Chapter 5
five
Cindy
I might have to fit in with the boys at the White House, but in my own office, I make sure my majority-female staff know they’re allowed to be as much women as they are professionals.
There’s an emergency kit of tampons, Tide sticks and makeup wipes by the office door for easy use by anyone running to the bathroom down the hall. I gifted my staff—both people with me on the campaign and new hires after I was elected—with a sweatshirt, since the old Cannon office building is drafty. The temperature, I found once I’d moved in, is largely out of my control. And I have a generous telecommute policy that tends to most benefit the mothers working for me.
Every time I walk through my office suite, I’m pleased to see the photos of children on almost all the desks. And, of course, I’m not at all bothered by the lack of them on my own. I content myself—mostly—with always being the adopted auntie or with “momming” my staff when they need advice or to hear “go home, you’re working too hard.”
I’m only thinking a bit more about the missing pictures on my desk this Wednesday morning because I’m about to turn 45, have been so far stalled on the lofty goals that got me elected, and have no personal life.
In lieu of dwelling yet again on those problems, I decide to take a muffin and coffee into my office after greeting my two front desk staffers and gift myself 15 minutes of my guilty pleasure: Reading gossip sites.
My favorite time-suck is no secret. I have People, Entertainment Weekly and InStyle magazines sent to my House office along with Politico, Roll Call and The Hill. If my brain needs a break once in a while—and it does—so do those of my staff. It also gives us all something common to talk about when we’re sick of politics and policy. Nothing bonds a group of women quite like dissecting the inherent sexism of a “Who Wore it Better?” layout.
My chief of staff, Lizzie, wanders into my office while I’m reading and asks if I’d ever wear a cashmere bra, like the one being worn as a top layer on the front of this magazine.
“Sure,” I say gamely, meaning it not at all. “Right on the House Floor. It would go with my American flag pin.”
Lizzie grins. She’s a Capitol Hill veteran I’d hired last year at the recommendation of my campaign manager, even though she’s from Hawaii—about as different from Colorado as possible. “I know, I know. Washington is more sweater set buttoned all the way up than decolletage.”
“You can’t talk,” I say. Lizzie, a petite round woman with stick-straight black hair, is wearing a light blue sweater set that matches her heels. I don’t have to double check before I tease her; it’s Lizzie’s standard outfit.
“When in Rome,” Lizzie shrugs. “I’d never dress like this when we go back to the home district. By the way, I noticed you were very matchy-matchy yesterday at the White House.”
“What do you mean?” I close the browser window where I’d been reading about one of the Hemsworths and open my schedule for the day. Back to business.
“Your red dress; the vice president’s red tie? You looked nice together, almost like you planned it.”
“We definitely didn’t.”
“Oh, I’m 100 percent sure I would be aware of that level of coordination between our office and the White House. I’m just saying, if the D.C. gossip were anything like the Hollywood gossip, the two of you would be on the cover of US Weekly by now.”
Rolling my eyes at Lizzie, I scan for any empty places on my calendar. “Well then, good thing it isn’t. The last thing I need is some kind of rumor starting about me sleeping my way to the top.” I pause, uncertain I want to pursue this line of conversation about the vice president and romance. Lizzie raises her eyebrows, waiting. “Isn’t he supposed to be dating the daughter of that lobbyist, anyway?”
“Chelsea Clayton. Unconfirmed. He’s only ever been seen with both her and her father, so unless they have some kind of retro courtship going on, I think he’s still very, very eligible.”
“Alright, alright.” I wave her off. We could go down the rabbit hole of the vice president’s love life all morning, probably, and I might not hate it. He’d been…different from what I was expecting. More like a man than a political robot. But I don’t need to share that observation with Lizzie. “Enough with the speculation, let’s talk facts. The White House proposal is obviously a no-go. It’s barely more progressive than no bill at all. But I have no idea how hard he’s willing to fight to give us the bare minimum of what we want.”
My chief of staff smiles. “I am pretty impressed you got him to agree to work with you directly. Maybe the VP will turn out to be your white knight.”
I scrunch up my face at that vision. “The vice president is hardly some Fabio sweeping in from a novel. More like the villain threatening our legislation with a fate worse than death.”
“But it’s likely to be a party-line vote and they can’t pass it without your six votes. Unless they strike a bipartisan deal.”
“Right, but the easiest route to bipartisan support is for the White House to promise to convert our bill into something milquetoast that would appeal to the other side. I need to figure out what the vice president really wants and whether I can give it to him. Don’t say it!” I hold up a finger at Lizzie, who is grinning. I left myself wide open for a joke about giving Alex Drake what he wants . “You’re quite unprofessional this morning.”
“I’m sorry,” Lizzie says, pressing her lips together to hide a smile. “I’ll pull their past attempts at this type of legislation and have our team start analyzing it. The rest of the six also left you messages. And Representative Wilson gave an interview you’re going to want to read. I emailed you.”
Grimacing, I open my email. My tiny group of freshman colleagues—given the derivative name Freshman Six by the press—will be less than thrilled with my progress at the White House. At least two of them—Steven Wilson included—were seething with jealousy that I’d been the one invited to the White House to represent them. Unfairly chosen, they thought.
The article is essentially Wilson attempting to retake control. “We’re happy to have a media darling on our side, but the real work of passing this legislation won’t happen in front of the press or even at the White House,” he told the Post , referring to me as the “darling” and implying figurehead.
But I’m the one with all the contacts and the political action committee set up specifically to support my campaign because of this issue. I’m the one who has been working on this issue for more than a decade. No one could have done better in that negotiation. I tell myself that in my moments of self-doubt .
The Post article describes our bill as one “that would finally piece together federally the patchwork of laws that have legalized marijuana at the state level” but fails to dig into the provisions within the bill: the two clauses under debate that would allow banks to handle money made by cannabis retail businesses, or wipe out the convictions of nonviolent offenders charged with nothing more than possession over the past decades of the so-called War on Drugs.
Even the other party has stopped putting up a fight against decriminalization due to its massive popularity. But the provisions contain the language that would move this country forward and help millions of people who fell victim to archaic laws. And Wilson didn’t bother bringing them up.
I close my browser window. More work to be done.
“Thank you, I’ll call them back. But let’s reach out to the Post ourselves. And please have a call set up between me and the vice president.” I dig in my purse, an oversize leather satchel that is perfect for access to thick stacks of files but easy to lose small items in. I pull out the business card the vice president’s aide gave me. “This is supposed to be his private line, but I’m sure a secretary will pick up.”
Alex
The president always tells me that I shouldn’t have a favorite Secret Service agent—“it’s about competence, not personality”—so, officially, I don’t. But my dog’s favorite agent is Ted, and it’s hard to disagree with my dog’s judgment.
It’s Ted who hands me my ringing phone on Thursday night while we’re at the park after sunset. “The call you expected,” he says, his breath a puff of white in the air .
“Thank you.” I hand Ted the ball I’m holding and take the phone. “This is Alex,” I answer.
“Oh. Hi. Hi. Mr. Vice President?” The voice on the other end sounds young and nervous.
“Yes, this is me.” I keep my voice neutral, reassuring. Like I’m fundraising.
“Sorry. I didn’t expect you to answer.”
I’m smiling, watching my dog’s little legs churning as he runs after the ball Ted tossed for him. “But you called me.”
“Yes, but…” Cindy pauses and I can hear her gather herself because her register is deeper, more formal, when she continues. “I apologize for the confusion. I expected an assistant.”
“That’s alright. I’m allowed to answer if the Secret Service expects the call. My assistants are, hopefully, all home eating or watching Netflix. Please excuse any noise on my end, though. I’m at the park with Thor.”
There’s a pause.
“My dog,” I add.
“Yes,” she says. “I, uh, follow Thor on Instagram.”
I laugh. “You and 30 million other fans. Thor has more followers than I do.”
“Well, Thor is pretty adorable.”
“Unlike me?”
There’s another pause and I wince, realizing I made it awkward. “I’m sorry, that was a joke.”
“Of course. No. I mean. Yes. Your choodle is more adorable than you are, yes. I’m sorry, it’s just a fact and I want you to know from the start that I’m an honest negotiator.”
I laugh again, surprised and delighted at being teased; it happens so rarely. “Well, I appreciate that, congresswoman. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. ”
She clears her throat and there’s a hint of discomfort in it. I wonder if she’s at home, perhaps curled up on a sofa with her shoes off. Perhaps in that onesie. It’s a cold night. “I wanted to continue the conversation we started at the White House,” she says. “I wondered if your end goal was bipartisan support.”
“Hmm,” I say. I can predict where she’s going with this, but I’ll let it play out. “Why would I need bipartisan support when I have the majority?”
“Because you’re trying to bypass the progressives I represent.”
It’s a legitimate question about an option I’ve discussed with my staff. It’s almost too perceptive from such a new lawmaker. Letting the pause grow, I kneel to pet Thor, who waits for me to toss the retrieved ball with the infinite patience of canines. I decide to pivot, trying to gain more information than I’m giving out.
“Are you saying you no longer want to work with me?” I don’t expect her to say yes. Cindy Wight is new to having to balance more than one cause at a time, but this is her first piece of legislation and her pet project. I’m relying on her giving it everything she has.
“Absolutely not,” she says. “We’re still going to have to find a way to meet in the middle. I’m trying to feel out where that middle is.”
“Interesting.” I stand and throw the ball again.
“Interesting?” she repeats, her voice sharp.
“Interesting,” I repeat, keeping my voice calm. Her anger is justified; I’ve been playing my cards close to the chest.
Maybe it’s time to take a chance on her. It’s quiet and my breath puffs in the air as I consider my options. It doesn’t take long. “Listen, here’s what I can do for you. I can have a series of conversations with the leadership in the Senate about what language I took out of the bill they think could gain support if we put it back in. Meanwhile, you poll your coalition in the House, and your outside supporters, on which provisions they want the most. Make sure they understand they can’t have all of them. Then we can compare notes and start to find that middle ground you’re talking about. So long as we’re both honest about what we find.”
“Honest?” She sounds skeptical. “A rarity in Washington.”
“I’m willing to try if you are.” I realize I’m asking for more than mere honesty; I’m asking for trust. It’s a gamble, and one I’m not certain that I should be taking. But I have a good sense about Cindy Wight.
Besides, I have other options if Cindy doesn’t come through on this.
The phone line remains silent for a long moment. “I wish you could meet my dog,” I add suddenly, wondering if Thor would confirm my read on her. I’ve often wished I had Thor’s innate sense of people in negotiations. “Thor usually wins people over much better than I can.”
Cindy laughs gently in my ear. I imagine her, barefoot and bare-legged like she was in the conference room, drinking that glass of red wine she mentioned the other day. “I’d like that, but you’re doing an OK job of it, Mr. Vice President.”
I like the way she says my title. I’d told myself, when Tim and I were first elected, that I’d never get used to it. But I hear it so many times a day that it’s hard to avoid taking for granted. It sounds fresh in her voice. For a moment, I stand surrounded by agents in a small patch of grass in the dark and remember what it was like to just be Alex Drake. And I remember how important it is to do this job for the few years I have it. It’s a good reminder.
“Great, we agree, then,” I say. “Shall we plan on checking in regularly over the next couple weeks? ”
“I’d like that,” she says. And as much as I want to do this job for the millions of people who chose our ticket, right then I also want to do it for her.
And I bet she didn’t even vote for me.