Mounting Fears

19

WILL SAT IN HIS OFFICE ABOARD AIR FORCE ONE, DICTATING RESPONSES TO correspondence into a recording machine. The letters would be typed and ready to mail by the time the big Boeing arrived in Los Angeles. His phone buzzed.

Will picked it up. "Yes?"

"Moss Mallet would like to see you."

"Send him in."

Moss, his pollster, rapped on the door and opened it. "Okay, Mr. President?"

"Come on in, Moss," Will said, and pointed to a chair. "Have a seat."

Moss took a deep breath. "My office has just faxed me the raw data on our first poll since the convention. I haven't finished all the analysis yet, but I thought you should know what the raw data are before you speak in L.A."

"Shoot," Will said.

"The appointment of Governor Stanton as your running mate, bumped you up a point in the poll, but-and this is weird-your appointment of him as veep knocked you down a point."

"I don't get it," Will said. "People want him as my running mate but not as vice president?"

"The one-point bump seems to have come from Democrats, who like the appointment by seventy percent or so. Eight percent didn't like it, and the rest are undecided. The one-point drop seems to have come from independents, mostly."

"So the net result is flat, no change?"

"That's right."

"I thought we'd get a six- or seven-point bump in the polls, based on Marty's popularity in California."

"We did get that in California but not nationally."

Will shrugged. "Okay, the rest of the country will like him better as they get to know him, see him on more Sunday morning shows and in campaign appearances."

"He's doing Meet the Press this Sunday," Moss said. "I hope you're right." He shuffled some papers. "But there's something else."

Will looked at Moss closely. "What's the problem?"

"You took a hit on the A-bomb explosion in Pakistan: down four points nationally."

"I don't understand. I didn't explode the bomb, the Pakistanis did."

"As I said, I haven't had time to analyze all the data yet, but it seems that four percent of Americans somehow hold you responsible, at least in part, for the incident."

"That's nuts," Will said.

"Yes, it is, but that's how they feel."

"Four percent of all Americans feel I'm partly responsible for a nuclear explosion halfway around the world?"

"That's about the size of it."

"So after the convention and the arrival of Marty Stanton in the campaign, I'm down four points net?"

"That's right."

"That's depressing," Will said. "Any indication of how they think I'm partly responsible?"

"No, sir. This is raw data."

"So a chunk of the American people think the president is omnipotent and feel he should be able to stop bad things from happening before they happen?"

Moss shrugged. "I know it sounds crazy, but it's there."

"In a tight race, four percentage points could cost me the election."

"Fortunately, you're not in a tight race. The Republicans are voting at their convention tonight, so tomorrow we'll know who their candidate is, and we can do a head-to-head comparative poll. That will tell us better where we stand."

"Okay. Let me know what that poll says."

There was a knock at the door, and Kitty Conroy stuck her head in. "Got a minute, boss?"

"Sure. Come in. Anything else, Moss?"

Moss shook his head and left.

"What's up, Kitty."

"They've put Charlene Joiner at the head table for your speech tomorrow night."

Will felt a flash of annoyance. This went back years. He had represented the woman's boyfriend at his trial for the rape and murder of a black woman in his home county seat, and the boyfriend had been convicted and sentenced to death. Charlene was a knockout blonde, and he had, before he was married, slept with her on one occasion, and she had managed to parlay the press reports of that incident into instant fame and a career as an actress. She had also turned out to be a very good actress and had built a huge career, winning an Academy Award, while maintaining her place as America's foremost sex symbol.

Charlene had also conducted a campaign to get the boyfriend's death sentence set aside, badgering Will for a presidential pardon, and, incredibly, she had succeeded, apparently by seducing the governor of Georgia, who had commuted his sentence to life. And every time Will turned up in California, she had been there, finding a way to be at his side for a photo op.

"My very clear instructions to the committee," Will said, "were that Charlene would not be seated anywhere near me. Did someone not get that message?"

"They did, but this morning, Charlene made a million-dollar contribution to the Democratic National Committee."

"A million dollars?"

"It's not unprecedented, but it happens rarely enough that they don't want to make her angry by seating her somewhere else. The contribution is already on the AP wire, and it will be all over tomorrow morning's papers. If she's seated anywhere but on the dais, it will ignite a story that will make headlines for a week."

"Then cancel the dinner," Will said petulantly.

"Will, come on. She's nailed us on this one, and there's nothing we can do about it without making things infinitely worse."

"All right, then, tell them I want her as far as possible from me at the head table. And I mean that!"

Kitty sighed. "There's more: Charlene wants to present the million-dollar check to you before you speak, and she wants to say a few words."

"This is insane," Will said. "I can't accept the check-it's against the campaign funding laws."

"Not if it's made out to the Democratic National Committee. After all, you're the head of the party."

"Kitty, are you telling me that I can't stop this from happening?"

"Not without causing a huge rumpus in the press."

"Then tell the Secret Service to shoot her."

"Now that's the best idea I've heard yet," Kitty said, "but I don't think I can talk them into it."

"I want that head table packed with people who are more important than Charlene is," Will said, "and I want all of them between her and me."

"I'll see what I can do," Kitty said.

"And if you can't get this done, you're going to have to shoot her."

Kitty beat a hasty retreat.