Five turbulent days later, the RNC met, with little choice but to rubber-stamp the ExCom’s recommendations—not least because, at Bill’s insistence, Hank, Perry and Isabel, without missing a beat, had all three gone straight out onto the hustings to try to salvage as much momentum as possible; and because Bill had leaked the recommendations to the media.
This was a brand-new ball game. Bill… everyone… knew that. Like most vice-presidential candidates, Hank hadn’t been taken seriously until now. The most flattering comment that could have been made about his public performances to date was that he hadn’t said anything stupid, which was easy for him since he hadn’t said anything at all; he’d just looked fine standing at-ease in the traditionally respectful spot back and to the side of Isabel at her rallies. And while he filled the minimum technical qualifications for president—over thirty-five and, yes, truly a natural born citizen—the public now needed to know exactly who this low-profile man really was, whereas the key task that Bill Edwards knew faced his Party was precisely the opposite: to prevent people finding out.
According to Gregory, when Hank was handed the nomination form where it said “Sign here,” he wrote “Virgo”.
It was why Bill knew he had to lean on Isabel to keep campaigning, though now for the team, not herself. In the current circumstances, if they didn’t have her up front, the Party’s chances approached zero. They all knew that when people focused on Hank he’d make even George W. Bush and Al Gore seem like they’d been jived-up marionettes dancing on crack. Hank Clemens might have a heart of gold but, as the saying went, so did a hard-boiled egg.
Perry Patein, the new running mate, had been Isabel’s original preference before Bill Edwards had white-anted him in favour of Hank. Though also young, at forty-two, Perry was no dewy-eyed, Republican apple-polisher. He’d started life as a hard-hitting economist working on education policy, for the Democrats back then, as it happened. Isabel met him later when he was seeking funding for education programs that he was developing for Africa. That steered him toward gaining a wider experience in foreign affairs, including a short stint in Iraq, and it wasn’t long after that when he won his seat in Congress.
That fateful night, Bill told his ExCom colleagues that even if Isabel’s heart wasn’t in continuing to trudge the campaign trail, the pressure on her would be enormous. And, when he called her in Detroit at 3:15 AM, it already was. She and Ed were still thrashing around the alternatives themselves. Gregory had just left their hotel suite for bed, Isabel only half-kidding that she’d ring housekeeping to remove the razor blades from his bathroom.
So Bill had an easier task than he expected. After what they’d achieved so far, there was no way Isabel and Ed could bear even the image of Bobby Foster’s stockinged feet up on the desk in the Oval Office. They’d both known that much even without speaking.
Isabel and Ed didn’t need Bill or even a poll to convince them that without the halo of Isabel’s ongoing presence on the hustings and her strong advocacy, whoever they replaced her with was guaranteed to go down in a screaming heap. With her, they still might not win, but at least they’d have a fighting chance.
And besides, she was going to have plenty of free time—her Representative’s seat in the House had just been pulled out from under her, too. Old Kowalski had contributed that fine piece of news to Bill Edwards straight after Close-up. He’d pointed out that for Isabel to keep her seat in Congress she still had to be a citizen, though unlike with the presidency, being naturalised was acceptable.
“No problem,” Bill had said. “We’ll get a naturalisation fast-tracked.” Bill was already thinking about whose arm he’d be twisting for that.
“No,” said Kowalski, “she’s got to be a citizen for seven years first.”
IN the lead up to the official RNC meeting, almost every lawyer in the country who’d been pumping for a Diaz win had pored over the Constitution and the case law. The Republican National Lawyers’ Association had convened an urgent web conference of its constitutional law experts. The Heritage Foundation asked its legal scholars to opine. Major newspapers and magazines published opinion pieces galore on the subject. TV networks keen to prove Professor Dupont and Close-up wrong, especially FOX, scrabbled around for their own telegenic experts.
The Democratic Party was ecstatic. Bobby Foster was riding an all-time high, and it was with no assistance from unlawful substances.