Unpopular Science

Chapter 17

The old fairy tale was that anybody could grow up to be President of the United States. Not true. Sure, anybody could run for President. Even women. Even African-Americans. Jews. Muslims. Hindus. Great Danes named Hal. Ross Perot. Anybody could run.

The truth was that any male WASP American could grow up to be President. Being rich and socially connected was strongly recommended.

Herbert Whiteslaw was all those things. Fifty-one-years old, Caucasian, very middle of the road in terms of his political views. He came from old San Francisco money and had no publicly known skeletons in his closet. He was a four-term state senator from California and had kissed political backside in every federal building on Capitol Hill.

His constituents liked him but he never seemed to get in tight with his peers. He never seemed to get the important party people excited enough to gain their support for a run at the presidency.

What he needed was internal party support, and he knew how to get it: blackmail.

Extorting support within his own party would be a fine first step, but that wouldn’t guarantee him the White House. What he needed was an extraordinary level of support from the most unlikely sources.

“Picture this,” he told his former campaign manager. “I get the party nomination—”

“Too late for that,” Phil Mein interrupted. “You may have read in the newspaper that the primaries are over. We’re just months away from the election, Herb.”

Whiteslaw nodded and stuffed in a forkful of shrimp and angel hair pasta. “Yeah, but the nominees might step down. What’s the replacement process?”

Mein frowned. “I don’t know. What leads you to believe the nominees would step down.”

“Hypothetically, they do. And, hypothetically, I get the nomination.”

“Herb, think about it. You haven’t been actively campaigning for this election. If a party nominee did step out of the race, there are five or six replacements waiting in the wings who’ve been promoting themselves for more than a year. You’re an unknown. But, if by some quirk of politics you did get the party nomination, you’d be the underdog in the general election for sure. You’d never unseat the incumbent.”

“I think I could.”

Mein was twirling his pasta carbonara despondently. When Whiteslaw called him into this meeting he had been excited to think that the senator was beginning to plan his strategy for the next Senate race and, simultaneously, the White House race that was still four years off. Mein didn’t like the direction this conversation was headed. “Let’s talk about the next election. You know, four years from now. You might stand a chance.”

“If I were to get the party nomination, and if the current administration were to suddenly become mired in scandal, what then?”

Mein looked at Whiteslaw, saw the man’s eyes glimmering. He swallowed, and swallowed hard because the mouthful was mostly unchewed pasta.

“What do you know. Herb?” Mein asked.

“I know something big, Phil,” Whiteslaw said. Mein couldn’t speak again because the waiter appeared to pour more wine into their glasses from the bottle on the table. When the man left, Phil urged, “Tell me!”

“No way in hell.” Whiteslaw was still smiling. “You know my rules, Phil. Trust no one.”

“Come on, Herb, give me a hint! You know something so big it will bring down the administration?”

Whiteslaw nodded. “It’s guaranteed impeachment.”

“Wow!” Mein grew cautious. ‘You sure?”

“Listen, Phil, I’ve got the goods on the President. The only way he’ll escape going down in flames is if he retires first.”

“In your opinion.”

Whiteslaw was exasperated. “Listen, Phil, there’s my public opinion and there’s my real opinion and this is so strong it’s not even an opinion—it’s a fact.”

“Okay, Senator, don’t get excited.”

“I have knowledge of the President of the United States authorizing intelligence forces to flagrantly violate constitutionally protected rights of freedom and privacy and due process.”

‘It’s called the Patriot Act and it’s really not a secret.”

“No, way worse. We’re talking hired assassins who target U.S. citizens. Got it?”

Phil nodded. “Okay. Good. Do you have proof?”

“Getting it now.”

“Proof that will pass the TV test?”

Whiteslaw smiled. “High-quality video. HD fucking TV.”

Phil Mein smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Okay!”

“You on board with me so far?”

“So far.”

“Now listen to this,” Senator Whiteslaw said, pushing his unfinished supper aside and leaning in. “Say I prove the President is culpable, but I don’t have evidence to spread the blame throughout his party. Say I’m up against him when the revelation is made. This is what I want to know, Phil—what are my chances?” Phil Mein considered that. He raised his tapered hand and raised one finger. “Okay, first, you get the party nod. That means the current nominee goes down and all the other guys who were trying to get the party nomination are bypassed. Sounds ugly. Not knowing how you intend to make that happen, Herb, I have to know—how ugly will it be?”

“Behind the scenes or in the eyes of John Q. Public?”

Phil made a sputtering noise with his lips. “Who the fuck cares about behind-the-scenes? Political reality is only what the people see.”

Whiteslaw smiled. “John Q. will see nothing but smiling faces. The current nominee drops out for health reasons and I get one hundred percent support from him and everybody else. Perfectly unugly.”

Phil Mein waited for more, then raised a second finger. “When do you step in?”

“Whenever the timing is just right,” Whiteslaw said. Mein raised a third finger. “When does the incumbent go down in flames?”

“Again, when the time is right.”

Fourth finger. “How can you be sure somebody else won’t make use of the scandal before you can?”

“I’m the only one who knows.”

Phil’s hand dropped heavily on the restaurant table. “Sounds too good to be true, Herb.”

“It’s true,” Whiteslaw insisted. “But you haven’t answered my question. Taking all that into account, what are my chances?”

Phil Mein shook his head, slightly awed. “Your chances are excellent. If you can deliver the goods like you say you can. I’d suggest we take care of getting you in the nominee seat ASAP. Then we hold off for a while and strike at the current administration close to the election, don’t give them time to get another candidate up and running.”

Herbert Whiteslaw rolled his wheelchair back from the table. “My feet still hurt like hell but they’ve been healed for weeks. Would a dramatic stand-up-and-walk scene help with the image?”

“Jesus, yes. The gullible masses never get tired of that shit.” But Phil Mein was concentrating on the wineglass in his hand. “You asking me to run this campaign, Herb?”

“You’ve put me in the senator’s seat four times. I have faith in you, Phil.”

“But you don’t trust me all the way. You have to look at this from my point of view, Senator. What you’re promising is the most far-reaching scandal in the memory of the American public—”

“What about the debacle over the Florida votes in 2000? What about that twit who diddled the intern?”

“Ancient history. That’s retro-politics. Anyway, from what I remember, those weren’t major media scandals. What you’re planning is going to be major, if you really can make it happen. Herb, I need to know more.”

Herbert Whiteslaw fidgeted. His eyes got beady. “Look, my plan just might call for me to break a few laws myself.”

“So?”

“There might be some ‘unethical behavior’ involved.”

“This is politics. Ethics have no meaning in politics.”

“I’ll let you in on this, Phil, but only if you’re on board with me. Are you on board?”

“Senator Whiteslaw,” Mein said in a level voice, “if you can do what you say you can do, then you will be the next President of the United States of America. I want to be in on that,”

Whiteslaw nodded appreciatively. “Okay, Phil. Listen to this….”