29

“What do you know about her?” asked Fletcher as they walked down the street together.

There wasn’t a lot Harry didn’t know about Barbara Hunter, as she had been his opponent for the past two elections, and a perpetual thorn in his flesh during the intervening years.

“She’s forty-eight, born in Hartford, daughter of a farmer, educated in the local school system, and then at the University of Connecticut, married to a successful advertising executive, with three children, all living in the state, and she’s currently a member of the State Congress.”

“Any bad news?” asked Fletcher.

“Yes, she doesn’t drink and is a vegetarian, so you’ll be visiting every bar and butcher in the constituency. And like anyone who has spent a lifetime in local politics, she’s made her fair share of enemies on the way, and as she barely won the Republican nomination this time around, you can be sure that several party activists didn’t want her in the first place. But more important, she lost the last two elections, so we paint her as a loser.”

Harry and Fletcher entered the Democratic headquarters on Park Street to find the front window covered in posters and photos of the candidate, something Fletcher still hadn’t become used to. The Right Man for the Job. He hadn’t thought a lot of the slogan until the media experts explained that it was good to have the words “right” and “man” in the message when your opponent was a Republican woman. Subliminal, they had explained.

Harry walked up the stairs to the conference room on the first floor, and took his seat at the head of the table. Fletcher yawned as he sat down, although they had only been campaigning for seven days; and there were still twenty-six to go. The mistakes you make today are history tomorrow morning, your triumphs forgotten by the early evening news. Pace yourself, was one of Harry’s most repeated maxims.

Fletcher looked around at the assembled group, a combination of pros and seasoned amateurs, with Harry no longer their candidate, but instead pressed into being campaign chairman. It was the only concession Martha had allowed, but she had told Fletcher to send him home the moment he showed the slightest sign of fatigue. As each day passed, it became harder to keep to Martha’s instructions, as it was Harry who always set the pace.

“Anything new or devastating?” Harry asked as he looked around the team, one or two of whom had played a role in all seven of his election victories. In the last encounter, he’d beaten Barbara Hunter by over five thousand votes, but with the polls now running neck and neck, they were about to find out just how much of that vote had been personal.

“Yes,” said a voice from the other end of the table. Harry smiled down at Dan Mason, who had been with him for six of his seven campaigns. Dan had started by working the copier, and was now in charge of press and public relations.

“The floor’s all yours, Dan.”

“Barbara Hunter has just issued a press release challenging Fletcher to a debate. Presumably I tell her to get lost, and add that it’s a sign of someone who is desperate and knows they are going to lose. That’s what you always did.”

Harry was silent for a moment. “You’re right, Dan, I did,” he eventually said, “but only because I was the incumbent and treated her as an upstart. In any case, I had nothing to gain from a debate, but that situation has changed now that we’re fielding an unknown candidate, so I think we need to discuss the idea more fully before we come to any conclusion. What are the advantages and disadvantages? Opinions?” he said. Voices all started speaking at once.

“Gives our man more exposure.”

“Gives her the center stage.”

“Proves we have the outstanding debater, which because of his youth will come as a surprise.”

“She knows the local problems—we could look inexperienced and ill-informed.”

“We look young, dynamic, and energetic.”

“She looks experienced, canny and seasoned.”

“We represent the youth of tomorrow.”

“She represents the women of today.”

“Fletcher could wipe the floor with her.”

“She wins the debate, and we lose the election.”

“Well, now we’ve heard the committee’s views, perhaps it’s time to consider the candidate’s,” said Harry.

“I’m quite happy to debate with Mrs. Hunter,” said Fletcher. “People will assume she’s more impressive simply because of her past record and my lack of experience, so I must try and turn that to our advantage.”

“But if she outshines you on local issues, and makes it look as if you’re just not ready to do the job,” said Dan, “then the election will be over in one evening. Don’t think of it as a thousand people in a hall. Try to remember that the whole event would be covered by local radio and television, and is certain to be plastered over the front page of the Hartford Courant the following morning.”

“But that could work to our advantage as well,” said Harry.

“I agree,” said Dan, “but it’s one hell of a risk to take.”

“How long have I got to think about it?” asked Fletcher.

“Five minutes,” said Harry, “perhaps ten, because if she’s issued a press statement, they’ll want to know our immediate response.”

“Can’t we say we need a little time to think about it?”

“Certainly not,” said Harry, “that would look as if we’re debating the debate, and in the end you’d have to give in, so she then wins both ways. We either turn it down firmly, or accept it with enthusiasm. Perhaps we should take a vote on it,” he added, looking around the table. “Those in favor?” Eleven hands shot up. “Against?” Fourteen hands were raised. “Well, that’s the end of that.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Fletcher. Everyone seated around the table stopped talking and looked at the candidate. “I am grateful for your opinions, but I do not intend to spend my political career being run by a committee, especially when the vote is that close. Dan, you will issue a statement saying I’m delighted to accept Mrs. Hunter’s challenge, and look forward to debating the real issues with her, rather than the political posturing that the Republicans seem to have specialized in from the start of this campaign.” There was a moment’s silence, before the room broke into spontaneous applause.

Harry smiled. “Those in favor of a debate?” Every hand shot up. “Those against?” None. “I declare the motion carried unanimously.”

“Why did we have a second vote?” Fletcher asked Harry as they left the room.

“So that we can tell the press that the decision was unanimous.”

Fletcher smiled as they headed toward the station. Another lesson learned.

A team of twelve canvassed the station every morning, most of them handing out leaflets, while the candidate shook hands with the early commuters leaving the city. Harry had told him to concentrate on those going into the station, because they almost certainly lived in Hartford, whereas those coming off the trains probably didn’t have a vote in the constituency.

“Hi, I’m Fletcher Davenport…”

At eight thirty they crossed the road to Ma’s and grabbed an egg and bacon sandwich. Once Ma had given her opinion on how the election was going, they headed off for the city’s insurance district to shake hands with “the suits” as they arrived at their offices. In the car, Fletcher put on a Yale tie, which he knew many of the executives would identify with.

“Hi, I’m Fletcher Davenport…”

At nine thirty, they returned to campaign HQ for the early morning press conference. Barbara Hunter had already held hers an hour earlier, so Fletcher knew that there would only be one subject on the agenda that morning. On the way back, he replaced the Yale tie with something more neutral as he listened to the headlines on the morning news update, to make sure he couldn’t be surprised by a piece of breaking news. War had broken out in the Middle East. He would leave that to President Ford, because it wasn’t going to end up on the front page of the Hartford Courant.

“Hi, I’m Fletcher Davenport…”

When Harry opened the morning press conference, he told the assembled journalists even before they could ask the question that it had been a unanimous decision to take on Mrs. Hunter head to head. Harry never referred to her as Barbara. When questioned about the debate—venue, time, format—Harry said this was yet to be decided, as they had only received the challenge earlier that morning, but he added, “I don’t foresee any problems.” Harry knew only too well that the debate would throw up nothing but problems.

Fletcher was surprised by Harry’s reply when asked what he thought of the candidate’s chances. He had expected the senator to talk about his debating skills, his legal experience and his political acumen, but instead Harry said, “Well of course, Mrs. Hunter starts off with a built-in advantage. We all know that she’s a seasoned debater, with a great deal of experience on local issues, but I consider it typical of Fletcher’s honest, open approach to this election that he’s agreed to take her on.”

“Doesn’t that make it a tremendous risk, Senator?” asked another journalist.

“Sure does,” admitted Harry, “but as the candidate has pointed out, if he wasn’t man enough to face Mrs. Hunter, how could the public expect him to take on the bigger challenge of representing them?” Fletcher couldn’t remember saying anything like that, although he didn’t disagree with the sentiment.

Once the press conference was over, and the last journalist had departed, Fletcher said, “I thought you told me Barbara Hunter was a poor debater, and took forever answering questions?”

“Yep, that’s exactly what I said,” admitted Harry.

“Then why did you tell the journalists that…”

“It’s all about expectations, my boy. Now they think you’re not up to it,” Harry replied, “and that she’ll wipe the floor with you, so even if you only manage a draw they’ll declare you the winner.”

“Hi, I’m Fletcher Davenport…” kept repeating itself over and over like some hit song he just couldn’t get out of his mind.