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“But won't they remember that I told them that before?” I'd asked.

“That's the best part, Stan. There is no institutional memory in this business. Things said yesterday are forgotten by tomorrow.”

I flew back from New York the same day just so I could have a late dinner with Debbie. I hoped we were coming out of what I would describe as the big thaw. She'd remained super pissed after the debate weekend in California, and a week had passed before she'd even take my call.

“You made an ass of yourself in California, Stan,” was how she put it when we finally spoke. “I might not do divorce law, but I sure as hell know how ugly things get when couples split, and the fact that James' wife said something scurrilous about him in a deposition is totally meaningless. I see that sort of thing every day. People twist things in all sorts of ways to get what they want in court. You wrecked any chance that the one sane candidate had of winning.”

She was right that there had been no corroboration of James' first wife's testimony; how could there be when she
was dead? But that didn't matter in this climate. The truth was irrelevant. All that mattered was that the issue be put in play, where it served notice on a sufficient number of Californians who were anxious for their party to take the White House, that Wynne James was damaged goods. In the case of Haskel vs. James, Haskel had won. Tobias vs. Haskel was going to be equally blistering.

•  •  •

With three weeks to go before the convention, the I-4 corridor was already a war zone. Both Tobias and Margaret Haskel had spent time doing retail campaigning within earshot of WRGT and they were each bombarding radio listeners and television viewers with constant commercials. One Monday morning, Haskel was my guest by phone and was effusive in her praise of me while telling my audience that those in the I-4 corridor held the next presidency in their hands.

“This convention of theirs is going to be the worst thing to hit New Orleans since Katrina,” she'd actually said on air that morning. “And then it'll be our turn in Tampa. And Stan, I want your listeners to know right now, that I am looking forward to you playing a very important role when I get to the I-4 corridor!”

I had been looking into the control room when she said that. Rod must have farted. Either that or Alex was repulsed by what she'd heard.

When I cut to commercial, Alex walked into my studio and handed me a note with Jackson Hunter's name and phone number.

“Your friend the governor asked that you call him immediately,” she said with more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

As soon as the program ended, I did what I was told.

“I figured you'd be on vacation,” I joked when he answered.

“The governor has asked that I come and see you, Stan. It's important,” Hunter said.

Hunter was skilled beyond his years for this kind of work. Just the sound of his voice creeped me out. There was no, “Are you free for dinner?” That would have invited a response of “Oh gee, as a matter of fact I'm not.” Instead it was only a question of what time. He went on to say that he was already in town coordinating convention logistics. I suggested Bob Heilman's Beachcomber in Clearwater Beach, figuring that like some hussy, I should at least get to eat a good meal before I got fucked.

“Thanks for doing this, Stan. The governor will not forget your courage.”

Courage? It took no courage whatsoever to participate in a roll call of votes and stand up and say “the land of Pluto and Goofy and Tampa Bay Ray's baseball supports Margaret Haskel.” If I had any courage, I thought, I'd tell my audience that your candidate was unfit.

Instead I said, “See you then.”

I knew my worst suspicions were about to be confirmed. Knowing the way they'd had me dispose of Wynne James, I figured they had something even more sinister in mind for Tobias. Jackson Hunter didn't even wait for his appetizer or a refill of his Coke with lemon to get down to business. And he'd already taught me once not to trust a man who doesn't drink.

“I know the governor mentioned this in California, but I am here to formally invite you to offer Florida's delegates in support of Governor Haskel. You will be an honorary delegate the second night of the convention and when the roll call vote comes to Florida, you will stand and announce the Sunshine State's delegates for the governor. And Stan, Florida will not
just be one of the 50 states—Florida will be
the
state. We will be monitoring the count and we will go to Florida in prime time so that it is Florida that formally puts the governor over the top. It will be the perfect time to frame the issue for the nation.”

What the “issue” was, or what that framing might look like he did not immediately say.

“Have you thought about what you want me to say?” I asked.

“Well, yes we have. Nothing too lengthy. You'll only have 60 seconds. And you won't have to say too much in terms of your affection for your state because it will already have been stated.”

They had the whole thing planned. There would be nothing spontaneous about my role. I sipped. He spoke.

“You need to define the fall election, Stan.”

I felt my ass tighten.

“What does that mean?”

“Draw a distinction between Governor Haskel and Bob Tobias. A distinction that you are uniquely qualified to offer. You are the individual who from day one recognized that this guy is outside the mainstream of popular religious belief in America. But I don't think even you realize how far outside the mainstream he is. Now you will be the first to let the nation know that Bob Tobias is worse than a secularist. He's a man of faith, alright. Only his Holy Land is Area 51.”

I took another sip from my Jack and Coke and looked around the restaurant. Even in the middle of summer, the Beachcomber was packed and given my recent notoriety and the familiarity of my face, we were already getting lots of looks and nods of recognition. Thank goodness they didn't know what we were discussing.

After we ordered and the waitstaff had moved away from the table, Hunter discreetly slipped his left hand inside his sport
coat. Another fucking envelope. Only this one didn't contain a debate question. Inside was a frayed, black and white, 5 x 7 photograph of three people that I had to hold in my hands at an angle so that I had the full benefit of the dim candlelight. I studied it as my eyes brought the image he'd handed me into focus. In the foreground was a man I instantly recognized, although he looked a few years younger than today. His face was plainly visible and so too was a sign caught in the foreground, hanging from an adjacent building. There was another man at his side who looked familiar although I could not immediately place him. And there was a woman walking with the two men whose profile and light hair color I could see, but whose face was partially hidden because of the angle at which the picture had been snapped. None of the three was looking at the camera, and it was clear that none of them had posed for the photograph. It was almost like it had been taken surreptitiously or captured by paparazzi.

There was no doubt that I was looking at a younger Bob Tobias and I knew where it had been taken. Tobias looked to be exiting the Ft. Harrison Hotel in the company of a second man and a female who damned sure looked like Susan Miller. The photograph would have no meaning but for the location. The hotel depicted was no longer the place of public accommodation where reportedly Keith Richards had famously penned the words to “(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction” after dreaming up that guitar riff in one of the hotel's beds. It was the immaculate, renovated incarnation that now served as a retreat for members of the Church of Scientology, not far from where Jackson Hunter and I were now having dinner.

Two things immediately suggested to me that the photo was legit. First, photoshopping has today reached an art form, but this picture wasn't something created on a Mac. It was old
school, like some of those pics of Bill Clinton at Oxford in the '60s. A frayed, yellowed, not-entirely-clear version of an image that, judging by Tobias' clothing, mop haircut, and younger facial features, had been taken at least ten years ago. Second, if you were going to fabricate an image of a politician and link them to a controversial cause, you'd make the causal connection much more clear that just three people leaving a building. On its own, it didn't prove anything. But it sure would explain a number of things.

My mind raced as I began to contemplate the possible political significance of what I held in my hands. That this was a potential tinderbox was without question. It would substantiate the audit report I'd received, for starters. Not to mention Tobias' longstanding refusal to acknowledge the usual Judeo-Christian line about our nation's founding. And it would certainly explain why Susan required no directions when I told her I wanted to meet at my off-the-beaten-path—but not far from Scientology HQ—dive bar. Finally, it would suggest that our recent reunion was a bid for my silence—and maybe with Tobias' acquiescence. Any linkage between Tobias and the teachings of L. Ron Hubbard would be too much for American voters to bear.

Our appetizers arrived. And Jackson Hunter began to tell me how he thought the photograph should be used at the convention, now just a few weeks away.

“Please welcome, the next Vice President of the United States….”

No, I didn't really think “Wynne James” would be the name coming out of Margaret Haskel's mouth, but I had my fingers crossed when the governor of Texas made her pick nonetheless. She actually beat Bob Tobias to the punch to announce a VP despite the fact that the Democratic convention came first.

Just a day before Democrats were to arrive in New Orleans for the start of their convention at the Louisiana Superdome, Tobias still hadn't named his VP, but Margaret Haskel was about to pick hers. I was pretty sure that Tobias was going to select Cindy Davenport, the congresswoman from Michigan, a good female offset for the fact that Margaret Haskel led the GOP ticket. But the longer he delayed the more I wondered if there was a problem with what seemed like a logical selection. Davenport was from a critical state and had strong labor credentials, but as a soccer mom turned politician, she wasn't anyone's version of Jimmy Hoffa. She would keep Democrats satisfied
while extending the appeal of the ticket to Independents. And she was good on her feet, which would certainly help in the one and only vice presidential debate. But Tobias didn't announce Davenport, or anyone else, before his delegates arrived. His was a risky strategy intended to add some drama to a gathering that was otherwise so staged for television that it was hard to glean any spontaneity. Of course, the downside of his delay was that he'd lost the ability to double up on fundraising and expand the reach of his campaign by having his VP pick doing separate events. That and the fact that while he waited, Margaret Haskel grabbed the spotlight from him just as the Democrats were arriving in the Big Easy. She announced her pick on Saturday morning, assuring that she'd control the weekend news cycle just as the DNC was starting to get under way.

Of course Wynne James would have been a smart pick for Haskel had I not wrecked him at the Reagan Library. He deserved it on the merits based on his credentials and for having run a good campaign where he finished as runner-up. Moreover, his non-zealot status would have helped sell her candidacy to Independents, or so I thought. Not that I made such an argument on WRGT or in the countless cable TV and print interviews I gave in the days leading up to the convention. Instead, I continued to chant Phil's “conservative, consistent and compelling” mantra to the end. Hell, on air, I said that Redfield, Lewis and Figuera were all solid VP prospects. But no matter what I said, there was no way that Margaret Haskel could offend the evangelical Christians who constituted the base of her party by taking a guy they now widely assumed had been in an a orgy. The Internet had fueled no shortage of crazy rumors about my question, so tenuously based on a decades-old assertion from a now-dead woman in the midst of a divorce. James was now damaged goods, despite his decent showing in the primaries.

Besides, others on the right had a different way of doing the math. Instead of recognizing how James had fared against Haskel, they added up the Haskel, Redfield, Lewis and Figuera quotient—the conservative bloc—and argued that together, this represented the core of the party which needed to be reflected in its VP choice. There was lots of strong-arming for one of those three to be named, but in the end Margaret Haskel went in a different direction.

“…A God-fearing, great American, Senator Finn O'Malley!” was the way she announced it.

My P1s were elated with the pick. A 95 percent approval rating from the Club for Growth while representing Ohio in the U.S. Senate, Catholic and, of course, pro-life. O'Malley had a good-looking family and was a bit of a dolt, but that was just fine as a compliment to the extroverted Governor Haskel.