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Authors: Janet Tashjian

BOOK: Vote for Larry
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For once I had to admit I didn't mind the media focusing on non-issues. The clip the networks played over and over again was Peter zooming in on the toilet paper stuck to the president's shoe.
The next day, the pundits and pollsters had me up by 7 percentage points in the polls. Investigative reporters at all the major newspapers began to cover the items I'd raised during the debate. The other two candidates were being asked tougher questions, and their answers were scrutinized for accuracy. Both the Democratic and Republican candidates bowed out of the next two debates, citing scheduling conflicts. I knew they'd rather both wrestle in Jell-O on live TV than subject themselves to another grueling session that actually dealt with something as important as their records.
By all accounts, we had won the battle.
Little did I know we were headed for a war.
 
 
With just a few weeks left until Election Day, our campaign staff kicked into overdrive. Volunteers canvassed neighborhoods by foot and phone. Beth and I made appearances on
Hardball, Crossfire,
and
The O'Reilly Factor.
(What a bunch of negative Johnny Appleseeds
those
guys are.) We garaged the tour bus and flew to several swing states for rallies.
96
And with the thousands of barrels filled with coins from our drop-off points across the country, we had enough funds to run a few crucial ads.
Janine made time in her equally jam-packed schedule to fly out to L.A. to meet us. She deftly helped Tara, the California coordinator, organize our four stops that morning. We made appearances with several other Peace Party candidates, but when Tara suggested that I looked exhausted and should take a break, I took her up on the offer.
Janine, Brady, and I collapsed into the motel room with several cartons of Chinese takeout.
Janine had just filled her plate when Beth barreled through the door.
“I'm sorry to interrupt, but this can't wait,” she said.
“Newsweek
and CNN just called. They're going with a story that you have an offshore bank account with $190 million in it.”
I grabbed a Peking ravioli. “Yeah, right.”
“That's what I said, but they have account numbers, a list of donors—everybody from GE to Ford to Exxon.”
“I'm sure.”
“Here are the faxes. The account numbers trace back to our bank in Boston. The correspondence is on our stationery. They have copies of e-mails between you and the CEO of General Motors saying you won't tighten emission standards if you get elected.”
“What?” Janine looked as upset as I'd ever seen her. We laid out the documents on the bed and studied them.
“Now are you getting it?” Beth asked. “It's all crap, but the paperwork is completely legit. How did they get your e-mail password or our account numbers? I told you all along, Josh—there's somebody on the inside.”
I wanted to block my ears like a little kid.
I'm not listening. I'm not listening.
I knew the political Attack Machines would do anything to ensure that I failed, especially after the success of the debate. And out of all the scandals that plagued candidates—sexual improprieties, harassment, employing illegal aliens, lying under oath—surely the one that would hit me the hardest would be anything linking me to Big Business.
But everything looked accurate, right down to my messy handwriting. Mixed in with notes I did write to staffers, Peter, and supporters were things I never would have written in a thousand years. I mean, a note to the CEO of Monsanto promising that if elected I'd help him “slide their genetically modified soy and wheat crops on the unsuspecting public”? Were they kidding? When I lived in Boulder, I belonged to a group that spent six months fighting that one particular issue. I would
have preferred a doctored photo of me rehearsing with 'N Sync than this nonsense.
“How did they do it?” Janine asked.
“I'm more concerned with who,” Beth said. “It almost doesn't matter if it's Democrats or Republicans. I just want to know who gave them access to our files. That's the real betrayal.”
“Maybe it's like Watergate and they broke in,” Janine suggested.
“No way. None of the passwords are written down,” I answered.
“Maybe they had that software that records keystrokes. Or maybe the phones are bugged,” Beth said.
“Let's call a meeting in Boston for the morning and fly back tonight.”
I wanted to be in the air and inaccessible when the story broke. Peter's voice crumbled as I told him the news by phone.
“We're not going to let this get us down, Josh. There have been obstacles all along the way. We'll get through this.”
Janine decided to come back to Boston to help out. Several people on the plane recognized Beth and me; a few shook our hands.
“Flying coach,” one man said. “I guess you do practice what you preach.”
“You've got my vote,” said another. “I'm tired of these trust fund men running the show.”
“We'll see if they feel that way tomorrow,” I whispered to Beth as we took our seats.
The rest of the flight was turbulent, if only in my mind. Beth hadn't mentioned betagold, but she didn't have to. Her twisted vengeance lay underneath both our thoughts.
I knocked the tray with my knee, causing my little can of tomato juice to sail across the aisle. All I could do was cross my fingers that the American public would hear my side of the story tomorrow and somehow believe me.
They didn't.
LAST WEEK IN OCTOBER: THE FINAL PUSH
The next several days were filled with more questions than I'd answered in my entire life.
97
I told my side of the story ad nauseam—that the money wasn't mine, that I was being set up, that whoever had done this considered $190 million an investment in maintaining the status quo. The reporters refused to believe anyone would spend that much money just to frame someone. I told them it was a drop in the bucket for most corporate donors, a cost-of-doing-business expense that ensured one of their political puppets got elected instead of me.
Of course, all the protesting in the world couldn't hide the fact that the signature on the account appeared to be mine or that the e-mails to various executives could be traced to the PC I used at campaign headquarters. Even more difficult to refute were the statements of several multi-billion-dollar CEOs who swore I had approached them for donations in exchange for favorable legislation.
After two days of fighting the tide of negative press, I
pedaled off to my hole in the woods to weigh my options. Should I withdraw from the ticket and let Beth run alone? Should I go down fighting? Use our last funds for a national ad telling my side of the story?
There was one option I didn't want to think about as I pedaled toward the familiar hideaway. But in the back of my mind, an unforgivable choice kept trying to make itself heard.
You left without a trace before,
it said.
You can do it again.
No, absolutely not. I kept riding.
You could take some of the money. It's in your name; they
owe you. You know how to do it. It would be easier this time.
I won't commit pseudocide again. I won't do it to Beth. Or to Peter or Janine. Not to mention the millions of people who believe in what we've been trying to do for ten months.
You don't owe anybody anything. Think about yourself for a change.
I shook my head violently as I rode, trying to make these terrible thoughts disappear. Just a few hundred yards and I'd be safe.
But when I turned the corner toward the trail, cars and trucks filled both sides of the street. How had they found out about this, my one last place of calm on the planet? I tucked my head down and pedaled past the turnoff.
You're nuts if you don't consider it,
the voice continued.
They're never going to let you be.
I headed back to the main road, not sure what I wanted to escape from more—the media spotlight or the voices in my own head.
 
 
It got so bad that Peter had to escort me into headquarters every morning. He looked as mad as he'd been in the old days. “Vultures, all of them,” he complained.
Janine and Beth were both on computers in the office, scanning files.
“We've been here since 4 A.M.,” Beth said. “Still not a clue. Do you think they hacked their way in?”
“Anything's possible. What does Tim say?”
“He's asleep in the hall, something about ‘changing phases the hard way.' He was up all night too.”
Janine looked weary but optimistic. Knowing her, she would work till we dragged her out of the building kicking and screaming. I knew better than to ask her how it was going; it was a silent Monday.
When Tim woke up and Lisa arrived, we went through every detail of our protocol yet again.
“I think we should stop focusing on who did what and just get on with the damage control,” Lisa said. “The election's a week away”
“It's totally foobar,” Tim said. “You should just give it up.”
Peter disagreed. “I say we hold another press conference, be fresh in the voters' minds.”
“The voters still think I screwed them over,” I said. “It's going to take more than a press conference to sweep all that hypocrisy under the table.”
“We've gone from a high of 27 to 9 percent in the polls,” Lisa said.
Beth couldn't control her anger. “The polls are rigged—you know that.”
She left the table to take a call on her cell. As the others talked, I kept my eyes on her. I could see the color drain from her face as she spoke.
Beth hung up and nodded for me to join her in the hall.
“You're not going to like this,” she said.
“I haven't liked anything since this story broke. Shoot.”
“It was Janine.”
“Would you stop with that already? I told you it's not her.”
Beth didn't look angry, just sad. “Tony traced the Cayman Island documents to the fax in Colorado headquarters. And the e-mails were generated from Janine's computer.”
I pulled Beth into the office. “It wasn't Janine!”
“She knew your passwords, she knew our account numbers, she had access to your laptop every time she stayed over.”
“You just never got over the fact that—”
“This isn't about you!” She walked over to the documents streaming out of the fax. “Tony's sending over the information. Maybe if you see it in black and white we can move forward.”
Page after page, the evidence pointed straight to Janine: phone calls, records, bank statements.
Beth looked over my shoulder as I read. “Oh my God. They found a bank account in Boulder in her name—with almost a million dollars in it.”
“We have to give her the benefit of the doubt,” I said. “The money could be planted, just like they did with me.”
“Okay, but what about this?” She held up a copy of a photograph—Janine and an older woman talking in the lobby of an office building.
The woman was betagold.
My whole body began to shake. “They're probably doctored. With the right software you can manipulate any photograph.”
“Tony's got the negative. He's holding it in his hand.”
I paced around the room like a cheetah being crated for the zoo. “Maybe Tony's lying.”
Beth looked about to cry. “Tony's my cousin, you've known him forever. It's not Tony.”
“This must make you happy,” I barked. “You've been warning me about Janine all along.”
“Of course it doesn't make me happy—she's my friend now too!”
I dragged a chair to the corner of the office. No matter how disappointed Beth felt, it was nothing compared to the hurt setting down roots inside me. I thought back to the night of my birthday a few months ago when I stood in front of the bathroom mirror trying to hear my inner voice cast its vote in the Janine/Beth debate. Janine's name was the one I heard when I asked my heart to speak that night. Her betrayal wounded me on so many levels, I had to force myself to breathe.
Beth gently approached my chair. “I'm not saying she was
in it from the beginning, and I'm sure she didn't have anything to do with the hit-and-run.”
My mind reeled with a pathetic conspiracy theory: Suppose Janine had met me intentionally in Boulder? Suppose whoever was behind this had been following me for years? Suppose the first girlfriend I ever had in my life was only with me because she'd been paid to be?
I couldn't go there.
“I'm sorry,” Beth said. “But we have to get her out—she's in the middle of a strategy meeting.”
Tim skidded by with a stack of papers and asked if everything was okay. Beth told him to send Janine over.
“No, let her stay where she is,” I said. “I want everyone to hear this.”
 
 
Janine was dutifully taking notes, the plastic goldfish glued to the top of her pen bouncing up and down as she wrote. She smiled when she saw me, a grin that quickly dissipated when she registered the look on my face.
I tossed the faxes on the table. “Maybe you want to be the one to spring for lunch today, Janine. I mean, with more than nine hundred thousand dollars in your new savings account, you should be able to afford a few pizzas.”
She scanned through the faxes, perplexed; I had temporarily forgotten it was a silent day.
“It's a good thing you can't say anything,” I continued.
“Because I don't want to hear it.” I kicked my chair over, and it slid across the hardwood floor. I faced the others at the makeshift conference table. “Seems Janine here is the one who's been feeding all the info to our opponents. The paper trail leads right back to Colorado.” Lisa shook her head as if unwilling to believe it.
Janine wrote furiously on her pad, the fish bobbing for its life. She held up the page. IT WASN'T ME! I SWEAR!
“I knew I shouldn't have trusted you. You came around a little too easily.” I picked my chair off the floor and sat next to her. “Pretending to love me—did they pay you to do that too?”
I could see the struggle on her face—defend herself and break her five-year vow of silence or sit there and take it?
She sat there and took it.
And did I give it. I poured on the humiliation full force. I can honestly say I'd never spoken to another person with such anger and hate in my life.
Beth finally interrupted. “That's enough, Josh. Somebody take Janine to the airport.”
Lisa grabbed her car keys. Janine left all her folders and notes on the table, taking only her Hello Kitty purse and Brady. As she headed to the door, she turned to face me head-on, tears streaming down her face.
“It wasn't me,” she stammered. “But I'll tell the press it was if you want me to.”
I waved her off, wishing she had kept her vow of silence so I wouldn't have to hear the sound of her voice breaking.
The press didn't buy it.
Even with Janine admitting the offshore holdings were a hoax, I continued to sink in the polls.
98
Because all the papers described Janine as my girlfriend, the whole thing looked like a ploy: She was sticking up for me to save the election.
Then something even more bizarre began to happen. Once corporate America got wind that I was supposedly taking money from CEOs, other execs wanted in on the action. I began to get several calls a day from businessmen with fat checkbooks thanking me for “finally playing ball.” The bastards were hedging their bets, throwing money at me on the slim chance that I'd win or throw my votes toward one of the other candidates. The whole thing seemed so ludicrous, I thought more and more about heading to the Sagamore.
“Okay,” Peter said. “We've come up with two good options. You have the final say, but here are the pros and cons.”
I shuffled to the kitchen, got a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard, and jabbed a spoon into it.
“Idea number one: we take the money and—”
“We're not taking the money.”
“I hear what you're saying, I really do.” In an ingrained act of salesmanship, Peter got his own spoon and joined me with the peanut butter. “But the money is in your name.”
“If we use it, they win, don't you see? If anybody has listened to
one
of my sermons, they'd know I'd never touch a penny. Let them take it back the same way they put it there.”
“Okay, we've always been big on the responsibility of voters, right? How disgraceful it is that our country is dead-last in the world in voter turnout?”
I nodded, the spoon locked in place between my teeth.
“We withdraw the money, send checks to our offices around the country, and pay people to vote. Say, a hundred bucks each.”
Peter went on to explain that it wouldn't be bribery; we could pay people
after
they voted, not before. “It wouldn't even matter if they voted for us. Just that they voted. We get our staffers handing out hundred-dollar bills, wearing sandwich boards—make it fun. We use their money to bring out the vote. It's perfect.”
I thought about the idea; it actually had some merit.
“But I'm not sure it sends the right message. All along I've said that democracy isn't a spectator sport. It's our
duty
to
vote.” I scooped another dollop of peanut butter. “What else can you think of that's responsible and radical at the same time?”
He tossed his spoon into the sink. “Just trying to make lemonade out of these lemons, Josh. I hate to quit after all the good work we've done.”
I agreed with him, but even my overactive mind had struck out on this one.
Peter turned on the kitchen radio to catch NPR describing our “young and passionate campaign staff—interviews with Lisa Carroll and Tim Hawthorne up next.” I couldn't bear that they were talking about our campaign as if it were over. As I grabbed the knob and buzzed down the dial, a snippet of Dylan emerged from the speakers. Out of the guy's entire canon of music—hundreds of songs—this was the line that screamed across the room.
“When you ain't got nothing, you got nothing to lose.”

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