The Driver

He went on in the same vein for another ten minutes. It was a bravura display, yet again. In his two years as Robinson’s Chief of Staff, Crawford had probably heard him speak a thousand times, and that, right there, was another in a long line of brilliant speeches. It wasn’t so much the content. That didn’t matter, not at this stage of the game. It was the way he effortlessly co

Crawford watched and smiled and shook his head in admiration.

No doubt about it: Joseph Jack Robinson was a natural.

He stayed with them for half an hour, listening to their stories, answering their questions and signing autographs. The principal pitched him about the need for more money to fix a leaking roof and the Governor said that increasing funding for education was one of his campaign priorities; that was news to Crawford, who tapped out a note in his phone to remind himself to look into that later. Then they all followed him back downstairs, and out to the campaign bus. Crawford and Catherine Williamson, the press manager, trailed the crowd. Catherine looked at Crawford and raised her manicured eyebrow, an inverted tick of amusement that the Governor had done it again. Crawford looked back at her and winked. J.J. did that, now and again, surprised even the staffers who had been with him the longest. It seemed to be happening more often these days. As the speeches got more important, as the television crews that tailed them everywhere grew in number, as his polling numbers solidified and accrued, Robinson pulled the rabbit out of the hat again and again and again.

It was why they were all so excited.

This felt real.

It felt like they were with a wi

Crawford followed the Governor up the steps and onto the bus.

“Great speech,” he told him as he opened his briefcase and took out the papers he needed for the trip.

“You think?”

“Are you kidding? You had them eating out of your hand.”

Robinson shrugged and smiled. Crawford found that habit of his a little a

“Those questions on immigration,” Robinson began.

“Go vague on the numbers. We don’t want to get caught out.”

“Not the numbers. The message. It’s still holding up?”

“People seem to agree with you.”

“Damn straight they do. If I can’t say it like it is, what’s the point?”

“I know — and I agree.”

“These fucking wetbacks,” he said with a dismissive flick of his wrist, “taking jobs that belong to Americans, damn straight we should be sending them back.”

Crawford looked around, making sure they weren’t overhead. “Easy,” he advised.

“I know, I know. Moderation. I’m not an idiot, Arlen.” He dropped down into the chair opposite and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. “Where next?”

“Radio interview,” Catherine said. “And we’re already an hour late already.”

Robinson was suddenly on the verge of anger. “They know that?” he demanded.

“Know what?”

“That we’re go

“Don’t worry. I told them. They’re cool.”

They were all used to his temper. He switched unpredictably, with even the smallest provocation, and then switched back again with equal speed. It was u

She disappeared further up the bus.

“No need to snap at her,” Crawford said.

“You know I hate being late. My old man used to drill it into me—”

“You’d rather be thirty minutes early than a minute late. I know. You’ve told me about a million times. How’s the head?”

“Still pretty sore. You should’ve told me it was time to go.”

“I did.”

“Not early enough. We should have left about an hour before we did. You didn’t insist.”

“Next time, I will.”

“We probably shouldn’t even have been there.”

“No,” he said, “we should.”

The party had been a little more raucous than Crawford would have preferred but it was full of donors and potential donors and it would’ve been unseemly to have given it the bum’s rush or to have left too early. The hour that they had been there had given the Governor plenty of time to drink more than he should have and Crawford had spent the evening at his side, a little anxious, trying to keep him on message and making sure he didn’t do anything that would look bad if it was taken out of context. It had been a long night for him, too, and he knew he would have to find the energy from somewhere to make it through to the end of the day.

“You get the Secret Service if you have to. Tell them to drag me out.” He paused theatrically. “Do I have a detail yet?”

“Not yet,” Crawford said, playing along.

“You know what I’m looking forward to most? The codename. You know what they called Ke

“No, sir.”

“LANCER. And Reagan?

“No, sir.”

“RAWHIDE? What do you reckon they’ll call me?”

“You want me to answer that? Really?”

“No,” he gri

8

Crawford settled back in his seat as the bus pulled out of the school car park, closed his eyes and allowed himself to reminisce. They had come a long way. He remembered the first time he had met J.J.. God, he thought, it must have been at Georgetown almost twenty years ago. He had been involved in politics ever since he’d arrived on campus, standing for various posts and even getting elected to a couple of them. J.J. had been the same. They had both been in the same fraternities — Phi Beta Kappa and Kappa Kappa Psi — and they had served on the same committees. Eventually, they stood against each other for President of the Students’ Association. After a convivial two week campaign, Robinson had defeated him. But defeated was too polite a word: it had been an a