Power Curve (3 page)

“That means I owe the bastard,” Shaw grumbled. He made a show of calculating the payback. “He’ll want more than a young bedmate on the next presidential trip.” He paused, thinking. “Whiteside gets the last question. No, let him ask two questions. Make it happen.” The assistant scurried off, glad to have survived. Shaw spoke into the small microphone attached to his lapel that linked him with the control room in the basement. “Add Liz Gordon to the list,” he growled, loud enough for the other assistant to hear.

That ensured the rest of the White House staff would hear about Liz Gordon’s banishment and two or three would leak it to the press—another way to keep the reporters in line like obedient ducks. The controller on duty added Elizabeth Gordon’s name to the Do Not Admit list that barred individuals from entering the White House. Once the reporter left, she would never get back in and her career would take a serious, perhaps fatal, hit.

A late arrival hurried past, anxious to find his seat among the reporters. “You’ve really got us packed in here, Mr. Shaw.”

Shaw laughed. “The White House is like a tight pair of pants,” he quipped loud enough for a few other reporters to hear, his southern accent much heavier now. “Not enough ballroom.” That homily had been recorded before,
and the assistant laughed with the reporters as Shaw slipped through the door leading into the Green Room. Clear of the crowd, he headed for the White House television unit, also in the basement. “Keep laughing,” he muttered to himself.

He moved quickly, with surprising agility for a big man, and reached the TV control room in minutes. He slipped on a headset and stood behind the row of technicians controlling the video and audio feeds. He spoke into his mike. “OK, folks. Here we go.”

The carefully staged press conference opened with the press secretary leading Turner’s fourteen cabinet secretaries and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff out of the Green Room. They split into two groups and stood against the wall to the left and right of the entrance to the main hall that connected the East Room to the State Dining Room. The press secretary approached the podium near the hall entrance and stood looking at the crowd. When Shaw judged the honor guard formed by the cabinet was in place, he snapped one word. “Now.”

The press secretary said nothing as the center camera did a slow zoom up the main hall. Madeline Turner was walking down the red carpet alone, carrying a thin leather folder, her briefing book, in the crook of her left arm. Her head was held high, and there was no hesitation in her step as she approached the East Room. The nine reporters Shaw had placed in the audience in a rough diamond pattern sprang to their feet, paying the price for a seat at the conference. They were the catalyst that brought the rest of the audience to its feet well in advance of her arrival.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the press secretary intoned, his deep voice carefully modulated, “the President of the United States.”

The reporters waited quietly as Turner approached the podium. She laid the leather folder on the podium and folded her hands on top. For a moment, she gazed over the standing crowd. The room was eerily quiet. “I would give all that I have,” she began, “not to be here today.”

The reporters that formed the diamond exploded in applause and carried the others with them. Tears caught at
the corner of her eyes while she waited for the ovation to subside. “But we must continue. We know the way.”

Again applause, this time without being instigated by the diamond formation, rocked the room. “Perfect,” Shaw said into his mike. He smiled when a camera zoomed in on Turner. The tears were gone as she opened the briefing folder and made her opening remarks. The press conference was off to a good start. “The hard part is behind us,” Shaw said.

The reporter from ABC started the questioning. “Madam President, you inherited the China problem and what has been called the Taiwan Crisis from the late President Roberts. Critics in Congress claim your administration has rolled over by letting the People’s Republic of China occupy Taiwan. Is this an invitation to further territorial aggression by China, and are you going to oppose their takeover of this strategic island?”

Shaw allowed a tight smile as Turner answered. He had expected that question and planned for it. “As you know,” Turner said, “the Chinese established sovereignty over Taiwan the day President Roberts died. But I don’t think you can call the arrival of the new Chinese governor and his staff from Beijing on an unarmed civilian transport an occupation or a takeover. Certainly, no military force was used by the People’s Republic of China.

“President Roberts had been dead less than eight hours when the Chinese ambassador was called to the State Department. He assured the secretary of state that his government was not trying to exploit the situation and was deeply apologetic about the timing of Taiwan’s reversion to Chinese control. In view of the historical claim that China has on Taiwan, the acceptance of the Taiwanese, and the lack of protest from China’s neighbors, the United States is not in a position to intervene.”

“Perfect answer,” Shaw announced. The press conference continued to play out as planned.

Then the sound technician with a boom microphone walked past Elizabeth Gordon. “Madam President,” Gordon called.

“Yes, Liz,” Turner said.

“Why did she recognize the bitch?” Shaw grumbled
for the benefit of the technicians in the control room. “That’s not in the script.”

“Madam President,” Gordon said, “you have been described as a political lightweight only nominated to run on your party’s ticket to bring in the women’s vote. Your record in the California state senate supports that allegation and can at best be described as thin since you have focused primarily on one issue: women’s rights. Madam President, what
are
the issues that define your administration?”

“I think,” Turner answered, “that if you carefully examine my record, you’ll find that—”

Shaw came to his feet, shouting, not waiting to hear the rest of her answer. “Gawd damn!” he roared, filling the control booth with his anger. “Everyone of those meat-heads knows what your record is.” He could hear the reporters shouting for attention as the dam burst.

Behind Shaw, a voice blurted, “It’s out of control.”

Rather than listen to what was being said in the East Room, Shaw barked new marching orders into his microphone. “Get to Whiteside, tell him to change the subject. Turner will recognize him when he stands up.” He pushed a technician out of his seat and overrode the script reader in the president’s podium. He typed furiously:

RECOGNIZE PETER WHITESIDE IN THE BACK—NOW

He looked up at the TV monitors. A press aide was talking to Whiteside who immediately stood up and raised his right hand. On cue. Turner’s voice rang out. “In the back—Peter.”

A sound technician was already in place and thrust a boom mike in front of him. “Thank you, Madam President,” Whiteside called.

“Peter,” Turner said, her voice amazingly calm, “what are you doing way back there?” A few titters ran through the audience. Whiteside was renowned for the way he lorded it over the lesser lights in the press corps and took offense at the slightest infringement of his preeminence or prerogatives.

“Madam President, I have no idea. But it’s a lot safer
here than up front.” The titters turned to laughter, and Shaw relaxed. “For one, Madam President, I am not concerned with your past record but with the future. Right now, our economy is in a slump. Unemployment is spreading, and we’re seeing more and more homeless people on the streets everyday. What are your immediate plans to get this turned around?”

The reporters quieted as Turner answered. “Back on track,” Shaw said, wiping his face with a huge handkerchief. He was quiet until the press conference ended and Madeline Turner left the East Room, retreating up the main hall, still walking alone. Again per Shaw’s script.

Shaw’s staff crowded into his large corner office for the postmortem on the press conference. They were surprised to find him so expansive and relaxed after the near disaster caused by Elizabeth Gordon. “Folks,” Shaw said, “it got tense out there today. We gotta learn from our mistakes ’cause there’s no more second chances.”

The intercom on his desk buzzed, and he jabbed at a button with a stubby finger, missing on the first attempt. “Damn machines,” he muttered, punching again. This time he made contact.

“Mr. Shaw,” his secretary’s voice said, “the president wants to see you in ten minutes. She’s in her private study. And you might want to watch CBS. Peter Whiteside is on.”

A young assistant was poised by the TV, ready to do Shaw’s bidding. Shaw punched off the intercom and nodded. Peter Whiteside’s face immediately filled the screen. “President Turner weathered her first press conference today,” Whiteside was saying, “with grace and dignity. Her elegant, but understated business suit—”

Shaw flicked a remote control at the TV, turning it off. “They’re still looking where we want ’em to look,” he said. “So we survived after all. We won’t be so lucky next time. So remember, no fuckups next time around or someone loses their balls.” He looked around the room. Only the male members of his staff were nodding in unison. “Or their titties as the case may be.” Now everyone was nodding. He laughed. “It’s equal opportunity, folks,
equal opportunity.” His staff filed out, taking his threat very seriously. He hit the intercom button to his secretary, this time swift and sure. “Tell Mizz President I’m on my way.”

He hummed as he left his office. “Oh, my Gawd, how the money rolls in,” he half sang, half mumbled.

Madeline Turner was working in the small office off her bedroom in the residence, the second and third floors of the White House. It was a comfortable nook, not rigidly formal like the better-known rooms, and suited her personality. Books and magazines were strewn around the floor in casual disarray, and she was sitting in the corner of a couch wearing a short-sleeved dark blue sweatshirt, matching warm-up pants, and fuzzy socks.

“Patrick,” she called when he came in, “sit here.” She patted the couch beside her and took off her reading glasses. She laid the thick blue briefing book she had been reading on the floor.

Shaw noticed that the TV in the corner was on and tuned to CNC, Elizabeth Gordon’s network. He glanced at the briefing book but couldn’t read its title.
What is she boning up on now?
he wondered. Turner was a voracious, very fast reader and could read and watch TV at the same time—a trait that bothered him.

“I thought it went well today, didn’t you?” she began.

Shaw settled his bulk into the designated spot and tugged at his tie, loosening it even more. “It could have been worse.”

“The Liz Gordon thing?”

Shaw dumped his chin onto his chest, not looking at her. “You shouldn’t have recognized her. She was out for blood and opened a floodgate.” He stood up and paced the floor, a sure sign that he was worried. “I ran the videotape. We’ve got problems with the press and—”

“Patrick,” she interrupted, “we don’t have problems with the press. Not yet—the honeymoon, remember.” The tone in her voice warned him to drop the subject. She watched as he paced the carpet.

He finally stopped and stood by the fireplace, looking at the small brass bell sitting on the mantle. “That’s the
bell, isn’t it?” Turner nodded an answer. “I haven’t seen it in years,” Shaw mumbled, remembering.

Maddy Turner had been a young, idealistic, and dazzled first-term California state senator when they first met. She was two years out of law school and had run for the senate in the East Bay district of San Francisco more as a lark than with any expectation of winning. Much to her surprise and that of both parties, she had won. Once in the California senate, the egos stalking the halls of the state capital relegated her to the sidelines. As the old men running the California legislature in those days liked to say, she was “marginalized” and there was nothing she could do about it. It was simply a matter of waiting for her defeat in the next election.

Out of frustration, she had turned to Patrick Shaw, her party’s state chairman. From the very first, it was a political marriage made in heaven. Turner was eminently electable, and Shaw couldn’t be elected as an animal control officer. She could charm, Shaw could raise money. But no one was listening to her in the senate. Then Shaw gave her the bell.

For four sessions, the bell sat on her desk on the senate floor, and whenever she felt her colleagues were ignoring or trying to intimidate her, she rang it loudly until they listened. While she made a name for herself, Shaw funneled campaign money her way. And as he was fond of saying, “Money is the mother’s milk of politics.” He often regretted that he hadn’t said it originally.

When Turner swamped her opposition in the next election and carried two other candidates with her, all thanks to Shaw, the bell disappeared. Turner was on the road to power, and Shaw was the force behind her.

Shaw stroked the bell’s ebony handle. Then he picked it up and rang it. Turner looked at him, and all the warmth and nostalgia of that time was back. “That was a long time ago,” she murmured.

Shaw knew she was listening now. “Mizz President, we’ve got problems with the press. It was the women reporters leading the attack, not the men.” Turner was silent, and Shaw knew he could continue. “You’re not one of the sisters anymore. For them, you’ve gone over,
become part of the establishment. They’re sending you a message.”

“What’s the message, Patrick?”

“Stay a sister, advocate the issues that are important to us or we will nail you. Mizz President, I know how you feel about the feminist movement, but you’re the president of everyone now. You’ve got to move beyond it.”

Turner tilted her head and looked at him. “OK, Pat. What’s the real angle?”

Shaw sprawled on the couch opposite her and dropped his chin on his chest. “There’s a stridency in any militant movement that turns the voters off. You’ve got to disassociate yourself from any group not near the center.”

“Especially one that can be called bitchy,” she added.