The 45th, page 6
“It was sealed when he gave it to me.”
“What about the other thing? Did he say he’d come?”
He laughed when I asked him; but when he realized I was serious, that it was important, that you wanted to have him close by to work on any changes that might have to be made, he was not happy about it. He has no interest in politics anymore, but it is more than that. I think he’s afraid of the memories it might bring back.” With a grim look in his eyes, Ismael shook his head. “What would it be like to wander around the floor of a convention where, but for an inexplicable occurrence, a death without reason, everyone would have known you; wander around the floor of a convention where now no one recognizes you or even remembers your name?”
“But he’ll come?” asked Matson, whose only interest was in whether Julian Drake would be there to help.
“Yes. He owes you that.”
“He said that – that he owes me that?”
“Yes. No, actually he said that he owes you a lot more than that.”
“Good. I had a feeling I could count on him.”
“He did say one other thing,” remarked Ismael, as he rose from his chair and gestured toward the sealed manila envelope on Matson’s desk. “That after you read it you might decide that you don’t need him there after all because you won’t need his help to burn it. I think he was serious.”
With his broad forehead, his sometimes sullen mouth, and the thick tangled hair that fell over the back of his shirt collar, Louis Matson had the slightly disheveled look of a failed musician, a composer whose mind, while not exactly absent, was working on something other than the passing noise of conversation. With an odd, off-center smile, he nodded in agreement with what Ismael had just said. He had understood immediately what Julian Drake had meant and it was not anything like what Ismael had assumed. He remembered enough about Julian to suspect that he had written a speech that almost no one would want to give, not because it was not good enough, but because there would not be a line in it that was written for applause; not a word, not a phrase, written for the crowd. He could not wait to read it.
He was not the only one. Ismael asked whether, after he was finished, he might have a chance to read it as well.
“Of course,” replied Matson, as Ismael started for the door. “Unless I burn it first.”
Matson resisted the temptation to open the sealed envelope and glance through the first few pages when Ismael handed it to him. He would have read it the moment Ismael had left his office, but he wanted to wait until he could give it his undivided attention, later that night, after a dinner at the Mayflower Hotel at which he was forced to sit at the head table and applaud the kind of mindless remarks that only an American politician seemed able to make without embarrassment.
“What is it you’re clutching in your hands like a secret briefing from the CIA?” asked Rachael Good, as the dinner finally broke up.
Matson had gone through the last contortions of the buoyant certainty with which he was expected to greet every vacuous assertion that the next election was all but won. He could now, in the privacy of the crowd, relax.
“A little light reading for later, something to clear my mind after all the deep profundities we heard tonight.”
He had known Rachel for so many years, she seemed not to have aged at all. There was something youthful in her eyes, a teasing sparkle that told you she knew all your secrets and could not wait to hear more. He could not resist her.
“It’s the speech I plan to give next week.”
Rachael Good stepped closer and touched his arm. There were people everywhere, men who all looked alike in their tuxedos, women who did not always succeed in looking all that different in dresses that cost more than one of the waiters clearing their places made in a year.
“Are you going to let me read it in advance of that much anticipated event?”
“You never know – I might.”
“You might?” she inquired cautiously, surprised that he would even consider the possibility.
Matson laughed at her reporter’s reaction. “You’re like a cat who sits there purring, as content as anyone could look, and all the time watching for the first sign when to pounce. Yes, I might let you see it; then, again….”
“You rat!” she whispered. Her eyes shining, she looked at him with straight-faced larceny, and asked in a much louder voice, “But it will have to be awfully good to rival what we heard tonight, don’t you think?”
A few people close to them stopped what they were talking about. The reporter and the majority leader were suddenly the center of attention of everyone who in the sudden silence were near enough to hear.
“The speeches tonight were among the best I have heard the candidates give during the campaign.” Matson paused long enough to let everyone see the sudden laughter in his eyes. “And after all the speeches they have given, it’s a wonder they still have the strength to give another. Fortunately, I only have to give the one next week.”
“But you didn’t answer my question, senator,” said Rachael Good, playing the innocent. “You didn’t say if you thought your speech would have to be remarkably good to rival the ones given here tonight.”
“Good? No, it would have to be a lot better than that.”
“So you thought the ones given tonight were…?”
“I thought they each said what they wanted to say.”
“And what is it you want to say, senator? What is it you want to tell your party and the country?”
He started to give her the usual predictable response - he could hear the words echoing in his mind – that the party had to give the country a new direction; he heard himself say instead something he had not thought he would ever hear from anyone.
“That the only thing worse than losing an election is winning one you deserve to lose, and that a political party that does not believe in the American government – the only government ever created by the free choice of its citizens – doesn’t deserve to exist.” Matson smiled broadly. “Or something like that,” he added, as he turned and walked away.
Rachael Good caught up with him in the lobby of the hotel. She could hardly contain herself.
“Are you really going to do that – what you said back there? Is that what that speech says?” she asked, nodding toward the envelope he held tucked under his arm. Come on; let’s go someplace. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Thanks, but not tonight,” he said, as he headed for the doors to the street. “I still have things to do.”
“The speech, the one you’re going to let me see before you give it?” she shouted after him as he waved goodbye.
Matson walked past a long line of limousines parked in front of the hotel. A door suddenly opened and a familiar voice called his name. Ted Cruz invited him to get in.
“Let me give you a lift. It’ll give us a chance to talk.”
Matson could barely tolerate being in the same room with him, and that, in a strange way, made it almost irresistible, a chance to discover just what it was that made Cruz so despicable. It was a little like taking a tutorial in abnormal psychology. No one liked Ted Cruz, Cruz knew it, dismissed it as a tribute to the stupidity of others, and thought to turn what anyone else would think a distinct disadvantage into the best reason why he was certain to be president.
“I’m going to win this thing,” he announced almost before Matson had settled into the seat opposite. The Texas twang seemed artificial, contrived, something that, after Harvard Law School, he had taught himself. “I’m going to win – I just need a little help; a little help I know you would like to give me; give me because you know I’m the only one who can win in November.”
Stifling a yawn, Matson looked down at his shoes. He wondered why he had not remembered to have them polished. Cruz thought Matson was smiling at what he had just said.
“Look at the polls. They all show I do better than…, better than anyone else.”
The smile on Matson’s face took on a different meaning. He had been careful in what he had said inside in front of a crowd of politicians and rich contributors, but there was no reason, none that he could think of, not to tell this brazen upstart what he really thought of him and his chances.
“You’re going to win, but you need a little help! That means you aren’t going to win without it. And you’re sure I’ll give you the help you need, because you’re going to win?”
He wondered if Cruz would recognize the flaw, the basic inconsistency, in his argument. Cruz just sat there, waiting for the majority leader to finish what he had started to say.
“You’re right, senator: the polls show that you run better than any of the others; but – and this would seem to be important – they only show that you lose by a smaller margin. They don’t show you have any real chance of winning.”
With the kind of enveloping sincerity learned from long practice, Cruz leaned forward and tried to convince the majority leader that things now had a new meaning.
“That’s because half the country still doesn’t know who I am. All that changes with the convention when I get the nomination, when I give my acceptance speech. Then I become the only one anyone is talking about. It isn’t a problem running behind Hillary in the polls; it is a huge advantage. Because, don’t you see, it means that I come out of the convention with an enormous surge of new interest. That’s just it, don’t you see – I’ll be the new face, the center of attention, the one everyone wants to interview. What can anyone say about Hillary that hasn’t been said before? Everyone knows who she is; everyone knows all about the Clintons. They’re old news. What is the one thing everyone in this country is always looking for, the one thing everyone is afraid they might miss? – The next new thing. Remember what happened in 08? No one seems to understand what it meant. No one had ever heard of Sarah Palin, but the moment McCain announced she was going to be his running mate you could have murdered someone on live television and no one would have noticed. All anyone wanted was to hear more about this political unknown who was suddenly going to be a heartbeat away from the presidency.”
“And we know how that turned out, don’t we?” remarked Matson, as he looked out the window at the lights of Washington sliding by in the darkened shadows. A light rain had begun to fall, and he watched, with a nostalgia he had only recently begun to feel, a young couple, laughing as they ducked under an umbrella, cross the street half way up the block.
“You’re right – what you said about Palin, that everyone is looking for something new,” he said, turning back to Cruz. “Have you ever wondered why that is?”
“Have I ever wondered…?”
“Yes, wondered. What accounts for this constant dissatisfaction, this itching eagerness to abandon everything we have done and do something completely different? You, for example. What makes you think the country would be better off if we did the things you and your Tea Party friends say you want? As near as I can tell, you seem to think the best thing we could do is shut down the government and give everyone a gun.”
Cruz clenched his teeth and raised his chin, a gesture of defiance with which he invariably met a challenge to whatever he wanted everyone to think he believed. Matson almost laughed at the patent dishonesty of it.
“I don’t mean to suggest that you want to do either of those things. But the people who support you, the ones who came from all over to volunteer in your campaign in the primaries – the ones who a few years ago thought Sarah Palin would actually be good for the country – isn’t that what they say they want?”
Cruz lowered his chin; his eyes softened into a look of mutual understanding. It was the assumption of an agreement among men who spoke the same language, the common mathematics of political calculation.
“There is enormous frustration out there. People feel a loss of control. Everything seems to be changing. The old traditions, the moral discipline, everything that made this country great, thrown aside, the only thing thought important whatever anyone happens to want. Sodomy, which was always a sin and everywhere a crime, now not just protected but given special status. Minorities, especially if they are here illegally, given rights and benefits, government subsidies, that everyone else has to pay for. Everything is falling apart, and the government not only does nothing about it, but does everything it can to help it along. That is the reason so many people got excited about Sarah Palin. She may have been an uneducated fool, a woman who never read a serious book in her life, and would not understand it if she had, but that only meant she was like nearly everyone else who spends half their lives in front of a television set or a computer screen. She captured the imagination of a lot of people, and the resentments of a hell of a lot more. And if she could do that, think what I can do. I know a lot of people in Washington don’t like me, but my worst enemy never called me stupid. There is a movement in this country, Louis, and every movement has to have a leader.”
“I’m afraid it’s a movement I don’t want to be a part of. But even if I did, I could not give you the help you want. I’m neutral in all this. I’m chairing the convention; I’m giving the keynote -”
“Yes, I know,” interjected Cruz, unable to restrain himself. “You control the Michigan delegation. All I’m asking is that you let your delegates vote the way they want on the first ballot. A majority of them will vote for me; and that’s enough to put me over the top. You’re not a candidate, and even if you were….” He stopped himself, but it was too late. Matson understood.
“I was elected as a favorite son. I wouldn’t have been able to win anywhere else. No, don’t try to explain, don’t try to convince me that you didn’t mean it. Lie to yourself about your own chances; don’t lie to me about something I never wanted anyway. And besides, senator, I’ve never found you the least bit persuasive. Now, let’s stop this nonsense. You don’t like me, and I don’t like you. You want my help – what price are you willing to pay for it? If I release my delegates, let them vote as they wish on the first ballot – what do I get in return?”
Cruz had never really believed that Louis Matson would agree to help him, but he was shrewd enough to understand that asking for his help was a way to make the majority leader feel respected. If it did nothing else, it might make his next request, whatever it might be, a little more difficult to refuse.
“I see you haven’t thought of that,” said Matson. “Perhaps you thought I would give you the help you need without anything in return.”
“No, not at all. I just need you to tell me what I can offer.”
“Let me be very clear about this. If I release my delegates, I will not release them to you – or to anyone else. They would be released to vote for anyone they choose to support. That is as far as I would go. I will not endorse anyone. I will not even suggest they consider anyone. I would simply stand aside. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, absolutely,” replied Cruz, eagerly. “I understand you have to appear neutral. But what is it that you would then expect from me?”
Matson studied him closely, as if he were trying to decide how far to go. He wanted Cruz to think that this was nothing more than a deal, a trade, the kind of backroom bargain politicians make all the time. He wanted him to think that he was no different from anyone else to whom Cruz had made promises he did not keep.
“The deal is this: I release my delegates and if you don’t win on the first ballot you withdraw and second the nomination of whomever I then decide to support.”
“But that would mean that if I don’t win on the first ballot, even if I have more votes than anyone else, I would have to pull out.”
“Take it or leave it, senator. I don’t want a divided party, and that means I am not going to let this convention go much beyond a first ballot, if it goes even that far.”
They had reached the corner where Matson lived.
“Think about it, if you want. But this is the only way the Michigan delegation gets released.” Matson opened the door and started to get out. “One other thing. It would have to be in writing.”
“In writing? My word isn’t…?”
Matson smiled. “If it isn’t written down I might forget I was supposed to release my delegates.”
The rain had become a drizzle and Matson stood watching as the limousine pulled away. He took out his phone and called Ismael Cooper.
“If I released our delegates, who would they vote for? Cruz thinks a majority would vote for him. Make a few calls, find out what you can. I think he’s wrong, but I want to be sure.”
Matson went inside, loosened his black tie and unfastened the top button of his starched white shirt. He made himself a stiff drink and sat down in the comfortable cushioned chair he had owned for years, turned on the lamp and opened the sealed envelope that Ismael had brought back from California.
He read the first paragraph, reached for the glass of Scotch on the table next to him, but then, his eyes still on the page, pulled back his hand and continued reading. Halfway down the second page, he was on his feet, walking slowly back and forth, reading so intently that, quite without knowing it, he began moving his lips as if he were speaking out loud, giving the speech he was reading. He did not stop until he had finished, ten double-spaced typewritten pages, close to three thousand words. He stood still, staring straight ahead, the speech dangling from his hand, imagining the effect it could have, not just how an audience, the convention, might react, but what all those millions watching on television would think about a speech the likes of which no one had given in years. He went back to his chair and took a long drink. Then he took another.
First impressions are sometimes misleading. What seems at first astonishing can turn out on a sober second thought to have been nothing more than empty noise, the euphoria of great plans and promises made during all-night revelries turn to ashes in the cold light of dawn. Slowly, methodically, like a critic searching for a writer’s fatal flaw, he read through it again. Stopping at the end of each sentence, pausing even longer at the end of every paragraph, he tried to consider what, if anything, should be changed; what, if anything, might be said a different way, what should not be said at all. When he was done, he put the pages back in the envelope and called Ismael Cooper a second time.
