At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) (20 page)

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ChAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

After the election of 2012, there was a move to amend the Constitution to eliminate the electoral college and bind delegates to the popular vote. The new thinking on the subject was, after nearly two hundred and fifty years, to finally trust the voters to decide who they wanted to win the election. A vote to amend the Constitution requires two-thirds of both houses of Congress to pass, and debate on the subject spanned years before it came to a vote.

A vote for change would eliminate the backroom dealing that frequently resulted in the loser of the popular vote winning the presidency, contrary to the will of the majority, and backers of the honesty in Elections movement were accused of everything from promoting anarchy to aligning themselves with Socialists. They were persistent, though, and the effort was popular with the voters, who could never quite understand why they bothered to vote when someone else actually decided who was going to hold office.

It all went back to the early days of the existence of the nation when most people were illiterate, naive, and easily influenced by fast-talking men who were successful at selling, persuaders who had their own fortunes to grow, and were not patriots in any sense of the word. They had their selfish interests at heart and taking the power to choose away from the public was the only way to ensure that they could control the result. In the end, change prevailed, and the electoral college was retired by the closest vote in U.S. history.

Iowa and New hampshire have traditionally been the states to kick off the campaign season, which coincidentally is during the same time that football playoffs and hunting season occur. In some parts of the U.S., it’s a miracle that the attention of the American male can be diverted long enough to vote. Two changes in the way people vote made all the difference in the next race for president, and politics as usual failed to recognize their significance. The first was the federal law that mandated that all state primaries take place on the same Tuesday in February. The other change of great significance was the ability of voters to vote from home.

Since people from Iowa and New hampshire are never more important than the rest of the country than when they cast the first ballots, they didn’t much like the idea of voting at the same time as everyone else. As a result, they stubbornly swam against the flow and refused to hold their primaries on Super Tuesday, mandated by federal law to be the day after President’s Day. New hampshire had previously passed a law that made their primary the first in the nation, preceded only by the Iowa caucuses.

Aside from Iowa and New hampshire, all of the major primaries happened on the same day, and nobody had to leave home to vote. No dangling chads, no waiting in line, no taking time off work, and no excuses. Everybody voted who was registered to vote. Democrats voted for Democrats, Republicans voted for Republicans, and Independents voted for whomever they damn well pleased. In pleasing themselves, Independents gained enormous power and so did the third-party candidates. The exclusion of third-party candidates was on a level playing field with weaker mainstream candidates. If they didn’t gather the requisite twenty percent of the popular vote, they didn’t make it past the primaries. By the time the primary votes were in, the race was expected to come down to one incumbent, one Independent, and a candidate with the support of a major party.

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Max was sequestered with Andrew and Bill, strategizing for the day before the rest came wandering in. It was 6:00 a.m., and they had spent the better part of the hours before sunrise trying to define how to reach the voters with the least cost and travel. Bill had been trying to reason with his candidate, but Max was rebelling.

“The Iowa Caucuses are attended by 100,000 registered voters. There are 1.4 million registered voters in Iowa. That leaves 1.3 million votes for me to capture, and the other guys can have the rest. They have already made up their minds, anyway. I’m not polling anyone, and I’m not flip-flopping on any of my positions just to get a few votes. I’m a package deal.”

Andrew had enough of Max’s independent streak so early in the morning. holding up the maxims, he confronted Max with the list he had distributed the previous day. “I like the fact that you had this embossed in gold, and it’s waterproof, too. Feels like paper, but when I spilled my coffee on it a few minutes ago, the stain just beaded up and rolled off. You must want these ideas to endure. Is that right, Boss? You want us to follow these maxims forever?” Andrew leaned across the table, causing Max to take his feet off of it and assume a defensive posture.
“Yes, Andrew. I want you and everyone else involved in this campaign to memorize them. Live and breathe them. To do it different than ever before.” he stood and leaned forward until their noses almost touched. “And most of all, I want you to believe that by doing so, we are going to win.”

Max was intense. he and the senator had rehearsed the maxims for years before he died, and in those years, the plan had been formulated to achieve the presidency, with each detail meticulously laid out. As a child, Max was indoctrinated into this mindset, while the senator and Luke Postlewaite worked out each step in a plan that left no room for indecision.

“Then when I follow these rules, I expect that you won’t buck me on them, right?” Andrew wasn’t backing down, and he wasn’t backing off. he had no intention of being a potted plant in this campaign.

“Andrew, when I asked you to sign on for this assignment, I already knew that you were the only person for the job. I needed someone who tells me like it is, not how I want it to be. Besides, I’ve met your mom, and she would never send me another blueberry pie if I fired you for speaking your mind.”

“Good. If I thought you would fire me for speaking my mind or saying something that some interest group took offense to, I’d rather go back to my long and illustrious career as a print journalist,” Andrew replied. They laughed at the private joke, knowing that his career prior to joining the Masterson campaign consisted of two weeks on the road reporting about the idiosyncrasies of third-party politicians.

Bill Staffman looked on, stoic and craving his morning cigar, deep in thought about the agenda for the day. As long as Andrew and Max continued this mindless banter, he thought, he wouldn’t need to go outside and speak with the ever-present media camped out across from campaign headquarters. he knew he was delaying the inevitable. Like a merchant who unlocks the doors to his shop from the inside, he knew that he was expected to do it promptly each morning. he would unlock the door, shuffle across the short expanse to the podium on the soundstage, and speak to the press. Inevitably, they left the press conference with nothing more than the topic of Max’s next sound bite. No news, just the same stuff that everyone else had.

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ChAPTER FIFTY-EIGhT

The Monday morning staff meeting was composed of the hurried and stressed vestiges of the weekend. The suits were black, blue, or gray, hair still wet from hurried showers, taken in the private rooms beneath the White house. If the private subway hadn’t brought them in, Chief of Staff Walsh would have been trapped in traffic thirty miles away, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup and using cuss words not often heard inside the Beltway. Instead, he stood at the head of the huge mahogany conference table and cussed at the other twelve members of the inner circle.

“Dammit! how many of you idiots have something of substance to give me? I need dirt! Is he a homo, a druggie, or a ladies’ man? I want pictures and notarized statements! You’re giving me nothing but horseshit!”

“Sir, we have searched the public records. We interviewed eighteen old girlfriends. We can’t find his medical records, and all the rest is locked into that damned Gatekeeper privacy database. The girls all talked about him like he was a god. I’ve never heard such hero worship. They all want to marry him, he’s a gentleman, and to hear them talk about it, he’s great in the sack. Nothing kinky, and they’d do it again if he’d show any interest. The one criticism they have is that he’s too busy running for president to call. We have dozens more to talk to, but they’re all telling the same story,” said Secretary of Intelligence Jason Bland.

“I don’t care if you have to match his DNA with an unsolved murder. I want something to take to the president before he asks!” he lingered on the words for emphasis, and it had its intended effect. The suits were squirming. “I can’t face him on Air Force One again without a full dossier on Masterson. I want pictures! Videos of him in his underwear giving candy to little girls!”

The veins began to pop out on his forehead. his ruddy complexion turned purple. It was 8:09 in the morning, and he was rapidly approaching a stroke. he took a long sip of cappuccino and sucked on his first cigar of the day, pausing long enough to cough. They didn’t know it, but whenever he paused from his yelling, his formidable brain was recharging his mouth to spew forth another line of vitriol.

“You, Wiessel! You’re worthless. I send you back to his college, and you come back with stories about how hard he studied and his good manners! The next time you leave your cubicle, I’ll send you back to Flat Rock!”

Wiessel was perspiring so much that his armpits soaked through his suit jacket. “Sir, I have the utmost respect for the president. I would do anything to dig up dirt on this guy. The only thing I can find in his family history is that he’s adopted, and that his father, Senator Masterson, had an ancestor who may or may not have been hanged as a witch in seventeenth-century Connecticut!” Wiessel seemed to swell in his chair, but when he was through speaking, he deflated back to his previous cowering.

Promptly at 8:15, the double-wide doors of the conference room swung open, and the Secret Service men parted to their corners, leaving the president silhouetted in the doorway. It was time for the staff to endure another meeting with the commander in chief, who had already been awake for two hours and wasn’t having a good day.

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ChAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Rachel drove an electric retrofitted ’66 Mustang convertible chosen from the senator’s stable of classic vehicles; it winded silently over the tree-lined roadway of the Beltway. Max sat beside her, running his day through his mind. he’d sat for ideas for six hours and was kicking himself mentally for working in such an exhausting mode. No session of sitting for ideas should last for more than two hours. his father had been adamant that anything longer leads to unsure and inaccurate ideas. he needed clear focus.

Each time he sat for ideas, Max ran the warm-up routine through his head:
Enter the thinking sanctuary rested and fed.
Leave all outside influences behind.
Prepare thinking points for focus.
Dictate ideas.
When detail overcomes inspiration, move on to the next thinking point.
When you begin to think about your plans for the rest of your day, the session is over.
Don’t be slave to the clock. Leave all timekeepers outside of the room.
Think alone.
Review your notes for wisdom.
Share the wisdom with your advisors.
The thinking sanctuary is simple in concept but essential in the lives of those who practice the concept of sitting for ideas. The room is windowless and soundproof, comfort-controlled by an hVAC system that allows the thinker to adjust the environment of the room by voice control. humidity, temperature, and aroma of the room could also be adjusted this way, and the computer retained data on the preferences of the user. Any scent, from spearmint to the smell of freshly cut grass, could be brought into the thinking environment.
If Max conversed with the computer, it spoke to him in the voice of his father and contained a huge database of his father’s thoughts on thousands of subjects. If he chose, a holographic image of his father could be projected in front of him, making it appear as if Senator Masterson had joined him in the room.
Dad, I think I succeeded at setting myself apart, he had mused. I like this part of politics. If only I didn’t have to do the other stuff. It’s too dangerous. I never know who is going to take a shot at me or take my picture . . . Come to think of it, I’m not too enthused about either one of them at the moment. he had shut down the equipment and walked out, exhausted.

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ChAPTER SIXTY

Our immediate problem is, what are we going to call ourselves? Let’s make history!”

Bill Staffman led the Tuesday morning staff meeting like a cheerleader, the departure from his normal taciturn New England‒bred demeanor was uncharacteristic so early in the morning, and Sara hadn’t yet finished her first green tea of the day. She began to fidget in her seat, and Max detected the movement on the monitor. he was sticking to the tradition of appearing virtually from his home rather than in person. She raised her eyebrows and spoke.

“Max, we spent a lot of time coming up with choices. About midnight, we narrowed it down to two . . .”
Max leaned forward in his leather chair, which appeared beneath his image when he sat down. “Sara, if I was there, I’d hug you. What have you got?”
“Well, since you have been labeled an Independent, we came up with the Independent Party, but Randy says that sucks, because Independents are candidates without a party, so we came up with the Patriot Party, because that’s what we hear people calling themselves lately, and we want to get away from liberal and conservative as labels, and—”
“Did you say that people are calling themselves patriots?” Max stared intently at Sara’s eyes.
“Yeah, why?”
“Don’t you see? It’s a symptom of voter apathy. It goes along with all of my maxims. People are fed up with politics as usual, but they can’t stop being Americans. They know the difference between right and wrong. Max paused for a moment and turned to Andrew. “What does Mom think?”
“I’m on it!” Andrew stood and walked toward the door. “Max, I don’t do anything without Mom’s approval. I know who’s boss.” The door closed behind him with a hiss. he was back in five minutes. “Mom says that if you are going to be an Independent, you will have to run as an Independent, and none of that party politics she keeps hearing about. She says you have a short memory, and that you need to be yourself,” Andrew said wearily, still smarting from his mother’s words.
Max responded immediately. “Andrew, I fear the wrath of Leila Fox more than Blythe himself. If Mom says no, she means no. There will be no party for me in this campaign.”