Brian Mcgrory - The Nominee

To Yvonne, for all the guidance and encouragement over these many years.

Saturday, April 21

LANCE RANDOLPH HAD NEVER been in the White House, never been offered so much as VIP tickets for the public tour — though not for any lack of desire. It was, though, for lack of partisanship. Ever since he was elected governor of Massachusetts, the president had always been of the opposite party.

Still was, which was what was so surprising about this night, about this visit.

He sat in the passenger seat of a rented Oldsmobile driven by his chief of staff and longtime aide, Benjamin Bank, who had apparently never been there either, because at the maze of checkpoints manned by uniformed Secret Service officers, Bank kept turning to him with uncharacteristic deference and asking, “Now what?”

“How should I know? Keep driving. We drive in the wrong place, we get shot.”

“Exactly.”

Randolph barely paid attention. They were on the blocked off stretch of Pennsylvania Avenue staring at the gleaming, glistening building, lit up on a fragrant spring night that might well change his life. Randolph’s heroes, men like Franklin Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy, lived and worked and made history in its warren of rooms and offices and hideaways, and now Randolph himself was being beckoned inside by none other than the president of the United States.

Randolph, still gazing out his side window, said, “You really think he’s going to jump parties?”

Bank squinted out the windshield and replied, “Not jump parties, but abandon his party. I think he’s worried that he can’t win a Republican primary and he sure as hell knows he can’t win a Democratic one. I think he wants to run for reelection as an Independent, and he’s going to start sounding you out for your support.”

Bank paused, looked over at Randolph in the passenger seat of the dark car, and added, “Time is on our side. There are eighteen months until the election. We should be able to parlay this into some federal funding for something, even without you making a definitive decision. That’s some scratch we really need right about now as we start to think about your own campaign.”

No one in politics ever just makes a straight shot at this level, Randolph thought to himself. Everything was always a carom or a cross-corner with a constant obsession for the leave. But it made sense, this scenario, the president pitching for his political support. After all, Randolph was one of the so-called new breed, described as such in a cover story in Newsweek just last year. He was young, the youngest governor in the nation, he was centrist, which was unusual considering his election and reelection in Massachusetts. He was good-looking and ambitious and smart. And right now, more than anything else, he was curious.

The two were directed to the northwest gate by a uniformed officer waving a flashlight at their car. Bank motored down both their windows and a pair of officers approached from each side, backlit by powerful spotlights shining over their shoulders from the roof of the guardshack and a nearby tree.

“Welcome to the White House, Governor,” one of them said to Randolph. “Drive up toward the West Wing as far as you can go and park on the right side. It’s a little crowded tonight, but we’ve been expecting you and saved you a space up front. Thank you.”

The mechanical gate slowly slid open. Randolph saw that the driveway was nose-to-tail with limousines and dark sedans. Lights blazed inside the main mansion. The beds of red tulips glistened in the spotlights, and the dogwood trees were in full, majestic bloom — every inch, every view, as beautiful as on TV.

As they pulled closer, they heard music spilling out the main door, jazzy music, followed by a round of festive applause.

“What the hell?” Randolph said softly, as much to himself as to Bank.

Bank shrugged as he wheeled into the space. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s throwing you a party.”

“We have the right night, right?”

“No, sir. I’ve completely screwed up the dates. I hope you’ll accept my apologies.”

Randolph ignored his aide and allowed his mind to drift again. What would it take to live here? What separated those who had from everyone else? More brains? No, Ronald Reagan did just fine. A clear vision? Jimmy Carter’s presidency would indicate not. Charm? Please. Think Richard Nixon and Lyndon Johnson.

It was skill and it was luck and it was the willingness to take enormous risks, all shaken together in the most alluring of cocktails that so very few people could ever taste. Maybe he would. Maybe someday.

As they were getting out of their car on the darkened driveway, the strains of “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” wafted from the residence and drifted through the night air.

Bank said, “Tony Bennett.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean that’s really Tony Bennett.”

Randolph listened intently. It was Tony Bennett, not on a CD, but live and in person — Tony Bennett at the White House.

Randolph smiled in that sly little way of his and said, “I had the University of Massachusetts marching band at my second inauguration.”

“You did, didn’t you. And they were excellent.”

Randolph continued smiling, but mostly to himself, as they headed toward the Marine guard standing outside the main door of the West Wing.

Maybe someday.

• • •

The two were sitting for ten, maybe fifteen minutes on a pair of royal blue wing chairs in a well lit waiting room outside of the Oval Office with a silent Secret Service officer when a self-important young female aide came through the door in a whir of motion and announced, “Governor Randolph, would you come with me.”

Benjamin Bank stood up as well, until the aide said, “The president would prefer to see the governor alone. We’ll come back for you.” No please, not even so much as a sir. Beacon Hill this was not.

Randolph was expecting to be led into the Oval Office, but instead the attractive aide — all legs and arms, all bared — guided him through a set of French doors out into the warm Washington night, then under the columned portico that connects the West Wing to the residence. They walked quickly and in silence, with crickets chirping in the Rose Garden and moist beds of flowers gently fluttering in the springtime breeze. At the door of the mansion, a pair of well-fed Secret Service agents in navy suits waved them in as Tony Bennett sang “I’ve Got the World on a String.” Randolph could see revelers with drinks in their hands at the far end of the hallway, but he was immediately led to an elevator and descended down one flight. They rode in silence.

Stepping off the elevator, the aide waved her hand down a long, wide hallway that ran through the spine of the building and said, “This way.”

The music filtered down the stairs, though not loud, and they continued in silence until the aide, ever efficient, even clipped, pointed to a room on the right and said, “If you could just wait in there. The president will be with you momentarily.” Just like that, she was gone.

“That ain’t some Rand McNally.”

The words rocketed through the silent room like javelins, fast and hard, causing Lance Randolph to spin around from the glass-encased map on the far wall. There in the doorway stood the president of the United States, decked out in a tuxedo and black tie, laughing so hard at his own joke that his chest was heaving like a dribbling basketball.

Before Randolph could speak, the president said, “That map you’re looking at, FDR used to stick pins in it every night to follow American troop movements across Europe during W-W-Two. This was his sanctuary, where he spent hour after hour. The Map Room. Then Bill Clinton came along and held coffee klatches in here trying to shake down big-ticket contributors. You tell me whether this country is getting better or worse.”