Chapter 2
two
Cindy
When I’d prepared for this meeting with my chief of staff and communications director, we braced for the dynamics across the table. We planned for the face-off with the vice president and the members of party leadership, and expected I’d be isolated on my side of the table, alone without any others from the activist coalition.
None of the other fledgling group of six members who have joined in demanding more than the establishment wants to give were invited to this meeting. I’m the de facto leader—a sore subject among some of the group. I have to speak for all of us to be taken seriously by them and the White House.
“Speak up. Don’t let them interrupt. Take credit,” I’d repeated to myself this morning as I readied for battle.
Unfortunately, I didn’t prepare for how arctic the physical temperature would be in the Cabinet Room, where we’re meeting. I wave off the offered ice water. I’m shaking in my heels, I’m so cold. Definitely should have worn the pants. Or at least hosiery. Colorado-born, I’d turned up my nose at the relatively mild Washington, D.C., winters. Mistake. The air in the White House is as poorly regulated as in the halls of Congress. Well, I’ll know better next time.
Because there will be a next time. I didn’t come all this way to Washington not to get in the rooms where decisions are made.
“Thank you all for coming,” Vice President Drake says, taking control of the meeting from the start. “We’ve got a few concerns to raise with this proposal, but I’m certain that in the spirit of party unity, we can reach a compromise.”
First shot fired. Party unity is supposed to make us all toe the line. But there is no party unity on cannabis; the issue is still too fraught in many districts.
One of my senior colleagues, who positioned himself on the vice president’s side of the table, opens his mouth but I jump in before he can speak. “As excited as we are to work with you, Mr. Vice President, let’s just be clear from the start that our goal is nationwide decriminalization, record expungement and reformed banking rules within the year. Polling shows an astonishingly high level of national support for this bill and, in the spirit of party unity, we are of course happy to let the White House get on board with legislation. I, for one, have been advocating for this for my entire career.”
Vice President Drake gazes at me silently for a moment, blue eyes meeting blue. Acknowledging the fact I’m not going to be steamrolled here. Everyone else turns to me as well. I keep my expression neutral. Then he says, “Polling shows high support for this concept , not this bill. What we do with the bill itself is the subject of this conversation.”
He might as well have slapped me, the vice president of the United States patronizing me in front of a dozen other people.
I need a moment to recover without becoming defensive. Perhaps I can direct their eyes to the folders on the table. “Mr. Vice President, I believe we sent your people the current draft of the bill in advance, if you’d care to go over it with us.”
“I’ve looked at your draft and have a revision of my own to suggest.” No reprieve. He signals to one of his aides, who pulls out a folder from the leather binder clutched to his chest and starts passing out sheets of paper. Of course the White House is surprising us with new text without any notice. I hold back a groan. I’d expected a marathon discussion and this feels like a sprint on an obstacle course I’ve never seen before.
As I read the heavily edited revision, I try to subtly build some friction from rubbing my calves together under the table for warmth without making the leather chair squeak.
Every man in this room is wearing a suit jacket over two shirts. The vice president is casually elegant, as on the cover of Time Magazine last month, not shivering in his leather shoes. Deep lines bracket his mouth that make him look thoughtful and not a hair is out of place.
But my dress sleeves are silk and my coat is somewhere in another room, collected by a staff member. I take a quick peek down my front to make sure I’m not showing nipples through this dress and lightly padded bra. Thank God . I ease off one shoe and rub my feet on the red and gold-starred carpet because even my toes are frozen.
“Mr. Vice President, I don’t see a problem passing this language through my committee.” My colleague, the chairman of the Judiciary Committee, speaks up first. Of course he doesn’t see a problem; the White House’s version of the bill has been stripped of anything controversial.
The vice president’s gaze flickers to me, as if inviting my reaction. Surprised, I don’t turn down the opportunity. “But it would not have support from the progressive wing, and you need those votes for it to pass the full Floor vote,” I say.
“Why not?” The vice president leans back in his chair, like we’re discussing dinner and not the lives of thousands of people wrongfully imprisoned on what should have been minor charges. It could be the two of us alone in this room, facing each other across the table. “This bill, my revision, could pass the Senate as-is and the president would sign it,” he says. “You’d get your decriminalization. That’s your flagship issue, the one you were elected on, and it’s huge progress from where we’re at now.”
“It doesn’t address the wrong that’s been done in the past or the need for reform going forward,” I say, some welcome heat building as we volley back and forth.
“Polls show high levels of national support for decriminalization.”
It’s like he’s serving me softballs. “Polls also show high levels of national support for expunging the records of people convicted of marijuana possession and allowing banks to be able to work with money in states where cannabis is already legal.”
“Among 18- to 29-year-olds, and not across all demographics.” He responds easily, his tone free of the scolding tone I can hear creeping into my own voice.
Even knowing I’m leaving myself open to criticism, I can’t help blurting out, “It’s the right thing to do.” My staff had repeatedly warned me not to come across sounding like a white savior high on the importance of an issue that disproportionately affects minorities. But the people most impacted weren’t invited to this room to speak out, so I will.
“Politics are about what can be done, not what should be.” He glances down at the paper in his hand, as though giving me a chance to collect myself after teaching the newbie a lesson. I know he’s right, and I ran for office because I wanted the hands-on experience that could lead to real change, but it still stings to feel called out as an impractical idealist.
He turns his level gaze back to me. “Representative Wight, this legislation would please every member of our party, some on the other side, and the majority of voters. Why can’t you just take the win?” His light blue eyes are like a laser beam, putting me in the spotlight. He doesn’t fidget. The two busts on either side of the fireplace behind him stare me down along with him.
A clock ticks as everyone waits for me to answer. He’s maneuvered me into a corner where it appears I’m only concerned about power—holding ground for the sake of saying I went toe-to-toe with the White House and got them to bend.
But I’ve been in office a year and an invitation into this room today is my biggest win so far. I haven’t made any difference for the voters who sent me here based on big promises to change things in Washington. I’d promised to take on “the Swamp” and make lives better not just for my constituents but for people around the country who donated to my campaign. Who believed in me. I glance around the room at the men, from the vice president to the jowly senior members, all of them happy with the way things are. So many people who aren’t here are counting on me now.
“I think we’re in agreement that this ,” and I push the paper back toward the vice president. “Is a non-starter. My voters— our voters, members of this party—want more. They want justice.”
The chairman of the House Financial Services Committee snorts. “Let’s not get hyperbolic here. You would stall a bill you want over a provision that will never pass the Senate?” Great, already repeating the vice president’s lines after telling me this morning he was here to negotiate. Because, he’d said to me, “your election is a clear mandate for our party.” Talking out of both sides of his mouth. Typical.
The vice president gazes back at me. The words clog in my throat, but I try to say with my eyes that I’m not backing down. And I can see it in his eyes: he hears me. A moment of empathy passes between us, a zap downward from the powers that be to the woman trying to make a difference.
He closes the folder in front of him and hands it to an aide, breaking eye contact with me and setting me adrift from the moment we’d shared, while he smooths his red tie. “Well, I think this meeting is over. Let’s allow the press in for their pool spray before you head back up the Hill.” He stands.
Did I just screw this whole negotiation by speaking up rather than letting the men feel like they’re in charge? No . The roaring in my ears won’t accept this.
“I would stall this bill because it’s toothless,” I say, finally responding to the chairman and now speaking over the members shuffling papers and aides beginning to open the doors. “It doesn’t expunge criminal records retroactively. It doesn’t make allowances for an industry that brings in millions of tax dollars to the states where it’s legal. It merely de-prioritizes an offense that, in most places, is already a low priority for law enforcement.”
The vice president doesn’t even glance at me as he continues straightening his cuffs with long fingers. He pauses, though. Then he drops his hands to his sides, and scans me and the other members of the party already standing up from the table. I hope the others remember why they should do more on this issue, but I suspect they’re all caving in the face of the vice president’s confidence.
“By decriminalizing at a national level, we address an inconsistent system,” he says coolly. He returns his eyes to mine. “The party is in agreement on decriminalization. Are you sure you-” his wave encompasses me, but also everyone I represent, as though dismissing all of us. “Want to be left behind?”
I almost admire the flair with which he’s threatening my cause. But I know, beyond all the window dressing of the setting we’re in, that I’m right .
I dig the toes of one bare foot into the carpet beneath the table and decide to say what I’m thinking. “Well, we certainly appreciate the drama, Mr. Vice President. But you’ll find that the compromise you insist the party wants exists a little further to the left of the status quo. I can show you fundraising totals to that effect. My group—including the members of Congress who weren’t included here today—is much larger than you think. We may be new to this negotiation, but we represent millions of people who want to address the historic injustice in the laws of this country.”
His eyes are not angry. A traitorous, fluttery feeling strikes over my sternum when I realize that what I’m seeing is the vice president’s respect.
“Alright,” he says, and signals to an aide at the door. “Let’s keep talking.”
Holding back a grin at this small victory, I nod.
“I suggest we take your revised proposal back to the Speaker and discuss it among our conference,” the Judiciary chairman says. “Then we’ll get back to you.”
Immediately plummeting back from the high of winning a concession from the vice president, I sense I’m losing the tenuous control I’d gained. The senior members of the party are going to undercut me no matter what.
“It’s pointless to take two copies of this bill that are so far apart to the Speaker,” I say quickly. “But I agree that a smaller group should work on the language before we present it. I can take the lead on that. As the lead sponsor of the original bill.”
The chairman grumbles, but is abruptly cut off by the vice president raising his hand. He nods. “We’re happy to work with you. I plan on overseeing this process myself, with the full support of the president.”
What the vice president is offering might appear meaningless, but it’s still a step forward. If I don’t take it, I have no path forward at all. I’d expected negotiations to continue with members of House leadership. For the White House to be involved in the nuances of writing legislation is unusual and suggests this process is going to become even more of a political minefield than I’d expected. But knowing the vice president cares about it passing gives me leverage. Now I know something he wants.
Trying not to shiver, I lift my chin in the vice president’s direction. “I look forward to working with you, sir.”