By the time I finally met Stacey face-to-face, she was just hours from taking the stage. From the campaign video, I knew she wasn’t tall or broad shouldered. But when I saw her sitting outside one of the prep rooms, I was struck by just how tiny she was. Our speech coach, a woman who dressed like a high school principal and specialized in fine-tuning delivery, was not exactly a giantess herself. Yet she towered over Stacey as they shook hands. Then Stacey walked to the practice podium.
“Governor Romney says that people like me were most excited about President Obama the day we voted for him. But that’s not true. Not even close.”
At times, her voice quavered. Her eyes filled with tears as she struggled to keep emotions in check. But behind her fear and frustration I could see unshakable courage, the Pomeranian that thinks it’s a pit bull.
When Stacey reached the end of her remarks, the speech coach administered instructions. Pause here. Breathe there. Don’t be afraid to speak over audience clapping; the sound of applause fades faster on TV. Stacey did one more run-through and then prepared to leave the room. But the speech coach wouldn’t let her. I figured she was about to suggest another word to emphasize, or offer a tip on modulating one’s voice.
“I wanted to let you know something,” the coach said. “My daughter has a congenital heart defect, too.” Suddenly, we weren’t operatives anymore. Everyone was crying.
On the convention’s first evening, Michelle Obama gave one of the best addresses I had ever heard. San Antonio mayor Julian Castro delivered an impressive keynote. In the referees’ locker room, we breathed easier—our first day in Charlotte was Eastwood free.
But for me, one highlight stood above the rest. At 8:42 P.M., Stacey Lihn took the stage in a purple dress, with just the tiniest bit of terror in her eyes. Caleb followed, holding Zoe in his right arm while Zoe’s big sister, Emmy, trailed behind. Voice trembling at first, but growing stronger with each sentence, Stacey spoke about the relief the Affordable Care Act had brought her family. She spoke about the possibility that Zoe might need a heart transplant.
“When you have a sick child, it’s always in the back of your mind, and sometimes in the front of your mind. On top of that, to worry that people let an insurance company take away her health care, just because of politics?”
In the three years and eight months since Barack Obama had taken office, important laws had gone unpassed. The Tea Party reanimated America’s darkest instincts. The new House majority made partisanship a way of life. No wonder that, to most Americans, politics had become a dirty word.
But here was this mighty speck of a woman. She hadn’t sought the spotlight. With so many challenges facing her family, no one would have blamed her for leaving the big picture to someone else. Yet she saw a connection between the man who held the nation’s highest office and a two-year-old girl who held a stuffed purple sheep. She was willing to open her heart to twenty thousand strangers in Charlotte because she knew her fight was not hers alone. That was politics, too.
IN WASHINGTON, THE WAY YOU REFER TO IMPORTANT PEOPLE IS governed by a web of unwritten rules. If you and a VIP have no real relationship, you do not fake it. Instead, you use their last name and title, even when talking with friends.
“Governor Kaine sent some edits.”
“I just had speech prep with Secretary Duncan. He was really down to earth!”
If you’re familiar with the boss, shorthand becomes acceptable. But for those outside the inner circle—a staff assistant, for example—first names remain taboo. Initials are preferred. “CVH” for Congressman Chris Van Hollen. “DWS” for Debbie Wasserman Schultz. Even senior advisors shy away from first names. They signal familiarity by naming the office instead.
“Heads up, the governor has a few edits.”
“You’ll like the secretary. He’s really down to earth.”
You are free to use the first name of a powerful person only when the following two conditions are met. One, you must have a genuine working relationship. Two, the VIP in question must still, on some level, be staff. I could write Valerie in e-mails. Back when I was avoiding S sounds in his speeches, I could refer to the chief of staff as Bill. But in the White House, you never heard the words Barack or Joe under any circumstances, not even from people who considered them close friends.
When it comes to talking about famous people, Hollywood is D.C.’s mirror image. I learned this when I was told that Scarlett and Kerry were still on board, but that Natalie had dropped out. Erik Smith, the strategist who assigned me to the actresses, was the one to deliver the news. He also told me the whole thing had been Harvey’s idea.
I didn’t need to ask who “Harvey” was. Harvey Weinstein, the legendary producer behind everything from Pulp Fiction to Spy Kids 3, was a major Democratic donor. A week earlier, he had decided Clint Eastwood’s ramble deserved a response from Hollywood. Phone calls were made. Favors were called in. In no time, three actresses had been tapped to fly to Charlotte and address important issues head-on.
The campaign staff was more than happy to have well-known stars on the program. When it came to the speech itself, however, they devised a bait and switch. Rather than have them speak about issues, we would team them up to promote online watch parties for President Obama’s closing-night address. My first draft of a script, which I’d sent over on Tuesday, was designed to do exactly that.
But now Natalie was out. This meant we’d have to tinker with the dialogue, and on Wednesday morning I joined a conference call with Kerry to regroup. I recognized her voice immediately from Scandal. But there was another voice as well, with a nasal gruffness that suggested its owner had begun chewing a steak in 1997 and was not yet through with the gristle. Harvey was on the line.
And he was pissed. After reading my draft about watch parties, Harvey had concluded that I was trying to manipulate him. This simply wasn’t true. I was trying to help other people manipulate him. But I suspected the distinction might not make much difference. Each time Kerry offered a thought, the producer leapt in.
“Don’t let him do this to you, Kerry! Don’t let them push you around!”
My day did not improve from there. Returning to the locker room, I learned that Scarlett, too, had spoken with Harvey. Rather than work with me, she would now write her draft herself. I couldn’t help but wonder what sorts of things were being said about me.
Then, just a few hours later, I found out. I was in a coffee shop, stress-eating a salted caramel brownie and downing a double espresso, when my phone began to vibrate. It was a 917 number I hadn’t seen before.
“Harvey Weinstein wants to speak with you,” said an assistant.
“Really? Are you sure?”
But there was no escaping it. There was a brief silence, and then the assistant’s cheerful singsong was replaced by a now-familiar bark. “David Litt?”