Blind Allegiance to Sarah Palin (62 page)

As the hacker legal proceedings began heating up later that year, Sarah took a personal interest in one of her favorite pastimes, seeking
retribution. Even from a distance, I understood this young man was a target of her disaffection, and she had all her resources lined up to make sure he suffered—I'd witnessed the drill many times and realized this kid was likely doomed.

Having been a participant in nearly every email illegally accessed, I was unfortunately called to prepare a deposition ahead of what became, after much delay, an April 2010 trial. I was reviewing materials while in Palin attorney Thomas Van Flein's office when Todd and Sarah showed up. It had been many weeks since we'd spoken or seen each other face-to-face.

Todd approached and robustly shook my hand. We exchanged small talk while I imagined his thoughts:
With our book about to be released, got to keep Frank close, no matter what Sarah thinks
. I'd like to give the ex–First Dude benefit of the doubt—that maybe in his heart he had some lingering affection for me, for what I'd been through on their behalf. However, I'd been down a long, painful road with him, and I knew I couldn't trust Palin affection, lingering or not.

After my exchange with Todd, and as I copied emails, Sarah entered. I'd seen her withered, thin and drawn, and teetering on emotional breakdown dozens of times. But in that office, as I glanced across the room at her, I found the sight shocking. Her time away from the grind of government seemed not to have been rejuvenating. There were creases scarring her face, and her cheeks sagged. With shoulders pinned back, as if she were ready for a fight, and face focused on the text scrolling across her BlackBerry, she blindly stepped in my direction. I hadn't seen my ex-boss since before I'd left for Eagle, and unexpectedly here we were, only ten feet apart. My eyes locked on her face, and even when she looked up, my gaze held.

With a dry throat that must have hurt, she more growled than spoke, “Hi, Frank.” The face I'd once thought belonged to one of God's angels turned hellish.

I bobbed my head and said only, “Sarah,” and went back to copying. Crazily, a smile stole across my face; I delighted in realizing her fierce hatred had no effect on me. I felt healed.

When the hacker trial began in 2010, Sarah was the star witness. Once Kernell was found guilty on two counts, a delighted Sarah said to reporters outside the courthouse, “I do think there should be consequences for bad behavior.” Having suffered for my own ignorant and bad behavior during Troopergate, I didn't disagree with what Sarah said. But, I thought, shouldn't the half governor be held to the same standard? What of her mountain of bad behaviors? How could a person be so devoid of introspection?

While the hypocrisy still nags at me, being free of the once-cherished inner circle immediately brought a sense of peace I'd found missing for over three years. No longer did I suffer with the freeze-out. Instead, I thanked God for the icy exclusion.

Today, when Sarah appears on the television, if I cannot avoid watching, I'll shake my head, knowing that she no longer speaks out of love for state or country but to feed a need for attention. Sometimes I skim an article on her, but never do I finish, as the stories are largely naively written, whether good or bad. And while I came to know Sarah—maybe as well as anyone—there is no understanding her. Not me, not Ivy, Kris, Todd, or anyone else will ever fully explain her many faces or the drama encircling her life. And as bizarre as it sounds, the person who knows Sarah Palin least, is, in my opinion, Sarah herself.

Having achieved most everything she seemed to want—wealth, fame, and glamour—I suspect she—and Todd—are less happy today than when she was pulling kids in a wagon door-to-door in sleepy little Wasilla, Alaska. Many times I simply feel sorry for my former boss. With so much controversy, I know she is in a war with hundreds of simultaneous battles. And while I also know she'd be a disastrous president and is unsuited to be a political leader, I don't hate her, and I never have. More than anything, I mourn her squandered potential and our shattered dreams. I pray that one day I'll see a change in the woman who at one time meant so much to me and to all Alaskans.

Looking back on those four years together, I'll forever miss the dream, but not the reality.

EPILOGUE

B
ack in May 2009, a buddy on the board of trustees for an educational foundation contacted me about a fund-raiser for college scholarships. His idea was to auction off a bottle of wine signed by Governor Palin. I initially PIN'ed her about the idea, to which she amusingly responded,
“Sure, if we can drink all the wine first. Have Kris sign it.”
Several weeks went by and my friend reminded me of the request, so I followed up saying,
“Boss, are you ok with Kris autographing a bottle of wine? My friend thinks this will fetch more than any other bottle for their cause.”

Sarah agreed.

Kris Perry, who signed most of the letters to constituents in Sarah's name, did me the favor of signing the governor's name. After the auction, I wrote Sarah,
“Your signed bottle of wine helped raise $1,000 for scholarships for needy kids.”

Sarah responded,
“Cool! Thanks.”

Without an ounce of guilt—and now, with apologies to whoever paid a $1,000 for a fake signature—we misled the public about this simplest of matters. Why not just send the bottle to Sarah, have her actually sign it, and be honest with everyone? The only explanation is that by 2009, we'd been denying truth so long on large issues that small matters didn't seem worth the effort.

Just as Sarah really believed—beyond comprehension—that she held no grudges and walked in forgiveness and peace, we all became selectively immune to self-reflection. And in wading through this painful memoir, I realize that all of us Rag Tags had similar defects, none more so than me, the person who worked alongside her longer than any other.

The lesson learned, I guess, is that it takes an extraordinary person to deliver more than promises for a better future. We need to not only listen but also dig deeply into the character of our leaders before offering them our allegiance. And, more important, I will never, ever, surrender blind allegiance to anyone again, save God and family.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Frank Bailey:

To my hardworking wife, who labored through this process with me, and to my children who continually make my heart smile. The completion of this book signifies hope for more “BlackBerry-free days.” To Rich and Carolynn, the best in-laws a guy could want. To Greg Grebe, God used you as a voice of reason in my life during some very dark days. To my brother, Stevie, who heard me out those nights when I couldn't sort truth from fiction. To the Rag Tags who sacrificed so much: Kerm, Don, Robyn, Clark, “The Marys,” Phil, Glen, Mark, Eric, Scott, Curtis, Anita, Bruce, Ramona, Lindsay, Linda, Joey, and Cathy. Two thousand and six would not have turned out the way it did without each of you. Ivy, you were one of the first to call after the press conference; I've never forgotten that. To Jeff Lowenfels, who wisely reminded me to conduct myself in such a way that I could “look myself in the mirror.” To my “sister,” the road has been long and difficult, but you will always hold a special place. You gave at times when you had nothing more to give. To my best friend Mike, who intently listens to my “wow, what a life” reality show.

To Jeanne Devon—working together? Whoda thunk? To Mister Ken “Show Don't Tell” Morris. Without your brilliantly descriptive writing skills and driving Wall Street personality, this project would never have sustained a seventeen-month trek. The roller coaster has been a wild one, but because of you two, we did it. To Kristin, for your technical talents when I needed them most.

Jonathan, your belief in us and the courage you possessed injected life back into this project when we thought all was lost. You lead a top-notch team. Philis, Jessica, Bruce, and Felice, your professionalism is unparalleled.

To Rabbit Creek Community Church, the “friendliest in Anchorage,” you welcomed me with open arms when my cup was empty, then taught me the joy of serving again. You are truly amazing. Finally to
my God, who despite my wayward heart and obvious “planks,” still loves me. You were with me through those ominous morning drives to Seventh and E in the fall of '08.

Ken Morris:

This book was written inside a cone of silence as an attempt to avoid the kind of furor that Joe McGinniss launched when he released our unauthorized first draft. For over a year, my family maintained our secrets and supported my efforts, despite no assurances that we would ever reach publication. My wife, Amelia, and younger sons, Tim and Colby, kept me sane and offered necessary love and encouragement.

When I sent my two older sons to law school a few years back, little did I realize that investment would one day pay off in the form of helping save this project. Especially second son, Scott, who, in his precious free hours from a full-time job, took a direct interest. His legal council was marveled at by senior attorneys who wondered where I got this brilliant legal mind on such short notice. My daughter-in-law, Sarah (yeah, another brilliant attorney), married to my oldest son, Brett (also a brilliant legal mind), handled contract work and was an amazing advocate of this project from day one. I love you all and am so proud and thankful.

Along the way, I met people who embraced our David versus Goliath challenges. In particular, Professor Tom Field, the brilliant University of New Hampshire authority on copyright law, became my cyber-friend and advisor. On top of everything else, he liked my novels, proving him to be an intellectual titan. No question his guidance and advice were not only comforting but also helped with an understanding of the daunting issues confronting us on multiple fronts. I hope his students appreciate his heart and mind.

In yet another streak of good luck, I managed to find two up-and-coming attorneys on the West Coast who were unbelievably responsive and available twenty-four hours a day when we were issuing cease-and-desist orders, one after the other. To Dean Steinbeck and Peter Bonfante, your amazing hustle and enthusiasm for the fight will never be forgotten.

To my coauthors and best friends forever, Frank Bailey and Jeanne Devon, the mountain seemed to grow faster than we could climb, but climb we did. God bless.

Finally, to Howard Books, never in my wildest dreams did I imagine we'd land on your doorstep. Now that we have, never in my wildest dreams can I imagine not having landed on your doorstep.

Jeanne Devon:

Thanks to my amazing family: my husband, Ron, and my beautiful children who have looked at the back of my head and listened to clacking keys more than they should have. Without your love, patience, and encouragement I don't know where I'd be. Gratitude to all the “Mudpuppies” who show up every day and who have been asking me to write a book since long before this project started. And to my dear friends and editors at The Mudflats: Shannyn Moore, Linda Kellen Biegel, and Jennifer Snoskred—your intelligence, friendship, and willingness to carry water on short notice have kept me going, and sometimes even smiling, through dark times. Thank you to my partners in this unlikely trio—Frank Bailey and Ken Morris—for proving that we don't need to agree politically to be friends, work together, and care about our country. It has been an honor and a privilege working with you both on this project that felt kind of like having a baby, only it took longer. And to you whose good work, love, friendship, and advocacy have helped this effort in so many ways, even if you didn't know it: Debbie Bagdol, Judi Davidson, Zona Devon, Thomas Dewar, Jason Leopold, Debra Potter, Roger Ranch, Zach Roberts, Kara Soluri, Kelly Walters, and those who remain anonymous. To the enthusiastic hardworking people at Howard Books and Simon & Schuster and the Carol Mann Agency, humble thanks for having faith in our team and this project. We didn't know for so long who you would be or even if you would be, but we leapt, and you, our net, appeared, even when it seemed unlikely. Most of all, I am grateful that even though my mother passed away before she could read this book, she got to tell me, “I always knew you'd be a writer.” Thanks, Mom. I love you.