“
Kirkbridge
and Company, how can I help you?” said a voice.
“Good
morning, would it be possible to speak to Mrs.
Kirkbridge
?”
“No,
I’m afraid not, sir, she’s in a board meeting,” Nat glanced at his watch and
smiled, it was ten twenty-five, “but if you leave your number, I’ll ask her to
call you back just as soon as she’s free.”
“No,
that won’t be necessary,” said Nat. As he put the phone down it rang again
immediately. “It’s Jeb in new accounts, Mr.
Cartwright,
I thought you would want to know that we have just received a wire transfer
from Chase for the sum of five hundred thousand, to be credited to the account
of a Mrs. Julia
Kirkbridge
.”
Nat
couldn’t resist calling Su Ling to tell her the news.
“She’s
still a phony,” his wife repeated.
“HEADS
or tails?” asked the moderator.
“Tails,”
said Barbara Hunter.
“Tails
it is,” said the moderator. He looked across at Mrs. Hunter and nodded.
Fletcher
couldn’t complain, because he would have called heads-he always did-so he only
wondered what decision she would make. Would she speak first, because that would
determine at the end of the evening that Fletcher spoke last?
If, on the other hand.
.
“I’ll
speak first,” she said.
Fletcher
suppressed a smile. The tossing of the coin had proved irrelevant; if he’d won,
he would have elected to speak second.
The
moderator took his seat behind the desk on the center of the stage. Mrs. Hunter
sat on his
right,
and Fletcher on his left, reflecting
the ideology of their two parties. But selecting where they should sit had been
the least of their problems. For the past ten days there had been arguments
about where the debate should be held, what time it should begin, who the
moderator should be, and even the height of the lecterns from which they would
speak, because Barbara Hunter was five foot seven, and Fletcher six foot one.
In the end, it was agreed there should be two lecterns of different heights,
one on either side of the stage.
The
moderator acceptable to both was chairman of the journalism department at
UC-ONN’S Hartford campus. He rose from his place.
“Good
evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Frank McKenzie, and I will be
moderator for this evening’s debate. The format calls on Mrs. Hunter to begin
with a six-minute opening statement, followed by Mr. Davenport. I feel I should
warn both candidates that I will ring this bell,” he picked up a small bell by
his side and rang it firmly, which caused some laughter in the audience and
helped break the tension, “at five minutes to warn you both that you have sixty
seconds left to speak. I will then ring it again after six minutes when you
must deliver your final sentence. Following their opening statements, both
candidates will then answer questions from a selected panel for forty minutes.
Finally, Mrs. Hunter, followed by Mr. Davenport, will each make their closing
remarks for three minutes. I now call upon Mrs. Hunter to open proceedings.”
Barbara
Hunter rose from her place and walked slowly over to her lectern on the
right-hand side of the stage. She had calculated that since ninety percent of
the audience would be watching the debate on television, she would address the
largest number of potential voters if she spoke first, especially as a World
Series game was due to be aired at eight thirty, when the majority of viewers
would automatically switch channels. Since both of them would have made their
opening remarks by that time, Fletcher felt it wasn’t that significant. But he
also wanted to speak second so that he could pick up on some of the points Mrs.
Hunter made during her statement, and if at the end of the evening, he had the
last word, perhaps it might be the only thing the audience would remember.
Fletcher
listened attentively to a predictable and well-rehearsed opening from Mrs.
Hunter. She held the lectern firmly as she spoke. “I was born in Hartford. I married
a Hartford man, my children were born at St. Patrick’s Hospital and all of them
still live in the state capital, so I feel I am well qualified to represent the
people of this great city.” The first burst of applause flooded up from the
floor.
Fletcher
checked the packed audience carefully, and noted that about half of them were
joining in, while the other half remained silent.
Among
Jimmy’s responsibilities for the evening was the allocation of seats. It had
been agreed that both parties would be given three hundred tickets each, with
four hundred left over for the general public. Jimmy and a small band of
helpers had spent hours urging their supporters to apply for the remaining four
hundred, but Jimmy realized that the Republicans would be just as assiduous
carrying out the same exercise, so it was always going to end up around
fifty-fifty. Fletcher wondered how many genuinely neutral people there were
sitting in the auditorium.
“Don’t
worry about the hall,” Harry had told him, “the real audience will be watching
you on television and they’re the ones you need to influence. Stare into the
middle of the camera lens, and look sincere,” he added with a grin.
Fletcher
made notes as Mrs. Hunter outlined her program, and although the contents were
sensible and worthy, she had the sort of delivery that allowed the mind to
wander.
When the moderator rang the bell at five minutes.
Mrs. Hunter was only about halfway through her speech and even paused while she
turned a couple of pages. Fletcher was surprised that such a seasoned
campaigner hadn’t calculated that the occasional burst of applause would cut
into her time. Fletcher’s opening remarks were timed at just over five minutes.
“Better to finish a few seconds early than have to rush toward the end,”
Harry
had warned him again and again. Mrs. Hunter’s peroration closed a few seconds
after the second bell had rung, making it sound as if she had been cut short.
Nevertheless, she still received rapturous applause from half of the audience,
and courteous acknowledgment from the remainder.
“I’ll
now ask Mr. Davenport to make his opening statement.”
Fletcher
slowly approached the lectern on his side of the stage, feeling like a man just
a few paces away from the gallows. He was somewhat relieved by the warm
reception he received. He placed his five-page, double-spaced, large-type
script on the lectern and checked the opening sentence, though in truth he had
been over the speech so many times he virtually knew it by heart. He looked
down at the audience and smiled, aware that the moderator wouldn’t start the
clock until he’d delivered his first word.
“I
think I’ve made one big mistake in my life,” he began. “I wasn’t born in
Hartford.” The ripple of laughter helped him, “But I made up for it. I fell in
love with a Hartford girl when I was only fourteen.”
Laughter
and applause followed. Fletcher relaxed for the first time and delivered the
rest of his opening remarks with a confidence that he hoped belied his youth.
When
the bell for five minutes rang, he was just about to begin his peroration. He
completed it with twenty seconds to spare, making the final bell redundant. The
applause he received was far greater than he had been greeted with when he
first approached the lectern, but then the opening statement was no more than
the end of the first round.
He
glanced down at Harry and Jimmy, who were seated in the second row. Their
smiles suggested he had survived the opening skirmish.
“The
time has now come for the question session,” said the moderator, “which will
last for forty minutes. The candidates are to give brief responses. I’ll start
with Charles Lockhart of the Hartford Courant.”
“Does
either candidate believe the educational grants system should be reformed?”
asked the local editor crisply.
Fletcher
was well prepared for this question, as it had come up again and again at local
meetings, and was regularly the subject of editorials in Mr. Lockhart’s paper.
He was invited to respond as Hunter had spoken first.
“There
should never be any discrimination that makes it harder for someone from a poor
background to attend college. It is not enough to believe in equality, we must
also insist on equality of opportunity.” This was greeted with a sprinkling of
applause and Fletcher smiled down at the audience.
“Fine
words,” responded Mrs. Hunter, cutting into the applause, “but you out there
will also expect fine deeds. I’ve sat on school boards so you don’t have to
lecture me on discrimination, Mr. Davenport, and if I am fortunate enough to be
elected senator, I will back legislation that supports the claims of all men,”
she paused, “and women, to equal opportunities.” She stood back from the
lectern while her supporters began cheering. She turned her gaze on Fletcher.
“Perhaps someone who has had the privilege of being educated at Hotchkiss and
Yale might not be able to fully grasp that.”
Damn,
thought Fletcher, I forgot to tell them that Annie sat on a school board, and
they had just enrolled Lucy in Hartford Elementary, a local public school.
When
there had only been twelve in the audience, he had remembered every time.
Questions
on local taxes, hospital staffing, public transportation and crime predictably
followed. Fletcher recovered from the opening salvo and began to feel that the
session would end in a draw, until the moderator called for the last question.
“Do
the candidates consider themselves truly independent, or will their policies be
dictated by the party machine, and their vote in the Senate dependent on the
views of retired politicians?”
The
questioner was Jill Bernard, weekend anchor of a local radio talk show, which
seemed to have Barbara Hunter on every other day.
Mrs.
Hunter replied immediately. “All of you in this hall know that I had to fight
every inch of the way to win my party’s nomination, and unlike some, it wasn’t
handed to me on a plate. In fact, I’ve had to fight for everything in my life,
as my parents couldn’t afford silver spoons. And may I remind you that I
haven’t hesitated to stand firm on issues whenever I believed my party was
wrong. It didn’t always make me popular, but no one has ever doubted my
independence. If elected to the Senate, I wouldn’t be on the phone every day
seeking advice on how I should vote. I will be making the decisions and I will
stand by them.” She finished to rapturous applause.
The
knot in his stomach, the sweat in the palms of his hands, and the weakness in
his legs had all returned as Fletcher tried to collect his thoughts. He looked
down at the audience to see every eye boring into him.
a
“I was born in Farmington, just a few miles away from this hall. My parents are
longstanding active contributors to the Hartford I community through their
professional and voluntary work, in particular for St. Patrick’s Hospital.” He
looked down at his parents, who were sitting in the fifth row. His father’s
head was held high, his mother’s was bowed. “My mother sat on so many nonprofit
boards, I thought I must be an orphan, but they have both come along to support
me tonight. Yes, I did go to Hotchkiss, and Mrs. Hunter is right. It was a privilege.
Yes, I did go to Yale, a great Connecticut university. Yes, I did become
president of the college council, and yes, I was editor of the Law Review,
which is why I was invited to join one of the most prestigious legal firms in
New York. I make no apology for never being satisfied with second place. And I
was equally delighted to give all that up so that I could return to Hartford
and put something back into the community where I was raised. By the way, on
the salary the state is offering, I won’t be able to afford many silver spoons
and so far, no one’s offered me anything on a plate.” The audience burst into
spontaneous applause. He waited for the applause to die down, before he lowered
his voice almost to a whisper. “Don’t let’s disguise what this questioner was
getting at. Will I regularly be on the phone to my father-in-law, Senator Harry
Gates? I expect
so,
I am married to his only
daughter.” More laughter followed. “But let me remind you of something you
already know about Harry Gates. He’s served this constituency for twenty-eight
years with honor and integrity, at a time when those two words seem to have
lost their meaning, and frankly,” said Fletcher, turning to face his Republican
rival, “neither of us is worthy to take his place. But if I am elected, you bet
I’ll take advantage of his wisdom, his experience and his foresight; only a
blinkered egotist wouldn’t. But let me also make one thing clear,” he said,
turning back to face the audience, “I will be the person who represents you in
the Senate.”
Fletcher
returned to his place with over half of the audience on their feet cheering.
Mrs. Hunter had made the mistake of attacking him on ground where he needed no
preparation. She tried to recover in her closing remarks, but the blow had been
landed.
When
the moderator said, “I’d like to thank both candidates,” Fletcher did something
Harry had recommended at lunch the previous Sunday. He immediately walked
across to his opponent, shook her by the hand, and paused to allow the
Courant’s photographer to record the moment.