Chaos

By Mitchell Kuhn

“Chaos” shines a laser at the heart of American politicians vying for the Presidency. It exposes their intransigence, unyielding ideology, and inflated egos. The reader is brought into their inner sanctums, observing the maneuvering of the power brokers, and witnessing firsthand how deals are made.
Relationships and interactions between candidates and their supporters, and among the candidates themselves leads them into a cacophony of events whose consequences change the dynamics of our political system.
Those who crave intrigue and unexpected plot twists, political junkies addicted to today’s political party wars, and students of American government will enjoy this fast paced novel.
“Chaos” is unfolding now before our very eyes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mitchell Kuhn
• Release date: May 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310575952

Mitchell Kuhn

Mitchell Kuhn is a retired seventy-three year old man living with his wife in bucolic Oxford, Connecticut. As a young man he worked on and/or managed political campaigns for both Democrats and Republicans on a local, state, and national level. He served on several boards of political party organizations, and was appointed to numerous management positions within the New York City government. To this day he is an avid observer of our political system and its practitioners. Mitchell is not affiliated with any political party. He earned a BA degree in History and Political Science, and an MBA degree in Hospital Administration. For nearly a quarter of a century he was the Executive Director of the First District Dental Society of New York. Mitchell also was an Adjunct Associate Professor of Community Health and Health Administration, at Long Island University Graduate School.

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Chapter 1: Memphis Civic Center

South Carolina’s two-term Governor Peter Hasbrook, a 62-year-old married man with two children and three granddaughters, was unanimously chosen fifteen minutes ago by the delegates to the Republican National Convention as their nominee for the Office of President of the United States of America.

In the most unlikely of circumstances—and to the dismay of the political pundits and news media—Peter Hasbrook had no opposition for the nomination. Nor did anyone challenge him in any of the primary or State caucuses he entered. It was the most unusual, non-confrontational Presidential selection process the Republican Party had experienced in two hundred years. It brought back memories of Ronald Reagan’s coronation at his nominating convention for re-election in 1984.

His tall, athletic figure made an impressive image as he stood before an ecstatic, wildly cheering, placard-waving throng of twelve thousand Republican faithful in Memphis, Tennessee’s Civic Arena. Speaking without the use of a teleprompter, Governor Hasbrook addressed the delegates. He had been regaling the standing-room only masses for over forty-five minutes with his unique brand of folksy intellectual Americanisms. Never once did he invoke the name of the incumbent Democrat occupying the White House, nor did he criticize the policies of the woman that he and his Party hoped to defeat in the upcoming election.

Knowing his audience, he was careful to avoid bringing attention to unpopular positions he supported, which unfortunately were less than dear to the hearts of many delegates beholden to the philosophical right wing of his Party. No need, he reasoned, to create problems that could easily become controversial and erode his support among the Party faithful. They knew where he stood, and were aware of the boundaries he could not cross without incurring their wrath.

The crowd was waiting for him to reveal his Vice Presidential choice. That was the only thing left for him to do. The delegates knew it, the news media craved it, and his frustrated campaign staff demanded it.

He stopped talking for several moments, looked directly into the lens of the TV main camera, and then diverted his attention to the convention floor crammed with humanity. His head slowly moved left and right, back and forth, stopping to make direct eye contact with individual delegates as he took in the scene before him.

Raising his voice slightly, he said, Guess y’all want to know who I’m going to ask to be my VP and who I’m hoping y’all will nominate as my running mate.

Smiling sheepishly, he paused again and took a long sip of carbonated water from the glass sitting on the lectern. He put the glass back, and then raised his left hand high above his head to illustrate the stature of his selection. His right hand, now resting on to the podium, slipped, causing the Governor to lose his balance. He attempted to regain his footing by grabbing for the podium with his left hand. He missed, knocked over the glass, and fell to his knees.

The TV cameras froze, the delegates collectively gasped. In NBC’s control booth one hundred feet above the auditorium floor, John Franklin, program director, shouted directions into the headphones of the camera crew closest to the stage. I don’t give a rat’s ass how you do it, but get as close as you can to Hasbrook! I want a closeup of his face and body. But before his cameraman was able to reach the staircase on the side of the stage, a security guard blocked the way. Not so gently, he urged the crew back onto the convention floor.

The hall was devoid of air. All eyes were riveted on the giant video screens now showing Governor Hasbrook hunched over on all fours with a pained, glassy-eyed expression on his face, trying to rise onto his knees. Before any of the Secret Service men, staff, or dignitaries reached him, the Governor was already rising unsteadily to his feet. He turned to face the delegates. A restrained sigh of relief spread among them; a good number of them started clapping and cheering. That quickly subsided into another vacuum of silence when the Governor suddenly fell backward into the outstretched arms of the two Secret Service agents who had come to his aid.

Chapter 2: Behind the Curtains

Each agent firmly grabbed one of the Governor’s arms and legs, carefully lifted his slack body off the solid wooden floor, and hurried off the stage behind the large ceiling-to-floor curtain protecting them from the prying eyes of the cameras and conventioneers. Once behind the curtain, they lowered his limp body to the ground, gently placing the Governor’s head on a suit jacket taken off by of one of Party operatives eager to help.

U.S. Senator Phillip Goodman, M.D., frantically pushed his way through the crowd of concerned onlookers to get next to the prone body of his friend of twenty-five years. The Secret Service agent, who was about to call out for medical assistance, looked up and saw Dr. Goodman running his way. He knew the Senator was a physician and a close friend of the Governor. Immediately he made room for Dr. Goodman to examine the Governor. And while he and two other agents were cordoning off a protective area around the Governor to prevent others from getting too close, he spoke into his shoulder microphone, alerting the EMTs waiting outside the stage entrance with an ambulance to come stat.

Just minutes before, Dr. Goodman had been watching proudly, intently listening on a TV monitor backstage to his friend’s speech. Since their college days together at Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri, he had always marveled at Peter’s ability to talk extemporaneously.

Now seeing Peter, lying on the floor and looking so helpless, snapped him out of his reverie. Pete, Pete, he whispered. Open your eyes, squeeze my hand.

No response.

Phil pried open Pete’s eyelids to check the extent of dilation. Not good. Next he felt for a pulse. Fortunately there was one. He forced open Pete’s mouth and examined his airway. Clear, no blockage; another positive. At least I don’t have to administer CPR, Phil thought.

Lying on the floor, Peter Hasbrook tried to understand the out-of-body feeling he was experiencing—and what was preventing him from opening his eyes and seeing clearly. Why can’t I speak? he wondered. He wanted desperately to assure his oldest friend that he was OK and could hear what was happening. But did he really know what was happening? Help me to my feet, the Governor thought he was saying to Phil. Why is Phil behaving as if I’m not saying anything? Damn it, listen to me, Phil. Shit, what the hell’s going on?

Step by step, Goodman mentally went through the checklist of body parts and vital bodily functions necessary for a thorough emergency physical exam. It had been ten years since he routinely practiced medicine. He was glad he remembered his medical training. His friend’s life was now in his hands. Skin, ashen and clammy left-side face muscles appeared slack, but then again maybe they weren’t. It could be the way Peter’s face had aged, or the position of his head. The symptoms could mean a stroke. But instead of just thinking his friend suffered a stroke, he inadvertently mouthed the word stroke. Once he realized what he had done, he looked from side to side to see if anyone had seen his faux pas and reacted to it. Seeing no indication of it, he redirected his attention back to the matter at hand. Where are the EMTs? he shouted to anyone within earshot. Get me an ambulance stat!

There really was no need to do that. At that very moment the EMTs, who had been staffing the ambulance parked in a designated area outside the backstage door of the convention center for just such a contingency, were wheeling a stretcher through the doors and running toward where the Governor was lying. Secret Service agent Louis Green guided them as he cleared the way to the Governor’s side.

Once Tony Mangano, the senior EMT, reached the motionless body of the Governor, Senator Goodman quickly introduced himself and reported his preliminary findings. Then he moved out of the way to let Tony do his job and triage Peter.

Adhering to standard operating procedures, Tony Mangano talked into his two-way radio and relayed both Dr. Goodman’s and his own observations of the Governor’s condition to Dr. Caroline Lim, physician in charge of Memphis General Hospital Center’s Emergency Care Unit. Dr. Lim had been called only a minute earlier by Mangano, alerting her to the medical situation. She remained on the open link as the EMTs were going to the Governor’s aid.

As much as she didn’t want to admit that not every patient is treated equally, she knew, to quote George Orwell’s Napoleon, ‘Some are more equal than others.’ This was, after all, a high-profile priority; no way around it. Normally she would assign an intern or another physician to a case brought into the hospital at this late hour. Tonight was different; she would treat the Governor personally. She would be the physician responsible for initially handling the Governor’s care, until he was eventually referred to the physician entrusted to oversee the surgical or medical treatment prescribed.

What are the Governor’s vitals? Dr. Lim demanded.

163 over 94, pulse rate 117, temperature 100.2, skin white and clammy, slight tremor in the left hand, eyes dilated.

In a secluded corner backstage, Secret Service agents, Tennessee State Police, and Memphis Police were initiating the medical contingency plans that had been previously adopted for just such an occasion. The protocol included traffic and security plans for escorting an ambulance to the hospital or the heliport, as well as providing security within and outside the hospital. Satisfied all items were in order, they made calls to their respective staffs to implement the procedures.

Memphis City Police foot patrolmen and police cars were posted to busy road intersections to control traffic and prevent pedestrian interference, thereby allowing the ambulance to drive unencumbered by manmade delays. Tennessee State Police were dispatched to secure the perimeter of the hospital and surrounding environs. And lastly, the Secret Service, together with a limited number of State Police troopers, was assigned to safeguard the Governor within the hospital.

The Governor’s entire family—his wife Angela, his two sons Bret and Steve Hasbrook and both their families—were watching the acceptance speech from the candidate’s reserved seating section on the second tier of the auditorium overlooking the stage. All of them were immediately taken backstage by their Secret Service detail through restricted hallways and off-limits staircases, thus bypassing conventioneers and other unwanted intruders.

Now backstage, Angela watched in terror as Senator Phil Goodman examined her husband. Let me go! she beseeched the agent restraining her from going to him. You have no right; he’s my husband. He needs me.

Mom, her elder son Bret said, holding her tightly around the shoulders. Let Phil do what he has to.

Reluctantly she turned away and threw her arms around Bret while trying unsuccessfully to choke back the tears.

He’ll be OK, Mom; don’t worry, Bret whispered.

Her other son Steve and both daughters-in-law formed a protective circle around Angela.

Convinced the Governor was stable enough to be transported to the hospital, the EMTs carefully moved the Governor onto the stretcher. It had been lowered to the ground, so they could slide the Governor’s body onto the stretcher rather than lift him and risk further harm. They secured the attached Velcro restraint straps around his body as additional protection against injury during transport to the hospital.

Once they were satisfied that the Governor was safely fastened to the stretcher, they started wheeling it toward the ambulance. Phil Goodman held his friend’s arm, as he and Secret Service Agent Flynn walked alongside the stretcher.

Bret saw what was happening and realized he had to speak with the Secret Service agent to make sure his mother was permitted to accompany his father in the ambulance. He caught up with the stretcher and said to Agent Flynn, My mother wants to be with Dr. Goodman and the Governor in the ambulance.

No problem, Flynn said. Please bring her here now.

Bret and Steve assisted their mother to the ambulance, gave her a reassuring squeeze and kiss, and helped her in. They then joined their wives, who were already waiting in a large stretch limousine which would join the caravan of vehicles going to the hospital.

Tennessee State Police motorcyclists assigned to convention security duty sprang into action. Three of them led the convoy, two rode on each side of the ambulance, and three more took up positions in the rear. They traveled at 65 miles an hour through traffic-free streets along the prearranged contingency route to the hospital.

Inside the ambulance the EMTs opened the Governor’s shirt and rolled down his socks. They carefully affixed electrodes from the portable heart-monitoring EKG machine to his chest and ankles. As a precautionary measure they also placed an oxygen mask over the Governor’s pallid face.

Making sure not to get in the way of the EMTs who were tending to the Governor, Phil kneeled next to his friend’s ear and whispered, Ange and I are here, Pete. Open your eyes and tell us how you feel.

No response.

Attempting unsuccessfully to fight back her tears, Angela, braced by Phil’s arms, also knelt next to her husband. She took his cold, unresponsive hand in hers, and gently caressed it, hoping her touch would elicit some reaction. No movement, no response. Oh darling, talk to me, please talk to me. Again she saw no reply or reaction to her pleading.

Phil, what’s wrong with him? Will he be OK? Please tell me, I have to know, I can’t stand seeing him like this. He’s too young. He Angela’s voice choked up as the tears flowed unabated, running down her beautifully sculptured high-cheek-boned face. Her meticulously applied eye mascara dripped down her cheeks, leaving streaky smudges across her perfect, unblemished, pale Irish skin.

Wish I knew; I really do, Phil sighed.

Gently he kissed her cheek, hoping she would be reassured by his presence. She was; she trusted Phil with Pete’s life.

Nevertheless, she pressed the issue. But you must have some idea, some thought, some inclination?

Let’s wait until we can do more tests in the hospital. He’s breathing, his involuntary reflexes are normal, and the EKG readout also looks OK. An EEG will tell us more, and so will a CAT scan and an MRI. Ange, we have to focus on the positive.

He knew he was wasting his breath. She wasn’t hearing what he was saying. She stared at her husband with unblinking eyes and a disbelieving look on her face. Phil knew he would have to ask the hospital physicians to give her a sedative to calm her; she was in no state of mind to make life-or-death decisions, if they were to become necessary. He also knew he would have to speak with Bret, the Governor’s elder son, should circumstances warrant.

Emotionally exhausted, Angela Hasbrook put her head on Phil’s chest and continued to weep.

The three-mile drive to the Emergency Room took less than five minutes.

Chapter 3: The White House—Before Hasbrook’s Speech

Seated alone on her overstuffed Victorian couch, in the den of the President’s private living quarters upstairs in the White House, President Beverly Shoemacher was intermittently watching the Republican National Convention on her seventy-five-inch plasma television screen, between sips of Johnny Walker Blue, and reading an evening intelligence briefing report.

A gentle knock on the door diverted her attention.

Who’s there? she said.

Her long-time Secret Service agent assigned to the private living quarters replied, It’s Jack Pasterino, Madam President. Your guests have arrived.

She placed the crystal goblet holding the last few drops of Scotch on the coffee table, reached for the remote, and turned off the sound on the TV. She put the report back in its confidential folder and placed it on the coffee table. She walked to the door, opened it, and welcomed each of her guests with a warm kiss on the cheeks.

Good to see you, Roger, she said to her Re-election Campaign Manager Roger Cummings.

And good seeing you, too, Madam President, he replied.

Thanks for coming, Mike. Oh, Carly, I didn’t see you standing behind Mike. I’m glad you could rearrange your schedule and make it, she said, warmly greeting her Campaign Finance Chair, Carly Diamond. She also said hello to the Democrat National Chairman, Mike Brownell. Each of them smiled broadly and said, Thank you for inviting us tonight, Madam President.

Take whatever seat suits your fancy, the President said.

It’s almost time for Governor Hasbrook to address the delegates. Shouldn’t we turn the volume up and listen? Roger asked.

Well, that’s why we’re here, President Shoemacher said, as she reached for the remote to turn the volume back on. Then she added, Anyone want something to eat or drink? Coffee, tea, soda, whatever?

Only Mike Brownell said he wanted coffee; the others shook their heads.

President Shoemacher picked up the house phone and dialed the operator. Instantly the operator responded, Yes, Madam President.

Please call the kitchen and ask them prepare a canister of coffee and a few cheese sandwiches and have them sent up to my den.

Right away, Madam President, the operator said.

Thank you, Viola.

I ordered some extra coffee and some sandwiches just in case you change your minds; they’ll be here in a few minutes. In the meantime let’s enjoy the show.

Who do you think Governor Hasbrook is going select as his VP nominee tonight? Mike posed.

He could choose any one of a thousand people. Your guess is as good as mine, Carly offered.

Roger’s face reflected an I know something you don’t know look.

What’s up with the smirk, Roger? Carly asked.

My sources tell me the Vegas oddsmakers are giving two to one it’ll be none other than Wisconsin’s favorite daughter, Senator Caroline Roberts. She’s bright, articulate, and good-looking, and has support from a good number of Independents. I surmise they’ll choose her, in the hope they can siphon off some of our female support. She’s not a heavyweight by any stretch of the imagination. I suppose they feel her starlet looks will play well with the men. Who knows what evil lurks in the minds of Republicans, Roger exclaimed.

Hey guys, we only have a couple of more minutes to wait. I suggest we spend it going over what you want me to say after we know who our opposition will be. Do we initiate a comment and preempt the news media, or do we wait to be asked? Remember we have to include the Vice President in our planning, President Shoemacher stated.

Madam President, with all due respect, please put a muzzle on the Vice President. You know what happens when he’s not scripted and goes off on his own, Carly pleaded.

That does not answer my question. Are we going to be proactive or reactive? Which is it? Speak up now, my children, or forever hold your opinions to yourselves.

We take the lead; we make the story our own, Carly declared.

Both Roger and Mike expressed their concurrence.

OK, do it now, the President ordered. Take a few minutes and give me a rough draft.

They asked if they could sit around her desk to talk.

Of course; just move two chairs over, President Shoemacher replied. She lowered the volume on the TV so they would not be distracted. She continued to watch intermittently between reading her briefing reports.

Out of earshot of the President, they began talking among themselves. They knew the President would not accept going along with anything personally negative. Offer congratulations to Hasbrook and his VP running mate, then keep it short and general; express the anticipation of a constructive campaign, yada, yada, yada. Carly asked if it was better to issue a press release or give a mini-press conference. Roger felt a press release was best. It eliminated the possibility of additional probing questions from reporters, and saved the President from responding to questions other than those concerning the nominations. Both Carly and Mike agreed.

When Governor Hasbrook came from behind the curtain and began walking onstage toward the lectern, the President interrupted her guests, saying, Time to watch TV. After Hasbrook’s speech you all can get back to work.

She again reached for the remote, this time turning on the volume high enough for everyone to hear.

He does have a certain charisma, doesn’t he? Even his words are thoughtful and constructive. Look at the faces of the delegates; they’re mesmerized. Why do I have to run against Bill Clinton’s charm and John Lindsay’s good looks? You’ll notice he’s not personally attacking me, nor is he being overly critical of my domestic initiatives. I do like him. It’s a shame he’s a Republican. I’d also like to offer you three political mavens my two cents. No, on reflection, consider this as a Presidential order: Keep this campaign clean. No smears or innuendos. Can you imagine the voters’ reaction to a polite, amicable, respectful campaign, one where there is no mudslinging? We might actually be able to govern after the election, without recriminations and without catering to bruised egos. Unbelievable as it might seem, I think it’s doable. Now make it happen.

I’m in a dream world, Roger mused to himself. Does she think she’s Pollyanna? What’s a political campaign without dragging your opponent through the dirt? Can’t be done; at least not by me. It’d been one hundred years, maybe never, he reckoned, when a winning candidate didn’t rake his opponent over the coals somehow. How can I tell my staff their candidate is a wimp? Man alive, I have to scrap all those ads and promos already in the works.

Roger’s hallucinatory state was shattered by President Shoemacher involuntarily screaming out loud. Oh my God! This cannot be happening.

No one spoke; they all were frozen staring at the screen as Governor Hasbrook went to his knees.

Hearing the President’s scream, the Secret Service guard crashed through the door with his gun drawn.

Is everything all right, Madam President? His eyes quickly took in everything and everyone in the room.

Yes, yes I’m fine. Thanks, uh-huh. Please leave us for the time being. I’ll call if I need you.

Are you sure, Madam President?

Absolutely!

The agent slowly turned and left, closing the door behind him. Alone, the President and her aides continued to watch as the Governor was carried off the platform by Secret Service agents.

Shaken by what she was seeing, President Shoemacher grabbed her phone and told Viola to get the Directors of the FBI and Secret Service on a conference call with her immediately.

She turned to her guests and unceremoniously said, I know you fully understand the gravity of what’s happening. Please ask my security guard to take you to my library. I’ll join you all there as soon as I can. In the meantime, why not start working on a statement for me.

Just as the door was closing behind them her phone rang.

Yes?

Madam President, I have Director Kaplan and Director Elfabi on the line. May I put them through now?

Yes, please do; and thank you again, Viola. Oh Viola, one last thing: Please call my Chief of Staff and tell him to come to the Oval Office at once. I’ll join him as soon as I’m off the phone.

Yes, Madam President.

Less than thirty seconds later Viola had both men on the phone and connected them to the President.

Director Kaplan, Director Elfabi, have you been watching the Convention? the President asked.

Both men said yes.

Good. I assume your staffs are keeping you informed as new information is learned.

Yes, Madam President, they are, Director Kaplan replied.

So what don’t I know, folks? President Shoemacher asked.

Director Elfabi, since you’re in direct contact with the agents on the scene, please tell the President directly what you know, Director Kaplan said.

Madam President, the Governor is unconscious. They don’t know for sure, but it’s suspected he suffered a stroke. He’s currently in an ambulance on its way to Memphis General Hospital. His wife and Senator Goodman are with him. Senior Agent Tom Flynn is handling all security, Director Elfabi reported. May I call you when I learn anything new, Madam President?

Absolutely; do so and without a moment’s delay. In fact, after you speak with Agent Flynn, call me directly, then fill in Director Kaplan after you speak with me. Is that understood?

Yes, Madam President, both men replied.

I’ll let the White House telephone operators know to put you through immediately.

Chapter 4: Convention Center Backstage—10:15 PM

Reginald Bingham, Chairman of the Republican National Committee and former Vice President of the United States, was deep in conversation with Linda Winthrop, Convention Chairperson, who depended upon Reggie Bingham for direction as to what they should do now about the conventioneers left in limbo around the arena. Equally important, what should they do about the unfinished business on their agenda?

Reggie told her to be patient for a few minutes, to give him time to consult with some other senior members of the Party, and in the meantime to just continue to project pictures of the Governor and his family on the large screens hanging over the stage.

He had no time to lose. He needed to meet immediately with Fred North, Party Treasurer; Tom Nelson, National Committeeman from North Carolina; William Fitzgerald, U.S. Senator from Pennsylvania and U.S. Senate Minority Leader; Harold J. Slater, Governor of Texas; Louis Hernandez, U.S. Senator from Colorado; Josephine White, National Chairwoman; and Buck Nevins, Chairman of The United Tax Payer’s Party. His young intern, who followed him around like a puppy dog, was directed to make sure each of those individuals joined him now in Conference Room A.

By the time Reggie got to Conference Room A, all those individuals were already in the room. He made sure the two uniformed security guards, who looked like wrestlers from the World Federation of Wrestling, did not permit anyone into the room unless accompanied by Josephine White, his co-chair, or himself. Each of these behemoths took up positions blocking the entrance to the room.

Typical of convention-hall meeting rooms, Conference Room A was devoid of personality and lacking any semblance of warmth. Furnishings consisted of typical nondescript formed plastic institutional-green chairs, a bridge table doubling as a desk, and a fifteen-foot laminated faux wood table. Aside from a poster of downtown Memphis, the walls were barren.

His guests had already taken their seats around the table, leaving two chairs vacant at the head of the table. Reggie quickly thanked them for being there. He motioned for Josephine to sit next to him.

Thinking about what Linda had just asked him to do, that is to keep the conventioneers calm, Reggie realized his off-the-cuff response was not sufficient. It was not the best solution to their situation.

He whispered into Josephine’s ear for her to speak with Linda Winthrop and have her tell the audio staff to pipe some patriot music into the auditorium’s loud-speaker system, and to substitute a video of the American Flag for the film clip about Governor Hasbrook and his family.

Just give me a minute, Josephine replied. I’ll text Linda your instructions immediately.

Too many side conversations were taking place around the table, so Reggie banged on the table to get their attention. All side chatter stopped, and they gave Reggie their full attention. The atmosphere was tense; Reggie sensed the emotional fragility of the people in the room. He knew them, knew that regardless of their high stations in life, their wealth and power, they were nervous. He could not afford to coddle them, or shelter them from the decisions they might have to make that night.

Gentlemen, we have a lot to talk about and very little time, so please keep the conversation on target. We must, we absolutely must, quickly come up with a plan to keep our Convention from imploding, Reggie implored.

We agree, they called out.

OK, let’s get started, Reggie suggested. First and foremost, be assured that when the doctors know something we’ll know it. Senator Phil Goodman is in the ambulance with the Governor and will remain at the hospital until the Governor’s condition is clarified. Phil has my private cell number and will call when circumstances dictate. So in the absence of any definitive information about the Governor, does anyone have a suggestion about what we tell the delegates and the media?

Bill Fitzgerald, eighty-three years old and a six-term Senate Minority Leader, wiped sweat from his forehead; he was clearly unable to control his anxiety. He blurted out, If we turn the heat up and the lights off in the arena, maybe everyone will leave.

Unbelievable to think this guy is the second most powerful man in the Senate, Reggie mused. But for some unexplainable reason a surprisingly large number of Party members do listen to him. Oh well, he laughed to himself.

Look, Bingham said, I know the stress we’re all under, but we have to focus. The Party, the country—damn it, the whole world—is looking at us; we have to act in a thoughtful manner. Remember, whatever we do now we can fine-tune or change later. Given the current circumstances, no one will fault us for not being perfect. He took a breath. Here’s what we know: Peter has been taken to Memphis General Hospital’s emergency room. The doctors have not yet told us what is wrong or offered a prognosis. They won’t tell us, until they finish their examination and the battery of tests they will administer. Phil said it should take at least another hour. When there’s something definitive to report, I’ll be notified.

Josephine White, a thirty-year career veteran of Republican politics, and a former president of Champion College in Scranton, Pennsylvania, stood up and placed