Authors: Mimi Johnson
The same thing worked well at an afternoon meeting with the Daughters of the American Revolution. Such occasions usually consisted of the candidate delivering a predictable "few words" and posing with the matrons for pictures. But again Erickson engaged the group in a conversation, trusting the points he wanted to make would come up naturally. Sam noticed that with this more reserved group Erickson adjusted his style. At the high school, he’d been direct and challenging. Here he was deferential and encouraging. Later, when the picture session did come, he was so courtly that some of the formal, staid ladies became positively flirtatious. Sam had no doubt it was all a carefully crafted, finely tuned public image rather than the genuine man, but that was what made the Governor so fascinating to watch.
When he started to write, back in the hotel room, Sam tried to incorporate some impression of Erickson’s style into his story. But reading back through it, he found it to be, to his surprise, disturbingly flattering, a problem he’d never had in his writing before. Sam shook his head, talking to himself as he rewrote. “Reads like that fanboy Westphal wrote it.” That was what reminded him that he’d intended to call Tess.
He tried Rick Higgins first, but Higs didn’t have her cell number. There was a listing on Switchboard for John R. Westphal, and of course there was the number for the
Journal
, but Sam hesitated to call those. Finally, late, finding his cell phone battery dead again, he forced himself to pick up the hotel phone and dial the home number.
“Hello?” It was the same hushed, hesitant way she always answered the phone.
“Hi.”
The single word was enough to make her catch her breath. “Sam?”
“Is this a bad time?”
“Why are you calling me?”
It was the coldness in her voice that made him set his jaw, his own tone becoming direct and businesslike. “I need to fill you in on something, a story they’ve got me working on. If you can’t talk, then give me a number where I can reach you later.”
“That’s not a problem. Just tell me.” Quickly he explained about the profile and the editors' interest in having him talk to Jack. “This is some kind of joke, right?” Her voice rose over loud rock music in the background.
“Sorry. Johnson knows it’s awkward, of course, but Dodson’s clueless.” Sam sighed. “And to be honest, I’d prefer he stay that way. But I figured I owe you a heads-up before I get to town.”
“You don’t seriously intend to interview Jack?” Her voice rose even more.
“Tess, you know how this works. I’ve got to at least ask him for the interview. I’ve got editors who’ll ask if I talked to him.”
“Johnson won’t, because he knows it’s a goddamn conflict for you to use Jack as a source.”
“Maybe. But Dodson’s right. Westphal would be good for the story. So I will be calling him. If you don’t want your old man and me to sit down together, then call the Norse god off. Because I’ve got to ask.”
He heard the music cut off, as she fairly shouted, “Don’t pull that shit with me.” She lowered her voice and hissed, “I watched you work long enough to know you call the shots in your own stories.”
His voice lowered too, but any regret he’d felt at upsetting her had been swamped by his own anger. “Maybe I did once, while I was still at the
Trib
. But now I’m in a whole new ballgame, and I have to impress the front office. I’m going to call him. If I don’t, what do I tell Dodson when he asks why he’s not in the story?”
“I don’t care what you tell him. Just get out of it.” And then she hung up.
Sam slammed down the receiver, and muttered, “Fuck,” to the empty room. Then he picked up his key card. It was late, but maybe the hotel bar was still open.
Riding down in the elevator, Sam wondered how he could have stopped the conversation with Tess from becoming so heated so fast. It wasn’t his intent to hurt her any more. But his editors were right. Her husband had a unique perspective on Erickson. Westphal would be good for the story. And keeping the people in charge happy had kept Sam in the business. Besides, the more he saw of Erickson, the more Sam’s interest was piqued. The guy was too smooth. Who the hell was lurking under that seamless facade?
With his Glenfiddich in front of him, Sam closed his eyes and tried to relax. For a few minutes his mind was blank, too weary to worry about his job, his story, Judith or his situation with Tess. He almost jumped when a voice came from his shoulder.
“Sam Waterman, isn’t it?”
He opened his eyes to find Swede Erickson’s communications director, Patrick Donnelly, standing next to him, his hand extended.
“That’s right.” Sam shook his hand, and indicated the seat next to him. “Sit down. After a day like today, you could probably use the rest.” He was always glad to have a drink with a potential source.
“You look a little done in yourself.” Donnelly took the seat, saying, “Just a draw,” to the bartender, then nodded at Sam’s glass. “Can I buy you another?”
“No thanks, it’s fresh. I’m on expense account anyway.”
“Don’t want to be seen being bought off by the campaign?” Donnelly took a sip of his beer.
Sam smiled. “That along with the story I wrote tonight could get my editors wondering. Your boy looks real good in print,” and then with a tired waved, Sam acknowledged his throwback error. “Excuse me. I mean online.”
Donnelly laughed. “He looks real good everywhere. His getting in makes this a whole new race. Now you’ve got somebody to write about.”
“As long as there are politicians, I’ll have someone to write about, whatever the medium. Keeping Swede newsworthy is your job.” Sam sipped his drink, then snorted, “Why the hell does he call himself Swede anyway?”
“You gotta be kidding. That name is priceless. It says, ‘I know who I am, I know where I come from.’ It’s down-home. It’s small town. It’s …”
“Obnoxious,” Sam finished for him. “Come on. Swan August Erickson is ethnic enough. You’d be offended if people started calling you ‘Mick’ Donnelly. And I wouldn’t take ‘Hebe’ Waterman from anyone.”
“You’ve got a point,” Donnelly conceded. “But think what a contrast it is to Frederick Morton. I mean that rich old bastard actually calls himself ‘Frederick.’ Not ‘Fred,’ not ‘Freddy,’ only ‘Frederick.’ Now, which name are average Americans going to relate to? One sounds like the guy down the block, the other like the snob at the yacht club. You tell me who’s going to be perceived as one of the gang?”
“Ah, well,” Sam finished his drink, “I always think it's a good idea for the President of the United States to be a cut above the average schmo, but that's just me. Is that all the competition you’re going to give Morton? A down-home name?” He signaled the bartender for another.
Donnelly grinned. “Why does that sound like a play for information?”
“I’m not known for being subtle,” Sam grinned. “Morton’s been whining for Erickson to join his debate with Fuller ever since word leaked out that your guy was going to announce. Is he going for it?”
“I believe that was dealt with in the press release you got this morning. Officially, Swede is ‘considering it.’”
“How about unofficially?”
Donnelly shot him a sharp look. “Not for publication?”
Sam sighed, “I’m not gonna sit on my hands with a piece of news and wait for it to be announced. Come on, it’s not that big of a fucking deal anyway.”
“Oh. Well, if it’s no big deal, then it won’t bother you to wait to find out like all the rest.”
Sam shrugged. “Sure, I can wait. But I’d rather have it first. That kind of thing keeps my bosses happy. Now, you’ve already indicated Erickson’s decided, and after watching him today, I’d say the man is no fool. He’s got to know he’ll make Morton look sick. And as for Fuller …” Sam snorted a laugh. “So all I’m waiting for is a nod of your head, and I’ll go with it.”
“How will you attribute it?”
“To you, of course. I don’t use unidentified sources.”
“The hell you don’t.” Donnelly looked perturbed. “What a load of crap.”
Sam grimaced but his eyes were shrewd. “Well, maybe I can get ‘a source high in the campaign’ past my editor.” A small smile turned up the corners of Sam’s mouth as he murmured, “Come on, man. I already know anyway.”
Donnelly hesitated a minute, then nodded.
“When’s the announcement?” Sam grinned.
“Soon. Maybe the end of the week. The more insistent competition becomes, the better it’ll look when Swede beats them.”
Sam tossed back the last of his drink, stood, and slapped Donnelly on the back. “Thanks. This was better than any drink you could have bought me.” He signed his name and room number to the bar tab. “Sorry to rush, but I need to file a new lede.”
He rewrote quickly, opening the piece with the debate, and sent it in, then called Sarah to look it over and post it on the web. She was gone, so Sam waited until Steve Johnson finally came on the line, sounding tired and hassled. “Why the hell are you calling on the hotel line, Waterman? Christ, that costs a fucking fortune. What’s wrong with your goddamn cell?”
“Battery died.”
“Jesus, can’t you remember to juice it now and then? Our profit margin is thin enough, and it would help if you weren’t always hosing the travel budget. If you’d just think ahead …”
“Are we going to run up the phone charges while you rag at me, or can we talk about my story?” Rubbing his eyes, Sam felt his headache returning.
Johnson sighed. “It’s already up if you’d just take a look. It doesn’t look like anyone else has the debate thing. But I’m not real comfortable that Donnelly isn’t on the record. It’s not like he told you about a plan to break into the Watergate.”
“Yeah, I know. I tried, but Donnelly wouldn’t let me push him into attribution. I get a feeling Erickson’s going to run a real tight-lipped campaign. Have you had a chance to read over the whole thing?”
“Sure. Sarah was pretty keen to get out of here tonight. She took off after you sent the first draft. Must have had a hot date with that Marine she's been seeing.”
“Let’s hope. It might improve her mood.” Sam waited for Johnson to speak, then added an impatient, “So?” He could hear Johnson’s keyboard clicking and knew he was working on something else.
“Yeah, she’s usually mellower after a good night,” he responded absently.
“Christ, not Sarah! The story. I’m asking what you thought of the fucking story.”
“Oh that. It was a good read. Why?”
“I just wondered if it seemed balanced to you.”
“Sure.” For a second Johnson paused, then he added with amusement, “Oh for Christ’s sake, Waterman. Just because you didn’t rip out Erickson’s throat doesn’t mean it’s not a good story. Jesus, you’ve gotten bloodthirsty. So what if it’s a little soft.” This last was said with a trace of a laugh.
Sam frowned into the phone. “Soft?”
Johnson laughed out loud. “I’m kidding, you poor schmuck. It was fine. What’s stuck in your craw?”
“I don’t know, Steve.” Sam sighed and relaxed a little. “I just didn’t want to make him look too good. There’s something about this guy, he’s too smooth, too in control.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I watch him, and he's so bloody confident. It's like he's used to having things turn out the way he wants them. I swear to God, he comes across like he's already President. No one should be that self-confident. I'm telling you, the guy puts on one hell of an act.”
“Well, after all Sam, he is a politician.” They both laughed. “You got something solid to go on?"
"Not a goddamn thing," Sam replied. "But my gut says something isn’t right. Makes me want to go after him like a bloodhound.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Hang on.” Johnson paused and talked briefly to someone else in the newsroom. “Sorry. Anyway, Dodson’s impatient as hell to get this profile wrapped. You, uh, lining up sources in Iowa?”
Sam knew what he meant. “I’m working on it.” After a pause he added, “I talked to her tonight. I can’t promise you Westphal.”
“Well,” Johnson sighed the word, “I can’t say I’m surprised. I suppose we could pull you off it and put Bundy on the profile, but I’d have to explain to Dodson …”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Sam interrupted. “I’ll try to work it out. Steve, I want the story.”
They were old friends and Johnson had no desire to bring unprofessional conduct from years ago to the attention of a general manager who had a continual line of great journalists begging him for work. “Do the best you can with it then. Erickson’s going back to Iowa late tomorrow afternoon. Are you traveling with him?”
“You tell me. I thought I would. Didn’t Sarah clear it with you?”
“She was too busy trying to leave.” Again Sam heard a voice in the background ask Johnson a question, and he added, “See if there’s room for you on Erickson’s plane back to Des Moines and email me the cost. I’ll run it past the penny counters.”
“Right.”
“Oh, and one more thing; our ‘On Capitol Hill’ blog posted a squib late last night about your wife becoming majority counsel for the Finance Committee. Looks like you’ve got a friend in a high place.”
“Last night? We discussed for the first time last night, and she was still batting it around …”
Johnson broke in, “Sam, Friedman got it early this week. He just couldn’t run it until Morton confirmed it. Which he did, last night.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. Dodson asked me this morning why you hadn’t filled us in. I said I’d touch base with you. It never occurred to me you didn’t know.”
For a moment Sam didn’t answer. Then he sighed, “Well, I’ll be damned. I guess I’d better start reading our blogs to keep up with my wife.”