The Best Laid Plans (19 page)

Satellite trucks were still staked out in front of the Borschart home. At least three networks had set up anchor desks and were presenting their entire newscasts from her front lawn as if it were the site of some natural disaster. I knew this story had legs when four out of five networks developed scandal-specific graphics and theme music to enhance their ongoing coverage of what had been coined “Leathergate.” Coining a phrase usually meant the media were in for the long haul. You didn’t “brand” a scandal unless you were going to ride that horse for a while. Another indication was one network’s use of the positioning phrase “a
scandal for the ages.” Great, just great. On the bright side, to the best of my knowledge, no reporter at the scene of the fire or in subsequent coverage had yet uttered, “Oh, the humanity,” but it was still early days.

Were I still working on the Leader’s staff, I’d have been doing handsprings at the prospect of seeing Cameron finally go down – in flames – with a huge explosion and fireball, sending shrapnel careening through the Tory Party. But I was no longer on Parliament Hill. I was in Cumberland, impaled on a long-shot crisis so unexpected, Vegas bookies would need a supercomputer to calculate the odds. While Liberals across the country convulsed in glee, I was torn between hara-kiri and the Witness Protection Program. I turned off the TV and weighed my three options:

Option One: I could fill my pockets with stones and pull a Virginia Woolf in the Ottawa River. No thanks, I’ve always been terrorized by the thought of drowning. There’s just something about not being able to breathe. I cannot envisage a more horrible way to go. It was just slightly worse than being strangled by an aging and demented Scot who’d gone plumb postal.

Option Two: I could hightail it out of Dodge and lay low until the count was in. No, I don’t think so. I had too much at stake – like my future, for instance.

Option Three: I could cling against all logic, evidence, and common sense to the faint and wispy hope that the Tory vote in Cumberland-Prescott was so rock solid that Cameron would still win. Local Tories could then pursue a recall and force a by-election to crown a new Tory MP.

I went with door number three. Rather than sitting on my hands, I decided to do what I could to right the good ship Cameron. As you can imagine, for me, this was very much counterintuitive – a “man bites dog” story, you might say. The worst part was that I had to turn my back on a possible Liberal victory in the safest Tory riding in the country. But I had to honour my promise to Angus McLintock that he’d still be an engineering professor on October 15.

I called the two Petes, and with a little cajoling they revved up their home computers, as I did mine, and we sprang into action. We started by setting up scores of different hotmail accounts and sending dozens – no, it was hundreds – of e-mails to editors, producers, and assignment editors in respected media outlets across the country. We put heavy emphasis on newspapers, radio stations, and television stations that served eastern Ontario in general and the Ottawa area in particular. Although I phrased our message in countless different ways, I made the same, single point relentlessly: “We’ve all seen just about enough of Eric Cameron’s cameo performances. He is a great Canadian, who deserves some respect and understanding from the media.”

Blah, blah, blah. You get the idea. I had no illusions that we’d make much of an impact, but it gave us something to do, and at that point, I was ready to try anything. Among the three of us, we sent upwards of 500 e-mails to the same 40 or so media outlets in about two hours. Pete1 and Pete2 were a little perplexed by the whole exercise but pitched in, anyway. We received few if any answers in the first hour, but as our messages piled up in the media’s inboxes, we did prompt a reaction. The responses were classic: “We welcome your comments and appreciate the time taken to share your views with us.” Etcetera, etcetera. I knew the style well. After all, I’d started in the Leader’s correspondence pool where I daily crafted such messages by the dozen.

Next, I drove over to the Borschart house and, as campaign manager for Angus McLintock, did live interviews with each of the networks still camped out there. I was magnanimity personified. I went on at length in each interview about Canada being different from the United States and that this was not how we treated our respected political leaders when they erred. I took such a high road that vertigo was a clear and present danger. I spoke with passion about Eric Cameron’s stellar record of public service and declared that it should not be dismantled on live television over what was strictly a private matter between his chief of staff and
him. I decried attack-dog journalism. I talked of high-minded ethics, the pressures in public life, and the need to search our hearts for understanding and forgiveness. It was great TV, and the networks were dying for material.

Who would have expected the local Liberal campaign manager to be the lone voice of support for a disgraced Tory Finance Minister? When the anchors commented, which they all did eventually, that it was strange to hear me defend Cameron on the eve of the vote, I climbed still higher, noting that this was much bigger than a single election. It was about the decency of our society and the civility of our democracy. I even invoked Angus’s name, claiming that he was very troubled by the media’s reaction to the Cameron affair and that he was not interested in winning if it marked a watershed in the decline of our democratic values. Eric Cameron had given much and deserved better. Blah, blah, blah. I was quite proud of my performance.

As expected, my phone was hot when I stepped back in the door. I knew what was coming. The Leader’s chief of staff reached me first, followed quickly by the national campaign chair, and then by the president of the party. They were all livid and aghast at my unsanctioned performance. When the bluster and heat were removed, I was left with a clear chorus of “what the hell were you thinking?” I’d prepared for this, albeit only as I was driving home with my makeup still fresh. I calmly and patiently walked them through my rationale. Even though I didn’t believe my own words, I knew the political veterans on the other end of the phone would buy what I was selling. I was selling hope – the most sought-after commodity in any close campaign.

I told them Canada’s most popular Finance Minister was already dead and buried. I told them that courtesy of Angus McLintock’s assiduous campaigning (I had to stop and define
assiduous
for two of them before continuing), we were poised to capitalize on Cameron’s flame-out. Therefore, in doing the interviews, I was merely staking out the moral high ground Liberals
should always occupy. I reminded them that it was in keeping with the best traditions of our party. I told them it was Laurier’s legacy. That was my message in a nutshell.

The Liberal campaign brain trust wasn’t thrilled, but my point was made. And I hadn’t even had time to sharpen my skates. I did get my wrists slapped for doing national interviews without approval from the Centre, but I was definitely operating in the “seek forgiveness rather than permission” zone.

Understandably, my political masters wanted me to kick Cameron while he was down. I was more interested in offering him the Heimlich manoeuvre and CPR at the same time. I, too, was running on the fumes of hope.

Finally, I issued a brief statement from Angus, reiterating my media message. In the statement, Angus announced that he would make no public appearances for the rest of the campaign out of respect for Eric Cameron’s extraordinary contribution to Canada and out of disdain for the media’s treatment of the former Finance Minister. As part of standing in solidarity with Eric Cameron, I actually contemplated distributing a news release, revealing that Angus McLintock had also explored new sexual frontiers and could sympathize with the Finance Minister’s position. (I know, I had gone completely off the air. I thought better of it long before my fingers ever hit the keyboard.)

By this time, the morning had become early afternoon. I was fine when I was busy. Running around doing interviews and fielding calls kept my mind in a more pleasant place. With the flurry of activity in the morning now behind me, I felt fatigue encroaching on my high spirits, and with it returned the amorphous malaise I’d been trying to shed since the smoke cleared at Petra’s house. At that moment, there was only one thing that could distract me from the gathering perfect storm. She knocked on the door at about two o’clock. Lindsay looked like she’d just stepped out of the shower, sans makeup, with her hair still damp. She wore
those great jeans again, some sort of athletic sandals, and an oversize, orange golf shirt, untucked.

She’d called earlier and must have detected the crazed edge to my voice. She had ended the call with “I’ll be right over.” I’d hung up and realized I was looking forward to her arrival. Since our long talk at Starbucks some weeks earlier, I’d been so consumed with the campaign, not to mention the previous evening’s “scandal for the ages,” that we’d not advanced what I thought might turn into a real relationship. Of course, we both knew I was on the rebound – in a big way. Forewarned is forearmed. An image of Rachel flashed into my head, but I blocked her out with an imaginary rubber tree planted in my mind’s eye.

“Hey, Daniel, turn on CBC. The PM is about to make a statement on the Cameron affair,” Lindsay announced as she strolled into the boathouse and flopped onto the couch.

“Really? How do you know that?” I asked.

“I just heard it on the news coming over. I’m not sure why he’s waited this long,” Lindsay noted.

“They needed 24 hours to do a quick and dirty poll before deciding how to respond,” I sneered. “Plus, the PM took a walk up the TV dial and was shaken by what he saw.”

I plunked down beside her and tuned in CBC. As our legs touched, neither of us shifted to break the contact. A warm sensation washed over me. The TV flickered to life, and the Prime Minister emerged from 24 Sussex Drive, his face nothing short of ashen. Following his prepared statement, he would fly directly to Calgary on a government Challenger to be in his riding when the polls opened on Monday. The standard photo op of him casting his own vote was already arranged for the morning. He stood in front of a single microphone on the front steps of the Prime Minister’s official residence, wearing a dark blue suit, white Oxford broadcloth shirt, and an ugly tie, knotted in a less-than-perfect single Windsor. (Prime Ministers really should always tie double Windsors.) All
Canadian networks broke into regular programming to carry the PM’s words live:

When the Prime Minister uttered “exposing himself,” he winced slightly. Somewhere else, a lonely speech writer said, “Oops.” The PM continued:

The Prime Minister folded his notes, turned on his heel, and walked back into the front door of the house he hoped to continue occupying for another four years. As a student of public speaking and a writer of speeches, I actually thought the Prime Minister had done very well under trying circumstances. I clicked off the TV and let my head loll to the right until it rested on Lindsay’s shoulder.

“What am I going to do? Six weeks ago, I couldn’t find a candidate and thought nothing could be worse. Then, Angus agreed to stand but only if I promised he would go down to defeat. Now, it’s quite possible that the guy who ran to lose may actually win the damn seat. I’ve now discovered there’s something worse than having no Liberal candidate.”

“Would it really be so bad if Angus won?” Lindsay asked. “Isn’t he just the kind of candidate you’ve always wanted to support? He speaks his mind, does the right thing, and is as honest as his beard is long.”

“Yes, but he’s halfway around the world, blissfully unaware that Cameron’s star has not just fallen but been blown out of the sky, and he has no desire or intention to represent this riding in the House of Commons. He has his research, his water-filtration systems, and that hovercraft thingy right below us. He’s 60 years old,
looks like a vagrant, and is fond of late-night skinny dipping. He’s not built to serve, he doesn’t want to serve, and I promised him he wouldn’t have to serve. No good can come of this,” I moaned.