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Kate Hunter chewed up half her opening address responding to the New York Times exclusive that she’d smoked weed in her freshman year at university. She was probably convincing enough to many of her supporters in the audience, though Ped could see the anger and stress in the lowered eyebrows, touching of the earrings, the hands balled into fists behind the lectern. He wondered how many hours of prep and angst went into those 45 seconds.
It went downhill for her from there.
Study your opponent. Boxer or brawler? Fast or slow hand-speed? The more you know, the easier it is to exploit weaknesses.
Hunter was pummeled in the opening segment on gun violence, internet crime and hate speech. But the exchange would be remembered less for her revised positions than for Ped’s comeback lines on point after point.
Through a wireless connection hooked up to the Ciph’s hybrid AI system, the teleprompter in Ped’s glasses was streaming well-crafted rebuttals, relevant statistics, amusing anecdotes – all based on live analysis of social media comments while the debate was unfolding.
Punch punch punch. One to make them block, the next to make them duck, the next to make them retreat. Build the pressure so they lose composure.
By the end of the segment on drugs and healthcare, Ped’s incisive interjections and hilarious one-liners had the audience in his corner and Hunter on the ropes. The best stage makeup in the world couldn’t disguise the thinning lips, flaring nose, eyes blinking like a hummingbird.
Body shots not only take the breath away, reducing an opponent’s mobility and endurance, they distract and demoralize.
The last segment before the break was on education and employment. They were arguably Hunter’s best rounds because she was so punch-drunk, she reverted to autopilot. Ped still managed to land telling jabs before the bell.
The second half opened with immigration, and Ped raced through his spiel in half the allocated time. Then he turned to face Hunter.
Cut off the ring so your opponent has nowhere to run. They go right, you go right. They go left, you go left. Make them feel like they’re forever in your headlights.
‘Well Kate, that’s where I stand. From the way you’ve been responding tonight, clearly based on desperation polling and think-tanks and AI rather than having real conversations with everyday folks, I’m pickin’ you’ll flip-flop on sanctuary cities, flip the script on border security funding, and call out local governments for not toeing the line with federal law.’
Ped hoped the cameras were zoomed in to catch the deer-in-the-spotlight eyes, the clenched jaw and bulging cheeks as Hunter fought to keep her cool. She failed, stumbling and mumbling her way to the last segment of the debate: ethics and integrity.
The moderator, probably sensing a need to re-level the playing field, turned to Ped.
‘Mr. Garland, how can you be trusted to hold the highest office in the land, to be the ultimate role model to our nation’s children, given your criminal background?’
Ped smiled, tilting his head subtly to one side, holding his hands palms-up.
‘Well, I can tell you right now there are folks who won’t vote for me because of that, and I respect their choice. I’ve made some lousy decisions in my time. But I faced ‘em head-on, ate crow, and humble pie, learned from my mistakes. I know I’m a better person for it, and I’m darn sure I can use those lessons I’ve learnt to help make America better. My life’s an open book. What you see is what you get.’
‘Straight up?’
‘That’s got a nice ring to it. I reckon I might just use that.’
When the laughter subsided, the moderator turned to Hunter.
‘Congresswoman, in your opening statement you admitted smoking marijuana at university, saying you did so only once as an experiment.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Of course, I’m sure.’
It is a common myth that when right-handed people lie, they look to their right, because they’re using their imagination to invent an answer. If they look left, they are said to be accessing their memory, telling the truth.
Ped was not surprised to see an experienced politician like Hunter glance to her left. Nor was he surprised to see her grip the lectern to stop her hands moving – a more scientifically-proven reaction to telling a lie.
The moderator moved in for the kill.
‘So, if a roommate by the name of Belinda Archer was to come forward with an affidavit stating you smoked another joint two weeks later, behind her parent’s garage, she’d be lying?’
Hunter was blindsided. And speechless.
Ped let the boos and shouts and background murmur hang for a few seconds, imagining the social media team already at work editing the moderator’s question and Hunter’s reaction, packaging it in multiple contexts ready to send to targeted recipients identified by the Ciph.
Feint to the body, go to the head.
He leaned toward his microphone.
‘I, for one, am ready to cut Congresswoman Hunter some slack on this issue. She’s admitted to smoking pot years back. I got skeletons in my closet too, believe me. Own up, learn, keep moving forward. Folks I talk to out on the streets, they wanna know what we’re going do to fix this country today and tomorrow. They’re not concerned with what happened behind some garage or in a hotel room decades ago when we were young and foolish.’
*****
Touché, thought Mike. Game, set and match to Garland.
He was watching the debate at a bar in Soho, with some former colleagues from the Wooster blog. He ordered another round. Zoe was sipping Bloody Marys, Rachel hot apple cider, their personalities summed up in their drink choices.
Zoe was adventurous, spunky, wild, and Mike still fantasized about the hotel in Arizona where she introduced him to the Twist and Shout. Rachel was a data analyst and sole mom who clearly still had a crush on him, despite knockback after knockback. Mike felt bad about the way he’d exploited the crush when he’d needed help with childcare while he was running hot on the virus story. With Zoe. He was counting on two women with such contrasting personalities never getting together to compare notes.
‘What brings the great Mike Bullard back to New York? Last I saw on your social feeds you were on a beach somewhere in India.’
‘Place called Varkala. You’d love it Rach. So would your daughter. What’s her name again?’
‘Abby. How’s MJ – her old playmate?’
He deserved the dig. Their daughters were similar ages and Mike had traded on it. Shamelessly.
‘MJ’s cool. Took her to see the Barbie movie this afternoon. Turns out she’d already seen it twice. Didn’t let on till I dropped her back at her mom’s.’
‘Can’t imagine where she gets such a manipulative streak.’
Mike smiled.
Another round of drinks arrived, and Mike steered the conversation through staff changes at Wooster, stories Zoe was working on, to Rachel’s take on new analytics tools being trialed at the blog. All the women really wanted to know was what Mike was up to, whether his bold leap into freelancing was paying off.
‘Too early to tell. Pros and cons, I guess. Yes, I get to work on serious stories, but we’re a small team, pretty much on our own. No data analysts, visuals wizards, leaderboards, and I can’t just raid the gadgets cabinet whenever I need specialized kit like night vision scopes or a drone. That’s one of the reasons I’m back for a few days, other than to catch up with MJ, do a couple of interviews. I’m sourcing kit.’
Mike wasn’t going to tell them most of the gadgets he was buying would not be found in the cabinet at Wooster, whose journalists remained hog-tied by the laws of privacy and rules of transparency.
‘How’s the drug trafficking investigation going Mike? Your feed’s gone strangely silent since you announced the project.’
‘That’s another advantage with freelancing. I haven’t got a section editor screaming every ten minutes for an update to refresh the storyline. Good stories take time, not clicks.’
Zoe was shaking her head.
‘Never thought I’d hear Mike Bullard badmouthing clicks.’
Rachel chimed in. ‘What about the donors, Mike? All the people backing your project are gonna want results. Have put their own money into it. Which I believe gives us more skin in the game than a section editor at Wooster.’
‘You’re one of the donors?’
‘A small one, yes.’
‘So am I Mike, and half the reporters at Wooster.’
‘Seriously? I don’t know what to...’
Zoe cut him off. ‘We’re aware of what you and Bec Corelli are capable of Mike. And I guess for some of us, the way the news media’s headed, we need to know there’s still a future in journalism. We want you... need you to succeed.’
‘And I was only teasing about the clicks, Mike, and us donors demanding instant results. Take as long as you need.’
‘I appreciate that.’
Rachel, ever the data analyst, asked him what he was doing to ‘boost the Aristotle channel’s visibility’. Mike realized that if he, Bec and Jay were going to make a serious impact with their investigation, they’d need a larger audience than subscribers to the YouTube channel. They needed digital allies who would share the results with their legions of followers. He told her about the relationships he’d been cultivating with a bunch of influencers who’d taken stands against drugs, or could be persuaded to.
Over another round, which the women insisted on donating, both declared they’d voted for the drug trafficking project over human trafficking and child labor. Turned out Rachel’s estranged husband was hooked on fentanyl and one of Zoe’s cousins overdosed on heroin at school.
‘Maybe you should take a look at Ped Garland while you’re here,’ Zoe suggested.
‘We’re hunting bigger fish.’
‘Bigger than the next President of the United States?’
‘A different species.’
