Golden (20 page)

In Blagojevich's congressional district, meanwhile, he was watching with great interest the race to replace him.

His former foe Nancy Kaszak was running against Rahm Emanuel. Blagojevich knew Emanuel. He was raised on the well-off North Shore, something that would typically make Blagojevich dislike somebody unless they were giving him money. But Blagojevich liked Emanuel because he was forceful and good at what he did. He had gotten into politics in Chicago by fund-raising for Mayor Daley. He was also a friend of Wilhelm and got dragged down to Little Rock in 1992 to help Bill Clinton get elected president. Emanuel stayed on with Clinton and moved to Washington, where his assertive nature made him stand out as a top Clinton aide and where he and Blagojevich got to know each other a little better.

Emanuel moved back to Chicago and waited for the right opportunity to reenter politics. In the meantime, he made millions of dollars as an investment banker. Emanuel lived only a few miles away from Blagojevich, so when Blagojevich decided to run for governor, that “right opportunity” was obvious.

“Should be a good race,” he told one political insider. “Rahm's an aggressive asshole, and so is Nancy.”

As the calendar turned to 2002, David Wilhelm tried one more time to get Doug Scofield to work for Blagojevich's campaign. There were only two months before the primary, and Blagojevich was about to put his first television commercial on the air. It was a bio ad, introducing a smiling
Blagojevich with his hard-to-pronounce last name to Democratic voters across the state. He was the embodiment of the American dream.

“My name is Eastern European; my story is American.”

It was the first ad of the season, beating both Vallas and Burris out of the box. In just ten days, the campaign's internal polling showed Blagojevich moved from relative obscurity at 12 percent to contender at 28 percent. He was also showing a huge upswing among those key downstate voters. “He's moving,” Wilhelm told Scofield. “He has a chance to win this thing.”

Still, things weren't perfect. The campaign was disjointed. Blagojevich's current spokeswoman couldn't get along with either the press or the candidate. And, Wilhelm conceded, the candidate himself was undisciplined, unfocused, and self-absorbed. But just the same, he was brilliant at retail politics, had boundless energy, and tons of cash.

Work just until the primary in March, Wilhelm said, and after that let's see what happens.

Scofield agreed. The commitment was only for a few months, and the idea of helping elect Illinois's first Democratic governor in a quarter century was too tempting. He took a leave of absence from Gutierrez—who endorsed Blagojevich despite his previous skepticism—and days later sat down with the candidate, who was aware of the campaign's shortcomings. Except those that dealt with himself.

“The research shop is totally fucked up and completely disorganized,” Blagojevich griped.

Scofield soon realized why. Blagojevich spent no money on research, paying only one staffer and relying on free interns to study the pressing issues of the day and develop policy positions. He didn't want to spend money on anything but commercials. A few days later, Scofield arrived at Blagojevich's home to accompany him to a meeting with the editorial board of Chicago's most prominent business magazine,
Crain's.

As the SUV idled outside the candidate's home on the cold January morning, Scofield sat in the backseat flipping through the campaign's briefing books, familiarizing himself with Blagojevich's positions. John Wyma, whom Blagojevich had persuaded to leave his job in DC to be an adviser on the campaign, was also there.

Scofield glanced at his watch as they continued to wait for Blagojevich and realized they were going to be late. “Get used to it,” Wyma said. When Blagojevich finally bounded into the SUV, he looked to Scofield and asked, “What are we saying?”

“Is this some sort of test?” Scofield thought to himself. “I've been with the campaign for seventy-two hours and he's asking me what he should say at this editorial board?”

Scofield soon realized this was the job. He quickly spouted some talking points about economic development and job creation to Blagojevich, who took mental notes and dashed into the editorial board meeting, which he nailed.

It was the first of several lessons Scofield would receive that made him realize two things: the campaign apparatus and the candidate were totally disorganized, and Rod Blagojevich could still become Illinois's next governor.

Blagojevich continued to raise cash at a blistering rate. By the end of 2001, he had collected nearly $4.3 million. Vallas and Burris each had raised about $1.1 million. He was even beating Republican Jim Ryan, who had raised $3.8 million.

He also was the voracious campaigner everybody promised Scofield he'd be. Whether in Chicago or downstate, Blagojevich leaned into the growing crowds and fed off their energy like his life depended on it. He shook every hand, summoned his keen memory skills to remember names of early supporters, and played up his working man shtick. When he did work downstate, he told crowds in VFW halls and small-town parades that if his father had moved to Marion instead of Chicago he would have been a coal miner instead of a factory worker.

The daily schedules were endless. Blagojevich dashed from event to event, rarely pausing and refusing to eat all day, somehow keeping up a high energy level. Unlike Blagojevich, Scofield, Wyma, and other staffers were starving. At campaign stops, they scarfed down energy bars they brought with them or darted off for a few minutes to grab a quick bite while the candidate worked a room.

Vallas was smarter than Blagojevich but came off wonky to voters. And he couldn't cover nearly as much ground campaigning because he hated to fly, especially in small puddle jumpers. Blagojevich could hit several corners of the state in one day while Vallas was stuck in one or two.

Downstate, the best thing Vallas had going for him was getting the endorsement of Poshard. The popular downstate congressman liked Vallas and still despised Blagojevich for that disastrous meeting Blagojevich had set up between Poshard and gay activists in Chicago.

But Poshard's endorsement would only go so far. And while downstaters were still concerned about this ward boss's sonin-law with the ridiculously difficult last name, Blagojevich was confident that wasn't enough to count him out in Vandalia, Pickneyville, and Alton.

“I can play in Peoria,” he repeatedly assured staffers. “I'm an Elvis guy. I'm a working-class guy. These are my people. You really think Paul Vallas is going to connect with people in Rock Island? I understand these people.”

Blagojevich had been killing himself, crisscrossing Illinois selling his “opportunities for working people” theme. His vision for creating jobs and making prescription drugs affordable for seniors, he thought, was starting to gain traction.

But he was still waiting to see some of that success in the polls. Burris had the highest name recognition and was the only black candidate, so early on he had held modest leads in the polls. But Blagojevich figured Burris would fade at the end, as he had in several previous races. Blagojevich and Vallas also got small bumps when Bakalis—running last—dropped out.

In early February, Blagojevich was sitting in his Washington, DC, office with John Wyma hoping for some good news as they awaited word from his pollster about the latest numbers.

As he nervously bobbed his right leg up and down, Blagojevich's mind drifted to a conversation he had just had with fellow Illinois US Representative Bill Lipinski. A powerful dealmaker from the city's southwest side, Lipinski endorsed Blagojevich but told him he better show improvement in the polls fast or endorsements and money would dry up quickly.

When the phone rang, Wyma answered it and Blagojevich apprehensively listened in.

“Twenty-four, twenty-four, thirty,” Wyma read aloud. Blagojevich was relieved. He was tied with Vallas at 24 percent with Burris holding onto his lead at 30 percent.

No, Wyma explained, you are at thirty.

This was it. A surge of both excitement and calm washed over Blagojevich. He realized he could actually win.

Wilhelm, Mell, Monk, Wyma, Kelly, Petrovic, Scofield, and the rest of the campaign shifted into high gear. Though he suffered a setback when the Reverend Jesse Jackson and his son endorsed Burris just before Valentine's
Day, Blagojevich pressed on. Jackson and his father decided it was best to back Burris and not upset their political base by not backing the only black candidate. Blagojevich promised never to be fooled by the Jacksons again. “Those duplicitous motherfuckers,” he said to one aide.

Angered, Blagojevich could still taste blood. The succeeding weeks were a blur of rallies, fundraisers, and commercials as Burris stumbled as expected while Vallas and Blagojevich ascended to the top of the polls and slugged it out.

Vallas questioned Blagojevich's integrity and ability to reform Springfield, pointing out how Blagojevich never discussed his congressional gun control votes while campaigning downstate.

Blagojevich blamed Vallas for pushing a
Chicago Tribune
story less than a week before the primary that showed he hadn't used union workers for roughly $200,000 in renovation work he did on his Ravenswood Manor home in 1999, including the library he expended so much time and energy on. Blagojevich had big backing from unions, including the Service Employees International Union that had just dumped $250,000 into Blagojevich's campaign. The revelation could undermine some of that support.

Blagojevich claimed ignorance about who worked on his house, saying the work was “politically correct” because it included minority- and women-owned firms. “And the landscaper was a lesbian,” he said, referring to Christy Webber, a politically active landscaper public about her sexual orientation.

The animosity between Vallas and Blagojevich grew stronger. When Blagojevich and Burris crossed paths as the two flew around the state for last-minute media hits, Blagojevich reached through the window of Burris's campaign van to shake his hand. “If I have to lose to someone, I hope it's you,” Blagojevich said.

The weekend before Election Day, John Daley, a Cook County commissioner and the mayor's brother, endorsed Blagojevich, signaling where the city's top political family's support was. Vallas, meanwhile, was being backed by the powerful Nineteenth Ward, where he lived.

Not far away, Vallas ran into Jim Ryan in the Beverly neighborhood on St. Patrick's Day at the South Side Irish Parade. The two men were personal friends and, following the parade, saw each other at a raucous party hosted by Skinny Sheahan, a member of one of the Nineteenth Ward's most powerful political families. The two men crossed the crowded room and embraced, Ryan planting a kiss on Vallas's cheek.

Ryan was on his way to a victory, but it had been a bruising campaign. Ryan was forced to defend his decision-making in the Rolando Cruz case and to push back on conservatives backing O'Malley who suggested Ryan favored gay marriage. They sent out mailers with an image of two male plastic wedding figurines atop a cake. Ryan had to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars, weakening him for the general election.