Blind Allegiance to Sarah Palin (25 page)

For election night, we went back to the good-luck Hotel Captain Cook. Neen was in the room I'd booked for us, putting a few things away and ordering dinner, when I received a call. It was Mitt Romney's assistant. He said that things looked close but recent polling
showed that Sarah would likely be governor by the end of the night. “Thank Governor Romney. We're praying he's right.”

Around seven thirty, just before the polls closed, we gathered in the ballroom. While Alaskans tend toward informality on nearly all occasions, there was a joyful red formality in tonight's outfits, with men largely sporting coats and ties, and women adorned in dresses and sparkling jewels. We positioned buttons, bumperstickers, and those New Energy for Alaska signs behind the podium, where television cameras would pick them up once Sarah gave her victory speech.

Throughout the evening and into the night, I maneuvered through the crowd, shaking hands and listening gratefully to people's compliments and congratulations. “You did an amazing thing.” “This must feel good, Frank.” When anyone said, “She's gonna win this thing, Frank,” I put a finger to my mouth and say, “Shhh. Don't wanna jinx this.”

At one point, Anita Halterman, a dedicated campaign worker who later worked closely with John Bitney came up and hugged me. “So do you know what you'll be doing if she wins?” she asked.

“No, not really. Let's just get through tonight.”

“Well,” she said, matter-of-factly, “Bitney is telling people that Sarah promised he'd be deputy chief of staff .”

“Oh, really? Okay.” My words tumbled from my mouth.

Bitney was saying one thing, telling people he was slated for the significant role as Deputy COS once Sarah was sworn in, while only earlier in the day she had downplayed to me his significance. I believed Sarah but did not doubt that a political vulture like Bitney would be spreading such a rumor, hoping it would generate support. Both he and Tibbles were professionals and had learned the art of manipulation from some of the best in the business. But, then again, Sarah often changed her mind about important issues, sometimes in mid-sentence. I wondered if in the end she might change course and select her political operatives. Was I headed for the Christmas card list?

“Sa-
rah
! Sa-
rah
! Sa-
rah
!”

The chants brought me back into the moment. Trust—all I could do was trust in Sarah's loyalty. No non-family member had been on the inside longer, so there was no rational reason for me to suddenly
feel insecure. I grabbed my laptop and headed off to the left of the stage to set up and check the numbers as they rolled in. Resuming the same drill I'd carried out during the primary, I clicked the Refresh button like an obsessive-compulsive and waited. It was a foregone conclusion that we'd sweep Mat-Su, the Kenai Peninsula, and my hometown of Kodiak. With the exception of the Dillingham area, where Todd grew up, I knew that rural Alaska would embrace Knowles. While the votes in each village were relatively small, the towns numbered in the hundreds. Southeast Alaska, with approximately 17 percent of the state's population, would likely tilt to Knowles.

Everything pointed toward Anchorage as the make-or-break region; if we held close, we'd win. If Knowles carried the city by a large margin, it might be a long night. I felt the knot in my throat tighten with each fresh computer screen shot.

Finally, KTUU announced the results. I'd labored for this day for over a year. As I readied to celebrate, I sought to control my trembling hands and wipe dry my moist eyes. I turned to Sarah and, my voice cracking, said the words “Hello,
Governor
Palin.” It sounded odd, like the first time someone introduced my wife as “Mrs. Bailey.” Confetti filled the air and voices sang our new governor's name. As Sarah rose, I was magnetically swept along.

Once assembled on stage and looking down at the cheering throng, Kris Perry stepped in as master of ceremonies. It bothered me that my tongue immediately tied itself into a thick knot whenever addressing a crowd. I would have loved to thank our supporters. Eventually Sarah took the podium and unsuccessfully gestured for the “Sa-
rah
!” chants to subside.

Someone with a booming voice yelled, “Are you ready for new energy, Alaska?” The room shook with enthusiasm.

Off to the side, I had barely enough time to catch my breath before people were pressing up to me. Many already had an agenda. We'd been declared victors less than an hour earlier, and special interests were already leaning into my ear with laundry lists of requests. One after the other, including people whose names I couldn't even attach
to their faces. If this was what it was like for little ol' Frank Bailey, I wondered if Sarah had any idea of the pressure she'd face beginning tomorrow morning. I now knew that she needed her Rag Tag filter more than ever.

On the march to Egan Center's Election Central, the masses pushed forward in the hopes of brushing close to a jubilant governor-elect. Our red parade arrived to thunderous cheers and sharp whistles. Funneled to the tiny channel 13 platform, Sarah gave her first TV interview as Alaska's next chief executive. The larger stations, channels 2 and 11 in a perpetual battle for ratings and political access, looked on enviously.

We were told that a bitter Tony Knowles had already left the building, not interested in conceding. Our winning margin of 7.5 percent was an embarrassment and an unhappy end to an overly long career.

An hour or two later, once I'd returned to my room at the hotel, I found myself unable to stay awake and watch continuing election interviews. I fell into bed next to my wife, who, because of the massive yearlong commitment, had become too much of a stranger. Sadly, I could say the same of my children. I promised myself that things would change for the better for all of us, personally and politically. Sacrifices and shortcuts would come to an end. Making it all worthwhile, Alaskans would finally have an advocate and fighter running the state. I remembered what Sarah had emailed to Dan Fagan when he came over to our side just days ago:
“Dan, Thank you. By the grace of God I will not let Alaska down.”

With a heavy arm draped across my already sleeping spouse, I closed my eyes and dreamed of those better days.

17
 

Job to Nowhere

T
he Wednesday morning after the election, November 8, Sarah called a meeting in her midtown Anchorage headquarters. Included were Todd Palin, John Bitney, Mike Tibbles, Spokesman Curtis Smith, me, and a few of Lieutenant Governor Sean Parnell's people. The agenda called for forming a transition team that would address eventual appointments to the administration cabinet, key commissioners, departmental deputies, and their staffs ahead of Sarah's December 4, 2006, swearing in. Because many of us had been promised only vague future roles—and we understood that Sarah's plans might shift from inhale to exhale—stomachs were churning. Kris Perry, one of Sarah's closest confidants during the campaign, wasn't invited. What's more, both Sarah and Todd had suddenly been avoiding her, suggesting she was being subjected to a passive-aggressive, cold-shouldered good-bye. Full of my own anxieties, I reassured Kris that her fears were unfounded. Eventually Kris was given a role in planning the inauguration ceremony and later became director of the Anchorage office, but only after Todd told me during this meeting that she could return only if “she left her drama behind.”

From the moment that Sarah and I intersected in the parking lot ahead of the meeting, it was obvious her “Don't-cross-me” quills were
raised. During the campaign, Todd would have phoned ahead and warned, “Sarah's in a shit mood. Don't let her hear or see anything that might set her off.” I was sitting in my pickup when she drove up in her Jetta, parked nearby, and climbed out. Ahead of her, I crossed the snow-dusted asphalt with plowed, dirty snow piled high like winter haystacks.

Beneath a gray sky, I passed the martial arts studio next to our single-story office in a strip mall on the corner of East Thirty-fourth Avenue and Fairbanks Street. Despite the hour, ten o'clock, behind our offices the Moose's Tooth Pub and Pizzeria was already baking the best pizza in the state. Normally the aroma started my stomach growling, but listening to Sarah yell at one of her kids set my stomach growling in another, less pleasant way. Her angry voice contrasted sharply with the sound of children playing in the snow at a day care center a few doors down. As she snapped off her phone and approached the sidewalk where I waited, she greeted me by complaining about her children being a pain before going on to gripe about incessant calls.

“The phone won't stop ringing! These people think because they supported me, they can just call anytime they want!” I thought to myself,
What did you expect, Sarah? You were just elected governor of Alaska in a landslide, and people love you. Is that so bad?
But I wisely said nothing, nodding in faux sympathy. “I can't believe how everyone is asking for something from me already,” she continued sharply.

Dressed in jeans with her hair pulled up, she stomped her boots to remove slush and stepped broadly through the front door. Several volunteers who were working on post-campaign cleanup rose from their wobbling chairs at folding tables and began applauding in admiration and respect, as if this were an official coronation. But Sarah brushed right by them, her eyes fixed straight ahead. I kept my distance while acknowledging, shaking hands, hugging, and thanking those who had spent so many hours helping us win the election. As Sarah whisked past, her indifference to loyal followers reminded me of the earlier refusal to visit eighty-year-old Eagle River volunteer extraordinaire Marvin Morrisett. We were but one day removed from the thunderous victory applause by these same tireless workers, and it appeared as if there was a new motto: in with the new and out with the old.

Not long after the meeting attendees arrived, we assembled in an open area with folding chairs arranged in a circle. Sarah dropped her large red bag, which doubled as a purse and briefcase, at her feet and waited impatiently for us to pour coffee and grab Costco cookies left over from the previous night's festivities.

Everyone looked heavy lidded from a late night of watching the returns, while Sarah's scowl and pinched brow left no doubt about her disposition. If we'd hoped to ride a day or two of euphoria after a hard-fought victory, we were immediately disabused.

Pale with Albino white hair, a youthful Mike Tibbles jumped in and began asserting himself, rifling through a list of bureaucrats who should be kept (because they “aren't political”) and those who shouldn't (because they “are political”). For a man as political as Tibbles, what this probably meant were those he could control versus those he could not. In short order, Sarah named him director of transition (and soon thereafter designated him future chief of staff). My heart sank. This former Binkley advisor attacked our campaign viciously one day then joined up for position and money the next. Wasn't he the type of professional we had promised to replace once in office? Additionally, Tibbles showed no concern for the grassroots volunteers, an early administration red flag. Yet Sarah embraced him wholeheartedly. After he'd orchestrated the attack ads against Sarah in the primary, I'd confronted him and told him that he was “going down.” How wrong I was.