Free The Speechwriter by Barton Swaim Page B

“You’re clear on what the bill does?”
    Governor: “Seems pretty clear. Why does some lab have to employ somebody from in-state to be valid here? That’s stupid. Are there any arguments for it?”
    Maybe somebody would offer an argument. Sometimes a staffer would mention that some lawmaker was really keen ongetting a bill through or some other practical matter of expedience. It didn’t matter who the lawmaker was or how powerful he or she was; the boss’s response would be some variation on a repetitive theme: “Again, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t care whether some senator likes a bill or not. This is just another stupid mandate pushed by lobbyists for their own mercenary reasons. The technicians want more business, so they hired a lobbyist to get a bill passed that forces dentists to use them instead of someone in another state. That’s stupid. Veto. Next.”
    â€œUh-hut!” That’d be Diane. Rat meetings were always punctuated by her laugh: “Uh-hut!”
    Another staffer: “Next bill is S-three-four-eight. Shawn’s Law. I think we’re all pretty familiar with this one. Some changes from last year’s bill, but basically the same idea. It would make it illegal for children under age sixteen to operate ATVs without supervision, and it would require fifteen-year-olds to pass a safety course before using them with adult accompaniment. As I say, this year’s version isn’t that different. My main concern here is enforcement. We’d be passing a law that—.”
    â€œExactly.” The governor grasped the point of this one without much explanation. “What are you gonna do, post DNR agents all over the state and tell ’em to watch out for kids riding ATVs? This is a joke.”
    â€œUh-hut!”
    Staffer: “There’s also the issue of this safety course. It’s not clear how—.”
    â€œWho’s going to run that? And what are you going todo to a kid who rides one on private property? Stop him and make him take out his safety course certificate? This is a joke. Veto.”
    â€œUh-hut!”
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    The governor had five calendar days, excluding Sundays, to sign or veto a bill. At some point during those five days, particularly if the bill was a big deal, we might have what Nat called a fire drill. Fire drills happened when a hard deadline approached—a press conference or, as in this case, a ratification deadline—and suddenly the governor’s attention became completely fixed on a single task. Maybe he and his family were going out of town that weekend and it had to be done before he left. Suddenly he’d want to discuss every conceivable argument and think through every piece of relevant data. He’d scribble on a notepad and shout questions at whoever was standing nearby. The questions usually had to do with some past veto or policy position, and generally only Stewart knew the answers.
    â€œThere was a bill in like 2004, something to do with eyesores on private property. Did we sign it or veto it?”
    â€œI don’t know” would be the answer.
    â€œGet Stewart in here.”
    That person would run off to find Stewart. Then the governor would shout to the scheduling office, just outside his door, “Hey, Lewis!” Lewis would come in and the governor would ask where Stewart was. Lewis, who hadn’t heard himask for Stewart the first time, would run off to find him. This would happen four or five times in quick succession. If Stewart was at his desk or outside smoking, it wasn’t a problem. If he was elsewhere, we’d see a train of young people walking through the governor’s wing of the State House and in the men’s room off the rotunda asking if anybody had seen Stewart. Finally Stewart would be rounded up, and he’d answer the governor’s question. Then the governor would think of another question, and this one Stewart