JOHN SMITH FOR PRESIDENT How the Democrats Won the White House and Congress in 2020

A Novel



Part One

January 1, 2018, New York City. Eric Weygand is thirty-three, single, usually votes Democratic, and went to Stanford where he played some basketball. People often tell him that he looks like a young Christopher Walken. He doesn’t see it and believes Mr. Walken wouldn’t either. Eric’s an investigative journalist when the work comes in. He’s also been a reporter for newspapers, writes magazine articles, usually on politics, has written a few books mostly on the same subject, and has a political blog with some followers. Eric’s also been a guest on some cable TV news shows.
   He heard a rumor about a rich Democratic donor named Egbert Romand who was looking to recruit United States Senator John Smith as a 2020 presidential candidate. Eric chatted with Mister Romand at political functions over the past few years and found him to be open and helpful, giving out as much information as he could afford to reveal. Eric interviewed then Senator Smith for a magazine article a year earlier. Since his wife was back in Cleveland at the time, the senator asked Eric to have dinner with him at a local Washington restaurant. He found the senator to be a regular guy who took a drink and liked to laugh and talk politics and sports.
   Before going down to see Bert Romand Eric did some reminder research on Senator John Smith and his wife Pamela. John is from Akron, Ohio. He’s fifty-five years old, six-four, a former college athlete at the U.S. Naval Academy, a fighter pilot in Iraq and Afghanistan, a graduate of Yale University Law School who later interned for a U.S. Supreme Court Justice. After which John joined a Cleveland law firm where three years later he became a full equity partner.
   Before being elected to the senate in 2016, John Smith served three terms as a representative in the U.S. Congress. He was elected to the U.S. Senate in a difficult race against a lot of Republican money, and has subsequently served as a member of the Senate Appropriations, Foreign Relations and Armed Services Committees.
   He’s married to Pamela Johnson Smith who grew up in Wilkes-Barre Pennsylvania. She’s fifty-three, a Brown graduate, Fulbright Scholar and now a full professor of political science at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland. Sources have told me that despite being middle-age Pamela Smith is rated by the gossip columnists as being one of Washington’s top beauties. She loves her husband, and despite being miles apart they see each other most every weekend. Since she is his go-to political adviser, they talk or text several times most days. Pamela is not sure she wants John to run for president. She believes he would be a great one, but the prospect of campaigning and living on the road for months is daunting for both of them. She told one reporter, “If John ever wants to run, I’ll be there for him one-hundred percent, and please forgive the cliché.”
   John and Pamela Smith, who are kiddingly referred to as Jack and Jackie, have two children: Steven, a chip off the old block, practices public-interest law in Atlanta. Amy, who is five-nine and looks like her mother’s twin sister, is studying at Oxford on a Rhodes Scholarship, plans a career in public service and is dating an English Duke’s son.


January 8, 2018. Eric went to see Mr. Romand in Tuscaloosa Alabama. He and his wife lived in a long ranch house. She was out caring for grandchildren. Nothing overdone about the house, but comfortable and down-home on several acres with a horse barn and chickens clucking in the backyard. Bert’s a good old boy, folksy, average height, thick neck, shoulders and forearms like a blacksmith, bit of a paunch, baldheaded, toothy grin. 
   Leading Eric to a room across the hall, “Come sit down and we’ll visit for a while.” They sat across from each other on straight chairs in a pleasant home office. Extending his arms, Bert said, “Welcome to Tuscaloosa. Good business town on the Black Warrior River, sunrise side of the Piedmont.” He pointed, “Everything east of here drains to the Atlantic. Also, we’re hometown of the Crimson Tide. Little bit nuts about football in these parts.
   We’ve talked before, Eric, couple of times. Just to update you on the background, my name’s Egbert, but call me Bert, unless you like the name Egbert. Luke Strouder and I, couple of Southern boys, graduated high school in l968, and with no interest in college we joined the army, went to Vietnam just in time for the Tet offensives and nearly got ourselves killed. We did catch some wounds you can’t see with clothes on. As they said, those Vietcong guys were small, but they carried big guns and knew how to hide and pop out of a hole and shoot just when you thought it was time for a rest stop.
   Luke and I didn’t know why we were in country, something about Commies taking over the world. We soon learned the whole thing was a mistake a lot of guys we knew died for. It would have been a loss to mankind if Luke had got shot through. Me, I never would have been missed. Reason being, Luke’s a math whiz, A’s in high school, let me copy his papers. Once our math teacher was out sick. They couldn’t find a sub, so the principal told Luke to teach the Calculus for a week. One kid talked back to him, and Luke coldcocked him a left hook. Lot of lefties are good in math, I heard. Doubt many have a left hook like Luke’s. He was a good man to have aside you when we got into the hand-to-hand business with Charlie. Even between firefights Luke would be doing math puzzles and games, writing algorithms while the rest of us were snoring.”
   “What did you do when you got out?”
   Bert rubbed his face and sat straighter. “When we got out in ’72, California looked good to us, pretty girls, nice weather, jobs, so when we disembarked in Frisco we just stayed on. Luke was hooked on computers, read up on them, the big ones, they didn’t have little ones yet. So, we got us jobs at a computer company, sorting mail, cleaning up, running errands, you know, the usual, foot-in-the-door stuff. Meantime, Luke picked brains, got to use the computer after work. They found he was good at it, could write programs, fix the inner workings if they broke, acted like the computer handyman. They wanted to give Luke a new job working on a development team, but they didn’t want me. Luke told them, you want me you take Bert too, or we go elsewhere. They took me, and I found out that I had a knack for sales, advertising, PR, direct mail. Where that came from, I don’t know, I always considered myself a dummy. But I always was a bit of a bullshitter. Anyway, I was able to pick out the benefits of the products and talk about them in a simple way, I worked my way in, and after a couple of years got a job as a marketing manager with a nice raise. We worked hard, 17-18 hours five days and raised hell in the City on weekends. Talk about wine, women and song, this was rock and roll.
   The company thrived, word about us somehow got around and we changed jobs and moved to Sunnyvale, nice condo, two bedrooms, company building down the street. Apple brought out their personal computer, and Luke went wild, couldn’t get him off it, even the California girls couldn’t pry him loose, until he began seeing double. We rented a video program from MIT on early artificial intelligence. Sam said: “That’s the future, get ready, Bert, we’re going to make a bundle.” I liked the sound of that. Well, AI was some years off, so Luke began writing apps in his off time: How to manipulate data and apply it to employee recruitment; how to turn data into information through aggregation; using statistical analysis to predict buying trends. Meantime, I worked on who needed what and selling the apps to big companies. They may not have been killer apps, but they sure made us a bunch of money on the side.
   After a bit, we’d saved enough to leave the company and launch a startup. Even incorporated in Delaware for a few bucks. Issued stock to ourselves. It was worthless at the time, but made us feel rich. Luke wrote new and better apps, sold all over the world like butter in a bakery. I’d gotten to learn how to sell on the new and burgeoning Internet. We sued a couple of Asian companies that stole Luke’s ideas, scared the bejesus out of ‘em at the WTO and more, and they settled out of court for a bundle. Soon, big West Coast companies came around looking to acquire us and grab the patented technology, which was selling like beans in Boston. Bidding wars ensued. We held out and within two years gave in and sold for two billion, a billion each, cash. Through the buyout contract, payout schedule, we were obliged to work in the new company for three years and did so for considerable compensation. Investments paid off, and the billion-dollar, rainy-day nest eggs grew like corn in Kansas.
   Now, why am I telling you all this? Why aren’t we on John Smith and his possible run for president? You heard that a Democratic sponsor wants him to run. That’s me, well Luke, too, and a few more. I knew you’d wonder where the money came from and now you know.”
   “How did you get back here?” I opened my arms in the general direction of the backyard.
   “When our three years was up at the company that acquired us was up, Luke and I left the Coast and headed back to our roots. Way before then I married a lil’ ol’ southern gal named Katherine Prather working on the Coast as a quality consultant, smart as all get-out and pretty as a spring flower. Gave us some workshops on the quality ideas of W. Edwards Deming. Helped us improve our service and products and taught me what love was all about first time she walked into the room. Biggest thing I learned from Katie was that there are no excuses in business, and I guess in life, too.   After our first child was born, Katie wanted to go home to Tuscaloosa to be near her kinfolk, and here we are, now up to five grandchildren. Katie leads the quality team for a European manufacturer, a regular dynamo she is. Luke Strouder got lucky too and married a Georgia Peach, bunch of offspring, and we all live within five miles of each other, making for a lot of bridge, pool in the basement, laughs and political talks.
   “Are you and Luke retired.”
   “No, no, we got a couple businesses going. A package delivery operation coupled with a ride-hailing piece. Found out folks need to get from here to there when they can’t find a taxi. Lots of work with Amazon and the like sending stuff all over. And an AI start-up. May as well get going on the future. Luke and I have few years left.”
   Like most everything else, Luke and I see eye-to-eye on politics. Fortunately, our wives think the same way, both smarter than either one of us. And we’ve got a handful of other rich folks around the country who don’t like how the ways of the world are trending and want some new direction. The Republicans dig in an old ditch and the Democrats divide and seldom conquer. We need a unifier, like John Smith, for the party, for the country and for America’s return to world leadership based on free trade and greater equality for the common good.”
   Bert paused and shook, finger. “Don’t mistake us, we’re not some bleeding hearts in favor of giveaways. Ignore the highfalutin language, but understand we’re free-market capitalists who understand the need for fair taxes, strong public education, retraining and regulations that control greed and economic disaster from dangerous over-speculation. Herbert Hoover of all people said it best: ‘The only problem with capitalists is that they’re too damn greedy.’
   “Now, Eric, you’re a nice feller on our side of the fence that writes good. I read some of your stuff. Liked your article few years back on John. This like the third time we had the chance to visit. Why don’t you hitch up with us and chronicle the whole affair? What will it take to support you a month through the two-thousand-twenty election. How much?” Bert put an open hand behind his right ear. “That’s fair. Just give me your bank routing and checking account number, and it will be deposited. No contract, either side can walk away, especially if John doesn’t get the nomination or loses the presidency, neither of which I expect. All’s I need is your hand on this. Good grip. Thank you.”   
   Katherine Romand walked in looking a lot younger than Eric expected. Petite, trim, short dark hair, attractive, open face. It was obvious why Bert fell for her. She kissed Bert on the lips, looked up and smiled at me. “Hi, Eric, Bert said you were coming down. How about a sandwich and a beer? I’ll fix it and join you,” she grinned, “to solve the country’s problems. Please call me Katie.”
   After she went into the kitchen, Bert low-voiced, “Don’t, for heaven’s sake tell her I told you, but Katie’s sixty-five. You’d never guess it, would you? I agreed with Bert’s request and the fact that Katie looked at least twenty years younger than she was. Bert broke off for a phone call, and I checked my messages.
   When we regrouped, I thought I was in a New York deli. Katie brought in a tray of sliced-thin roast beef sandwiches on rye layered with chopped chicken liver, sliced tomatoes, pickles, mustard, the works. And cold beer to wash it all down.
   Katie could talk well while eating, something most of us can’t do. “Bert and I, along with Luke and Dixiana Srouder, have talked this out at length.” Eric thought: Dixiana? “We think John Smith, we’ve met him a couple of times at Democratic functions, is the best bet to win the presidency in two-thousand twenty. Dixiana agrees. She’s a Democratic pollster. The question is, does he want it and you have to want it.” Kate took a swig of beer, stifled a belch with her fist and continued with a little smile. “Excuse me. Anyhow, at least the senator’s willing to talk about it. His wife’s a powerhouse, political scientist, so she’ll have a big part in his decision. Bert’s a,” she nodded toward him with the corners of her mouth up, “great salesman so we’re covered there. We’ve got to get the rest of the Democratic donors on board. The movie guy, two from Silicon, Miami, Philly. Let’s see if Brooksie will use his place in Miami for a meeting. Too cold to meet up north. Maybe he knows some other people.”
   Bert said, “Katie, I asked Eric if he’d team up with us and write the story.”
   Katy said, “We need something written down so we’re all,” she smiled, “I won’t say it, on the same page. Tell you what, let me call Dixiana and see if she and Luke can come over for supper. Bert strangled and dressed a couple of chickens yesterday.” Bert made a strangling motion with two separated clenched fists accompanied by a crunching sound back in his teeth. Katy smiled again. “Bert never got over the war, takes his PTSD out on the chickens.” Bert grinned and pointed a knowing finger at Katy. “Can you stay for dinner, Eric?”
   “I’d like to, thanks, but I need to get a hotel room for tonight.”
   “No way,” Bert said, “we’re empty nesters, four extry bedrooms, unless you want to sleep out in the coop with the chickens.” We all had a laugh.


Dixiana and Luke were lanky, youthful looking and acting like the Romand’s and also good fun. Both had dry senses of humor, spilling out in pleasing drawls. Luke took a sip of bourbon and sunk in a corner of the large, semicircular family room couch. He said in his slow easy way, “So, Eric, from a Yankee perspective, what do you think of our crazy scheme?” He grinned. “Are we just four coon dogs off the hunt?”
   “I’m a Democratic pollster in a state with just four Democrats in the whole state.” Dixiana pointed around the couch as we laughed. “Seriously, though, we think the Republicans are the ones off the trail. They’re a threat to democracy, going along with the mess-up in the White House, whose only friends are fellow authoritarians like Putin, Duerte and the rest of the world’s thugs. So back to Luke’s question I interrupted. Sorry, Luke.”
   Luke sat up and gave us his usual goofy grin, “I’m used to it, problem being married to a lawyer.” With his Adam’s apple bobbing vigorously in his long neck, Luke continued. “As you’ll see, Eric, we all,” he looked around, “ask questions and then provide the answers ourselves.”
   “You’ll never find four people who are more often wrong but never in doubt,” from Bert.
   “Opinionated but lovable, Katie added.”
   Laughing along with the rest, Eric looked around the couch. “It’s good when people like you on a serious mission can laugh about it and themselves along the way. I like what you want to do and am damn glad you asked me to be part of it What tack do you plan to take next?”
   The four were all smart. Dixiana was a leader with a logical, political mind. Beyond the pollster profession, she was a lawyer who could succinctly capture key points and drive them home. Katie said, “I’ve got to put the supper on, tell Eric what we have in mind, Dixiana.”
   “What a name for a liberal Democrat,” Dixiana said, as Katie laughed from the kitchen.
   “Could be worse,” Luke said. “How ‘bout ‘Dixiecrat’ in memory of Strom Thurmond.”
   Bert’s paunch shook with that one, and he said to more laughs, “Four rednecks searchin’ for a Yankee savior.”
   As things settled down, Dixiana took a pull on her drink. “I should be in the kitchen helping Katie. Anyway, Eric, I know it sounds corny, but our main goal is saving democracy, with a small d, in America. We’re trending, like a good part of the rest of the world, toward authoritarianism, disregard for the rule of law, strong man posing as a friend of the people while surrounding himself with likeminded acolytes doing his bidding, contributing to economic inequality while lining his own pockets through the advantages and powers of officeholding.
   “We’re seeing lots of that behavior in this country,” Eric offered. “Bert mentioned that he talked to Senator Smith. Where do we go from there?”
   “I like your point of view, Eric,” Dixiana said. “After the problem’s stated look immediately for the solution.”
   Wiping her hands with a towel, Katie stuck her head in from the kitchen. “Bert said that John Smit will consider our proposal with no promises. That’s enough to take to the rest of the donors, I think.”
   Luke said, “It’s all about the money. We’re sick of putting up cash for campaigns with candidate who don’t know how to fight.”
   “Or couldn’t possibly win because of age, gender, image, race whatever,” Bert said.
   Leaning toward me with elbows on knees, Dixiana said, “How to make it known that we’ll only support a candidate for president we think can win will be tricky, probably offend many people looking to run.”
   “I see where you’re heading, but there will be counters like Obama got elected.”
   Katie came in to announce that supper was ready, come fill your plates and added, “He did win, and a good thing, but it was in the midst of the worst economic slump since the Thirties. I doubt he would have won in more normal times. Let’s continue this over the food.”
   The delicious roast chicken dinner with biscuits and gravy was washed down with an excellent Stag’s Leap chardonnay. Eric did some moderating, leading discussion of the pros and cons of the previously agreed-upon strategy. They liked his approach. Based on his suggestion that they get a firmer commitment from John Smith, they postponed a meeting with the other Democratic sponsors. Given his earlier successful interview with John Smith for a magazine article Eric was selected to go to Cleveland to discuss the presidential matter in more depth with John and Pamela Smith. Dixiana Strouder met Pamela Smith at a conference a few years back, and they found common political ground over drinks. So, it was decided that they’d make the visit together. When Eric decided to travel to Tuscaloosa to interview Bert for a prospective article he never expected that the meeting would lead to this kind of involvement.
   When the pleasant evening ended with midnight coffee, Eric was taken to a comfortable bedroom with a desk and spent a few hours typing up the minutes of the meeting and with drooping eyes emailed it to the four participants. He awoke to read the replies. All were useful, some insightful, others strategically sound. Dixiana also wrote up her version of how they’d approach the Smith’s. Eric thought it was on the mark. Katie Romand had a couple of helpful suggestions. One was, try to get the Smith children on board. The other, get John to agree to a meeting with the full complement of Democratic donors. Eric had deadline business to attend to so he and Dixiana tentatively planned to meet with the Smith’s in Cleveland on the following Saturday afternoon. Eric called the senator as a follow-up to Bert Romand’s earlier call. John Smith remembered his interview and dinner with Eric from a few years back and said that he wanted his wife to sit in on the meeting. He also mentioned that his daughter was on holiday break from Oxford and her brother was coming up from Atlanta to see her and he wanted them to join the meeting. Things were coming together faster than expected.


Part Two coming soon. Meantime read Richard Noyes Books on Amazon:  http://amzn.to/2b8FW92