Lewis Cole: Primary Storm Part 15

Chapter Eleven.

At home I was in my upstairs office, looking out the window, watching the snow start to tumble its way down. Up above the rise of land stood the Lafayette House, and somewhere in there was the surveillance tape of the nearby parking lot. I had an idea of where it might be, and I also had a couple of ideas of how I was going to get it.

But there were other things to do, as well.

From the Internet, I was able to call up a story from The Atlanta Journal-Const.i.tution and found out that yes, the good senator's wife had been in a car accident the previous month, while driving to a political function outside Atlanta. The story rated about four paragraphs and mentioned minor injuries on the behalf of Barbara Hale, and the usual and customary, "the accident remains under investigation."

All right, I thought. Step one complete. Time for step two. In the bad old days, before information got digitized, to find out about the Georgia Bureau of Investigation would have meant a call to directory a.s.sistance, a phone call to a central number, and maybe a half dozen more follow-up phone calls, as you navigated the bureaucracy and killed most of an afternoon. Yet now, it was all there, at your fingertips; it took only a few minutes before I got a public information officer's name and phone number from a quick Internet search.

Of course, this bit of information revolution didn't necessarily mean you got your information faster. Sometimes it just meant you hit the roadblocks that much sooner.

The public information officer's name was Samantha Tuckwell, she sounded like a charming lady from the Deep South, and while she would give me the time of day in Atlanta, Greenwich, and no doubt Murmansk, that's about as far as it went.

"So, tell me again what you're lookin' for, Mr. Cole?" came the sweet voice from some office park in Atlanta.

"As I said, I'm a writer for a magazine based in Boston. Called Sh.o.r.eline. I'm looking for some additional information about a traffic accident involving Senator Hale's wife, Barbara. It happened about a month ago."

"And this story ... all about a traffic accident?" Although there was a fair sprinkling of Southern charm and hospitality in that silky voice from hundreds of miles away, there was also about a ton of skepticism.

"Not just the accident. A profile piece about the senator and his wife ... and the accident's just part of the piece. A bit of human interest, that's all."

"Well, hold on, will you?"

"Certainly."

I held on as instructed and looked out at the heavy snow and the increasingly dark sky. I wondered what the weather was like in Atlanta. My Apple computer was humming along contentedly in front of me, and it would just take a few keystrokes to find the exact temperature and nature of Atlanta's weather, but I decided not to. Sometimes, mysteries are best left mysteries.

"Mr. Cole?"

"Right here."

"Mr. Cole, that accident took place on Tuesday, December twelfth, at six ten P.M., on Interstate Twenty. Mrs. Hale was the sole occupant of her automobile, a Lexus. She received minor injuries and was treated at the scene. The vehicle had to be towed away. The accident remains under investigation."

"I'm sure it does," I said. "But it's been over a month since it happened. What was the cause of the accident?"

"I can't rightly say, Mr. Cole. It remains under investigation." I switched the phone from one ear to the other. "Yes, I know.

But could you get an update for me, please."

"Why?"

I pondered what to say, decided to go for broke. "Well, Miss Tuckwell --- "

"Mrs. Tuckwell."

"Sorry, Mrs. Tuckwell, I would think that it would be your job. To answer questions from legitimate news organizations and writers."

"And your question is?"

Could someone be so dense, or so crafty? I said, "I'm looking for an update on Barbara Hale's traffic accident. To see if a cause of the accident was determined."

"Oh," she said, her voice cheerful again. "I certainly can find that out for you."

"Wonderful. When do you think you can get back to me? Later today? Tomorrow?"

"How does next Wednesday sound?"

"Wednesday? Next Wednesday sounds awful. Why so long?"

A soft chuckle, and I felt a bit of admiration that I was being played so well by this fine example of Southern womanhood. "Mr. Cole ... you seem to be a bright fella, and I've really enjoyed talking to you, but I'm sure you can figure out all on your own why I'm gonna give you a call next Wednesday."

"Because it's the day after the New Hamps.h.i.+re primary."

"Right," she said, almost purring. "That is entirely one hundred percent correct."

"But I'm not going to do anything --- "

"Mr. Cole, I've been on my job for a while and know all the ins and outs of dealin' with the news media. That means the rest of this conversation is off the record, and I'll ever deny saying it, but here it goes: we're awfully proud of our senator, we would love to see him in the White House, and we don't like the fact that your p.i.s.sant little frozen state is gonna have a key part in whether or not our man gets there. Understand? And you may be doing an innocent story and all that, but it sounds like bad publicity to me, professionally speakin'. And even if it is bad publicity, I'll still be doin' my job by callin' you back. But I'm just gonna be doin' it next Wednesday. All right?"

"All right. I understand completely. And Mrs. Tuckwell ... "

"Yes?"

"You're very good at what you do."

A throaty laugh. "Why, thank you, Mr. Cole. And you have yourself a real good day, okay?"

"Sure."

After I disconnected from this underpaid public servant, I stared for a while at the computer screen. In doing a search for Barbara Hale and her car accident, other links had come up as well. Including one involving the actual shooting at the Tyler Conference Center. I had been inside the conference center, I had seen the shooting's aftermath from the parking lot, and I had missed some of the news coverage.

So I had never seen the actual shooting footage.

I moved the mouse and double-clicked a few times. That was going to change.

The first link didn't work, because my Apple software --- being old and being Apple --- couldn't read the movie file. But the second link worked, and I felt the back of my neck tense up. I was back there in the conference room, feeling Sickly and warm and --- The footage went on, and there she was, up onstage with her husband. She was standing next to him at the lectern, just as I recalled. The speech went on and even though I knew what was going to occur in the next few moments, I had a dark sense of something bad about to happen. It was like the very first time, so many years ago, when I had viewed the Zapruder film of JFK's a.s.sa.s.sination. You wanted to stop the film. You wanted to shout out a warning. You wanted someone in the crowd, somewhere, to look up at the right time at the Texas School Book Depository.

And you felt so powerless.

A round of applause, the sound coming out quite nicely from my computer's dual speakers. Senator Hale was smiling. Barbara was right next to him, applauding along, and then she moved to the right a few feet, still applauding, and the applause died down and Senator Hale said, "Who among us ---"

The gunshots were loud and rapid, and the crowd screamed and shouted, and Senator Hale flinched, and in a matter of seconds, a crowd of Secret Service agents were upon Senator Hale and Barbara and they were gone, just like that, as the camerawork got jerky, out of focus, and- My breathing was rapid. I swallowed. Barbara.

I shut down my computer and went downstairs.

Dinner was a ham and Cheddar cheese omelet, and I sat on the couch and balanced the plate on my lap as I ate. I ate with Annie in mind and watched some of the cable television shows, all of them with breathless reports of who was up in the polls, down in the polls, when the next poll was going to come out, and what was going to happen then. There was shouting, there was yelling, there were accusations, and there were talking heads from the Hale, Pomeroy, Grayson, and Wallace campaigns.

I watched for about an hour, and in those entire sixty minutes, if anyone had talked about what was going on in our corner of the world, what was wrong, and how we could work together to improve it, I must have missed it.

After was.h.i.+ng the dishes and putting them away, I was planning to take a walk across the way, when there was pounding at my door.

I was in the living room and the sudden sound made me jump. Usually my visitors announce themselves through a phone call or such, and I don't like surprises. I thought quickly of securing my .357 Ruger --- usually kept downstairs in a kitchen drawer --- -but remembered that it was still in the possession of the Secret Service. My nine-millimeter Beretta was upstairs, but the knock came again and in that particular moment, I was tired of being afraid. So I left my weapons where they were and went across the living room.

I opened the door to a burst of swirling snow and a young man and woman wearing Clive Wallace campaign b.u.t.tons on their damp coats. "Good evening, sir," the young man said. "Can we have just a few minutes to talk to you about Congressman Clive Wallace?"

Any other time, I would have politely said no and would have closed the door. But this wasn't any other time. The snow was quite heavy, and while the young man had spoken to me, energy and confidence in his voice, his companion had stood there, a brave smile on her face, but from the light from the living room, it looked like her lips were turning blue, and she was s.h.i.+vering.

"Sure," I said. "Come on in."

They came in, snow coming off their arms and shoulders, and they politely stomped their feet on the doormat. I closed the door. They were in their early twenties, energy just radiating from them, and they wore what I guess was called "protest chic," cargo pants and heavy boots and tweed coats, and those popular wool caps from South America with earflaps and long strings. He had a thin, stringy brown beard and she had long black hair that had mostly escaped her hat.

In their thin-gloved hands, they held pamphlets, and the young woman pa.s.sed one over to me. "My First Sixty Days, by Congressman Clive Wallace," and on the back was a photo of the congressman, who looked to be about the same age as his volunteers.

"The name's James," he said, "and she's Julia. We're campaigning for Congressman Wallace, and I hope we can count on your support."

"I'm Lewis," I said, getting a brief handshake from the both of them. "And before we start talking politics, let's talk practical for a moment. How did you two get down here to my house?"

"We walked," Julia said, her voice a bit reproachful. "We were dropped off at the beach at ten this morning by our Tyler coordinator to canva.s.s the neighborhoods, but n.o.body knew that most of the places here are closed for the winter. So many empty cottages and buildings ... it was spooky as h.e.l.l."

"Where are you from?"

James said, "I'm from Pennsylvania, and Julia's from Florida. We're taking a year off from Amherst to campaign for the congressman. Sir, if you'd take a moment to look at the pamphlet and understand where ---"

But I was still paying attention to his friend, who had unb.u.t.toned her coat and was looking around my house, and I thought I saw a furtive sniff. I thought of what she had said and I asked, "When did you last eat?"

James, a bit defiant, said, "We had lunch, some sandwiches and ---"

Julia looked right at me and said, "We're starved."

He turned to her and said, "We still have some canva.s.sing to do and ---"

I opened the door for his benefit. "Look out there," I said. "See that snow? You try to walk back up my driveway, there's a good chance you'll wander off and fall into some rocks or boulders. Maybe even get drenched by a wave. And this time of night, there's not many locals out there who are going to want to talk to you."

"Sir," Julia said, "if we could stay for just a bit, we'd be very grateful"

About two minutes earlier I had known where this was going, but it still didn't make me feel particularly happy. I was doing the right thing, but as I closed the door, I also knew the Lafayette House was not in my plans tonight. We spent a while in the kitchen, as I went through what I had in the pantry, freezer, and refrigerator, and as James took charge and vetoed almost everything and anything that was meat-related, dairy-related, or was processed in some way. Finally, Julia said, "Oh, for G.o.d's sake, just shut up and let the man feed us. If you can make us a veggie omelet or something, that would be great."

James started to ask me whether the eggs were free-range or not, when I heard a thumping noise, and turned to hide a smile, knowing Julia had kicked her companion from underneath the countertop.

As my omelet pan made its second appearance of the day, James kept up a running conversation about his life, about volunteering for the Congressman Wallace campaign, and about his goals for his life and that of the congressman. From his talk I knew he was an intense young man, with a pa.s.sion for what he was doing, for not once did he mention Julia or inquire about my own political beliefs.

Even while they were eating, the fairly one-sided conversation continued, and once, while James was swallowing part of his meal, I caught Julia's attention and winked at her. That earned me a smile, a fair exchange.

But James had missed it all.

"The way I see it," he said, wiping up his plate with a piece of toast, "once the congressman gets to the White House, he's going to need us volunteers to move down there and keep the pressure up. That's the only way things will change. It will be a permanent campaign, day after day, week after week. We volunteers will move to D.C. and keep visiting the offices of the senators, and the congressmen, and the lobbyists, and we'll tell them that enough is enough. That change is coming, whether they like it or not."

"That sounds like a good idea," I said carefully. "But you're going to need to win a primary or two before you get there."

James smiled. "Don't you worry. We're going to win here next Tuesday, and win big, and that'll be the story of the year."

"The polls seem to say otherwise."

"The polls," James said. "Ha. First of all, they call people based on whether they've voted in the past. They don't count new voters. That's a good chunk right there, because Congressman Wallace has inspired hundreds and thousands of people who've never voted before. The pollsters also ignore those people who have cell phones, who are off the regular phone grid. Those people never get counted. And third, most polls are owned and operated by the big news media corporations. It's in their best interest to underestimate the support of Congressman Wallace."

"Why is that?" I asked, picking up the dishes.

"Because they know if the word gets out that Congressman Wallace's campaign is catching fire, is gaining support from the real people in this country, then the secret powers in this country, the corporations and their bought-and-paid-for politicians, will realize their time is over. That there's going to be big changes, real big changes, after the election. Read the pamphlet, Lewis, it's all in there. Sixty days. That's all he'll need to change this country."

Julia was keeping quiet, and I had the sense she had listened to this earnest screed about a half million times before. I started was.h.i.+ng the dishes and James, taking my silence for encouragement, went on. "Sixty days after the inauguration. Two months, and at the end of two months, we're going to eliminate all forms of racism and s.e.xism and ageism and ableism in government. We're also going to bring all the troops home, have free health care for everyone, free education, right up to college and graduate school, a new energy policy that considers people before profits, and a revised welfare program for the young and the old, and everyone else in between."

"That sounds great," I said. "How do you think it'll get paid for?"

"Taxes," he said. "That's the way all societies take care of their people."

"I see," I said. "And do you pay taxes?"

James said, "Ha! To this oppressive regime? The h.e.l.l I do. Besides, there's other ways to pay for what the people need. If we bring all our troops home, then we won't be instigating other peoples to hate us. Then you don't need a military. There's billions of dollars right there. And then there's the s.p.a.ce program."

I paused in my dishwas.h.i.+ng. 'What about the s.p.a.ce program?"

He made a dismissive noise. "Billions and billions ... spent for what? To send military pilots in s.p.a.ce? To get pretty pictures? To find out what kind of rocks are on Mars or the moons of Jupiter?"

I guess it's a tribute to the way I was brought up by my parents that the young man continued to sit at the counter, and wasn't trying to breathe snow while having been tossed headfirst into a nearby s...o...b..nk. Julia looked at me and I could tell that she knew her companion had hit home with that last remark, and she said, "There's other causes Congressman Wallace is fighting for that don't mean money being spent."

"Sure!" James said, still charged up. "There's laws that need to be pa.s.sed as well. Lots of different laws, like a law to eliminate heteronorminism, for example."

While this new recitation was going on, Julia came around the counter, wordlessly picked up a dish towel, and started drying the plates and silverware.

"I'm sorry," I said, also picking up a dishcloth. "I didn't recognize the last word you used. Heteronorminism."

"Sure," he said, as if eager to teach an oldster like myself something new. "You see, society and the way it projects itself in the media and advertising promotes the lifestyle of heteros.e.xuality as the only acceptable s.e.xual lifestyle there is. Heteronorminism. That leads to oppression and hate crimes and discrimination. What the congressman and others propose to do is to ensure that advertising and other media outlets do their part in recognizing other s.e.xual ident.i.ties, through a quota system. That way, by educating people as to what's really out there, you remove the fear. Remove the fear, you remove discrimination and the possibility of hate crimes."

I opened the cabinet, started putting the dry dishes away as Julia handed them over to me. "So ... if gays make up five percent or ten percent of the population, you'd require that five or ten percent of advertising depict gay people in the commercials?"

He laughed at me. "See! Right there, that's a perfect example of heteronorminism. You automatically a.s.sume that s.e.xuality is divided into two cla.s.ses: heteros.e.xuality and h.o.m.os.e.xuality. But there's so many others ... trans gender, preop transgender, transvestism, gender-neutral, and of course, the different cla.s.ses within the leather community. It's a very diverse subject."

"Of course," I said, fighting hard to keep my face straight.

"And your role is to educate the voters in New Hamps.h.i.+re as to the congressman's position regarding advertising and the different cla.s.ses within the leather community."

"Among other things," James said. "No offense, Lewis, and really, I hope you don't take offense, but it's amazing that such a small, overwhelmingly white and reactionary state like this one has such an enormous influence in choosing our next president. It really is outrageous, once you think about it. And it makes our job so much harder."

I dried my hands and Julia went back around to the counter, and I said, 'Well, lucky for us white reactionaries that you and so many others have volunteered their time to educate us correctly."

Julia raised a hand, to hide a smile, I'm sure, and James nodded and said without a trace of irony, "You are so right, Lewis. So right."