Histrionics in the Making

Back in the halcyon days of the early post-election fiasco, many of us Palm Beach-stationed journalists grew accustomed to a certain lifestyle. When not chasing street freaks and attending canvassing-board recounts, we went for contemplative walks on the beach, took early morning swims, and sat among leather-skinned stick figures smoking Capris during Bloody Mary brunches at Chuck & Harold’s. Now, in week four of the crisis, as many of us have traded the Gold Coast, where the action used to be, for Tallahassee, where the action is, we are experiencing culture shock. So it is good to see old friends, like the Reverend Jesse Jackson.

Jackson made at least four stops in West Palm Beach during his World Aggravation Tour, which has now brought him to — where else — the media center in Tallahassee’s Senate office building. Here, he is flanked by U.S. representatives Charlie Rangel, John Dingell, and others, as they announce the latest and most fanciful effort to reverse George W. Bush’s election victory: They are asking the U.S. Department of Justice to investigate discrimination and irregularities in Florida that they believe violate the Voting Rights Act. For weeks, Jackson has charged that West Palm Beach’s confusing butterfly ballots “disenfranchised” African-American voters and elderly Jews — all of whom, in Jackson’s telling, seem to be “Holocaust survivors.” So impassioned is Jackson on this last point that he is off to a temple prayer vigil the next day in New York City (or, as he called it before perfecting his Simon Wiesenthal impression, “Hymietown”).

No longer, however, is Jackson claiming that blacks and Jews were the only ones disenfranchised. Now the list has grown to farm workers, students, the illiterate, and even Haitians who could not secure “Creole ballots” (though no election lawyers or Gore staffers I talk to have even heard of Creole ballots). But he doesn’t expect you to take his word for it. “Where are the victims?” Jackson inquires after mysteriously denouncing “the Supreme Court of Clarence Thomas, [Antonin] Scalia, and Trent Lott.” On cue, real live “victims” file into the sky-lit atrium.

They tell their stories, but the press grows restless. We thought we were getting Holocaust survivors. What we get instead is Eufala Frazier, an elderly back Miami resident with all her fire and half her teeth, who remembers the days of poll taxes, literacy tests, and outright intimidation. Hers is a stirring testimonial, until someone asks how precisely she was victimized in this election. Eufala takes a long awkward pause, causing Gore spokesman Doug Hattaway to intervene. “Her main point,” he clarifies, “is that people’s votes aren’t being counted in Miami-Dade.” Eufala, to her credit, finally fesses up: “I don’t know whether I was personally affected or not.”

12:30 P.M. — After the press conference, Jackson sponsors a prayer vigil in front of the Florida Supreme Court. While quiet supplication is scarce, an abundance of apocryphal anecdotes are offered, like the one from a Los Angeles rabbi who says an elderly voter told him she felt so “dehumanized” at the polls that it “brought back all those awful memories of standing in line at a concentration camp waiting for a piece of bread.”

As support for Al Gore’s contest has plummeted in public opinion polls, so has the population at Jesse Jackson’s rallies. This one is about 1,500 people shy of the average attendance in West Palm Beach. Still, those who have come are haunted by a sense that every ridiculous pageant provides more fodder for the history books. As the rally concludes, a beefy AFSCME member strides by holding a “Rainbow/Push Coalition” poster, which is adorned with the autographs of not only Jackson, but every obscure state official he can corral. During an interview, he even asks for my signature. I protest that I’m not famous. “C’mon, it’s for my kid,” he implores. I snatch the poster and scribble best wishes from Jimmy Breslin, then hand it back. He doesn’t seem to know the difference.

1:40 P.M. — In a committee hearing room that is all blonde wood and olive drab, the newly formed House-Senate select committee is meeting over three days to decide whether to call a special session of the Florida legislature. There, the legislators might decide to select their own slate of electors, assuming Gore’s election contest is not concluded by the December 12 deadline. Around the capitol, some grouse that it should be called the Rubberstamp Committee, as the Republican majority will inevitably serve as a backstop for a Bush victory. If the courts allow Gore to have his way, cherry-picking recounted votes from heavily Democratic counties, the legislature will almost certainly intervene by making sure Florida’s Electoral College votes are in the Bush column, as already certified by Secretary of State Katherine Harris.

While Democratic fears are justified, the Republicans’ reasons for taking action go beyond mere venal power-grubbing. For hours on end, a flock of Republican-leaning constitutional law types troop before the committee, entertaining their questions, illuminating their darkness, citing the chapter and verse of the Constitution and U.S. Code that will give the legislature a much-needed legal cover when vengeance-seeking Gore supporters call for their disembowelment. Though the constitutional arguments for legislative intervention may be sound (Democratic constitutional experts disagree), the most compelling case for calling a special session comes not from the Constitution, but rather from a photocopy making its way around the hearing room.

The work-up details 19 pending cases involving Florida’s post-election fracas, any one of which could derail certification, often by delaying it beyond the December 12 deadline. In that instance, Florida would likely be forced to forfeit its electors, which would disenfranchise all of the state, instead of some part of it. The paper also warns that this list may not be complete, and indeed according to some counts the number of pending cases is 42. The inference from expert testimony is clear: With such an ugly knot of litigation, the legislators, regardless of party affiliation, would need to be on mind-altering drugs to believe all judicial matters will be concluded by Florida’s deadline. And if saving Florida’s electors becomes necessary, and the legislature waits until say, December 11, they will be forced to write, debate, and pass legislation on the same day, which, to paraphrase another Bush, would not be prudent.

As these cases are made, a transformation takes place. Unsexy, pointy-headed scholars who cause co-eds to grow sleepy back at their home campuses become the new rock stars of the election. In the land of the legally blind, Jonathan Turley is king. But today, Berkeley’s John Yoo is enjoying the spoils. After the former Republican adviser to the Senate Judiciary Committee finishes his testimony, he is pinned against an elevator bank by fevered journalists and not permitted to leave for two hours. We are fond of referring to the Constitution in our stories, but few of us have ever gone to the trouble of actually reading it. Yoo, by contrast, carries one around for handy reference. Journalists eye his copy suspiciously. It turns out the Constitution is actually pretty short. Still, it’s tough sledding with all those sections and articles and stuff. We decide to defer to Yoo, though he assures us that it’s not as difficult as it seems. In situations like this election, he says, “No one’s ever done this before. There’s no cases, no law. The thing you have to do is look at the Constitution. I think it’s great!” he says, clearly experiencing the law professor’s equivalent of a runner’s high.

5:00 P.M. — Over in the Leon County circuit courthouse, a security guard is trying out his sound bites on reporters passing to the courtroom. “I’m loving the hell out of this,” he says. “Being from Louisiana, we have this every damn election. We like our politics and rice the same way — dirty.” I set off the metal detector as I walk through and offer my bag for inspection, but the guard waves me on since I’m with the media and he’s a media whore. “What if I’m packing heat?” I inquire. “Then I’ll just shoot you,” he says.

Of all the bloody skirmishes in Gore’s election contest, the one that is paramount is slated to take place Saturday in Judge N. Sanders Sauls’s circuit courtroom. Here, it will be decided if the Gore team can begin a recount of their allegedly “uncounted” votes, or whether the Bush team will successfully shut them down or run out the clock, guaranteeing a Bush victory before the appellate courts can screw things up. Tonight, we have been called here in order to, well — who remembers? The important thing about mastering trial minutiae, say Tallahassee’s veteran observers, is not to, as the circumstances seem to change every few hours.

Both legal teams sit around L-shaped tables, with additional lawyers flanking them. Each side has more bench strength than the mid-’80s Celtics. The Bush team is led by Tallahassee lawyer Barry Richard, who has a white hair helmet and an icewater delivery. He is assisted by out-of-town heavyweights drafted by Jim Baker, already dubbed the “Boies killers” by CNN. The Gore team is led by the Microsoft-slayer himself, David Boies, who charms journalists and judges alike, even though his dated knit ties and rubber referee shoes make him look like a homeless man going on a job interview. Boies is assisted by the capable local attorney Dexter Douglass, who takes turns trying to out-salt the drawling Judge Sauls, himself fond of employing animal metaphors, as when he said the multiple motions directed at him were like “getting nibbled to death by a duck.”

Sauls is generally considered a bad draw for Team Gore. He leans conservative, as he proves tonight when he refuses to accelerate the already warp-speed pace of proceedings to help Gore meet his deadline. Some lawyers worry that Sauls has a short attention span and is too suggestible, as he proves two days later when Judicial Watch’s Larry Klayman, the Clinton administration’s Torquemada, convinces the clueless Sauls to allow members of his organization to be observers if a recount is permitted. “We’re non-partisan your honor,” Klayman says to gales of courtroom laughter, “We don’t take a position.”

After the hearing, Boies goes to a media podium to spin away the setback. Gore lawyer Ben Kuehne hovers on the periphery. The Miami lawyer, who was walking point in the West Palm Beach recount wars, is scandalized by the Bush team’s new “Boies killer” moniker. “I’ll take David over Goliath,” says Kuehne, “after all, he smote the Philistines.” A lot of others would take Boies too. Clearly, the fierce $ 600-an-hour attorney is personally invested in the case. In Gore’s service, Boies is willing to sully his reputation by doing the unthinkable: He’s working pro bono.

Wednesday, November 29, 12:30 P.M. — Today is “real people” day in Tallahassee. Over in the select committee’s session, 63 citizens, mostly Gore supporters, are being permitted into the chamber to do what they do best: whine. Take Cynthia Hope Ellis, who says she is so upset about inadvertently voting for Pat Buchanan that she has ended up twice in the emergency room, once with an infection. What kind of infection? “The doctor didn’t elaborate,” she says, “he just gave me antibiotics and sent me home.” (To help recover her peace of mind, she is filing a $ 10 million lawsuit.)

Back at the press center, a peppy Gore wrangler promises us real people are on the way. (As opposed, presumably, to fake people, like congressional Democratic leaders Richard Gephardt and Tom Daschle, who on Monday flew all the way to Tallahassee to publicly stage, via long-distance telephone, a reassuring conversation with Gore, which they could just as well have had over breakfast in D.C.) But before the real people come, we must endure more surrogates. Today, we have arrayed before us four Democratic governors: New Hampshire’s Jeanne Shaheen, Kentucky’s Paul Patton, Iowa’s Tom Vilsack, and — this causes the most media snickering — Puerto Rico’s Pedro Rosello. Say this for the Republicans, when they trot out their governors, they are A-listers like George Pataki, and they all head states, not territories. The Democrats are so instantly unrecognizable we have trouble identifying them.

“Which one’s the governor of Puerto Rico?” says one journalist.

“I guess he’s the Puerto Rican one,” says another.

Arriving late, I ask a colleague if I missed anything. “They want every vote to count,” he says. As the governors wind up, the real people are let in. Most of them are the same real people who testified before the select committee some hours earlier, making us wonder if they’re fake people. But they seem sincere enough. In the press room, the largely elderly group of disenfranchised voters form a wall of henna rinses and hip replacements. One can’t help but admire the pluck of the many West Palm Beachers who’ve made the eight-hour drive to Tallahassee just to talk to little us. Except one gets the nagging feeling they may have had some help. Maybe it’s the Gore handlers giving them stage directions. Or maybe it’s the 52-page precis that neatly details all their complaints. Dorice Ashley, for instance, charges that at her polling place, there was “no one to direct people to elevators; elderly had to climb stairs and arrived at polls disoriented.”

But it’s when making the acquaintance of Bernice Kesslen, whose name is misspelled on her laminated “Florida Voter” pass, that we find our suspicions of a Gore rent-a-mob confirmed. Kesslen, who is decked head-to-toe in purple, right down to her amethyst and oversized Aunt-Sadie glasses, looks from a distance like a geriatric version of Barney. But unlike the gentle dinosaur, Kesslen is not good-humored. At the moment, she, like many of the others, has a complaint more serious than accidentally voting for Pat Buchanan. “Where’s lunch?” she barks. It’s understandable that she needs sustenance after her long journey, made a little shorter by what she calls “national Democrats.” They, according to Kesslen, taxied her and many others from her Bonaire Village condo complex in Delray Beach to the airport, where a jet had been chartered. “It was a good one — a Boeing 727,” she says. Once on board, the disenfranchised were given a tuna salad sandwich, a piece of cheesecake, and a refreshing beverage. “They told us they were going to have an open bar,” Kesslen carps, “but they didn’t.”

Now Kesslen and several of the others are hungry again. But there is work to do. Press conferences must be conducted. Media queries must be answered. And group photos must be taken on the steps of the Old State Capitol, where the assemblage awkwardly joins in a chant of “Count Every Vote!” Once their chores are completed, a Democratic staffer fusses at them to walk to the buses so they can trek to the civic center where they will finally be given more food. The elderly among them look grateful. Complaining seemed so much easier back in their retirement village. But there is no free lunch — not even for a Gore-supporting Aunt Sadie.

Thursday, November 30, 4:00 P.M. — This day, like every day in Tallahassee, is a frenetic one. Lawyers wear out their treads skittering from courtroom to courtroom. The Republicans on the select committee have gone ahead and rubber-stamped the resolution to call a special session. (Miami’s state representative, Gaston Cantens, vows to save the 59-cent pen he signed it with, aware that he and his colleagues’ actions could open the weirdest chapter in our country’s electoral history.) But all of us have trouble keeping our minds on our studies because of the convoy. On Judge Sauls’s order, 462,000 Palm Beach County ballots are en route to the capitol. Carrying them is a Ryder truck, followed by police and media chase cars and a fleet of news choppers. All day long, CNN tracks the caravan’s every movement.

The courthouse buzzes with O. J. analogies. The more civic-minded among us admonish that this procession is a lot more consequential than the Simpson police chase. But for most, it is hard to beat a crazed celebrity killer trucking down the Santa Ana Freeway with a disguise, a passport, and a bag full of cash. As we all rush behind the courthouse to watch the ballots get unloaded, the excitement stalls. Green-suited troopers block our access, and we are stuck with an obstructed view. All we can see is the front of the garage. Feeling pressure to gather news, most of us take notes on what’s directly in our line of vision — in this case, the front of the Ryder truck. It is yellow. It has “Rent me” on its windshield. Its bumper is obviously metal, not rubber, as rubber doesn’t rust.

After about 20 more minutes of such discoveries, a Florida A&M student ambles into the pack. “Is anything gonna happen?” he asks. “Is this all there is?” It’s hard to say. Maybe something will happen, something that might alter history’s course. Or maybe this is just another in an endless line of pseudo-events, where the days grind on, as long stretches of boredom are punctuated by moments of sheer anticlimax.

Matt Labash is a staff writer at THE WEEKLY STANDARD.