He knew better—California was a complex place. But Nate was a child of the East: a boyhood in Manhattan; college at Dartmouth; journalism school at Columbia; a career spent in Washington. He found it strange that the next President of the United States might be selected by the thin-blooded citizens of this underzoned shopping mall, most of whom got their political education from watching thirty-second spots on television. Nate liked smoky bars, Scotch, and the snap of autumn; the bite of real political argument among people who knew the issues; the crowded, ethnic urban jangle of Manhattan; the monomania of Washington. In a way that Nate saw as Darwinian, Washington evolved the most perceptive and resourceful journalists; the most tenacious bureaucrats; the most dedicated, intelligent, and ruthless politicians; the most sophisticated and self-aggrandizing professional class that any urban center had to offer; and, in seeming contradiction, the most cynical and incompetent city administration in America, partly because it was the one organ of government that few of these strivers gave a damn about. And then there was that sad by-product of obsessive self-promotion, the used-to-bes: ex-congressmen or appointed officials who, once forcibly retired, discovered that they had focused so intensely on becoming who they formerly were that there was no one left inside.
To Nate, the ecosystem of Washington had an awful, endlessly fascinating ability to seduce and destroy. He had long since faced that his own self-image depended on the conceit that he was too smart and too ambitious to fail. That he would shrink from reporting what he had just learned was strange to him.
For the last few minutes, Nate had been holding the Democratic nomination in his hands.
* * *
When he first read the document, Nate had been quiet for a moment, stunned.
“How did you get this?” he had asked.
Katherine Jones lit a cigarette. “All that matters,” she said finally, “is whether this document is authentic. And whether the counselor’s story checks out.”
Nate appraised her. Though her short hair was the color of straw, Katherine Jones reminded him of a Buddha figure without the compassion: gimlet-eyed, heavy-lipped, self-satisfied. Her skin was flecked with the pink subcutaneous bursts of a heavy smoker.
“Not quiteall , Katherine. You came tome .”
Jones drew on her cigarette. Nate sensed that she was trying to appear unperturbed. “Based on what he’s said, Kilcannon isnot a reliable friend to pro-choice women. This document exposes him as an adulterer and an opportunist—”
“If that’s true,” Nate cut in, “so are any number of congressmen who support your position. Isthat fair game?”
“Ifthis is true,” she replied at once, “Kilcannon’s also a hypocrite.”
“Perhaps.”
Jones stubbed the half-smoked cigarette. “Just say you’re uncomfortable,” she said abruptly, “and we can go to theTimes or thePost .”
No, you couldn’t, Nate thought. You know that theTimes still dislikes this kind of story, and that thePost would have its own reservations. You chose me because the weekly newsmagazines are struggling to compete with TV and the dailies and because, if we’re satisfied this is true, we’ll make sure that everyone readsNewsworld when it hits the stands on Tuesday. You can imagine me hyping our story onCNN Weekend as clearly as you can envision Kilcannon on the cover . . .
You, or whoever is using you for camouflage.
“If my editors decide it’s news,” Nate answered in an even tone, “we’ll print it. But they’ll also ask me how my source got a confidential counseling document, whether you’ve spoken to this counselor, and who put you in touch with her.”
Jones paused, then responded with weary patience. “The person I got it from has never met or spoken to the woman who wrote this memorandum.I’ve never met or spoken to her—”
“And this lady won’t talk on the record, correct? As you understand it.”
Jones shrugged. “Maybe you or your colleagues can persuade her to go public. As it was explained to me, she’s come to doubt the morality of her work.”
Suddenly Nate grinned. “Politics reallydoes make strange domestic partners, doesn’t it?”
Jones arranged her mouth in a perfunctory show of amusement. “Sometimes women don’t get to choose,” she said, then pointed at the document. “Youknew her, right? When you worked at theTimes ?”
Nate’s smile turned sour. “As an old editor of mine used to say, ‘we’re equal opportunity destroyers.’ ”
“Youcould be.” Jones touched the document with her forefinger. “Because if you run this story, it will bury both Kerry Kilcannon and Costello. No matter who put this conscience-ridden counselor on our radar screen. Or yours.”
That was true, Nate guessed. Looking across the table at Jones, he felt very tough and very cold. “You’re willing to do all that,” he asked, “but you’re not endorsing Mason?”
Jones’s face closed. “Anthony’s Legions endorses pro-choice women, period. But sometimes we’re forced to defend reproductive rights the best we can. When fanatics commit murder to force women to have babies, that means stopping ‘pro-choice’ hypocrites like Kilcannon who wring their hands about abortion so they can siphon votes from either side.” Jones lit another cigarette, briskly shaking the match. “But we’re not just passing documents to the press. Keep an eye on Kilcannon’s Los Angeles event this afternoon . . .”
After she left, Nate reread the counselor’s notes.
His job was not a simple one. Fairly often, some politician had accused him of betrayal; in one case, through no fault of Nate’s, his source, a legislative aide, had been fired by the offended congressman. But he could not easily imagine ending someone’s chance to be President, let alone that of a man he still believed essentially decent. Far less had Nate conceived of destroying a friend for something that, however ethically complex, was at its heart as private as, judging from this document, it was shattering. But what unsettled Nate most was not his personal reservations but another of those unavoidable truths—his own rush of excitement at the start of what could be the political story of almost any journalist’s career.
It was seven o’clock. He had roughly an hour to get back to the hotel and catch Kerry Kilcannon’s motorcade.
Nate went inside to call his editor.
TWO
Clayton Slade sat at the long wooden table of a meeting room in the San Diego Hyatt, preparing to preside at the morning strategy meeting. With seven days to go, he appeared calm, good-humored; a moment earlier, he had opined to Kerry’s California campaign manager, a onetime entertainment lawyer, that politics was “show business for ugly people.” Preoccupied as he was, Kerry joined the laughter.
Clayton, Kerry thought once more, was indispensable.
To start, Clayton’s equanimity was a godsend. If a campaign was hours of boredom punctuated by panic, the next seven days would be hysteria at warp speed. No one would sleep much; everyone would be on the move; nerves would unravel; tempers would fray; people who had worked together for months would discover with blinding clarity how stupid most of their colleagues were. But Kerry could also feel the adrenaline high of sheer excitement: the men and women in this room had the candidate’s total attention, and seven days to win or lose.
Clayton was their center of gravity. He was the person whose authority to speak for Kerry was beyond challenge; who asked the right questions; who made decisions on the spot; who never lost his judgment or his nerve; who could make people do what he asked without raising his voice. While Kerry flew from city to city, Clayton would read the nightly tracking polls; decide what ads to run; soothe major supporters; approve each day’s campaign schedule; monitor press coverage; keep an eye on Mason; watch Kerry at key campaign events; help design the daily “spin” that Kit Pace would feed the press; sort out good advice from bad; resolve disputes before they festered; fire anyone who became a problem; and tell the candidate the truth without worrying about his own position.
Kerry would no more have picked anoth
er manager than he wanted to be President without Clayton as his chief of staff; though he knew Clayton aspired to be the first black attorney general, that would have to wait. Kerry was not eager to tell him so; sipping the bitter hotel coffee, he reflected wryly that he would never have to if he lost. But that meant losing to Dick Mason, and it was Clayton himself who had formulated Slade’s Rule of Order: “The candidate comes first.”
“Let’s get rolling,” Clayton said. “Kerry’s got one hour.”
* * *
Clayton looked around the table. He had made sure that the California working group was big enough for diverse opinion, yet small enough to make decisions and, with luck, minimize leaks.
The five consultants had been picked by both Kerry and himself. The first three decisions had been easy enough. They had chosen Kit Pace, the quick-tongued press secretary, in part because a visible woman aide would help a candidate who had no wife; Frank Wells, the gifted media consultant, because the fact that no one wanted him working for Dick Mason outweighed his reputation for self-aggrandizement; and the campaign pollster Jack Sleeper, young and bearded and cocky, because Kerry liked people who defied conventional wisdom.
The last two advisers were Nat Schlesinger, the wealthy public relations executive, whose personal signature was the bow tie and whose rich experience in presidential politics had begun with James Kilcannon; and Mick Lasker, the sharp-featured California campaign manager, a Los Angeles lawyer in his fifties who had run California for Kerry’s brother until the night James was killed. Kerry had understood that using his brother’s people provided his insurgent campaign with a built-in network; his chief reluctance had been whether they confused him with James Kilcannon or simply saw him as a second chance for reflected power. The two men were different in manner and appearance: Nat Schlesinger was round and gray and outwardly placid; Mick Lasker a somewhat frenetic man whose assertiveness seemed to mask a certain insecurity. But neither Nat nor Mick was a fool; Clayton had noticed how seldom they mentioned Kerry’s brother.
“Let’s start with Kerry’s schedule,” Clayton said to Mick.
“Okay,” Mick said in his clipped lawyer’s voice. “First, we all know that California’s a media state. This isn’t New Hampshire—no way Kerry shakes hands with twenty-five million people. The biggest question every day from now till Tuesday is who’s won the airwaves for that day: who’s running the best ads, whether Kerry’s campaign events get the first thirty seconds on the local news and, to a lesser extent, the most column inches above the fold in the next day’s paper.
“Our schedule’s designed for that. Every day, Kerry will have events in at least three of the five big TV markets: Los Angeles; San Diego; Orange County; the San Francisco Bay Area; and Sacramento and the Central Valley. Roughly ninety percent of the votes.”
Mick looked around the table and then focused on Kerry. “Normally, you’d expect to get major coverage only in the markets you’ve visited that day. But we’ve worked out ‘theme days’—instead of Kerry giving the same speech day after day, he’ll have a new emphasis each day, driving home his positions on a major issue our polls and focus groups say works for him. It all makes the case we need people to get: that Kerry’s the candidate of change, not a shill for special interests—the one candidate honest enough and brave enough to actually work forus .”
Pausing, Mick permitted himself a fleeting smile. “By a fortuity of timing, today is women’s day—the day Kerry reminds Dick Mason that California women are more than wombs who vote. We start with school loans in San Diego; emphasize day care in Sacramento; talk about expanding family leave in Oakland; and, in Los Angeles, visit a battered women’s shelter.” He turned to the pollster, Jack Sleeper. “Every poll Jack takes says that combating domestic violence resonates with women across economic lines. And, psychologically, it feeds on the shooting in Boston.”
Jack Sleeper nodded. “In our tracking poll last night, Kerry, abortion rights was the number one concern of nine percent of white females most likely to vote. That’s a five percent jump, and we think it’s mostly a reaction to the killings.”
“Be sure to mention the shooting at your event in San Diego,” Mick Lasker said to Kerry. “Chances are that’s what the local stations will go with. Don’t let Mason stay out in front.”
As was his custom, Clayton noted, Kerry had let others speak before he did. “And Thursday?” he asked Mick. “Once I’ve gotten over the shock of Boston?”
“You don’t get over it. Tomorrow you highlight your anticrime positions: using the coast guard to interdict drugs; the equitable application of the death penalty. The major event is a speech to victims’ families about gun control.” He paused and then finished, “There’s no way Dick Mason trumps that one, Kerry.”
Kerry stared at him. For a moment, the room was silent; tomorrow was the twelfth anniversary of James’s assassination. “I’ll want to see that speech,” Kerry said softly. “In advance.”
Clayton made a note. In a bland voice, as if nothing had happened, he said to Mick, “Let’s move on to Friday.”
Mick fidgeted with his glasses, seemingly grateful to be rescued. “As of now, that’s urban day. An event on job creation and encouraging the high-tech industry and trade with Asia. A brief meeting with black and Hispanic leaders who are for us—”
“ ‘Brief’?” Kerry asked. “Haven’t any of them been shot?”
Mick seemed to wince; the quiet comment reminded Clayton of how mean Kerry could be when someone had crossed the line with him. “What the candidate meant,” Clayton said with gentle irony, “is that helikes African Americans.”
Now Kerry smiled. “Some of them.” Turning to Mick, he said in an even tone, “I understand you’re being practical, Mick. But I won’t treat minorities like a dirty secret.”
Mick leaned forward. “Kerry,” he said with new intensity, “weall wish it were 1968, when people cared about civil rights and Bobby Kennedy carried the California primary because blacks and Latinos voted for him.I worked in that campaign, and I marched in Selma my sophomore year in college. Icare about those things.”
Kerry nodded. “I know you do—”
“Then hear me out, please.” In mute appeal, Mick turned to Clayton, then went on. “In the last decade, this state passed initiatives against affirmative action and providing health benefits and education to the children of illegal immigrants. Both of which you opposed—”
“Because they were so mindless,” Kerry interjected. “You and I will never live to see the day that being a white guy isn’t a better deal. And you have illegals in California partly because whites want cheap labor. Why create a generation of disease-ridden juvenile delinquents—”
“Youknow that, Kerry, and a lot of minority leaders admire you for it. But you already have them.” Mick nodded toward Jack Sleeper. “Jack can tell you. It doesn’t matter that most Californians are now nonwhite: they don’t fucking vote in primaries. In the last primary, the nonwhite vote was twenty-three percent, and some of them will vote for Mason no matter what you say. That leaves seventy-seven percent white folks, who’ll decide whether you’ll be the party’s nominee for President. A lot of whom may wonder if you care about them as much as blacks or Latinos.”
For the first time, Frank Wells spoke. “I disagree, to some extent. To win, you need to turn out nonwhite voters, and I think you can. What you can’t do is alienate suburban whites by spending your precious thirty seconds of airtime surrounded by urban blacks, unless you’re in a church and one of their childrenhas been shot.” Frank’s tone was calm and somewhat world-weary. “No one likes it. But first we get you elected,then you do what’s right. The smart way to turn out black and Hispanic voters is with mailers and phone banks and ads on ethnic radio—things that no one sees on television.”
Clayton watched Kerry’s gaze grow cool. “I value all of your thoughts,” he said politely. “Sometimes hearing out an argument makes things clearer. And this is pretty clear to me. On Friday
I’m going to the Latino section of San Francisco and then to South Central Los Angeles. Period.”
There was another brief silence, then Mick spread his hands in an expression of despair, half serious and half joking. “I’m just sorry Friday’s not Cinco de Mayo.”
Everyone laughed.
“I’ve got twenty minutes,” Kerry said. “What other lousy decisions can I make?”
Mick’s smile was more relaxed. “A candidate should make speeches, Kerry, not decisions. Decisions are too important.”
Defusing tension with self-mockery, Clayton thought again, was a gift that Kerry had. But Mick’s rejoinder was more than a joke; because Kerry resisted following his advisers’ blueprint by rote, he drew their admiration and frustration in roughly equal measure.
“What about the economy?” Kerry asked. “With all these issues, the whole idea is we’re not leaving anyone out. I need to emphasize job security.”
“The economy is critical,” Mick answered. “You should hit that closer to election day, like Saturday and Sunday, and with ads. But Clayton says you may need to squeeze in a debate.”
Kerry nodded. “So Dick Mason told all America last night. I don’t think I could duck it if I wanted to.”
Mick paused for a moment. “That brings up one more problem, Kerry. Abortion. Mason means to stick it to you.”
Kerry raised his eyebrows. Softly, he said, “If you want me to endorse fetal-tissue research, I’ve already done it.”
Jack Sleeper put down his coffee cup. “Dammit, Kerry, the vote in the last primary ran about fifty-eight percent women. It’s women who reelected Ellen Penn, she keeps reminding me, partly because she’s so pro-choice.”
“I know that.” Kerry’s voice was so patient that Clayton could hear the effort this took. “But Dick Mason’s wasting his time. Even with all that’s happened, abortion’s about the fourteenth issue most people care about; no one ever won just by being pro-choice unless the alternative is some born-again who runs around waving photographs of aborted babies.” Kerry’s tone took on an edge of irony. “Voters seem to find that in bad taste. Anyhow, what I said the other day about ‘life’ isn’t all that new—people are just listening closer. And it didn’t hurt me in Iowa and New Hampshire.”
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