina? Shit, Appelbaum thought. Who the fuck won Alabama? Who the fuck cared about those shit-kickin’ Southern states? If Michigan and Florida had counted, McCracken would have been home free.

  Then when the tapes of The Minister came out—Okono would have skulked away in ignominy—not quite barricading himself in a men’s room like Chet Williams—not quite that bad. But bad.

  Of course, Appelbaum thought with a chuckle, having his own partisans on the JournoList group and inside McCracken’s campaign hadn’t hurt either.

  Conventional wisdom was that McCracken had run a stupid campaign, and there was plenty of evidence to support that. Journalists constantly pointed to McCracken’s $30 million throw-a-way in Iowa. Appelbaum smiled to himself. What they never reported was that McCracken was herself out-spent in Iowa. Oh, yes, even in the first contest!—before anybody even knew the guy—by Okono.

  As to Malloy, Appelbaum thought the race was decided when Helman Brothers collapsed in the middle of December. Insurance policies carefully indemnified themselves against ‘acts of God’ —hurricanes and the like—in which case the insurer was not responsible to provide coverage. Well, Appelbaum reflected, Malloy had gotten himself caught in an economic cyclone without so much as a pair of galoshes.

  One of the cheerful aspects for Appelbaum had been the fall- out. It was delicious to let everyone think those arrogant Wall Street guys weren’t so smart after all. Greed made people act like idiots. As the great Saul Alinsky once said of the support he (inexplicably) received from conservative industrialists: “I feel confident I could persuade a millionaire on Friday to subsidize a revolution for Saturday, out of which he would make a huge profit Sunday, even though he was certain to be executed Monday.” It was all about the last laugh, the long view.

  Appelbaum was still babysitting Okono. Every speech, every statement, every policy position was reviewed by Appelbaum before the president opened his mouth. He had no real portfolio, but as the senior advisor, his finger was in every pie, just where it should be. And, in a town where physical access was power, Appelbaum occupied the broom closet-like space directly next to the Oval Office—just another, in a long line of bald-headed old men pushing levers and pedals to create a myth of a Mighty Oz.

  Adding to his complacency were the huge fees his firm was raking in to astro-turf Okono’s policy initiatives. Of course, the press agreed with most of them—who didn’t want affordable healthcare? Perhaps as a result, no one was screaming about the millions his firm was collecting. But somewhere out west, Appelbaum reflected with some satisfaction, the former Republican Vice President (who’d gotten excoriated for the sweetheart deals given to his former employer) must be gnashing his pointy teeth. And of course, the VP’s sweetheart deal wasn’t nearly as sweet as Appelbaum’s. The VP’s former company was publicly traded. The former vice president was only one, of many, with a large stock position. Appelbaum was the sole proprietor of his company. To the victor go the spoils.

  If Appelbaum’s tactics hadn’t changed, the same could not be said for his hours or his wardrobe. Never an early riser, he now got to the White House by 7:30 a.m. and tried not to let anyone speak to him until he’d had his civilizing caffeinated tea. Gone were the rumpled shirts and leather jackets, replaced by a bespoke suits from a Slovakian Georgetown clothier.

  For such an avowed family man, he’d made the (to some) curious decision not to move his family from Chicago. Appelbaum now saw them only twice a month. But the schedule suited him. Not having them underfoot allowed Appelbaum to channel his energies. Perhaps too much, Appelbaum reflected. Because at night, sometimes, as Appelbaum looked out the window of his apartment at the dazzling spectacle of the brilliantly lit Washington Monument; he almost felt a sense of well,… loss. It had been too easy. He had expected more of a challenge. Appelbaum had always warned Okono he couldn’t take a punch, and the truth was, Okono couldn’t. The amazing thing was, he’d never had to.

  They’d all cleaned up pretty well he thought. Even the formerly captious Antoinette was radiating the milk of human kindness lately. Although Appelbaum still shuddered as he recalled how it had fallen to his unhappy lot to go to her, proverbial hat in hand, and beg her she not to wear a diamond necklace with her inaugural day outfit. Appelbaum had made his pitch, struggled to make her understand that for a nation facing financial Armageddon, it was so outrageous, so inappropriate, as a message. Appelbaum could barely believe she was considering it. Her husband, sitting beside her on the couch in the solarium, looked bemused, but said nothing. Antoinette had surveyed her interlocutor with narrowed eyes, one eyebrow preternaturally raised above the other.

  “David Appelbaum,” she said in frosty tones worthy of the Red Queen, “Every dog has its day… and on that day, this dog…is wearing diamonds.” As Appelbaum, crestfallen, turned to leave, the president-elect consoled him in a stage whisper: “she’s scary,” he’d said with a laugh.

  But to Appelbaum’s everlasting amazement, Antoinette had worn her diamonds (and sequins) on inaugural day, and the only muted criticism among the avalanche of raptures was that “maybe it was a little fancy.” Appelbaum had to laugh—a diamond necklace and sequins at 11:30 in the morning—a “little fancy”?—Ya think? When he thought of previous administrations that had been crippled by endless media criticism about supposedly highfalutin expenditures for decorations and dishes—it seemed impossible! But it had all worked out, he thought with a crooked smile. It turned out Antoinette’s notorious cupidity for attention, for respect, for stuff—could be satisfied. Of course, it took being Queen of the World to do it.

  As for himself, he’d always known himself: a little sleazy, a little schlumpy, an outsider. Now he was the “in” guy. Universities he could never get into were clamoring to give him honorary degrees, teach a course, ride a little on his super-hero cape. Their frank idolatry of Okono was one thing—but him? He started to feel like the Grinch looking down at Whoville. These people were so trusting and foolish, so good, —it was kind of endearing in a way. And Mr. Appelbaum started thinking…thinking about a second term. Well, after all, if The Minister had been promised a few White House dinners in the second term to keep him quiet, what might not Appelbaum get? Perhaps…dare he say it? Secretary Appelbaum? Vice President Appelbaum. Who knew? Strange things could happen. Stranger things had happened. He should know. He had made them happen.

  The Republicans were in such disarray, it made Appelbaum almost giddy. When he had directed the attack against their number one blowhard—the Republican rank and file had rushed to disassociate themselves from him and run for their warrens. Good, Appelbaum thought, let them stay down their hidey-holes (“Pick the target. Cultivate unity against a clearly identifiable enemy. Specifically name the foe who is to blame for the particular evil that is the source of the people’s angst. Cultivate in people’s hearts a negative visceral emotional response to the face of the enemy.” Alinsky’s Rule #5).

  The problem with the Republicans, Appelbaum reflected, was that they didn’t read. They didn’t educate themselves. What the dean of community organizers, Saul Alinsky, didn’t know about swaying public opinion wasn’t worth knowing (“Ridicule is the most potent weapon. Almost impossible to counter-attack. Infuriates opposition who will react to your advantage.” Rule #3). Alinsky was a genius. Appelbaum shook his head in wonder. Alinsky’s tactics had outflanked these guys for 70 years. They never learned. Or more accurately, Appelbaum considered, ever cautious, they hadn’t learned, yet.

  And, of course, The Professor. If The Professor’s role in creating the swooning, lock-stepping grassroots Okono juggernaut had been largely anonymous during the campaign, Appelbaum could at least acknowledge to himself the pivo
tal role The Professor’s plan had played. Not, he thought to himself with a smile, that he needed to acknowledge it to anyone else. That kind of expertise in organization building was almost incalculably valuable. Unfortunately, The Professor hadn’t been motivated by anything so reasonable as money—or fame.

  No, The Professor was the kind of true believer that most irritated Okono—a relentless, romantic ideologue that expected the president to use the vast power base he had created for him to institute real change. Appelbaum chuckled to himself. It would be difficult to imagine misreading Okono more completely. But Appelbaum thought it was pretty simple, really. If Okono had been interested in change, the South Side of Chicago wouldn’t look like Beirut.

  No, after the election, all the newly created and empowered grassroots activists had been quietly powered-down and…de-activated, consigned to the Okono-dominated DNC and given insultingly mindless tasks like sending emails to congressmen and donating money. Naturally, they complained, but O. had never been interested in catering to any interest group, even his own. He’d used them when he’d needed them, and he’d use them again without scruple. By keeping them out of the discussion, Appelbaum and Okono had rendered them powerless, entirely dependent on the administration and the scraps they might throw.

  And when Okono wanted them again in the next election…? Well…? Appelbaum smiled his Grinch-like smile. Where else could they go? As he surveyed the brilliantly illuminated city below, Appelbaum congratulated himself. Of course, they would return. Of course, they would help. After all, they were people of hope.

  Acknowledgements

  This book has been long aborning and is often the case there are a lot of people to thank.

  It goes without saying that any errors or omissions are my own.