Open Primary

by A. C. Fuller

  "True," I reply, startled that she's disappointed by only fifteen million. "Could be more, but we expect the winning candidate will be able to raise additional money after the contest ends. Our data shows that sixty percent of our active users have not yet made a donation, and our guess is that some are waiting to see if their candidate wins, and plan to donate directly to the campaign when that happens."

  Justine Hall's voice cuts through the room with quiet precision. "And fifteen million is enough to win. If used correctly."

  "She's right," Orin Gottlieb says. Then he smirks and adds, "About this, that is. Still hasn't got a clue about free markets, though."

  They lock eyes and Justine forces a tight smile.

  "Seriously," Gottlieb continues. "She won Denver with ten percent of the war chest of her opponents. I respect achievement, even in someone…well. I respect achievement."

  "He's right." Despite the insult, Hall's voice is steady. "About my campaign anyway. But the entire point of this campaign is that money isn't the point. The Ameritocracy candidate will have a platform like no third party or independent since John Anderson, and that kind of exposure and attention can change a lot of minds."

  "Nobody since Ross Perot, you mean," I hear Futch mutter.

  "Getting attention is about more than money," Destiny O'Neill chimes in. "It's about sex. It's about controversy. I can get ten times the free media of any Democrat or Republican. TV stations will cover my speeches like the Super Bowl."

  The conversation is getting away from me. "I'd like to think it's about more than sex, but I agree that the celebrity Ameritocracy will create for the winning candidate will be worth millions in free ad time."

  Thomas Morton has been standing silently in the corner the whole time. He meets my eye and, though I open my mouth to speak, he beats me to it. "What happens if you don't like the winning candidate?"

  I'm taken aback. "I, I—"

  "Can you ensure," he continues, "that you'll keep the playing field level all the way through?"

  The balls on this guy. I consider outing him in front of everyone, kicking him out of the room and handing his spot to Maria Ortiz Morales. Instead, I lock eyes with him and say, "Absolutely."

  "I've been wondering that as well," Cecilia Mason says. "We're putting a lot of faith in you."

  "I was gonna ask the same thing," Futch says. "Though even I was gonna put it a little nicer than that. What happens if you don't like the winner?"

  His tone isn't accusatory, but his words are.

  "I was actually going to ask that as well," Dixon asks.

  It takes everything I have not to glare at Morton. "If you're playing by the rules, the winner will be the winner."

  "But you could easily find a technicality to knock us out of the contest," Futch says. "Look, I know you don't agree with my views, little lady, but I have every right to—"

  Morales whips around to face him—very quickly for a middle-aged woman with a prosthetic leg—and I wouldn't want to face down the look she's got in her eye. "That's the last time you're going to call her 'little lady.' Got it?"

  Futch flashes a broad grin, happy to elicit a reaction from Morales.

  "And while you're shutting up," Morales says, "quit with your conspiracy theorizing. You're not going to get eliminated just because Mia, like any sane person, abhors you."

  "Just wondering." Futch holds up both hands as if to plead his innocence.

  "Okay," I say, "let me put this to bed once and for all. My staff and I are one hundred percent committed to neutrality. It's why we created the platform to begin with."

  "So we have your word," Cecilia Mason asks. "The winner will be the winner, no matter who it is?"

  "Yes!" I say it as strongly as I can, though I'm a bit annoyed that this is even a question. I take a glass of water from the buffet table, drink half, then set it on the table. "Here's the deal. The competition is on the level, one hundred percent. If anyone doesn't like the terms and conditions, there's the exit." I stab my finger toward the door and look around the room. No one moves. "Okay, then, so how about we focus on the event?"

  "No need to kick us out of the room," Futch laughs. "We were just asking."

  As he says it, the tension in the room drops. Abrasive though he might be, the guy can land a comedy beat, and he knows how to be disarming.

  For weeks, I've worried about the reactions the media and our voters will have to the Thomas Morton news, but now, even though we're moving on, I'm just as worried about the reactions of the people in front of me.

  20

  When my meeting with the candidates ends, I send them off to work on their opening statements and grab my phone, hoping for a text from Steph. And there it is.

  Steph: On the noon flight into LAX. Bringing Ben. We've got it. You know what to do.

  I do a little happy dance around the room before replying.

  Me: I'll start leaking it. Post-it?

  Steph: Malcolm picked him up this morning.

  Me: Good.

  Steph: Peter is on the plane.

  Me: What plane?

  Steph: This plane. Now. I'm looking at his designer shoes poking out from his seat in first class. I'm twenty rows back in economy.

  Me: Did you talk to him?

  Steph: No.

  Me: Why's he on the plane?

  Steph: Hold on lemme use my psychic powers, oh wait…

  Me: Sorry. So you'll be here when?

  Steph: 5ish.

  It's time to kick Morton out of the competition, and my next move is to arrange a room for the press conference, which is easy enough because we have rooms reserved for events starting tomorrow.

  I book a room for six p.m. and move to phase two, finalizing the rollout of the story. I update the press release and send it to one of our interns back at the office with detailed instructions about how and when to release it, with a reminder to say nothing to anyone before then. For a week I've been living in terror that an intern will brag on social media about how they've got super-special inside info, but so far it hasn't happened.

  The plan is to release the statement at five minutes to six on our website and forums. We'll also email it to our mailing list and plaster it across social media. We want our fans to hear our version of events before anyone else's.

  One of the golden rules of PR is to control the story as long as possible, and for me that means getting as many reporters and TV stations to the announcement as I can. That's phase three of my plan. If the news networks cover the announcement live, people's first knowledge of the scandal will come from my mouth—and with my spin. By beating the press to the negative story, we'll limit their ability to shade it in ways that make us look bad. In this case, I want to limit the number of "See, I told you Ameritocracy wouldn't work" stories. Of course, all sorts of bad pieces can and will be written, but it's the best we can do.

  For the next three hours, I pace the suite, texting journalists, calling secretaries at newspapers and TV stations to beg for phone numbers, and giving quotes to a few blogs I hope will get pieces up soon. I tell them I have a major announcement about Ameritocracy, one that will shake up the race and bring a new candidate into the top ten.

  But I'm not telling them everything.

  After exhausting every journalistic avenue I can, I flop onto the couch and call Bird at The Barker. I tell myself that it's to ask whether he has any reporters in L.A. he can send to the press conference, but I already know he doesn't. I think I just need to hear a friendly voice.

  I stretch out on the couch as the phone rings and, as I'm about to hang up, I hear a voice, but not the one I expect. "Calling to ask for your job back?"

  It's Alex Vane, my old boss.

  "I, uhhh, I—"

  "Just kidding, Mia. Bird is here, in my office. You're on speakerphone."

  "Hi, Mia!" Bird says. "We hear you're in L.A. for your first big rally."

  "Sorry we're not sending a reporter," Alex says, "we're just gonna piggyback on everyone e
lse's reporting and chime in with some postgame analysis."

  "How's it going down there, anyway?" Bird asks.

  "Fine," I say.

  I don't know what to say next because it's just so good to hear their voices. The last time I spoke with them, I felt small—worried I'd disappoint them, worried about leaving them in the lurch, and afraid they'd be mad at me for quitting. More than that, I was afraid I'd fail.

  Now I'm afraid again. Turns out that's the real reason I called. "Alex," I say. "Remember when you gave that press conference?"

  "I've given a hundred of them."

  "The one after The Barker got sued for libel?"

  "Which time?"

  "You got sued more than once?"

  "Half dozen times at least," he says, "but some of them might have been before you were here. What are you getting at?"

  I press my feet into the arm of the couch. "I'm about to kick a candidate out of the competition and I'm scared as hell."

  "Who? Why?" Bird asks.

  I pull the phone away from my face when my screen lights up with a new text.

  Steph: B there in 10. Meet in lobby?

  Me: K.

  "Mia, you there?" Bird asks. "What's going on?"

  "Sorry," I say. "I have to go. But Alex, in one paragraph or less, give me the best advice, the best pep talk you can about breaking bad news to the public with a dozen TV cameras aimed at your face."

  When he was a beat reporter, Alex was known for being able to compose whole news stories off the top of his head, often while standing at a payphone in New York City or, later, in the back of a taxi on his cellphone. And even though he hasn't been a real reporter in years, he still has the gift of being able to summarize things in a way I find comforting.

  "What's going on?" He sounds concerned.

  "I'd tell you, but I really do have to go. Turn on the TV in about an hour and you'll find out. Not sure which news networks will be covering it live. I doubt CNN will but I know the video will be tweeted out in a million directions. Alex, please, I need some reassurance here. Best advice."

  "Okay, lemme think. Quick question. You say you're gonna announce something bad. Is it catastrophic, Ameritocracy-ending bad, or just bad?"

  "Just bad. I hope."

  "Alright, pep talk program loading and…go." He pauses for a moment. I know from experience that he enjoys the moment right before he gets to answer a big question. He gets a little smirk on his face, half arrogance, half pleasure at the sheer act of communication. As full of himself as he can sometimes be, he genuinely enjoys helping people.

  "People want to believe in Ameritocracy," he begins. "They want to believe in you. And, to a great extent, they already do. I come from the school of journalists who don't admit they vote, who try to remain neutral. And you know I've never been a political guy. But you've inspired me, you've forced me to take action. You've changed me. And I'm one of millions of Americans who feel this way. Tomorrow morning—no matter the fallout from this announcement—you can announce that Alex Vane is donating a million dollars cash to Ameritocracy, and that four other media executives will be joining him with a million each. I'll convince them tonight. If bad stories are weighing down the news cycle, change the subject with the announcement of another five million dollars in donations. Announce that we believe in Ameritocracy. We believe in Mia Rhodes."

  He pauses, and I'm speechless. Alex has the clout to convince four others to donate a million each, but I had no idea until this moment that he had any intention of doing so. In fact, I'm not sure if he knew he had any intention of doing so. Alex is the kind of guy who could have decided to donate a million bucks halfway through his speech just because it sounded good.

  But I know once it's been said, it will be done. "Thanks, Alex."

  "And if that doesn't work," he adds, "spin the living hell out of the story. People love Ameritocracy, and they'll forgive an honest mistake. They trust you more than they trust the press, so be tough and don't let reporters give you any crap."

  "I have to go," I say. "But thank you."

  "Go get 'em, Mia," Bird says.

  "Oh, and…guys. Have some political analysts and some tech analysts ready to write about this. And if you have anyone who knows Eastern Europe, wake them up." Offering them a head start on the story is the least I can do.

  "You got this," Alex adds, and, for the first time, I think he's right.

  An hour later, I stand behind a small podium in a corner of the conference room. A large banner behind me reads: Ameritocracy: Democracy Reborn.

  We held a slogan contest on social media in October. The winner received a round trip vacation for two to Washington D.C. to watch our final debate. We got over a thousand submissions and only settled on our choice after a week of debate. Among our finalists were:

  Ameritocracy: By the People—For the People

  Ameritocracy: The Best Thing to Happen to Democracy Since 1787

  Ameritocracy: Democracy Upgraded

  Ameritocracy: Power Back to the People

  Steph preferred The Best Thing to Happen to Democracy Since 1787, but I convinced her that too few people know that the Constitution was ratified in 1787.

  About a dozen reporters sit patiently before me, notebooks and recorders out. Behind the reporters, three local TV crews are set up, cameras trained on me. Behind the TV crews, Steph and Benjamin are watching.

  Steph holds a stack of blue folders that contain detailed information about how the hack went down, how we fixed it, and what steps we've taken to ensure it never happens again.

  Moments ago, Benjamin texted final notice to Brianna, our white-hat hacker back at the office. When I begin speaking, she'll initiate the set of actions she and Benjamin set up to eliminate Thomas Morton from the competition. At the same time, Steph will hit send on the emails she composed on the flight to L.A. One to Thomas Morton, informing him of his expulsion, one to the FBI, and one to each of the other top ten candidates.

  Now, the presentation falls to me.

  "Welcome," I begin, "and thanks for coming. I'll read a brief statement, then take questions."

  I expect hands to shoot up all over the room and reporters to start shouting questions, but as much as I'd like to be as tall and glamorous as CJ Cregg, this isn't an episode of The West Wing.

  "A month ago, members of our staff detected abnormal voting behavior on the Ameritocracy2020.org website. We investigated immediately, and brought in a team of cyber security experts to assist us. Over the last four weeks, we have determined definitively that hackers in Ukraine and Cyprus have attempted to manipulate our voting system by creating fake users and controlling their profiles from computers located within those two countries."

  A camera clicks. I scan the room, clearing my throat, wondering who still uses an old-fashioned camera with a shutter.

  "Using what's known as a botnet, controlled via servers located on multiple Indian reservations within the United States, these foreign actors propelled one candidate to the top spot in our competition. That candidate is Thomas Morton."

  "As of five minutes ago, Mr. Morton has been stripped of all votes and eliminated from the competition. Mr. Morton, and his backers in the Ukraine, have been defeated." A hand shoots up in the front row, but I ignore it. The last two lines were designed as the sound bite we want news stations to run with. If I'm reading the room right, it got a strong response.

  "Through extensive data analysis and cyber forensics," I continue, "we have determined that Mr. Morton knew of the efforts to manipulate our voting system. We have provided the FBI with all the technical details of the hack, and are making those available to you as well. Ms. Blackmon will hand that out."

  I gesture to Steph, who begins walking from reporter to reporter, giving each a ninety-page packet that contains more proof than most news organizations will ever need.

  "We have also uncovered evidence that Mr. Morton violated the financial terms of Ameritocracy, terms he agreed to when he registered. The
se violations include accepting money from members of the Ukrainian oligarchy in order to pay for travel that supported his campaign, and providing false financial documents to Ameritocracy. Evidence of these violations can also be found in the packets."

  I scan the room again, planning who I'll call on first. "There are just three other things I'd like to add. First, this was a single candidate. Our team has been working around the clock. We've found no evidence that any other candidates were affected, other than losing potential votes and ranking.

  "Second, though we will issue statements if and when we find out more information about a possible motive, we expect the FBI will be looking into this for some time. At this point, our best guess is that members of the Ukrainian oligarchy got wind of Ameritocracy and when they saw it was viable, funded Mr. Morton and created the fake votes in his favor as a way to get a toehold in the American political system."

  More hands shoot up, but I'm determined to get through this. "And third, I'd like to personally apologize to any genuine Thomas Morton voters out there. It's not your fault he engaged in this fraud. We hope you will study the remaining candidates and find someone else to support. Finally, I'd like to announce that all plans for the first Ameritocracy rally will go forward—as planned—tomorrow. Maria Ortiz Morales, who until moments ago was our eleventh-ranked candidate, will take the place of Thomas Morton. With that, I'll take some questions."

  Hands shoot up, and I point at an older gentleman who covers politics for the San Francisco Chronicle. "Why is the FBI involved?" he asks. "Given that Ameritocracy isn't an official or sanctioned U.S. election."

  "I should be clear: the FBI has only recently been informed, but hacking is still hacking. The FBI investigates hacking efforts that originate on foreign soil."

  He shakes his head at my answer, but I'm moving on. "Moira," I say, pointing at a young woman from an alternative L.A. weekly who's called me for quotes at least a dozen times.

  "Over the last few months, Ameritocracy has grown in popularity at an amazing rate. But in light of this admission that your system was massively compromised, how can voters be sure that the system is fair, that the votes are on the level?"