Even though she wasn’t officially running, Isabel Diaz was Foster’s real opposition.
“This is a fucking phantom election,” Don swore to Foster over the phone. “We’re fighting Clemens, but everyone’s convinced that a vote for him’s a vote for Diaz. She’s not even on the voting paper. How do we fight that?”
“You’re asking me?” said Foster.
DON knew they couldn’t attack Isabel—she was America’s sweetheart, even more so after an absurd legal technicality had shouldered her to the sidelines. What the Foster campaign did now had to be directed squarely at Hank and yet, the cynical wine-soaked Washington media were already sloshing around and toasting the guy.
But Don had faith. He’d only lost one campaign in his long career and this wasn’t going to be another. In his game, you could lose one presidential campaign and survive, but not two. He’d honed his instincts with experience and doggedness. His famous stoop developed over decades poring 24/7 over newspapers, newsletters, magazines, TV and web pages, never sleeping till every angle was covered, analysed and dealt with. A veteran of more campaigns at both federal and state level than almost anyone in the party, Don Thomas knew how to recognise a flake, and Hank was a flake.
He had to expose him… he just didn’t know how, yet. And time was no friend.
Don cloistered himself in Democrat campaign headquarters’ media room with a six-pack of Bud, two 25s of Marlboro Red and a small package from FedEx he’d just flown in—a DVD, according to the label his assistant saw before he snatched it from her hand and double-locked the door behind him. The tittle-tattle within the team was that Don had lost it; he’d given up on winning and had imported some porn, some beers and some smokes and was going to blow the campaign.
Don ignored the stares and elbow nudges as he flicked one switch to turn the glass partition opaque and another to cut the lights. He twisted his first Bud long-neck open and took a swig. The first Marlboro flew to his mouth, as if it were guiding his hand there, and he let it droop waiting for a thought to emerge.
It didn’t. So he inserted the DVD and hit Play. He ran it for a second before skimming ahead on fast-forward. After a while, he paused it and lit his cigarette. He took several long drags as an idea staggered its way out, but he rejected it. He pressed play briefly then fast-forwarded again. He repeated this cycle ten or fifteen times. What was he looking for? He still had no clue. For the first twenty minutes it was an exercise in desperate hope, no more than a frustrating time-filler and an excuse to get through three cigarettes and two beers. By the third beer, his concentration was intense and he was leaning so close into the screen he was almost in it, almost tongue-close to the monitor. What gripped his attention was the brow that Hank Clemens kept digging into his face, filling it with soothing gravitas. At Don’s insistence, this DVD had been loaded up with every TV interview Hank Clemens had given over the last rotten godforsaken week. The “brow” started with Meet the Press and, as the week’s clips progressed from there, Hank’s forehead developed more and more of these brows and the furrows notched in deeper and deeper. He was no Mr Country Club, not any more.
Hank was Mr Responsibility. Mr Trust Me.
Mr Fake.
Don banged down his Bud with such force that the geyser of beer it shot up spilled over the table. He drew back on his smoke. Don’s revelation was about imagery, not Hank’s actual words; especially since Don had intentionally kept the sound on mute the first and second times around. It was in the way Hank said whatever crap he’d been schooled to say. It was like the guy had just learned up the whole series of “How to Appear Presidential in Ten Easy Lessons,” a course the GOP must have designed only after George W. Bush left office.
Why hadn’t Don picked up on this before? It was so damned obvious.
Don lit up another cigarette unaware he still had one in his mouth. In campaigning, he reminded himself, there was nothing wrong or immoral about phony sincerity. Politics was built on it. What was wrong was getting caught.
No one had noticed it because they didn’t want to or, like Don, they weren’t looking hard enough. Don fumed at how the subway attack had played into Republican hands. The media, the public—everyone—had gone soft on Hank, respectful, toning down their previously harsh critiques… this wasn’t the time to be petty… we need to elevate the debate… let’s not sink into the gutter… or break a plate.