The Last Debate Page 15

  Whatever thought route he may have taken to get there, the camera showed the face of a spirit switched to OFF.

  Howley moved on. He said: “She is a woman who says she worked for you in your Take It Back headquarters office in Charlotte, North Carolina, as a part-time secretary from May 1986 until June 1988.”

  Meredith kept his eyes on Howley. With a monumental effort that was actually perceptible to us television viewers, the Republican candidate for president of the United States changed the look on his face as cleanly and decidedly as if he had slapped on a Halloween mask. There, slap, look at me now. Now I am a man at ease with himself, with this situation. I am a picture of serenity and comfort. Look at me and my relaxed state. This absurdity is no problem for me. No problem at all. I can handle these people. I can handle anything. God and the people are with me. It is the godless and the press who are not. Only the godless and the press. Serene and comfortable. That is what I am right now. You can see it here in my face.

  Again, Meredith said not a word. I do not ever recall even hearing about a few seconds of silence—a full twelve seconds, according to my count from the videotape afterward—that matched those for their shrieking intensity. “Never in the history of American politics has there been a louder silence” was the way the columnist Richard Field described it the next day. The Virginia Room, jammed with more than three hundred people who are seldom quiet, was absolutely noise-free. I had never experienced anything like it, even in personal terms. Postdebate reporting said it happened almost everywhere people were gathered in front of television sets for those twelve seconds. Click-uh, click-uh, click-uh, they went, one after the other, as Nancy Dewey and her director, a man named Richard Deutsch, moved back and forth between full head shots of Meredith and Howley. Click-uh, click-uh, click-uh. Meredith, Howley, Meredith, Howley, Meredith, Howley.

  Howley broke the silence. He said: “She claims in a notarized statement that I have before me now that she observed you striking your daughter Allison, who was then fourteen years old. She said you hit her in the stomach with your right fist after she confessed to you that she had accompanied some friends to a movie called Last Tango in Paris starring Marlon Brando.”

  Howley stopped. It was an opportunity for Meredith to speak. Was he going to take it? Was he going to remain silent? For how much longer?

  Meredith’s mind must have been racing at full throttle. But it could not be seen in his face, which remained in a state of serenity and comfort. Remain calm, remain calm, he must have been saying to himself. You are calm. Count some numbers. Think of other things. Remain calm. Say nothing. Show nothing. You’re on top of this. You’re in charge. This godless man of the press will not prevail! He will not get me!

  Again, Mike Howley went on. “She said that your daughter left your office bent over, crying. She said that when she—the woman employee—moved to help your daughter, you ordered her to leave her alone. Within ten days she was told that her job in your organization had been eliminated. Then she learned in fact that someone else was hired after her departure to fill it. Would you like to comment, Mr. Meredith?”

  I felt I was now about to be an eyewitness to a catastrophe, a tragic, earth-rumbling collision. Two elephants butting heads in an open field at a dead run. Two Metroliners crashing head-on north of Baltimore at speeds of 125 miles an hour. I remembered the debate rehearsal again, but I also recalled something I had just read that afternoon. It was a story in that packet of material the research department at The New American Tatler had FedExed to Williamsburg for me. Yes, it was something about Meredith’s father in a profile of Meredith in the Charlotte Observer. James Grayson Meredith was a car salesman in Rocky Mount, North Carolina, who had dropped dead of a heart attack when he was forty-seven years old. It happened late one Friday afternoon just after a customer had rescinded an order to buy a new blue loaded Ford Victoria four-door sedan. The original sale had put Meredith’s father over the top in a Ford Million-Dollar Salesman contest that had as its prize an all-expenses-paid trip for him and his family to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. The shock of losing it after having won it stopped his heart. The Observer story said it embedded profound like-father/like-son possibility fears deeply inside Meredith’s mother. As a result, she was obsessive-compulsive in preaching to her lone son David Donald about the lifesaving need to be peaceful, easy, serene, comfortable.

  “No, I would not like to comment,” that son said now to Michael J. Howley and the world. His demeanor and his manner were those of a lone son who had been taught to be peaceful, easy, serene, comfortable. “The shame of what you are doing to me right now is on you, Mr. Howley. It is one that is for you to bear and to wear like a crown of thorns. Your soul will bleed from those thorns, Mr. Howley. I have nothing to say. Not now. Nothing at all.”

  We in the Virginia Room were informed via distributed wire copy that motorcades of angry Meredith supporters were being organized in Norfolk, Richmond, and in the northern Virginia suburbs of Washington to drive to Williamsburg. One of the leaders was quoted as saying: “We will take back democracy from those four arrogant criminals of the press.”

  In the control room an ABS producer passed on the same information to Hammond. He whispered it to Turpin, who said: “Great. I hope they arm themselves and come in shooting.” Lilly barely heard the report. He shushed Hammond. He did not want to miss a word of what was going on out there on that stage. What he was experiencing then made up for every bad or awful thing that had ever happened to him. He found himself several times on the verge of humming out loud “America the Beautiful” and other songs, including offbeat ones such as “Mack the Knife” and “Jesus Loves Me.”

  Mike Howley said: “Joan Naylor will now ask the next series of questions.”

  Everything had happened with such stunning quickness that I had not focused on the fact that Joan Naylor had yet to be heard since the debate began. Joan Naylor, the most experienced and comfortable of the four on live television, had not said one word.

  Paul L. Greene chose that moment to speak. “Pardon me,” he said to Howley. “There are two of us up here, Mike. May I comment on what has just been said?”

  “Certainly, sir,” said Howley. “Forgive me.”

  Greene turned toward Meredith and said: “I would just like for you, Mr. Meredith, to know that what is happening here now is as much a surprise to me as it is to you. I hope you believe that.”

  Meredith did not respond. He did not even look back at Greene.

  Greene continued: “While I have leveled my criticisms of you on the issues and your opinions and beliefs, I do not believe matters of a personal nature have any place in a campaign for president of the United States. This kind of journalism of the leer that has taken over our airwaves and printed pages is something to be condemned.”

  “Shut up!” Brad Lilly screamed at the control-room television monitors. “For God’s sake, shut up!”

  Turpin screamed: “Right, Governor! More, more! For my sake, more!”

  Joan thought at that moment that it was over. Paul L. Greene had stopped them in their tracks. She was so focused on what she was going to do that the lightness or wrongness of what Greene said did not penetrate her consciousness. She only saw this man Greene, standing behind a podium directly across from her, as an idiot, a fool, a ninny. Here we are, on the verge of making you president of the United States, and you’re trashing us. Take it away, David Donald Meredith. The United States of America is all yours!

  She looked to her left at Mike Howley. She had to go through the eyes and around the faces of Barbara and Henry to get to Howley’s. Joan saw fear in those kids—even Henry—and she did not blame them. Joan’s reading was correct. Done, cooked, in the garbage, was what Barbara thought at that moment. Henry was wondering what it was going to be like picking peaches in the Valley the rest of his life.

  But Joan read resolve and confidence in Howley’s face. It was just enough to pull her back to the fact that what was happening here was n
ot up to Paul L. Greene. They—the four of them—had made a decision to take direct action to prevent this evil man David Donald Meredith from taking over the United States of America. They had decided the country would not be his. Nothing had changed.

  Howley said to her and to the world: “As I said, Joan Naylor will ask the next series of questions. Joan?”

  Joan said to Greene: “Are you saying hitting a teenage child in the stomach falls into the category of journalism of the leer, Governor?”

  “I am saying what I said,” Greene said.

  Joan, in a steady voice, said to Meredith: “Another woman, named Yolanda Dinkins, has made a statement concerning your wife—”

  “Is nothing sacred to you people?” Meredith said. “Can you not leave my daughter and my wife out of this?”

  “No, I am afraid we cannot,” Joan said. “Yolanda Dinkins, a former neighbor of yours and your wife’s in Charlotte, North Carolina, says in her statement that your wife, Madeline, came screaming and crying to her home one Sunday evening in 1986. She says your wife’s face was swollen and red around her left eye. When asked what happened, she said, and I quote: ‘David got mad at me.’ Do you have a response?”

  Meredith bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Dear Father in heaven, forgive these four people of the detestable, arrogant press for the sins against God and the truth and the people and our democracy they are committing. Give the great people of this great country the strength and courage to see this for what it is—a blatant, arrogant attempt to thwart the will of the democratic majority, to wrest from the people their right to decide who shall lead their country and their spirit as president of the United States. In Your name I pray—we all pray. Amen.”

  He looked up and at Joan. “That is my response, Mrs. Naylor, to your awfulness, to your sins.”

  Greene raised his right hand. On television it appeared as if he was back in school. Call on me, please. I have the answer. I have something to say.

  “Yes, Governor,” Joan said. You are called on.

  “Lest anyone think otherwise from my earlier comments,” he said, “I want to say that spouse abuse, child abuse—abuse of one human being of any kind by another—is abhorrent. I condemn it with all of the energy and strength I can muster.”

  In the control room Lilly clapped his hands and stomped his feet. “My hero,” he said. “Greene, Greene, he’s our man.…”

  Turpin was hot again. “Mark my words, everyone in hearing distance of my voice, somebody is going to pay for this atrocity against humanity and decency. Television, journalism, this stupid debate commission, none of you will survive this. None of you. All of you are going to be made to pay by the new Meredith administration. Stand by and bend over, friends. Every single one of you. You had better pray that you have not cheated on your income taxes, harbored an illegal-alien maid, driven five miles over the speed limit, put an unstamped letter in a mailbox—”

  “Now, is that any way for the manager of the campaign of God’s chosen candidate to speak?” Lilly said. “Surely, what is happening out there is God’s will? Can it be anything other than that? Doesn’t God will everything? Could this possibly mean God has switched sides? Or is nonpartisan? God, God, he’s our man, if he can’t do it, nobody can.”

  Hammond detected a slight inclination toward mayhem in Turpin’s body language. It caused him to reflexively stand and face Turpin, as if he were a human shield. He would prevent Jack Turpin, professional campaign manager, from slaying, maiming, or otherwise hurting Brad Lilly, professional campaign manager.

  Back out on the stage, Joan Naylor said: “Mr. Meredith, I have another statement here from a woman named Bonnie Kerr. She states that she worked for you as an assistant editor at the Take It Back Publishing Company. She says that in a state of rage over her inability to find a particular manuscript, you shoved her against a concrete wall. She badly bruised her back and cracked a bone in an elbow. Do you have a response, sir?”

  Meredith said: “Have you absolutely no shame, no ethics? That is my response.”

  Joan said: “I have a statement from a woman named Terri Anne Cloverdell. She states that you slugged her hard on her left arm after she failed to bring a book to you as quickly as you had asked. She worked as a desk assistant in the Take It Back Reference Library in Charlotte. Did that happen?”

  Meredith only closed his eyes and shook his head. The camera was right on him. I was no longer able to read anything from his face. The peace and serenity were gone. That was certain. Nothing else was, though. Was he going to attack, to bolt, to blow? I could not tell.

  Howley said: “Now back to Henry Ramirez for some questions. Henry?”

  Henry said: “Another statement, Mr. Meredith. It is from René Jeanne Jarvis, who worked as cleaning woman at your home in Charlotte. She swore in this statement before a notary that she watched you—with her own eyes—slap your wife because she failed to have some laundry and dry cleaning picked up. She thinks she remembers it was a dark blue suit you needed to wear that night at a meeting of your Take It Back Foundation board of trustees.”

  “You are sick people,” said Meredith. To the camera, he added: “I ask you, my fellow Americans, has there ever been anything like this in the political history of this country? Can this be America? Can this be our treasured democracy, where four self-righteous members of the press—unelected, unchosen by anyone—decide to lynch a candidate for president of the United States right here before the whole world on national television? Has there ever in all of our history ever been a more egregious abuse of power? Can this be America? Must we also take back our free press?”

  “If I may,” said Paul L. Greene, not raising his hand or waiting to be called on. “What you say may be true. But it also may be true that this is the first time in history that a candidate for president of the United States is a man prone to violent outbreaks of force and harm to his fellow human beings. I believe that knowing this about a person is a legitimate issue in a presidential campaign. I really do. I see now that these four brave journalists deserve commendations and praise for their courage. I am sure it was not easy for them to do what they are doing here tonight. But they know, as the American people know, no country can be governed by a president who is going to emotionally explode at any moment and start throwing punches at his aides, his loved ones—anyone’s loved ones.”

  A fast, intense cheer went up in the Virginia Room.

  Meredith glared at Greene. “You are not even an irrelevant pimple on this dire and atrocious happening, Governor. I have nothing to say to you. Nothing at all.” He then turned his face again toward Mike Howley. “Are you through, Mr. Howley? Are you and your three co-conspirators through? Is this unsavory political assassination attempt finished?”

  Howley said: “No, sir, we are not through. Barbara Manning has a question.” He looked to his right and nodded to Barbara.

  She said to Meredith: “I have here the statements of three women who state they lived in the same freshman dormitory with your daughter Allison while all were students at Duke University in Durham, North Carolina. That was six years ago, long before you entered politics—as a presidential candidate, at least. All three of these women claim they were present in the room of your daughter when she told them you had, in her words, ‘a tendency to fly off the handle,’ end quote. And that when you did so you could, quote, ‘get pretty mean and violent.’ She showed them some scars on her back and claimed they were from leather-belt beatings you had administered. She said she had also seen you strike your mother, her aunt—your sister—and several other female relatives.”

  All peace, all serenity, was now gone from Meredith’s face. I could feel an eruption coming—I really could. Meredith said nothing. Howley said to him: “I take it you have no comment on these three women’s story.”

  “You may take what you wish, Mr. Howley,” said Meredith. He was only a few minutes—seconds, maybe—from exploding. I was sure of it.

  “Henry Ramirez,” Ho
wley said.

  “Mr. Meredith,” said Henry, “there are nine other statements from women who claim they either experienced or heard about similar kinds of acts by you. In each case, as in the others, you are alleged to have committed an act of physical violence against someone, usually a woman or a child. And in each case that act of violence came in the midst of an angry fit. Why is it, by the way, that you only seem to hit women and children? Do you never blow your stack at a man?”

  Meredith’s head was down as if in silent prayer. Not even his eyes could be seen.

  Joan, without an introductory word from Howley, picked it up. “I have a statement from a woman who states she was involved in a minor traffic accident in a suburb of Asheville, North Carolina, in 1989. She says her foot slipped off the brake of her car in a rainstorm and she slammed into the rear of a car driven by you. She said she immediately jumped out of her car to express her apologies for what had happened and that you grabbed her by her yellow slicker raincoat, threw her against your car, and kicked her in the right shin. She said you then twirled her around and smashed her head into the rear window of your car. She swears it was you and says she can prove it was you because she kept a Xerox copy of the check she received from a law firm representing you. In exchange for silence and for not preferring charges, she got a check for eight thousand dollars. Did that happen, Mr. Meredith? She says it did.”