Authors: John M. Green
Born to Run (16 page)
“They’re going to look like… like idiots when we get this out… So, Isabel? What do you say? Shall we call them right now?” Gregory suggested with just a touch too
much glee.
She wiped her mouth and put down her glass. “Maybe we shouldn’t. After all, what’s it really matter, right?” she shrugged.
But it did matter.
MYRON Kowalski’s legal research assistant phoned him on one of Bill Edwards’ other lines to confirm he’d emailed through to Bill’s house what the
crotchety lawyer had hassled him for: a copy of a certain 1898 Supreme Court decision, as well as extracts from the seminal constitutional law texts, one of which the old codger had written
himself.
Bill’s live-in assistant had printed the email attachments and brought them in to Kowalski. The old lawyer skimmed them for a few minutes, nodding and smiling to himself, finally tossing
his eyebrows over to Bill Edwards with such a theatrical gasp it was as if he’d just read that his revered baseball hero Sandy Koufax was back on the mound and had pitched yet another
no-hitter season.
Bill was familiar with Kowalski’s tricks and punched the open line onto mute. What Kowalski had to say was not going to be shared with the campaign team. Not yet.
“Bill,” Kowalski smiled, “our former ally Dupont is going to throw a fastball to our left over this ‘father’ issue. And were it not that this was a simple case of
mistaken identity,” he paused for effect, “it would be my sad duty to inform you that our star-hitter, Isabel Diaz, had suffered a hit to the temple, that she was down, and out, that
the vice would have to go up to captain, we’d be bringing on a reserve and, after a decent moment for prayer, play would continue but we’d probably lose the game, and the season.”
The shameless egotist even quoted himself: “It says here in ‘Kowalski on the Constitution’…” and he read from a review of a dusty old court decision that he was
certain Professor Dupont would shortly be quoting back at them on TV.
Bill Edwards and Myron Kowalski went way back and to Bill, despite the annoying and often fumbled ballpark analogies the old lawyer inserted into almost every conversation, he deserved his own
entry into the Hall of Fame. He’d saved Bill’s skin, and even his marriage. Several of them.
With the assurance of Isabel’s identification and Kowalski’s opinion, Bill relaxed a little and called for whiskey and cigars all round, even for the women.
ISABEL quietly squirmed during the segment when Willy Nesbit, the sleazy trailer park manager, spewed to the world that not only had her mother been a drunk, which was not news,
but that she’d also been a cheap whore, which was. They even put him to air leering about her expedient lack of teeth.
“
Gappy Hooker?
How can they run that on a Sunday night at prime time?” Bill Edwards boomed over the open line before slapping the phone back on mute.
Isabel knew she’d made the right decision to stay off the show. She peeked around the room; most of the smirks were hidden by nervous hands, but she could still see it in their eyes.
“What a dirtbag!” cried one.
“And that tattoo! Tell me it’s not really rats doing… you know… to each other,” another shuddered as the TV camera panned over Willy’s neck. “A-a-w...
Gross!”
“…
the kid ran away from Cactus Flower after’n she got outta [bleep] hospital. Little [bleep] never even brought her sorry ass back home to kiss her lovin’ ma
g’bye. Damn broke her ma’s [bleep] heart.
”
When Mandrake revealed to Willy on screen that the girl was the same Isabel Diaz who was running for president, Willy splurted out, “
You shittin’ me, right?
” but the
network didn’t bleep that.
For the mass of viewers it was top-rating entertainment and gave far more colour to what they knew about their next president than anyone else had ever attempted but, even so, they were still
expecting more: the punch-line, the Kodak moment that the teaser ads had promised.
Now that Gregory was sure that whatever Mandrake was saving for last about Isabel’s father would be a damp squib, he was finding it compelling viewing and the new insights into
Isabel’s past were fascinating. Frankly, they’d do no harm to the campaign, he decided; so what, her mother was a whore—it proved Isabel had politics running in her veins.
Gregory checked his Patek Philippe chronograph; to lesser people it was a watch. Mandrake dropped his long-awaited bombshell at 6:40 PM. Or 6:40:20 PM, to be precise for The Book. When the man
draped with a red, white and blue striped tie, blue shirt and Harris tweed jacket appeared on-screen, no one present missed Isabel’s chief counsel Oliver Pryor’s stomach-churning
groan.
WHEN Professor Robert Dupont’s face appeared on TV in Bill Edwards’ dining room, a wheeze of smoky air was inhaled as Kowalski twisted the knife, “Advising
them in private, in confidence… that’s one thing. But for Dupont to appear… to step onto the plate…
and
for the other team… What is the old fool
thinking?”
On camera, Mandrake was seated opposite Dupont in a musty-looking office, whose walnut shelves were replete with hundreds of impressive-looking leather-bound volumes, most with slips of paper
sticking unkempt out of the tops. After introducing Dupont to the viewers, Mandrake leant over the desk separating them and said, with a forced naïveté,
“
Professor, until tonight Isabel Diaz believed her father was a Bolivian businessman, but we now know he was a senior Chilean diplomat. What’s the impact of this on her crack at
the White House
?”
“Absolutely nothing, you big fool. You got the wrong guy,”shouted one of the team in the hall with Isabel and, when he caught the dark look she shot at him, he realised he’d
guzzled one drink too many.
“
Regretfully
,” said Dupont, “
it means everything. The wonderful lady’s campaign is over, assuming your information about her father is
correct
…”
“Which it damned-well is not,” said Gregory. “Sorry,” he apologised, to no one in particular.
“…
and I stress, if. If that’s the fact, then our Constitution dictates that I, and you, and all Americans will forever be denied the privilege of voting in Ms Diaz as our
President
.”
At that moment, the station flashed to an ad for a nasal spray. “
All stuffed up
…?”
“If we didn’t know this was built on a foundation of garbage,” said a relieved but perplexed Gregory, “it’d be a disaster. But what’s this Constitution thing?
Oliver? You pointy heads didn’t come up with anything, right?” He slurped on a silver and red can.
“Not yet, no,” said Oliver. “We’ve got Professor Millie Wilkinson on retainer,” he pointed to the phone he’d put temporarily on mute to answer the question,
“but she’s still looking.” Oliver noticed the quizzical eyebrows, “She’s a female version of Robert Dupont, but with better legs. And at Princeton.”
No one laughed, though unknown to those in Detroit, Myron Kowalski was sniggering into his gnarled old fingers.
“Shh! They’re back on,” said Gregory.
Mandrake recapped before asking Dupont to continue.
“
Our Constitution, sir, insists that our president is a natural born citizen
…”
As Mandrake gravely nodded, the relevant text of the Constitution scrolled up the screen saying pretty much what Dupont had said, but with a lot more verbiage.
“
A rule that kept people like Henry Kissinger and Arnold Schwarzenegger out of the Oval Office can’t be all bad
,” said Mandrake.
The octogenarian looked as if he was about to rebut Mandrake with a weighty list of twenty or more distinguished and naturalised Americans any of whom he would have been
delighted to have seen as president, but pushed on:
“
The Fourteenth Amendment, Mr Mandrake, defines who is actually a citizen
.”
The precise legalese appeared on the screen.
“
But let me simplify it,” said Dupont. “You’re a natural born citizen if you satisfy two tests that most people wrongly read as one: you must be born here AND you
must also be subject to our jurisdiction. Are you with me so far
?”
Mandrake looked perplexed:
“
But professor
,” he added, squeezing his bearded chin to emphasise the complexity, “
Isabel Diaz was born in Newark, New Jersey. Here’s a certified copy of
her birth certificate
.”
Mandrake waved a piece of paper, and Dupont responded:
“
Yes, Mr Mandrake. But, as I just said, we must consider more than mere birth… not only must a president be born here, he or she must also be ‘subject to our
jurisdiction’ as I said a moment ago. The problem for Ms Diaz is that when she was born in Newark, as that paper you’re brandishing certifies, her father was a loyal Chilean
diplomat
…”
The camera flicked to Mandrake.
“
And
…?”
Dupont looked imperiously down his nose:
“
Please, sir! Any constitutional lawyer worth their salt will tell you that a diplomat owes their allegiance to the country they serve—you’d expect
that, wouldn’t you? It means, in the language of our Constitution, that they’re not subject to our jurisdiction. You have heard of diplomatic immunity, yes
?”
Mandrake glared back at Dupont as if the old gentleman had severe body odour.
Dupont shook his head, and continued:
“
And it’s the same with their children: the children of diplomats are also not subject to our jurisdiction. Mr Mandrake, birth and allegiance have been
twinned together for centuries. That was so at the signing of our Constitution and it is still so now
.”
“
But why is that?
” asked Mandrake.
“
Why…?
” said Dupont, barely concealing a grimace. “
Because our founders feared foreign influence over our president. Just imagine if the father of
today’s president was a serving Iranian or North Korean diplomat or dignitary.”
Mandrake nodded:
“
You’re saying that the kids of foreign diplomats, even if they’re born in Newark or Hoboken or Dallas or Washington, they’re not US
citizens?
”
Dupont smiled:
“
Precisely,
” he said.
The eyes of everyone in the hall flicked over to see Isabel biting her top lip.
Mandrake continued:
“
Including the children of diplomats who are long since dead, like Isabel Diaz?
”
“
Like she
,” said Dupont.
“
So that’s your opinion, Professor?
”
He glared. “
It’s the law
.” Humility wasn’t Dupont’s strong suit.
“
Who says so, Professor?
”
As Dupont paused to lean forward to answer, Isabel looked over to Oliver Pryor with some admiration, “Your grandfather is a surly old coot.” Oliver’s face
flushed with embarrassment.
Dupont snatched up a large tome and levered it open.
“
I say so. And if that’s inadequate for you, young man, the United States Supreme Court says so, too
.” He almost spat the words out, “
I
refer you to the Court’s decision in
US v. Wong Kim Ark.
It’s older than I am. It’s from 1898.
”
He slid his reading glasses out of his jacket pocket and perched them at the end of his nose. As he started to read the majority opinion, the relevant text flashed up on the
screen together with the case reference:
US v. Wong Kim Ark
, 169 US 649 (1898).
Close-up
was leaving no doubt about where this was going.
Oliver was agog. Both his cell phone and Professor Millie Wilkinson who was on it dropped away from his ear. “So that’s why he brought up Orrin Hatch… it
was
about the
Arnie amendment. We just didn’t figure out why.”
Ordinarily, Gregory would’ve been furious at Oliver—the lawyer was paid to understand why—but here in Detroit where they possessed the vital detail of mistaken identity,
Gregory was relieved. “Thank God not a jot of this legal crap matters,” he exhaled.