Ed Gorman - Blindside

An army of TV people had taken over the auditorium. Miles of black cable, men and women pushing cameras around on stage, sound checks, lighting checks, rostrums being set in place, all for a night that would hopefully attract not only a large viewing audience but also a few headlines. Maybe even a career-destroying statement uttered in haste or anger. It was a boxing match with words.

I didn’t see any of our people so I just dropped into a chair in back and opened my laptop and checked in with the home office. None of the internals had changed much. There was a Tribune poll that showed a tie, Burkhart with a one-point lead, but since that was well within the margin of error it was moot. My other candidates hadn’t moved much either.

I went to HuffPo and Talking Points Memo for breaking news. A candidate in Texas wanted to declare all liberals ‘enemies of the state,’ and a congressman on our side was trying to explain why he’d hired five of his inexperienced relatives as staffers. The way of the world.

My cell phone beeped. I smiled as soon as I heard her voice. ‘Are you in some important meeting?’

‘Yes. The president and I are discussing whether or not to round up Goth people and make them start wearing real loud Bermuda shorts and yellow T-shirts.’

‘Humorous. Just like my father.’

‘But you don’t like your father and I thought you were crazy about me.’

‘Well, I like you better than my dad but that doesn’t mean I trust you very much. No offense, but you’re sort of out of it. In general, I mean.’

‘Who could take offense at that?’

‘I went back to Jimmy’s apartment. My wallet must’ve fallen out when we climbed on to the fire escape. I had to be nice to that creep again. I even had to let him rub against my leg. He’s like a dog.’

The colorful world of young Goths in America.

‘So did you find your wallet?’

‘Yeah. But that isn’t why I called. He wanted to know who you really are. I guess he saw us standing at the bottom of the fire escape. I lied and said you were just this friend of mine. Then he started telling me that three or four nights before Jimmy died these two people came real late at night and went upstairs. He saw them because he had to help the old woman who lived across from Jimmy get her cat. The cat got out and was running around the apartment house.’

‘Did he describe the two people?’

‘He said they looked like rich people, but remember, anybody who takes a shower probably looks like they’re rich to him.’

God, I liked her. ‘He give you any details?’

‘Yeah, but he was suspicious. He wondered why I was so interested. I told him because Jimmy was my friend and somebody murdered him. That’s when I had to let him rub up against my leg.’ She then started painting a verbal picture of Mrs Burkhart and David Nolan. And then she said, ‘He said he almost went up there because he could hear them shouting at each other. But just when he was putting on his shirt to leave his apartment they quieted down. He said they probably stayed about half an hour.’

‘Did he tell the police any of this?’

‘He said he didn’t tell the police anything they didn’t ask. He said his best friend was doing time in Joliet and that even though he’d run over that chick he was a nice guy when he was sober and because of that he wouldn’t tell the cops dick. That’s the word he used, ‘dick.’ Does any of this help you?’

‘A lot.’

‘I miss Jimmy. He was my best friend, Dev.’

Rusty Burkhart strode on to the stage for the rehearsal. He had the easy, comfortable masculinity of the old Western movie stars. He shook enough hands to give himself blisters and then ambled over to one of the rostrums, hefty but not fat in his charcoal shirt and jeans. He’d once claimed he was from Viking blood, which was possibly true if Vikings had worn lurid red toupees.

Jeff Ward in the flesh appeared from the other side of the stage. I wondered if he’d coordinated his outfit with Burkhart. Blue shirt, jeans, Western boots. We weren’t going to have a debate; we were going to have a hoedown.

Being pols they shook hands like old friends. Being in a photo op they smiled their asses off, too. And being single-minded about winning they started taking shots at each other with the smiles getting bigger and bigger.

Speaking to the small cadre of TV reporters and camera people standing on the floor below him, Rusty Burkhart produced some kind of document from his back pocket and waved it at them. ‘We’ll see if my friend Jeff here is willing to sign my “I Am an American” pledge tonight. That’s one way we’ll know if he’s going to do right by this country or not. A lot of people are suspicious about anybody who won’t sign this pledge. And by people I mean voters.’

They were like a vaudeville team. Now it was Ward’s turn to shine. ‘And while I’m not signing the pledge that violates many parts of our sacred Constitution, I will be reminding voters that my friend Rusty here once said that maybe God’s plan was to have sick people die if they couldn’t afford to pay for their own insurance. He hasn’t been saying that much lately.’ Ward was shaking his head like a schoolmarm who’d just uncovered a turd on the floor.

‘Not only have I not been saying it lately — I’ve never said it.’ So there. Burkhart sounded definite.

‘But there’s a tape of you saying it, Mr Burkhart,’ a young female reporter said.

‘Completely out of context. And let’s not change the subject.’ He waved his pledge again.

What we had here was similar to the weigh-in for a heavyweight champion boxing match. The fighters wanted a good crowd so they gnawed on the other guy’s ass to the delight of the press.

The last thing I paid attention to was Ward saying, ‘What Mr Burkhart is saying here is that if we got rid of the minimum wage we’d put a lot more people to work. But I don’t know many folks who’d sweat and slave for a dollar an hour.’

‘Nobody ever said anything about a dollar an hour and you know that, Congressman.’

And so on.

I went back to my work on my laptop. I didn’t know much about David Nolan so I tried to find as many short biographies of him as I could. I had no idea what I was looking for. I had one fact to guide me. He and Ward had been best friends for most of their lives. And yet he and Mrs Burkhart had not only been together some of the time, they’d visited Jim Waters a few nights before his death. There was a connection here somewhere, but what was it?

I skimmed the results of numerous Google searches before hitting one from an alumni magazine piece that spotlighted Nolan and Ward as celebrated former students. The first five hundred words focused on the politics of their time in Washington, the second five hundred words dealt with their student council activities while undergrads at the school. It was in the final five hundred words that I found what I was looking for.

‘Most reports about the friendship of the two men omit the year they didn’t speak to each other. Even now they are reluctant to discuss it. This happened in 1993 according to some of their close friends. But even they aren’t sure what caused the rift. What ended their disagreement — subject still unknown — was that they were seated near each other at a homecoming football game. Ward claims that Nolan came over to him and offered his hand; Nolan insists it was Ward who came over and offered his hand. Whatever, the friendship was renewed.’

Precedent. What had happened back then? And did it have any bearing on their recent falling-out?

By the time I was finished Burkhart and his people had left the stage. Ward stood by the podium he’d been assigned, talking to a member of the TV crew. As I walked over to them, Ward was pointing to a light placed directly above him. ‘I’m not trying to tell you your job, Jason, I’m just saying why don’t we light it up and take a look. I don’t want to pull a Dick Nixon here. Remember the first Kennedy-Nixon TV debate?’