Conspiracy

40

Since the assassination attempt, reporters always began interviews with Senator McSweeney by expressing concern for his continued well-being. Some were sincere, some sounded sincere; few were both. McSweeney played a private game with himself, trying to predict beforehand the sort of expression he would receive. In this case, the reporter had the bad taste to suggest that getting shot at had helped McSweeney tremendously in the polls.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” said McSweeney tartly.

The reporter was correct; McSweeney had vaulted from also-ran to the odds-on favorite not only for Super Tuesday but also in the round of primaries the following Thursday and Tuesday. If the trend continued, he would wrap up the party nomination within a month.

The pollster worried that it was just a temporary bump.

Jimmy Fingers pointed out that as long as “temporary” got them through Tuesday, it might as well be permanent. Sympathy vote or not, McSweeney’s aide added, the effect had helped Reagan during his first term when Hinckley tried to kill him. “It gave him space for his first-term agenda. This time, it’s going to get you elected.” McSweeney preferred to think that people would vote for him based on his record. But if they pulled the lever because he had the good sense to duck when someone shot at him, so be it.

“Why do you want to be President?” asked the reporter from the Times-Union, starting the interview with a softball question.

McSweeney rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger, an old trick to make it look as if he were giving the question serious thought. In fact, he had a ready answer, a stock rehash of sound bites he knew would play well no matter how the reporter sliced and diced them in his story.

“It’s time to tap the full potential of the people. The President is the only person — the only real national leader — who can do that effectively.”

McSweeney continued, citing John F. Kennedy, talking about the contributions and attitude of the World War II generation, and laying out a program that all but the most cynical hack would applaud.

“But why, really?” said the reporter when McSweeney finished.

The question threw McSweeney. It wasn’t the words so much as the tone of familiarity. The reporter sounded like a friend who had detected a false note in a casual comment and wasn’t going to stand for bull.

Why did he want to be President?

Power, prestige. The ability to do what he wanted to do without being stopped.

The guarantee that he would be included in history books.

Who didn’t want to be President, damn it?

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” said McSweeney.

“Inside,” said the reporter. “Why do you want to be President?”

McSweeney began recycling his earlier answer. But he got only two sentences out of his mouth before the reporter said, “Ah, come on, Senator. Why do you really want to be in the White House? Ego? The babes?”

Someone other than McSweeney might have answered the reporter’s poor attempt at a joke with a humorous joke of his own, cementing a favorable relationship for the rest of the campaign. Most of the others would have said something ridiculously stupid meant as a joke, but so inept that it would end up burying them when quoted.

McSweeney found a third way — he simply didn’t answer.

“Wanting to make America a better place, help us live up to our potential, can seem corny,” he told the reporter. “But that’s what I’m about. And it’s funny, I’ve always been ab-surdly idealistic, even as a nine-year-old. My mom has an essay I wrote on how I wanted to be President and how I was going to help the environment and improve schools.”

“Really? You have it?”

“She has it. Call her. Between you and me, my spelling was probably atrocious. I still have trouble. Thank God for spell-check.”