“You believe in the ‘No Child Left Behind’ movement, don’t you?”
“Yes, actually I do.”
“How about the ‘No State Left Behind’ movement?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Mississippi ranks forty-seventh in education. We have been asking for additional education funding for years and we haven’t received one Indian Head nickel. Did you know there are only six public schools in the whole state of Mississippi where students can access the internet? Six schools.”
“I was not aware of that.”
“How many schools in Massachusetts have internet-access?
“I’m not sure of the exact number.”
“More than six?”
“Yes, I’m sure it is more than six.” Senator Day gave his first offer in the negotiation. “I will see to it that you get approval for the education funds your state is requesting.”
“That’s good…for starters,” Senator Grumman said, looking out the window, hiding his smile. Sensing a fish on the line, the senator from Mississippi set the hook and started reeling. He spilled his tears over state roads, and the need for a larger chunk of federal funds for Mississippi asphalt.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Well then, I guess there is only one thing left.”
“What’s that, Senator Grumman?”
“What are you going to do for me?”
Senator Day read between the thick dark lines. Another check, another payoff. A personal endorsement to the re-elect Senator Grumman fund, available for immediate withdrawal. Senator Grumman pulled out a cigar as Senator Day left his office. Orange juice and a Cuban, the breakfast of champions. He had reason to celebrate. Senator Day had just guaranteed the great senator his re-election.
One vote down, two to go.
The Rupp Building was the oldest office facility still in use by members of the U.S. Senate, standing two doors down from the U.S. Supreme Court with its impressive staircase and soaring Roman columns. The Supreme Court blocked the morning sun, casting an a.m. shadow of righteousness that appropriately stopped at the foot of the Rupp Building and Senator Al Wooten’s office on its east side.
Senator Al Wooten, ex-college basketball player and Oxford scholar, was the tallest official in the Senate. He was also on a permanent vacation and wasn’t afraid to let everyone outside of his constituents know it. He was in his first term, planned on a second one, and as long as he played it cool, he figured he would set a record for Senate tenure. He had reached the apex of his career. He had no ambition to go further. Why should he? He knew life couldn’t get any better, and he was willing to do anything to remain where he was. Six years was a long time between elections. He had four more years of R&R ahead of him. With good health, good luck, and good weather, he would be shooting par at Congressional by the start of his next term.
Senator Wooten was a man of many words, and not afraid to use each and every one of them. The gregarious senator showed up for votes on the Senate floor without fail. He made sure to give his two cents on whatever the issue was, just to be on record, proof to his constituents that he was hard at work. What no one knew was that Senator Wooten pushed the electronic vote button at his assigned seat in the capitol with the randomness of a roulette wheel. Less for the really important issues, the ones that affected him directly, he let lady luck form public policy.
He had developed numerous voting systems, all equally lacking in political acumen. Who cared how he voted? How many constituents actually follow the votes of their senators and congressman on a daily basis?
Exactly.
Senator Wooten’s favorite vote-deciding factor was the number of guests in the far section of the visitor’s balcony. An even number of visitors earned a “no” vote. An odd number ensured a “yes.” The Anti-Deforestation Bill, and millions of century-old hardwoods, had passed by a single vote, thanks to the elderly gentleman with the cane who returned from the bathroom just as the senator was ready to lower his thumb.
The fact that Senator Wooten didn’t care how he voted didn’t mean he underestimated the value of a vote. Senator Day came to find out how much it would cost for the senator to put down the flip of the coin for the Special Committee on Overseas Labor.
Senator Day walked into Senator Wooten’s office and announced himself. “He is waiting for you,” Senator Wooten’s middle-aged secretary answered, her wire-frame glasses hanging around her neck by a silver chain.
The opening conversation was a rerun of the one he had just had with Senator Grumman. Senator Day forced his way through the niceties with a smile, as if it had been years since anyone had asked him about his life, his wife, or his upcoming child. He explained the vote at the upcoming Senate committee, and Senator Wooten understood.
“So you want me to change my opinion and vote against an international minimum wage,” Senator Wooten asked, cutting to the chase after five minutes of heavy hints and innuendo.
“Well Senator, I’m never sure what anyone’s opinion really is until I see how they vote, so I can’t say whether I’m trying to change yours.”
“Senator Day, it wouldn’t get me very far if I told you I was ready to go along with a vote in favor of a bill that would lead to more overseas job flight. You’re here for a reason. If I tell you I was ready to vote in favor of overseas labor, what would that get me? Votes aren’t free, Senator. So for the sake of progressing this conversation to a mutually beneficial conclusion, let’s assume I am voting against overseas labor. Let’s assume I am in favor of an international minimum wage for U.S. firms doing business overseas. Let’s assume I believe legislation is the only thing that will drive jobs back to the U.S.”
“Overseas labor is not a popular topic these days. Your assumptions merely confirmed my suspicion on your position.”
“No, overseas labor is not a popular drum to beat in the current political environment. But I don’t let public opinion interfere with business either. Constituents just aren’t privy to all the information that we as senators have at our disposal. I believe I was elected to make educated decisions for my constituents. Whether they realize it or not.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Senator.”
“You invest in real estate?”
“Dabble a bit.”
“You ever heard of Wellfleet Bay?”
Senator Day perked up. “Of course. It’s a wildlife sanctuary on Cape Cod. Some of the most pristine land in my home state. A thousand acres of marsh and woodland, surrounded by spotless beaches. When I was a child, my grandfather took me clamming and fishing off the banks of Wellfleet Bay. Who knows, if God blesses me with a healthy son, maybe I can take him there someday.”
“Yes, Senator Day. It is beautiful land. Pristine, as you say.”
“Do you fish, Senator Wooten?”
“No, I don’t even like the taste. But I do like real estate, Senator Day. I do like real estate. They just aren’t making any more earth, and the law of supply and demand is being driven by an ever-increasing population and a finite supply of land.”
“Never have truer words been spoken.”
“Just north of Eastman on the Cape’s west coast is a ten acre plot of land I have interest in. Only problem is that the land lies adjacent to a remote corner of the Wellfleet Bay sanctuary. No sense in buying the land if I can’t develop it…”
Senator Day cringed as Senator Wooten described the plot of land with surveyor-like detail—information gleaned from online photos. Senator Wooten did love real estate. And he had spent the previous afternoon searching Massachusetts for a prime investment opportunity stalled by politics.
The two politicians drank coffee as Senator Wooten showed that he did indeed know the value of a vote. And if Senator Day could clear an inside tract to ten acres of idyllic real estate, he figured he could make a few million just divvying up the land and re-selling it.