The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2)

by Russell Moran

  It’s no exaggeration to say that everyone in my campaign, not to mention the vast majority of voters, was worried. We all worried about the same thing—another terror spectacular, one that would give Martin’s Freedom from Terror Party the ability to run ads asking, “Are your children safe? Are you safe?” It had become almost unanimous among pundits that the amusement park bombings were connected to the last election. Many commentators, and a lot of people in law enforcement, were of the opinion that the bombings were indeed staged, and “staged” meant one thing—mass murder. I’d been briefed that the FBI and CIA have been gathering evidence that the NFL, Martin’s band of creeps, was the organization responsible. Former FBI Director Sarah Watson confided in me from her inside sources that the evidence was mounting and that indictments would soon be coming down. Although no longer in office she still had close contacts with FBI people. Assuming I win, Sarah Watson will be my attorney general.

  I called Imam Mike, the mole with the best eyes and ears ever to serve this country.

  “Anything new, Mike?” I said.

  “Matt, and I hope to soon call you Mr. President,” said Imam Mike, “things are quiet. I haven’t heard anything about any planned attack. I think Martin realized that he overplayed his hand, and is resigned to your winning the election. I look forward to serving the Blake Administration.”

  As the polls continued to hang tough in my favor, I began to spend a lot of time with my transition team, even though we’d have over two months of transition planning between the election and when I took office. I can’t help myself. As a lawyer I’d been trained to prepare carefully and well in advance. Former Vice-President Gary Morgan headed my transition team. Morgan is a gifted political strategist and a great guy to work with. Along with Gary Morgan, the key player on my transition team was my most trusted advisor and my best friend, Diana Blake. Gary, Dee, and I sat at a conference table at the Blake for President Headquarters in Chicago.

  “I think we’re in excellent shape, Matt. Most of your picks are experienced in government, so the vetting process should be smooth. We have in place the most critical positions, except one, secretary of state. What are your thoughts, Matt?”

  “Diana Blake,” I said without hesitation. Dee choked on her coffee and spit it across the table when I said that. I patted her on the back and looked at her. “I say that for one reason. You’re by far the best candidate.”

  “Guys, I’m leaving the room,” Dee said. “I’m not saying it’s a good or bad idea, but I’ll let you two hash it out without me in the room.”

  “Matt, I have to disagree. God knows your lovely wife is a brilliant and accomplished woman, but as we say in politics, the optics suck. You’ll spend valuable ‘honeymoon time’ on Sunday morning talk shows defending the choice of your wife as secretary of state.”

  “Gary, hear me out,” I said. “You just referred to Diana as a brilliant woman, and that’s one thing all of the Sunday morning talking heads will agree on. She’s bright, articulate, and is well-known in the States as well as around the world from the last election campaign. Hey, people won’t be stupid enough to say I’m just giving my old lady a job. Nepotism will be a non-issue. The only issue that will be up for discussion is whether she’s qualified. She’s not just a political scientist, she’s an historian and has written no less than five books on American foreign policy, as well as hundreds of articles. I’d like nothing more than to have my wonderful wife hanging around the White House as a charming and beautiful First Lady, but the country needs more of her talent. If she’s not the best pick, tell me who is. Go ahead, Gary. Who’s more qualified than Diana Blake?”

  “Matt, and I hope to call you Mr. President soon, you have a well-earned reputation as a persuasive man. I have five names in front of me, but to answer your question directly, no, I don’t know of anyone more qualified than your wife. It just looks bad, that’s all.”

  “Hey, Gary, after Bartholomew Martin and that bunch of fucking nuts, politics in this country has changed. I think people will applaud her as a pick. Of course there will be critics. Shit there will be critics of everything I do. Look, you know Diana, you’ve seen her in action. Besides her brains and beauty she has a decisiveness about her. I’d love to see Vladimir Putin try to give Dee some of his bullshit. Won’t happen. She’s the best, Gary, and you know it.”

  “Okay, Matt, you’ve convinced me, but may I make a suggestion?”

  “Sure, Gary, what do you suggest?”

  “I think we should get the candidate, the lady that you and I agree on, and see what she thinks about the idea.”

  I pressed the intercom button on my phone which rings on Dee’s cell phone. “Dee, baby, come in here please.”

  “Matt, if I may suggest, you may not want to refer to Madam Secretary as ‘Dee baby.’ ”

  “God, you can be a stuffy guy, Gary,” I said laughing.

  “ ‘Dee baby’ reporting for duty, guys,” she said.

  “Gary has already corrected me on that, hon. How about Diana Darling? Gary agrees with me. You’re the most qualified candidate on the list for secretary of state. I haven’t won the election yet, but I’m offering you the job. Please say yes. The country needs your talents at the highest level of government.”

  “Gary,” said Dee. “Would you please give Matt and me some time together?”

  Gary Morgan looked relieved. He got up and left the room.

  “Matt, honey, I’m flattered and honored.” Dee said.

  “Hey, babe, it’s not my intent to either flatter or honor you. It’s my intent, and Gary Morgan agrees, that you’d make the best secretary of state out of all the possible candidates. Just say yes.”

  “No, Matt, I can’t. When we began your life in politics, we both agreed that we’d do nothing to hurt our unique relationship. If I became Secretary of State, it would be the end of our marriage as we’ve grown to love it. You will be the Commander in Chief. What if I insist on a course of action and you disagree with it, which will be likely? Will you make a decision based our love for each other or based on what’s best for the country? Can’t you see the tension? It will be a tension between your office and our marriage. Hey, you always call me your most trusted advisor. So why change that? I will still be your advisor, but not with a cabinet office to back it up. No, baby, don’t ask me to take this job. I love you too much.”

  I pulled my chair next to hers, put my arm around her and kissed her on the neck.

  “I think you’re right, Dee, after the way you put it. You’re absolutely the most qualified candidate for the job, but our marriage is more important. I love you.”

  I called Gary Morgan back into the room.

  “Diana and I agree that the appointment would have too many problems, Gary. Your initial objection is noted. Diana will not be Secretary of State.”

  “It’s the best decision for the country, Gary,” Dee said.

  Gary Morgan, in all of his years in politics, had grown accustomed to seeing people jump at high level jobs, a shot at a piece of history. He didn’t expect to hear what Dee said. I saw a tear actually run down Gary’s face. Dee can have that effect on people.

  “I want my wife and me to get together with you two,” said Gary.

  Chapter 80

  Election Day was bitterly cold in Chicago. Although it was early November, the temperature was just above freezing. Politicos, and especially candidates, make themselves crazy over Election Day weather. If the weather is bad, that’s good, because it means that only the committed come out to vote, or the party with the most disciplined ground workers shake the voters from their warm homes. Who knows?

  Dee and I walked into our polling place, a school near our apartment, at 6 a.m. Pundits would remark all day that the Blakes wanted to show good example by voting early. Truth is, Dee and I are natural early risers, so why not vote early? We smiled and waved as photographers snapped a zillion pictures of us. When you’re in politics, you can’t look at photographers as paparazz
i. Hollywood stars and starlets can throw all the fits they want, but if you’re running for office, people want to photograph you. They’re simply people taking pictures. The worst case scenario isn’t photographers taking too many pictures; it’s photographers not caring to take enough pictures. Not a good thing. So our smiling faces were plastered all over TV throughout the day. We had breakfast at a place on State Street, next to my headquarters, then went to the HQ to be with the troops.

  We knew that Bartholomew Martin’s voting place was a public school near his apartment in Manhattan. In late morning, Don Cooper walked up to me. He looked at his watch. “It’s 11:30 a.m. New York time and Martin hasn’t voted yet. Do you think he sent in an absentee ballot?”

  Truth is, I thought, Bartholomew Martin just likes to keep people guessing.

  At around 1 p.m. Dee and I went to the basement of the building to a large empty room that was once a gym. We played catch. It wasn’t something we thought about. We didn’t plan it as a PR event or alert anyone to what we were doing. We just wanted to play catch, as we do every day. Apparently, someone saw us in the old gym, and suddenly our game of catch became a photo op. Throughout the rest of the day a clip of us throwing a baseball around was flashed on news programs worldwide.

  Dee and I walked to our apartment, about eight blocks from headquarters, at around 4 p.m. to grab a nap, take a shower, and to change clothes. The weather had warmed and it was a balmy 44 degrees.

  At 6 p.m. Central time, all of the networks began to publish exit polls, a sensitive subject in the offices of news outlets. Exit polls, where people are polled after they voted, were once seen as almost infallible predictors of elections. That changed quickly in the election of 2004, when the exit polls seemed to indicate that John Kerry had won the race. A lot of people went to bed that evening thinking that they’d awaken to a Kerry presidency, not a George W. Bush win as actually happened. Exit polling is as simple as it sounds: They’re polls taken from people as they come out of the voting place. Exit polls were taken as solid predictors because, the thinking went, people are unlikely to lie after they voted. But a lot of voters didn’t get the memo in 2004.

  Don Cooper walked over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “At this point Matt, they can fucking nuke Disney World and this election won’t change.”

  The Associated Press, the big nonprofit news cooperative, sends out over 5,000 people to polling places all across the country. The results are phoned in or emailed regularly throughout the day. These are real numbers. In 2012, the AP predicted 4,653 contested races with an accuracy rate of 99.9 percent. It was 7 p.m. Illinois time, 8 p.m. in New York, and everybody was getting fidgety.

  After a few minutes, the major networks began to call the landslide races, beginning with the presidential race. I needed to sit down. Dee sat next to me. The room was surrounded by large TV monitors. Anchor after anchor looked into the camera and, as if they were reading from the same script, said,

  “Based on the number of precincts reporting, ABC (or CBS, or CNN, or Fox News) predicts that Matthew Blake will be the next President of the United States.”

  Jerry Seinfeld, the wealthy comedian and entertainer, returned to doing stand-up comedy at clubs recently. It wasn’t for the money—he was loaded. He did it because he loves the feeling of being in front of an audience and making people laugh.

  It’s that way with politicians too, and I guess I’m now officially a politician. Substitute the roar of a crowd for the laughs at a comedy club, and you get the idea. The crowd at the Heritage Party Headquarters screamed and shouted, squirted club soda and beer at one another, and happily dived into wonderful mayhem. Then they started the chant:

  Matt Blake, Matt Blake, Matt Blake, Matt Blake, Matt Blake.

  I’d be bullshitting you to say that it didn’t feel good. Actually it felt great. These people trusted me, supported me, and looked to me to make things better. Hard to keep from crying. It’s an emotional trip that’s difficult to explain. Imagine all of the friends you ever had cheering you on at the same time. It’s a good feeling.

  Don Cooper and I agreed that I’d hold off on my acceptance speech until I got the concession call from Bartholomew Martin, the sitting President of the United States.

  Don stood on a chair in the middle of the room and held up his hands for silence. The crowd quieted down. “In a few minutes, folks, Matt Blake will say a few words about something or other. Just a few minutes folks.” The crowd went wild. Election nights, well, election nights in the winning side’s headquarters, are like that. It doesn’t take much to send up a cheer.

  Dee stood next to me.

  “Is all of this bullshit going to your head, Matt?” she said, smiling.

  “Yes it is, hon, you?”

  “Of course. Let’s enjoy it while we can.”

  More good news kept flowing in. The congressional and senatorial races were breaking our way. The few that didn’t were going Democrat or Republican. The voters seemed to be abandoning Bartholomew Martin and the lovely folks at the Freedom from Terror Party.

  It was now 8 p.m. Chicago time, 9 p.m. in New York. Not a word from Martin, not a congratulatory call, not a concession call, nothing. A lot of us watched the TV election reports that focused on the Freedom from Terror Party headquarters. Martin hadn’t made an appearance, and nobody reported seeing him vote that morning. It’s like he had disappeared.

  The results kept flowing in. My running mate and I were now ahead by over 20 points nationally, along with a clear majority in the Electoral College. In other words, we won. It was clear, it was indisputable, and nothing could change it. But no word from Martin.

  Protocol, loosely defined as “doing the right thing” is deeply engrained in politics. And God knows, I have enough mentors in this room. But I was starting to get pissed off. Bartholomew Martin, a man who lives his life by manipulating people and events, is trying to manipulate election night, even though he lost badly. Well fuck him. I walked over to my campaign manager Don Cooper and gestured to Max Fleming, former Chairman of the RNC, and Will Cummings, head of the Heritage Party, to join us.

  “Fellas,” I said, “I’ll be dipped in dog shit if I’ll let that crazy fuck call the shots tonight. What do you think?”

  “In all my years in politics I’ve never seen anything like this,” said Don Cooper. Max nodded his head in agreement. “If it’s a close election, sure, wait to see if the other guy might pull it out. But this is a fucking landslide. And he’s making us stand around with our thumbs up our asses. Let me suggest this, Mr. President. How about if General Will calls the Martin headquarters as head of the Heritage Party and politely tells them that you’re about to give your victory speech?”

  We all agreed that Don’s idea was great. My head was spinning because Don just called me “Mr. President.” This will take some getting used to, I thought. We walked into a back room where the noise wasn’t quite so loud, and sat down at a table with a telephone.

  “Will Cummings here at Blake Headquarters, may I please speak to James Blumenthal (Chairman of the Freedom from Terror Party). Jim, it’s Will Cummings. I’m calling as Chairman of the Heritage Party to let you folks know that President-Elect Blake is about to give his victory speech. As a courtesy, I’m calling to see if President Martin may want to weigh in beforehand. We’ve been expecting his call.”

  “I’m sorry, but President Martin will not be coming to the phone. Sorry, Mr. Cummings.”

  Wanda Clark, my campaign’s press secretary, had been working the phones with the networks, explaining that I was holding off on my acceptance speech because I was expecting a call from President Martin.

  “They all know that this slowdown was caused by Martin,” Wanda said. “They all have your back, Matt, I mean, Mr. President.”

  General Will walked up to the microphone and gestured for silence.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a booming voice, “the next President of the United States of America.”

  M
ore pandemonium. I was getting to enjoy pandemonium.

  The cheering and chanting went on for a full five minutes. All I could do was walk back and forth across the stage, smile, and wave. Not much else I could do, not that I wanted to. Rolly Benton, my running mate and now Vice-President Elect, joined me on the stage. We grabbed hands and raised them together in the classic victory salute. I spotted my parents standing next to Dee’s folks. I waved and blew them a kiss. I saw my dear friend, Bennie Weinberg, standing in the middle of the crowd. He came to Chicago just for this event. Bennie, God bless him, was balling his eyes out. Woody Donovan stood next to him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said when the cheering died out, “I’m pleased to announce that we will soon have our country back.”

  Blake—Blake—Blake— Blake—Blake—Blake— Blake—Blake—Blake

  Don Cooper had prepared me for what I was seeing. In a victory speech, there’s no such thing as an applause line. Every word out of the winner’s mouth is an applause line.

  “Over the past four years,” I continued after the latest round of chanting stopped, “our country has experienced the worst reversal of our individual rights in the history of the republic. On January 20, inauguration day, our stolen rights will be restored to their rightful owners, the American people.”

  As the crowd yelled “Blake—Blake—Blake,” I looked at Dee and winked. She winked back. Dee was the author of most of the words in my speech, and my wink was both a love-you note and a thank-you.

  “The nightmare is almost over, and we all look forward to a new dawn in America, a new dawn of freedom, a new dawn of trust… and a new dawn for the American dream.”

  Matt Blake— Matt Blake— Matt Blake— Matt Blake— Matt Blake