Blowback

She was contemplating several pieces of furniture now housed at the Smithsonian that she thought would be perfect in the vice-presidential residence at the Naval Observatory, when Russ Mercer’s secretary set down her phone and said, “The chairman will see you now, Senator.”

“Here we go, “ Carmichael said to herself as she stood and smoothed out her skirt. Walking toward the heavy mahogany door, she wondered how Mercer was going to offer her the VP slot. Hopefully, he would have the class to apologize to her first for how unsupportive he’d been. There was also the issue of his meeting with the president’s chief of staff, Chuck Anderson, and the things he’d said there, but at this point, she was willing to forgive and forget everything. All she wanted to hear were the words The party needs you on the ticket.

As she neared the door, she was suddenly self-conscious and wished she had taken a moment to use the ladies’ room to check her hair and makeup one last time. When she had received the message that Mercer wanted to meet with her and that he had a very important item to discuss, she had spent the whole evening prior trying to decide what to wear. She had also had one of her staffers, the pretty young Asian girl whose name she was always forgetting, come over that morning to help her do her hair and makeup in a way that would make her appear softer and, as the DNC chairman had put it, less of a raging bull dyke. Knocking on the heavy door, she hoped her efforts wouldn’t be lost on him.

“Good morning, Helen,” said Mercer as Carmichael proudly strode into the room with her head held high and her shoulders back. “Thank you for coming.”

She was about to return his greeting when out of the corner of her eye she spied Charles Anderson standing next to the window and stopped dead in her tracks. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“Why don’t you take a seat?” replied Mercer.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on,” she snapped.

“I warned you this whole thing was going to blow up in your face,” said the president’s chief of staff.

Carmichael ignored him. “Russ, I demand an explanation. What is Chuck Anderson doing in this office?”

“He’s here to help prep you for your press conference,” replied the DNC chairman.

Part of Carmichael wanted to believe that what she was seeing was the ultimate in strange bedfellows, that Anderson had come to help her craft a statement announcing her run for the White House with Minnesota Governor Bob Farnsworth, but deep down, she knew that wasn’t the case. Slowly, it began to dawn on her that Russ Mercer had not asked her here this morning to offer her a chance to be vice president. Though she didn’t know exactly what was going on, she could feel herself being backed into a corner, and she didn’t like it. Her only choice was to play along until she knew what this was all about. “I don’t have any press conference scheduled for this morning.”

“You do now,” replied Anderson. “In a half hour on the steps of the Senate.”

Taking one of the seats in front of Mercer’s desk, she responded, “That’s very interesting. And what exactly is it that I’ll be announcing?”

“Your resignation,” answered the DNC chairman.

“My what?”

“You heard me. Your resignation.”

“I will do no such thing,” said Carmichael.

“You sure as hell will,” replied Mercer, “ or you’ll be going to jail for a very long time.”

“Jail? This is preposterous. Jail for what?”

Anderson looked at her and said, “Don’t play coy, Helen. It doesn’t suit you. I warned you that if you didn’t back off, this was going to bite you in the ass, and it has.”

“What is this? Some kind of intimidation tactic?” demanded Carmichael, who then faced Mercer. “What’s your role in all of this, Russ? Are you now a tool of the Republican administration? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You’ve really let the party down. You’re a disgrace.”

Russ Mercer was through being polite. “No, Helen, you’re the one who has let the party down, and to tell you the truth, I’m going to be glad to be rid of you.”

Carmichael was shocked, but had no intention of giving in. “You’re going to have to do a lot better than this if you want to get rid of me.”

The DNC chairman simply shook his head, picked up the remote control from the corner of his desk, pointed it at the entertainment center on the far wall, and pressed play.

First, Carmichael heard her voice, and then as the TV screen warmed all the way up, she saw herself along with Brian Turner in the eighth-floor suite of the Westin Embassy Row hotel. Immediately, she felt as if she was going to throw up. She sat there frozen, unable to turn away. Thankfully, Mercer turned it off before it got to the most embarrassing part.

“You’ve been under surveillance for some time,” said Anderson.