the Plan (1995) (15 page)

Ted hit a switch in front of him, cutting Brenton out of the audio loop and turned to his sound man. "Is he okay? He sounds terrible."

The sound man shrugged.

Ted Miller hit the intercom, putting Brenton back on with him. "Brent, anything we can get you? Want any water?" But Brenton had taken the angel out of his ear. It was hanging down the back of his collar. "What the fuck?" Ted said. He leaned forward and spoke into his mike to the stage director. "Tell Brenton his angel is out of his ear. We need to talk to him before air. We're up in ninety seconds."

They could see the stage manager on the camera 2 monitor as he ran to the stage and said something to Brenton, who nodded but didn't replace the earpiece.

"He said okay," the stage manager said in desperation over the headset, "but he didn't stick it back in."

"Seat of the pants TV," Ted said. "We're up in five
-
four-three-two-take one." And the line monitor showed the wide shot of the stage with five empty chairs and a center podium. "Roll music and cue Bob," Ted said. And they pointed at the announcer through a glass wall in the remote trailer. As the bumper music played loud for a few seconds, then was dropped down, Bob Banks, in his rich, round voice, kicked off the 1996 political season and then went on to make the candidate introductions.

Malcolm Rasher sat with Ryan, Ven and Van in Haze Richards's cramped dressing room. They had the UBC-TV feed hooked into an eighteen-inch monitor. A
. J
. banged through the door with a slip of paper in his hand. "Just got the last Iowa poll. Came in twenty minutes ago. Skatina is at fifty-five percent. His people are down the hall opening the champagne already. They think in five days they're gonna landslide the election." He looked at the slip in his hand, "Dehaviland is polling ten percent. He's got good internals. They want to like him but they don't get what he's saying. Savage is at fifteen percent, mostly because of young voters. And Gilligan is at fifteen. Good internals but his message is stale. Five percent undecided."

Ryan was adding it up in his head. "That's a hundred percent. Where's that leave us'?"

"We're in the asterisk division. The Jo-Bobs don't even know we're running, but we're about to change that."

Brenton Spencer moved onto the stage. As the light hit him, he seemed to straighten, to come more alive.

"Good evening, I'm Brenton Spencer and I'll be asking the questions tonight. First, let's meet the Democrat from New York City. Two-time U
. S
. senator, one of the shining lights in the Democratic party . . . Senator Leo Skatina."

Skatina walked out and took his chair. When he looked up, he started squinting as the blinding follow spot hit him. He tried to shade his eyes, then realized his mistake and lowered his hands.

"What's going on with the follow spot?" Ted Miller said in the control room. "He's burning up."

"We checked the lights this afternoon," the technical direc`or said in a panic. "Jesus, they musta put halogens in there after we set up."

Skatina continued to squint, looking sinister in the TV monitor.

The next three candidates were introduced, and they, too, were blinded by the punishing lights.

"What's with the lighting?" Ryan asked. "These guys are on fire."

A
. J
. grinned. "Bunch a' shifty-lookin' fucks, if ya ask me."

Then it was time for Haze to make his entrance.

"And from the state of Rhode Island . . . a two-term governor, who only announced last week, a new name in national politics, Haze Richards."

Haze walked out slowly, completely at ease. Since his follow spot had not been altered he had no need to squint. He looked composed and alert as Brenton began the debate.

"Gentlemen, the agreed-upon rules are . . I'll ask a question and I'll be allowed a follow-up. If any of you wants to make a comment after that, I'll recognize you, but there will be a two-minute time limit on all responses."

Brenton was moving now, prowling the stage, revitalized. A jungle cat in a silk suit and striped tie.

His opening questions were. contentious, his responses argumentative, and the candidates were clearly unprepared for an assault by the moderator.

In the truck, Ted Miller agreed. "He's supposed to be moderating this debate, not joining it." Steve Israel's voice came through the speaker from New York.

"What's Brenton doing?" Steve asked.

"I don't know," Ted said into the mike. "His earpiece is out, we can't talk to him."

On stage, Brenton was striding over to Leo Skatina.

"Senator, you have made a lot of showy promises to women, yet I have the demographics of your own Senate staff. Only twenty percent are females."

"To show my sincerity on this issue, let me make a promise to the American people. If nominated. I intend to choose a woman to be my running mate."

In Haze's cramped dressing room, A. J. Teagarden leaned forward and spoke to the TV screen. "There's your opening, Haze. Go. Jump on it," he said, hoping his candidate would seize the offensive. He'd prepped Haze for that one. He was not disappointed.

"I'd like to address that issue, if I might," Haze said.

"Okay, let's hear from the governor of Rhode Island."

"It's this kind of needless divisiveness that is destroying our country. How many women are on Senator Skatina's staff is not the issue. The issue is, How many intelligent, hardworking staffers has Senator Skatina employed--staffers who will strike at the waste in our government? Our country is being torn apart by this sort of needless conflict . . . men against women, blacks against whites, rich against poor. It's one thing to have a free exchange of ideas, but another to divide our country by creating needless controversy in pursuit of votes."

"All of which doesn't say much about what you think."

"I think to make a vice presidential choice based on color or gender is the high point of political insincerity. How 'bout we get back to what this country is all about and put the most qualified person in the job, regardless," he said softly.

A
. J
. leaned back in his chair and shot a fist into the air. "Yes! Pony!"

Brenton moved on to the domestic economy and military spending, with a sidebar on gays in the military.

Again, Haze was prepared and interrupted the discussion. 'The size of the defense budget and gays in the military just aren't the issues that should concern us."

"You seem to have a lot on your mind, Governor," Brenton sneered. "If these aren't the issues, what are?"

"I think every American should have the right to serve his country, regardless of his sexual orientation. But, beyond that, the real issue should be, what is the role of th
e m
ilitary in American society? Are we going to continue to put one fifth of our gross national product into defense and, if we do, what are the economic responsibilites of the user nations like Japan, Germany, and Kuwait, who take our help and pay us nothing? Is it right for the factory worker in Detroit to have to pick up the tab to provide military protection for a Japanese car industry that is putting him out of work? I say no. I'd like to take this government back from the lobbyists and lawyers and see if I can make it work again for all of you."

"Pony," A. J. Teagarden said. Now he was out of his chair, striding around the room.

On stage, Brenton turned to the camera and announced the commercial break.

The stage manager ran down the aisle and confronted Brenton.

"Put your angel in. Ted needs to talk to you."

He reached up and grabbed the angel that was hanging on the back of his collar. "You mean this?" he yanked it free and knelt down, handing it off the stage, then he walked back to center stage as the break ended.

"We're back at the Democratic candidates' debate here in the Pacific Convention Center in Des Moines, Iowa," Brenton started. Then he turned to Senator Dehaviland and asked a tough question about keeping illegal aliens out of border states. *

A. J. Teagarden moved to the TV screen. "Kick that one in the ass, Haze. Come on, knock it into the cheap seats." He was so animated that Ryan couldn't decide whether to watch the debate or the overweight wonk who was eating the oxygen in the dressing room.

On stage, Haze turned to the audience. "I don't know how many of you sitting in this audience today were given an engraved invitation to come to America, but my parents sure weren't."

"Pony!" A
. J
. said.

"I think, again, we're talking about the wrong issues. Immigration? Come on. I'm not interested in attackin
g p
eople who risk their lives to come here on leaky boats to make a new life. Every family, except for Native Americans, got here the same way. The real issue is a whole generation of children with no hope, no skills, and no dreams. Millions of minds and bodies being squandered because this country can't teach them to be productive. Immigration? I'm not gonna scare you with the demagoguery of fear. But I'll tell you what some members of the Congress won't talk about . . . they won't talk about the people who are really killing this country. Every Wall Street lawyer or special interest lobbyist who has been taking them out to lunch or on Florida jaunts, buying their influence in Congress, contributing fifty or a hundred thousand dollars a year in PAC money, buying their votes. Do you realize that while every American is trimming his or her budget, this government has voted to squander billions of dollars on useless giveaway programs? We actually spend one hundred million dollars a year to store gas surplus in Senator Dehaviland's home state of Florida. Two hundred million for new office furniture in Congress, half a million to build a replica of Egypt's great pyramids .. . one hundred and fifty thousand to study the Hatfield-McCoy feud . . . It gets sillier. One hundred and forty-four thousand to see if pigeons follow human economic laws . . . While you're all cutting back, Congress is funding all this, and then in midnight sessions, they gather in secret and vote for congressional pay raises. I don't understand Ns. I guess it's because I'm not a Washington insider. I don't owe anything to anybody. I'm just a governor from the smallest state in the nation who's fed up with this corruption. I want to make America work again for all of us."

A. J. Teagarden could feel the connect. He could feel it over the tiny eighteen-inch TV screen. "This guy . . . I love this guy," he said, pacing the dressing room in excitement. After the commercial break, they came back for a discussion of farm policy. All four of the Washington candidates took the expected road. Farm subsidies are good, support the farmer in a farm state. Haze went th e o ther way, delivering his speech with wholesome sincerity.

"I know this is gonna sound like heresy in a farm state, but damn it, when is all the pandering going to stop? The farm program, and all of you in Iowa know what that is . . . The farm program is a magnificent program that helps farmers grow their crops; but farm subsidies, which all of my fellow candidates seem to support, is absolute government hypocrisy. We're paying honeybee farmers billions to buy their unused honey. Peanut farmers get subsidies and throw the product away. The federal government doles out billions to California farmers to grow a cotton crop that has to be flooded in a desert, thought-ridden state. All of this just causes products to be too expensive. We can't compete. I'd rather open new world markets . . . force Japan to take down trade barriers . . . create a demand for U
. S
. farm goods abroad that will stimulate farm growth. I'm against subsidies. If that means you won't vote for me, so be it, but I'm here to speak the truth as I see it. I want the system to work for you. Stop dividing this nation. Let's bring labor and management to the same table. We can control our destiny if we choose to. I want this system to work for everybody."

In the truck, Ted Miller threw his pencil down. "This is turning into the Haze Richards Show. Brenton's gotta cut this guy off."

"Bring labor and management together?" Brenton sneered. "What about the Teamster strike? You think you could fix that?"

"The Teamster strike," Haze said, clearly not ready to discuss it.

"Yeah, the Teamster strike . . . heard about it up there in Rhode Island? No trucks are rolling in this country, it's choking everybody. You say you want to make America work, get everybody together. . . . How 'bout the Teamsters and the Truckers Association? Wanna take a shot at that?"

"Let me tell you something, Mr. Spencer . . . I've been watching your demeanor all night. You're parading aroun
d u
p here, berating my fellow candidates. I think you owe every man on this stage an apology."

Here it comes, thought Brenton . . . the end of my career. His temples were throbbing. "You think I need to apologize?"

"Who elected you to anything?" Haze shot back. "You're supposed to be moderating this debate, not joining in it. If you think you have the answers, get up in one of these chairs and tell us what you'd do."

"I'm not a candidate," Brenton said, falling completely out of his anchorman demeanor.

"These men have put themselves on the line, and I think you should apologize to them for your patronizing attitude, your sense of disregard for what they represent and what they stand for. You're a perfect example of what's wrong with this whole process. You seek to divide us to create a controversy that will get ratings. In my opinion, Mr. Spencer, you're the worst this country has to offer. You seek to divide us for personal gain."