ushernet Chapter 360 - 172: Fastidiousness and Failure
Chapter 360 - 172: Fastidiousness and Failure
Congress Street, Washington D.C.
This was the headquarters of the Democratic National Committee.
In the chairman’s office on the top floor, Marcus Crassus was sitting in his chair, holding a cup of espresso.
The office door was thrown open.
Daniel Sanders strode in.
The old Senator from Vermont looked travel-worn, and his slightly oversized suit jacket still carried the heat from outside.
He was clutching a blue folder.
"Daniel?"
Marcus set down his coffee cup, a look of professional surprise on his face.
"I thought you were still in the Senate, fighting with the Republicans over that damn budget bill. What brings you here?"
Sanders walked to the desk and placed the blue folder flat in front of Marcus.
"Take a look at this."
"There’s a group of people who want to join us."
Marcus frowned, looking from the folder to the strangely-acting old Senator before him.
"Party applications?"
"What kind of big shots are we talking about, that they’re worth a personal visit from a busy man like you from the Senate?"
"Just a group of people looking for a way to survive." Sanders pulled out a chair, sat down, and even crossed his legs.
Marcus’s gaze fell upon the first page.
Immediately, the casual look on his face froze.
His pupils contracted violently.
He saw the names on it.
Ron Smith, Mayor of Erie City.
Joe Byers, Mayor of Scranton.
And then there was the long list of names of mayors and Union leaders from Altoona and Johnston.
Marcus snapped the folder shut, as if the paper had burned his hand.
He looked up, staring intently at the calm-faced Sanders.
"Daniel, are you kidding me?"
Marcus’s voice shot up an octave, almost cracking.
"What is this? Ron Smith? That old hardliner who’s spent decades cursing us out on the Lake Erie shoreline?"
Marcus stood up, grabbing the file and waving it around.
"Do you know this man’s background? Our opposition research department has a thick file on him!"
"He’s a lifetime member of the National Rifle Association! He has enough guns in his house to arm a platoon!"
"And this Joe Byers, he’s a staunch supporter of shale gas and opposes any form of carbon tax!"
Marcus threw the file back on the desk.
"And you want me to accept these people into our party?"
"Do you want environmental groups to tear down the doors of the Democratic National Committee? Or do you want women’s rights groups staging a hunger strike outside my office?"
"This is letting the wolf into the sheepfold!"
"This is suicide!"
Faced with Marcus’s roaring, Sanders appeared exceptionally calm.
"Are you done with your nonsense?"
Sanders asked coldly.
"Nonsense? This is about principles! This is our party’s bottom line!" Marcus was still agitated.
"What bottom line?"
Sanders stood up and walked to the wall on the other side of the office.
A huge electoral map of the United States hung there.
On the map, red and blue intertwined—the most direct visual representation of the American political battlefield.
Sanders extended a finger and jabbed it hard on Pennsylvania.
"Marcus, open your eyes and look."
"What color is this?"
Marcus glanced at it. "It’s a Swing State, currently leaning red."
"That’s right. Leaning red."
Sanders’s finger slid across the map.
"Look at Philadelphia, it’s deep blue. Look at Pittsburgh, it’s deep blue."
"But what about the middle?"
"That vast expanse of land in between, those scattered towns, those forgotten mining areas."
"It’s all red."
"It’s a sea of red surrounding two blue islands."
Sanders turned, his back against the map.
"We’ve already maxed out our voter base in Philadelphia. Aston Monroe has mobilized every college student who can vote, every middle-class woman."
"Our base in Pittsburgh is at its peak, too. Leo Wallace even managed to drag out the poor who never vote."
"But even with all that, in our statewide data models, we’re still trailing Russell Warren by six percentage points."
"Six percentage points!"
"Without these Rust Belt Cities defecting, without these gun-toting, climate-change-denying mayors bringing their voters over to our side..."
"John Murphy can’t win."
"If Murphy loses, we lose our Senate seat in Pennsylvania."
"If Pennsylvania is lost, our majority in the Senate is in jeopardy."
"If we lose the Senate, the President will be a lame duck for the next two years. He won’t be able to pass a single bill."
Sanders stared at Marcus.
"Is this the big picture you’re looking for?"
"For the sake of your so-called purity, to stop a few radical environmental groups from blasting you on Twitter, you’re going to just hand over victory in the midterms?"
Marcus was forced back into his chair by Sanders’s rapid-fire barrage of questions.
He was a shrewd calculator; of course he knew how to do this math.
But the risk of accepting someone like Ron Smith was just too great.
"Daniel, look at me."
Marcus rubbed his temples, his tense tone softening.
"I’m not blind, and I’m not a fool. I know the weight this list carries."
Marcus pointed at the folder on the desk.
"Getting this gang of Republican die-hards from the Lake Erie shoreline, who’ve been cursing us for decades, to switch allegiances is nothing short of a political miracle. I know how much blood, sweat, and tears you and that young man Leo put into this, how much difficult work you did behind the scenes."
"Tactically, it’s a brilliant move."
Marcus sighed.
"But, Daniel, you have to try and see it from my position. Sitting in this chair, I have to protect more than just the outcome in Pennsylvania. I have to protect the entire party’s bottom line and platform."
"This violates our core principles."
Marcus’s voice grew heavy.
"Think about it. When the news breaks tomorrow morning, what will the media write? The front-page headline of the New York Times won’t be ’Democratic Party Expands Its Territory.’ It will be ’Democratic Party Surrenders to the Right Wing for Votes.’"
"They’ll say that to win, we’re willing to embrace people who oppose our core values."
"A media firestorm like that would destroy us."
"And our base." Marcus looked worried. "Those liberal donors in California and New York... they write us checks for millions of US Dollars every year because they believe we’re fighting for environmental protection and gun control."
"When they see us sitting down with a bunch of members from the National Rifle Association, they’ll just feel insulted."
"It will cause a schism within the party."
"A schism?"
Sanders scoffed.
"Victory is the best adhesive."
"As long as we win, as long as we take that Senator’s seat, as long as we control Congress..."
"Those donors will be the first ones to pop the champagne and celebrate. The media will praise our ’big tent’ strategy, commend us for knowing how to unite all forces that can be united."
"As for right now?"
Sanders pointed to the folder on the desk.
"We don’t need them to become liberals."
"Leo and Murphy have already designed a perfect plan."
"We’re calling it the Blue-collar Core Team."
"We’ve reached an agreement with them: on economic issues—infrastructure, jobs, trade protectionism—they must follow the Party Whip and stand with us."
"But on cultural issues, on sensitive topics like guns and abortion, we’ll allow them to vote their conscience."
"We’re leaving them an out, allowing them to continue playing the role of conservatives in their respective cities."
Listening to this plan, Marcus had to admit to himself that it was a highly feasible concept.
It perfectly sidestepped a direct ideological clash while reaping a solid harvest of votes.
"Did that young mayor from Pittsburgh come up with this?" Marcus asked.
"He and Murphy, together," Sanders replied. "That young man knows more about politics than you think."
Marcus fell silent.
On one hand, there was the immense pressure of the midterm elections; on the other, the red line of the party’s political correctness.
He was a bureaucrat. His instinct was to avoid risk.
This was too big. If anything went wrong, if the media whipped it into a frenzy, he couldn’t take the heat alone.
"No."
Marcus finally shook his head.
"Daniel, the responsibility is too great. I can’t sign off on this."
"If I approve the formation of this core team, and some scandal breaks out later—if one of those mayors says something racist—I’ll be the one held primarily responsible."
"I can’t gamble my career on this."
"Unless..."
Marcus raised his hand and pointed out the window.
Toward the White House.
"Unless *he* gives the nod."
Marcus stated his bottom line.
"Only if the President or the White House Chief of Staff personally approves this plan and gives me explicit political backing will I dare to let it proceed."
"Otherwise, you could kill me, and I still wouldn’t sign that document."
Marcus didn’t dare take the responsibility; he needed authorization from a higher power.
Sanders looked at the cautious chairman. A flicker of disappointment crossed his eyes, but it was mostly replaced by a look of calm resignation, as if he had expected this all along.
He knew it would be like this.
Washington bureaucrats, when faced with risk, would always choose to pass the buck.
"Fine."
Sanders stood up.
He straightened his slightly wrinkled suit and took the blue folder back into his hands.
"Since you don’t have the guts to go."
Sanders tucked the folder under his arm and turned toward the door.
"Then I’ll go."
"Daniel!" Marcus shot to his feet in alarm. "Are you serious? You’re really going to the White House?"
"I have no other choice."
Sanders stopped and glanced back at Marcus.
"Murphy is waiting. Leo is still on the front lines, holding up under pressure."
"They’ve turned this chess game around and put the knife in our hands."
"If my weakness, my fear of knocking on that door, causes us to lose everything..."
"...I’ll never forgive myself for the rest of my life."
Sanders pushed open the door.
"Get your seal ready, Marcus."
"When I get back, I want to see that approved document on your desk."
With that, the old Senator strode out of the chairman’s office.
Marcus sat in his chair, watching Sanders’s retreating back.
He suddenly felt that this old man, usually known within the party for being stubborn and radical, possessed, in this moment, a kind of awesome, lonely courage.