Anthony McCarthy could handle panic. For three decades, he’d been in the business of politics. He worked on his first presidential campaign, stuffing envelopes, while still in high school. Now a nationally connected political operative, he was a principal in one of Washington’s most sought-after lobbying consulting firms. Many present and would-be political figures believed that, if you wanted to get elected, Anthony McCarthy was absolutely the best man out there to run your campaign.
He had skills, he thought matter-of-factly. And he had a few gifts.
One gift that McCarthy had recognized in himself early on was his ability to predict during the last three months of campaigning the outcome of any race. Not just most of the time. One hundred percent of the time. In presidential races, he’d been correct in every one of the past seven elections, and his own candidate wasn’t always on the winning ticket.
The Hawkins-Penn presidential race had been in the bag for the past six months, if not longer. Hawkins had done everything he could to alienate the world, and the American public had grown tired of it. In fact, McCarthy was so relaxed about the outcome of the election that he’d gone along with his client’s decision not to campaign the final day. When John Penn wanted to go home, he’d just passed the word, made the requisite cancellations and apologies, thanked everyone for their support, and let the affected organizers know that President Penn wouldn’t forget them down the road.
But then the tide had turned.
This morning, in his house in Georgetown, McCarthy woke up sweating, staring up at the dark ceiling, knowing that the bottom had dropped out. A moment later, his phone had started to ring.
Transportation was a colossal problem for everyone on the East Coast. But for a man who’d helped generals and admirals and astronauts win Senate seats, it was a non-issue.
McCarthy had pulled out all the stops. He twisted arms and called in favors. Inside of an hour, he was on an Air Force jet that took him from Washington to Quonset Point, Rhode Island. And from there, a navy chopper delivered him to Newport, depositing him on the front lawn of Senator John Penn’s mansion on the water.
Striding across the soft wet ground now, looking at the mist clinging dismally to the white edifice, McCarthy wasn’t worried that a nuclear submarine was about to blow a few million people off the face of the earth. No, he had more important things to worry about. He wasn’t ready to arrange for the burial of a campaign. They might be done. Defeated. Kaput. But they could at least go down with some dignity.
Inside, the mood of his client and the staff and aides was far worse than McCarthy had foreseen. Congressman Peter Gresham, Senator Penn’s running mate, was stranded in Ohio where he’d been campaigning the day before.
McCarthy rolled his sleeves up and went to work.
“There’s a line of reporters at least ten deep out by the gate,” he announced to the roomful of gloomy faces. “We’re calling a news conference, Senator.”
“And say what?” the senator asked. “Repeat what they already know? I’ve made a dozen phone calls to the Pentagon, the Secretaries of Defense and Homeland Security. I’ve even called the White House, but there’s not one iota of material that they’re not controlling carefully.”
Despite McCarthy’s connections, he hadn’t been able to get anything out of Washington, either. “President Hawkins had a press conference at nine o’clock. The White House has already announced that he’s planning to have another one at eleven o’clock. And knowing the crew that’s pushing his campaign, he or the Vice President will continue to have one every two hours after that.”
“He’s updating the people with what’s going on. He has a legitimate reason to be on camera,” Penn argued. “I don’t. This isn’t the time for politics.”
“Excuse me, Senator, but why do you think he’s on? He could put any number of his people in front of those cameras. He has a press secretary to do the job.”
“This is different.”
“Is it?” McCarthy argued. “In 2001, Bush only appeared on camera once on September 11th.”
“That wasn’t an election year,” Greg Moore chirped in.
“You got it.” McCarthy pointed to the young man. He looked around the room, waiting for his enthusiasm to start to ripple through the rest of them. Everyone seemed to be avoiding eye-contact.
Two of the aides rushed to get a fax that was printing in the next room. Another aide rubbed on an imaginary spot on the coffee table. A young woman reached for the phone practically before it rang. They were all scared shitless. This was not the same firecracker bunch that had helped get them to this point.
“Anthony’s right, honey,” Penn’s wife said from the doorway. “We have to find a reason to put your pretty face on TV.”
McCarthy hadn’t noticed the willowy red-head come in. She was wearing a white turtleneck shirt under faded jean overalls and holding her wet lap dog, a yappy and beloved shiatsu, under an arm. As always, Anna Penn looked so completely opposite to any potential First Lady ever. But Anthony didn’t think her husband minded, nor did the segments of the population they’d polled over the past year. People simply liked her as she was — crazy and unpredictable to the bone. Somebody else would have to rein her in once they were in the White House. It was just his job to get them there.
“Actually, coming up with a reason for a press conference is easy,” she continued, winking at McCarthy. “We’ll just have Aileen take Owen out for some air in his wheelchair and push him down the Forty Steps and off the Cliff Walk.”
The suggestion elicited a small gasp from one of the junior aides. McCarthy eyed the young woman. She obviously hadn’t spent much time in the company of the senator’s wife. If she had, she’d have known of the woman’s sometimes bizarre sense of humor.
“It’s raining outside,” Penn responded to his wife with a smile. “Even if Owen is willing, I don’t think Aileen will go for it. You know how she hates getting wet. No, honey. We’ll save that one for another day.”
“Just trying to help, dear.”
As she went out, the senator turned his attention to McCarthy. “Look, Anthony. I already looked like a fool once today. I’m not doing it again. I’m not going before TV cameras knowing less than they know.”
“We can come up with a reason” McCarthy said, looking around the room, hoping for some contribution. “Perhaps not what Mrs. Penn is suggesting, but something legitimate and meaningful,”
“You can volunteer to be on any team that will negotiate with the hijackers, Senator,” Greg Moore suggested.
John Penn shook his head. “No. You can bet Jesse Jackson is already putting together an expedition.”
“Maybe he hasn’t.” McCarthy said with enthusiasm. “We should try.”
“I’m not about to risk making this situation worse by jumping into the middle just to get a little attention,” Penn said shortly.
“You brought up Jesse Jackson. If the hijackers aboard that ship will respect a black American—”
“Stop right there,” Penn said, standing up. “I want everyone out… except Anthony and Greg.”
The aides quickly cleared the room. Greg Moore looked uncomfortable. When the door closed, Penn turned to McCarthy.
“Look, Anthony. I’m in the position I’m in today because, in the view of my party, I represent a philosophy of governing that is better than the man in the White House. They back me because I have a record in the Senate that says exactly what I stand for. I’m a lawyer and I stand firmly within the mainstream of U.S. political thought. Jesse Jackson has made a career out of being an outsider. Whether he really is an outsider or not is beside the point. He has met with successes negotiating with some of America’s enemies because of his status as an outsider.”