“Matt, tell Carolyn we’re setting up a meeting with Young. I’ll take care of it. We’ll try for tomorrow at five o’clock. Warner, you need to stay in Jefferson City. We’ll hold the interview here. Oh, and guys, try to keep it from the press.”
Warner relaxed. Success, he mused, lay in the preparation.
Carolyn scanned the data. “We need to do something – run some ads to spin the idea and educate the public. We can move the perception away from the appearance of a monarchy and reinforce the democratic image.”
Matt took a drink of water. “You’re probably right. It could just be a matter of education, but we don’t have time to find out. It would be a huge risk to put you on the ticket, and as you know, we need to announce the vice presidential candidate before the convention. We wouldn’t have time to find out if an ad campaign was successful before we’d have to commit to your candidacy.”
He set his glass down. “If you want to do it, I’ll back you, but you have to consider the downside. We’ve been focused on our own party in the primaries. Now we have to focus on Washman. He’s no pushover, we’ve got a tough battle ahead. Young brings some serious advantages. The numbers show him in an extremely strong position. Plus, it appears Warner is set on Young as his vice president. We can’t afford to have you two at odds. The campaign just came off life support from Warner’s problems, and this could put us back in intensive care.”
“What about Richard’s son?”
“He’s on the mend. Young can commit to the campaign.”
“The country’s crying out for change.” She looked up at Matt. “But maybe the wife of the president as vice president is too much, too fast.” Carolyn clasped the arms of the chair, struggling for composure.
God, how she wanted the vice presidency! Yet all of her efforts, her popularity, and her strong record would now go to put Warner and Richard in office. Typical, Carolyn thought. Everything boiled down to gender issues. Women throughout history had suffered the same fate. But that reality did nothing to lessen her disappointment.
Be patient, she told herself, your turn will come. She knew that Matt was right – the campaign couldn’t afford to be back on a respirator. She swallowed hard, still trying to choke down the unfairness of it all.
Mart’s cell phone rang, and he took the call.
Young was the best option, she knew, but he was going to be difficult to control.
Matt severed the connection and set aside his phone.
“Young is it, then,” Carolyn said, forcing a confident tone she didn’t feel. “He has no obvious skeletons and a good family image. His family history in politics will help with the Washington insiders. When do we interview him?”
Matt looked perplexed. “You surprise me. How do you know what Young might or might not have to hide?”
She dismissed his question with a flutter of her hand. She’d never admit to hiring Winston Cain.
“I’ll tell Nick to set it up. Would tomorrow afternoon work for you?”
“Fine, let’s get this done.” Carolyn said, preoccupied with her own thoughts. She knew that all of their guns needed to be drawn when they marched into the National Convention and readied themselves for the shoot-out against incumbent President Charles Washman. But first, Richard Young needed to understand that she and Warner were running the campaign. Hence, he would be expected to take a secondary role, a role that never overshadowed Warner, and never compromised her control.
FORTY-TWO
Jack stepped out of the shower. He tossed his towel onto the bathroom floor and stood damp and naked in front of the mirror. “Decision time,” he said to his reflection.
The man who stared back looked frustrated, stifled, housebroken. He’d been following the Lane campaign for weeks and doing little more than regurgitating their rhetoric and contributing to the Lane propaganda machine. He had to follow his instincts, even if it meant war. Jack knew that his employers would be furious, but it was the forces behind the scene that were truly dangerous.
Jack strode into the bedroom, grabbed the phone, and dialed his secretary.
“Maureen, book me to Missouri and then on to the National Convention.”
Missouri, Jack thought, the Show Me State – time to live up to this motto or he’d force the issue. Maureen, thorough as usual, put Jack on the next flight to Jefferson City.
The first two days he was back in Missouri, Jack felt like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Every candidate had a dark side and Lane was no exception. The figurative bell rang with rumors and innuendo, making his mouth water. The scent of a story wafted through the air, but the meat of the scoop eluded him.
His greatest frustration was Mortimer Fields. Upon his arrival, he’d immediately driven to Fields’s office. Mort’s assistant claimed he was out of town, and refused to say where he was, or when he’d return.
Jack walked to the nearest pay phone. “Mr. Mort Fields, please.”
“I’m sorry, he’s not in.” Fields’s assistant said. “Can I take a message?”
“This is Sergeant Leonard Rand, of the Jefferson City Fire Department We have an urgent matter to discuss with Mr. Fields. Please tell me how to contact him.” Jack said.
“I’ve been instructed not to give out his travel arrangements, sir. Can I take a message and pass it along?”
“This is urgent, ma’am. I believe he’d want to speak to me. His residence needs to be boarded up.” Jack said.
“Boarded up?”
“Yes, ma’am, from the fire.”
She gave Jack a hotel phone number in New York City. Jack called repeatedly, but never got an answer in Fields’s suite. He knew it was better to catch a source off guard so he didn’t leave a message.
Sipping a cup of coffee at a local diner. Jack glanced at his list of leads. One jumped out at him: Erma Miles.
Jack went out for an early-morning jog. After forty-five minutes he slowed, turned a corner and found himself staring at the house of Erma Miles. He walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. When there was no answer he walked around to the back of the home.
Across the yard he saw a small figure, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and crouching over some flowering bushes in the garden. Gloved hands skillfully clipped and shaped the plants.
Without turning to look at him, she asked. “Who might you be?”
“Jack Rudly.” He wiped a bead of sweat as it trailed down his temple.
“You’re Bill Rudly’s son, the journalist, aren’t you?” She turned, her blue eyes sparkling with vitality.
“Yes, ma’am. I was wondering if I could speak to you about your husband?”
Erma’s face clouded. “My Adam passed away some time ago.”
“I was sorry to hear that.”
She stood and patted his arm. “Thank you.”
“I don’t mean to impose on you, but-”
“Yes, you do. You need something.”
“You’re right. I do. I was wondering about Adam’s relationship to my father. Specifically, why they started meeting. Can you help me?”
“I’m not sure. Come in.” She led him through the back door of her home.
“You need to be careful, young man. There are those who would not take kindly to your inquiries. Your father, God rest his soul would have told you that.” Erma removed her hat, revealing perfectly coifed white hair.
“How well did you know my father?”
“Only socially. Our paths crossed quite often at political functions. He and Adam disagreed regularly.” She hung the hat on a wall hook next to the door, and continued into the kitchen with Jack close behind. “Even though they often argued. Adam always had the utmost respect for him. He wasn’t bogged down in all the political hoopla. He just told it straight – very diplomatically, of course. Boy, he used to raise the hair on the back of Edmund Lane’s neck. Those two were always fighting.”