FEDS INVESTIGATE TOMMY’S IN-LAW
Reports leaking out of the United States Attorney’s Office suggest that the Feds are taking a hard look at Tiny Tommy’s mysterious campaign fund, one about which he pretends to know nothing. His father-in-law, Charles O’-Malley, whose claim to be an ambassador is forty years out of date, is apparently running the fund with the same recklessness he has demonstrated in his years as a sensationalist photographer. Indictments are expected even before the election.
The Ambassador appeared on television with his own rebuttal.
I’m Chuck O’Malley. I never call myself ambassador, well, hardly never. I am, however, an unpaid member of the senior executive service of the State Department with the title of Ambassador. I’m called in several times a year for consultation. Now that the secret is out, I think the Administration will probably get rid of me. As for journalism, I’ll compare my Pulitzer prizes with Mr. Schlenk’s any time he wants. So far he is shut-out. As for the campaign fund, Mr. Elihu Kunkel, formerly chairman of the National Election Commission and a card-carrying Republican, is monitoring the fund. Every day. If the U.S. Attorney is interested in anything more than engaging in campaign leaks, I invite him to come into my office tomorrow morning and take a copy of our books with him.
He then called the U.S. Attorney and asked him if he were familiar with the libel laws. That worthy denied that any investigation was “under contemplation.” The Ambassador then demanded that he come and look at the books anyway.
“We’re not in the business of clearing people of charges that have not been made.”
“You’d better be in the business of protecting yourself from a libel suit. Bring all your retard accountants to look at the books. My attorneys are ready to seek relief.”
“I am not responsible for Mr. Schlenk’s reports.”
“That would make an interesting point of law, sir.”
The Ambassador was bluffing again of course.
And he won. The State Department confirmed his role, said that he was a very distinguished diplomat, and denied that they were thinking of removing him. The U.S. Attorney showed up at his office and said, after a day of inspection, that he wished all campaign funds were kept in such neat order.
“Incorrigible,” Rosie said to me. “He’s been that way since he was ten.”
None of this interfered with our manic campaign. Tommy, his head reeling with ideas, was unable to sleep at all. But he was still the cool, charming little Mick whom everyone loved.
It’s odd that I’m the only one talking about issues in this campaign. My opponent’s ads affirm that he is experienced and mature, allegations which I will hardly deny. There is also a hint in a lot of discussion in the media that I am inexperienced and immature. My years of defending the poor and the innocent apparently don’t count. But that is not what the campaign should be about—it’s about the economic royalists, Big Oil, Big Insurance, and Big Pharma. It’s about corporate America, the rich and the super rich are taking money from the poor and the middle class and giving it, with the help of the Republican party, to the rich, to CEOs who earn a hundred and forty million dollars after they’re forced out of a company when it’s losing money. It’s about defending pensions from corporate bankruptcy tricks and your private property from eminent domain to put up Wal-Marts. It’s about immigration reform which puts an end to the senseless death of the poor but ambitious
in the deserts of the southwest, it’s about recognizing the importance of the contribution of Mexican Americans to our national culture. Even if my opponent won’t debate me on these issues, I am disappointed that he acts as though they don’t exist.
The talk, short and to the point, always won big applause. The Daily News called Tommy an interesting and exciting candidate, one that combined old though still important issues with a challenging new political style. They had already told Dolly that they would endorse us the week before the election. Lee Schlenk had already told his avid readers that an endorsement from such a “liberal” sheet and two dollars would get you a ride on the Chicago Transit Authority. I was pretty sure that he had an impact only on those who had made up their mind months ago they were going to vote for the incumbent. Tommy was less optimistic.
“OK, he appeals to the cement heads. But there are a lot of them out there and they enjoy it when Schlenk ridicules the smart young punk.”
Tommy was fading, not fast exactly, but fading just the same, like a man in whom illness is slowly transforming itself into death. The assassination attempts, the tsunami of attack ads, the ceaseless contemptuous battering from the Examiner, the threat to Chucky, were wearing my poor dear man out.
“I hope I can hold out till it’s over,” he told me after a particularly dazzling performance at a rally in the town of Harvard in McHenry County. He seemed resigned to defeat, though the Daily News Poll showed us trailing only one percentage point, 48 percent to 47 percent among “likely” voters and taking three out of five of the voters who had not yet made up their minds.
“We’re trying to win the imbeciles who haven’t made up their mind because they don’t know what the election is about … And they think I’m immature and inexperienced.”
I suspected he was right. But I insisted that we were going to win easily because of the Latino voters who would vote for the first time and whom the pollsters could not persuade to respond to questions.
“That’s a leap of faith,” he said with a sigh.
It was of course.
There wasn’t much physical love in those hot hectic days. There wasn’t any time for it and we were both too tired. A hint perhaps of what would happen when we moved to the Beltway.
We scored some points at the mall in Naperville.
“How come you guys are in Naperville tomorrow morning?” Mary Alice Quinn of Channel 3 asked me in a late afternoon phone call to our headquarters.
“Why not? It’s on our schedule. The book store wants Tommy to sign some of his books.”
“You know that old stuff and nonsense will be there about the same time?”
“Sure, so what?”
I didn’t know it. Neither did anyone else on our team. I grabbed for the paper that had the schedule of Crispjin.
“Kind of an interesting accident, isn’t it?”
“We get there a half hour earlier. The Senator is at that bank, naturally.”
“Their paths might cross?”
“Tommy might even give him an autographed copy of his book, huh?”
“We’ve discussed that possibility.”
Which we hadn’t at all, as Mary Alice well knew.
“Great visual, huh?”
“If someone over there sees the conflict, they won’t show.”
“I’m not about to tell them,” she assured me. “You guys gonna win?”
“No doubt about it.”
The HQ was frantically active. Our phone banks were going strong as we tried to build up precinct organizations in key suburban precincts. Ric, Joe, and the incomparable Dolly were each dashing around with sheaves of paper in their hands. Well, we looked like professionals anyway.
Then Tommy ambled in from an interview on a PBS station. Our workers cheered him. They all thought we were going to win. We couldn’t let them down.
I gave him the signal that I wanted to talk to him.
“You summon me, wife of my youth?”
“And your middle age and old age too … You want to give an autographed copy of your book to Senator Crispjin?”
“What a grand idea!” he said, looking cheerful again. “Here is a copy of my new book about the decline of civility, about you as a matter of fact.”
“Don’t you dare say that!”
We huddled with Joe, Ric, and Dolly.
“Funny,” Dolly said, grinning happily. “The book store wants you to show up maybe an hour early. They’ve had tons of calls about autographs.”
“Tell them we’ll be there at nine-thirty,” I said.
“Suppose they’re wrong,” Tommy frowned. “Suppose no one is there.”
“They know their own business.”
“Should we give Mary Alice a heads-up?” I asked Dolly.
She thought about it for a minute.
“We’re scheduled for ten-thirty, right? We’re getting there at nine-thirty, right? Tell Mary A. that we’ll be there at ten. They’ll arrive in the middle of our triumph.”
“We need more triumphs,” my husband agreed.
When my poor dear man gets whimsical, I know he needs a good night’s sleep.
“Does anyone know,” Joe McDermott asked, “how close that First Bank of Naperville is to the book store?”
Dolly checked with a phone call.
“Maybe thirty yards.”
“We’ll need some mariachi sound?” Ric suggested.
“We don’t take the kids out of school!” I said. “That would look terrible!”
“We’ll not be able to keep Tina away. Maybe we can dig up some local talent to join you guys. If the Senator hears the noise, it’ll drive him crazy.”
“If they had any sense,” Tommy said, immune to our glee, “they’d cancel out. He doesn’t want to be seen in public with me.”
“Then our TV friends will really go after him.”
“I suppose.”
He needed some loving. I would have to seduce him. Fortunately that’s not very difficult. I knew that. I just hadn’t had the time to do anything about it in the last couple of weeks. What a rotten excuse. Then and now.
So the next morning he was in a glowing mood when we
drove out in our armored van to Naperville, a sprawling former farming center and now a quintessential suburb. I’d choke to death if I ever had to live there. Nonetheless there were hundreds of potential voters waiting in front of the book store. They cheered when they saw him.
“Readers and voters!” Tommy said enthusiastically.
I should note that he was not the only one who enjoyed a good night’s sleep after our little romp.
Most of the people in the crowd had already purchased their books. More royalties. We were almost broke.
“Good of all of you to come!” Tommy began with his most radiant Irish smile. “This book is what the election is about. We observe the end of civilized discourse in campaigns and the increase in attack ads. That makes our politics more angry and even more dangerous. I told myself when we began the race that its goal was to offer an example of a civil campaign. I think I’ve kept that promise. Now I want to WIN! So I urge you to read the book and, if you agree with me get out and vote early and often!”
Cheers interrupted my fantasy recollection of the pleasures of the previous night. I wanted more.
“I brought along some mariachi music to entertain you while I’m signing books. My wife Maria Margarita is the one with the red hair and Tina Sanchez, the wife of my campaign manager Ric Sanchez, does the fiddle. The kids are in school where they belong on weekdays, even if there is an election campaign. They don’t agree of course!’
Not terribly funny but they loved it.
Mary Alice and her cameraman arrived fifteen minutes into the signing.
Tommy smiled, laughed, and joked with his adoring public.
“They say they’ll have no trouble selling out the four hundred books,” Dolly whispered in my ear at one of our breaks.
“Save one for Rodge.”
I calculated rapidly. At 15 percent royalty that was $3.25 for each book, over twelve hundred dollars for this signing. That was nice, though it wouldn’t pay for the repairs to our house because of the bomb damage. The insurance company was denying liability because the explosion wasn’t in the house but outside of it. They would pay eventually but they wanted to cheat us out of as much as they could.
The books vanished while there were still at least a hundred potential readers. The store promised it would have more books by noon tomorrow. The Senator promised that if you order them today or tomorrow morning he’ll sign them tomorrow afternoon. And you’ll be able to pick them up here in the evening.
Tommy rose from the chair.
“This has been fun! Thank you very much! And thanks also to our redoubtable musicians. Read the book early and often! I have only this one left. I thought I’d give it to the incumbent who is just down the mall. What do you think?”
He autographed the book. I glanced over his shoulder.
For Senator H. Rodgers Crispjin,
All the, Best, Tommy Moran
Laughter and applause.
The cameras were ready in front of the First Bank of Naperville. Followed by a crowd of his admirers, all clutching their precious autographed copies, Tommy walked to the front of the bank, slipped through the handlers around the Senator, and handed him the book.
“I thought you might want a signed copy,” he said, extending his hand. “Good luck.”
As luck—and clever maneuvering by my husband—the words went out on the public address system.
The Senator was flummoxed.
“Thank you,” he stammered, shaking hands. “Very thoughtful of you.”
“All the best,” Tommy said slipping away as easily as he had slipped in.
Our crowd cheered. The Senator’s crowd, much smaller and less demonstrative did nothing. If looks could kill, the daggers from the Senator’s staff would have torn my poor little man apart and his blood would be all over the floor in the Naperville Mall.
Mary Alice cornered us on the way to the van.
“Was this a coincidence, Tommy?”
“Hey, our weekly schedule is public knowledge every Monday morning. We figured it would look like I was afraid to be
in the same place if I didn’t show up. His people must have figured the same way.”
Zinger!
We entered the van, our next stop was a Spanish language television. I would appear on camera too, the excuse being that I spoke the language better than my husband.
I maneuvered us into the last seat, Ric and Linda in front of us.
“They will attack me at this station for exploiting Latino culture,” Tommy said, sinking into self-pity, as he had all too frequently lately.
“You will reply that you are celebrating it. You will say that most Anglo citizens of Illinois did not know mariachi and now they do and love it. They will say there are other kinds of Mexican music. You will say your experience is especially in Sonora and mariachi is in its origins Sonoran music. You also admire Nortefino, Banda, and Tex-Mex. They will say that you and your wife speak with Sonoran accents and that is not a very cultivated form of the Mexican language. You will say that large numbers of Sonoran natives or their children who are watching won’t like that comment. They will say that your wife and children are not Mexican Americans. You will say they are Americans with great affection and respect for Mexican people and their language and their culture. They will ask whether you support bilingual education. You will say that is a decision for parents to make about their children. However, a command of English is necessary for success in American society, as every immigrant group has learned, including the Irish. They will wonder about that. And you will say that before 1870 most Irish immigrants spoke Irish fluently and they felt they were forced to give it up. In the world we live in no one should give up a language proficiency. Then you will praise their religion of festival and celebration. They will not be very gracious because they don’t like gringos but they’ll know you routed them.”
“Same old shit,” Tommy sighed. “Nothing about issues.”
“They may say that most Mexican men believe that they are the head of the family.”
“And the Senator will say,” Tina intervened, “that most men think that too and that most women know that they are.”
“The usual boring shit,” Tommy sighed. “I need a nap … Why doesn’t anyone ask about issues?’
“Say that at the end of the broadcast,” Ric suggested. “Wonder why they didn’t ask about proposed immigration reform. There will be legislation before the Senate in the next session. Surely their listeners will like to know that you will do all in your power to support a reform which will protect the human rights of all immigrants, no more bodies in the Sonoran desert.”
“OK, good night all.”
He closed his eyes and went to sleep, the creep.
Well, I’d have him to myself in bed tonight and I’d get even.
He woke up for the Spanish TV station. I was kind of glad that he had caught his nap. This would not be a taping which would be cut down for soundbites. It would be a half-hour interview to be played in its entirety. The station staff was nasty to the point of being hostile. Were they in the tank with H. Rodge?
“Why don’t you Anglos give Latinos more political power?”
“I’m not Anglo, I’m Irish. I believe that is demeaning and patronizing to ask why political power is not given. Political power has to be taken and the place to do that is in the voting both. There seems to be a lot of Latino power in Cook County. If I am given a chance to serve in the United States Senate, I’ll be a voice for Mexican Americans.”
“You don’t even speak good Mexican Spanish.”
“Oh?”
“Sonorans do not speak good Spanish.”
His answer for that was already prepared. He did a good job running down Ric’s agenda. He would turn to me every once in a while when he was seeking the proper word. I would also smile pleasantly and as docilely as possible provide it.
The four interviewers continued to be supercilious and hostile, hinting that they did not accept any of his answers or simply did not believe him. I noticed a slight furrowing of my husband’s brow beneath his wavy hair. He watched the clock and when we were down to two minutes, he interrupted a particularly nasty question from a particularly nasty woman and spoke in Spanish:
“I’m wondering why you haven’t asked any questions about
immigration reform. Is that because you’re not interested in the issue? Or do you think that your viewers are not interested? There will be legislation before the Senate on that subject. I will fight every inch of the way for the full human rights of everyone living in this country, their inalienable rights which no one should try to take away from them. I will in particular defend the rights of families to remain intact, no matter what the Department of Homeland Security tries to do. I will do everything in my power to put an end to the mass murders which happen in the Sonoran desert every year. Poor innocents are killed by the rules of the United States Government which seduces them into the country with de facto offers of employment and then makes them risk their lives to find such employment. I will do all in my power to fight those sinful rules … Thank you very much for the opportunity to appear on this program.”
It had been a tour de force—an outburst in his second language in a hostile context and timed exactly to end when the time of the program ran out.
The woman whom he had interrupted stormed away from the table. The other interviewers glared.
“Feliz Navidad, everyone,” he said standing up.
The “host” shook his hand. “Well done, Senator.”
He wanted us back some day. Or maybe some favors if we won.
Ric and Tina burst into the sound stage and spit out insults in such rapid Spanish that I couldn’t catch it. My husband smiled, the kitten who had just chased his first canary.
“I’ve got a tape here,” Ric shouted in English. “If you dare to touch a single response, you’re roadkill. Come on, Senator. I apologize for the rudeness of these jerks.”
Tommy smiled benignly.
“See you at the election celebration, guys!”
Suddenly it was November and there were only a few days left. The Daily News endorsed us in ringing terms.
A NEW VOICE FOR ILLINOIS, AMERICA
Mr. Moran ran a brilliant campaign, despite a torrent of personal attacks, including two attempts on his life. With a limited budget he fought off a hurricane of negative advertising, some of it dishonest in the extreme. His is a
bright, brave new voice in American politics, a voice which the whole country needs to hear. Despite his whimsical Irish charm he is in fact one tough customer. He says hard things that no one wants to hear especially about the increased concentration of wealth in this country and the exploitation of poor Mexican workers.
To our knowledge Senator Crispjin has not responded effectively to any of these campaign issues. Indeed, he has not responded at all. His campaign consists of the frequent repetition of the catchwords “maturity” and “experience.” But those attributes, unquestionably important, should not be grounds for excluding younger and more innovated men from political life. One wants to know what evidence there is in Mr. Crispjin’s record that maturity and experience have contributed to wise legislation. Indeed, his “record,” frequently cited though without any specific content, consists mostly of giving more money to those who are already rich. His attack ads demonstrate the vicious incivility which Mr. Moran describes in his book and create the atmosphere in which political assassinations can happen.
We urge everyone to vote for Mr. Moran to be the next United States Senator from this our Prairie State.
“How many votes will it swing?” my Tommy, now in deep discouragement, wondered.
“A couple thousand,” Joe McDermott replied. “People from out of the city who can’t figure out our politics and think the Examiner is a paper for nutcases. They are the serious earnest type who look to the media for endorsements. In a close election, they’re important.”
“Not as important as a Mexican turnout in the suburbs.”
No one of us disagreed.
Channel 3 endorsed us, the other stations announced that they did not make endorsements, though they had in the past. Mary Alice Quinn read the announcement with considerable vigor.
It will be good for this state and for the country to have a bright, creative new voice in the Senate. The people of Illinois will be happy that they voted for him.
The polls all reported that the race was too close to call. The media also reported a dramatic increase in activity in conservative Protestant churches for “responsibility” and “maturity” and “red-blooded Americanism.” They speculated that this initiative was a sign that the Republicans now, for the first time, realized that they could lose this seat in the Senate. National Republican figures also appeared on the scene, including the vice president, to urge stability and continuity in the Senate. “We don’t need another liberal demagogue,” the Vice President announced.
“That will help their turnout,” Joe conceded, “but it won’t have any effect on the Black or Latino voters.”
“Hmpf,” Tommy said.
The next and probably final hurdle was the debate the PBS channel was going to stage—with only one debater—on Sunday night.