An Excerpt from Book of Life

Vice President Liam Rogers knew he wasn’t Nastov’s preferred representative from the administration. The invitation that brought him to Nastov Tower had been specifically extended to the president. Like most vice presidents, Rogers had quickly grown used to playing the role of a surrogate.

Rogers’s rise in the public eye began in college, where he had been a much-lauded scholar-athlete quarterback. While sports media invested considerable airtime promoting their photogenic favorite, it was only able to land him a late-round draft pick. His short-lived pro career included only six starts, with each occurring after his team’s franchise quarterback had been injured.

The years since college had been kind, preserving a look of rugged athleticism. Now in his early forties, still youthful and virile, he was only slightly wrinkled, with graying brown hair that spiked from either side of a distinct part on the left side of his head.

After his sports career ended, he successfully ran for Congress and won reelection three times. A long with being vice president, the lingering popularity from his football career made him the ideal stand-in for the president at a high-profile event.

Rogers’s assistant had accompanied him to the party. Observing their surroundings, his assistant joked, “Did your college team’s athletic dorm have a balcony like this?”

Rogers replied, “The boosters’ donations wouldn’t pay for a tenth of this!”

His assistant replied, “Maybe you can talk Nastov into becoming one of your college’s boosters.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” said Rogers. “Remember, I wasn’t Nastov’s first choice for tonight.”

Likewise, Rogers had long suspected he had not been President Driscoll Stannin’s first choice as his running mate. He had heard the rumor circulating Washington that supported that suspicion. And regardless of the veracity of the rumor, he knew that when selected, he was viewed as politically risky, being absent a higher level of experience and being a relatively youthful thirty-eight years old at the time. At the party convention, his running mate and soon-to-be president had introduced him in a less than affirming manner, describing him as “one dynamic, charismatic, good-lookin’ guy.”

Most would have found the description flattering under any circumstances, but in his situation, it was wanting.

Rogers knew that, as with most decisions related to President Stannin, his choice as Stannin’s running mate was likely to have been heavily influenced by Stannin’s then campaign manager and now White House Chief of Staff Stewart Beckman.

Stewart Beckman’s magnum opus was his management of the campaign that brought the bland and stoic Driscoll Stannin to the White House.  Conventional wisdom held that President Stannin owed his presence in the White House to Beckman.

As in all his campaigns, Beckman won not so much by selling his candidate but by “defining his opponent.” In one rare candid conversation with Rogers, Beckman had boasted, “After I’m finished with my candidate’s opponent, all my candidate has to do is be the other choice.”

An unflattering but considered to be accurate expose in a national magazine described Beckman as “the rotund and balding GOAT of the negative campaign … the political operative of the era … an amoral fixer who eats too much, drinks too much, and swears too much.”

Another passage conceded, “Any competitor who wants to make a name in the profession has to manage a successful campaign against Stewart Beckman, or as one political commentator has remarked, quoting Ric Flair, ‘To be the man, you have to beat the man.’”

Beckman was also becoming somewhat of a cultural icon. Social media content was replete with imagery and references to Beckman, both extolling and deprecating. Analytics showed the most common description of him was “that fat man with big eyes.”

Like many significant figures in history, Beckman was known for an oft-recited cliché. Though never formally documented, in Beckman’s case, the cliché was “handle it.” “Handle it,” as in “You handle it. Just solve the problem. Don’t tell me how. No details. Don’t report back. Ensure plausible deniability. Just handle it. You’re hearing my voice now so that I won’t have to hear yours later.”

Any subordinate who received this charge understood they were being delegated to a sensitive mission, one to be completed in a way that protected the president on both a political and personal level.

The opposition party sought to benefit from this dark reputation. Their messaging constantly promoted the view of an administration dominated by the surreptitious influence of Beckman. Though he knew of the ill intent behind such narratives, Rogers suspected that the influence of Stewart Beckman was the driving force behind where he found himself both in his career and on this evening. For reasons neither had shared, it was decided that neither Beckman nor the president would attend Nastov’s high-profile celebration.

Similarly, Beckman had never sat down with Rogers and detailed the exact history of how he came to be Stannin’s running mate. All Beckman had ever offered was his off-the-record criteria for a running mate, which was to “look good in the optics and otherwise do no harm.” Those instructions rang in Rogers’s memory as he contemplated what seemed like the questionable significance of the vice presidency, at least during the time he occupied the office.

Rogers had never found being vice president as exciting as he had expected, always feeling outside the inner circle and never pivotal in any major decision. In fact, he was rarely convinced that the president or anyone else in the administration was particularly aware of him. He found a constant reinforcement of this in the code name the Secret Service had chosen for him, “Fastball.” He wondered if whoever in the Secret Service had the responsibility of making up code names really knew his background or the difference between a football player and a baseball player.

Still, he found being vice president surreal. He felt all the emotions he had anticipated the experience would evoke when he first toured the White House in third grade and then again when his college team won the national championship.

And he had every reason to believe he was widely admired. Analytics from social media constantly affirmed his high level of public favorability. How ironic, he thought, that the administration’s top analytics expert had accompanied him to Nastov Tower.

*      *      *

Officially, Chester Wiggins was the special assistant for analytics to the White House chief of staff. The slender and typically ill at ease thirty-something metrosexual, always in a neatly pressed suit and well-coiffed hair, was considered a genius in all things digital. But given the money he could command in the private sector, Rogers had always wondered why Chester would accept a job that paid a federal government salary. He suspected the answer was a common one—the simple intoxication of holding a high-level job in Washington, or what many there called “Potomac Fever.”

Rogers thought that perhaps his assessment of Chester was unfair.

Chester may have turned down millions in order to accept a high-level Washington job, but at least he didn’t have to live with the suspicion that he had been a second choice. And at the moment, Rogers was convinced he was about to receive confirmation of that suspicion from the best possible source—the man who was rumored to have been the first.

*      *      *

Governor Trent Andrews stood facing him thirty feet across the balcony. Rogers had heard the rumors that at some point between being offered and introduced as Stannin’s running mate, someone had conducted a deep dive into Andrews’s digital history and found something reprehensible. Allegedly, that discovery had derailed his ascent to the position of Driscoll Stannin’s running mate and eventually the vice presidency.

Occasional glances by Rogers had led him to suspect that the governor was not enjoying the evening. Andrews appeared to be nursing a growing resentment as he watched guests fawn over the popular ex-athlete who had taken his dream job.

Prolonging his torment, about twenty minutes ago, a distinguished gentleman who appeared to have some authority over the events of the evening made an announcement.

“We just heard from the plane. They will arrive a few minutes behind schedule. Please continue to enjoy your evening.”

This had produced the time that allowed the governor to be overserved by the roving wine stewards. Rogers’s subsequent glances at the increasingly hard to ignore governor alerted him to a deteriorating situation.

Suddenly, the governor slammed his latest glass on a nearby table and began a staggered trek toward Rogers. The vice president’s Secret Service detail didn’t move but did direct intense eye contact in the governor’s direction.

“Governor,” Rogers greeted him with a guarded tone.

“Mr. Vice President,” was the superficial reply.

Before Rogers could further the exchange of pleasantries, the governor snapped, “I was supposed to have your job!”

           Quite an icebreaker, Rogers thought. Evaluating the possible need to step back, he decided it might only further embolden the governor.

Rogers’s assistant attempted to intervene, stepping forward to reach for the governor’s elbow. As the assistant’s hand made contact, the governor pulled his arm back as he further wobbled on his feet.

“Governor,” implored Rogers. “Why don’t we take a seat and visit for a while?”

It was as if the words were unheard.

The governor turned to Chester.

“I gather you’re the pervert Beckman pays to peek into bedroom windows.”

As Chester began to gasp for words, other guests who apparently had some relation to the governor approached and took his arms. This time, the governor acquiesced.

The room quieted, with most guests now observing the tense situation.

Rogers stepped into the space between the governor and Chester. He spoke in a firm and conclusive tone. “Governor, it’s been good to see you.”

Those who now stabilized the governor took the initiative and softly admonished him. “Please, Governor.”

The attendees who had positioned themselves for an opening to approach the vice president decided to allow some time to pass before contemplating the next opportunity. In the privacy that moment created, Rogers attempted to use humor to comfort the obviously shaken Chester.

“So, Chester, were you peeking through the governor’s bedroom window?”

Chester was still too shaken to laugh or crack a smile. He was both intimidated and enraged. Moments later, he slightly recomposed. He turned to stare across the room, where the governor was being assisted to a seat on a sofa. Standing between Rogers and his assistant, he inhaled a chest full of air. He used the exhale to quietly say, “Yes, Governor. It was me. I’m the one who found it.”

Rogers and his assistant looked at Chester. Neither asked, but Chester offered more.

“A lot of really bad crap on his social media. It was from twenty years ago when he was in college and later as a young lawyer.”

Chester removed the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

“Horrible stuff. Mostly the way he talked about the women he had sex with. He had arranged to have it all scrubbed. But I found it.”

Rogers and his assistant stared intently.

“I found the crap and presented it to Beckman,” Chester admitted. “Beckman told the governor that if he would quietly forget about being Stannin’s VP, the crap would never be known.”

Chester continued his stare at the governor. “It was better for President Stannin and the nation that I found it.”

His words struck Rogers as a mixture of ego and conscience despite being uttered softly enough to avoid being overheard by the now distanced governor.

Chester took a soda from a valet who had approached after noticing his distraught condition. His head snapped back as he took a brisk drink with a fast swallow. To Rogers, he now looked possessed.

Chester gave a death stare toward the governor, who now required assistance to maintain vertical posture even while seated.

“I found it, Governor!” Chester said angrily but softly. “Oh yeah, Governor! I found it!”

He took another gulp of soda, then added, “Finding it was what sold me to Beckman.”

To Rogers, it was also confirmation of what he had always suspected about his own political ascent. As the truth sank in, he thought, And it’s how I became vice president.

“Excuse me,” said Chester. “Going to dry off in the restroom.”

As Chester departed, Rogers quipped to his assistant, “This party, pro football, and the vice presidency. I rise because the first choice is unavailable.”

Rogers’s secure phone buzzed. The irony of the name on the screen was not lost.

From: Stewart Beckman

Come by my office in the morning at nine.

Getting you and the president together on a matter.

           This should boost my self-esteem, he joked to himself.

As the delay in Nastov’s arrival continued, the guests were growing impatient. And now, thanks to the drama generated by the governor, they felt reluctant to approach the vice president. It was beginning to feel like a wasted evening to Rogers.

“Wonder when our host will grace us with his presence,” he snarked.

As Rogers and his assistant stood alone, his assistant observed, “Something must be going on. The intel dossier on Nastov says he is compulsive about punctuality.”

“You have an intel dossier on Nastov?” asked an amused Rogers.

“Don’t know why anyone would think it was necessary,” observed his assistant. “But Beckman told me to obtain one for you anyway.”

Rogers grinned. “Well, you’d better give it to me, in case Beckman asks.”

“Probably right,” his assistant remarked.

“The intel dossier on Doran Nastov,” he said, reciting from memory. “Billionaire tech guru, born in Slovakia, brought to the US as the adopted son of a devout evangelical Midwestern couple. In his youth, he was a celebrity in evangelical churches, owing to his dramatic recitations of Bible passages. The overwhelming consensus is that he is now less religious and more secular. Psychological profilers estimate his IQ to be in the neighborhood of two hundred. Their profile describes his personality as focused and passionate but also obsessive and amoral.”

The assistant stepped closer. “They also say his recent words and demeanor are sending up some red flags, ones that suggest the possibility that he is mentally struggling.”

Abruptly, the same distinguished gentleman who had previously announced their host’s delay shuffled giddily to the middle of the balcony.

“Everyone! We just received word. The plane is on the ground!”