You won’t do anything about
it. You’re in his corner. I just wanted to tell someone.”
***
Lindsay
lay in the bedroom of her apartment, a damp washcloth over her eyes as she
waited for the three Ibuprophen she’d taken to kick in. Keeping herself
together for three media interviews – two joint ones with Clara who’d
insisted on being by her side – had given her the worst tension headache
ever.
The
moderate radio host at WNBL had grilled her mercilessly, trying to put her on
defensive. But Lindsay’s mantra had been the same throughout the program: “I
take full responsibility.”
“There
is no defense for what I did in my youth,” she’d said. “I was wrong and wish I’d
never associated with the people I did or thought that violence was an
appropriate response to any political issue.”
“In
a way, what has happened to me is good because it reminds me of the pain we
cause when we go to any lengths to win. I’m sure I caused others pain and worry
through what I did. Now I know how it feels.”
The
self-effacing stance was already helping, although Lindsay as unaware of it. If
she’d turned on the news she would have seen that the voters – especially
women – were sympathetic to her, and impressed by how she’d taken
responsibility. But the bigger boost went to Clara Faircloth, whose matronly
dedication to her campaign manager was seen as a sign of strength and loyalty.
But
the numbers infuriated Bradford Hopkins.
“Can
you believe this?” he asked, gesturing towards the television. He and Ron were
busy preparing for his appearance on Newstalk Today, schedule for the next
morning.
Hopkins
walked over to the bar to pour himself a drink. “This is what’s wrong with
society today, Ron. Character doesn’t mean a goddamned thing anymore. That
bitch should be falling in the polls. Not rising.”
“I
wouldn’t get too upset,” Ron replied. “She was down ten when the news broke.
She’s only up seven, so you still got a three point gain out of it, right?”
Ron
had tried to sound hopeful, even though what he wanted to do was laugh. It
amazed him that even without his help, Lindsay was doing exactly what he knew
she was capable of doing: fighting back and winning. He didn’t now what Clara
had said to keep her on board, but he was glad she’d said it.
“It’s
not enough,” Hopkins said, pacing now. “I thought that Lindsay Martin would
have quit. Damnit.” He stood staring at the screen, which was replaying the
last interview she’d given.
“There’s
got to be more, Ron. And if there’s not we might have to take this to a place
you may not want to go. We can’t have them catch up to us; they could try and
turn it around on us, to make us look mean-spirited.”
Ron
bit his lip. “Too late,” he thought and tapped his pencil on the papers in
front of him.
“What
do you mean by “taking this to a place I might not want to go?”
Hopkins
smiled slyly. “Oh, you know, find someone who used to know her.” His grin
widened. “Or who will say they used to know her. Someone who will remember how
hopped up she was on drugs the night of the arson. Maybe someone who knew her a
year ago who can talk about how she’s still addicted. Who knows, maybe Clara
Faircloth is so committed to Lindsay Martin because they’re lesbians.”
“So
you want us to find someone willing to lie.” Ron resisted the urge to lunge at
Hopkins, to push him against he wall and drive his fist into his face.
“Not
willing to lie,” Hopkins said. “Willing to sacrifice their ethics for the
greater good. A lot is on the table with this election, Ron. You’ve said it
yourself. Traditional values are under attack. Our Judeo-Christian foundation
risks being shaken by the kind of liberal policies Clara Faircloth and others
like her want to implement.”
He
drained is glass and walked back over to the bar to refill it. “Besides,” he
said. “All politicians lie. We know that. Sometimes we
it. You’re in his corner. I just wanted to tell someone.”
***
Lindsay
lay in the bedroom of her apartment, a damp washcloth over her eyes as she
waited for the three Ibuprophen she’d taken to kick in. Keeping herself
together for three media interviews – two joint ones with Clara who’d
insisted on being by her side – had given her the worst tension headache
ever.
The
moderate radio host at WNBL had grilled her mercilessly, trying to put her on
defensive. But Lindsay’s mantra had been the same throughout the program: “I
take full responsibility.”
“There
is no defense for what I did in my youth,” she’d said. “I was wrong and wish I’d
never associated with the people I did or thought that violence was an
appropriate response to any political issue.”
“In
a way, what has happened to me is good because it reminds me of the pain we
cause when we go to any lengths to win. I’m sure I caused others pain and worry
through what I did. Now I know how it feels.”
The
self-effacing stance was already helping, although Lindsay as unaware of it. If
she’d turned on the news she would have seen that the voters – especially
women – were sympathetic to her, and impressed by how she’d taken
responsibility. But the bigger boost went to Clara Faircloth, whose matronly
dedication to her campaign manager was seen as a sign of strength and loyalty.
But
the numbers infuriated Bradford Hopkins.
“Can
you believe this?” he asked, gesturing towards the television. He and Ron were
busy preparing for his appearance on Newstalk Today, schedule for the next
morning.
Hopkins
walked over to the bar to pour himself a drink. “This is what’s wrong with
society today, Ron. Character doesn’t mean a goddamned thing anymore. That
bitch should be falling in the polls. Not rising.”
“I
wouldn’t get too upset,” Ron replied. “She was down ten when the news broke.
She’s only up seven, so you still got a three point gain out of it, right?”
Ron
had tried to sound hopeful, even though what he wanted to do was laugh. It
amazed him that even without his help, Lindsay was doing exactly what he knew
she was capable of doing: fighting back and winning. He didn’t now what Clara
had said to keep her on board, but he was glad she’d said it.
“It’s
not enough,” Hopkins said, pacing now. “I thought that Lindsay Martin would
have quit. Damnit.” He stood staring at the screen, which was replaying the
last interview she’d given.
“There’s
got to be more, Ron. And if there’s not we might have to take this to a place
you may not want to go. We can’t have them catch up to us; they could try and
turn it around on us, to make us look mean-spirited.”
Ron
bit his lip. “Too late,” he thought and tapped his pencil on the papers in
front of him.
“What
do you mean by “taking this to a place I might not want to go?”
Hopkins
smiled slyly. “Oh, you know, find someone who used to know her.” His grin
widened. “Or who will say they used to know her. Someone who will remember how
hopped up she was on drugs the night of the arson. Maybe someone who knew her a
year ago who can talk about how she’s still addicted. Who knows, maybe Clara
Faircloth is so committed to Lindsay Martin because they’re lesbians.”
“So
you want us to find someone willing to lie.” Ron resisted the urge to lunge at
Hopkins, to push him against he wall and drive his fist into his face.
“Not
willing to lie,” Hopkins said. “Willing to sacrifice their ethics for the
greater good. A lot is on the table with this election, Ron. You’ve said it
yourself. Traditional values are under attack. Our Judeo-Christian foundation
risks being shaken by the kind of liberal policies Clara Faircloth and others
like her want to implement.”
He
drained is glass and walked back over to the bar to refill it. “Besides,” he
said. “All politicians lie. We know that. Sometimes we
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