VNS thinks that Bush is ahead by 20,000 nonexistent
votes. VNS’s fact checking is so sloppy, no one even realized the ridiculousness of an early report that 95 percent of largely
Republican Duval County had voted for Gore.
Baldick wonders if Katherine Harris has the new Volusia numbers or the old Volusia numbers. He wonders if Whouley knows about
this. He has a line open with Whouley and Charlie Baker, another Gore field guy, in Nashville. He tells them not to put too
much faith in the networks. We’re either gonna win by 50 or lose by 100, he says. But this thing’s still too close.
“I can’t see why the networks are even thinking of calling it,” Baldick thinks.
In Nashville, Gore goes back upstairs to talk to his family. On his way, he runs into his chief speechwriter, Eli Attie, a
thirty-three-year-old moptopped New Yorker. Gore and Attie had spent some time earlier in the day working on his victory speech.
“Do you have an alternative statement?” Gore asks him.
Attie nods.
“Why don’t you bring it to my room,” Gore says.
In fact, Attie has a bunch of speeches on hand. One for victory. One for an electoral victory, but a popular-vote defeat.
One for a victory but a loss in Tennessee. One for a result where it’s all too close to call, and the winner won’t be known
’til Wednesday; Tad Devine had told him that it might come down to the absentee ballots in one state. And finally, Attie has
a concession speech, one he wrote on Sunday in Philadelphia, while sitting in theback of a van. Gore goes upstairs; campaign chair Bill Daley and chief media strategist Carter Eskew go with him. Daley is
focused on what Gore’s going to do; he thinks he should concede. Eskew is focused on what Gore’s going to say. Campaign manager
Donna Brazile, long since edged out of the immediate circle, sends Gore a page: “Never surrender. It’s not over yet,” it reads.
Gore takes Daley aside, asks him what he thinks.
“I think you oughta call them,” Daley says, meaning the Bushies, meaning concession.
Lieberman, who has a tight race in his political history, tries to talk him out of it. But Gore isn’t buying it.“I just want
to thank everybody for everything they did,” Gore says. He doesn’t want a prolonged, protracted, divisive fight. Gore’s kids
start to cry.
Daley hands him a slip of paper.
“Is this the number?” Gore asks. Daley says yes.
At around 2:40 A.M. , Gore calls Bush to concede. Bush tells Gore that he’s a “good man.” He sends his best to Gore’s wife, Tipper. “I know this
is hard for you,” Bush says.
Soon after, Eskew and Daley come back down to the seventh floor. We’re going to the War Memorial to concede, they say.
In Austin, word of the concession reaches the networks, and the world waits for Gore to appear on the steps of the War Memorial
to announce that it’s all over. Journalists scamper from the press tent into the party area in front of the capital, which
has erupted in joyful cheers.
I run into Mark McKinnon, Bush’s media adviser, one of the only decent guys in the higher echelons of the governor’s staff.
He’s smiling, a little drunk, a few tequila shots under his belt. He’s wearing a black Kangol backward.
“A little drama for you,” he says to me, smiling, as he makes his way into the celebration held on the now-rain-soaked Congress
Street. “A little drama.”
McKinnon doesn’t know the half of it.
Just as, a week and a half ago, Gore had no idea how prescient he was being, in an aside he makes to me between two local
Charleston, West Virginia, TV interviews. Gore joked, “If it’s going to be a close race, it might as well be a historic one.”
It’s almost 3 A.M. , and Gore is in his motorcade, making its way from the Loews Hotel to Nashville’s War Memorial Plaza.
Bearing Baldick’s words in mind, Whouley frantically tries to reach the team upstairs. He watches the last few numbers from
votes. VNS’s fact checking is so sloppy, no one even realized the ridiculousness of an early report that 95 percent of largely
Republican Duval County had voted for Gore.
Baldick wonders if Katherine Harris has the new Volusia numbers or the old Volusia numbers. He wonders if Whouley knows about
this. He has a line open with Whouley and Charlie Baker, another Gore field guy, in Nashville. He tells them not to put too
much faith in the networks. We’re either gonna win by 50 or lose by 100, he says. But this thing’s still too close.
“I can’t see why the networks are even thinking of calling it,” Baldick thinks.
In Nashville, Gore goes back upstairs to talk to his family. On his way, he runs into his chief speechwriter, Eli Attie, a
thirty-three-year-old moptopped New Yorker. Gore and Attie had spent some time earlier in the day working on his victory speech.
“Do you have an alternative statement?” Gore asks him.
Attie nods.
“Why don’t you bring it to my room,” Gore says.
In fact, Attie has a bunch of speeches on hand. One for victory. One for an electoral victory, but a popular-vote defeat.
One for a victory but a loss in Tennessee. One for a result where it’s all too close to call, and the winner won’t be known
’til Wednesday; Tad Devine had told him that it might come down to the absentee ballots in one state. And finally, Attie has
a concession speech, one he wrote on Sunday in Philadelphia, while sitting in theback of a van. Gore goes upstairs; campaign chair Bill Daley and chief media strategist Carter Eskew go with him. Daley is
focused on what Gore’s going to do; he thinks he should concede. Eskew is focused on what Gore’s going to say. Campaign manager
Donna Brazile, long since edged out of the immediate circle, sends Gore a page: “Never surrender. It’s not over yet,” it reads.
Gore takes Daley aside, asks him what he thinks.
“I think you oughta call them,” Daley says, meaning the Bushies, meaning concession.
Lieberman, who has a tight race in his political history, tries to talk him out of it. But Gore isn’t buying it.“I just want
to thank everybody for everything they did,” Gore says. He doesn’t want a prolonged, protracted, divisive fight. Gore’s kids
start to cry.
Daley hands him a slip of paper.
“Is this the number?” Gore asks. Daley says yes.
At around 2:40 A.M. , Gore calls Bush to concede. Bush tells Gore that he’s a “good man.” He sends his best to Gore’s wife, Tipper. “I know this
is hard for you,” Bush says.
Soon after, Eskew and Daley come back down to the seventh floor. We’re going to the War Memorial to concede, they say.
In Austin, word of the concession reaches the networks, and the world waits for Gore to appear on the steps of the War Memorial
to announce that it’s all over. Journalists scamper from the press tent into the party area in front of the capital, which
has erupted in joyful cheers.
I run into Mark McKinnon, Bush’s media adviser, one of the only decent guys in the higher echelons of the governor’s staff.
He’s smiling, a little drunk, a few tequila shots under his belt. He’s wearing a black Kangol backward.
“A little drama for you,” he says to me, smiling, as he makes his way into the celebration held on the now-rain-soaked Congress
Street. “A little drama.”
McKinnon doesn’t know the half of it.
Just as, a week and a half ago, Gore had no idea how prescient he was being, in an aside he makes to me between two local
Charleston, West Virginia, TV interviews. Gore joked, “If it’s going to be a close race, it might as well be a historic one.”
It’s almost 3 A.M. , and Gore is in his motorcade, making its way from the Loews Hotel to Nashville’s War Memorial Plaza.
Bearing Baldick’s words in mind, Whouley frantically tries to reach the team upstairs. He watches the last few numbers from
Similar Books
