Free The Candidate by Paul Harris Page B

cable news channels as they covered the unfolding Iowa caucuses.
    Across Iowa, almost 500 miles away, people trooped to school gymnasiums, town halls and even just people’s private homes, to hold mini-debates about the candidates. They separated into different groups, backed a side and then tried to persuade each other to change their minds. Eventually, after a long excruciating delay, the final tallies fed through to Des Moines to be announced. It was an archaic process; a mad hangover from an earlier age. But it was how American presidents were born.
    Mike sat up as he watched a shot of Hodges come onto the TV. The Senator sat in a roadside diner, somewhere in Des Moines, and waved to passers-by as he shooed away any TV news crew that got close to him. Mike sent Dee a brief email over his Blackberry and begged her for the latest news. He got a prompt reply:
    “Trust in God and Jack Hodges (if you can tell the difference any more).”
    Mike tried to laugh, but his throat was dry despite the beer and he felt a pressure building up in the front of his head. He got up and paced around the room. This was awful, he thought. If they did win, how would he cope with the pressure of New Hampshire or South Carolina and beyond? Let alone the actual presidential campaign. But he was getting ahead of himself. They needed to beat Stanton before dreaming of that. Suddenly, his thoughts were disturbed by his ringing phone. He looked at the screen. It was Tobar’s number.
    “I’ve got him for you, Mike,” he said. “Ernesto Benitez. He arrived a week ago and signed up with the big Cargill plant. He’s sharing a trailer with some other guys there I know. I’ll email you the address.”
    Mike felt a glow of relief cut through his anxiety.
    “Thanks, Ivan. I’ll try and catch him tomorrow”
    “Do it early. His shift will start before sunrise.”
    “I owe you one,” Mike said.
    “Senator Hodges owes us one,” Tobar replied. “Let him know we helped. I hope this Benitez will speak to you, but nearly everyone here is skittish around outsiders. Good luck.”
    Mike glanced at the television and noticed with a shock that the first results were coming in and Harriet Stanton was well ahead. A handful of tiny caucuses had reported from rural areas and she already had more than 50 percent of the votes. Hodges was back in sixth place with just three percent. A stab of panic gripped Mike and he reached for his final beer. He flipped the tab and poured the liquid down his throat, not removing his eyes from the TV screen. He knew the first results were meaningless. They represented a few hundred voters. But he could not stop a primal thought from entering his mind. All of this work for what? We’re in sixth!
    Another slew of caucuses reported. Hodges ticked up. He hit eight percent now and Stanton slipped to 40. Hodges was in fifth place, bunched with a handful of other candidates. It was excruciating. But gradually the results flowed in, coming from bigger and bigger caucus meetings. They swept through the college towns where Hodges focused so much of his campaign’s strength and out into the blue collar suburbs of Des Moines, Davenport and Sioux City. From fifth place, Hodges’ numbers broke from the pack. Suddenly he was in third, notching up 15 percent. Then he was in second, just 12 points behind Stanton. Then ten points behind. Then eight points. Then five.
    Then it was over.
    Stanton won with 33 percent of the vote. But Hodges was second with 28 percent. It was an astounding result. Mike leapt up from his bed and called Dee. She answered the phone, or at least he thought she did. He could hear nothing on the other end but the sound of screaming, partying, cheering and cries of joy. He knew what she was doing. No words could describe their achievement so she held up her phone at their campaign headquarters and let the sounds travel down the line. Mike laughed and danced on his bed, fizzing his beer like a champagne bottle, giggling