The Zero Game

I dial the final number and grab the receiver. If I were a novice, I’d say, Hi, Mr. Gursten, I’m Harris Sandler… Senator Stevens’s chief of staff. I have the Senator here for you... Instead, I hand the phone to the Senator just as Gursten picks up. It’s perfectly timed and a beautiful touch. The donor thinks the Senator himself called, instantly making them feel like old buddies.

As Stevens introduces himself, I toss a piece of hamachi in my mouth. Sushi and solicitations – typical Stevens lunch.

“So, Ed…” Stevens sings as I shake my head. “Where’ve you been my last dozen flights? You back in the cheap seats?” His pitch is off, but it still works like a dream. Personal calls from a Senator always hit home. And by home, I mean in the wallet.

“You were here? In D.C.?” Stevens asks. “Next time you’re around, you should give me a call and we can try to grab lunch…”

Translation: We don’t have a chance of grabbing lunch. If you’re lucky, we’ll get five minutes together. But if you don’t raise your donation this year, you may only get a senior staffer and some gallery passes.

“… we’ll get you into the Capitol – make sure you don’t have to wait on any of those lines…”

My staff will give you an intern who’ll take you on exactly the same tour of the Capitol that you’d get on the public tour, but you’ll feel far more important this way…

“I mean, we have to take care of our friends, don’t we?”

I mean, how’s about helping us out with some coin, fat man?

Stevens hangs up the phone with a verbal pledge that “Ed” will raise fifteen grand. I pass the Senator some yellowtail and dial the next number.

Years ago, political money came from powerful WASPs you met at a dinner party in a tastefully decorated second home. Today, it comes from a well-vetted call sheet in a fluorescent-lit room that sits directly atop a sushi restaurant on Massachusetts Avenue. The office has three desks, two computers, and ten phone lines. Old money versus new marketing. It’s not even close. There’s not a Congressman on the Hill who doesn’t make these calls. Some do three hours a day; others do three a week. Stevens is the former. He likes his job. And the perks. And he’s not about to lose them. It’s the first rule of politics: You can do anything you want, but if you don’t raise the cash, you won’t be doing it for long.

“Who’s next?” Stevens asks.

“Virginia Rae Morrison. You know her from Green Bay.”

“We went to school together?”

“She was a neighbor. When you were nine,” I explain, reading from the sheet. When it comes to fundraising, federal law says you can’t make calls from your government office or a government phone – which is why every day, this close to elections, half of Congress leaves the Capitol to make calls from somewhere else. The average Member goes three blocks away to the phone rooms in Republican and Democratic campaign headquarters. Smarter Members hire a fundraising consultant to help build a personal database of reliable supporters and potential donors. And a dozen or so mad-genius Members kiss the ring and hire Len Logan, a fundraising expert so organized, the “Comments” sections of his call sheets have details like: “She just finished treatment for breast cancer.”

“Yup, yup – I got her,” Stevens says as the phone rings in my ear.

“Hello…” a female voice answers.

The Senator slides me the yellowtail; I slide him the receiver. We’ve got it running smoother than a ballet.

“Hey, there, Virginia, how’s my favorite fighter?”

I nod, impressed. Don’t reintroduce yourself if you’re supposed to be old friends. As Stevens takes a two-minute gallop down memory lane, one of my two cell phones vibrates in my pocket. The one in my right pocket is paid for by the Senator’s office. The one in my left is paid by me. Public and private. According to Matthew, in my life, there’s no distinction. What he doesn’t understand is, if you love your job like I do, there shouldn’t be.

Checking to see that Stevens is still busy, I reach for my left pocket and check the tiny screen on my phone. Caller ID blocked

. That’s everyone I know.

“Harris,” I answer.

“Harris, it’s Cheese,” my assistant says, his voice shaking. I already don’t like the tone. “I-I don’t know how to… It’s Matthew… he…”

“Matthew what?”

“He got hit by a car,” Cheese says. “He’s dead. Matthew’s dead.”

Every muscle in my body goes limp, and it feels as if my head’s floating away from my shoulders. “What?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard.”