Eddy's Current (7 page)

The meeting was over, but the exchange continued as the group walked to the door.

“Without money from those giant shipping companies that go in and out of the Jacksonville port, you don’t stand a chance. You will probably do well in Gainesville, with the professors and employees at UF, but Jacksonville is a big hurdle to overcome.

“And you’ll have the problem of the rural areas.”

“Why is that a problem?” Perez asked innocently.

“Frankly, it’s because you’re Hispanic, and they’re not.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

“The people of the district who live in the rural areas.”

“I plan to represent all of the district.”

“That’s naive. I am concerned about your naivete, Mr. Perez. You have to be realistic. For example, you may not be able to retain your position at the FBI if you decide to do anything foolish. Washington is a funny place. Once you’re exposed as a potential asset, you must then go ahead and be an asset. If not, you are automatically considered to be a liability, and you are treated as one. Think about it before you make any foolish decisions.”

“If by realistic you mean that I should be held back by all of your concerns, I can’t and won’t bring myself to be realistic. And why are you labeling the people of Florida? The people of Florida are diverse, good, patriotic and tolerant. I don’t know the intolerant people you speak of in Florida’s rural areas. And I am not concerned about my job at the FBI. I can find another job. In fact, I planned to resign anyway in order to campaign.”

“Just trying to be realistic, Mr. Perez. I’m just trying to speak realistically to you about all this. We’ll call you in the morning.”

“Don’t call me. There’s no need.”

Litten and the other democratic leaders shook hands with Perez as they left the room.

Between the three, Alex and his parents, they had a net worth of fourteen thousand dollars, eight thousand of which was equity in their two small apartments. Equity borrowing was a thing of the past, so they had access to a whopping six thousand dollars. Alex’s car was in decent shape, and he owned a computer and a laser printer, though he didn’t know how to use either as a campaign tool.

On 6 January 2014, Alex walked into the Jacksonville FBI office and submitted his resignation to his supervisor, Matthew Thompson. Thompson initially refused to accept it.

“Then you’ll have to fire me,” was Alex’s response. “I am launching a campaign for congress, and I have to resign to do it. You don’t want your agents running for political office, and I have to have all the time I can to work on my campaign. My decision is made. For those two reasons alone, I am resigning. There is no excuse for you to refuse my resignation.”

“Alex, you are making a big mistake,” Thompson said. “Normally I don’t give advice to agents. Your decisions are your business, and I have no interest in advising agents on career moves, but I have to make an exception this time. I have no words of encouragement or support for you. I would not be in your corner if I told you what you want to hear. You and I know full well that Jennings has a lock on this election. You don’t stand a chance. I’m asking you to give it a rest for two years, then, if you still fell strongly about it, go for it.”

“Sorry, but I’ve talked it over with my family, and the decision’s been made.”

After a few seconds of silence, Thompson reached over and retrieved Alex’s resignation letter, made some notes on it, and placed it in his personnel file. “It’s been great working with you. You may leave at the end of the month, twenty–five days from now.”

“I need to be on the campaign trail on the twentieth. I’ll work fifteen hours each day, making Friday the seventeenth my last day, so technically I will meet the required three–week notice.”

“You’re amazing. Okay, okay. I’ll agree to that. Good luck, Alex.”

Alejandro and Felicia had not talked over all of their concerns with their son. Realistic and smart, they soon realized that the family would have to have an income that would last at least a year. Alejandro and Felicia did what they had done so many times before. They went to a farm and got a job in the fields. Alex would have to be on the road throughout the third congressional district all day, everyday, in order to have even the remotest chance at winning in August and then again in November. There was no other way he could defeat Jennings. Jennings’ money machine had already begun to crank out television ads, at huge cost to his supporters, and his disciples had begun to take care of myriad details.

Alex was credulous. He began with no advisor, little money, and idealism that works for children but seldom for candidates running for political office in the United States. He got in his car and drove to the small communities in Putnam County. There he would quickly run into trouble.

His first day, 20 January, was a disaster. Alex realized that as a member of the U.S. Congress representing the third district of Florida, he would represent farmers. Farmers were pro–farmer, which meant that they were anti–farm worker rights, though not for the reasons one might presume. Not at all good for Alex. One farmer after another greeted by Alex made it clear to him that they opposed increased rights for farm workers. It wasn’t that they were opposed to rights for farm workers, they said again and again to him. It’s that they were independent and hard–working people who had been forced by the federal and state governments to complete form after form, read, understand and adhere to law after law, and regulation after regulation, to the point that neither the farmer nor the farm worker was any better off.

Day two had to be better, he believed, but it wasn’t. Doors were slammed in his face. Dogs attacked him. He was even chased by loose chickens. He was discouraged, humiliated, lost and wandering aimlessly. He had no idea what he was doing. He couldn’t tell his story to his future constituents because cynicism was rampant. The people, quite simply, were sick of listening to politicians. His only hope was that many he talked to at least complimented him on his method of campaigning—going door to door to meet the people rather than going from TV studio to TV studio to meet talking heads.

Day three began the same, stayed the same, ended the same. Day four was more of the same. Day five was predictable.

By seven o’clock at night on day six, Alex was ready to give up completely. He had made a huge mistake, he feared, and it was time to pack it in. Jennings’ campaign had already taken off, in fact it was soaring, and Perez had nothing at all to show for his efforts, with no hope in sight. His parents told him about their new jobs — he could have definitely gone without knowing about that — and his once reliable car was no longer so reliable. It needed two thousand dollars worth of repairs. He chugged up US 17, headed back to his apartment in Alachua County, when he noticed a man in his yard, on the outskirts of Barberville, working in his garden. He stopped to say hello and introduce himself as the man’s next congressman.

“Good evening, sir,” Alex said.

“What in the hell is so good about it?” the man, an obvious southern cracker from the old days, replied.

“Well, for starters we live in a great country, and things are going to improve.”

“That’s not what I mean, son. I have no doubt that we’ll pull out of these economic messes. Not so sure about the political disasters, though.”

“Oh. Well. Then what’s on your mind? I’m your next congressman, maybe I can help.”

The man roared out a fake, sarcastic laugh. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard in a long time, son.”

“Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Alejandro Perez, Jr. I’m a democrat running for the congressional seat in this district.”

“The democratic candidate’s name is Jennings,” the man replied. “Do you have an identity problem? Don’t you know who you are?”

“No, sir; I don’t have an identity problem. Remember that the primary election has not been held. It’s in August. I plan to win the democratic primary election and then again in November.”

“Don’t lecture me about the political process, son. I’ve forgotten more about Florida politics than you’ll ever know. You probably should leave now. I hate politics.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“My name is Mr. Nobody.”

“I don’t believe that, sir.”

“I don’t matter any longer, son. I’m seventy–six years old, and I’m a has–been and an outcast, and I’ve been in this wooden shack for twenty years. I plan to stay here and live out my remaining time on this earth away from you loonies, hopefully no longer than a year or so, then die and be buried in my backyard, face down. Do I have to explain to you why I plan to be buried face down?”

“No, sir. You don’t have to explain. I think I know why. You know what? I like you. Seriously, is there anything I can do for you? I’m making notes of each conversation I have with my future constituents so that I can represent their needs in congress. I’ve written down your address. Please give me your name, and tell me succinctly how I can represent you in congress.”

“Soon I won’t need representation in congress. I’ll escape just in time, right before the damn Mexicans and Africans complete their takeover. Lucky me; I have to get out before the rest of the Americans because Florida is obviously being taken over first. Is that why you were sent here? To tell me to get out so the Mexican cavalry can take my house from me? Or are you representing the Africans? You could pass for either.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t get your name.”

“Is your hearing okay, son? It’s obvious that I don’t want to give you my name. And it’s obvious that I’m doing everything I can to get rid of you. Is it even possible to offend or discourage you so you’ll leave? If I haven’t used the right words yet that will cause your ass to scoot on down the road, please tell me precisely what the required words are so I can get rid of you.”

“My hearing’s fine. What’s your name, sir?”

“You have the most offensive accent I have ever heard. Where in the hell did you learn to speak English? Mexico City?”

“You have an accent as well, sir. Yours is not offensive to me. I’m sorry that mine offends you.”

“My accent is American,” Dominici replied.

“As is mine.”

“Do you promise to leave and never return if I give you a name?”

“Not just any name, sir; I need your actual name—and please tell me what your concerns are.”

“Man, you really are a pain, aren’t you.

“If you’re not going to leave, come on up to my front porch and sit down, and we’ll talk. But under one condition: I give you a few minutes, then you leave and promise never to bother me again. Do you agree to that?”

“No. I don’t agree to that. I would enjoy talking with you, though.”

“Okay, let’s go up on the front porch and get this over.

“Listen to me, son; before I give you my name I’m going to give you a short lecture. Get out of politics. Do you hear me? Get out and get out now. I can already tell that you’re sincere about political service, so get out. It’s not about sincerity today. It’s about money—big money. It’s about TV ads and creating modern day messiahs. Or it’s about the other extreme, creating modern day devils. Whoever has the most money becomes the messiah. Second place goes to the devil. It’s really that simple. You’ll get nowhere. I can tell that you’re a good man. Get out before it ruins you.”

“What’s your name, sir?” Alex asked.

“On top of the other problems you have that I’ve outlined for you, there is no question in my mind that you are completely deaf.”

“I can hear better than you might believe. What’s your name?”

The man extended his hand, but with no smile at all, “Cole Dominici; my nickname is Dom. My friends used to call me Dom.”

“May I call you Dom?”

“No, you may not. Nobody calls me Dom.”

“You just told me that your friends called you Dom.”

“That’s right. Then I told you that nobody calls me Dom. Put those two statements together, and then you’ll get what I mean.”

“How, then, would you like to be addressed?”

“Mr. Criminal Bigot.”

“You want me to call you by the name, ‘Criminal’ or ‘Mr. Bigot’?”

“Why not? That’s the label I was given years ago, when I was in the business of politics.”

“You were in politics?”

“Yes.”

“Florida politics?”

“Yes. I was the head of the state of Florida Democratic Party—that is, until there was a change in leadership that didn’t include a place for me. I had twenty years of unblemished service — a spotless reputation and record of service, and one success after another — so they couldn’t just say goodbye to me and take over using an old–fashioned power play. They would have lost that battle. Too many people would have sided with me. They had to have an excuse, so they created one. They spread rumors that I was suspected of bribery and that I was a bigot, that I hated minorities. I worked my entire adult life to that point without taking even one bribe, and my record of working tirelessly to get minorities elected to office was unsurpassed. There was no question about my passion for getting minorities into the mainstream of our society.

“Anyway, they got the media on their side, and brought them on board to investigate. Of course they and the media knew that ‘investigate’ really meant ‘speculate.’ I didn’t mind an investigation because I knew that the rumors weren’t true. I welcomed the media. I believed naively that they would investigate, see that there was no basis for the rumors, track down the rumors, and expose the group who spread the lies.”

“What happened instead?”

Dominici’s eyes were glazed and empty, and he looked straight ahead, but away from Perez, as he continued, “I was shocked when I realized that the investigation I had hoped for turned out to be an outright indictment of me. True investigative reporters were nowhere to be found. Speculation ran wild; tabloid journalism at its best. Then the talking heads took over. Before I knew it, no one was talking about seeking the truth. They were talking about me resigning because of my ‘obvious ethical failings’ and my hatred for minorities. The only ‘obvious ethical failing’ on my part was the media’s own wild speculation, which they reported as news. They reported it as fact when it was nothing more than unsubstantiated rumor.