Ballots and Blood Page 19

  “Andy, remember I told you we were going to send out the money bomb for Don Jefferson?” asked Ross.

  “Yes. And?” asked Andy, his voice rising an octave with anticipation.

  “Well, we’re already north of a million bucks, and the e-mail only went out two hours ago,” reported Ross. He glanced at his PAC director, who fidgeted like a ten-year-old boy who had to use the restroom and winked.

  “Brother, this is fantastic!” said Andy, his voice raised to a squeal. “This is a major shot across Mike Birch’s bow.”

  Ross leaned into the speaker phone. “Try a torpedo fired at close range.”

  Andy giggled with manly mischief. “Birch is going to spew his coffee!” He paused. “I’d like to mention it on my show. But I don’t know if I can report it directly without running afoul of the tax lawyers.”

  Ross knew all too well the dangers of a tax-exempt ministry endorsing candidates. “Why don’t I leak it to Merryprankster or Politico? Then you cite them and report it as straight news.”

  “I love it,” said Andy. “But hurry . . . I go on the air in twelve minutes.”

  “When I feed this to the barracudas at Merryprankster, it’s going to go viral.”

  “Brother, put the pedal to the metal. I’d put banner ads on Drudge, Merryprankster, National Review, Newsmax, the works. We shouldn’t limit this to our members. There are going to be a lot of Christians and conservatives who want to give money to Jefferson.”

  “That’s brilliant, Andy,” gushed Ross, always amazed that a preacher and talking head usually had more good ideas than a political operative. He turned to his PAC director. “Can we get those ads up quickly?”

  The PAC director nodded vigorously, an irrepressible grin on his face, his eyes like saucers. He was running on pure adrenalin.

  “Once it goes live, get that story from Politico or Merryprankster over to my news director,” ordered Andy. “We’ll report it in the news segment, and we’ll flash the Federation Web site address. I’ll do it on my radio show, too.”

  “Yes, sir!” said Ross with sycophantic brio.

  “Tell your IT guys to reserve back-up server capacity,” said Andy with a chuckle. “You’re about to get deluged.”

  Ross hung up the phone and pulled up the Web site with the click of his mouse. The money bomb display appeared on the home page, a graphic of a bag of cash with a photo of Jefferson, a ticker displaying the current running total. “Holy smoke . . . we’re up to 1.6 million!”

  The PAC director leaned across the desk, gazing at the screen. “It’s a tidal wave,” he muttered to himself. “A freakin’ tsunami.”

  Ross whipped around in his chair. “You heard Andy . . . get those banner ads up. Make it happen!”

  The PAC director turned and scampered from the room. Ross stared at the ticker as it continued to spin, counting the cash pouring in over the Internet like water rushing over a waterfall. His mind raced. They were riding a wave, and his name was Don Jefferson. He hoped they didn’t get thrown off their surfboard.

  IN A BLACK LINCOLN NAVIGATOR with smoked windows (donated by one of the largest car dealers in Tampa-St. Pete) heading north on the Sawgrass Expressway, Dolph Lightfoot cradled a cell phone to his ear, listening to his high-paid strategists offer him expensive and thoroughly useless advice, doing a slow burn.

  “The guy’s gonna have his day in the sun. No way around it,” offered his laconic campaign manager. “The media wants a race. Now they’ve got it.”

  Just great, thought Lightfoot. I pay you $20 grand a month to state the obvious.

  “I think we say something like, ‘One day does not a campaign make,’” chirped the finance director, a chain-smoking veteran of six statewide campaigns. “We’ll see who raises more on their next finance report.”

  “Too inside baseball,” said the campaign manager.

  “Point to the published polls,” said the pollster, who was on the conference call from DC. “We’re leading by 22 points in the Mason-Dixon. The guy’s a congressman from Ocala, which in a state the size of Florida is practically a state legislator. He’s a nobody. Don’t blow helium into the guy.”

  “Make it about outside special interest groups versus Florida,” offered the general consultant, who assisted Lightfoot in his victorious gubernatorial campaigns. “This is an outside group led by a cable talk- show host trying to choose Florida’s U.S. senator.”

  “You have to be careful,” cautioned the campaign manager. “Faith and Family Federation has 250,000 members in Florida. We don’t want triple-F to be able to do a mailing saying we trashed Andy Stanton.”

  Lightfoot had heard enough. “Folks, I hate to ruin this discussion by injecting a dose of reality. But Don has raised almost $2 million in less than three hours on the Internet with no fund-raising costs,” he said with more than a trace of impatience. “This is a big hairy deal. It’s going to be a national story. We better come up with more than spin.”

  The line went silent. Lightfoot’s frustration was palpable. He viewed the Republican primary, if not the general election, as a virtual coronation. Now this?

  “What are we going to show on our first finance report?” asked the campaign manager.

  “Our goal is $7 million,” answered the finance director. “I think we’ll make it.”

  “How much from Florida?” asked Lightfoot.

  “I don’t know . . . maybe 90 percent,” said the finance director.

  “So our funds come from mainstream Floridians, not some special interest groups led by an out-of-state flake and right-wing preacher,” said Lightfoot in a firm voice.

  “Stress that you’ve never taken any campaign for granted and you don’t intend to start now,” offered the consultant, speaking in the falsetto voice of an imaginary candidate. “We take Don Jefferson’s challenge seriously. We look forward to a vigorous campaign.”

  “People are getting more than a little sick and tired of Andy Stanton thinking he’s the chairman of the Republican Party,” said Lightfoot, his voice dripping with disdain. “Who does this guy think he is? I was governor of this state for eight years. I built this party. How dare he tell me I’m not a good Republican. It’s outrageous.”

  “Stanton’s not on the ballot. You’re running against Jefferson,” cautioned the consultant.

  “The heck I am!” shouted Lightfoot. “I’m running against FOX News, Andy Stanton, Hannity, Beck, Limbaugh, and the stinking Tea Party.”

  “We need to test Stanton on the next poll,” said the pollster. “If his numbers are as bad as I think they are, we may want to do an ad morphing Jefferson into Stanton.”

  The car exited the expressway. They were minutes away from the community center where Lightfoot was to address a gathering in the vote-rich suburbs of western Broward County. A call broke in on the phone. Lightfoot glanced at the screen of his phone. It was Governor Mike Birch.

  “Gotta go, guys.” He hung up and answered the incoming call. “Hello?”

  “Dolph, it’s Mike Birch.”

  “Morning, Governor,” said Lightfoot, trying not to sound rattled.

  “I assume you saw the Faith and Family Federation sent out a fund-raising e-mail for Don Jefferson?” asked Birch.

  “Oh, yes, I saw it.”

  “That’s Andy Stanton trying to hurt me by pounding you,” said Birch. “He’s a bad guy. Claims I’m a RINO. Sorry his dislike of me is complicating things for you.”

  “Looks like I’ve got half your friends and all your enemies,” joked Lightfoot.

  Birch laughed. “The good news is I’ve got a lot of friends.”

  “Well, Stanton’s an enemy of all of us who believe in a broad-based, inclusive party,” said Lightfoot with an edge in his voice. “The guy’s practically issuing fatwahs. I for one am not intimidated in the least. And I’m gonna beat his fair-haired boy like a drum.”

  “Now you’re talkin’,” said Birch, hate juices flowing. “Keep doing what you’re doing. You’re doing great. I j
ust wanted to call and tell you to hang in there.”

  “Thanks, Mike. You’re a great friend.” Lightfoot hung up the phone as the car pulled up in front of the community center. A clutch of television and print reporters from local news outlets gathered on the sidewalks, microphones and tape recorders poised.

  “Governor Lightfoot, I wonder if you have any reaction to the nearly $2 million raised so far on Don Jefferson’s behalf by the Faith and Family Federation?” asked the local CBS affiliate.

  “Well, I’ve never taken any race for granted, and I certainly don’t intend to start now,” said Lightfoot, squinting in the sun, the crow’s feet around his blue eyes evident. “I expect this to be a vigorously contested primary, and I’m looking forward to the debate.”

  “You didn’t expect more support given your past service as governor?” pressed the Ft. Lauderdale Sun Sentinel.

  “I’m leading by a large margin. I’ve got the support of Floridians,” said Lightfoot, jutting out his chin, his jaw firm. “I’m confident I’ll raise more than my opponent, and we estimate 90 percent of our contributions come from within the state of Florida. Most of my opponent’s donors don’t even live in the state. I think the next senator from Florida should be chosen by Floridians, not outsiders with their own agenda.”

  “So you object to fund-raising over the Internet?” asked AP.

  “No,” said Birch, his eyes ablaze. “What I object to is a special interest group run by a self-styled ayatollah trying to dictate the next United States senator from Florida.” He wagged his head back and forth, punctuating each syllable with a head bob, a smirk on his face.

  The reporters chuckled. “So Andy Stanton’s an ayatollah?” asked the Miami Herald.

  “That’s for the voters to decide.” Lightfoot turned on his heel and headed into the community center, reporters in tow. His communications director, her face drained white, looked like she had been hit by a bus.

  MERRYPRANKSTER’S HEADLINE IN TWENTY-TWO-POINT TYPE screamed just below side-by-side photos of Lightfoot and Andy Stanton. “Ayatollah Andy! Lightfoot Compares Stanton to Radical Clerics!” To add insult to injury, the story ran just beneath a flashing ad featuring the Jefferson money bomb. Faith and Family Federation was both making news and raising money hand over fist.

  Sitting in his office off Georgia Highway 400, which split the Atlanta suburbs like a long knife, Ross Lombardy stared at his computer screen with a mixture of awe and ecstasy. He speed-dialed Andy’s cell phone.

  “Hello?” came Andy’s voice.

  “Andy, it’s Ross. Lightfoot just got clotheslined by some reporters in Ft. Lauderdale, and they asked about our money bomb. He called you a ‘self-styled ayatollah.’”

  “He called me what?!” squealed Andy.

  “An ayatollah.”

  “As in Khomeini? This guy is comparing me to someone who executes women who don’t wear a burka? This guy is an anti-Christian bigot. Does he have a death wish?”

  “Sure looks like it. I just wanted you to know about it before you went on the radio.”

  “I need that sound bite” said Andy, wheels turning. “I’ll play it all day.”

  “This is going to be like Howard Dean’s scream,” said Ross excitedly.

  Andy giggled. “It really is, brother. Maybe I can have Jefferson on my show. This is big news now. Can you run him down?”

  “Sure. I’ve got his cell phone.”

  “Call him. Tell him I’d love to have him on in the third hour. That’s when I have the biggest audience.”

  “On second thought, I better give it to your producers. I can’t talk to him when we’re doing an independent expenditure for him.”

  “Good idea,” agreed Andy. “Hey, what’s the money bomb up to?”

  “It’s up to $2.9 million dollars.”

  Andy let out a long whistle. “It’ll be more by the time I get done on the radio.”

  “Lightfoot is an idiot,” said Ross. “He was put out to pasture years ago, and he’s been sitting on his porch chewing his cud, eating hay, and they bring him back and ask him to run the Kentucky Derby, and he breaks a leg on turn number two.”

  “It isn’t smart to attack one of the country’s most respected religious leaders,” said Andy. “He’s not gay, is he?”

  “No,” said Ross, taken aback by the question.

  “Just wondering.” Andy hung up the phone so he could finish his show prep for radio. Ross speed-dialed Don Jefferson’s cell phone. In the space of eight hours, a little-known congressman from central Florida became one of the biggest political stories in the nation. What a funny business we’re in, thought Ross.

  20

  Mack Caulfield remained publicly silent on whether he planned to run for U.S. Senate or governor, setting the California political class on edge. Rumor in Sacramento claimed public employee unions dangled the prospect of a $40 million independent expenditure campaign if he ran for governor, thus sparing the Democrats a bloodbath Senate primary. For his part Caulfield played Hamlet, milking the speculation for all it was worth.

  But Jay Noble had grown tired of the game. That was why at 10:30 a.m. EST, 7:30 a.m. Pacific time, his assistant placed a call to Caulfield at the governor’s mansion.

  The butler approached with a remote phone. “Jay Noble from the White House, sir.” Caulfield snapped to attention, grabbing the phone from the butler.

  “Hello?” he said in an expectant voice. He was wrapping up breakfast, taking a final swig of coffee and wiping his mouth with a linen napkin as the kitchen staff cleared the plates.

  “Governor, hold for Jay Noble,” said the assistant. It was the ultimate insult, making a sitting governor wait for a White House aide. Caulfield waited for a good thirty seconds.

  “Governor, good morning,” said Jay when he came on the line, all business.

  “Hello, Jay,” said Caulfield in a clipped voice, irritated at having to hold.

  “Governor, I saw the item in Hotline about you negotiating with the public employee unions about an independent expenditure if you run for governor,” said Jay. He let the dead air hang.

  “Yeah, I was going to call you about that, Jay,” said Caulfield, his heart racing. “That was an exaggeration. It was really a negotiation about reforming the pension system.”

  “So the report is false?” asked Jay.

  “The Senate race came up,” backpedaled Caulfield. “But there was no quid pro quo. That’s just not accurate.”

  “Well, the president is not happy,” said Jay. “There were only two people in the room when he talked to you in LA last month. We’ve now had a dozen stories claiming the president urged you to run and offered to raise money.” He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his desk, fairly shouting into his headset. “The president and I had what we believed was a private conversation with someone we thought was a friend. I’m the one who recommended you to the president as a possible Senate candidate, and this is how you pay you back? Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is for me, much less you?”

  Caulfield sat down at the dining room table, trying to steady himself as he absorbed Jay’s blast. “Hold on before you jump to conclusions, Jay. The only call I got was from the LA Times, and I didn’t tell them anything specific. I told them I was looking at both options.”

  “Mack, I got a call from Marvin Myers, who had the whole story. Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I’m an idiot.”

  “No,” stammered Caulfield. “But everyone knows the president can’t stand Kate. That’s hardly news.”

  “Let me tell you where we are, Mack,” said Jay. “These stories are hopelessly compromising. You do what is best for you and your family. But whatever you decide now, you’re on your own. Don’t expect any help from here for governor or Senate. From now on, you’re naked.”

  Caulfield felt the blood rush from his head. He felt light-headed and thought for a moment he might pass out. “Jay, I understand why you’re upset, but I think you’re overreacting,”
he heard himself say.

  “I don’t think so, Mack. I’m sorry I went to bat for you. But this is just not going to work. We’re grabbing our parachutes. Good luck.”

  The line went dead. Caulfield’s head spun. He thought of calling Long directly, but he knew Jay would block the call. In a sense it didn’t matter: he had always planned on running for governor anyway. But if Jay had him in his crosshairs, it was going to get ugly. He was now going to have to fight a two-front war against the Republicans and the White House.

  ROSS LOMBARDY PULLED INTO HIS driveway after another trip for the Faith and Family Federation, this one to California. Jet-lagged and weary, he rolled into the garage and turned off the ignition, swinging his legs out of the driver’s seat. He heard a characteristic ping indicating he had a new text message. It was from his Florida chairman. He opened it. It read: “Shocker poll: Lightfoot 39, Jefferson 42.”

  “Wow!” exclaimed Ross to himself. He dialed Jay Noble. This was big news.

  “Hi, Ross,” said Jay’s assistant. “Someone’s with him in his office, but let me see if I can get him for you.”

  Thirty seconds later, Jay came on the line. “Hey, dude, what’s rocking your world?”

  “Did you see the new numbers in Florida?” asked Ross excitedly.

  “No, I’ve been in meetings. What are they?”

  “Lightfoot 39, Jefferson 42. Mason-Dixon poll released within the hour.”

  “Amazing.” Jay paused. “Do you believe it?”

  “We do. You know we raised $3.5 million with our money bomb for Jefferson.” Ross was working Jay hard. He wanted the White House to help Jefferson, if only to knee-cap Birch, who they both despised.

  “I saw that. It’s a start. But you think a Congressman can defeat a popular former governor like Lightfoot?”

  “Lightfoot is a has-been. How old is he . . . seventy-two? The guy belongs in a museum. The party has passed him by.”

  “If he loses, it’s a black eye for Birch.”

  “Big time. It’s the first primary . . . and in his own back yard.”