Primary Colors

by Joe Klein

"Well, CNN wants someone for after the show"

  "You do it," I said. "But I'll tell you what: no bullshit. When they ask how we think we did, either speak for yourself and tell the truth or tell them we'll let the debate speak for itself. In fact, I'd kind of prefer the latter."

  "Are you speaking for David Adler?"

  "Probably not," I said. "But I have a revised contract with the campaign: I only do what I can live with."

  "So maybe I should ask him," she said.

  "Suit yourself."

  "C'mon, Henry, get the fuck off it," Laurene said. "I'm just a working girl. This ain't an adventure, it's a job."

  "I'm telling you, as deputy campaign manager, I think we should let the debate speak for itself. I'll take the fall for this, if there's a fall to be taken."

  As it happened, the Pickerites came with even fewer staff people than we did. A crisp-looking young blonde named Maura Donahue approached me in the hallway outside the studio and introduced herself. "How you guys handling CNN?" she asked.

  "We're not," I said. "I instructed our press secretary to say the debate spoke for itself. 'Course David Adler works his own side of the street. He could declare war on Syria."

  She laughed. "But you're not going on? None of the regulars?" I nodded. "Good," she said. "That's what we've been doing."

  "I've noticed," I said. "We're learning from you. Who's we, by the way? Show me your army."

  "There's me and that's Terry Fisk over there," she said, pointing to a stocky black guy carrying a sheaf of papers. "He does schedule. I do all else. We also got the two Picker boys along-serious studs, and I mean serious."

  "And you get away with that?"

  "No, we're a mess," she said. "But the candidate won't let it be a zoo. He's zoo-ophobic, or something. He's big into the calm thing. No entourage, no traveling press."

  "No press?"

  "We just tell them where we're gonna be-y'know, put the schedule out on AP-and let them find their own way."

  "Where did you come from? Harris?"

  "Yeah-Terry, too. But not very prominently. The governor told all the consultant types to go home. He kept the issues shop, interviewed some of the smurfs . . . and here we are."

  And there we were. Freddy Picker came out of a doorway, nodded at me-I was, probably, someone vaguely recognizable to him-and headed down toward the studio. He was not a small man, but he seemed less substantial, stooped-and sort of dour-compared with Stanton. He seemed a little lost, too-out of place in the forced cheeriness of the Gerald() set. He was quiet; he wasn't a blabber. He and Stanton sat, just the two of them, at a small round table in front of a live audience. They each had coffee mugs-Stanton drank Diet Coke; Picker, iced tea. Geraldo was supposed to open the show, ask the first question, and then it would be all theirs. No ground rules. I sat in the control room with Susan and the two Picker boys. They were tall, handsome, Hispanic and polite; they shook hands and didn't attempt any small talk; they sat down at the other end of the row of seats behind the director and his staff.

  "Well, 0-Kay," Geraldo said, when the bright lights came on. "You gentlemen know the rules. No chair-tossing, no claw holds, three falls and I come in to stop the bout." Stanton smiled and nodded; Picker simply nodded. Stanton seemed more comfortable, more presidential, sitting there. "And I will now ask the first question--to you, Governor Stanton. We have heard reports this week that you may be the father of a child by a teenage girl in your hometown of Mammoth Falls. You have denied this, but the girl and her family have disappeared. What on earth is going on?"

  "Well, Geraldo, first let me thank you for making this forum possible--and I do hope we eventually get around to discussing matters of substance. But I will answer your question. The family involved are good people, friends of mine. I spoke with the father just before he took them to their undisclosed location, to see if there was anything I could do to help. He apologized to me for causing so much trouble. He said he was taking his family away because of all the craziness. His daughter couldn't get any peace, he couldn't even operate his business. He said he wanted to wait till it all simmered down. And I'd make this plea: when these good people do return home, and start their lives again, I'd hope the media would give them some peace. Governor Picker has spoken eloquently to this point. We do need to all calm down. We've got important public business to deal with and unless, Fred, you've got something to add," he said, nodding toward Picker, who nodded back, no, "I'd like to move on and ask you a question. I know you supported Senator Harris and that you've come up with a modified version of his Virgin Uses fee--"

  "Not Virgin Uses, but some sort of--" Picker said.

  "Whatever," Stanton replied. "Have you given much thought to how that's going to affect the working people of America, even if you do a small energy tax of some sort--how do we work it so they don't get whomped?"

  "I haven't worked out the details," Picker said. "You know, you negotiate most of this stuff out with the Congress."

  "Right, and it's absolutely appropriate that you remind the folks that the sort of things we propose in these campaigns are best-case scenarios, and always subject to negotiation," Stanton said. "In fact, there are times when our own ideas are subject to change during a campaign." There was laughter. The director cut away to Geraldo, standing off to the side, chuckling. But this was now Jack Stanton's show: "Let me give you an example. Early on, I proposed a middle-class tax cut. Senator Harris disagreed with that. And, looking back, I think he was probably right. I've been thinking about this--and Governor Picker, I'd like to get your feeling about it--but maybe we should do something more targeted. Say we do a combination of your idea and mine. We do an energy tax of some sort and give a rebate to average folks, say incomes of fifty thousand dollars or less, maybe an increased tax deduction for each member of their family."

  Picker thought for a moment. The politic thing would have been to ignore the proposal or brush it aside, find some way to take control of the show. But Picker said, "I would think you'd have to consider something like that, although--as I. said--I'm not too sure about the details. Wouldn't you be favoring the folks who had more children?"

  "Yeah, I guess," Stanton said, amazed that Picker had just, in effect, bought his proposal. "We could have a deductions-per-family cutoff if you like."

  "But can you bottom-line that?" Picker asked. "What would the net revenue gain be? We do need to reduce the deficit."

  This was truly bizarre. Picker was ignoring the audience, and having a policy discussion with Jack Stanton. He didn't seem to care about the politics or television of it at all. Stanton was thrilled to go along; he was, in fact, ecstatic. "You're right--we do need to reduce the deficit--but when we bring it down, we can't take it out of average folks' hides," he said. "There are ways we can spend money more efficiently, ways we can spend less. But I think, ultimately, if you want to reduce the deficit, we're gonna have to raise taxes on the rich--are you with me on that one?"

  "Depends on how you define rich," Picker said. "But yeah." "Larry--ahh, Senator Harris--wanted to cut capital gains," Stanton said. "You for that too?"

  And so it went. Eventually, Geraldo--amazed that his hot ticket had turned into a meeting of the Senate Finance Committee--jumped in and said, "Hey, guys, you mind if we get some questions from the audience?"

  A middle-aged woman stood and said, "I'm a teacher. We're on the front lines every day. Governor Picker, what would you do to help us do our job?"

  "Well, education is very important," Picker said. "It's the most important thing. The federal government helps with student loans, and with extra money for poorer districts--and we should continue that but, I guess--Jack, education's mostly a state and local thing, isn't it?" "Yeah, it is. But the president has the bully pulpit," Stanton said. He seemed much more sure of himself than Picker. "He can go around the country and show what works. We can also--Fred, you forgot to mention--boost funds for Head Start." Picker nodded. "But ultimately, ma'am," Stanton continued, "I've got to say that you
're right--you are on the front lines every day. I think an inspired teacher is more important than anything any ol' politician or bureaucrat can do." And Jack Stanton looked into the camera, raised an eyebrow and--quickly--winked at Susan. She inhaled sharply and grabbed hold of my wrist. "And so I think we should keep experimenting with programs that liberate teachers to be as creative as they want to be."

  "Jack's absolutely right about that," Picker now jumped in, enthused. "I sent my boys to a magnet school--I was willing to put them on a bus, send them into Tallahassee. We live on a farm, just outside of town. I did that because they had a special math program for my older boy and a string program for my younger son, who's a pretty damn fine fiddler. Oh . . . uh, Felipe doesn't like it when I say that: he plays the viola. But you're right, ack, about education. You walk into a school that works, and you can feel it immediately. If we could only get the people--the teachers and the parents, especially--more excited and involved in the schools . . ."

  "Trouble is, it's tough for the families where both mom and dad work," Stanton said. They were just chatting now "They don't have time for PTA and all the rest, like some of us do." Stanton stopped, and in a tone of voice that mocked himself, mocked all politicians, "That's why I favor the family tax credit."

  "Okay, okay," Picker said, laughing.

  "More questions?" Geraldo asked.

  There were questions about Social Security, foreign aid, taxes again; and no great disagreements. Finally, an elderly black gentleman slowly pulled himself to his feet. "I think a lot of us are sick of all the bullshit in politics," he said. There were 000hs and cheers. "And while I can't follow all of what you fellahs are talkin"bout, I been sitting here listenin' to you, and it sure sounds a lot different from the usual. Even I can see you ain't trying to rip each other apart. Maybe you're even tryin' to work things out a little." He paused.

  "Excuse me, sir, but do you have a question?" Geraldo asked. "Yeah, I guess it's this," the old man said. "Any way we can get you both?"

  Susan, tears streaming, was out of the control room like a shot when it was over. I was right behind her. The audience had come down to the table; Stanton, Picker and Geraldo were shaking hands with the folks. Susan and I stood off to the side, in the doorway. David Adler suddenly appeared, looking for congratulations. "Thanks, David," Susan said. "Really."

  "He dominated," Adler said.

  Finally, ack and Picker began moving toward the hallway, Geraldo tagging along. Stanton thanked the host and said, "Geraldo, you think Freddy and I could have a moment?"

  "Sure," he said. "You want a room?"

  "No, here's fine." He leaned down into Picker, draped an arm over his shoulder. "Freddy, I just want you to know how much I admire the way you're running this campaign. It's good for the parry, it's good for the country. And I 'spect it'll pay off for you. And thanks for giving me a chance to regain a little of what I lost."

  "No problem. And thank you, too, Jack." Picker put an arm around Stanton's back. "You sure do know every little nook and cranny of this policy stuff. I'm gonna have to study up. Uhh, Jack?"

  "What?"

  "Nothing," Picker said. "Thanks."

  "I remember days like this one-vaguely, but I remember," Stanton said in the van heading downtown. "When was it? When did this used to be fun, Henry?"

  "New Hampshire," I said. "Last year. But this was good. You think it'll have any impact?"

  "Nawww," Stanton said. "No one was watching. And no one cares. I mean, who gives a rat's ass that I knew more about the fucking budget than he does? Hell, 'f I didn't know me, I'd probably vote for him. But it's weird. It's like he's been transformed-different guy from when he was governor. I never saw anything like it. It's like he's not, like he never was, a politician. He doesn't have the instincts anymore, the little things we do to cut in on each other. You saw that, right? He isn't playing the game at all, not in any way. It's absolutely strange." Stanton laughed, and then seemed to have a thought: "Henry, you know what? He's not going to be able to sustain it. It's a great concept, but it's too radical. The stuff we do, the craft of it, has developed very slowly and logically over time. You ever think about the fact that the riffs we do started with George Washington? Andrew Jackson massaged it some, and Lincoln-and then Boss Murphy here in New York, and FDR, Bilbo and George Wallace in the South. All of them, the giants and the shitheels, have massaged it, moved it, pushed it ahead." He stared out the window at the vibrant chaos of New York. "And Freddy's doing that, too. He's moving it in a way that's probably appropriate for these fucked-up times. The game got too ornate and bullshitt-y. That's for sure. And he's a corrective. But you don't wrench the art of politics away from its roots so drastically without paying some sort of price. All the bullshit we do is there for a reason. Fuck with it too much and it'll come back and bite your ass."

  Stanton turned around and pounded his fist on my knee. "Henry," he said, "there may be some life in this thing yet."

  Chapter VIII

  Not all that much life, it appeared. We were trounced in New York, two to one. It was definitive, crushing, a paralytic wipeout. Picker thanked New York on behalf of Martha Harris, and announced he was going home for a few days, to rest and "think about what's important, what's best for our country." We went home, too. Our campaign seemed over. Stanton didn't withdraw from the race immediately, but he returned to Mammoth Falls and the pmsaic rimals of home-state governance. There was no travel schedule. There were no staff meetings. People began to leave.

  I stayed. I called Daisy several times and left messages, but there was no answer. I ran along my old three-mile route, down the river and back again. I read Middlemarch. I went each day to the headquarters and cleared files; a few stray muffins remained, a few older women-local volunteers-continued to answer the phones when they rang, which wasn't often. I didn't dare ask the governor or Susan about what came next; for two days after New York, I didn't speak to them at all. We just needed a break from each other, I guess. There was no real rush. The primary schedule thinned out at that point; it would be three weeks before the next big one-Pennsylvania-if we remained in business that long. I tried to think about what I was going to do with my life, but couldn't.

  I was staring off into space, not even pretending to be busy, when Libby walked into the office that Thursday. And that was the first thing I noticed: she walked, she didn't barge or boons. "Hey, kid," she said, scarily subdued, holding her outback hat against her chest with both hands. "I got the tests. You're a part of this. You want to come up with me and tell the gov?"

  It was a perfect spring day. We walked up the hill to the capitol, which was girded by a lush apron of coral, fuchsia and white azaleas. (Jack and Susan Stanton would preside over the Mammoth Azalea Festival that weekend; I remembered Donny O'Brien's line about going back to ribbon cuttings and highway contracts--I'm sure Stanton did, too.) There was a quietly efficient, back-tonormal air in the governor's office; phones were ringing, which distinguished it from the mausoleum our campaign headquarters had become.

  Annie Marie ushered us in. Stanton sat behind his desk. I realized I had never seen him there before. In fact, it had been months since I'd been in that office--New Year's Eve, the day I met Daisy. She was the last person I'd seen sitting there. She'd been smoking a cigarette, flipping through Leon's New Hampshire cross-tabs. She pushed her glasses up on her forehead. She looked at me--

  "Well, Jack, you're in the clear," Libby said dully. This was all dreamlike and very strange. "You're not the father." He stared at his hands and exhaled. "Hell," Libby said, reviving a bit. "Uncle Charlie's not even the father."

  Stanton glanced at her sharply. "Does Willie know?" he asked. "Doc Wilkinson will call them," Libby said.

  "We should call them, too," Stanton said. "He's gonna be feeling awful, thinking he brought this thing down. Hell, we should all go over there for dinner tonight."

  He swiveled, stared out the window, down the hill toward the few scraggly, undistinguished modern skyscrape
rs downtown. "Henry," he said, turning back, "any press calls on this, there's no comment. And Sunday evening, we'll pull everyone together at the Mansion, figure out where we take this thing from here--okay?"

  The meeting was over. Sort of. Libby wasn't getting up from her chair. Actually, she seemed to be trying to get up but was unable to put the full force of her will behind it. I had never seen her indecisive before.

  "Libby?" Stanton asked. "What on earth is the matter with you?" "Well . ."

  "Libby?"

  "Oh shit," she sighed. "You know, I've been kind of . . . interested in the Picker thing," she said softly, almost mumbling. "So I made some calls-one of them to Judy Lipinsky, an old friend of mine, used to be a scorp-police reporter and a good one, a very tough chick. She's got an advertising sheet in Fort Lauderdale now. And she made some calls. And she, ah, found this state senator who claims that Picker . . . well, that Picker gave him some money to vote for this project-a development, south of Naples."

  "When he was governor?" Stanton asked.

  "Uh-huh," Libby said. "The vote was state matching money for the county to build a connecting road, and also the approval of a federal water and sewer grant. And the thing is, the project-Tidewater Estates-was being developed by Sunshine Brothers, which is a subsidiary of Sunshine Savings and Loan, which is owned by Edgardo Reyes Cardinale. And Edgardo Reyes Cardinale is the brother of Antonia Reyes Cardinale, who is-"

  "Picker's former wife," Stanton said and whistled. "Jeez. Who else knows about this? What else do we know? Who's the senator? Will he talk?"

  Libby just sat there. She didn't say anything.

  "Libby, what the fuck is the matter with you?"

  "I've been trying to decide . . ." she said, her voice trailing off. "Decide what?"

  "Whether I want to DO THIS for you, you stupid SHIT;" she said, Libby once more. "I bust dust. I protect you. I don't do oppo . . ." "Libby, what the fuck is the difference?"

  "All the difference in the world," she said. "All the moral difference in the world. I'm not too interested in tearing Freddy Picker down." "And if he's bent?" Stanton said. "If he's a crook?"