Ballots and Blood (19 page)

“Hel-loooo,” he answered.

“Hey, sugar, it's me,” said Satcha.

“Come on up. Apartment 1202.”

After riding the elevator to the twelfth floor, she stepped into the hallway, walked to the door, and rang the doorbell. Jay opened the door.

“You look mah-velous, darling,” he said, his hungry eyes sizing her up from head to toe. “As always!” He felt a surge of desire rush through him. He hoped it wasn't too obvious.

“Thank you,” said Satcha. She pulled a green bottle from behind her back. “Look what I brought.”

“Champagne?”

“Not just champagne. It's Dom,” she said.

Jay made a mock frown. “Darn, I already opened a bottle of wine.”

“No problem,” said Satcha with an alluring smile. “We'll have the champagne first, then the wine.”

Jay apologized profusely for leaving her standing in the hallway. He opened the door wide and motioned her into the apartment. As she breezed past, her body brushed against his chest. He felt a surge of sexual tension. He wondered:
Was she feeling it, too?

“Oh, I
love
your apartment,” gushed Satcha. “Who decorated it?”

“This is how it came. Honestly, I didn't change a thing,” said Jay. He gave her a quick tour of the eighteen-hundred-square-foot unit, pointing out the oak paneling in the library, the Sub-Zero refrigerator, gas range and espresso maker in the kitchen, and the cozy master bedroom with a terrace. “When the president asked me to come to the White House, I told my real estate agent I had to find a place no more than ten minutes from work that was low maintenance. I signed the contract the next day.”

“It's wonderful,” she said. “I
love
it.”

“Come here. . . . I'll show you the balcony.” He walked to the kitchen, grabbing two fluted champagne glasses from the bar, and led her outside. As they stepped onto the balcony, they drank in the panoramic view, the White House to their right, the illuminated Capitol dome visible beyond it, the twinkling lights of downtown DC to their left, the National Cathedral, and spires of Georgetown University farther in the distance.

“Oh, what a view,” said Satcha.

“It's nice,” said Jay. He opened the champagne, the cork flying off with a loud pop, and poured the bubbly lovingly into the glasses. He handed Satcha a glass, then lifted his aloft, proposing a toast. “To victory in November . . . for me at the ballot box and you-slash-Univision in the ratings.”

“I'll drink to that,” said Satcha, giggling. They clinked glasses and drank, never losing eye contact. “Alright, can we talk business?”

“Business before pleasure is my motto.”

“I want you to help me book all the top U.S. Senate candidates on my show to debate their opponents,” said Satcha. “It'll be
Meet the Press
meets
El Nuevo Herald
. I'll have a panel of Latino journalists, and I'll moderate.” She batted her eyes. “Will you help me?”

“Sure, I think it's terrific,” said Jay. “But why would they take time away from feeding the local press to do a national Latino cable show?”

“Are you kidding?” asked Satcha, eyes widening. “I get higher ratings than the networks in Miami, LA, and Houston in prime time. Think about that! Between the Cubans in Florida, the Mexicans in California, and the Ricans in New Jersey, the Hispanics are going to be the swing vote in all three of the top Senate races in the country.” She shook her tush, jutting her hips back and forth. “Latinos are the hottest thing in politics.”

Jay raised his glass. “And you're their ambassador.”

“Not ambassador, baby. I'm the queen bee.”

“Well, your highness,” said Jay, bowing low from the waist. “I'll help you get all our guys. But I want something in return.”

“What's that?”

“You know,” he said mischievously, leaning into her, their faces no more than six inches apart. He felt her breath on his chin, the smell of the fresh champagne intoxicating.

“Oh, you naughty boy,” she said, raising her mouth to his.

“Quid pro quo,” said Jay in a low baritone. Before their lips could touch, Jay's cell phone went off.

“Ignore it,” said Satcha, her eyes closed, her lips puckered.

“I can't,” said Jay. “I think it's a reporter under deadline.” He pulled out the phone and looked at the display, rolling his eyes. “It's worse than that: Marvin Myers.”

Satcha lowered her chin, speaking in a mocking tone, imitating Myers' trademark baritone: “Feed the beast.”

Jay put his index finger to his lips, requesting quiet, and answered the phone. “Double M! Which am I today: the source or the target?”

“You're always the source, Jay,” purred Marvin in a syrupy voice. “One of the best.”

“I bet you say that to all your dates.”

Myers let out a wheezy, rat-tat-tat laugh. “Listen, I heard through the grapevine Long met with Mack Caulfield when he was in LA and asked him to consider running for the U.S. Senate against Kate Covitz,” said Myers, dropping a grenade in the middle of Jay's date night. “I'm sure you don't want to go on the record, but is there anything you can tell me on background?”

Jay nearly dropped the phone. His mind raced: who was running their big mouth? If it was Caulfield, he would wring his neck. “We've talked to a lot of people about the California Senate race,” said Jay. “Caulfield is just one among many. The list is longer than the LA phone book.”

“I've got it confirmed by two sources,” said Myers, holding his ground.

“He and the president are friends. It was a wide-ranging discussion about Mack's future. The Senate race came up, but only in passing.”

“What's wrong with Mike Hammer?” Myers pressed, referring to the Orange County supervisor who was a favorite of the Faith and Family Federation.

“Off the record? He's an Orange County wingnut,” said Jay. “He'll get the Faith and Family vote and the gun nuts and the Howard Jarvis society crowd, but that's it. What's that worth—38 percent of the vote? Besides, Hammer won't talk to the press, doesn't take questions at events, won't do ed boards. Heck, he won't even work a rope line for fear of getting picked up on a boom mike! They've got him in a witness protection program.”

“But if the goal is for the Republicans to take the Senate, why kick the base in the teeth?”

“He can't win, Marvin.”

“Well, my sources tell me Caulfield is a no go.”

Jay wanted to scream into the phone:
Why are Caulfield's handlers talking to you instead of me?
He was livid but kept his emotions in check. “Don't be too sure, Marvin. This casserole is not fully baked.”

“Suit yourself,” said Myers. “Hey, by the way, I hear Satcha Sanchez is in town. That can only mean one thing, which is she's trolling for an exclusive. You're not giving her a sit-down with the president, I hope. You promised me the next one, remember?”

Jay suppressed an expletive. Myers was uncanny—the guy had sources all over town. He put his hand over the receiver and moved his lips silently, mouthing to Satcha: “He knows you're here.”

Satcha read Jay's lips, and her eyes grew into saucers. She frantically waved her arms as though warning a jet off a carrier deck. “I'm NOT here,” she whispered.

“No, nothing like that,” said Jay into the receiver. “I think the next media avail for POTUS will be in the briefing room or the East Room. No one-on-ones are in the works, at least not to my knowledge.”

“Well, don't let her have him or the Senate candidates until I get a chance to make my pitch,” said Myers. “You know my ratings on Sunday morning are the highest on cable.”

“How well I know, Marvin,” said Jay. “We watch the numbers every week. You're at the top of the heap, and don't think we don't notice.”

“Good. I want the Senate debates. Forget about Satcha. She's yesterday's news.”

“You're at the top of the list,” Jay lied. He hung up the phone and turned to Satcha. “I don't believe this guy! He's wrapped around the axle with Caulfield, and he's gunning for the Senate debates just like you. He wants an exclusive.”

“I hope you're not going to give it to him,” said Satcha, her mouth forming a pout.

“Of course not, but I'm not the only one making the decision. Lisa's going to have a lot of say. So will the candidates for that matter.”

“Lisa hates me.”

“No, she doesn't. She's just competitive, that's all.”

“Jay, she doesn't even return my phone calls.”

Jay stared into his champagne. “I guess you're right. She does hate you.” He let out an uproarious laugh.

Satcha drained her champagne and set it down on the iron and glass table. A red line from the setting sun silhouetted the skyline as night fell across the nation's capital. She moved in and pressed her body against Jay, wrapping her arms around his waist. He could smell her Brioni perfume, the scent of which was intoxicating. “Get me the Senate candidates, Jay,” she said. “You won't regret it.”

“Now you're not playing fair,” he protested. “We agreed we wouldn't mix business with pleasure.”

“That was before Myers tried to move in on my turf.”

“So all's fair in love and war?” Jay asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. And in the pursuit of higher ratings,” she cooed, rubbing the small of his back with her fingers. Jay felt his lower back relax and his knees go weak.

“Whatever you say,” he heard himself answer.

NINE BLOCKS AWAY ON THE second floor of a nondescript gray townhouse on F Street, Sal Stanley presided over a strategy session with some of the most important minds—and wallets—in the national Democratic Party. Dubbed “F Troop” after the 1960s' sitcom of the same name, the assembled heavyweights gathered over pizza, beer, red wine, and Chinese takeout once or twice a month. They pored over polling data, traded intelligence on candidates and races, and plotted how to beat back the assault of the Long administration and the far right against the Democratic Senate.

They assembled at the request of Salmon Stanley, who brought a single-minded focus to the task. Among those joining him were Christy Love, the president of Pro Choice PAC; uber-lobbyist and rainmaker G. G. Hoterman, the Service Employees International Union (SEIU) president, officials from MoveOn.org, and an assortment of Democratic consultants and pollsters. In a happier time the meetings were run by Michael Kaplan, Stanley's long-time campaign advisor and consigliere. But with Kaplan's criminal trial scheduled to begin in two weeks, he was otherwise occupied.

Stanley sat at the head of the table wrapped in a blue suit and striped tie, his reddish hair now blondish gray, his ruddy complexion a mottle of freckles, sun spots, and worry lines. He looked weary but determined, his blue eyes intense. He was thoroughly in his element, issuing directives in crisp sentences, cutting people off when he thought they were getting long-winded, and occasionally falling silent as he listened to the sometimes combatively offered and conflicting views of his advisors.

“I asked Tom Jensen to join us. He's one of the smartest guys in the party. Tom, tell us what's going on in the country,” said Stanley, pushing away a plate of cold pizza.

Jensen's face lit up like a fluorescent light, a day's worth of beard stubble flecking his chin, his face glistening with sweat from a full day of intellectual exertions. A bowling ball of a man with a thick neck and a tiny head, he looked as if he might burst out of his blue button-down shirt and blue blazer. Walking to the foot of the table, he pecked on the keyboard of a laptop until the first slide of a PowerPoint appeared on a screen.

“The key to this election and the nonnegotiable variable in preserving our majority in the Senate is who does a better job getting their voters to the polls,” said Jensen, darting eyes surveying his rapt audience, with an occasional adoring gaze in Stanley's direction. “Overall, voter participation in by-elections declines by 30 to 40 percent from the level in presidential elections. Whoever gets more of their presidential voters to turn out two years later, wins. Simple as that.” He clicked the cursor with his hand, bringing up a slide that read: “Long's Right-Wing Coalition.” People chuckled as it came up. “Long and the Republicans will be focusing on four main voter groups: white men, evangelicals, rural voters, and conservative independents in the suburbs and exburbs.” He clicked a slide over showing the percentages of the electorate. “Obviously, there's some overlap here, but these four groups constitute about 45 percent of the electorate, all in.” He paused, eyes scanning the slide. “That's the good news: their team does not make up a majority in the electorate.”

“What's the bad news?” asked Stanley.

“The not-so-good news for us is these voters can comprise a majority if our voters stay home or they turn out in unusually high numbers,” replied Jensen. He clicked the next slide, which listed exit polling data for previous elections. “That's what happened in 1994, 2002, and 2010. White males, evangelicals, and rural voters went to the polls in record numbers. We lost the House or the Senate, or both, in each of those elections. If it happens this year, the Senate is on the bubble.”

“What's your prognosis?” asked Stanley. “What do the tea leaves say today?”

“Their base is more fired up right now than ours. The current average among the last ten published polls is a twelve-point intensity gap favoring them. If we don't get our side more fired up, we could have a rough election.”

“That's why Andy Stanton and Ross Lombardy are trying to recruit far-right candidates in the model of Don Jefferson in Florida,” said Hoterman. “They're trying to turn out the church people and the Tea Party crowd. They're throwing red meat into the shark tank.”