ALL IN: Race for the White House Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Other Books by Greg Sandora

  About the Author

  Excerpt: Love, Lust, and Loyalty

  Excerpt: Gabby, Angel of God

  Excerpt: Gabby, The Protector

  ALL IN: Race for the White House

  Jack Canon's American Destiny

  Greg Sandora

  Copyright © 2015 by Greg Sandora

  All rights are reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, businesses, places, characters, incidents, and events either are the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my mother, Sylvia Sandora, whose passing ignited the passion in me to begin writing this book. In addition, to my father, Joseph Sandora, who died five and a half months later, almost to the day I finished. I hope they love it.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my beautiful wife of 30 years, Kathy, whose first edit helped to shape the story and bring the characters to life. Her patience, dedication and selfless sacrifice helped make my dream of writing this book possible.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’ll never forget the look on my dad’s face. Dangerous men in military uniform stopped us at a checkpoint. Soldiers hollered back and forth waving weapons, searching our things, taking anything they wanted. An emaciated boy with skin so thin it strained to cover his veins approached one guerrilla. Crying out, eyes bulging from hollow sockets, the child’s spindly arms grasped the soldier’s leg. The helpless act was answered by the butt end of a rifle, sending the child violently to the ground. Semi convulsing, blood gushing from his head, the boy curled up in a tiny brown ball and went to sleep. At least that’s what my mom told me.

  That scene played repeatedly in my head growing up. It made me sad, but mostly furious, that life could be so unfair. Our family missionary trip to Africa meant to teach us love, compassion, and understanding had burned a fire in my belly so intense it stayed with me throughout my life. Even at a tender age, I knew someday I’d change this cruel and unjust world. That was many years ago.

  A long recession has brought difficult times. Many in the working middle class are unemployed or have fallen below the poverty line. Millions have lost their homes. People lucky enough to have jobs are doing double the load, working every day with a lump in their throat, feeling disposable, and fearing they’re next. In a sick twist, Government bailed out Big Business and Big Banks but screwed the people. Honest Americans are feeling anxiety, shame and hopelessness as suicides, domestic violence, and homicides are climbing to an all-time high.

  Oh, there are still guys buying Ferraris, but the disparity between rich and poor has become obscene. The wealthy have become fat, picking off the laboring carcass of a foreclosed middle class. The underlying greed is unconscionable.

  I’m the Senior Democratic Senator from Kentucky. My name is John Canon; people call me Jack. Though my brown hair has earned a touch of gray, I can’t complain, serving a second term in the most powerful city on earth. I don’t work out as much, but I’ve learned what good clothes can do. The biggest eye opener of my political career so far: an unsuccessful bid for the Presidency. It was a major shock to find out what it’s really going to take to fulfill my destiny: To someday have the power, to dedicate the highest office in the land, to make things right. This time, I’m ALL IN.

  Sandy Collins, my assistant, sticks her head in, peeking around the door, “Morning, how yah doing?”

  “I’m alright - working on some lines for my stump speech.” Sandy is my right hand and more importantly my best friend. It only makes sense, though, at eight years old my best friend was a girl, I loved holding her hand.

  Men are hard-wired to want women like Sandy. She’s a drop-dead knockout, likes her heels, which put her about five-nine, and wears her blonde hair straight, pulling it into a ponytail at least part of the day. Her only negative, she’s a bit naïve for someone turning thirty-two.

  “Jack, did you want me to do all your Christmas shopping again this year?” Sandy had great taste in gifts. She put a lot of thought into her choices, usually hitting a home run with my family, especially the kids. It’s like she was tuned into what my girls would want.

  Ignoring her question, “Listen to this,” speaking my notes as I’m writing, “this country is being run by elitists who couldn’t care less about ordinary Americans.”

  I’d actually written, couldn’t give one sweet shit, but adjusted it for a broader audience.

  “The system is badly broken, the wealthiest Americans have profited unfairly, taking advantage of an increasingly helpless public.”

  Bud, my campaign manager, chief of staff, and close friend for the past 15 years enters the office mid-sentence.

  “Devastated by the economy, the rich have gamed the system, bought everything up on the cheap. Greed threatens our way of life.”

  Sandy commented, “It sounds bleak.”

  “Jack, I’ve arranged for the transfers.” Bud was being careful with Sandy in the room. He’d gotten me elected to the senate, but despite several tries going all the way back to McGovern he’d never won a presidential campaign.

  “Bud, say it straight, if we can’t trust Sandy, we’re done.”

  “Alright.” Bud turned to her, “We got our asses handed to us the first time around cause Jack here didn’t want to break the law. This time, I’m funneling large donations into Super PACs that we’ll control.”

  “Bud, Sandy’s in the thick of this with us. Honey, you know we aren’t supposed to be getting the money for them. Let alone this crazy kind of money. If anyone finds out, we’re all going to jail.”

  Sandy said, “Give me some credit boys, I get it. Besides, you’re onl
y doing what everybody else does already.”

  Bud cautioned, “Never before to this degree. When the Republicans are coming after us, we’re going to need every dime to fight off the attack.”

  Politics is a tricky game and, lucky for me, Bud was an expert player. I’m excited to have a guy like him with only one thing left to prove. This was to be Bud’s last time out of the gate. His doctors told him his heart wasn’t up to handling the stress of another major campaign. He was willing to put it all on the line because he believed in me, but deep down in my heart, I knew that more than life itself, Bud Singer wanted to go out with the win.

  Bud spent a lot of time on the cocktail circuit and at charity events rubbing elbows with the rich and famous, lining up contributions. He looked in Sandy’s direction, to engage her directly, “The Country my father knew was built on cheap energy. Families of the fifties could live well on one income. We took weekend joy rides in the country – in big heavy gas guzzlers, for the fun of it.” He looked at me then back to Sandy.

  “Remember the station wagons, Jack? People moved to the suburbs in droves. Our factories were busy making all kinds of products – Made in America was the sign of Quality. We were a nation of producers, not just consumers. That’s changed now. This country is going to the dogs.”

  Sandy wasn’t even faking interest in Bud today, she told me once he reminded her of a sinister figure, a shorter version of Orson Wells in a suit. Even when Bud worked at it, he never held her attention for long.

  “Jack, I was serious before, do you want me to get started on your presents? I was in Macy’s the other day listening to Christmas music. It’s getting to be that time of year again.”

  Sandy was making every effort to get my undivided attention. She stood in front of me, bent over my laptop and looked chin out into my eyes, “The stores have been decorated since Halloween.”

  “We’ve still got over a month,” – then I thought for a second.

  “Maybe you could pick up a couple of gifts for the kids and help me with a few ideas for Sarah’s. I’ll go get those, myself.”

  “Great, I’ll put together a tentative list and we’ll go over it when you can focus.”

  Sandy turned and did an exaggerated one-foot-crossing-the-other walk, accentuating her hip movements as she left the room. If she wasn’t getting my attention in the room, she was determined to get it going out.

  Bud shook his head, “She’s a tease.”

  “She’s right, you don’t give her much credit, remember she graduated cum laude from Boston.”

  “In journalism, for Pete’s sakes, Jack, get real.”

  “You don’t like reporters.”

  “No, really, don’t you think it’s odd that in all the years you’ve known Sandy she’s never had a boyfriend. Hell, I don’t ever remember her having a date.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “She’s a beautiful woman, where I come from, there’s a line around the block for a girl like that.”

  “Well, for one thing she never stops working, you know, sometimes she’s texting me late into the evening.”

  “She should put herself out there, get married.”

  “I’ve begged her to take some time off, but she never does.”

  “What a waste.”

  Bud was right, Sandy didn’t have much of a personal life; it was my fault, I had her managing both the Campaign Administrative Staff and the Senate Office.

  “I never thought I’d say this, but we may be working the girl too hard, Jack.”

  “I’ve taken her out a couple of times after work for Martinis.”

  “Does she ever mention her personal life?”

  “Not really, we talk mostly about work and me being president. She really wants it for me.”

  Sandy usually accompanies me on business trips to help me stay organized. She’s a kindred spirit and knows first-hand the difficulties of being a Senator.

  “Jack, running for president can rip you apart if you are not ready. I hope she understands that we’re in a dogfight, any misstep in this arena and they’ll eat us alive. You know how I worry.”

  “Relax she knows we’ll do whatever it takes to win.”

  “But can she keep it to herself?”

  “Yeah, Bud, she’ll never betray my trust. Listen to this,” my reading glasses were hanging on my nose, “our mission is to take America back for the people.” I continued reading aloud.

  “Big oil is causing the American Dream to fade away. Regular, hard-working, middle-class families have lost their homes. The Government bailed out the banks, but didn’t do a damn thing to help the people. We have become a nation of service providers, importing nearly everything we use. America is like a locomotive, once powerful, that has left the tracks, on a collision course with economic disaster.”

  Bud said, “I like that line; it’s got powerful imagery. You didn’t answer me, though. Do you think she really gets it?”

  “Bud, I think that little walk shook you up.”

  “Why, do I seem fixated?”

  “You can’t stop talking about her! Listen, we had a heart to heart a long time ago and I told her the game is rigged. To make a difference in this world, we’ve got to get our hands dirty, really dirty. Bud, I promise you she’s with us all the way to the White House.”

  “Okay, I hope you’re right. I don’t want to see her on 60 minutes some night spilling her guts out about you.”

  I wedged my feet on top of the desk, leaned back in my chair, and continued typing notes and reading them aloud; the thoughts were coming. “Recession President Gillard Barker, third year in office with nothing, no, scratch that… with little going right.”

  Bud said, “Barker still thinks he can be re-elected. The power of the Presidency has to be intoxicating; it’s blinding him to reality.”

  Barker said in an interview, ‘The Democrats’ dismal four years left such a bad taste with voters; it would take two Republican terms to wash it out.’

  As Bud was walking toward the door, he chided, “I still think he’s a cocky bastard.”

  I answered, “It happens, Bud. Look at Carter.”

  Neither of us wanted to admit it, but many leaders in our own Party were afraid the president was right.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Time flies, it hardly seems possible that three months ago, Bud and I were summoned to the Washington Offices of Henry Baines Truscott, the head of the Democratic National Committee. We were happy; Bud thought we were getting the call. Before the meeting, we imagined all the possibilities of being officially endorsed by the party. The feather in our cap that could propel us. It would sure make things a lot easier lining up the party faithful.

  “They want you to run,” Bud whispered before we were ushered into the corner office of the Chairman. “They’re making the right move; they know you’ll bring a lot of votes in on your coattails.” It was rare to see Bud this excited. There was a spring in his step; he literally beamed with anticipation.

  Henry Truscott was a tall, impish man of Scotch – Irish descent. He was young looking at forty-five, but the new Chairman of the DNC had a weak looking build. His most imposing feature was his shoe polish black hair worn slicked back over his high forehead. Henry had eager looking eyes, exaggerated through the amplification of thick lens-end black rimmed glasses. Obviously driven to gain political power as a substitute for his lack of physical prowess. Everyone who knew him recognized at least that.

  “Gentlemen,” Henry beckoned us to a large antique conference table.

  Speaking through his trademark toothy grin, “Jack, so glad you could make it.” He said, extending his hand forward.

  “Bud, it’s always good to see you. Have a seat,” motioning to the large high back leather chairs positioned evenly around the dark oak table, “of course you know the speaker.”

  The Chairman was accompanied by the former Speaker of the House, Herb Farley, a white-haired three hundred pound bear of a man with a triple chi
n and double stomach. The speaker held out his meaty paw to shake our hands. I didn’t know the speaker personally; we’d met casually at a few Washington parties, but our paths didn’t cross too often. I did know he wasn’t to be trusted; his reputation as an opportunist preceded him. However, that could be said of most the Hill. After all, who isn’t looking out for their own ass in this town?

  “I’m a fan of your work in the Senate,” he boomed. The speaker’s forehead was damp with perspiration around the edges of his hairline. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe it.

  “Thank you, Mr. Speaker,” I was guarded, but always friendly.

  “Call me Herb, please,” Henry asked, “Can I get you guys anything… coffee, something stronger?”

  “Nothing for me,” Bud answered a little too quickly.

  I shook my head, “I’m all set. Had a cup this morning.” The truth is, I never drank more than one cup in the morning and it was too early for hard liquor.

  The speaker engaged us in a few minutes of small talk before Bud, with his typical impatience, asked, “So fellas you didn’t bring us down here for girl talk. What did you have in mind?”

  I was running my hands along the old wood, pretending to admire the table, my ears perked for the response. I figured I’d let Bud do most of the talking. After all, he knew these guys better than I did; he’d spent the last forty years working for the party.

  Henry started, “We know you’re preparing for a run at the White House.”

  “We haven’t announced,” Bud was being coy.

  They knew we had been approaching donors for some time now, that we’d arranged for office space and already hired some staff. Despite our best efforts to keep our plans low-key, when we are all asking some of the same people for money -word gets around.

  “I’ll get right to the point. The thing is, Jack, we brought you here today to ask that you sit this one out.” My heart sank. I looked over at Bud and saw a surprised look on his face. Almost shock. I thought what the fuck?