For the first ten minutes of the program, Gregory’s theory proved correct: soppy human-interest stuff, but critically no surprises. No news, just background.
Ed had flown over as promised and a speakerphone line was open with Hank Clemens and Bill Edwards, as well as a few Republican officials in case they needed to coordinate reactions. The Party stayed rock solid. Not one representative with any clout agreed to appear on the program, a point Mike Mandrake tried shoving up them at the start of the show when he interviewed former Republican National Committee chairman, Michael Steele, who had nothing of value to say, much like when he was still in office.
IN the few hours’ build up to Close-up’s timeslot, Isis wasn’t the only one making moves. Despite Bill Edwards’ advanced years, he moved fast too, shifting the entire inner core of the Republican Party organisation into crisis gear. What with the calls from CBS, the program teasers, and the intensifying media speculation, it was too much to leave solely in the hands of the candidate and her campaign team. What if this really was big?
Bill had personally called to put each member of the Executive of the Republican National Committee on red alert and, by the time Close-up was on air, Bill wasn’t sitting on just any open line, contrary to what Isabel and the others in Detroit believed; he and the entire Executive Committee, or ExCom, were bunched around the massive oak table in his dining room. All their church-going and family Sundays had been cancelled and they’d jetted in from around the country to assemble at Bill’s home. Fortunately, the secret gathering hadn’t leaked to anyone, not even to the campaign. A news story like “GOP in panic” was the last thing Bill wanted, even if it were true. Actually, it was the second last thing he’d want.
Unhappily, he’d be getting both.
Bill had also dragged in Myron Kowalski, a wily old-faithful constitutional lawyer who, even more than that turncoat Robert Dupont, had provided the backbone of the party’s legal advice for over thirty years, even if his own was clearly suffering acute curvature these days.
ISABEL was tetchy; who wouldn’t be, waiting to hear about a past you didn’t know you had until yesterday and having it broadcast live to millions of viewers?
But when the program ran an old scratchy newsreel, it gave her such a jolt that Ed put his hand on her shoulder to steady her.
The dateline on the screen was 1968. US President Lyndon B. Johnson was welcoming a line of Latin-looking officials to the White House, taking each of them one-by-one for individual photo-ops. As the fourth man, small, rotund, almost bald, was walking up to shake LBJ’s hand, the voiceover announcer intoned, “This man is Dr Hernandez Diaz, the father that, until now, Isabel Diaz didn’t know she had.”
“That’s not him,” she said to no one in particular. “They’ve got the wrong…” She removed Ed’s hand from her shoulder. “This whole thing is cra… rubbish.”
“You’re kidding, right?” said Gregory, hoping she was not.
She held up her hand, and asked for someone to go out to the van for her satchel.
Bill Edwards spoke up on the open line, “Bel, what’s that you say?”
“Bill,” she said, “that man with LBJ might well have been a Chilean diplomat called Hernandez Diaz, but he was not my father.”
“How do you know?” Bill asked.
At that moment, one of the Secret Service detail returned from outside with her bag. Isabel pulled the old photo-frame out of its zipper pocket at the side and held it up for all in the church hall to see. “Because this man was my father… Bill, I’ve got a photo of him here,” she said in explanation. “It was my mother’s.”
A weird thing to carry around, thought Gregory—and most of the others—but even so, it was a lucky break. He dictated a silent “note to self”: next campaign, check for rot in candidate’s family tree, and always get mug shots.
The heavy mood in the church hall vaulted instantly to jokey bemusement about Mike Mandrake’s very public, humiliating error, with enough bluster they could have been in a gym locker-room.
Isabel passed the photo-frame to Ed for safekeeping, and headed for the bar that had been set up in the corner for a spicy tomato juice. She needed a big hit of Tabasco.
The bravado and the barbs about Mandrake were getting somewhat offensive. Isabel hadn’t minded the initial comments about his “radio head” and “newspaper voice” but the steam-letting was getting a little too warm.
“That jerk is so done with TV now.”
“TV? After this effort, those whiskers won’t even be welcome on a broom at any newspaper I know.”
Ed stepped back to the buffet table and lifted a knife. Unnoticed by the others who were still enjoying their moment, he slunk to the darkened rear of the room.
“They’re going to look like… like idiots when we get this out… So, Isabel? What do you say? Shall we call them right now?” Gregory suggested with just a touch too much glee.