No Safe Place by Richard North Patterson Page A

tomorrow was the twelfth anniversary of James’s assassination. “I’ll want to see that speech,” Kerry said softly. “In advance.”
    Clayton made a note. In a bland voice, as if nothing had happened, he said to Mick, “Let’s move on to Friday.”
    Mick fidgeted with his glasses, seemingly grateful to be rescued. “As of now, that’s urban day. An event on job creation and encouraging the high-tech industry and trade with Asia. A brief meeting with black and Hispanic leaders who are for us—”
    “‘Brief’?” Kerry asked. “Haven’t any of them been shot?”
    Mick seemed to wince; the quiet comment reminded Clayton of how mean Kerry could be when someone had crossed the line with him. “What the candidate meant,” Clayton said with gentle irony, “is that he
likes
African Americans.”
    Now Kerry smiled. “Some of them.” Turning to Mick, he said in an even tone, “I understand you’re being practical, Mick. But I won’t treat minorities like a dirty secret.”
    Mick leaned forward. “Kerry,” he said with new intensity, “we
all
wish it were 1968, when people cared about civil rights and Bobby Kennedy carried the California primary because blacks and Latinos voted for him.
I
worked in that campaign, and I marched in Selma my sophomore year in college. I
care
about those things.”
    Kerry nodded. “I know you do—”
    “Then hear me out, please.” In mute appeal, Mick turned to Clayton, then went on. “In the last decade, this state passed initiatives against affirmative action and providing health benefitsand education to the children of illegal immigrants. Both of which you opposed—”
    “Because they were so mindless,” Kerry interjected. “You and I will never live to see the day that being a white guy isn’t a better deal. And you have illegals in California partly because whites want cheap labor. Why create a generation of disease-ridden juvenile delinquents—”
    “
You
know that, Kerry, and a lot of minority leaders admire you for it. But you already have them.” Mick nodded toward Jack Sleeper. “Jack can tell you. It doesn’t matter that most Cali-fornians are now nonwhite: they don’t fucking vote in primaries. In the last primary, the nonwhite vote was twenty-three percent, and some of them will vote for Mason no matter what you say. That leaves seventy-seven percent white folks, who’ll decide whether you’ll be the party’s nominee for President. A lot of whom may wonder if you care about them as much as blacks or Latinos.”
    For the first time, Frank Wells spoke. “I disagree, to some extent. To win, you need to turn out nonwhite voters, and I think you can. What you can’t do is alienate suburban whites by spending your precious thirty seconds of airtime surrounded by urban blacks, unless you’re in a church and one of their children
has
been shot.” Frank’s tone was calm and somewhat world-weary. “No one likes it. But first we get you elected,
then
you do what’s right. The smart way to turn out black and Hispanic voters is with mailers and phone banks and ads on ethnic radio—things that no one sees on television.”
    Clayton watched Kerry’s gaze grow cool. “I value all of your thoughts,” he said politely. “Sometimes hearing out an argument makes things clearer. And this is pretty clear to me. On Friday I’m going to the Latino section of San Francisco and then to South Central Los Angeles. Period.”
    There was another brief silence, then Mick spread his hands in an expression of despair, half serious and half joking. “I’m just sorry Friday’s not Cinco de Mayo.”
    Everyone laughed.
    “I’ve got twenty minutes,” Kerry said. “What other lousy decisions can I make?”
    Mick’s smile was more relaxed. “A candidate should make speeches, Kerry, not decisions. Decisions are too important.”
    Defusing tension with self-mockery, Clayton thought again, was a gift that Kerry had. But Mick’s rejoinder was more than a joke; because