07/28/2016
The opening of my political thriller, RUNNING, features the acceptance speech from my fictional Democratic nominee for President--the first woman to give such a speech. Tonight, it happens in real life. When I wrote this, I was trying to imagine what she might feel, and what she might say. How did I do?
CHAPTER ONE
“Are you ready?” The man with the headset turned to Catherine and gestured toward the stage. “It’s just about your time.”
“Yes. I’m ready,” she said.
“Um... Mom?” Lily, standing beside her looking uncharacteristically formal in navy and pearls, was making a face. “You’ve got a smear of lipstick on your front teeth.”
Catherine reached up and ran her index finger across her teeth. “Better?”
“Much,” Lily said.
“Thank you, honey,” Catherine said. She waited in the wings, feeling breathless, sensing the energy from the crowd as it sizzled around her. She couldn’t see the thousands out there, but she could feel them, and she knew many more were watching live.
Her throat was dry, but she knew she would be okay. She wanted this.
The Senator from New York thrust his arm stage left and the crowd roared to its feet, making a sea of blue signs bob in tune to the applause. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the next President of the United States!”
“Young! Young! Young!” the people spread across the huge convention floor chanted, echoing the name on the signs. The collective force of rising bodies and breath created a human wave of excitement.
Vice President Young moved across the stage to the oak podium, striding against the current. The television lights were so bright that it was difficult to see through the shimmering circles they formed. The heat was intense. A trickle of sweat started down the Vice President's back, under the tailored jacket, sliding from hairline to collar to bra strap.
Stand up tall. Smile. Look presidential.
Whatever happened, the next President of the United States was going to be a woman.
Catherine gripped the lectern at the D.C. Convention Center and thrilled in the sensations as thousands of clapping, stomping delegates rocked the stage floor. She had been to hundreds of rallies; made hundreds of speeches. But this was the big one – the Democratic National Convention.
She was now just one election away from the White House. So close she could taste it.
And her feet were killing her.
Catherine raised her arms for quiet. She smiled and nodded, mouthing thank you's over the din. Gradually, the applause slowed and then stopped.
“Mr. Chairman, my fellow Democrats, and my fellow Americans: I thank you for honoring me with this nomination, and I humbly – and proudly – accept.”
Cheers and brief applause flowed through the crowd. The people in the hall smiled back at her. Round ladies sporting crocheted vests with donkey designs, gray-haired men in straw boaters. Buttons, flags, red, white, and blue bunting. A picture of political America having a party. A party for her.
“I accept the nomination of the Democratic Party, and I look forward to charting the course for America during the next four years.”
Pause. Beat. Smile.
“I'm glad you agree that sometimes the best man for the job is a woman.”
Whoops of approval. Applause. Stamping of feet.
“Today, with this great country only now recovering from difficulties on many fronts… with our economy at last showing robust improvement… with domestic issues from health care to immigration reform revealing dramatic rifts in our national will… and with the ongoing threat of terrorism never far from our minds… we are at a turning point in our history.” Catherine watched the teleprompter as the speech she had carefully honed flowed by, the words feeling familiar and right on her tongue. Her voice rose and fell in the practiced cadence of a master politician.
The rhythm of her speech moved like a current through the audience in the hall. Shoulders hunched and bodies leaned forward, rocking in agreement. Catherine's voice rang into the microphone.
“You are my brothers. You are my sisters. As your president, I will seek equality for all people – black, white, male, female, able-bodied and challenged, young and old, straight and gay.”
The crowd roared its approval. The people were on their feet, nodding, clapping, cheering. She was preaching to the choir. Catherine spotted her campaign manager Zane Zarillo sitting in the third row, a smile lighting up his handsome face. A political wunderkind in his early thirties, Zane had masterminded the strategy that put her over the top. His people smarts, combined with her years of government service and the power of the incumbent president, had catapulted her onto this stage.
She gathered her voice for the big finish.
“And so it is time...for America to move forward from the greatness in our past…to the greatness in our future!”
Waves of applause washed over Catherine, and she felt the adrenalin of relief flow through her body. Her face was hot. She made herself smile despite the cotton in her mouth.
She was dying to wipe her upper lip, but the cameras were still rolling, and her children were walking onstage to stand beside her. She put her arms around Lily and her tall son Mike. Catherine felt a quick pain at the thought of how proud Paul would have been – had her husband lived to see this moment. But perhaps, somehow, he knew.
The audience was on its feet. “Happy Days Are Here Again” boomed from the speakers. Balloons drifted out of nets on the ceiling in red, white, and blue flocks. People clutched each other and swayed. Her face was blown up to a hundred times life-size on the multilevel screen behind her.
* * * * *
In the middle of the crowd, a woman looked on with a pounding heart. She had waited years for this moment. She had saved, and planned, and arranged her life so that it would happen.
And now the moment had arrived. Soon, she would be face to face with the woman she had come to see.
The Vice President of the United States.
Her palms were slick, and the pulse in her neck fluttered like a wild bird desperate to be freed.
* * * * *
Catherine Maguire Young personified the ideal presidential candidate – female pioneer category. She was tall enough, at five feet ten inches, to look powerful even when standing in the middle of a dozen dark-suited men. Her hair was a graying chestnut, and her eyes were copper. She was attractive, but not so attractive as to invite the dismissal which unusual beauty often warrants. Her clothes were impeccable. Today she wore a royal blue suit that had been custom-made to accentuate her shape without being the least bit seductive.
She was in the right place at the right time – ten years a respected member of Congress with a record as a fiscal moderate and social liberal, now a well-liked Vice President under a popular Democrat who had presided over eight fairly tumultuous years which had ended in prosperity. A 56-year-old widow with two grown children, Catherine was coming to political maturity at a watershed moment when the country was ready to accept a woman in the top spot.
Catherine made her way slowly through the tight clusters of people eager to shake her hand after the acceptance speech. She kept moving, smiling, clasping the reaching hands.
Keeping a close eye on the hand shakers were the ever-present Secret Service agents, who stayed directly behind her shoulders. She could hear their quiet reports as they whispered her position into the tiny microphones hidden at their wrists. “Firebird is in the hall. Dense crowd conditions.” Firebird was her code name, which made her smile.
Finally she and the agents reached Zane in the middle of the smaller room where they were having a reception for invited guests. She put her arms around his tall frame and gave him a hug. Usually she was cautious about physical demonstrations. As a woman running for a job that had so far been filled only by men, she watched every public move. But tonight was so full of the sweet taste of victory that she didn't care.
“Zane. We did it.” Up this close, she could smell his cologne, and feel the richness of the fabric in his suit.
“You were brilliant, Madam Vice President,” he said. If he was surprised by the hug, he didn’t show it.
“I couldn't have done it without your help, Zane,” she said.
“It’s been a pleasure and an honor. And it will be a particular thrill to be able to say I worked for the first woman to claim the Oval Office as her own.”
Catherine grinned. “That would be one fine day, wouldn’t it?”
“It will be one fine day,” Zane said, his voice thick.
A small group of campaign staffers had gathered around them. Zane gazed down at the device in his hand and spoke in the just-between-us tone of teammates huddling in the middle of a game. “Our poll numbers are in good shape. You're twelve points ahead of Jerusha Hutchins, and that’s after the Republicans got their convention bump.”
Catherine turned to him, shaking her head. “Zane, were you watching the numbers on your iPhone the whole time I was making the speech?”
“Of course not… I waited until the balloons dropped.” He smiled like a man who knew his smile was irresistible.
Camilla Jamestone, who helped with logistics for the campaign throughout the country, pushed a strand of long red hair behind her shoulder as she leaned over to see the screen. “Governor Hutchins’s numbers keep moving, I see.”
“Every day,” Zane answered. “Their convention got wall-to-wall coverage in the political blogs, and the video of Hutchins’s nomination speech has gone viral. Over ten million hits, as of this morning. You know how they love to cover her – the more provocative the better.”
Catherine nodded. “How does she find time to do all that Facebooking… that Twittering?”
“Oh, she doesn’t do it all herself,” Zane said. “She has professionals to do it.”
“There are professional Twitterers…?” Catherine smiled. “Does that make them twits?”
Zane laughed, and Camilla leaned in for privacy.
“Last I saw, her positives were high but her negatives were higher,” said Camilla. “Too many people find her not sufficiently serious to consider as presidential material. And I think they’re in the majority.”
“Exactly. She went up, but now she’s down again,” Zane said, keeping his voice low. “Hutchins’s numbers are tracking at 36 percent among those likely to vote. She’s entertaining – but not much else. If she weren’t married to Quigley Hutchins, with his evangelical power base, she wouldn’t be the governor of Georgia.”
Camilla shook her head. “I don’t know how she finds the time. My lord, the woman has eight children. One would think she has her hands full without taking on a presidential campaign.” She reached for a glass of champagne as it floated by on a tray. “Word is that Reverend Hutchins is the mastermind behind her candidacy – which I can believe, because this kind of strategy is clearly not coming from a political neophyte like Jerusha.”
Zane nodded. “Quigley’s planning to be the power behind the throne. With Jerusha as the new face of the GOP, the Republicans figure they’ve reinvigorated their base and aligned themselves with the Liberty Party folks at the same time.”
Catherine smiled. “And a very pretty face it is. Although, if Quigley Hutchins thought he could get elected, he’d probably be running himself.”
“You’ve got that right. He’s a good ol’ boy from way back.” Zane gave one more glance at the iPhone and tucked it into his pocket, then nodded toward the harsh brightness of the news lights at the side of the room. A reporter was speaking into a mobile camera with the crowd as backdrop. “Your acceptance speech tonight will lead the evening news, and be the main topic online,” Zane said. “Based on past years, we can count on a post-Convention bump of at least five percentage points.”
A young woman with long black hair stepped out of the crowd to stand beside Zane. Her skin was mocha-colored and her eyes were an arresting gold. She wore a black dress that skimmed her tall, youthful body with perfectly respectable but utterly alluring understatement.
“Ah...here you are,” Zane said. “Madam Vice President, may I present my friend Maria Flores-Jenkins. She’s been looking forward to meeting you. Maria, this is the Vice President.”
“It is an honor to make your acquaintance,” Maria said. She had a melodious voice with a gentle accent and spoke in precise but cautious English.
Catherine held out her hand. There was a painful vulnerability about the young woman, who gazed at her with unusual golden eyes for a long moment before looking away.
“Maria's from Brazil,” Zane said. “She's the assistant to the Cultural Attache at the Brazilian Embassy.”
He tucked the exotic beauty's arm under his own, making it clear that she was more than simply a friend. Catherine hadn't missed the fact that women found Zane attractive – it was easy to see why – but he seemed to cycle through companions rather quickly. And he had rarely invited a woman along to one of her political events. There must be something special about this one.
“I'm pleased to meet you, Maria. Have you been in this country long?”
“For three months only,” Maria said.
“And have you been enjoying Washington?” Catherine asked.
“She has been since she met me last month,” Zane said, grinning at his beautiful companion.
* * * * *
Zane beeped the lock on his silver Porsche Panamera, opened the door, and slid in. Leaning back and loosening his tie, he glanced in the rearview mirror and jumped when he saw a familiar face.
“Jesus, Devon, what the hell are you doing here? I just about – ”
“Zane. How lovely to see you again.”
Zane felt fear ping at the top of his skull. Devon, wearing his usual elegant clothes and perfectly lightened hair, was covering his right hand with his jacket and the bulge underneath it looked dangerous.a
“The boss says it’s time for you to pay up, Zane dear.” Despite the fluorescent smile, the voice was cold and the eyes were even colder. “I regret to say that you are overdue.”
“What? Now?”
“Indeed. Now.”
“Devon, I can pay with no problem after the election. My job prospects with the new administration – ”
“The boss is not concerned about your job prospects. It's due now, as you well know. A hundred thousand bucks. I am informed that you will be granted one more week.”
“A week? You're joking. I can't raise that in a week.”
“Actually, Zane darling, no. I don't joke.” A flat laugh.
“But – ”
“You'll find it somewhere, I am quite sure. An intelligent, educated man like you.”
“Where am I going to get a hundred thou in a week?”
“That is a challenge, I agree. But you’d better get right on it. Otherwise, you won't be around to see who wins the election.” A saccharine grin preceded the click of the door opening, and Devon was gone.
Zane felt his stomach start to do sit-ups. What the hell was he going to do? A hundred thousand dollars? It couldn't be that much.
He had borrowed a little petty cash from Catherine's ad budget a while his credit card was temporarily maxed out. It had added up so fast. He would pay it back, of course. Zane wasn’t a thief. It was tough to cover the damn lease payments on the Porsche. And then he spent a bit on coke, not much really – just enough to keep the edge off while he was working 24/7. He would quit just as soon as the campaign was over…he’d kicked it before, and he could do it again. But suddenly a few thousand dollars had become twenty, and twenty had turned into fifty plus.
The man Devon worked for, a lobbyist who was definitely a fan of Catherine’s, had offered him cash, discreet and quick. Zane knew he could pay it off, once the campaign was won. Just not yet! Not now.
The voice in his head that was always mocking him spoke up again.
You're a fraud. They think you're smart, but you know the truth. Every step higher you go, you just make the fall harder. And this time, when they catch on to you....
Zane put his hands over his ears to stop the voice. He needed some coke. But not here. The Secret Service was all over the place. He had to be very careful. They weren't stupid. He had to play the part just right.
Man, he was tired. Up every night till 3:00 a.m. Meetings, strategy, ads, press releases. He shoved the car into gear and straightened his tie. Play the part, Zane.
Zane Zarillo, part of the first generation of Zarillo’s to be born in this country, the first to graduate from Harvard Business School and certainly the first to work on a presidential campaign, was a symbol of success for his family and for his community. He was counting on a plum spot after Catherine was elected. And after that, the rest of his life should flow in predictably wealthy and prestigious directions. This campaign was his ticket to the big time.
He was damned if a stupid thing like the loan was going to wreck his future.
It was just his luck. He was the kind of guy who always did things for other people – it was Catherine he was protecting when he borrowed the money from these sleazoids – so that no one would point any fingers when her war chest was missing funds. Well, he wasn't going to be the fall guy.
His stomach lurched, and he looked for a spot to pull off the road. Bile washed his throat and tasted like fear.
Zane je**ed the wheel toward the shoulder and shoved the car door open just in time to lose the Democrats' fine pre-speech supper into the dirt beside the road.
https://www.amazon.com/RUNNING-Patrice-Fitzgerald-ebook/dp/B005AJA43O
A contemporary tale about politics and passion by the author of the best-selling
