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I'm sure Wynne James had been prepared for hundreds of possible questions tonight. There had been enumerable
debates over the last 18 months, and by now, the candidates were largely on autopilot. They were like wind-up dolls, capable of spouting off an answer to any issue the moment someone pulled their string. But it was painfully obvious that he was not ready for my low blow. He took a second or two to compose himself, which in comparison to the tempo up until that moment seemed like an eternity. His face reddened. He clutched the podium. And he stared right at me.

“Mr. Powers, I will not elevate your scurrilous accusation as I seek the most dignified elective office in the world.”

That was it. One sentence. He fucking shot me between the eyes. And I deserved it.

The crowd remained silent. No one was sure how to react. And the debate continued. More crazy talk was offered. But I knew that no matter what had preceded that exchange, and regardless of what came after, I'd just uncorked the debate equivalent of the legendary anti-Goldwater TV commercial which showed a young girl picking daisies over a sound bed consisting of the doomsday countdown clock. Knowing the way Molly Hatchet played, I was sure that the deposition question was being put online as I still sat in my debate chair, and all I wanted to do was get on the airplane and fly home. The rest of the debate was a blur; I don't even remember my other two questions.

Finally the red light on the floor camera turned off. The candidates shook hands and welcomed their families onstage before being released from the camera shot to depart as their aides scurried to get into the adjacent spin room where they would offer themselves to the amassed media. There was a group of reporters now gathering at the foot of the stage, and they all wanted to chat with just one candidate: Wynne James. I tried not to notice as I quickly gathered my notes, mindful of
needing to hustle to catch the red-eye to Tampa in time to host
Morning Power
. I made it off the stage and was headed outside where I hoped a Town Car sat ready to shuttle me to LAX when Jackson Hunter appeared out of nowhere and asked for a quick word. He shook my hand, congratulated me, and said that Governor Haskel was still in the building and had specifically asked to see me. Having begun the night as frontrunner, she would no doubt be upgraded to “presumed nominee” in the morning's newspapers. I was in no position to object.

“Breitbart just posted the deposition excerpt,” he said under his breath. I was hardly surprised. In the spin room, I was equally sure that Haskel's representatives were claiming their hands were clean and that they were as surprised as James about the question. That's the way these things work.

Hunter escorted me to a private, second-floor, hideaway office at the library that he said had been used by the Gipper himself before his passing. There, sitting on a loveseat in a room filled with the personal possessions of Ronald Reagan, surrounded by major donors and a half-dozen aides, was the Governor of Texas, studying her iPhone. The fact that of all the candidates, she had been allotted this as her green room told me a great deal about her status within the party. As I walked in the door, there was a smattering of light applause from the 20 or so people. Margaret Haskel looked up and said, “There he is, the great moderator, Stan Powers!”

Then she pulled me close and dropped her voice.

“Stan, I want to thank you for your courtesy tonight.”

My courtesy? A more honest statement might have been, “I want to thank you for kneeing Wynne James in the nuts tonight.”

“It was my pleasure, ma'am.”

Ma'am? I never spoke like that. If Debbie had heard me say that I'm convinced she would have slapped me. Maybe even
harder than she would have slapped me for asking the open marriage question.

Governor Haskel moved in closer. We were face to face now. The others in the room knew to give us a moment and resumed their conversations. The governor remained standing and lowered her voice.

“I was just talking about you today with Herb Barness.”

Barness was the state party chairman, the same guy who'd just said nice things about me in the Sunday newspaper.

“He agrees that you'd be a perfect representative of Florida to cast your state's delegate votes for me in the roll call at the convention, especially if Tobias is our opponent, which I think he will be after we both win tomorrow. You know the normal drill with the roll call—every state gets a minute to say a commercial about their home, but I've been thinking that it wastes a valuable TV moment. If I'm running against Tobias instead of Baron, I would like Florida to be the state to put me over the top and I don't want a damn commercial for Florida being the last thing people hear before I am formally nominated. We have something else in mind. You seem to work well with Jackson. He will be in touch.”

I said nothing and tried to process exactly what was being offered, if anything.

“It could be a very big, highly watched moment, Stan. I'd like you to think about that. Assuming it's Tobias, I'm offering you the chance to address the party convention and the nation, from your hometown.”

“Well, that would be an honor, Governor.”

“Good. It'll be a critical time, Stan, just as people are starting to focus on their November choice. And there are a few things they need to know about the Florida governor sooner rather than later. Things you'll be happy to share, I'm sure.”

“You can count on it.”

Margaret Haskel shook my hand again, more firmly than most guys I know. Somebody suggested we pose for a photograph together, which we did. And then I was shown the door. I scrambled to juggle my luggage as I hustled out to the curb and my car for the 50-minute ride to the airport, all while wishing I had more time to go back to Venice Beach for medicinal purposes. Alone, in the back of a Town Car, and for the second time in almost as many days, I scrolled my iPhone for reaction to the spectacle that had just occurred.

By that point every news outlet—large or small, left or right—was all about the election. Summer's withdrawal had stirred the pot and generated interest like never before, and both parties' nomination contests had started to feel more like
Survivor
than
American Idol
. America was hooked. The excerpt from the James deposition many years ago was now getting the siren treatment at Drudge. Huffpo remained focused on Tobias and Baron going down to the wire, which was more of interest to its readers. I thought of Susan and hoped she'd had bigger things to do tonight than watch the circus on the other side of the aisle. The Democratic debates were over and tonight Tobias and Baron were both holding their final rallies of their abbreviated primary campaigns.

Having surveyed the blogosphere to see how big the open marriage question was playing (Answer: Big), I was ready to see how my role had been received in my inner circle. In my mind, texts were like exit surveys, emails more like election results. Via text, friends could only give me the bottom line, but if they were so motivated, could tell me more in an email. I started with the exit surveys.

“U should have told me. Homerun,” was Phil's take.

“Important that you call me tomorrow,” from Jules.

“Atlanta extremely pleased,” from Steve Bernson.

“You had to have been high,” from Alex.

“Asshole.”

That was the one word that was texted to me from a phone number I recognized as Debbie's. That's about what I'd expected from her. And I didn't disagree. Suddenly I lost my appetite for reading the longer-winded emails.

That night I learned why they call those flights red-eyes. Given all that had happened over the previous couple of days, you'd think I'd have slept like a baby, but I hardly caught any rest. Instead I tossed and turned under a blanket in seat 3C replaying in my mind everything that had happened since Thursday. But the critical timeline extended further back than that. Phil had been adamant that I push Tobias on religion. Even though I'd soft-pedaled it on account of Susan's unexpected presence in the studio, there was no doubt that I was the one responsible for making it an issue in the election, at least amongst those on the right. The Haskel campaign had noted that I'd raised something hot while advancing my own interests, and appropriately concluded that I was game for bigger assignments, namely taking out Wynne James. And now, anticipating that they'd vanquished James, they were hoping I would do likewise for them with Tobias. How exactly they expected me to do this hadn't yet been explained. Molly Hatchet had said there were things people needed to know about Tobias sooner rather than later. Flying home solo, I thought about the people I could possibly call for advice by running through in my mind what I knew they would say. Phil? He'd have me throwing that Molotov cocktail on radio air immediately, not waiting until the convention. Jules? He'd tell me the convention speech would guarantee syndication and that everything should be focused on that moment. Debbie? I doubted she'd even speak to me. And
if she did, she'd say I had finally, officially sold my soul. Susan? Holy shit. My head was spinning.

Putting aside my complicated feelings for his wife, I liked Bob Tobias and thought he'd done a decent job as Florida's governor. And of course, I didn't give a shit whether he was a person of faith. How could I? Debbie was correct in saying that I hadn't exactly set church attendance records on fire. But if the path he'd chosen was a religion founded in the twentieth century by an American science fiction writer based on some intergalactic horseshit, not even I could ignore that. Frankly, given the fantastical basis of Scientology, I couldn't believe that the IRS gave it tax-exempt status. The audit summary that hung in my office alleged that a spouse was challenging her husband's adherence to Scientology and that he was an elected official. Assuming that Tobias was the public figure referenced, Susan Miller was the one who'd tried to drive that wedge.

It might be total bullshit. The idea that such a secret could be kept from Florida voters for so long made it dubious. And even if the audit was truly related to the Tobias/Miller marriage, it was unclear whether Susan had been successful. I also considered the possibility that she too was or had been a Scientologist and that perhaps she was trying to get her husband to ditch the church with her. How the fuck should I know?

What I thought I
knew
was: Tobias had a longstanding refusal to say the usual bullshit about our nation's religious roots while running for office; I'd had something stuck in my palm at a Tea Party rally that purported to link an unnamed elected official to Scientology; Susan had an uncanny awareness of a hidden dive bar that was located within spitting distance of Scientology's headquarters; and Molly Hatchet was now insinuating that Tobias had a deep dark secret that voters needed to know. All that, and the fact that Susan was
mysteriously interested in keeping me close to her as the campaign unfolded.

Ever since she had left me that first message after my in-studio interview with Tobias, I'd wondered what her motivation was. Of course, I hoped it was sexual, that she thought about me over the years, and that now, recognizing the career I'd built for myself on a path that she'd paved, she wanted to rekindle an old flame. Whether she'd come to the studio that day to be the dutiful political spouse, or because she'd figured out that she knew Stan Powers, I wasn't sure. But she came, we saw one another, and then she called. That was followed by our odd encounter at Delrios, a night that had seemed to lack any purpose. Or did it? I hadn't raised religion in the offensive manner prescribed by Phil, but I had raised the subject in a cursory way face-to-face with her husband and countless times on the radio thereafter. Maybe her purpose in coming to Delrios had been to take my temperature, to see whether my questions and comments were based on anything substantive or whether they were just the usual drivel from her husband's detractors. After all, if I were onto the fact that he, or he and she, were followers of a faith that Middle America found cult-like and preposterous, wouldn't I have brought it out when we were alone? This seemed plausible. Maybe her only interest was in finding out whether or not I knew she was a Scientologist. And for all I knew, she'd done it with Tobias' blessing! Somewhere over the Grand Canyon I fired up my Kindle and began to read Janet Reitman's
Inside Scientology
.

Rod Chinkles seemed legitimately happy to see me when I dragged myself into the studio on Tuesday morning. Alex, not so much.

“I don't get you Stan.”

“I don't get me either.”

Thankfully, our listeners agreed with Rod. I received a hero's welcome from the many callers at WRGT who wanted to praise my exposure of Governor James and throw Bill Maher under the bus.

“Stan, you spared us another Clinton fiasco with James. He'd have sullied the Oval Office if not for you,” Kyle from Riverview told me.