Chapter 1
Monday, September 2, 2024
The McGill House, Georgetown
As adept as Jim McGill was at protecting himself, he was bowled over by something he never saw coming. His morning edition of The Washington Post had printed in bold type the headline Presidential Voting Expanded to All Americans Eighteen and Older Living in U.S. Possessions.
In an interview with Ellie Booker in June, McGill had opined that all U.S. citizens of voting age, not just those residing in the fifty states, should have the right to vote for the presidential candidate of their choice. After all, that was simple fairness.
The response from people living in the U.S. territories was unanimous and included a clever slogan. You can count us in because we count on you. Many members of Congress in both major parties, though usually hesitant to make any such change, were optimistic enough this time to gamble that they would gain an edge over the other side’s candidate. The yea votes in both halls of Congress exceeded the two-thirds majority required to enact the new law.
President Jean Morrissey signed the new legislation into law as soon as it hit her desk. It was immediately nicknamed The Jim McGill Law.
No legislative approval was needed for that.
When the namesake saw his moniker in the Post that Labor Day morning, he responded, “Oh, my God!” Not in glee nor in self-adulation. More in the sentiment of “What have I done now?”
Shortly after that, once Patti Grant had read the headline and the story, she told her husband just what he’d achieved. “Jim, you’ve become a footnote in American history.”
Hearing nothing more than a minor credit from his wife, McGill began to relax.
Until Patti explained things further, that was. “Just think of it, Jim. History certainly will record it. Also, any presidential election that is decided by a hairpin of difference …”
McGill said uneasily, “People will say my idea was the deciding factor. The winner will give me the credit; the loser will give me hell.”
Feeling just a bit wicked, Patti added, “With a bit of luck, there will be enough room for both opinions on your statuary plaque.”
Giving him a smile and a kiss, she added, “Nobody ever named a law after me.”
McGill said, “This isn’t a joke … at least not the way I see it.”
Patti shrugged, “So remind me. Were you just cracking a joke on Ellie Booker’s show not so long ago that all law-abiding American adults should have the right to vote?”
McGill shook his head. That had not been a joke.
Patti said, “So what’s the problem?”
McGill replied, “Who am I to change history? Even in a small way, that is. May I cry on your shoulder?”
Patti grinned and replied, “Not after I just blow-dried my hair.”
McGill sighed. “Could I really have changed a voting rights question just by offering an opinion?”
Patti consoled him. “You touched a chord, Jim. One that needed to be prodded, as I see it. I’d be much more concerned if any group of our law-abiding citizens, having reached voting age, were denied the right to vote for who they wanted for president. So look at it this way. How many ex-Chicago cops get a federal law nicknamed after him?”
“One more than necessary,” McGill said.
Knowing both her husband and the way political talk shows worked, Patti was sure McGill would be getting phone calls from members of the press soon. The first in line would likely come from Ellie Booker. Given those circumstances, Patti pitched in to help McGill regain his balance. She made breakfast that morning, food prep being something that had rarely occurred in all their years together. She stirred the pancake batter, oiled and heated the griddle, and set out the flatware, dishes, and glasses of orange juice. Strained for her, extra pulp for him. Then she flicked a few beads of water on the heated griddle.
The interaction hissed wickedly. For the first time in all their years of marriage, Patti poured the batter she had made onto the griddle, asking her husband, “Did I get things right? The cakes look pretty even to me.”
“Very nice,” McGill replied, still lost in thought. “Keep your eyes and ears ready for flipping the cakes over at the right time.”
Patti nodded. “I will. I just thought this morning that I’d better cultivate a few culinary skills to compensate for my fading physical appeal.”
That earned both McGill’s laughter and his undivided attention. He said, “I’d go blind before I ever got tired of looking at you. So if you want to master a bit of cooking who am I to object?”
“Spoken like a true presidential vote hustler,” Patti said with a grin, “The thing is, I want to enjoy cooking. At least a bit every now and then.”
McGill nodded and went with the flow, “Well, we’re both usually out of the house at lunchtime, but will making dinner be your next culinary adventure?”
Patti said, “Eventually, but right now one challenge at a time.”
Just as Patti plated the pancakes, McGill’s phone chimed.
Patti said, “I’ll bet the bank that’s Ellie Booker calling you. Not asking for any of your favorite morning recipes either.”
McGill said, “Whoever it is, they’ll have to wait. I’ll get back to him, her, or them later.”
Meaning McGill had already glanced at his phone and saw that the call hadn’t come from any of his kids, Sweetie, or even his ex-wife.
Reassured, he added a measured stream of syrup to his stack of pancakes and carved out a wedge that he popped into his mouth. He smiled blissfully as he chewed.
Patti also smiled and told him, “You used to look at me like that.”
McGill swallowed and nodded. “Maybe we should take a little maple syrup upstairs.”
Patti rolled her eyes, but giving the idea some thought she said, “Powdered sugar might work better.”
McGill nodded. “Have our fun and spare the bed linens.”
Ellie Booker had indeed been the first caller to McGill that morning. She was both persistent and calculating. Okay, so McGill had declined to answer the first time she had called. As much as she hated to wait for anybody, she knew that there were times not to press too hard. So she gritted out a thirty-minute delay before her impulse control expired and she called again. This time, to her glee, McGill answered.
Saying, “Hello, Ellie.”
“Hello your own self,” she replied, “I bet you’ve already heard the news from someone else by now, damn it.”
McGill replied, “Yes, Ellie, I have. The Post paper edition hit my doorstep before you called.”
“So you know what this means, of course. Among other things, you’ve expanded the number of voters likely to vote for you for president. I’ve never seen a political move that slick before.”
“That’s me alright,” McGill said, “slickest politician you’ll ever find anywhere.”
Ellie said, “So you’ve shown the whole country that you intuitively know what’s good for you and what’s right for most of the people in our country. Your comments on my show not all that long ago had to have sunk into Congressional heads. Amazingly, they did the right thing anyway.”
McGill laughed. “Maybe they put together a focus group for insight.”
Ellie asked, “Are you having second thoughts about your electoral viability?”
“I’m too tough for that, but pardon me while I weep.”
This time Ellie laughed, “You a weeper, hah! Emotional appeal has its place, but so does a big bang of testosterone. You know, in reasonable measure.”
McGill said, “I’ll be careful how I measure mine from now on.”
Ellie laughed and said, “Good. So how about you go look at yourself in a mirror? A full-length one. If you haven’t taken to wearing suspenders and your socks aren’t drooping, I’d like to do a live interview with you on my show tomorrow. Tell the country how you feel about what you’ve done to expand the number of voters in our country. You think you can manage that if your lumbago isn’t acting up?”
“Ain’t got no stinking lumbago,” McGill said in a faux growl.
“That’s the attitude I’m looking for,” Ellie said merrily. “So can I count on you?”
“I won’t join any performer’s guild,” McGill said.
Ellie laughed. “As if they’d have you. Then again, maybe they would. So tell me already, will you appear on my show tomorrow?”
McGill sighed. “Yes, by remote, if you’ll agree that you owe me one.”
“Done … but knowing that you’re happily married and have all the money you’ll ever need or want, I’m wondering just what you’d want.”
McGill told her, “Maybe I’ll have you cover my campaign expenses.”
He hung up before she could squawk.