Talk by Michael A Smerconish Page B

would come with him.
    â€œI’ve always appreciated our frank conversations, Stan, and so I was glad to accept your invitation,” the governor said as he settled into his seat.
    Thank God he was in wind-up mode, requiring little or no prodding from me because I couldn’t think straight. Did he know that I knew Susan? She now sat cross-legged in front of me, as sexy as ever, with a Nancy Reagan-like focus on what her husband was saying. It would have been easier for me to concentrate if a truck had hit her in the intervening years. But instead she looked amazing. Did she even know it was me? She gave no hint. The governor continued to talk about who the fuck knows what while I did some mental calculus. I figured there were three possibilities. Number one was that she had no idea who I really was. It had been many years since Susan Miller had banged a guy named Stan Pawlowski, a stoner in a redneck bar whose only knowledge of illegal immigration was Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song.” It was entirely possible that she did not make the connection. What reason was there to think she’d ever thought of me after she left Shooter’s? None.
    Possibility No. 2 was that she absolutely knew it was me and had shared with Tobias some sanitized version of our prior relationship, which is why he wanted her to come along andhelp him curry favor with this conservative nutbag (me) who he now needed to behave. The third option was that she knew it was me, but had not told him, in consideration of which, I got instant wood. Dammit she was beautiful.
    â€œAssuming you run, will you feel obliged to offer national voters a greater insight into your personal life than you have afforded Florida voters?” I said, trying to regain some of my footing.
    â€œStan, I’m confident that voters will view my long career as a legislator and chief executive for one of our largest states as appropriate preparation.”
    He didn’t answer my question, but I didn’t give a shit. This was all preliminary, passing time until I could go for the jugular. My attention was now evenly divided between Susan Miller’s legs and the legal tablet in front of me. Phil had been so precise about what I was to ask that I’d written out his edict:
    DO YOU PERSONALLY EMBRACE THE JUDEO-CHRISTIAN PRINCIPLES ON WHICH THIS NATION WAS FOUNDED?
    Those were some important buzzwords in my trade. I might just as well have asked, “Please convince us that you are one of us and not one of them.” I’m convinced that most of my listeners could not even define the Judeo-Christian principles to which I was referring, even though they demanded that presidential candidates swear allegiance to them. But Tobias would know the intention of the question. It was a shot across the bow with network cameras watching. And it was a set-up, given his prior unwillingness to play this game. Of course, lost on my colleagues and those listeners who denounced anything but strict adherence to the Constitution was the fact that there were55 delegates to the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia who never wanted a religious test of any kind, Judeo-Christian or otherwise. Article 6 of the Constitution expressly forbids a religious test as a qualification for office, but Phil knew that in the minds of our listeners that didn’t apply to a presidential candidate. The test they wished imposed was a blood oath to some amorphous Judeo-Christian principles that no Muslim or atheist could agree to. Funny thing—they loved to cite Thomas Jefferson or Abe Lincoln, but overlooked the fact that the first was a deist and the second refused to join any church.
    I also wondered what Susan’s reaction would be. She had now redirected her gaze from her husband and was watching me. Or so I thought. I didn’t dare return the look. Was she studying my face? Did I detect a hint of recognition? I felt like a spotlight was shining on me. Maybe