The director, in his trailer behind the auditorium, was the first person in the United States to figure out that Ogle had taken them for a ride. The choreography of this debate, which had been hammered out through many hours of negotiations, over a period of weeks, had just been torn to shreds and replaced by something totally new, entirely Ogle's.
The moderator began the debate with a few introductory remarks. On TV, you always had to explain the obvious, over and over again: "In four days, Americans go to the polls to select the man who will be their next president. This is a profoundly significant choice ..."
"... this debate was originally intended to include all three major candidates. Tonight, we have two of them. The President of the United States. And Representative Tip McLane of California."
As the moderator introduced the two men, the directory, outside in the trailer, caused their faces to appear on air. Neither one of them seemed to be ready for it. Ever since Ogle's announcement, no one had really known what the hell was going on, what would happen when, who would be introduced in what order. McLane and the President had both spent a lot of time in front of television cameras in the last few days, in the privacy of their campaign headquarters, practicing what they would do at the moment they were introduced; now, neither one of them did the right thing. They looked agitated, sweaty, shifty-eyed, and when they realized they were on TV, they both looked surprised.
"The third candidate, William A. Cozzano, Governor of Illinois, announced a few minutes ago that he could not participate."
The director cut to a camera that had been set up to show all three of the candidates' lecterns in a single shot. McLane and the President looked stiff and self-conscious. The empty lectern made both of them look foolish.
"Instead, he will be addressing us from his home in Tuscola, Illinois."
Cut to the shot of Cozzano's house with the sun setting behind it. It looked inviting and refreshing compared to the stale tense atmosphere of the auditorium.
"Now, the format of this debate has been established in advance, by consensus between campaign staffs and the sponsoring organizations, and I intend to adhere strictly to that format. But there is one deviation that needs to be made, and we will do that right away now and get it out of the way. I understand that Governor Cozzano has an important announcement that he needs to make, and that he is going to make it now. So I will offer the floor to him at this time. Governor Cozzano, are you there?"
"Here goes nothing," said the director, out in his trailer, and cut from the image of the moderator back to the feed from Tuscola.
The feed remained steady on the image of the house for a minute. Lights were coming on inside as the sun set spectacularly behind it. It looked cheery and welcoming and it broke the rigid, lockstep schedule of the debate. Then the Tuscola feed cut to a shot of William A. Cozzano. But it was not the expected picture of Cozzano in a suit, sitting by the fire reading a book and smoking a pipe. It was totally different. For a few moments, it was difficult to make out. Cozzano appeared to be lying on his back in a cramped space, staring upward, reaching up above him with one arm. "Good evening," he said, "I'll be with you momentarily."
Cut to another angle of the same thing. Whatever Cozzano was doing, and wherever he was, they had at least two cameras on him.
This angle was a closeup of Cozzano's hand. It was dirty and greasy and flecked with a small drop of blood where he had torn one of his knuckles. He was spinning some small metal object around between his fingers. Then he yanked his hand away and a stream of black fluid shot out of an opening and into a metal tray beneath.
Cut to yet another angle, this one showing Cozzano's legs sticking out from beneath a car. He was lying on the floor of his garage.
Actually, he was lying on a mechanic's creeper. He slid out from underneath the car, sat up, and rose lightly to his feet. He picked up an old rag and began to wipe oil from his hands, addressing the cameras. "My apologies. I wanted to participate in tonight's debate, but I've been very busy lately. A few days ago I stopped flying around the country for the first time in a couple of months and came back here to my home, the house that my father bought back during the Depression to impress a young woman named Francesca Dominica, who became his wife, and my mother.
"And, you know, I decided that I liked it here. And looking around the place I saw that there was a lot to do here that I had left undone." Cozzano nodded at his car. "For example, changing the oil in my car. I just took it for a quick drive through the cornfields, out to the old family home farm and back, to warm up the engine so that the oil would flow out. It was a nice drive. Some people think that the landscape here is boring, but I think it's beautiful."
Cozzano had begun to walk toward the camera, which backed away from him. It backed out of the garage door and into Cozzano's yard. Nearby was a large garden.
"This garden was in disgraceful shape. Hadn't been weeded in quite some time, and the weeds were bigger than the vegetables. So I took care of that. You can see it looks a little better now." Cozzano plucked a red ripe tomato from a vine and bit into it like an apple. Juice ran down his chin and he wiped it with the sleeve of his mechanic's overall. "Of course, home is more than just doing chores. Home means being with your family too."
Cozzano had now reached a patio, which was illuminated. A picnic table had been spread with a nice tablecloth and set with fresh vegetables from the garden and a platter of hamburgers. Sitting at the table was Mary Catherine Cozzano, pouring iced tea from a pitcher into three glasses. At the end of the table, James was manning a sizzling barbecue, flipping burger patties and hot dogs.
"This is my daughter, Mary Catherine. You may have heard of her recently, as media manipulators hired by my opponents have made strenuous efforts to assassinate her character. She has been nothing short of noble in the face of this mudslinging." Mary Catherine smiled and nodded at the camera.
"And this young man at the barbecue is my son, James, who has been working his tail off all year long, writing a book about this year's presidential campaign. He has just signed a deal with a major publisher in New York, and that book is going to be published on Inauguration Day."
Mary Catherine stood up, threw one arm around her brother's shoulder, and kissed him on the cheek.
In the auditorium, the audience went, "Ahhhh."
Tip McLane did not. He stepped away from the lectern and began to shout at the moderator: "I demand that this be stopped! This is no announcement! This is a free campaign commercial!"
The moderator looked at Cy Ogle, who was standing in the wings. "I have to agree. Mr. Ogle? I'm going to have to pull the plug."
"This ain't no campaign commercial," Ogle said, "because there ain't no campaign."
On the giant TV screen above their heads, Cozzano was beaming delightedly at his daughter and son. He turned back toward the camera. "When I came back here a few days ago, my intention was to prepare for the debate. But the home and family that I rediscovered here delighted me so much that I could not bring myself to look at the huge briefing books and the endless position papers that my campaign staff had prepared for me. I found that I would rather dig potatoes in the garden or sit on the front porch swing reading Mark Twain.
"Now, these are perfectly good things to do. But in a modern political campaign, it's regarded as improper, somehow, to act like a normal human being. And this brought me to the realization that there is something evil and twisted about the campaign process: the traveling, the speechifying, the television spots. The mudslinging. Wearing makeup sixteen hours a day. And most of all, the debates, with their false and pompous trappings."