The Farm
Two years before the day of
Sheppard won’t be around for another term. The silence in the Farm dining room was deafening. David felt all eyes on him, as if they were awaiting his response to Judson’s jolting statement.
For the second time that day, David was floored.
In many ways, he and Matt Sheppard were like brothers. Or at least David felt that way. Out of professional courtesy and respect for the rigors of the president’s bewildering schedule, David never burdened Sheppard with his own issues, but the POTUS often confided in him. On occasion, he would ask David’s advice on personal matters. David knew that Sheppard felt he could tell David anything and that it would be held in total confidence. Surely his good friend would have told him if he didn’t plan to run for another term.
Judson’s voice lowered. “It should go without saying, David, that everything I’m telling you is ultraconfidential. Only the people in this room, Sheppard’s wife, and one other person—his personal physician—know the details.” Judson pulled out his chair and sat down again. “You see, David, the president has been diagnosed with stage-four pancreatic cancer. He has at most twelve weeks to live.”
Sadness, shock, and disbelief washed over David in nauseating waves. He leaned back. “How . . . how can that be, Judson? I met with the president last week. He was in a great mood, as effervescent as ever, and from all appearances, in perfect health. Hell, he even joked about ‘pulling a Kennedy’ in the White House pool with that smoking-hot press secretary of his.”
Judson shook his head sadly. “He didn’t know, David. He only found out the day before I called you. You know how phobic he is about the details of his private life. He doesn’t trust the staff at Walter Reed, especially after the fiasco with the blatantly fake results from his predecessor’s mental health exam getting splashed on the front page of the Post. Even that guy’s staunchest supporters and his wife—especially his wife—knew he was batshit crazy. Still, he gets a glowing report from some navy O6 psychiatrist who wanted to kiss-ass his way into a flag officer promotion.
“Anyway, as I’m pretty sure you know, ever since taking office, the president has only allowed examinations by his longtime friend and personal physician, Eli Rosen, who lives in Austin, Texas.” Judson reached for the pitcher of iced tea Lucas had placed in the center of the table and drained it into his glass.
“What I’m going to tell you now came directly from POTUS. He confided the details to me directly because, as you know, we, too, are good friends. More importantly, because he agrees with the things Envision-2100 stands for, the changes we are trying to bring about, and that it’s time to make those changes. He also knows that, with the brief time he has remaining, we have to maximize his backing and support for our plans, or our cause will be set back for decades.”
Judson went on to summarize the salient events that had unfolded during the previous several days. The president appeared to be losing weight; he had no appetite and was in near-constant back pain. Then his wife noticed, almost overnight, his eyes were starting to yellow and convinced him to call his doctor. Dr. Rosen flew into Ronald Reagan the following day, where he was picked up by the Secret Service and whisked to the White House via the secret H Street entrance. A series of quietly carried-out tests revealed an advanced stage of pancreatic cancer that had already metastasized beyond realistic treatment options.
“Rather than drag this out, I’ll just cut to the chase. Sheppard learned his days were numbered, and that number was barely two digits long.” Judson folded his hands and shook his head. “The president made the decision right then and there to forgo any treatment. He also decided to avoid pain medication for as long as possible so he could work out a succession plan, one that didn’t include the vice president beyond the end of his current term.”
He met David’s gaze squarely. “He trusts the guy even less than you do—if that’s possible.” Judson sipped his tea. The ice was starting to melt, and the top of the glass was now mostly brownish water.
David welcomed the pause and the chance to untangle the questions whirling inside his brain. As Judson continued to sip his tea, David snatched the Montblanc pen from his shirt pocket. He jotted questions down on his napkin—until it occurred to him that it was linen, not paper. Realizing his mistake, he tucked the pen back in his pocket and looked around the table with embarrassment. No one said a word, but Elton Kirby waved his hand dismissively and mouthed, “Don’t worry about it.”
Oblivious to David’s faux pas, Judson continued: “It was almost two in the morning before the president headed back to the White House in an armored Secret Service Tahoe. In that short trip—about ten minutes—he decided to announce the date and circumstances of his resignation within the coming week and spend the remainder of his time in office arranging the constitutionally mandated transition of power to ‘that son of a bitch VP.’ POTUS plans to discuss this and a lot more with you the instant you return to Washington. Don’t worry, the meetings you had scheduled for tomorrow have all been rescheduled.”
David raised an eyebrow. Damn, how do they do that?
“You’ll be in the Oval Office at ten.” Judson pushed his empty glass away. “As we alluded to earlier, David, we think President Sheppard is doing about as good a job as he can do within the parameters of the existing United States political system. It’s that environment, parts of our constitutional infrastructure, that needs to change. We thought we could ride things out for another four years before we started the wheels turning to make those changes, but we can’t. We, as Envision-2100, have to act now. I hate for this to sound the way I know it’s going to come out, but the president’s cancer presents us with an unprecedented opportunity to change the course of this country.”
As before, Judson’s passion was evident in the pitch and tone of his voice and his fierce, unbroken eye contact. But it wasn’t just Judson. David felt the same intensity, something akin to a static charge, emanating from everyone in the room. Melissa’s eyes narrowed, forming tiny crow’s feet above her cheeks, and Nelson’s ramrod posture became even straighter.
Judson seemed to be on the verge of pleading now. His right hand clenched into a fist, and he pounded the air above the table. “David, we can’t let everything President Sheppard has worked for all his life die on the vine. Decent healthcare for our working citizens. Getting military-grade weapons off the street. Making peace with our North American neighbors, for Christ’s sake.”
Tagging on to Judson’s sense of urgency, Nelson Teal interjected another sports analogy: “David, it may sound a bit macabre, but this is the pitch we’ve been waiting for. If we don’t swing at this, and swing for the fence, we could well miss our turn at bat and leave yet another mess for our grandchildren.”
“I can see that,” David replied. “I don’t think President Sheppard would take offense or that it would be in poor taste to capitalize on his situation. Not when it would be for the good of the country. Frankly, he would do the same thing. I’m on board with everything you’ve told me so far. At least conceptually. Things always get messy when you start digging into the details.
“I’m not saying that I have agreed to your offer to run for office, but I haven’t entirely discounted it either. I’m still processing. So far, you’ve been preaching and I’ve been listening. Now let’s throw Envision-2100’s vision and these recent turn of events into the mix and map out a short-term strategy.”
Elton smacked the tabletop with an open palm and grinned. “Spoken like the leader we know you are, David. Let’s assume that when you leave here today, you are willing to consider our offer seriously and that you feel the same sense of urgency we do. Let’s assume you have the same white-hot-fire-in-your-gut craving for fundamental changes in our government that we do. If that’s the case, the first order of business would be for you to take care of whatever you must to accept the run for president. I don’t know what life is like at your house, but in my case, that would involve a discussion with my wife. But whether it’s her, a magic eight ball, or chicken entrails, it’s damn sure the first thing that has to happen. And it has to be done as soon as you get home. Like tonight! Before you meet with POTUS tomorrow. Judson wasn’t exaggerating when he said we were running against a short fuse, and it’s already lit.”
David nodded, acknowledging the sense of urgency apparent on every face around the table.
“Good.” Elton leaned forward. “Once you’ve made that commitment—and in the scenario I’m describing, I’m assuming you will—POTUS will announce his decision to resign from office. Of course, he’ll have to do that regardless. However, when you meet tomorrow, if you tell him you’re on board, it will undoubtedly influence both his timing and the content of his resignation speech. And, as Judson said, at some point very soon he will declare his support for you and our party.”
David looked from Elton to Judson and then glanced around the table at the other board members. “Our party? I hate to break your rhythm, but that’s the first time anyone here has mentioned a party. Can someone elaborate before we proceed further?”