Chapter 2, Episode 2

Doris Austin didn't report directly to the president, her official supervisor being Cory Metcalf, the Chief of Staff. But, as they say in Washington, she had the president's ear and therefore treated the president as her boss and often got her direction from him personally. Yet Cory was powerful because he was the president's number one gatekeeper, and if she really wanted something to happen at the White House, like a new program or a new policy, she had to work with Cory or he would put up obstacles. He was good at preventing things from happening; she wished he were better at making things happen.

When Doris got to her desk, Connie was waiting with the reports and the all-important talking points page: a single piece of paper with four or five bullets that summarized the data. When it came to polling, the art was in the interpretation, and Doris was the undisputed master. Even Cory deferred to Doris on this matter because she could not only analyze data, she could tell the president what it meant in a way that was meaningful to him. Cory, who had a knack for dryness, told people that Doris could "put the numbers in context" for the president. Cory had an annoying gift for downplaying whatever she did.

"What do we have today?" asked Doris, taking the report from Connie as she glided into the room and walked around her desk. She took the pages and parked her briefcase-on-wheels in one fluid motion. "Hmm. Where's the silver lining?"

Connie's face brightened. "The second bullet, the one about West Coast defense workers optimistic about jobs because they're getting lots of big defense contracts. That's good news, right?"

"Trouble is, he's not going to see that. He's going to zoom in on his disapproval ratings, and dissatisfaction over the war, and concern about the environment," said Doris. She managed contracts with several opinion-gathering organizations that surveyed citizens and businesses in all parts of the country on a daily basis. Doris received a different batch of data each day, driven by the hot topics of the moment. Lately, the president had been concerned about public attitudes toward the environment.

"See this." Doris held up a page. "Fifty-eight percent of voters in the midwest region think the president's party does not care about the environment. Ouch. And look at this one, sixty-one percent say that the president is soft on businesses when it comes to enforcing environmental regulations." Doris dropped her hands in frustration. "He's going to have a fit. There's no nice way to communicate those kinds of numbers."

"Are you saying there's no silver lining?"

"Not this time." Doris checked herself in the mirror and straightened her jacket. She also reached into her purse and withdrew a Ziploc bag containing two muffins. "But here's my ace in the hole: homemade muffins."

"Mmm. Did you bring any for the hired help?"

"Sorry. But I have an idea to share with you. I haven't told anyone yet, so don't breathe a word of it," said Doris.

Connie nodded in agreement. One of the things Doris liked about Connie is that she could use her as a sounding board for crazy ideas. She was loyal enough so that if the idea were truly kooky she wouldn't tell a soul.

"It's an idea for turning around the president's reputation on environmental issues," said Doris slowly.

"I'm listening," said Connie.

"Suppose we held an essay contest."

"An essay contest?"

"Right. A good old-fashioned essay contest for, say, high schoolers or middle schoolers. We give them a topic dealing with the environment, and then we select a winner, and the winner gets to come to Washington and meet the president."

"Good photo op: the president and a young student, working on environmental issues. You would have to choose the topic carefully," said Connie.

"Yes, that's key. But what's your initial reaction. Crazy? Unworkable? Don't let me make a fool of myself," said Doris, looking at Connie carefully. Since the moment she first interviewed Connie, Doris had the eerie sensation that her own daughter would have grown up to be like her. Doris and her husband had one child, Linda, who died of leukemia at age five. Frank never got over it. They lived out their entire adult lives with Linda's death clouding their marriage right up until Frank got sick. When he was dying he apologized. He admitted that they should have done something positive to move past Linda. But Doris was bitter at that point. Forty years was a lot of time to throw away and then say, 'I'm sorry.' When Connie came along, Doris was struck by the imagined similarities. Although Linda was only five when she died, Doris had a fantasy about how Linda was going to look and behave as an adult: dark hair, blue eyes, smart, curious about the world, open to people, warm. Connie was all of these things. To Doris, Connie was the grown-up version of Linda.

But she didn't dare tell Connie for fear of scaring her away. People can get uncomfortable if you are too personal at work, and Connie was too valuable to lose.

Now Doris waited a few seconds to judge Connie's response. This was time well invested in a job where you never had enough time. She had learned to read Connie's expressions. Connie was not good at acting; if Doris's idea was as appealing as last week's lunch, Connie would show it. But this time Connie's body language seemed positive.

"Hmm. Definitely not crazy. Definitely not unworkable. I kind of like it. Want me to jot down some ideas, you know, flesh it out a bit."

Doris relaxed. "You're a dear. Remind me to take you to lunch one day."

"When? After the next election? I'm still waiting for the last lunch you promised me."

"Okay, it'll be a fancy lunch, at Kinkead's."

"Now you have my undying loyalty."

Doris laughed and breezed out of the office. That's how meetings went sometimes: thirty seconds, standing around a desk, and then on to the next conversation. Some days were just a series of conversations, standing in the hall, around a desk or by the copier. She was amazed that major elements of national policy got worked out in such a hurry.

As Doris expected, Cory Metcalf hovered near the entrance to the Oval Office. He was the pit bull, and he liked his job.

His opening words were a shot across the bow. "Afternoon, Doris," he said.

"Are you implying that you never get caught in traffic? Chevy Chase isn't exactly around the corner."

He was a tall man who used his height to full advantage by standing close and glaring down at people. Doris didn't budge from her spot. This was a moment when being a woman was an advantage: Cory was reluctant to trespass into her personal space, he came close but not too close. There were boundaries he didn't want to cross. Doris knew it was not so much driven by courtesy as by an instinct for survival. She knew he regarded her as unpredictable, someone to be careful around because she had ties to the president that none of them had. She was among the innermost of the inner circle, practically a member of his immediate family. There was also the messy threat of sexual harassment complaints, which Doris would never resort to, but she dare didn’t tell him that. Cory was so paranoid about potential harassment charges from female staff that he was very careful not to make even accidental physical contact with any woman at the White House or in the Executive Office building next door.

"I leave at five o'clock in the morning," he said, standing arm's length from her.

"And you get home at ten o'clock in the evening. Does your wife ever get to see you?"

"On weekends. Maybe."

Doris looked at her watch. "Well, no use delaying any longer. Can I see Ziggy now?"

It was her answering shot across his bow. Ziggy was the president's nickname as a boy. At age five, his mother was a state governor while Doris's father, Henry Harrison, was the governor's press secretary. Doris was fifteen and she was christened the official state babysitter. She went to the governor's mansion after school and watched young Ziggy while trying to do her homework. In the summers, Doris and Ziggy spent whole days together, playing in the yard near the mansion. Doris eventually went to college and studied journalism and began working in public affairs jobs at various state agencies. Ziggy went on to high school, then college, then law school, worked for a time in the city prosecutor's office and then ran for his first political appointment on the city council. Doris helped him with press releases for his campaign, taking care to do it during her off hours, since she was a state employee at the time. She was always particular about rules, and Ziggy liked that. He won the election, the first of many to come in his rise to the presidency. Doris, and her father while he was still living, helped Ziggy with all of his campaigns, especially the national ones. Over time, Doris transitioned from journalism to polling, because she became very interested in figuring out how to accurately gauge public opinion on an issue. You couldn't trust columnists and commentators and experts, they all had an agenda, she knew for a fact, because many of them were her friends. On the other hand, the average citizen would be happy to simply tell you what he or she thought if you took the time to ask. By the time Ziggy won the presidency, Doris had established herself as an expert interpreter of opinion polls. Ziggy's confidence in her was absolute. And she was the only person on staff who ever called him Ziggy.

Cory stepped aside. There little parley was over. What a waste of time, thought Doris as she strode past him into the Oval Office.

Cory followed her in. It was standard procedure. Doris briefed the president on the latest polling results every morning, and if the president wanted to take any action he would give instructions to the chief of staff. Cory's job was to hear everything the president heard.

"Good morning, sir," said Doris. She made it a point to be formal while on duty. There was no benefit in appearing to use her old family ties to an advantage. On the other hand, a little touch of home never hurt. She placed the plastic bag of muffins on his desk. "I brought you some homemade muffins."

The president grinned. He almost never grinned in the morning. She saw, for an instant, the boy she had always known. "Trying to butter me up for the kill." He winked at Cory. "When Doris brings muffins, look out. It means public opinion is going to hell in a hand basket."

He was ordinarily not chatty during morning meetings. Instead, the president was, as Cory described it, in listening mode: absorbing information, processing it in his own unique way. The president could listen to presentations for three solid hours and remember almost every detail. When he gave instructions they were precise, and he remembered them. Pity the poor staffer who assumed the president had "forgotten all about" an assignment that had been given. The president demanded that everyone possess the same attention to detail as he did.

Fortunately, Doris was a detail person. She and Cory settled into chairs opposite the president. She started right into her report. Small talk was over. "On the positive side, sixty-five percent of factory workers on the west coast are optimistic about having continued work in the future. Of course, most of these workers are on defense contracts."

The president looked up and peered over his reading glasses. "War's hell, unless you're a defense contractor."

"Here's what I think is the most significant item today: in a survey of midwest households, sixty-one percent say that the president is soft on business when it comes to enforcing environmental regulations." She looked at him. "We have not been seeing that. This particular segment of the public has traditionally been pro-business. Now they are swinging the other way."

"How do you know the survey is not a fluke?" said Cory.

Doris had to be careful. This kind of report was potentially bad news because many of the party's top contributors were midwest businesses and utilities. "We certainly need to do repeat polling to validate these results. However, we had a follow-up question for corroboration. It was about concern for the environment. Fifty-eight percent of voters in this same region think the president's party does not care about the environment. That tracks with the first result."

"Why are you asking questions like that to begin with?" Cory asked. His lips were becoming tight. He was controlling his anger.

"That's a non-response," said Doris. "You don't simply stop asking questions because you don't like the answers. We need an action plan for sending the message that we care about the environment and we're not soft on business."

The president appeared to be paying no attention to the exchange between Doris and Cory, but they both new better. He was the ultimate multi-tasker; he could read and write and listen simultaneously; you were supposed to talk and discuss in front of him and not wait for an explicit response. Doris knew he was processing the arguments, so she chose her words carefully.

Cory kept very still, and kept his voice even. "But you might be raising red flags for nothing. This might be a non-issue."

"It is to people who don't want to hear this news," she said. "This is a bubbling volcano ready to blow up if we don't watch it."

"Doris, as you know, there is legislation working its way through Congress that will create a long list of tax breaks to energy companies and public utilities. We've gone on record as supporting it. In fact, we've been campaigning hard for Congress to pass it, because we feel it helps reduce our dependence on foreign energy."

"It helps reduce our dependence on foreign oil," said Doris. "It doesn't do a thing to reduce our dependence on fossil fuels."

"My point is that this kind of survey data seems to suggest that we shouldn't be supporting this bill."

"But we are, and that's a problem," said Doris.

Without looking up from his desk, the president said, "Got any ideas, Doris."

She took a deep breath. "Only one," she said.

They both waited, so she went on. "It would help to immediately send a message that we care about the environment, but things don't change overnight. The toughest challenges, like how to have inexpensive energy and make greater use of alternative fuels, take a long time to work out." She paused for a breath, but made it a point not to hurry. "I have an idea that might signal to the public that we're working on a partnership with citizens to find solutions to problems."

She paused again, then blurted out, "How about an essay contest?"

Cory looked stunned. "An essay contest?"

The president didn't look up from his paperwork, but she knew he was listening.

"Suppose we get a large slice of students, nationwide, like all ninth graders or eighth graders, and we have them write an essay about environmental priorities. Like, what sacrifices should society make in order to have solar energy?"

"Too technical," said Cory.

"Or, finding a balance between energy production and environmental preservation. Whatever it is, the theme would have a simple name that would look good on posters and sound good on radio. I don't know, something catchy, like..."

The president looked over his glasses, "... how about 'Everything In Balance' ?"

Cory twisted slightly toward the president. "But, Sir... an essay contest?"

Doris smiled, "That has a nice ring to it. 'Everything In Balance'. It captures our basic philosophy, how do we balance competing needs and desires."

Cory's impatience grew by the second. "Doris, I seriously doubt whether eighth or ninth graders can make any kind of meaningful contribution to such a complex scientific topic."

"It's not necessarily scientific," said Doris. "We're talking about lifestyles, sacrifices, priorities. This is judgmental. Every opinion counts, and we want fresh perspectives from young people who think out of the box."

The president basically ended the debate with, "Cory, pass this to Helen for action. I want a plan A.S.A.P."

Cory and Doris both knew that tone. The conversation was over, Cory had instructions. Helen was Helen Fontaine, Secretary of Education. She happened to be a good friend of Doris's, and Doris knew she could count on Helen for support. This plan was as good as a done deal. And Cory knew it.

They both stood up. "Thank you, sir," said Doris.

"Uh, Cory," said the president.

"Sir?"

"Could you send in some coffee to go with these muffins?"

Doris had to quickly swing around and head for the door in order to hide the smile on her face.