Golden (18 page)

Wilhelm's pedigree was as accomplished—or more so at that point—as Axelrod's. After successfully managing Bill Clinton's presidential campaign in 1992, he had become the youngest chairman of the Democratic National Committee. Like Axelrod, Wilhelm worked for Paul Simon in Illinois and
Mayor Daley in Chicago. Ronen had been Daley's deputy campaign manager in 1991.

Ronen and Blagojevich made their way downtown to Wilhelm's offices just off Michigan Avenue. The men talked for more than an hour, breaking down strategies and ideas about what issues Blagojevich should focus on for the campaign. One of the few issues Blagojevich was active on in Congress was gun control. But that wouldn't play well in a statewide run when Blagojevich would have to sell himself to downstate voters who distrusted Chicago politicians, liked to hunt, and didn't like liberals who wanted to take away their guns.

Before Blagojevich made a final decision, though, he met with Wilhelm and Axelrod to talk it over one more time. During that meeting, Axelrod asked Blagojevich a simple question: “Why do you want to be governor?”

“You can help me figure that out,” Blagojevich answered.

Axelrod told him that was not what he did. “If you can tell me, I can help you explain it to others,” Axelrod said. “If you can't, then you really shouldn't run.”

Still Blagojevich tried to convince Axelrod to join the campaign, insisting he was “going to raise a lot of money” and “it'll be great,” but Axelrod said he couldn't.

There was no Axelrod-like come-to-Jesus question from Wilhelm, who focused more on setting an agenda and developing a strategy to elect Illinois's first Democratic governor in a quarter century. But when the time came to formally hire Wilhelm as campaign chairman, Blagojevich didn't do it. As he and Ronen sat in Wilhelm's office, that odd, shy part of Blagojevich's personality presented itself again, and he never worked up the gumption to offer Wilhelm the job. Finally, Ronen stepped in and did it.

“Absolutely,” Wilhelm responded.

In terms of strategy, Wilhelm and Blagojevich quickly decided on the theme of the 2002 campaign: Rod the Populist. Blagojevich won his seat in Congress pitching himself as an amalgam of a city ward boss's sonin-law and a progressive yuppie. While that was fine for the Fifth Congressional District, he would need more to win statewide.

Rod the Populist would hit on multiple issues: promising change to the culture of sleaze in Springfield for those sick of the corruption; guaranteeing
affordable prescription drugs for senior citizens; and promising jobs and raising the minimum wage for working-class families.

To replace Axelrod, Blagojevich hired two experts from DC—media strategist Bill Knapp and pollster Fred Yang. The campaign, though, still needed a campaign manager. At first, Wilhelm sought out his former employee at the Strategy Group, Doug Scofield with Gutierrez's office. But Scofield balked. He and his wife had a one-year-old and another one on the way. The strain and stress of running a statewide campaign wasn't going to work for him.

“Talk to Axe,” Wilhelm said, referring to Axelrod. Wilhelm thought maybe Axelrod or his partner, John Kupper, could help shed some light on what it was like working for Blagojevich.

When Scofield and Kupper spoke, Kupper talked about what a great campaigner and how energetic Blagojevich was. But there was another side, he warned. Blagojevich was an unbelievable handful. He didn't listen to his consultants, was unmanageable and unpredictable, didn't know the material particularly well, and didn't seem to care much about policy. “Think hard about it,” Kupper told him.

Scofield called Wilhelm back, saying he appreciated the offer but was going to have to pass. By then, though, Blagojevich had gotten other ideas about a campaign manager.

As 2000 turned to 2001, he took a skiing vacation to Copper Mountain, Colorado, with Patti, Lon Monk, and Monk's girlfriend. Blagojevich, who wasn't much of a skier anyway, seemed preoccupied. He eventually dropped the bomb on Monk he was going to run for governor and he wanted Monk's help. Monk was skeptical.

He was a sports agent and didn't know anything about politics. But Blagojevich said he could handle that part of things. He wanted somebody who was organized, who felt beholden to him, and whom he could trust. But first, Blagojevich planned to place Monk on his congressional staff to get his feet wet. Blagojevich would transition Monk onto the political staff when the campaign was fully underway. Monk agreed, and by that spring, he was serving as Blagojevich's congressional general counsel, on his way to earning nearly $84,000 in taxpayers' money between May and the end of 2001.

Around the same time, Blagojevich was in Washington, DC, when he got a visit from an old friend—Paris Thompson. The two men had gone separate ways since Blagojevich joined Congress. Thompson's love of baseball had taken him to Florida where he tried his hand at umpire school. When
that didn't pan out, he came home to Chicago to do community work and preach as a minister.

He also had some other news. His name was no longer Paris Thompson. It was Bamani Obadele. He had changed it after a trip to Africa. Blagojevich had some news of his own. He was running for governor. “I'm going to need your help in the black community. I'm going to need you with me,” he told Obadele.

“I'm with you Rod,” Obadele said. “But a lot of people in the community feel it is Roland's time.”

Blagojevich knew exactly who Bamani was talking about—Roland Burris. The first African American to be elected to a statewide office, in 1978, Burris for years had been trying—and mostly failing—to ascend to a higher office. In 1984, he lost to Paul Simon for US Senate and in 1995 got crushed by Mayor Daley for Chicago mayor. He'd run for governor in 1994 and 1998 and lost both times in the primary. The only time he was successful was in 1990 when voters elected him Illinois attorney general.

Burris's name had recently floated to the top of the list of potential candidates. Some new names joined him. Michael Bakalis said he was going to run. A sixty-something suburbanite and Illinois's last superintendent of schools, Bakalis had gotten killed running for governor in 1978 against Republican James R. Thompson, a former US attorney who ended up holding the office throughout the 1980s. Paul Vallas, who made national headlines reforming Chicago's public schools, was also talking about running, which was ironic because years earlier Vallas was told he should run for governor by Dick Mell.

Burris was a good politician and not to be underestimated since he'd draw a large number of black votes. But he'd been a steady loser and was sixty-three years old; Blagojevich knew he could outenergize and outcampaign him. He also knew he'd crush him in the most important category—money.

Still heeding the lesson he first learned in the Kaszak race, Blagojevich told Obadele he was ready to make a splash with his cash. “It's gonna blow people away,” Blagojevich said.

By the summer of 2001, Monk moved to Chicago and for nearly two months lived at Blagojevich's home on Sunnyside before finally buying a place in
Wrigleyville. The two friends became even closer, staying up late talking about old times and future plans. Blagojevich was becoming manic about money. He constantly talked about it, from gathering as much as possible to spending as little as possible. It was all with an eye on reporting the largest war chest to intimidate competition when campaign finance reports were released at the end of July.

Around the same time, Blagojevich decided it was time two of his biggest fundraisers finally met. He called up Petrovic and said he needed to meet Chris Kelly, who, he told Petrovic, was going to be overseeing the campaign's fund-raising operation. The three men met at the Rosewood Restaurant in Rosemont, a high-end steakhouse in the small northwest Chicago suburb that had become a popular destination for conventioneers.

When Petrovic and Blagojevich arrived, Kelly was already sitting in a booth. Dressed casually, his graying hair slicked back, Kelly wore sunglasses and barely moved as Blagojevich and Petrovic sat down. Kelly didn't say a word as Blagojevich made small talk, and when Rod quieted down, the three sat in silence. Petrovic wondered what was going on. Kelly still hadn't even taken off his sunglasses. Then he looked in Petrovic's direction. “You gotta get up and leave. I gotta talk to Rod.”

Petrovic looked at Kelly. He wasn't kidding. Then he looked at Blagojevich, who nervously chuckled and indicated he also didn't think Kelly was kidding. So Petrovic got up out of the booth and headed to the bar, thinking Kelly needed a few minutes before the three had their meeting. Nearly an hour later, after Blagojevich and Kelly sat in the booth speaking in hushed tones, Kelly stood up and walked out of the restaurant, ignoring Petrovic as he left. Blagojevich rescued Petrovic, still at the bar, and the two headed back to Petrovic's car. Sitting in the passenger seat, Blagojevich giggled nervously.

“Did I say something wrong?” Petrovic asked.

“No,” Blagojevich responded.

“Well, what was that about?”

“He didn't like you.”

“What do you mean he doesn't like me? I met him for thirty seconds.”

“He doesn't like you because he doesn't know you,” Blagojevich explained. “And because of that, he doesn't trust you.”

Kelly's reaction wasn't unique to Petrovic. Almost anybody who Kelly felt could get Blagojevich's ear without going through him first got the same treatment. And Blagojevich did little to stop it. In fact, Blagojevich—ever the
radio show prankster—often stoked the fires, egging Kelly on and watching just to see how people reacted as they vied for Blagojevich's attention.

But the meeting with Kelly wasn't enough to scare Petrovic off. He knew the business of fund-raising, and business with Blagojevich was good. Even Blagojevich's self-centeredness didn't make Petrovic get up and quit, though one Friday he wanted to.

Petrovic had driven Blagojevich to north suburban Gurnee for a fund-raising meeting, and following the meeting, Petrovic fought terrible Friday traffic for ninety minutes to drop Blagojevich off at his home. Just minutes later, though, Mary Stewart called to tell Petrovic there was an emergency. Rod had left his hairbrush up in Gurnee and needed Petrovic to drive back and retrieve it.

“You have to deliver it back to him,” she said.

Petrovic was stunned but followed though with his task grudgingly. Nearly four hours later, after missing a night out with his wife, Petrovic was back on Sunnyside, knocking on Blagojevich's door, hairbrush in hand. “Thanks, handsome,” Blagojevich said, grabbing the brush and not apparently noticing Petrovic's irritation. “I'll talk to you later.”

But Blagojevich's push for fund-raising was paying off. By the end of June 2001, just days before he announced his bid for governor, he had more than $2 million in the bank. Roland Burris, by comparison, had less than $40,000.

As Blagojevich racked up the cash, Dick Mell was appearing at a Springfield restaurant for a meeting of the Democratic County Chairmen's Association.