The iCandidate (22 page)

“Okay, okay. Look, I’m not playing games with you. I don’t expect you to believe that—
”

“Good, because I don’t,” I blurt out truthfully.

“Miss Stanton, if Winston Beaumont knew I was talking to you tonight I’d be job hunting tomorrow. You guys are running a hell of a campaign. I never thought the race would come down to this. Three months ago, Beaumont was a shoo-in. Now…”

Blake
lets his voice trail off just before a thunderous applause erupts from the audience out in the concert hall. I should be out there watching it instead of wasting my time talking to this guy. We both strain to hear what’s happening on stage.

“
Now hold on! Just one minute, Mister Bennit!” I hear Beaumont stammer.

“
Congressman, I am simply saying it would take a Blue Ribbon House commission six months of study to figure out the rules to musical chairs. Not every problem requires a new law to fix it.”

Blake
shakes his head, almost in approval of the flogging his boss is getting. “Now the equation has changed, and I just wanted to warn you to watch your back, Chelsea,” he says, nodding over toward the stage where the debate is still raging. “And his.”

Is his warning sincere? Why would he level with me? He squeezes my shoulder gently and
walks toward the stage past Peyton and Amanda, who try to check him out as discretely as they can. They look back at me with inquisitive faces, but I really don’t know what to say to them.

After tonight’s debate, Congressman Beaumont will be on the ropes. I may only be a high school student, but even a third grader
recognizes a beating on the playground when he sees it. So if a storms coming our way, what benefit would he have in telling us? I can’t think of one. Blake Peoni can’t be trusted, right?

N
o use trying to convince myself. I will talk it over with the group and see what they say. Maybe Kylie can offer some insight on the matter later on.  Peyton and Amanda have been joined by Vince, and I meet them at our original backstage vantage point. The closing statements have to be coming soon, and I don’t want to miss this.

“What was that about?” Peyton whispers.

“We were just discussing which woman was going to get the final rose on
The Bachelor
,” I reply with a hint of a wry smile as I go back to watching the screen we are all huddled around.

MICHAEL

“
And furthermore, Michael Bennit told you nothing tonight about how he regards the issues facing America today,” Dick Johnson says, hoping the viewers at home tuned in late and missed the first eighty-five minutes of the debate. “All he has been willing to do is talk about ideas, and ladies and gentlemen, ideas aren’t important to how you govern. Thank you, and I hope for your vote on the ballot next Tuesday.”

The audience gives a polite, albeit weak applause. Johnson ad-libbed his final words, but after tonight’s performance, he had nothing to lose by doing so.
A modern version of the Gettysburg Address would not be compelling enough to recover from his earlier gaffe, and Dick is no Abraham Lincoln.

Beaumont had scripted, or at least mostly scripted
his closing statements and it showed. He sounded like a salesman offering up snake oil to treat whatever ails the American public. He keeps going back to the same well, not realizing it no longer holds water. We don’t need to convince the voters that the Beaumont campaign is old and tired when the man himself is so capable of doing it for us.

“
Mister Bennit, you may make your closing statement,” the moderator deadpans.

I
don’t need to stick the landing on this. I developed a good message long before I came onto stage and could simply stay on script. Eh, what fun would that be? If I can’t think on my feet when the pressure is on, I have no business being here.

“
America is more than just a nation, it’s an idea. A radical idea that began years before the American Revolution and grew to become the gold standard of democracy around the globe. A glimmering hope of what a free society can accomplish in a world dominated by a millennia worth of tyrants, monarchs and despots. Our republic is reaching a crossroads though. The idea of America only works if we
trust
the people elected to represent us.”

“
We are losing faith in our elected officials. Politicians have never been regarded as scrupulous, but the rise of the information age has shown us our representatives are no longer instruments of the people, but of themselves and the special interests that finance them. We have allowed it to happen, so maybe that’s what we deserve to get.”

You could hear a pin drop in the
concert hall.

“I stand before you as a simple teacher, an Army veteran, and a candidate that is beholden to no one. I have no political action committee polluting the airwaves on my behalf, nor am I in the pocket of big oil, big tobacco or big business.
Mayors and councilmen from around the district do not come out to support me because of favors I have done for them in the past.

“
Despite my lack of political connections and experience, I am not naïve enough to think I can sweep into Washington and change the face of politics there. I can only offer to change it here.

“
What you see is what you get. I have no hidden agenda, nor any special interests to placate. Like I did in the military, I simply want to serve the people of my district and this nation in the manner the Framers imagined. Not as a career politician or wealthy elitist, but as the people’s voice in the house created for them.

“So I am not going to make promises up here I have no intention of keeping, or pledge my
support to bills not yet written to win your vote. I only promise to represent you the way you were intended to be represented. After all, that’s what the people of the Connecticut Sixth District really deserve. Thank you for spending your time listening to us this evening.”

The
slow audience applause grows into a deafening roar and standing ovation as the moderator turns to the camera to close out the debate. I’m on an adrenaline high, exhausted, and exhilarated all at the same time. This has been an amazing experience, but I’m also thrilled my ninety minutes under the lights is over.

I move with the other
candidates to the middle of the stage and we all shake hands. Winston Beaumont is sweating like he just finished a half-marathon. I’m guessing more than the heat of the lights is causing that reaction. Dick Johnson may appear physically healthy to the camera, but his voice has the downtrodden tone of a defeated man. This was his coup de grâce. He understands his race is over.

Sneaking a quick peek off stage, I
make out Chelsea, Amanda, Peyton, and Vince all gathered together just off stage in barely stifled enthusiasm. Jessica is standing behind them wearing a look of complete indifference. She could at least try to look happy for me, even if she isn’t.

I walk
over to the edge of the stage and shake hands with the moderator. Beaumont comes up on my right and follows suit. Johnson has already fled the scene, happy to put this debacle behind him, I’m sure.

“
You think your sarcastic wit and empty rhetoric gained anything tonight?” Beaumont says under his breath from beside me. He’s waving to the audience like he just finished his third curtain call to an enthusiastic crowd at a rock concert. “You are clearly not cut out for this Bennit. You sounded like a fool.” Yeah, says the eight-term incumbent so popular he is waving to empty seats.

“
Talking about America is hardly ‘empty rhetoric’, congressman,” I say, giving a wave to a throng of people in front trying to get my attention. “Nor is being true to what was produced in the summer of 1787.”

“You think that matters? You’re naïve.”

The cameras covering the debate go dark and the lonely stage once occupied by just the three of us now feels like a subway station at rush hour. The house lights are turned back up, reducing the glare of lighting coming from the rear of the hall as reporters begin their on-scene analysis for their respective news organizations.

“
Half the country is polling this race tonight, Winston.” I turn to gaze him dead in his reddening face. “Guess we’ll see just how naïve come tomorrow.”

KYLIE

After watching tonight’s bludgeoning, there’s
pep in my step as I head out of the concert hall and into the parking lot. Debates are challenging, mentally draining, and often disasters for first-timers. Squaring off against a seasoned incumbent, like Winston Beaumont, makes the task much more daunting. Winning under those circumstances, without taking a definitive stand on a single issue, registers as impossible.

Somehow, Michael did it.
He won over the audience and the vast majority of the press covering the debate pronounced him the clear winner. I lost my objectivity weeks ago, but there is no wishful thinking involved when hearing reporters use words like ‘landslide’ and ‘drubbing.’ The performance tonight is going to mean a significant bump in the polls for him. Winston Beaumont is in serious trouble, and that’s like emotional bubble wrap for me.

The parking lot outside the theater has emptied considerably, but media vans are still parked
there, along with a smattering of other vehicles. I approach my car only to see a silhouetted figure leaning against the driver side door. As a woman, I should be unnerved by this considering the circumstances, but I can’t think of an instance where any attacker would be inclined to wear a skirt and high heels.

“
Your boy put on quite a show tonight,” I hear as I get closer.

“He’s not
my boy
, but yeah, I think he did very well.” I am beginning to wish he was my boy, or more appropriately, my man. Too bad Jessica got to him first.

“Oh,
right, I forgot. You’re the impartial journalist who hates having her integrity challenged.”

“Only by sleazy political operatives working for a crooked, has-been congressman who is either too stubborn or stupid to know when it’s time to get out of the game.”
Those words felt good to say. “What do you want, Madison?”

“
Such harsh words, Kylie. Can’t I say a quick hello to my big sister? I mean, we haven’t talked since back in New York when you were accusing me of trashing your career.”

“Yes
, it’s been a pleasant few months, hasn’t it?” I say with as much pleasantness my voice will allow me to conjure. “Given the results of the debate tonight, I thought you’d be off finding a big, soft pillow to cry in.” Or smother yourself in, you arrogant bitch.

“You think this is over?” she asks menacingly. “I’m just getting started. I’m going to beat you Kylie, I swear to God I am!”

“This isn’t about us, Madison. We’re not the candidates. I don’t even work for Bennit.” She is taking this more personally than I thought she ever would.

“Don’t kid yourself. You may fool others with
your ‘deep cover’ journalistic garbage, but not me.”

“You need therapy,
Maddie.”

She gets within inches of my face. I begin to wonder if the remaining press
lingering in the parking lot are about to be treated to a cat fight. If so, I’d bet the deli clerk would wish he was here. Madison is no Jessica, but girls fighting is always entertaining, with or without Jell-O. So if she makes a move, I’m sure he’ll see it anyway. Images of me gauging out her eyes would be eleven o’clock news material for sure.

“I am going to wipe the floor with you
,” she states in a quiet, yet menacing voice. “And when I’m done, you will need an army of shrinks to put the pieces of your life back together. You wanted a war, well, now you’ve got one.”

I pucker my lips and kiss the air between us. A little lame in terms of a response, but the coolest thing I could come up with at the moment. Disgusted, she st
ruts off toward the visual arts building without looking back. I find myself almost disappointed she backed down.

My sister doesn’t intimidate me, but she cannot be underestimated either. A desperate Winston Beaumont and a bloodthirsty Madison Roberts make a
volatile and dangerous combination. Once again, she has unwittingly given me another piece of information.

They will be coming for us.
Dealing with Roger Bean and Winston Beaumont is enough to keep anyone busy. Now, with Madison adamant about destroying me in the process, I just added another person to worry about.

I’ve done my best to help Michael Bennit every way my journalistic skills and contacts can afford.
As I climb into my car, I’m lost in a singular thought. Despite my best intentions, I only made matters worse for him.

BLAKE

C
andidates seeking office generally make use of whatever vacant space is available for their headquarters in some geographically desirable part of the district. Ours is no exception, despite the millions of dollars in the Beaumont campaign coffers. We occupy old retail space in a strip mall like any other candidate would.

The main area
is called the ‘war room’, and features rows of long tables, folding chairs, and plenty of phones. Outside of the call center, other small meeting areas are set aside for managing various aspects of the ‘get out the vote’ effort. As most retail spaces offer nothing in the way of offices, Roger had some temporary walls erected to allow the congressman a quiet place to confer in peace with members of the staff.

Other than
the extra added spaces, Beaumont Campaign Headquarters is your typical political election command center. Well, typical for everyone except maybe Michael Bennit who has managed to become the frontrunner running his effort out of a coffee shop.

Pollsters were out in full force after the debate last night. Every major polling organization got one in the field, and we contracted our own for the district to verify the numbers. They aren’t good, which is why the key players of the Beaumont for Congress staff are crammed into his small, makeshift office.

Congressman Beaumont is seething behind a desk while Roger, Madison, Deena, and I are gathered around it waiting for Marcus to arrive with the results.

The national polls already published
their findings on websites and reported them on the morning news shows. The conclusions vary, but the one thing they share in common is the bottom line containing the only information of importance at the moment. Despite having an eighty percent approval rating last spring, we’re now losing.

This
is not a national race like a presidential election, so nobody cares what some country bumkin’ in Arkansas thinks. The only important numbers belong to the poll of likely voters in the Connecticut Sixth District, and the bad news we’re expecting to be delivered about them.

“
Well?” Congressman Beaumont demands, as Marcus enters the minuscule office and wedges himself into the crowd around the desk.

“
Uh, sir, well, uh, we've slipped,” Marcus says with dread.

“
No shit, Marcus. By how much?” Roger asks impatiently.

“
Well, uh, the polling data ... well it has a, uh larger margin of error than we—”

“
Eleven points, congressman,” I say, reading the paper in Marcus’ hand. “Bennit now has an eight point lead outside the margin of error.”

Marcus
stares at me incredulously. I wasn’t eager to deliver the bad news, but let’s just rip the band-aid off and get it over with. Roger rubs his forehead and the congressman just glares through my soul with piercing eyes.

“
Now is not the time to grow a set of balls with me, Blake.”

“
Yes, sir,” is what I say, ‘whatever’ is what I mean. If they had listened to me to begin with, we wouldn’t be staring defeat in the face.

“Sir, maybe we should
view this as an opportunity.”

“Oh, shut up Deena!” the
congressman barks. “We have spent millions on this campaign. An eleven point deficit is the best you all can do?”

“
Sir, Bennit scored big last night and—”

“
I don't want excuses, Madison! I expect results!”

The room grows
eerily still as the congressman grabs a copy of
The Times
off his desk and sticks it in Deena’s face. The pixie startles at the aggressive gesture and, as a result, everyone, including Roger, collectively takes a step back.

“
All the press is talking about is Bennit and those misfit students of his! You can't get our message out, and you failed miserably in prepping me for the debate,” he rants.

“Sir, I—
”

“I said shut
up! You add no value to this campaign. I have no idea why I keep you around. Get out of my sight.”

Deena
doesn’t move, her body immobilized by fear and face frozen in shock. The congressman has a temper, but on his worst day has never been this enraged.

“Did I stutter? I said get out!”
he shouts, throwing the newspaper at her. This time, Deena’s fight or flight instinct kicks in, and choosing the latter, wastes no time in pushing for the door and getting out of the office. In a way I feel bad for her. While I don’t much like her, I thought she did a good job during debate preparation. It was just not executed well on stage. Unfortunately, there’s no point in trying to tell Winston Beaumont he failed without risking earning myself a pink slip.

“Marcus, you’re dismissed too. I need to talk to the others.” While Deena may
be shocked and wounded at her dismissal, Marcus getting out of the office reminds me of a kid racing to the swing set at recess.

“With due respect sir, it’s not Deena or Marcus’ fault,” Roger says to his old friend. “You know that. Now
, we have less than a week before the election.”

“I
’m aware of that, Roger. It’s time for you all to earn your paychecks. If I am not reading about how Bennit uses hookers or is supported by the Nazi Party while drinking my coffee tomorrow morning, the only thing you’ll ever do again in D.C. is visit monuments.”

“
We checked his background. It's clean. Why are we—”

“Didn’t I warn
you once before about questioning me, Blake? Stop thinking and do what I tell you. I want Bennit destroyed! Now!” he says, pounding the desk as he rises to his feet.

“A small little scandal isn’t going to get it done,
congressman,” Madison says. For the first time in months, I’m relieved she takes my side.

“Madison—
”

“Hear me out,
sir. I’m not saying we shouldn’t go negative, but the story has to be something scandalous enough to dominate headlines and not easy for Bennit to counter and dismiss.”

“You have something in mind?” Roger inquires.

Beaumont calms down as Madison details her plan. Roger listens intently, weighing the political ramifications as only he can do. I am sick to my stomach listening to her.

“Roger?” the
congressman asks when Madison finishes.

“
It could work if executed properly. At a minimum we’ll bring back some independents and cross-over democrats whose support for Bennit is soft at best.”

“
One more thing, sir,” Madison continues. “I can’t be the one who leaks this to the press. There can be no appearance this came from our campaign. We’re late in the game. Leaving a trail linking this to us will label you petty and desperate.” Which he is, but I’m not about to say that.

“Roger, you are good at this sort of thing. Do you think—
”

“Blake should do it,” Madison blurts out, cutting off the
congressman mid-sentence.

The
blood drains from my face. How could she say that? Why? Actually, I think I know why. She knows I have disagreed with some of the tactics we used during this campaign. She may have even noticed me talking to Chelsea during the debate. Either way, she knows I won’t support this course of action. This is payback time for what I did to her earlier in the campaign.

“He has the contacts in the media to get it
coverage and the ability to make this stick through Tuesday,” she implores through the evil grin on her face. “Trust me, sir, he’s your man for this.”

I am living the
textbook definition of ‘set up for failure.’ If I go through with this, I destroy innocent lives. Bennit doesn’t deserve this, and neither does Chelsea or the rest of his staff. If we discovered something that was true, that’s one thing, but this?

If I don’t
do it though, we lose the election. No scheme I can come up with is going to make up enough ground following our dreadful debate performance. I wouldn’t have even debated this with myself three months ago, but now? Bennit and Chelsea have proven themselves to be worthy adversaries. Beaumont doesn’t deserve to win. I need to tap dance my way out of this.

“This is a terrible idea, sir.
I understand the premise, and earlier in the race I’d be all for it. But sir, we are days away from the finish line and there are too many ways the ploy can go wrong before then. Perhaps if we focus on—”

“Madison, can you excuse us for a m
oment?” Roger asks. “We need a word in private with Blake.”

Madison winks at me as she spins on her heels and leaves the small office, closing the door behind her. The
congressman, who had been pacing in the small space behind the desk, now settles back in his chair. Roger sits on the corner of the aging piece of furniture and turns towards me as a clear indication he is with Beaumont, and against me, if I protest.

“All right, Blake. You’ve done this sort of thing before without flinching. Why
are you hesitating now?” Roger asks, getting straight to the point.

He sounds a
lmost sincere with his question. I never experience problems talking myself out of jams like this, but now I’ve developed some sort of mutism. The words simply aren’t coming. I can’t tell him the truth, so I rack my brain for some reason or excuse this won’t work. Unfortunately, logic is being overruled by emotion. Still, nothing is coming. Seconds tick by and now my time has run out.

“I don’t give a damn, Roger,” Winston states
unequivocally. “Blake, you wanted a seat at the big boy table. Look around, you’ve made it. This is exactly where you wanted to be. You earned the right to be here, but now you need to earn the right to stay. You will do this, understand?” All I can do is nod.

“There is no place in politics for a
conscience. You can deal with the guilt over whatever little ethical dilemma you’re having once we win. Until then, get this done.”

“We’ll discuss t
he details in a few minutes,” Roger utters as I leave without acknowledging him, pulling the door closed behind me. It was like the congressman was reading my mind. Did my face betray me? Does it matter? He’s right, this is exactly where I wanted to be.

“I can do this,” I murmur to myself in the futile attempt of being convincing.
I’m fooling myself, because deep down I know I really don’t want to.