“Mr. President, it’s peculiar for you to insist on writing your Union address. I feel it’s my professional duty to warn you this speech will be controversial…a lightning rod for political pundits to question your vision and, frankly, your sanity.”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Cannon said to his press secretary, an attempt to bring levity to the conversation.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. President.”
“Jason, it’s my sense of humor—you’ll become habituated the more we work together.”
Open-collared shirts with loud designs and colors, cords and straight-leg slacks of different fabrics, and custom leather square-toed shoes made up his wardrobe. He was thirty-four years old and cool. The press loved him.
“Aren’t you afraid of what will happen to your approval rating after you air this speech? It’s going to scare the hell out of half the population, and the other half will label you a
doomsayer
. Presidents are supposed to be optimists—this reads like the book of Revelation.”
“Let me worry about the speech; your job is to channel your creative energy into adapting my message—it’s imperative we reach every voter, regardless of socioeconomic status, ethnicity, age, and gender. We need to harness the ‘patriotism’ in every US citizen by reaching and focusing that energy on solving our economic crisis.”
Mitchell’s creative juices were flowing, tapping out a drum pattern on his practice pad with Vic Firth sticks.
“Americans communicate and receive information differently today. I think we should compile a video—think of it as a movie trailer. We’ll keep it short, ninety seconds, a total sensory experience. We’ll stream it on the White House website. Voters can ‘find us’ on Facebook and ‘follow us’ on Twitter. We can launch it before the televised address. A compilation of images, sounds, and events—streaming America’s consciousness—that captures moments uniquely American and is so powerful it will stir the continuum of human emotions: triumph and defeat, doubt, shame, disappointment, sadness, hope, courage, and pride.”
Three days later President Cannon joined Mitchell in the video conference room in the basement of the West Wing to preview his masterpiece.
13
P
resident Cannon slipped off his suit coat and placed it on the bed. He undid his red necktie and pulled it through his buttoned collar, depositing it on top of his coat. He then unbuttoned his white shirt. Visible blots of sweat had soaked his underarms. He felt the aftermath of a post-adrenaline high—his body sapped of energy—drained by the intellectual and emotional toll of the State of the Union address. Staring in the mirror, he looked meager, having lost nine pounds since taking office, something the White House physician indicated would be monitored closely. The president washed with soap and warm water and applied a generous amount of lotion to soothe his raw hands. His stamina for palm pressing had been built up by months of campaigning that enabled him to shake hands with several hundred people over the span of one hundred ten minutes, but it was murder on his skin. He reapplied antiperspirant, replaced his undershirt, and slipped on a crisp white shirt and navy cords. He paused to look at his watch before lacing up his shoes—six minutes to join Sebastian and Mitchell in the basement of the West Wing. Cannon did not relish the feedback.
The president should be fitted for a Teflon suit by the White House tailor
, he told himself, a reminder the media could be cruel. The pretense of journalistic professionalism had long ago been replaced with partisan remarks, personal insults, and unscrutinized blathering. Everything about him was fair game.
“My preference is to start with the unpleasant,” Cannon said as he walked into the video conference room. Four different broadcast stations were airing. Mitchell picked up the remotes and tuned the jumbo panel in the center of the wall to CNN and cranked up the volume. The others were muted. The news anchor was moderating a discussion among three journalists dissecting the address. Cannon directed Mitchell to dim the lights to cloak his anxiety.
“This Presidential Challenge is a gimmick,” Blitzer said. “The president’s focus should be on jobs creation. According to the Census Bureau, the health care industry employs fourteen million people. Decimating the health care industry with an austerity program will increase unemployment by several million. Sources tell me it could shave two percentage points off an already anemic GDP, tipping us into negative growth and a prolonged recession.”
Cannon twirled his index finger, signaling Mitchell to change channels. The center screen was tuned to CBS. Speaker Bennett was giving an interview.
“Fixing health care is indeed a priority,” Bennett said. “In fact, I met personally with President Cannon and his advisors to discuss the situation. Our party intends to create a super committee to study the health care situation.
The committee will include nationally recognized health care experts, including industry leaders. Our first order of business will be to grant congressional authority to the committee to provide oversight and to implement all policy solutions. The committee will have broad powers and the authority to shape all health care reforms, including future spending decisions—unlike the limited power given to the payment advisory board; a deficiency of Obamacare. We’ve been falsely accused of profligate partisanship. Our accommodation of the President’s challenge should dispel that accusation. Haines has graciously agreed to utilize the jurisdiction of Ways and Means.”
“Crony capitalism,” Sebastian remarked, “a health care industry where success depends on close relationships between businesspeople and government officials, corrupting the ideals of public service by reshaping the US health care system behind closed doors with select health care organizations in the Speaker’s back pocket.”
Mitchell muted the broadcast and read from his iPad. “On a brighter note, the digital trailer we streamed has generated eighty-nine million hits, fourteen million ‘likes,’ and twenty-six million ‘tweets,’ all in just over four hours.”
14
B
illionaire industrialist Clive Donald had lots of friends, many of whom were on payroll. His personality repelled people, like two positively charged magnets, but the media consistently granted him an audience so the press conference would be by picked up by the networks. There was no arm-twisting required. He preferred to roil Washington, making outlandish accusations, and then fade into the woodwork. They knew he could deliver an extemporaneous piece on dysfunctional government sleepwalking. Forty-eight hours later, President Cannon and Sebastian were in the basement of the West Wing tuned to his press conference.
“The polls say it all…a congressional approval rating of eleven percent. The system corrupts. Americans are fed up. They want term limits—no professional politicians. How much longer are we going to let this trend play out before we realize our federal government is dysfunctional? Washington isn’t focused on problem solving…It bounces from one crisis to another. The two-party system is more intent on warring than serving America.”
Periodically, Donald used his right hand to push back his long, wavy hair. He blinked repeatedly—not a flutter
but a hard blink that pulled his cheeks and forehead together when his eyes shut.
“I’m announcing my intention to administer an intellectual competition to uncover policy solutions to resolve the entitlement mess and balance the federal budget. The best and the brightest teams of private, academic, and government policy experts will submit written proposals to compete for one hundred million dollars in prize money and bragging rights.”
Donald’s only reference to President Cannon was to state his opinion that because Cannon had been elected and ran on the platform of sustainable government, the popular vote was demanding accountability in Washington—a long-term solution to the budget deficits, growing sovereign debt, and broken legislative process. He included Speaker Bennett’s name in his statement that Congress confuses America with itself. To his credit, he understood government finances were unintelligible to the layperson, so he framed the materiality of the financial crisis in a vignette.
Sally has a job that pays $40,000 per year. She spends $60,000. She puts the extra twenty grand on her credit card, with a teaser rate of one percent; and she’s not required to pay anything on the principal. The credit card company doesn’t send a monthly statement, so she has no idea how much she owes. Sally also has student loans, a car loan, and a mortgage, totaling $200,000. One afternoon, Sally finds a credit card statement in her mailbox. When she opens the envelope, she discovers her credit card balance is now $800,000. Sally’s debt is $1,000,000, but her income and spending habits haven’t changed.
The journalist asked if his numbers were accurate…proportional to our government’s situation. He responded affirmatively. His call to action was simple. He advocated more involvement by Americans in the political process and greater transparency in the Congressional Budget Process. He closed the interview by saying he would pledge millions to back a third-party candidate in the next election if America’s politics didn’t change. The message struck a chord with voters.
“Did Donald say anything to you about backing a third-party candidate in the next election,” Sebastian said. “Almost sounded like he was stumping for public office…”
15
A
woman unfamiliar to Chris Drummond pulled the door closed and took a seat next to him, facing McFarland. She looked at her watch impatiently.
“Vicki’s from corporate. She works in HR,” McFarland said.
She held out her hand—a finger-shake. Vicki looked away before Drummond could make eye contact.
“Drummond, the purpose of our meeting is to discuss your application to transfer to governmental. I like to talk plainly, so I’m just going to say it. Your request has been denied.”
McFarland was looking toward Drummond, but his gaze was fixed on the wall behind him.
“Why did they deny the transfer?”
“Your credentials were not strong enough. Public health consultants have PhDs, work in academics, and are extensively published.”
“Maybe that explains why the government hasn’t had any fresh ideas…too much groupthink,” Drummond responded.
“I beg your pardon.”
“I’ve done an extensive literature review on health care reforms. Academia and government bureaucrats
have had a cozy relationship reinforcing each other’s beliefs that the status quo—incremental reform—is prudent health policy. Their self-serving propaganda deflects criticism so they can cleave to failed policies that will bankrupt this country. Any suggested departure from our broken health care system is radical to them. They stifle any fresh perspective by dominating the editorial boards of the top-tier academic journals.”
“Drummond, you have much to learn. Two Anderson partners read your manuscript. They described it as unsuitable for mainstream policy consideration and said the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid would bar Anderson from policy discussions at the Center for Innovation if we submitted your material. Besides, I was told you failed your oral defense. True?”
“Yes.”
McFarland continued to look through Drummond.
“Are we finished here? I’d like to leave early this afternoon, beat the weekend commute.”
“No, there’s another matter. Our client agreements require us to disclose pertinent information regarding Anderson professionals assigned to engagements. This process is ongoing. Last month we met with the senior vice president and CFO at Mercy Hospital. Their CFO indicated you mentioned a desire to pursue public health, a conversation the two of you apparently had while discussing your thesis. They asked specific questions regarding your future work plans. We felt obligated to tell them you made application to transfer out of industry. Two days after we made this disclosure, we received a letter from
Mercy’s president. The letter has created more than a ripple.”
McFarland was rubbing his chin in a look of agitation.
“The letter found its way to the managing director of North America. It was damning. Mercy is disturbed. You seek to change positions after they’ve invested hundreds of hours developing your skills in physician acquisition and integration. They see it as an act of betrayal at a time of acute need. Mercy insisted that you are not to be assigned to future engagements. They don’t want you on their campus…not even as a patient.”
“It’s a violation of Anderson’s confidentiality agreement to discuss employment arrangements with a client,” Vicki said.
“I did not violate Anderson’s confidentiality. I described the research I assembled to support my thesis. I did not discuss any plans for a transfer with their CFO.”
“I made known the potential consequences of your decision to apply for a transfer…that it wouldn’t be accepted…and it created issues for us,” McFarland said. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
“Washington State is an ‘at-will’ state. Your employment with Anderson is being terminated,” Vicki said. “You will be met by a security officer. Follow him to your office and clean out your personal effects.”
16
D
r. Janet Duncan, the new Director of Health and Human Services, HHS, was seated on the couch in the White House Blue Room. Her lanky frame made it necessary for Duncan to turn her hips and knees to avoid hitting the coffee table with her shins. She was wearing a navy pin-striped suit. Duncan was board certified in internal medicine and had practiced full time for twenty-two years at Nicolette Care Partners, an integrated delivery system in Minneapolis. President Cannon sat across from her in a high-back leather chair.
“How are you settling into the position?” President Cannon asked before he took a sip of hot tea and returned the cup to the saucer on the table separating him from Duncan.
“I’m a long way from a routine, but I don’t feel maladjusted. It’s hard to believe the Senate confirmation hearings were five weeks ago. Thankfully, the confirmation was uneventful.”