Blind Allegiance to Sarah Palin (14 page)

Lumping the media into a group that included Republican and Democratic leaders, Sarah warned us,
“Political folks are not loyal . . .
please know that. It's the nature of their game. Trust me. Just let
[
them
]
do the talking, don't say anything.”
That last part, about not saying anything in response to criticism, was great advice we studiously avoided.

With the pressure cooker of the Palin campaign on high, the poll numbers continued to hold steady. Endorsements trickled in and built momentum. Former governor Walter Hickel said in his endorsement, “The Governor needs to do what is best for Alaska and the owner state. Sarah Palin is doing exactly that.” In a second major coup, we received the sole endorsement of Alaska's Right to Life organization. Sarah's reaction aptly reflected the importance she attached to this:

The Alaska Correctional Officers Association represented yet another coveted endorsement. Large and small, we welcomed these, even when we didn't understand the rationale. When, for example, we received the blessing of a marijuana advocacy group, we accepted with the following:
“Thank you for your support and we look forward to a brighter future for all Alaskans. Hopefully, those who read your voters guide, will cast all 150 plus votes for Sarah Palin during the August 22 Primary.”
So long as they could fill out a voter registration card, why not have 'em vote Palin, dilated pupils and all?

As we neared the primary election date, principal opponent John Binkley's last-minute attempt to derail us came in the form of an editorial that appeared in the
Mat-Su Valley Frontiersman
more than a decade earlier. I listened to snippets from the commercial that included:

In shock, I called Sarah and described the ad. My directive came loud and clear: “Do something, Frank!”

This was beyond anything we'd seen in this election cycle, and Sarah's desperate plea hit, in me, a willing mark. I phoned attack-architect Mike Tibbles, Binkley's campaign manager.

“What are you thinking?” I asked. “You know this thing was written years ago. You're making it look like it just happened, like it was something they wrote today.”

“I don't have to share our campaign strategy with you, Frank.”

“Then all I have to say is this, Mike. If you guys think this is gonna work, you're crazy. On Tuesday, you are going down.”

Binkley's tactic unnerved me, not because I thought it might work—I did not—but more for Sarah's reaction. Did she think the voters so easily swayed, or was it natural insecurity ahead of an election? As for me calling out Tibbles for being slimy, that part felt good. When we won, I'd allow myself to wallow a bit in the sin of pride.

Stunningly, when Sarah later brought in Mike Tibbles for the final weeks of her own general election campaign, I felt he was the one enjoying a last laugh.

PART TWO

Victory

11
 

Some Things Never Change

A
s the day of the primary approached, we felt nervous but ready. Let the voters have their say and get rid of the clowns and pretenders to the GOP throne. With momentum, the Prayer Warriors, and Queen Esther's legacy on our side, I felt optimistic. Strange, though, that while I believed in Sarah's victory with all my heart, my slightly aching stomach seemed not to fully agree. We'd done everything we could, and this was now in God's hands. I hoped that He would reward our efforts. “Work as if we're three points behind,” I constantly told volunteers. Now the phrase echoed, creating that tiny ounce of uncertainty.

To view the televised results, we reserved the ballroom at the Hotel Captain Cook, a luxury property in downtown Anchorage with views of Cook Inlet and beyond the foothills to the Chugach Mountains. It was owned by former Governor Hickel. Top-hatted doormen escorted us through the main entrance on our way into the nine-thousand-square-foot ballroom with crystal chandeliers and a British coat of arms above the door. When I walked into the party room, Sarah was busy opening plastic containers of cookies from Costco to set out on tables littered with Palin-Gov buttons and cheap glitter. Everyone,
including the candidate, seemed to be wearing a red blazer. Despite sparse decorations, piped-in elevator music, and no free beverages, the room sparked with anticipation. Sarah, in contrast to the energy of her supporters, had wrinkles around her eyes, her face drawn and hanging a bit like melting wax. She reminded me of a child the day after a long overnight with little sleep and no next-day nap. At what we expected to be her finest moment, she seemed nearly overcome by anxiety.

While others mingled and chattered away, septuagenarian volunteer Kerm Ketchum sat huddled with me in a corner staring at my computer screen, compulsively clicking the Refresh button to update the latest vote tally. Polls closed at eight o'clock, and results began trickling in about half past. When a poll watcher called in from the town of Sterling to say Palin had received 60 percent of the local vote, the crowd of over two hundred erupted.

Into the night, new election numbers led to whistles and applause. In an instant, those cathartic outbursts transitioned into a seemingly endless wait for the next update. We'd hit that Refresh button every few seconds, as a subdued Sarah hunched in her chair beside Kerm and me.

Reporter Jason Moore from KTUU, Anchorage's NBC affiliate, stopped by and asked, “Sarah, any reaction to the early results showing you with a strong lead?”

“No. It's still early, yet.” She didn't want to jinx the results.

A new number flashing led to renewed bedlam that sounded like an arena-size crowd's reaction to a last-second, game-winning hockey goal. The human crush drifted toward our corner the closer we came to a final tally. When the Fairbanks numbers flashed across my bargain-basement laptop shortly after nine o'clock, showing solid support in our weakest geographical area, I knew we owned this election.

I turned to Sarah and said, “Listen, there is no way Bink can recover from losses in his hometown.”

Sarah tilted her head as if to say, “Are you sure?” before mumbling, “Really?”

“Yes. Mathematically, it's just not going to happen for him. Kenai, Kodiak, and even the Anchorage precincts are yours.”

With each new district reporting, Scott Heyworth shouted out
the results. As our vote total grew, so did the decibel level. The rafters echoed with, “Sa-
rah
! Sa-
rah
! Sa-
rah
!”

Waiting longer than I thought necessary, at around nine thirty she turned to me and, with a little shrug meant to be a question, wanted to know if it would be safe to make a statement.

I nodded. “It's time.” Before approaching the stage, she gave me a strong, warm, unbelievably appreciative embrace. There are a handful of dramatic moments in life that ink themselves indelibly in one's mind. For me, this was one of those. With a smile creasing my cheeks and tears blurring vision, I watched as Sarah wove through the crowd, noticing for the first time that she appeared to have shrunk these last few weeks. I'd heard others suggest that before elections she lost significant amounts of weight (living largely off of Skinny White Chocolate Mochas).

Sarah spoke briefly and at one point said, “It's time for new energy for Alaska.” Four-time Iditarod champ Martin Buser, Wally Hickel, and legendary attorney Wayne Anthony Ross all spoke as hundreds swirled around Sarah for group photo ops.

With all the votes tallied, in a landslide Sarah Louise Heath Palin became the GOP's candidate for governor:

Her opponent on the Democratic side of the aisle was former two-term governor Tony Knowles who, despite racking up 75 percent of his party's vote, totaled only 37, 316 votes, or some 14,000 fewer than Sarah. Add to the mix independent candidate Andrew Halcro, who didn't have much of a base, and we had reason for optimism come November.

Heavily dressed in crimson sweaters, scarves, shirts, and ties, we eventually left the hotel en masse and marched the five blocks to Election Central at the William A. Egan Civic and Convention Center, where winners and losers gathered to meet with the press and play nice
after a long campaign. It got dark late in Anchorage at that time of year, so we still had remnants of light even though it was past ten o'clock. In the cool but dry air, we hoisted the leftover yard signs used to inexpensively decorate the luxurious hotel ballroom, making it look like the Palin sea of red was joyously flowing down Fifth Avenue. To me, this felt like our own march down Avenue des Champs-Élysées after World War II. The GOP war was won. Our army felt invincible. For this glorious night, petty squabbles like those between me and Cathy Fredericks ceased to exist. We were a single, living, breathing organism with but one life, one love.

At one point during these raucous events, we passed by the soon-to-be deposed governor, Frank Murkowski. While far from members of the mutual admiration society, he nonetheless smiled and stopped to shake Sarah's hand. Leaning in, he said something I'll never forget: “Sarah, you have an amazing group of volunteers.” Interestingly, I never did stop to think why it was that Sarah undertook this race with few (almost no) volunteers from her previous campaigns. Was it an issue of competency, loyalty, availability? Whatever the reasons, they wouldn't have mattered much to me. What Murkowski said was absolutely true. We weren't hardened political operatives like Binkley's Mike Tibbles. We didn't run this race with a well-oiled machine or even a detailed plan—or, from time to time, any plan at all. What we did was work our tails off.

We'd invested everything—our hearts, family time, financial well-being—into this first step toward landing Sarah in the Juneau governor's mansion. This night's victory became a confirmation that without the so-called pros, we had done the impossible. All of that scrambling, late-night fighting with Smokey Joe the fax machine and printing hokey two-color fliers that we'd cut into postcards and mail cheaply across the state had, miraculously, paid off. Lost weekends going door to door, asking folks on prime street locations to join us by allowing the campaign to post a Palin-Gov sign on their fence or in their yard, were not sacrifices made in vain. For me personally, I wasn't a politico, but I knew how to treat people honestly. When necessary, I had attempted to pick up the pieces of a sometimes fractured campaign, using energy and commitment to insulate volunteers
from some of the sharp Palin-edges that might have disenfranchised others.