At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) (17 page)

The cameras focused on the river’s surface. A light-gray blob was visible beneath the shimmering waters, stirring the calm surface with turbulence and moving deceptively fast in the center channel. The camera plunged underneath the surface, creating the perception that the viewer had just dived into the water with eyes wide open. In the bright sunlit water, a baby manatee placidly propelled itself with its broad rear flipper, accompanied by a diver in snorkeling gear.

The next image was of Max emerging from the water, shirtless and wet, removing his mask. he stood waist deep in the river, looking fit and virile and totally successful in his quest to set himself apart.

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“I’m in Florida to talk to you about our environment and why we need to keep it clean,” said Max, bare from the waist up. “here on the Wakulla River, the manatee and the otter thrive in crystal-clear water that flows from an aquifer bigger than any lake in the world. But we’re ruining it by not protecting it from the waste of man. If a few ruin it for everyone, we all lose. When I’m president, if you dirty it up, you’ll make it cleaner than it was or pay someone else to do it.”

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If it wasn’t already confusing to the voters, the third-party debate proved to be the circus the political pundits had predicted it would be: a mess of voices projected from dark-suited rich men, all trying to talk over the other, trying their best to use the words that would capture the minds of the voters but failing to connect with America. This time there was no Kennedy in the race, no “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” Instead, the candidate who stood out from the rest was the young man from across the river who said next to nothing.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I’ll be your moderator for this evening’s debate between the third-party challengers for the office of president of the United States of America,” said Roger Forrestal, respected correspondent for the now-defunct CBS Evening News. When Forrestal retired, the ratings for the Evening News dropped by forty percentage points, and the program never recovered. Whenever a major election required a respected face and voice to deliver the message, Forrestal was pulled out of his golden-parachute life and enlisted to serve once again. he was paid handsomely for his popularity, maintained by annual polls that confirmed he was the most trusted person in journalism. The real reason behind his popularity as a broadcast journalist, aside from his soothing baritone, was simple: Roger Forrestal had never offended anyone.

“The rules for the debate have been reviewed and agreed upon between the candidates. Each question will be repeated to the candidate prior to their answering. Each candidate will be afforded two minutes to respond, during which time the candidate cannot be asked additional questions. At the expiration of the two-minute response period, the response will be cut off and the moderator will repeat the question to the next candidate.

“All candidates will be allowed to answer each question without interruption. The questions and topics for tonight’s debate have been compiled by the League of Woman Voters from questions provided by the interactive program, Worldview, and filtered down to five topics: the environment, the war in the Middle East, the economy, gun control, and the qualities that are essential for the next president of the United States. We have purposely left the last topic private, to ensure that we will have a candid and unrehearsed answer from all of our candidates
.”

Forrestal’s presentation was interrupted by a commercial break sponsored by the League of Women Voters, who presented a colorful video of the history of the organization and their place in politics. Large corporations had sought commercial time, as did the United States Marine Corps and each major party, but all offers had been rejected in an effort to keep the event free from outside influence.

Forrestal reappeared and continued his explanation of the process. “There will be regional debates one week before each of the six primaries, after which the three highest vote-getters will debate at Wake Forest University in Winston Salem, North Carolina in a final debate between the incumbent president, William Blythe, and the two remaining candidates with the highest combined percentage of votes in the four regional primaries.”

Max looked the part. he wore a light-gray suit while his opponents wore nearly identical dark suits with light-colored ties; red, white, and blue lapel pins. They all shifted nervously and spent much too long arranging errant hairs on their heads in the moments before the debate. he was steady as a rock. When each question was asked, he calmly shifted his gaze toward the center of the spotlight. As each candidate answered the question, he stood solid, his presidential profile somehow drawing attention to his face. That fact was not lost on the cameraman, and the viewers saw only what the director chose to place before them. Max was a person of intense public interest, and the viewers chose where the camera focused. If they wanted split screen, they got it. If they wanted all of the candidates simultaneously, the multiple cameras were happy to oblige.

Whenever another candidate was answering the question, the viewers who chose the split screen focused on the speaker and on Max. As the answer droned on, the camera zoomed in on Max’s face, solid and contemplative, his green eyes reacting. Any statement made that didn’t conform with Max’s was amplified for millions of viewers by his nonverbal reaction. When hilton was asked the gun control question, he was on his soapbox and spent the full two-minute response time presenting the canned speech he had honed into the foundation of his entire campaign. The message had been repeated in the long version so many times that searchers for news had a difficult time finding anything new to report, and the message was lost through repetition. Max practiced a bored expression, and crossed his eyes at the inevitable conclusion, when hilton bellowed, “When guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns!”

When it came time for Max to respond, he looked directly into the camera that was front and center while the other cameras showed his profile. he stated his position succinctly, in a calm but direct tone. “I’m not one for telling you what you can and cannot do, and I won’t be asking Congress to take your guns away. You are free to do what our laws let you do. It’s only people who hurt other people with guns that should be punished. For the rest of us, government should leave us alone.” he didn’t need rebuttal. he didn’t need to say anything more. his message came across without another word and in less than the two minutes allotted.

The effect of this approach was to put the camera operator in a state of perplexed anxiety. Each time he answered, there were a minute and forty seconds of silence, during which the camera would zoom in on his visage, and zoom back out to show the man in the light suit surrounded by other men in black suits, all looking in his direction. Then the camera would slowly zoom in again, as the commentator in the sound booth tried to repeat every word Max spoke.

It was not a time for commentary, but broadcasters get very nervous with “dead air” as they call it. With his response repeated and broadcast three times, the relieved moderator moved to the next question, and the process began again. Each question was answered in exactly two minutes until the camera focused once again on Max. A short answer, followed by a long silence, with the answer repeated twice, and then it happened again.

By the time of the fifth and final question, the story of the first debate was forged. he had set himself apart from the others in a way that carried a great deal of risk. No other candidate in the history of politics had given up a second of time on the stage of public opinion. The effect of his strategy was to cause a commotion at every level, but it was most evident in the way the public responded. Every answer to every question directed to him had been repeated three times. Everyone who heard his answer had etched it in their brain.

Moments after the first debate, a political poll was conducted on voters who viewed the debate, and as a control group, the same poll was conducted on voters who had skipped the debate for a rerun of Wheel of Fortune, which was shown at the same time as the debates on another network, advertising itself as “an alternative to politics.” The poll results were almost identical: Every answer that Max delivered was repeated verbatim on every issue. None of the responses of the other candidates could be remembered by anyone polled. This statistic generated a maelstrom of interest from every major network. Interviews were conducted with political-science professors from major universities. Some predicted that Max’s campaign would fold in three weeks and that his strategy was a disaster.

“It has never been done before, and it spells the end of Masterson’s credibility. If he doesn’t have enough to say about the subject, it’s an indication that he’s not a deep thinker. We need a deep thinker in the White house,” pontificated Lawrence Fullself, distinguished professor emeritus from Yale University.

“I have never seen or heard a less credible candidate. he doesn’t have a complete grasp of the issues,” opined Richard hasselfuss of the conservative think tank, Conservatives for a Better Yesterday.

From the detractors came endorsements for the incumbent and criticism of Max, but a curious development seemed to escape their scrutiny:

Max had emerged as the front-runner.

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The incumbent’s daily itinerary was published by the White house sufficiently in advance of the president’s campaign to allow for the setup of chairs, building of stages, erecting of lights and teleprompters, and transportation of the press to each speech location. The schedule was deliberately vague to give the illusion that terrorists and assassins weren’t privy to the precise location of the president and his extensive entourage at any given moment, but any assassin worth his salt would be well versed in stalking to get around those security measures. When the president was on the road, though, the best-equipped security detail in history went in advance with bomb-sniffing dogs, rooftop snipers, and the best communication available. They followed every lead, checked every bag, and only allowed a handpicked group to be in the audience.

In every crowd, though, protesters managed to infiltrate. Their carefully designed message was usually direct and brief. They would try to attract the attention of the press and get their point across in seconds, hopefully before they were whisked away by Secret Service. The force guarding the president were experts at making the campaign stops conflict-proof, but their real purpose in protecting the person at the top far exceeded the visible aspects of their presence. In any foray outside the formidable security of the White house, the president was at risk of harm. By occupying the top position in government, he became a target for those who desire to harm America, and for that reason, the president was never alone.

By contrast, third-party candidates and minor challengers have almost no security. They weren’t targets, or if they were, it was the lunatic fringe they feared when they were out on the campaign trail. Theirs were spontaneous outbursts and unpredictable, and therefore, often escaped the attention of the press. The rare times that minor candidates experienced a lack of privacy was when they were suddenly the focus of the press. For most minor candidates, their biggest occasions of attention come at the moment they announce their candidacy, when they commit a verbal gaffe, and when they drop out of the race.

When the Masterson campaign heated up, the major networks began assigning more correspondents to cover him, and the requests for his daily itinerary began increasing. This development left his campaign staff in a constant state of agitation. Max never informed them of his whereabouts. They were often as surprised by his entry to Masterson for President headquarters as anyone else. On the rare morning when he did appear, the staff was usually caught chatting online and reading the news on their laptops. Bill Staffman, was a traditionalist in information gathering, however, and still relied on paper copies of newspapers from around the nation. he was usually found holed up in his office sequestered behind piles of paper.

The morning following the debate, Max burst into the office dressed in his favorite running clothes, wet from a 5:00 a.m. fivemile run along the Potomac. his abrupt entry caused a young volunteer to lean back abruptly in her chair, which then flung her onto the floor. This commotion caused a chain reaction of disarray, ending when a stack of newspapers fell off Staffman’s desk onto the floor in a muffled crash.

“I see you’re all coffeed up and ready to go,” yelled Max, delighted that he had caught his staff in a lull.
“I want everyone to be in the staff room in ten minutes for our first real meeting. I’m taking a shower.”
he bounded up the stairs to the second-floor apartment above the headquarters, a prerequisite in his search for a suitable location to direct his campaign. If he was going to be spending a lot of time in any location, it had to have the comforts of home. Time was wasted in transit.
In exactly ten minutes, he sat wet-haired at the head of the enormous oak conference table, a remnant of the remodeling of the Maryland legislative offices in Annapolis that had been transported by truck to his office. Because of its size, the building’s facade was removed for a day while the table was installed in the “great room.” Red, white, and blue chairs were placed around it. Already seated was the skeleton staff, which was being reinforced by stragglers who had been hastily summoned to the meeting. Several of the late arrivals were also wet-haired, giving the meeting the appearance of a locker-room talk in a boardroom. That suited Max just fine. he had a legendary disdain for formality and convention. he worked hard at cultivating his image as a straight talker and innovator, and anything that resembled a traditional campaign was rejected outright.
“I think I did pretty well in that debate. What do you think?” he threw out the first question to nobody in general, but everyone knew that the pecking order started with the chief of staff and filtered down from there. It was startling to the staffers that the first to speak was Sara Wein, the girl-woman who had confronted him on the first day. She was new to the campaign business, but with the exception of Bill Staffman, so were all of the rest, including Max.
“You shocked the hell out of everyone, if that was your intention. I haven’t left the office, and I spent all night monitoring the opinion pieces over the internet. They range from total adoration to total disdain mixed with shock and awe,” she said boldly.
“Yeah, but what was your take?”
“You mean, you want to know how I think you did?”
“I want to know from your mouth to my ears how you responded to my words. I had one goal last night and that was to have Americans remember what I said, agree with it, and forget what my opponents said, no matter whether they agreed or not. Did I achieve my goal?”
Sara thought for a moment, digesting the idea that the man she wanted to see in the Oval Office valued her opinion and her ability to tap the pulse of the voters. She was beginning to fall into the realm of hero worship here, but she knew that Max had no use for people who only said what he wanted to hear.
“You set yourself apart in a big way. Some of the people weren’t used to it and are complaining that you didn’t play by the rules, but mostly, the word on the street is that they liked it. The problem is, the only thing they have to read is from the press, and they are pretty unanimous in saying that you haven’t paid your dues, you are too young to be running for president, and that your inexperience showed last night. The funny thing is, the exit polls are showing you way ahead of any of the other contenders, and the comments are mostly positive from the quotes I read.”
“Sara. From your mouth to my ears. how do you feel about my performance in the debate?”
She blushed. It suddenly became apparent that she was being asked a personal question about how she felt, her gut feeling, her own response to his words. She was to tap her soul. She took a deep breath and chose her words carefully. “When you spoke, I had this adrenaline rush. It seemed like you were talking only to me. In the beginning, I expected you to say more, but when they began replaying it over and over to fill your time, I began remembering every word. I have never felt that before.”
“Superb!” Max stood abruptly. his chair shot back and slammed against the wall behind him, and he raised his fist toward the seated faithful like a fan at a hockey game who had just watched a slap shot lift past a goalie’s glove. “That’s the kind of stuff I need to hear.”
he sat down as quickly as he’d arisen and slid his chair back to the table. Propping his arms and leaning forward, he directed his gaze at Postlewaite. “Luke, you are my ears in Washington. What are my enemies saying about last night?”
Postlewaite was nestled in the comfort of the overstuffed chair, absorbing the exchange, and waited a full minute before he spoke. In his thirty-year Washington career, he had never observed a more unorthodox display of uniqueness. “Max. You’re scaring the shit out of everyone except the president. They spent the evening spitting out propaganda to the press, basically dismissing you as a young upstart, but they can’t deny that you got their attention.”
Just then, the door burst open and in strode Fox, carrying a stack of papers in one hand and a Starbucks mocha grande in the other. If the dark circles under his eyes were any indication, he had not seen a bed in several days. his trademark black blazer failed to conceal the wrinkled disarray of the oxford pinstripe shirt he’d worn the night before at the debate. It may have been the same outfit, but his red, white, and blue tie was long gone; there was a stain on his green pinstriped pants; and his black wing tips had been replaced by scuffed Top-Siders. he spoke quickly, not waiting to be introduced. “I have news that can’t wait. There’s a storm brewing out there, and it’s all because of you.” he turned to Max, who by this time was crunching a shiny Winesap apple picked from the tree next to his home.
“I hope it’s good. You’re late. Where have you been all night?”
“Down at the AP newsroom, of course. I’m still a newsman, and they didn’t take my press pass away just because I came to work for this group.”
“What have you got?” mumbled Max through half-chewed apple and sips of green tea.
“I have never seen such a surge. The pollsters are going nuts on you. They got creative for once and began asking people to repeat what the candidates said about the issues, and, here’s the kicker . . .” he paused for effect, as if his words were plowing new ground in journalistic soil. “They only remember you.”