Fletcher hired a helicopter and Nat chartered the bank’s small jet to take them around the state during the final seven days, by which time the don’t-knows had fallen to six percent, shedding one point to each rival. By the end of the week, both men wondered if there was a shopping mall, factory, railway station, town hall, hospital or even street that they hadn’t visited, and both accepted that, in the end, it was going to be the organization on the ground that mattered. And the winner would be the one who had the best-oiled machine on election day. No one was more aware of this than Tom and Jimmy, but they couldn’t think of anything they hadn’t already done or prepared for, and could only speculate as to what might go wrong at the last minute.
For Nat, election day was a blur of airports and main streets, as he tried to visit every city that had a runway before the polling booths closed at eight P.M. As soon as his plane touched down, he would run to the second car in the motorcade, and take off at seventy miles an hour, until he reached the city limits, where he would slow down to ten miles an hour, and start waving at anyone who showed the slightest interest. He ended up in the main street at a walking pace, and then reversed the process with a frantic dash back to the airport before taking off for the next city.
Fletcher spent his final morning in Hartford, trying to get out his core vote before taking the helicopter to visit the most densely populated Democratic areas. Later that night, commentators even discussed who had made the better use of the last few hours. Both men landed back at Hartford’s Brainard airport a few minutes after the polls had closed.
Normally in these situations, candidates will go to almost any lengths to avoid one another, but when the two teams crossed on the tarmac, like jousters at a fair, they headed straight toward each other.
“Senator,” said Nat, “I will need to see you first thing in the morning as there are several changes I will require before I feel able to sign your education bill.”
“The bill will be law by this time tomorrow,” replied Fletcher. “I intend it to be my first executive action as governor.”
Both men became aware that their closest aides had fallen back so that they could have a private conversation, and they realized that the banter served little purpose if there was no audience to play to.
“How’s Lucy?” asked Nat. “I hope her problem’s been sorted out.”
“How did you know about that?” asked Fletcher.
“One of my staff was leaked the details a couple of weeks ago. I made it clear that if the subject was raised again he would no longer be part of my team.”
“I’m grateful,” said Fletcher, “because I still haven’t told Annie.” He paused, “Lucy spent a few days in New York with Logan Fitzgerald, and then returned home to join me on the campaign trail.”
“I wish I’d been able to watch her grow up, like any other uncle. I would have loved to have a daughter.”
“Most days of the week she’d happily swap me for you,” said Fletcher. “I’ve even had to raise her allowance in exchange for not continually reminding me how wonderful you are.”
“I’ve never told you,” said Nat, “that after your intervention with that gunman who took over Miss Hudson’s class at Hartford School, Luke stuck a photograph of you up on his bedroom wall, and never took it down, so please pass on my best wishes to my niece.”
“I will, but be warned that if you win, she’s going to postpone college for a year and apply for a job in your office as an intern, and she’s already made it clear that she won’t be available if her father is the governor.”
“Then I look forward to her joining my team,” said Nat, as one or two aides reappeared and suggested that perhaps it was time for both of them to be moving on.
Fletcher smiled. “How do you want to play tonight?”
“If either of us gets a clear lead by midnight, the other will call and concede?”
“Suits me,” said Fletcher, “I think you know my home number.”
“I’ll be waiting for your call, Senator,” said Nat.
The two candidates shook hands on the concourse outside the airport, and their motorcades whisked off in different directions.
A designated team of state troopers followed both candidates home. Their orders were clear. If your man wins, you are protecting the new governor. If he loses, you take the weekend off.
Neither team took the weekend off.
53
Nat switched on the radio the moment he got into the car. The early exit polls were making it clear that Bill Clinton would be taking up residence in the White House next January, and that President Bush would probably have to concede before midnight. A lifetime of public service, a year of campaigning, a day of voting, and your political career becomes a footnote in history. “That’s democracy for you,” President Bush was later heard to remark ruefully.
Other pollsters across the country were suggesting that not only the White House, but both the Senate and Congress would be controlled by the Democrats. CBS’s anchor man, Dan Rather, was reporting a close result in several seats. “In Connecticut, for example, the gubernatorial race is too close to call, and the exit polls are unable to predict the outcome. But for now it’s over to our correspondent in Little Rock, who is outside Governor Clinton’s home.”
Nat flicked off the radio as the little motorcade of three SUVs came to a halt outside his home. He was greeted by two television cameras, a radio reporter and a couple of journalists—how different from Arkansas, where over a hundred television cameras and countless radio and newspaper journalists waited for the first words of the president-elect. Tom was standing by the front door.
“Don’t tell me,” said Nat as he walked past the press and into the house. “It’s too close to call. So when can we hope to hear a result involving some real voters?”
“We’re expecting the first indicators to come through within the hour,” said Tom, “and if it’s Bristol, they usually vote Democrat.”
“Yes, but by how much?” asked Nat as they headed toward the kitchen, to find Su Ling glued to the television, a burning smell coming from the stove.
Fletcher stood in front of the television, watching Clinton as he waved to the crowds from the balcony of his home in Arkansas. At the same time he tried to listen to a briefing from Jimmy. When he’d first met the Arkansas governor at the Democratic convention in New York City, Fletcher hadn’t given him a prayer. To think that only last year, following America’s victory in the Gulf War, Bush had enjoyed the highest opinion poll ratings in history.
“Clinton may be declared the winner,” said Fletcher, “but Bush sure as hell lost it.” He stared at Bill and Hillary hugging each other, as their bemused twelve-year-old daughter stood by their side. He thought about Lucy and her recent abortion, realizing it would have been front-page news if he had been running for president. He wondered how Chelsea would cope with that sort of pressure.
Lucy came dashing into the room. “Mom and I have prepared all your favorite dishes, as it will be nothing but public functions for the next four years.” He smiled at her youthful exuberance. “Corn on the cob, spaghetti bolognese, and if you’ve won before midnight, crème brûlée.”
“But not all together,” begged Fletcher, and, turning to Jimmy, who had rarely been off the phone since the moment he’d entered the house, he asked, “When are you expecting the first result in?”
“Any minute now,” Jimmy replied. “Bristol prides itself on always announcing first, and we have to capture that by three to four percent if we hope to win overall.”
“And below three percent?”
“We’re in trouble,” Jimmy replied.
Nat checked his watch. It was just after nine in Hartford, but the image on the screen showed voters still going to the polls in California. BREAKING NEWS was plastered across the screen. NBC was the first to declare that Clinton would be the new president of the United States. George Bush was already being labeled by the networks with the cruel epitaph “one-termer.”
The phones rang constantly in the background, as Tom tried to field all the calls. If he thought Nat ought to speak to the caller personally, the phone was passed across to him, if not, he heard Tom repeating, “He’s tied up at the moment, but thank you for calling, I’ll pass your message on.”
“I hope there’s a TV wherever I’m ‘tied up,’” said Nat, “otherwise I’ll never know whether to accept or concede,” he added as he tried valiantly to cut into a burned steak.
“At last a real piece of news,” said Tom, “but I can’t work out who it helps, because the turnout in Connecticut was fifty-one percent, a couple of points above the national average.” Nat nodded, turning his attention back to the screen. The words “too close to call” were still being relayed from every corner of the state.
When Nat heard the name Bristol, he pushed aside his steak. “And now we go over to our eyewitness correspondent for the latest update,” said the news anchor.
“Dan, we’re expecting a result here at any moment, and it should be the first real sign of just how close this gubernatorial race really is. If the Democrats win by…hold on, the result is coming over on my earpiece…the Democrats have taken Bristol.” Lucy leaped out of her chair, but Fletcher didn’t move as he waited for the details to be flashed across the bottom of the screen. “Fletcher Davenport 8,604 votes, Nat Cartwright 8,379,” said the reporter.
“Three percent. Who’s due up next?”
“Probably Waterbury,” said Tom, “where we should do well because…”
“And Waterbury has gone to the Republicans, by just over five thousand votes, putting Nat Cartwright into the lead.”
Both candidates spent the rest of the evening leaping up, sitting down and then leaping back up again as the lead changed hands sixteen times during the next two hours, by which time even the commentators had run out of hyperboles. But somewhere in between the results flooding in, the local anchor man found time to announce that President Bush had phoned Governor Clinton in Arkansas to concede. He had offered his congratulations and best wishes to the president-elect. Does this herald a new Kennedy era? The politicos were asking…“But now back to the race for governor of Connecticut, and here’s one for the statistics buffs, the position at the moment is that the Democrats lead the Republicans by 1,170,141 to 1,168,872, an overall lead for Senator Davenport of 1,269. As that is less than one percent, an automatic recount would have to take place. And if that isn’t enough,” continued the commentator, “we face an added complication because the district of Madison maintains its age-old tradition of not counting its votes until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Paul Holbourn, the mayor of Madison, was next up on the screen. The septuagenarian politician invited everyone to visit this picturesque seaside town, which would decide who would be the next governor of the state.
“How do you read it?” asked Nat, as Tom continued to enter numbers into his calculator. “Fletcher leads at the moment by 1,269 and at the last election, the Republicans took Madison by 1,312.”
“Then we must be favorites?” ventured Nat.
“I wish it was that easy,” said Tom, “because there’s a further complication we have to consider.”
“And what’s that?”
“The present governor of the state was born and raised in Madison, so there could be a considerable personal vote somewhere in there.”
“I should have gone to Madison one more time,” said Nat.
“You visited the place twice, which was once more than Fletcher managed.”
“I ought to call him,” said Nat, “and make it clear that I’m not conceding.”
Tom nodded his agreement as Nat walked over to the phone. He didn’t have to look up the senator’s private number because he had dialed it every evening during the trial.
“Hi,” said a voice, “this is the governor’s residence.”
“Not yet it isn’t,” said Nat firmly.
“Hello, Mr. Cartwright,” said Lucy, “were you hoping to speak to the governor?”
“No, I wanted to speak to your father.”
“Why, are you conceding?”
“No, I’ll leave him to do that in person tomorrow, when, if you behave yourself, I’ll be offering you a job.”
Fletcher grabbed the telephone, “I’m sorry about that, Nat,” he said, “I presume you’re calling to say all bets are off until tomorrow when we meet at high noon?”
“Yes, and now you mention it, I’m planning to play Gary Cooper,” said Nat.
“Then I’ll see you on Main Street, sheriff.”
“Just be thankful it’s not Ralph Elliot you’re up against.”
“Why?” asked Fletcher.
“Because right now he would be in Madison filling up ballot boxes with extra votes.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” said Fletcher.
“Why not?” asked Nat.
“Because if Elliot had been my opponent, I would have already won by a landslide.”
Book Seven
Numbers
54
It took Nat about an hour to drive to Madison, and when he reached the outskirts of the town, he could have been forgiven for thinking the little borough had been chosen as the venue for the seventh game in the World Series.
The highway was filled with cars festooned with emblems of red, white and blue, with donkeys and elephants staring blankly out of numerous back windows. When he took the turnoff for Madison, population 12,372, half the vehicles left the highway like steel filings drawn toward a magnet.
“If you take away those who are too young to vote, I presume the turnout should be around five thousand,” said Nat.
“Not necessarily. I suspect it will prove to be a little higher than that,” Tom replied. “Don’t forget Madison is where retired people come to visit their parents, so you won’t find it full of youth clubs and discos.”
“Then that should benefit us,” said Nat.
“I’ve given up predicting,” said Tom with a sigh.
No signpost was needed to guide them to the town hall, as everyone seemed to be heading in the same direction, confident that the person in front of them knew exactly where they were going. By the time Nat’s little motorcade arrived in the center of the town, they were being overtaken by mothers pushing strollers. When they turned into Main Street, they were continually held up by pedestrians spilling onto the road. When Nat’s car was overtaken by a man in a wheelchair, he decided the time had come to get out and walk. This slowed his progress down even more, because the moment he was recognized, people rushed up to shake him by the hand, and several asked if he would mind posing for a photograph with his wife.
“I’m glad to see that your reelection campaign has already begun,” teased Tom.
“Let’s get elected first,” said Nat as they reached the town hall. He climbed the steps, continuing to shake hands with all the well-wishers as if it were the day before the election, rather than the day after. He couldn’t help wondering if that would change when he came back down the steps and the same people knew the result. Tom spotted the mayor standing on the top step, looking out for him.
“Paul Holbourn,” whispered Tom. “He’s served three terms and at the age of seventy-seven has just won his fourth election unopposed.”
“Good to see you again, Nat,” said the mayor, as if they were old friends, though in fact they had only met on one previous occasion.
“And it’s good to see you too, sir,” said Nat, clutching the mayor’s outstretched hand. “Congratulations on your reelection—unopposed, I’m told.”
“Thank you,” said the mayor. “Fletcher arrived a few minutes ago, and is waiting in my office, so perhaps we ought to go and join him.” As they walked into the building, Holbourn said, “I just wanted to spend a few moments taking you both through the way we do things in Madison.”
“That’s fine by me,” said Nat, knowing that it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference if it wasn’t. br />
A crowd of officials and journalists followed the little party down the corridor to the mayor’s office, where Nat and Su Ling joined Fletcher and Annie and around thirty other people who felt they had the right to attend the select gathering.
“Can I get you some coffee, Nat, before we proceed?” asked the mayor.
“No thank you, sir,” said Nat.
“And how about your charming little wife?” Su Ling shook her head politely, not fazed by the tactless remark of a past generation. “Then I’ll begin,” the mayor continued, turning his attention to the crowded assembly that had squeezed into his office.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he paused, “and future governor,” he tried to look at both men at once. “The count will commence at ten o’clock this morning, as has been our custom in Madison for over a century, and I can see no reason why this should be delayed simply because there is a little more interest in our proceedings than usual.” Fletcher was amused by the understatement, but wasn’t in any doubt that the mayor intended to savor every moment of his fifteen minutes of fame.
“The township,” continued the mayor, “has 10,942 registered voters, who reside in eleven districts. The twenty-two ballot boxes were, as they always have been in the past, picked up a few minutes after the polls closed, and then transferred into the safe custody of our chief of police, who locked them up for the night.” Several people politely laughed at the mayor’s little joke, which caused him to smile and lose his concentration. He seemed to hesitate, until his chief of staff leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “Ballot boxes.”
“Yes, of course, yes. The ballot boxes were collected this morning and brought to the town hall at nine o’clock, when I asked my chief clerk to check that the seals had not been tampered with. He confirmed that they were all intact.” The mayor glanced around to observe his senior officials nodding their agreement. “At ten o’clock, I shall cut those seals, when the ballots will be removed from the boxes and placed on the counting table in the center of the main hall. The first count will do no more than verify how many people have cast their votes. Once that has been established, the ballots will then be sorted into three piles. Those who have voted Republican, those who have voted Democrat, and those that might be described as disputed ballots. Though I might add, these are rare in Madison, because for many of us, this might well be our last chance to register a vote.” This was greeted by a little nervous laughter, though Nat wasn’t in any doubt he meant it.