The iCandidate (24 page)

The
Krav Maga training I got in Special Forces kicks in and I’m ready for his second punch before he even lets it fly. I dodge his fist, step into him, hook his right arm with my left and apply pressure with my right hand on the back of his neck. Using his momentum against him, he goes to the ground quickly.

With control of his arm, I can en
d this engagement with one of a dozen moves. Many of them will require a trip to the emergency room and several months in a cast. I then realize where I am, and what I’m doing.

Fighting
my training and indoctrination, I release him and take a few steps away from where he lays on the ground. I’m not scared of Bruce Stanton; I simply did not come here to fight him.

He gets up
, limbers over to me and grabs a fistful of my shirt, his other arm cocked back and ready to unleash what is bound to be a painful hit.

“Dad!”
Chelsea screams from the hallway entrance to the living room. “Dad! Let him go!”

Bruce takes a quick
glance over his shoulder to see the horror and fear on his only child’s face. She is puffy-eyed from crying over an emotional trauma, now exacerbated by the sight of her father and favorite teacher brawling in the living room.

“
I don't give a damn whether you were a Green Beret or not,” he growls, looking me directly in the eye. “You're lucky I'm not ripping your arms off.”

“
So what's stopping you?”

“
I said let him go, Dad!” Chelsea pleads, now close enough to reach out and place a hand on her father’s shoulder. “Please,” she whispers, touching his forearm with her other hand and coaxing him to release me. He decocks the arm poised to do significant damage to my face and unclamps the fist he made around the material of my shirt.

“
I asked my daughter if anything happened between you two. She swears nothing did and I believe her. She wouldn't lie to me about something like that.”

I rub my jaw to make sure it is still attached.
The unmistakable tang of fresh blood hits my tongue, but considering the time spent surrounded by alpha males at army posts, I’ve been in far worse condition than this. I did think the days of brawling were behind me when I started teaching though.

“So what was
that all about?”

“You’re not a father, are you?” I
immediately get his point and give a slight nod. The fight isn’t about the allegation of sleeping with his daughter, but the helpless feeling of trying to protect her from the world I introduced by starting this in the first place.

No parent
wants to see their kid in pain - emotional, physical, or otherwise. Events spun out of control, leading to comments broadcasted publically to hurt Chelsea. Bruce needed to lash out at somebody. I made a convenient target.

“You’re both bleeding. I’ll get some ice and bandages.”

Bruce surveys the damage to his arm, which has a gash running down it inflicted from a shard of the shattered lamp. I touch my fingers to my gums to determine how bad my mouth is bleeding.

“
She worships you, ya know. I think you understand that,” he says after she disappears down the hall. “I also think you are man enough never to take advantage of anyone, much less a young woman.”

I nod.
Bruce gestures me to sit down on the couch and I take a seat. He sits in an overstuffed recliner, careful not to get blood on the upholstery.

“
My wife died when Chelsea was a child. Her mom was Irish and could really piss me off, but man, I loved that woman. After she passed, I tried to be the best father I could be, ya know, but a girl needs her mother. I could never get Chels to come out of her shell when she hit high school. Never get her excited about anything.

“T
hat changed when she took your class. She actually looked forward to doing her homework and writing essays.”

“Nobody looks forward to homework
, Dad. It was just easier to tolerate than most,” Chelsea corrects, emerging from the kitchen and handing me a bag of ice and a washcloth. I dab the blood away and hold the ice to my jaw to reduce any swelling. Glad I’m the iCandidate or I might be trouble for the campaign’s make-up department.

“Well, it was s
omething I never did myself,” Bruce confesses as Chelsea cleans his cut with a piece of gauze soaked in peroxide. The laceration’s not deep, but must sting like hell. Bruce is a tough old Marine, because he didn’t pretend not to notice - I don’t think he actually did.

“
Ya know, she would come home and quote the things you said in class like it was gospel.”

“
Okay, now you’re just embarrassing me.”

“
Good teachers instruct, great teachers mentor, but you go further. You inspire your students to do more and be more than they thought they ever could. Ya know, only rare people have that kind of impact. That's why I let her work on this campaign of yours.”

A
long pause between us begins to turn into an awkward moment. I want to interject something, but nothing comes to mind. In this conversation, I am intent to let him be on transmit and me on receive.

“
Ya know, people will find it easy to believe you did it. It's the way things are these days.”

“
Yeah, unfortunately.”

“I’m sure whoever did this was counting on
you not getting the benefit of the doubt. So, I guess all I want is ...”

Bruce
’s voice tails off and I know what he’s going to ask even before he does. It is the same thing I’ve been thinking since the story broke last night.

“You want to know who ‘whoever’ is so you can
wrap your hands around his throat.”

CHELSEA

“
I would hate to be forced to settle for beating the crap out of you, ya know?” my dad tells Mister B.

“
I’m not worried. For a former Marine, I was surprised to learn you hit like a girl.”

They both
laugh, the tension between them apparently fully subsided. It’s surreal considering they were about to kill each other five minutes ago, but now we have moved into the male bonding portion of today’s program.

“So, do
you know who made this trash up yet?”

“No. I mean,
who benefits is clear though.”

“Beaumont.”

Mister Bennit nods.

“
So what are we going to do about it?” I ask, curious as to what then next step is.

Mister Bennit leans back on the couch, setting the
now melting bag of ice I gave him on our only remaining intact end table. “I can't prove anything, nor confirm them as the source directly. This could easily have been made up by one of the dozen groups running ads on television supporting him. Outside of a denial, which nobody is going to believe anyway, there isn't much I can do.”

My father
thinks about that for a second then gets out of his chair.

“Where are you going, Dad?”

“Snuggle Bear, I need you to go in my closet and find me a new shirt. A nice one that will look good on television. Mister Bennit here may not be able to set the record straight, but those rules don’t apply to me.”

* * *

“Applying cover-up to my teacher is a little awkward, just so you know,” I say, applying the finishing touches to his chin. Can’t say I ever expected to be doing this in my lifetime.

“No more awkward than me wearing it, Chels,” Mister B says with a smile. “Lucky I don’t bruise easily.”

“That should do it. It’s not too swollen, so it shouldn’t be noticeable,” I say as my father emerges from the hallway, struggling to button the sleeve of the shirt covering the gash in his arm. I walk over to give him a hand. “Are you sure you want to do this, Dad? I mean I can handle the press myself.”

He kisses me on the forehead. “I know you can, Snuggle
Bear, but you have the same problem he does. You’re the manager and the accused, so no, this has to come from me. Now, how do I look?” Dad asks, straightening his shirt.

“You look good.”

“Okay, let’s roll.” Dad sets off toward the front door to face the Spanish Inquisition waiting on the other side.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” I
whisper to Mister Bennit.

He shrugs.
“I have no idea, but sometimes things need to be done based on principal, consequences be damned.”

I walk out the door
first, Mister Bennit and my dad close behind. The media camped out on the street in front of the house erupts into a flurry of activity as we start crossing the lawn toward them. The police on scene stand no chance in holding back the tsunami of humanity rushing toward us.

“
You really want this life for yourself, Michael?” I hear my father say behind me.

“
No, but if it’s the price for beating Beaumont, at this point I will gladly pay it.”

KYLIE

After spending the most of the night tracking down the source of the accusations against Michael
and Chelsea, the morning was spent trading notes with the brigade of media in town. Since everyone in the news business knows I am close to the Bennit campaign, I don’t expect them to accept what I say at face value. But they already smelled a rat, and I just provided the direction to where they should start looking for it. Now I have no energy left to keep up the fight. The rest is up to Michael and his students.

Turning on the television before crashing onto my cheap, uncomfortable bed,
I appreciate how a public relations guy must feel when the celebrity he represents ends up on TMZ. Michael didn’t pick up the last time I called, and now I think I know why. From the confines of my hotel room, I’m powerless to do anything but watch the events transpiring on Bruce Stanton’s front lawn.

I flip through the channels to find every station interrupted normal programming to show the
mob of reporters, photographers and cameramen gathering around the trio of Michael, Chelsea and her father. Even the broadcast networks CBS, NBC, ABC, and FOX interrupt their daytime television shows. In a campaign chock-full of sensationalized stories and big moments, this is the biggest. What happens in the next few minutes will determine the fate of Michael Bennit.

Chelsea’s father looks a little overwhelmed by the attention, and rightfully so.
Chelsea has clearly been crying, but she stands proudly with defiance in her eyes. Michael is stoic in front of the cameras, brave, considering the circumstances. Professional and unfazed, you might never realize this is the first time he ever faced a hostile press corps. His chin looks a little swollen to me, but the horde asking questions don’t seem to notice. It makes me wonder exactly what happened inside that house.

“Why did you see Michael Benni
t?

“
Are you angry with him?”

“Mister Bennit, is it true?”

“Is there any truth to the allegation?”

“
Mister Stanton, do you believe he did it?”

“Are the police involved?”

Those are some of the questions shouted from the phalanx of reporters surrounding them. The rest of shouts blur into a cacophony of unintelligible sound. Michael, Chelsea, and her father are standing in the eye of a ferocious storm from which there is no shelter from.

“C’mon, guys! Say something!” I yell at
the television. I can’t figure out what they’re waiting for. They are standing there like statues and not saying anything while the press torments them. Finally, Michael raises his hands to shush the reporters so he can speak. Much to my surprise, the gesture works, and the rabble quiets enough for him to talk.

“This will go
a whole lot faster if you ask your questions one at a time,” Michael says, a picture of calm, control and patience. In a first for the modern media, the reporters simmer down to the point of near placidity. Forget iCandidate, he would have been a great
candidate
.

“Are you finally going to speak to us, Mister Bennit?” a reporter from the back shouts. Michael turns to Bruce and then back to the
eager journalists surrounding him.

“No,
I’m not. He is.”

The horde erupts again and Bruce listens
to the wave of shouted questions pouring in. I finally realize what’s going on. Like a batter waiting for a good pitch in baseball, Bruce is looking for the perfect one to answer, and the media is beginning to get frustrated because of it.

“Mister
Stanton, did Michael Bennit convince you nothing happened?” The question came from somewhere in the back of the crowd.

“No,” Bruce says with conviction, to the shock of everybody around him. “
He didn’t convince me because I never believed it to begin with.” He qualified that just in time. A split-second longer and the Beaumont campaign would have his sound bite on continuous loop.

After another brief barrage, a female from the front manages to outshout the rest. “
Then why did you meet with Michael Bennit?”

“Well,
my daughter, the people on television, and Winston Beaumont all keep telling me what I should think. I wanted to see for myself what kind of man he is.”

“
What did you learn Mister Stanton?” the same reporter asks as a follow-up. Bruce Stanton pauses for a moment and then looks the reporter dead in the face.

“
He’s going to make a terrible congressman.”

I bury my head in my hands. Getting trashed by your campaign manager’s father on live television is a death sentence for an aspiring politician. I can’t bear to
watch.

“
Why do you say that, Mister Stanton?”

“
Because Michael Bennit is too good a man to be a politician. I may be a factory worker with an eighth grade education, but I’m a Marine, and I know something about character. This crap you’re hearing about him and my daughter is nothing more than a desperate smear campaign from a crusty, old, washed-up lawmaker. If any of you thinks otherwise, then you're idiots.”

My head snaps back up.
Did I really just hear that, or was it wishful thinking?

“
Do you know for a fact this was made up?”

“Do you know who started the story?”

“Are you blaming the Beaumont campaign?”

Amazing.
In answering one question, he has not only discredited the story, but pointed the press in the direction of who to blame for it.

“
I can only guess who started this rumor about my daughter. I’m sure you guys can figure it out once you get around to asking the hard questions. Unless, of course, you’re all comfortable letting unnamed sources destroy my eighteen year-old daughter’s reputation.”

Oh my God, he just called out the national media to guilt them into finding answers. Whether he realizes or not, his challenge will have the major news organizations climbing over each other to find the truth.

“I’ll tell you one more thing. If I ever to get my hands on this unnamed source, I’m going to rip his head off and use it as an ashtray.” Spoken like a true Marine.

“
Was that a threat?”

“
Call it whatever you want. But the bastard who made this up should consider himself warned.”

Bruce, Michael and Chelsea turn to begin to head back into the house.

“Mister Stanton, will you be voting for Michael Bennit?” a young reporter asks, managing to get all three to stop, turn and look back. The mass of humanity lurches forward to capture his response.

“You’ve been brilliant, Bruce. Please don’t screw it up when
you’re home free,” I counsel, as if the television will transmit my message to him. I lean forward to the edge of my hotel room bed in eager anticipation of the response about to be beamed onto the cheap flat screen. “Please, please, please,” I whisper to myself as I lace my hands together and chomp down on an index finger.

“
Ya know, I’ve been a union man and proud Democrat since the day I left the Marine Corps. Election after election, I never saw a reason to vote against my party. I supported Beaumont each time he ran. Couldn’t imagine ever voting against him. There’s never been any good alternative.” Oh, no. Please, don’t let it end like this.

Bruce looks around at all the reporters and the cameras. Any fear or trepidation he had facing them has long since subsided.
“Until now.”