The Last Debate (18 page)

Howley said to the TV camera: “There have been ground rules agreed
to for this debate. They called for a back-and-forth between the candidates that was precise in its minutes and order. But the four of us—Ms. Naylor, Ms. Manning, Mr. Ramirez, and I—have decided to dispense with those ground rules.”

“No! Mike, no!” came the voice of Nancy Dewey into the earpiece in Mike Howley’s ear.

Howley continued: “Earlier this evening I consulted with officials of the National Commission on Presidential Debates. I asked about the commitment of the commission and of the television networks to carrying whatever happens out here on this stage tonight. I was assured that what happens here is what you, the American people, will see. I was told it would be like a thunderstorm—once it begins there is no stopping it. They said no one from either campaign had the authority to pull the plug. The only way it could be stopped would be if one of the two candidates chose not to participate and literally walked away.”

In the eighteen months since he had been an active candidate for the Republican nomination and then for president of the United States, David Donald Meredith’s face had never been seen by anyone in the outside world in any way other than that of a quiet, amused, friendly, knowing, serenely comfortable man. Now, for just a blink of a second, the four panelists and the American people saw a frown on his face.

“May I ask your purpose?” Meredith said to Howley.

“Our purpose is to get to the real issues of this election in a way that will allow the voters to make a real decision,” Howley said.

“I much prefer the more open format anyhow and always have, of course,” Meredith said.

“Mike, stop it!” Nancy Dewey shouted again into Howley’s left ear. “You can’t do this!”

Mike Howley reached with his left hand down to a knob under the table that controlled the earpiece volume. He turned it with a harsh move to the left. He could no longer hear Nancy Dewey in his left ear.

Howley could also not hear what was happening in the room behind the auditorium that had been converted into a television control room for the debate.

Jack Turpin and Brad Lilly were sitting in canvas director’s chairs on either side of Hammond directly behind Nancy Dewey. She was at the huge console of buttons, levers, colored lights, and TV monitors through and by which what was happening onstage was being transformed into a television broadcast. She had people sitting on both sides of her—a director, an assistant director, and an array of various technical and engineering people, all wearing headsets.

“Stop this program and stop it right now!” Turpin yelled at Hammond the second Howley finished his line about ignoring the rules of the debate. “They can’t do this!”

“What is going on here?” Lilly said, also rather loudly.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know I could not stop it if I wanted to,” Hammond said. “I’m as upset and stunned as you-all are.”

“Go out there and call a recess,” Turpin said. “I must talk to my candidate.”

“No.”

“You cannot say No to me!”

“Shut up or get your ass out of this control room, Jack,” Hammond said. “There’s work to be done in here.”

Turpin yelled: “You will never work again in media, in politics, in America, in the world, in the universe, Hammond!”

He got up from his chair and took one step forward and leaned over Nancy Dewey. “Shut it down, lady. Shut it down right now!”

Nancy Dewey had learned her craft at the old CBS News under the crazy, smart, tough guys such as Fred Friendly and Don Hewitt. “I’m busy, Mr. Turpin,” she said. “Be quiet, sir, or get out. I’m talking to Howley in his ear.”

“Tell him to stop it!”

“That’s what I just did.”

Chuck Hammond stood up. “She’s doing her best, so leave her alone, Turpin,” he said. “Do it in a count of three or I’ll get a cop in here to throw you out of here.” Hammond was a large man in muscle but not in height. His great Marine sense of himself must have made him seem even larger at that moment, because when he stood up now he seemed to tower over Jack Turpin. They are the exact same height—five feet ten and a half inches. I checked.

Turpin lowered himself back down in his chair. Hammond sat again.

Lilly said nothing, did nothing. His instincts all told him to remain silent, remain invisible, remain out of it.

“Are
you
OK?” Hammond said to Lilly.

“Go,” Lilly answered, as all looked hard at the small television monitors and listened as Mike Howley spoke the words:

“Gentlemen, each of you has the fundamental right and practical opportunity to stop it right now. Do I proceed?”

I was watching this with some two-hundred-plus other reporters of all media and persuasions on one of the many television sets that had been placed up, down, and around the Virginia Room. There had been a slight stirring noise from the beginning, as there usually is in the press at events like this. Suddenly, almost as if somebody had flipped a switch, the Virginia Room got absolutely silent, except for the noise that was coming out of the televisions.

In the control room, Turpin yelled at Meredith in the TV monitors: “No! Say No! Say No! Say No! Get out of there!”

Lilly said quietly to his man in the monitors: “It’s all right, Governor. It’s all right.”

Turpin shot his right hand into a fist and then into the air and screamed: “They’re going to screw you! Stop it! Walk away!”

“By all means, proceed,” David Donald Meredith said to Howley and to the world.

Turpin put his head in his hands and said: “No, no, no. It’s over. It’s over.”

Lilly said to the monitors: “Go, Governor, go.”

Paul L. Greene’s face had been locked into a worried scowl for the nine months since he declared his long-shot candidacy for the Democratic nomination. Now the panelists and the people saw a real grin, the happy kind people get when surprised on their birthday or when winning the state lottery.

“Proceed,” said Governor Greene to Howley and the world.

Howley said to the two candidates:

“Thank you, gentlemen. We believe the central dividing element
between you, as with all candidates for president, is that of character. No matter the Tightness or wrongness of a candidate, a president, on any given issue or set of issues, the underlying power of that person lies in his or her character. We have come to the conclusion that it is a particularly crucial and cutting issue in your election. That is what we want to discuss with you for the next ninety minutes. We would like to begin with some questions designed to get to some basic attitudes about various subjects and people—and ultimately to the question: What kind of men, people, human beings are you?”

David Donald Meredith must have known now for absolute sure what was going to happen. It might not be the first question, but it was coming. He refused to discuss any of this with me (or anyone else), but it is not difficult to imagine what kinds of questions must have been ricocheting through his mind and psyche at that moment:

Do I stand here and take it? Do I fight? Do I remain here in front of all of humanity and participate in such a despicable and dangerous exercise? Do I preempt these usurpers, these scums, these criminals? Confront them now, right this minute? Challenge them, dare them? Do I storm off in anger, refusing to participate in such a shameful last-minute attempt to steal this election victory? Do I run? Do I stay? Where is the greater risk? Can I take them? Can they take me?

Paul L. Greene told Bob Schieffer in a postdebate interview that he was confused but confident at that moment. There was no panic, no fear. He considered Mike Howley to be a respected, reputable person and journalist. He acknowledged he was no fan of Joan Naylor and he assumed she, like all of those TV showboats, would do anything for a rating point or a point of attention. He knew nothing about the other two. But he was comfortable. He knew there was nothing of a “character” nature they could go after him about. But. What in the hell
is
going on here? What
can
I do? If I walk, I say I am afraid of answering questions about my character. If I stay, I say I am a weakling, somebody who can be pushed around by four journalists making their own rules. But then he realized that he had nothing more to lose. Absolutely nothing. That gave him confidence. That made him calm. Proceed, please. Proceed.

Whatever either may have been thinking, neither Greene nor Meredith
said a word or made a move. They were both still standing silent at their podiums when Howley opened the bomb-bay door for the first drop. He said: “We’d like to begin with a series of questions about a character issue that arose only this afternoon. Henry Ramirez?”

Henry said he did not mind going first. Back in Longsworth D he had even volunteered to do so. He said he crossed himself in his mind like the good Catholic that he was, repeated, Muy bien, my son, to himself and then said to Greene: “Governor, does your campaign have a private security firm working for it?”

“No, it does not,” Greene answered.

“How do you do background checks on personnel, friends and enemies, the press, and other things like that?”

“We do not do such things. We are not interested in investigating anyone. We have no need for any private detectives.”

Henry turned toward Meredith. “Does your campaign employ a security firm?”

“I believe we do, yes. I fail to understand the relevance of such a question, however. Please, Mr.…”

“Ramirez. My name is Henry Ramirez.”

“I know your name.” Meredith held up a piece of paper. “It’s written down right here, in fact.”

Henry said he could hear his mother and everybody at the café and maybe a few other places in Falfurrias cheering.
Ramirez. My name is Henry Ramirez.

He said to Meredith: “The name of that security firm is Nelson and Associates, is it not? Isn’t that the one that works for you?”

“I believe they do some security work for us, yes.”

“Doing background checks on people?”

“I’m not sure of the scope of their work.”

“Does some of their work for you involve electronic surveillance?”

“Certainly not! I am outraged that you would even suggest such a thing.” The camera was right on Meredith’s face. It was in a full glower as he looked right at Mike Howley. “If this is your idea of asking about the essential issue of this campaign, sir, I believe I can tell you that you have lost your senses, Mr. Howley. This is an outrage. I would remind the four
of you that this is a debate about the presidency of the United States, about the future of the United States, the most powerful nation in the world.”

Howley responded in a quiet, confident voice: “As I said when we started, Mr. Meredith, you are free to go at any time. You said to proceed. We have done so. If you are now saying, stop, then we stop. It’s your call, sir.”

“I have never run from a fight and I am not about to start now, particularly one with the likes of you … you people in the press, you self-appointed …”

It hung there. “You self-appointed …” You self-appointed
what
? Nancy Dewey and her director kept the camera right on Meredith’s face. What were the words he was considering and discarding until he found the right one? Watchdogs? Arbiters? Gods? Emperors? Dictators? Fools? Idiots? Sinners? Scumbags?

“Yes, sir?” Howley said. “You were saying?”

“Never mind,” Meredith sneered, and then waved Howley off with his right hand.

The camera shot switched to Howley. The whole world saw him nod again to Henry Ramirez. Proceed, young man, proceed.

Henry was very nervous at this point. Not only did he have to speak coherently, he now had to move with force and grace. As confident as he was, he was aware of the potential for making an ass of himself and the entire exercise.

He said to Meredith: “I have something here in my hand that I would like for you to look at, sir.”

Henry got up from his chair, as he had seen Raymond Burr as Perry Mason, the people on
L.A. Law
, and many another TV lawyer do, and as he had rehearsed in his hotel room many times that afternoon. He walked the ten feet over to Meredith and handed him something too small for anyone watching on television to see and thus identify.