Ballots and Blood (48 page)

Cartwright shook his head. “As long as he stays bought.”

The trooper deftly guided the car on to the freeway. It was not yet 11:30 a.m. and Cartwright had two more church services to hit.

39

A
retired Florida State University professor was puttering around in his backyard when he heard the buzz overhead of a small plane. Looking into the overcast sky, he could hear the engine but couldn't see the plane through the clouds. Then he heard a popping noise, like a gun going off, followed by the roar of a plane's engine. The man glanced up at the sky again, just in time to see a small aircraft hurtling toward the ground in a death dive, its nose pointing downward. The plane was no more than four football fields away. He lost it behind the tree line but heard the sickening noise of impact. He ran inside to call 911.

AT THE HOLIDAY INN AROUND the corner from the state Capitol in Tallahassee, a group of business leaders waited patiently for the arrival of Dolph Lightfoot. There were 150 people in attendance at the monthly networking lunch, a frequent stopover for candidates. When the entrees were served and Lightfoot was still not there, organizers put it off to the vicissitudes of a busy campaign schedule. But once waiters began to put desserts on tables, they began to get nervous. Where was their speaker? Efforts were made to contact Lightfoot's advance staff to no avail. Finally someone heard back from the campaign, and the news was shocking.

“Could I have your attention, please,” said the business group's chairman, his face pale. Table conversation came to a stop, and the ballroom fell silent. “I'm afraid I don't have good news. I am sorry to report that the airplane carrying Dolph Lightfoot to Tallahassee has apparently been involved in an accident.” There were audible gasps. “I don't have any further information, and we do not want to speculate beyond what we know. We are in touch with his campaign, and we will give you more information as we receive it. Please keep former Governor Lightfoot and the others who were on the plane in your prayers. Thank you.”

He left the podium hurriedly as slack-jawed businessmen and women stared at one another in disbelief. Several devout Christians gathered in a corner and held hands, murmuring in prayer. Others drifted out of the room, some talking on cell phones.

Within minutes Florida news organizations reported Lightfoot's King Air had gone down in bad weather after clipping a cell phone tower. In the fog of confusion, there were conflicting reports about whether anyone survived. The initial footage of the crash scene didn't look good, but the hospital where the passengers were taken refused to release any information.

Then, at 1:41 p.m., forty-five minutes after the first reports that the plane went down, the Lightfoot campaign issued a statement. “We regret to announce that Dolph Lightfoot, his forty-two-year-old son Bill, his pilot, and a campaign aide died this morning when the plane carrying them to a campaign event in Tallahassee crashed. We ask all Floridians to pray for the Lightfoot family and the families of the other victims. We are devastated by this loss of one of Florida's towering giants and finest public servants.”

A U.S. Senate race that began with Perry Miller's murder had now been turned upside down by the untimely death of his successor. With only nine days to go before the election, tens of thousands of Florida voters had already cast their ballot for a dead man in early voting. A campaign birthed in tragedy became even more bizarre and potentially unpredictable.

“ARE YOU WATCHING TV?” ASKED David Thomas, who was in his office in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building across the alley from the White House.

“Yeah,” replied Jay. “I didn't have much use for Lightfoot, but this is terrible.” He was in a holding room at a Marriott, two blocks from John Wayne Airport in Orange County, California. The president was about to do a campaign rally with Heidi Hughes.

Thomas studied the aerial footage of the crash site, which was airing constantly on cable news. Lightfoot's King Air looked like a bird with broken wings, its charred fuselage broken into three pieces. A black mark in the grass marked the point of impact.

“The poor guy never had a prayer,” said Thomas.

“What happened?”

“They're reporting the pilot tried to land in the rain with a low cloud ceiling. He flew right into a cell phone tower. That was all she wrote.”

“Good, Lord. What an idiot.”

“It's criminal. So what happens now?”

“I don't know,” said Jay. “We need to find out. Does Birch appoint someone to fill out the rest of the Miller/Lightfoot term? Can Lightfoot's campaign committee choose a stand-in, like his wife? I assume the votes already cast for him don't count.”

“It's a mess,” said Thomas. “I'll get answers.”

“We also need to release a statement from POTUS. Better yet, he should make some remarks of condolence when he speaks at this rally for Hughes.”

“If he doesn't, the press will smoke us.”

“I'll work something up.”

“I'll get on the horn with Jefferson's folks and get my arms around whether they can replace Lightfoot on the ballot or not.”

“Good,” said Jay, his voice somber. “I know it's hard to focus on politics at a time like this, but we've got a Senate race to win.”

“Roger that.”

Jay hung up his cell phone and stared at the television. He felt a slight tug of guilt. Part of him was glad Lightfoot was gone—it made it easier for Jefferson to win. Another part of him repulsed at having to make political calculations when a man, his son, and two others were dead. But he had no choice.

“HEIDI! HEIDI! HEIDI!”

A crowd of four thousand screaming campaign volunteers and grassroots activists jammed into the ballroom of the Marriott, chanting at the top of their lungs. They waved green “Heidi for Senate” signs and snapped photos with flip cameras. Hughes stood at the podium bearing the presidential seal, flashing a relaxed smile and exuding confidence. She wore a form-fitting orange sleeveless top that drew the eye like a neon tangerine against her sun-kissed shoulders and wave of brown hair. Long stood directly behind her wearing a bemused expression.

“I don't want to hold you from our featured speaker,” said Hughes. She was under strict orders from the White House to hold her introduction of the president to under two minutes. In the West Wing they called this the “Underwood rule” after U.S. Senate candidate Josh Underwood of New Hampshire, who froze at the stick and blathered for fifteen minutes before finally calling the president to the podium. After that, the word went out: two-minute intro or you die.

“I have such great admiration for this man,” she said, oozing sincerity. “He is one of the greatest leaders California has ever produced—which is saying a lot because it includes men like Ronald Reagan.” (Applause.) “When he ran for president as an independent, Bob Long put his country ahead of his party, principle ahead of ambition, and he is leading our nation with courage and clarity. Please welcome the president of the United States, Bob Long!”

Long gave Hughes an affectionate hug and stepped to the podium, his steely blue eyes sparkling, flashing his best “aw shucks” smile.

“Six more years! Six more years!”

Long let out a theatrical chuckle at the chant, his shoulders gyrating. “Not yet,” he said, holding up his hands. The crowd quieted down. “I'll tell you who we want to have six more years is Heidi Hughes in the U.S. Senate.” The crowd cheered lustily. “She's the reason we're here.” He paused for effect. “We can talk about me later. What's that old Toby Keith song . . . ‘I Wanna Talk about Me'?” Everyone laughed.

“Really, it's great to be home,” said Long, warming to the moment. He stared at the back of the room, where a riser held bloggers, print reporters, and forty television cameras. “We're now just days from a really important election, so I'm doing a little politicking around the country.” (Applause.) “Being with you and Heidi here in Orange County is a particular pleasure for me.” He leaned on one elbow on the podium, his posture relaxed. “You see, I know Heidi well. She was the minority leader in the state senate when I was governor.” He twisted his lips into a comic smirk. “That was back before I got religion. I was still a Democrat.” (Laughter.) “I got to know this woman well. I saw what she was made of, and I'm here to tell you she is a person of character, smart as a whip, with a backbone of solid steel; and she will do California proud in the U.S. Senate.” The crowd erupted into loud cheers and applause.

“Heidi! Heidi! Heidi!”

Long kept his eyes down, his facial expression serious. The chants died. “We're going to need her because the Senate suffered a great loss today. Senator Dolph Lightfoot of Florida, a good man and an outstanding legislator, lost his life earlier today in a tragic accident.” The crowd fell silent. “Earlier today I spoke with Mrs. Lightfoot, who also lost a son, and offered Claire's and my sympathy as she mourns her loss. The Lightfoot family is in our thoughts and our prayers at this very difficult hour, and we ask for God's comfort as they grieve.” The crowd offered applause muted by the gravity of the remarks.

On that solemn note Long cut his remarks short, delivering a truncated version of his stump speech about jobs, health care, terrorism, and Iran. The entire time Hughes stood like a creamsicle mannequin, her hands clasped in front of her, facial expression frozen in a gaze of sycophantic admiration. She knew her pollster had her down by one point. But she was confident Long's appearance in Orange County, along with a later stop in her home turf of San Diego, would put her in the lead. The question was: could she hold that lead until election day?

DON JEFFERSON WAS IN A holding room at a Sheraton convention hotel in Kissimmee, a stone's throw from Disney World, when news flashed that Dolph Lightfoot's plane had gone down. He was scheduled to speak to a local Republican women's club—the GOP women had been the shock troops of his campaign. Not knowing whether his opponent was dead or alive, he delivered emotional, abbreviated remarks, worked the room, and left before the media arrived. Now he sat in a suite in the hotel, on a strategy conference call with his shell-shocked campaign team. Joining him in the room were his campaign manager and body man. Everyone else was at headquarters. A corned beef sandwich sat on a paper plate in front of him, untouched.

“Congressman, have you heard the latest on the crash?” asked his press secretary.

“No. I was downstairs. What's the latest?”

“AP is reporting both Lightfoot and his son are dead. No word on anyone else. But I don't see how anybody could survive. Someone caught a few seconds of the plane on a video camera. It dropped out of the sky like a rock.”

Jefferson sat silently. His campaign manager scrolled through his BlackBerry in search of more updates. “What do we do now?” asked Jefferson. “It's a very delicate situation.”

“I think we flood the zone,” said his campaign manager, who had a Rasputin-like hold over Jefferson's fragile psyche.

“Meaning what?” asked Jefferson.

“Take every interview you can, local as well as national, and express deep remorse and sympathy for the Lightfoot family, and say you are praying for his loved ones. Refuse to answer any political questions at all,” said the manager.

“I'd be a little more careful,” said Jefferson's consultant over the speakerphone. “You don't want to look like you're grandstanding.”

“If I'm mugging for the cameras, it'll backfire,” said Jefferson firmly.

“What? It's the opposite!” shrieked his campaign manager, his voice rising to the rough audible level. “A former governor is dead. You've got to hang black crepe. This isn't about politics. This is about a human tragedy. If you don't express sympathy,
that
will look cold and calculated.”

Jefferson looked torn. “What do you think, Melissa?” he asked his press secretary.

“I've already got a stack of press calls,” she replied. “My concern is if you don't get out there, the Democrats can soak up the earned media. Then they get the independents who were with Lightfoot, not us.”

Jefferson frowned. “We can't do everything. But we can do some on a selective basis, a mix of national and local.”

“Guess who's on hold?” asked the press secretary.

“Who?”

“
Meet the Press.
They want you Sunday.”

“Holy smoke. That could be big.”

“If you take that and knock it out of the park, it'll be over,” said his campaign manager.

“Ask who else they're booking,” said Jefferson. “And tell them if we do it at all, it's one-on-one in the first segment. No panels. Not if I'm there primarily to talk about the grief of our state.”

“Got it.”

“Alright, let's talk about the politics of this, awkward as that is,” said Jefferson. “Can Lightfoot's campaign put someone else on the ballot? Max, are you on the line?”

“I'm here,” said Max Stampanovich, Jefferson's legal counsel. “The short answer is yes, they can. Even though he was running as an independent, Lightfoot's campaign committee is technically a third party. The official name is the Florida Independent Party. Their executive committee can meet and select a new nominee.”

“Who's on that committee?” asked the campaign manager.

“We're pulling those names now,” said Stampanovich.

“What about the early votes he's already gotten?” asked Jefferson.

“They're invalid,” said Stampanovich.

“How many do we think that is?”

“There were 652,000 early votes through yesterday,” said Jefferson's campaign manager, who had a mind like a computer. “Assuming his share was consistent with where he was polling, it would have been 250,000 votes.”

“Wow,” exclaimed Jefferson. “That's a lot.”