by Mimi Johnson
“What about Jack?” Peter’s voice was still high pitched.
Swede sighed, “Now you’re getting paranoid.”
“But won’t he ask a lot of questions? What are you going to tell him?”
“For God’s sake, I can handle Jackie. Anyway, he knows what it was like with
Pop.” Swede started for the door.
“You think he’d understand what happened?” Pete looked hopeful.
At the doorway, Swede stopped and said softly, “Maybe, but I’m not going to
tell him, if that’s what you’re asking. Even if I did, he’s not like the rest, Pete.”
And now, as Swede Erickson sat alone, tucking away the binder with the next day’s schedule, he believed he’d found the easiest way to give Sam Waterman something more to worry about than the Presidential race.
On January second, the New York Times ran a small story on the inside of the main section, reporting that Brian Newhouse, the director of the veterans' hospital in Knoxville, Iowa, was calling for a federal investigation inquiring how information was leaked from hospital files to Politifix reporter, Samuel J. Waterman: "Mr. Waterman’s story dealt in part with the death of Carl Erickson, father of presidential candidate Swan August “Swede” Erickson. The investigation should fall to federal authorities, Mr. Newhouse insisted, due to the violation of the federal Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act. Mr. Newhouse said the law’s privacy provisions had been violated when Mr. Waterman received a copy of Carl Erickson’s autopsy report from an unnamed source. Politifix General Manager Michael Dodson’s only comment was to say the management of the political news website stood by the story and the reporter.”
Chapter 25
The two men, separated by the length of a noisy, crowded ballroom, looked equally fatigued, equally uncomfortable.
Sam Waterman, standing within easy reach of the bar, always felt uneasy at campaign parties. They generally weren’t a good place to find any real news, and he had to be careful to avoid looking like he was joining the celebration. Just the night before, Swede Erickson had won the New Hampshire primary, and gained his first decisive victory over Frederick Morton. Tami Fuller rolled in third with her small, but disturbingly loyal, band of lunatics. In the early returns Morton and Erickson appeared to be running neck and neck, but as the night wore on, the tide had turned in Swede's favor.
And with the widening of the margin, the rumors began. Some said Fuller would withdraw; some that Morton himself might withdraw; others claimed that Griffin Cooper, the powerful Senate majority leader, would endorse Erickson to add to his momentum; still others insisted that Cooper would endorse Morton to give him a needed boost. There were many more, of course, and any of them were possible. So Sam found himself in the ballroom at 11 in the morning, at a victory brunch Erickson was throwing for campaign workers. Normally he’d have skipped it, but the new campaign communications director had given him no choice.
She was a personable woman named Carly Taylor, bright and attractive, and only in her late 20s. She’d made a hit during the midterm elections, organizing the grassroots campaign for a little known Minnesota Republican businessman so effectively he squeaked into office. Erickson had apparently been impressed enough to pick her up to replace Donnelly. While other newspeople tried to press the advantage of their experience by keeping her pressured and harried, Sam tried a different tack, remaining polite and calm, a considerable departure from his usual approach. And he seemed to be making inroads. She always looked pleased, and a little relieved, to see him. When he’d caught up with her late last night, she’d promised to meet with him at the brunch to clear up some of the gossip. So here he stood, holding a glass of orange juice he’d been careful to pay for, waiting for the show to get on the road.
Across the room, Jack Westphal watched the crowd just as anxiously as Sam. It had been a long night, and he was ready to wrap things up. His first taste of campaign turned out to be bitter. Last night, just before the returns started rolling in, he and Swede finally had a moment for the promised talk, and it was short, patronizing and uncomfortable.
Jack didn’t have to ask. In fact, he’d barely sat down before Swede launched into his explanations of the Waterman profile. First, there was a lot of happy horseshit about bailing out The Pantry from near bankruptcy, and how he had promised to remain a silent partner to keep Rolf Olsen from appearing a failure in front of the men and women he grew up with in Lindsborg.
And when it came to Carl’s death certificate, Swede still insisted that he had no idea how or why it didn’t name the same cause of death as the autopsy. When Jack realized Erickson was banking on this passing as plausible, he finally spoke up.
“Swede, I was at your house the afternoon they found him,” Jack said, cutting off the Governor’s wide-eyed mystification. “You were saying it was his heart before anyone could have possibly known what it was. Wouldn’t you call it a little coincidental that was the very cause of death on his death certificate when the autopsy indicated otherwise? Remember, I know first-hand how good you are at pulling strings.”
Erickson watched him, his mouth grim, before he finally asked softly, “OK, so what do you want to do? Post a story about it?”
There was a speculative, assessing look in Swede’s eyes that made Jack hesitate before he answered. “I want to understand why you did it. Everyone in town knew Carl had a problem. Why did you have to lie?”
The hard stare continued a moment longer before Swede murmured, “Did you ever think that maybe I didn’t want to lose both my parents? I saw you go through it, and even though I was a lot older, it still scared the shit out of me.”
Jack started to protest, but Swede held up his hand, stopping him. “You were there. You’re right. It was the first thing Mama asked me. She wanted to believe we’d put him someplace safe, where he couldn’t hurt himself any more. I knew it would kill her to know he finally drank himself to death, after everything she did to try and save him from it. You really want to tell me, Jack, that what I did to keep it from her was so bad?”
Jack didn’t say anything, and slowly Swede smiled. “Jackie, I think you understood all along what happened. That Waterman profile burned us both, and while I’m used to it, it’s a new experience for you. But it’s old news now. Whoever wins this thing tonight is center stage tomorrow.” He leaned in close. “I got a tip for you. A really good tip.” Erickson grinned from ear to ear and Jack just waited.
"This is just between me and you. I just got off the phone with Griffin Cooper. He and I both think I’ll pull this off tonight. If so, Coop’s on my bandwagon tomorrow afternoon. If I win tonight, there’s your exclusive for tomorrow. You can post it to the Journal site half an hour before it's announced."
It was a sop, and Jack knew it. Less than a minute later, Swede was swinging out the door with a “Good to have you out here, Jackie. Keep your fingers crossed, but I think we’ll be celebrating come morning.”
For a few minutes after he left, Jack just sat there, staring. Trying to remember, he wondered if he had always fallen for Swede’s tossed-off explanations. Was Tess right? Had he always given Swede a pass because he was too damn close to see him squarely? The tip about Cooper was a dangling carrot, meant to distract him. It was so obvious, it was painful.
Moreover, he wasn’t buying Swede’s explanation about concern for his mother. Augusta Erickson was made of stern stuff. Jack remembered vividly her stoic good sense when he’d lost his family. With forthright, practical questions and advice, she’d helped both him and Swede plan the funeral, pick the caskets, buy the plot. There had been no dramatics, no loss of control, just an occasionally wiped tear. He remembered her telling him, in her soft, motherly tones, “You just put your head down and get through it.” She’d have grieved over the truth about Carl, as she no doubt was grieving now. But pine into the grave? Not that woman.
But what other reason would Swede have for dicking the death certificate? And, perhaps more importantly
, where in God's name had Carl Erickson gotten the liquor? A bubble of suspicion formed that the two things were related.
Now Jack looked across the ballroom, watching for his wife. Tess was here somewhere, looking for people from the hometown crowd who had come out to help Swede in the final days before the primary. They were planning a slide show for the web site and a picture page for that evening’s Journal, and Jack wanted local faces. He couldn’t spot her, but he did spy the bar where they were handing out Mimosas.
Jack knew he stood out in a crowd, but he didn’t notice Sam Waterman’s sharp eyes on him as he weaved his way across the room. He was just reaching for his wallet to pay for his drink when he heard a Boston accent at his elbow ask, “A little early in the day for a drink, even for the working press, don’t you think?”
With a tight smile, Jack turned to him. “Just orange juice,” he nodded to the empty glass in Sam’s hand. “But if that’s what you’re having, I’m glad to stand you to another.”
“OJ, just like you,” Sam nodded to the bartender. “But let me get them. I'm on expenses.”
“The bar is open, gentlemen,” the young woman pouring the drinks explained.
“No, I’ll pay,” Jack and Sam said it together, and she looked confused. “Press,” Sam said by way of explanation, and he tossed down a ten.
Jack shrugged. “Thanks then.”
“The least Politifix could do for you, after …” Sam paused and grinned, asking instead, “How’s that head injury?”
Jack’s mouth went down at one corner. “Taking a lot of heat since that profile you wrote. Good piece, by the way. I was surprised by some of it.”
Sam nodded his thanks, not looking at Jack, but scanning the crowd in front of the dais. “So where’s Tess? I’ve spotted you a couple of times, but not her.”
“She’s here somewhere, taking pictures no one else would ever think of. She’ll be down front when Swede comes out.” Jack looked over at Sam, who was still looking over the crowd. “She’s got more energy for this kind of thing than anyone I’ve ever seen. Getting here from Des Moines was a pain in the ass. We flew through Chicago, then Boston, and finally to Manchester. I was beat when we got in, but she still hit the ground running. Must be that flying family she comes from. Her dad and her brothers are all pilots.” He watched Sam carefully. “She was even in a crash landing once, but still doesn’t turn a hair going up.”
With a vague nod, Sam muttered, “Yeah, I remember when that happened.”
There was a long stretch of silence, each man waiting.
And then Sam asked, even while he scanned the crowd again, “So, what do you think of campaign coverage? Get some good stuff for the Journal?”
Leaning against the bar, Jack sighed before he answered. “Honestly, it’s not all that exciting. There’s a lot of waiting, isn’t there? But our coverage is as good as anyone’s. Probably better than most.”
“Uh-huh,” Sam finally took his eyes off the crowd, to find Westphal watching him with a steady, speculative gaze that left him uneasy. With a frown, he leaned over to a huge candy dish on the bar, digging through its contents. “You’re right, about Tess, I mean. I just spotted her down front.” Jack turned and could just make out the top of her blond head as people gathered in front of the dais. “Now, where’s the man of the hour?”
“Beats me. I haven’t seen him since last night.”
“I need to get rolling.” Sam pulled a roll of Smarties from the bowl. “Taylor’s going to give me a few minutes after his appearance. She promised to clear up some rumors.”
“Which ones?” Jack sipped his drink.
“The usual junk. Who'll get Fuller's delegates if she drops out, who’s getting Cooper’s endorsement, that kind of shit.” He took a piece of bubble gum as well and unwrapped it.
“Cooper’s not just a rumor,” Jack said it softly.
Sam stood there for a second, chewing the gum, staring straight ahead. Then he turned slowly, and sighed, “OK, Hoss, whaddaya got?”
Jack put his glass down on the bar and shrugged. “Cooper’s endorsing Erickson. That’s what Swede’s telling the troops in a few minutes. Went up on our website about a half hour ago. AP’ll pick it up any minute.”
“You get that from the man himself?” Sam sounded resigned.
Jack nodded, knowing that Sam rightly credited Jack’s close relationship to the candidate rather than his reporting abilities for the exclusive. Jack came back with “Carly’s doing a hell of a job getting the press to cool their heels, don’t you think?”
The look on Waterman’s face turned sour, but he didn't speak, just snapped his gum. Then he started out through the crowd, struggling down to where Tess stood readying her equipment. Drawing close, Sam watched her, as the following Jack watched him. When she turned and caught sight of them, both men noted the veiled look that came to her face. Sam flipped the roll of candy to her, and she caught it in one hand, smiling automatically when she saw what it was. She didn’t have a chance to say anything before Swede Erickson stepped into the room to raucous cheers and applause.
The state party chairwoman gushed an introduction, and then Swede was at the microphone, the crowd’s cheers increasing. Jack and Sam both pulled notebooks from their pockets, and Swede launched into the usual spiel. “I couldn’t have done this without you. No candidate has ever had a better group of people on his team."
However predictable, it still brought cheers. When they finally died down, Erickson went on. “When I won the caucuses last week in Iowa, the pundits said, ‘What do you expect? It’s his home state.’” Swede went on. “Well, fair enough. Now I’m a long way from home, but my message is the same. And you folks here are as smart and as wise as any anywhere, and you like what I’m saying. You know good thinking, and good planning when you hear it. Because of you, the ball is rolling.
“Later today, the nation will have proof that the Erickson bandwagon is on the move. Griffin Cooper …” Shouts of approval and excitement drowned Swede out for a moment, and he laughed, then raised his hands, waiting to go on.
“That’s right, people,” Swede’s smile was huge. “Griffin Cooper, the Senate majority leader, has joined the team. My opponents have said Erickson may be a good governor, but he doesn’t have any foreign policy experience. Well, Senator Cooper has been on the Foreign Relations Committee for over a decade, and before that, he was ambassador to the United Nations. He thinks I’ll handle foreign policy just fine. This afternoon, in Washington, Senator Cooper will make it official, when he announces his support for my pursuit of the highest office.” The noise of the crowd became deafening, and Sam shut his eyes, his head pounding in time with their chants of Erickson’s name.
As the din slowly died, Swede went on. “When I was a boy, I was told our country was great because anyone with the drive and the vision could be president of the United States. But, as I got older, I began to doubt that. I began to think that a man needed to come from a background of wealth and privilege, that prestige and social standing were the qualities the public sought when looking for a leader.
“My grandparents were poor immigrants, my family simple people trying to make a living by farming and then selling groceries. I have no background of Ivy League schools, no legacy of old money. The only time my father ever went abroad, it was at the taxpayers’ expense, when he served his country during Vietnam. And we all know what that did to him. I began to think that my background, or rather, my lack of it, would keep my dream of serving this nation just that, a dream.”
Tess noticed the quick, questioning look that creased Jack’s forehead, and he pulled the cap off his pen with his teeth and scribbled something down.
Swede went on, “But yesterday, the people of New Hampshire showed me, and the nation, that it is innovative, visionary thinking you want. You want an administration with new ideas, and the desire and drive to make them realities. With the help of people like you, I again believe, and am ready to show the world, that the United
States is still a country where any boy or girl can grow up to be President. I thank you for the honor of trying.”
Raising his arms over his head, Erickson stood smiling, Betty and Augusta standing proudly behind him, as the clapping and cheering boiled around them. All three of them, Tess, Jack and Sam, stood watching, Tess snapping off a several pictures. But as the Ericksons moved to leave the room, Jack turned to his wife.
“I need to grab him for a quick question,” he leaned close to be heard over the noise. “I’ll meet you back in our room.” She nodded. With a glance at Sam, Jack hurried after the candidate, along with the majority of the people around them.
He was barely out of earshot before Sam turned to Tess. “Well, that was convenient.” She shoved her camera into the bag on her shoulder. “We need to talk.”
She looked up at him, shaking her head. “I knew you were bullshitting me when you said Bundy drew this assignment.”
He shrugged, watching to be sure Jack went out the ballroom doors. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come if you knew I’d be here.” He inclined his head toward a largely deserted area of the room near the coat rack, and muttered, “Give me a minute, please?” She also looked after Jack, then nodded, letting him lead her to the quiet corner. In the relative privacy, he turned to her and said softly, “I got the package.”
She couldn’t look at him. “You need to understand why I sent it …”
“I do," he interrupted.
Her voice was just a whisper, but the words were direct. “It’s not true that I didn’t love you, Sam. The day I picked up the brush and started working on that painting, it was all about you. And I think it’s beautiful because of it.” Still she wouldn’t look at him. “But I love Jack too. And he is my husband.” Her voice remained quiet, but a steely firmness came to it when she added, “I won’t make a fool of him. Not even for you.” Finally, she stole a quick glance from the corner of her eye and saw him nod. An achingly small, sad smile touched the corners of her mouth. “The painting was made for you. But it’s all I can give you now.”