Blind Allegiance to Sarah Palin (59 page)

Good-bye, Rag Tags

W
hen the May ice jam gave way along the Yukon River, Eagle—a town eight miles west of the border between Alaska and the Yukon Territory of Canada—experienced devastation that even shocked a community hardened to harsh winters. Ice boulders the size of freight trains smashed cars, turned homes into matchsticks, and uprooted trees, denuding the earth in the process. This was nature's version of shock and awe. Eagle residents found their lives littered with little more than kindling. For many, surviving the initial catastrophe was miraculous. Overcoming the aftermath and gathering resources to rebuild was another matter altogether. When the waters finally receded, relief workers—many sponsored by churches—sent missions of aid in the form of funds, supplies, and workers.

Those contributing time or money included conservatives, liberals, whites, blacks, Native Alaskans, Republicans, Democrats, Christians, Jews, and Atheists. When my church, Rabbit Creek Community, took up the cause, I listened. On August 10, 2009, I took advantage of my diminishing role (and popularity) in the governor's life to sign on. If ever a man was ready to cut and run, it was me. Long before the August 27th Parental Concent debacle, I began to feel the sting of betrayal and abandonment, but Sarah's reprehensible behavior became the final straw that broke the back of this formally blind camel.

My own mounting estrangement meant that those I once believed friends forever, those who Sarah said God had brought together, began disappearing, putting me smack in the middle of Sarah's efficiently effective freezing-out process. Much of what I'd done for the governor, to protect her from the public and from herself, and do her bidding, I questioned and discovered I now had no ability to justify. We hadn't been good Christians. Far from it. We were dishonest and behaved in a vindictive and hateful manner.

But when I saw the pictures coming from Eagle and realized the suffering these people faced, a page in my book of self-pity turned. Life doesn't end with setbacks. We seek help, reach out to others, and, if we are people of faith, we listen to God. Joining those touched by the tragedy along the Yukon River, I quietly planned my trip to Eagle.

I decided to use my skills not at political backstabbing and counterattack but as a nail-pounding, heavy-lifting laborer. I would focus on what our governor liked to call “Real Americans.” Only difference was, I would finally back up words with deeds.

My enthusiasm for the Eagle mission didn't go without a fair share of anxiety, however. With Sarah being roasted in the press for the hypocrisy of skipping out on yet another event—and this time for a cause she wore like a diamond pendant on her political frock—I understood what type of strategy might be implemented behind the scenes. As nothing is ever Sarah's fault, there was only one obvious target: Frank Bailey, how's it feel to be thrown under the Palin bus once again?

And while subtle, I felt the impending crush of those wheels. Despite now being outside the inner circle, I had little trouble imagining the insane outrage at both Jim Minnery and me that Sarah harbored. Still plenty enraged for his comments over supreme court appointee Morgan Christen, plan B eventually kicked in: inflict public humiliation on him and his organization.

Sarah knew the disappointment her absence from the charity event would generate. One constituent, anticipating her presence and a chance to meet her, wrote: “Praise our wonderful Lord Jesus Christ that I will finally get my wish to see our Sarah speak at tonight's event. I have been laid up in the hospital for eight months following a horrible
snowblower accident and convinced my doctor to let me out three weeks early to attend tonight's event. I will be there. God bless you, and God bless Sarah.”

Rather than honor her commitment and headline the event that took hundreds of man-hours to create, she used the slight as an opportunity to turn and take one “heavy round” shot at the soldier in the trench next to her: Jim Minnery. As for the event cosponsors—including Knights of Columbus, Alaska Right to Life, Eagle Forum, Concerned Women for America, Archdiocese of Anchorage, the LDS Church, and countless individual congregations across the state—they would similarly be disappointed. Sarah, and probably Meg, with their strategic tin ears, likely assumed the outrage would be directed at Minnery's Alaska Family Council—an organization that, whether you agree with its positions or not, has earned a reputation for steadfastly standing by pro-life principles.

When the PR backfired, Sarah did what Sarah always does: point all ten fingers and toes in another direction. She swore she hadn't committed to being there. Others failed to communicate effectively. It was not her fault. None of it. I knew the drill well because I, Ivy, Meg, Todd, Bitney, Van Flein, Kris, and others earned proverbial doctorates in deflecting fault from the governor.

Now it was once again, as it had been during Troopergate, my turn to suffer the blows. As in his earlier disagreement with Sarah, Jim Minnery's biggest sin was voicing displeasure.

At one point, Sarah's anger resulted in her threatening to bring legal action, a not uncommon occurrence in recent years. “If this continues,” she said to Minnery by phone, “it'll be my lawyers talking to your lawyers.”

Jim Minnery, faced with a powerful former vice presidential candidate threatening to sue him and his nonprofit organization, answered, “What are you talking about? I don't even have a lawyer.”

More surprisingly, Sarah once ordered me to do opposition research on Minnery. “Minnery can't be as clean as he puts himself out there to be, Frank. Somewhere there's got to be dirt.” She wanted criminal and sex crimes databases searched as well as any blog rumors investigated and court records scrutinized.

Talk about taking a wrecking ball to squish a fly.

When his turn came to defend Sarah after the fact, Todd turned to the recurring topic of money. “It would have cost her five thousand in travel expenses to be there,” he explained. This rationale disgusted me, and still does. First of all, what plane trip costs $5,000 dollars? Second, that's the exact amount Todd pledged to contribute to the Alaska Family Council, in an attempt to quiet Minnery. “Five thousand? That should be plenty,” he continued, as if this qualified the Palins for philanthropists of the year.

Clearly the money, in light of the untold millions flowing into Sarah's personal coffers, was not an issue. At the time, I didn't have the guts to say, “Todd, not everyone reads dollars and cents into everything they do. Take your five thousand dollar check and shove it.”

Through all of these machinations, I guess none of us should have been surprised about her indifference to the Parental Consent Notification commitment. (Oddly enough, Sarah has a perfect track record of attending highly paid appearances.) As much as Sarah Palin hated her job as governor, she was—despite quitting on her constituents—turning it into two things she desired most: wealth and glamour.

Surrounded for years by master schemers, by this time paranoia came easily for me. As the person who secured Sarah's commitment to attend Minnery's rally, I knew I was front and center for the blame bull's-eye. Throughout my preparations to depart for Eagle, the inner circle appeared far too anxious to have me gone. I felt like the parent of teenagers about to be left at home alone for the weekend—they can't get rid of you fast enough.

Meg and Todd asked repeatedly, “So when are you leaving?”

“There's no cell coverage there, right? I hear there's no internet,” Todd said.

“So, you're going to be
totally
out of contact?” Meg added.

I took that question to mean: “In other words, Frank, you'll not only be unaware of what I say about you on the governor's behalf, but totally defenseless. Right?”

Once incommunicado, I'd be hit with the same chair as every other foe. Despite working on not caring what they did or said, indifference did not flow easily. My fears rose to such a level that I delayed my departure to allow some of the fallout to run its course; I'd learned to never willingly turn your back on those invisible knives.

Planning for future turmoil, prior to leaving for Eagle, I composed an uncompromising email to Meg, knowing it would immediately find its way to the governor and Todd. Hesitating, I initially didn't send it. Instead, my instinct was to weigh the pros and cons while driving to Eagle. On the one hand, I knew the words would end any ongoing relationship with those remaining Rag Tags. Conversely, with radio commentators like Fagan and ever-supportive Burke, as well as the
Anchorage Daily News
, running wall-to-wall negative commentary on Sarah's hypocrisy, sending an email documenting reality seemed advisable. Adding incentive, putting Meg Stapleton on notice that her incessant spin wouldn't work
this
time held appeal. No matter what I decided, however, the end of being this Rag Tag had dawned. Quite a fall for a guy some referred to as Sarah's right-hand man and others mistook for her chief of staff. From that lofty role to where I found myself in late August 2009, a reverse metamorphosis was complete. I'd gone from political butterfly to what felt like a caterpillar stuck to a bully's shoe.

Originally planning to sleep in my Chevy pickup at the halfway point of my drive, to save money, I instead elected to stop at a typical Alaskan roadside motel just before losing internet connection. Next morning, if I still had the will upon waking, I'd send the blistering message.

Halfway to Eagle, in my threadbare motel with butterflies printed on peeling hunter-green wallpaper, I reread my words to Meg one last time, made my decision, and hit Send, twice. Bang, bang.
Meg
, I thought,
take that!

A few minutes later and ten miles down the road, I crossed into the Alaskan technological wilderness, where cell phones and internet go to die. No matter what Sarah's reaction, I'd not have to deal with her or Meg for several days.