by Josie Brown
7: Bake, uncovered, for 1 hour and 15 minutes, in the preheated oven.
8: Remove from heat, and baste with drippings.
9: Cover with aluminum foil, and allow to rest about 30 minutes before serving.
“Wish me luck,” Jeff says, as he hops out of my car. He’s recruited Morton to help him carry and distribute his campaign paraphernalia: posters that say, “Equal Rights for All! Vote Jeff for Class President” as well as buttons, and of course my cookies.
At least, those that Morton hasn’t already eaten.
“Break a leg!” Trisha yells after him.
“Next stop, Babs’ house,” I declare.
Mary and Wendy, who have been whispering furiously in the van’s back seat, freeze. “Um … no need, Mom. She’s gotten another ride to school.”
“With whom?” If that were the case, Babs’ mother, Janine, would have called me. We carpool because Babs’ parents are going through a bitter divorce. Janine gets up early for her shift at our local hospital.
“Just … someone at school.” Guilt is written all over Mary’s face.
The boy—what was his name again? Oh yeah, Blake McAllister.
I stop the car. “Who is it, Mary?”
The girls exchange glances.
“Mom, don’t be mad, but …”
I hold my breath.
“She’s biking in.”
“But … why?”
“Because I told her I thought it would be best if we weren’t seen together.” Mary shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Mom, nobody likes her at school.”
Trisha frowns. “But you like her—don’t you?”
Mary shrugs. “I used to. But sometimes people change.”
“Just last week, the three of you were the best of friends,” I point out. “It’s been that way since the three of you started kindergarten together. Tell me, Mary, who has changed, you, or Babs? And if so, how? Why?”
Wendy and Mary exchange glances. Finally Wendy says, “Erin doesn’t like her. She knows Blake thinks she’s cute. If we hang with Babs, we’ll be pegged as losers, too. And we’re not!”
“Mom, you don’t know what they’re saying about Babs! They say that she’s putting out. They write mean things about her on Facebook. They write messages to all the people she’s friended there, and ask if they’re losers, too. It’s not our fault that Babs made an enemy of the most popular girl in school.”
“No, not at all. But it’s also not Babs’ fault that she’s pretty, and that some boy thinks so, too. And it will be your fault if you desert your friend now, when she needs you more than ever. How would you feel if you were the one being deserted?”
In unison, the girls blanch at this thought.
“I … I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Mary admits. “We’ll work it out.”
I smile at her through the rearview mirror. “I know you’ll do the right thing.”
If only she’d smile back.
Instead, she opens her history book and pretends to read.
“It’s always such a joy to visit the great state of California,” purrs Governor Rebecca Davis to her Good Afternoon LA! host. “The folks here are so warm and friendly!” She points to the bouquet of flowers in her lap. “A little girl gave me this—your California poppies, are they not? Such a bright spot of color! Too bad she’s not old enough to vote!”
This Southerner, whose honeyed homilies are delivered with icy smiles, is the next candidate entrusted to our care.
The interview is being taped in her swanky suite, high in the Casa del Mar, a hotel overlooking Santa Monica Beach along its renowned boardwalk. The brilliant blue sky and azure ocean make a wonderful backdrop for the photo op. The protestors who hate Governor Davis must realize this, too, because they stand below the balcony, chanting slogans that mock her policies against the things that affect their lives (a livable minimum wage), liberties (pro-choice), and pursuits of happiness (gay marriage).
We’ve been with her since early this morning. The first stop was a breakfast with a group of ministers from various conservative congregations, all of whom revel in the knowledge that they have a candidate who will advance their agenda. The same can be said for her lunch with California’s largest gun rights advocate group, and tonight’s dinner with the petrochem lobby.
This is one lady who enjoys preaching to the choir. But what waits for her outside the comfy confines of her hotel is anything but that.
The few steps that took her from one hotel lobby to her motorcade to her next stop at her hotel were a daunting gauntlet. Arnie walked ahead, while Jack and Dominic flanked her on either side, Abu was close on her tail, and her prim and mousy press secretary, Susannah Jenner, was, as always, by her side.
Like little chicks, the rest of her advance team fanned out after them: a pollster, her scheduler, her California precinct organizers, and various and sundry volunteers.
The protesters who screamed and shouted at her are just as alarmed about her as she is about them. It freaks them out that she consistently votes down any attempt at gun control legislation, despite a recent mass shooting at a school in her state. And although the US government has ruled that gay spouses of National Guard members will be provided the same federal marriage benefits as heterosexual spouses, hers was one of the few states that pulled benefits from all spouses rather than comply.
Upon her return, she held her head high as she glided through the hotel’s sliding doors like a beauty queen who has already been bequeathed her coveted tiara. Her disdain for those who don’t agree with her position is just a wee less condescending than those whose votes are a slam-dunk, including a woman holding up a little girl, who practically forced the governor to take the bouquet of poppies in her hand.
If a camera hadn’t been pointed in her direction, I don’t think she would have bothered. She’s the perfect example of be careful what you wish for.
Now that the interview is in full swing, I’m set up in the room next to the interview suite, which keeps me close at hand. Arnie has me tapped into the hotel security cam, so that we can watch from my television monitor. We can also pick up the production crew’s camera feed, so that I have eyes and ears on the interview, too.
Jack’s orders are to stay with the candidate at all times. Dominic and Abu are covering the door.
The interview is going smoothly, for the most part. The reporter is lobbing softballs, and the governor is hitting them out of the park: about her hardscrabble childhood, her popularity as a cheerleader, and her beauty pageant wins that gave her the scholarship to law school, where she met her husband, a burly college linebacker named Jim Bob.
“I ended up with a JD, and an MRS,” she exclaims slyly.
With her gumption and gift for gab, politics was a natural. She claims to have “a Tupperware approach” to campaigning: “Make every event a party, and make that sale,” she pronounces proudly.
“But you don’t invite everyone to your ‘party,’” the reporter counters.
“Even at a party, there are rules of decorum. If you don’t play by the rules, you don’t get invited back.” Her tone may be all moonlight and magnolias, but her smile is brittle as black ice.
Suddenly, the sounds below us get my attention. The protesters are chanting, “Go! Go! Go!”
Who’s going where?
I run out to my balcony to see what’s up.
Some guy is climbing from one balcony to another. He has just pulled himself onto the one connected to the governor’s suite and is about to open the door when I leap onto it myself.
He is on an adrenaline rush that comes with knowing you’re a hero to your cause. No way is he going to let me stand in the way of that. He rushes me, only to get kicked in the gut. As he falls over the ledge, he grapples for my hand—
But he’s too heavy for me. I lose my balance. We’re both about to go over the balcony when someone grabs me by my legs—
Jack.
The guy can no longer hold on. He falls into the h
otel’s pool.
On the other hand, I’m pulled back over the rail, by Jack. He huddles over me, whispering, “You’re okay … you’re okay ….”
Yes, because he’s here to protect me.
To love me.
But Ryan is yelling through our ear buds, warning Jack not to leave the governor unprotected.
“You can’t be here with me,” I mumble into his chest. “Go to her.”
But he doesn’t. “You’re my first priority, forever.”
“Ditto,” I mutter.
He nods. Then he gets up and runs after the candidate and her posse, who are in full retreat.
Yes, there will be hell to pay.
Governor Davis’ anger flows out of her in syrupy waves. Everyone within spitting distance gets caught in the sour sorghum of her fear, but it’s Jack who gets the brunt of it. “What the hell were you doing, covering that one, there?” She points to me. “Some bodyguards! Y'all are as useless as a teat on a boar hog.”
Okay, yeah, whatever that means.
Apparently Jack speaks some Southernese because he retorts, “Governor, don't go off with your pistol half-cocked. Donna protected you from a protestor who came up the balcony, intent on interrupting your interview. Feel free to thank her for doing so.”
“Thank you—I guess.” She shrugs in my direction. “Well, you can’t blame me for being hotter than a two-dollar pistol. I’m not used to my security team taking off into the sunset and leaving me exposed to all of California’s fruits and nuts.”
I know better than to speak up, seeing that my own colloquialisms aren’t as colorful, but more graphic in nature. A single finger, pointed skyward, say.
“I’m only gonna chew this cabbage once, so pay attention, y’all,” she continues. “I don’t like to be pushed or shoved or shouted at. So keep that scum out there as far away from me as possible.” She shivers. “Or next time, I’ll pull out my Smith & Wesson, and take down each of those bellyachers myself.”
“Becca, get control of yourself,” Susannah murmurs.
“Damn it, Susannah! You and I both know that back home they’d be applauding me for taking on that riffraff down there—not to mention the NRA, which would love to see me all brassy and sassy and taking no prisoners.” She waves us away. “Hell, their donations are practically bankrolling this campaign, anyway. I say we give ’em something they’ll be proud of.”
Seeing Jack’s frown, she adds, “Look, just because half the country is on the dole doesn’t mean I have to kiss their deadbeat asses. Maybe if we offer the great state of California to the Chinese as a present, they’ll finally leave us alone. All they want is Silicon Valley anyway.”
Jack forces his wince into a smile. “Governor, do you really wish to hand over the twelfth largest economy in the world, and thirteen percent of the US gross domestic product, to another super power?”
His admonishment has her turning the same soft pink shade as her crepe wool suit. “How dare you speak to me like that! Who do you think you are!” She’s so angry that she’s shaking. “My life is a living hell, mister! Do you think I like having your California wing nuts climbing through my window? Do you know what it’s like to have people always wanting something from you? They think you walk on water, that you can solve all their problems. And those are just the little people, not the ones who toss you a few sawbucks, then expect you to prostitute yourself for them.” Her words come out in fits and sobs. “I have to smile on cue, and talk on cue, and pretend to like someone on cue. I also have to pretend to be … to be …what I’m not.”
She’s just about to lay into him again, when two members of her advance team run into the room. “Governor, are you still mic’d?” Her pollster asks.
Exasperated, Rebecca shakes her head, and waves them away.
Her scheduler looks confused. “But—but every word you’re saying is live, now—on every network!”
“It can’t be. The news team is gone, and they took the sound package with them,” Arnie explains.
“This room must be bugged,” I answer.
Jack puts a finger to his lips to warn the governor and her staff to be quiet, then he flicks on the television.
Yes, there it is, live on one of the cable news networks, under the headline, “Stupid Politician Tricks.” A still shot of Governor Davis, a dimpled smile on her face, is being shown. The delayed recording plays on until it catches up to the bump and clatter of Arnie, Dominic, Abu, Jack and me as we climb the walls, literally, pulling apart light fixtures and vents, and flipping over cushions and furniture.
When Jack picks up the bouquet of poppies and shakes it, we see it:
The sound bug.
He hands it to Arnie, who will attempt to trace its source.
“I’m ruined! My political career is over!” Rebecca Davis gasps for air as she drops onto the couch and buries her face in her hands.
Susannah crouches beside her to pat her arm and hug her shoulder.
To shush her, and kiss her cheek.
This small act of kindness transforms her boss.
Her back turns to steel, and once again her face is a Kabuki mask of imperiousness, and it is turned our way. “Leave please, everyone.”
Everyone but Susannah heads out the door.
“Maybe now she’ll finally come out of the closet,” the pollster mutters to the scheduler.
The other woman clicks her tongue. “Poor Jim Bob.”
The pollster cocks her head. “What are you talking about? He’s known all along.”
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about that, hon,” the scheduler assures her. “He was looking forward to sleeping in Lincoln’s bedroom.”
The pollster smirks. “Yeah, and so was his mistress.”
Ah, politics as usual.
Chapter 7
Political Cooler
Someone who has a history of bad luck while managing a campaign is known as a political cooler.
You don’t necessarily have to be in politics to cool a great running streak for someone else. For example, every time you put your foot in your mouth in front of your husband’s boss, more than likely you’ve cooled his chance of getting a raise.
Should you ruin enough opportunities for him, a lot of cheap meals, like pasta, may be in your future. Here’s a wonderful and cost effective pasta dinner—and you can serve it cool, too:
Parslied Fettuccini
(From Linda Quick, Waverly New York)
Ingredients
1 Pound of Fettuccini
1 large Bunch of fresh Parsley
1/2 Cup ground Pine Nuts or Walnuts
1 Can of Pitted Black Olives (drained)
1 block of crumbled feta cheese (about 6 - 8 ounces)
Lemon juice
Garlic
Olive oil
Directions
1: While boiling pasta, sauté several cloves of garlic in a small amount of olive oil (approx 1/4 cup).
2: Wash and chop the parsley, adding to the garlic (once it's cooked).
3: Add the ground nuts and lemon juice (1/8 - 1/4 cup).
4: Mix with the olives and feta then toss over pasta.
“Well, well, well, Mr. and Mrs. Stone! First a Democratic frontrunner implodes on your watch, followed by the GOP’s little darling.” Ryan’s attempt at sarcasm at my expense has everyone on my Acme team wincing. “I’ve got both parties wondering if they’ve hired a team of political coolers.”
“The fact that Senator Percy’s past came back to haunt him certainly wasn’t our faults,” I point out.
“But letting a protester get that close to the governor—while she was filming an interview, no less—was certainly a black eye.” Ryan shrugs.
“So sorry! I was pre-occupied at the time—hanging off a balcony.” I’m being a smart ass, and he knows it.
“Not to mention allowing her conversation to be bugged.” He loves to rub salt in the wound.
“In all fairness, Ryan, Arnie swept the room twice before the interview,”
Jack reminds him. “If the governor hadn’t insisted on using the flowers as a prop, it would have never happened.”
Ryan sighs. “This is like Watergate all over again.”
“Speaking of which, have any of the other campaigns ’fessed up to it?” I ask.
“The leak originated with a blog called ‘Truth Be Known’, run by someone called Chuck Kessler. The other political bloggers call him, ‘Chuck the Muckraker.’”
“Catchy,” Emma sniffs.
The name rings a bell. “Hey, Arnie and I met him! He was at Percy’s UCLA talk.”
Ryan lets that sink in. “That puts him at the scene of the crime twice. Arnie, see if you can hack his computer and find out how he got his hands on that audio feed. He may also be the key to the rumors of the assassination attempts.” He shakes his head. “That leaves each party with just one frontrunner—and the Democratic candidate, Senator Randolph Oliver Jennings, will be in town early tomorrow, in fact.”
“His whole campaign is based on funding renewable energy businesses!” Emma sounds awed at the prospect.
“Yes, that’s right. On his itinerary are tours of a solar field, an offshore wind turbine project, and a farm that is a model for a national sustainable farming program.” He frowns. “Of course, he’s got his detractors.”
“Let me guess: Big Agra,” Emma mutters.
“Frankly, his largest opposition comes from armament manufacturers. Whereas he sits on the Senate’s Energy and Water Development committee, they grind their teeth because he is also a senior member of the Senate committees for Homeland Security, and Defense, where he advocates for arms control, especially when it comes to drones, anti-cluster munitions, and landmines.”
“I presume the NRA also sees him as a foe,” Dominic says.
Ryan nods. “That goes without saying. Because he’s made himself a target on many fronts, safeguarding him won’t be easy. But unfortunately, except for an evening fundraiser, all of his photo ops are in the great outdoors, so you’ll have your work cut out for you. His plane arrives tomorrow morning at eight, at John Wayne.” He turns to Arnie. “Your first priority is Chuck the Muckraker, so sit this one out. Emma can monitor surveillance.”