Echo Chamber Page 15

  "I—"

  "Please, Mia. Be quiet. There's something important I need to ask you. You know I summited Kilimanjaro, right?"

  "What?" I'm already off balance, but the non sequitur pushes me further from my center.

  "Do you ever wonder why I never tried Everest or K2? Those are the mountains that impress people at cocktail parties."

  I shake my head, no idea where he's going with this.

  "Remember the day we met, Mia? When you gave your presentation at Project X? You were so earnest. Remember the metaphor you made about climbing?"

  "Yeah, I remember."

  At my Project X presentation, I mentioned how, for decades, only a select few climbed Mount Everest. Lately, new technologies like more efficient oxygen tanks—combined with better routes, well-trained assistants, and fixed ropes—have allowed amateur climbers to reach the summit at amazing rates. There are now traffic jams on Everest every spring. Technology, I argued, allows people to do what was impossible only a couple decades ago. Technology should do the same for democracy, should give voice to the voiceless, challenge entrenched power, and allow the best ideas—and the best people—to rise to the top.

  That was the closing pitch that helped me win the money. I've thought about it frequently over the last year.

  I turn to leave, unwilling to play his game anymore.

  He grabs my arm, swinging me around. "What you failed to mention is that amateur climbers die on Everest every year. Intoxicated by the prospect of reaching the summit, they ascend past the point their bodies are fit for, ascend to heights they never should have reached. Snowblind and oxygen-starved, they tell themselves they belong at the top of Everest. Some make it, some don't. But many of them die on the way down. Be careful, Mia. You may have climbed past the point of safety."

  He releases my arm, then abruptly walks into the bedroom.

  I stand in place, shaking and fighting back tears, then run out of the room.

  20

  July 4, 2020

  It's five in the morning when I awake with a start. Someone is pounding on my door. "Mia, open up!"

  After a few seconds of confusion, I recognize Steph's voice. I grab my phone and see a series of texts and missed calls from Steph, from Malcolm, and from, well, everyone.

  I slip a robe around my shoulders and stagger to the door.

  As I open it, Steph barges in. "Was your phone off?"

  "I—"

  "Doesn't matter. Did you see the thing?"

  "What? I was sleeping until—"

  "Here." She shoves her phone in my face.

  I rub my eyes, squinting at the screen to try to bring it into focus.

  On a good day, I'm not much use before coffee. Last night I cried myself to sleep after the meeting with Peter, then tossed and turned until two in the morning. I guess I must have fallen into a deep sleep around then, but on three hours sleep I can only get my eyes to focus long enough to read a few words at a time.

  Steph senses this and pulls the phone away. "DB's suicide note. The family released it."

  "What?"

  "This morning, like an hour ago. It's exactly as you described it. Here, I'll read the statement from his family. 'After months of deliberation, we, the family of David Benson, have decided to release his final words. Our intention was to keep this private, but we now feel the time has come to share with his fans, and the world, where his mind was before he took his own life. We did not want to rehash this story in public again. Further, we did not want dear David's death to become about Peter Colton. We do not claim to know exactly what the note means, but we know what it implies. On the day of the final debate in the Ameritocracy competition, we feel strongly that America should know what David Benson's final thoughts on his 'friend' Peter Colton were.'"

  In politics, a bombshell right before an election is often called an "October Surprise," whether or not it comes out in October. The right story released at the right time can be powerful enough to tip an election at the last minute.

  As Steph's words filter into my foggy mind, I can't help but wonder whether this will go down as Ameritocracy's October Surprise. Was it a family member who tried to leak me this note via Snapchat? Maybe an LAPD officer who didn't want to bury the truth, but didn't want to lose their job?

  I shove those thoughts aside. I might never know who sent it, and that's okay. For now, the note being public is all that matters.

  Steph walks a little circle around me. "It goes on to give the number to call to make donations to the suicide prevention hotline in DB's name and, of course, it includes a photo of the actual note, plus the text of the note transcribed."

  I take Steph's hand and lead her to the coffee maker on the dresser. "This is…I need coffee. Tell me what to do while I make coffee."

  "Okay, it's a little after five. We need to be at the debate site by around one this afternoon to meet the candidates and the moderator and to do the TV hits we already agreed to. That gives us eight hours to try to get this story to take off in the press."

  I rip open a single-serving coffee bag. The mere aroma is enough to make me more alert. Along with the alertness comes another feeling.

  Hope.

  "We won't need to," I say. "This story will take off without us."

  Two hours and three cups of coffee later, I realize how wrong I was.

  With CNN on my TV, Fox News playing on my laptop, and CNBC running on my phone, so far I've seen not a single mention of the DB suicide note.

  To release the note, the family had tweeted it from DB's official Twitter account, posting it at the same time on his Instagram account and Facebook page.

  Between the three accounts, which his family kept active since his death, he has tens of millions of followers. When he was alive, a picture of DB looking dreamy on a beach could get his name trending on Twitter. A bombshell like this should have gone viral in seconds. From there, blogs would pick it up, then TV news. That's how things work in the bottom-up world of modern journalism.

  But DB's note isn't hitting like I expected. The initial tweet is getting retweets, but not many comments. A few blogs picked up on the story, but none with major followings. I called Alex at The Barker and he promised to get someone on the story, but it hasn't yet posted.

  I decide to work the phones and start by dialing Monica Flores, a producer I know at CNN. She ran the team that covered our debate in February. We had a genuine moment in the lobby after the shooting, so she's someone I think I can trust.

  I reach her on her cell phone. "Monica, it's Mia Rhodes, do you have a sec?"

  "I do, but only a sec. I'm at the Republican convention this week and—"

  "You should be in D.C. covering our debate."

  "CNN has people there. You know that."

  "Sorry, that's not why I called. Why aren't you guys covering the David Benson suicide note?"

  "The what?"

  "The note the family released today."

  "No idea what you mean."

  Stunned, I go quiet for a moment. Then, as patiently as possible, I explain the note to her.

  "That sounds big. Lemme get back to you."

  She hangs up without saying goodbye, and I pace the room nervously.

  How is it possible that a CNN producer hadn't yet heard about the note? Monica is on her phone every second of the day. If she could get news updates beamed straight to her brain, she'd endure elective brain surgery to enable it. I like to think that working at The Barker gave me a pretty good sense of the type of news Americans care about. A dead movie star claiming that a billionaire friend essentially framed him for rape definitely makes the list.

  As I pour my fourth cup of coffee, my phone chirps.

  Monica: Spoke with headquarters and they're aware of Benson note. Posted a brief piece on CNN.com an hour ago. They say the story has no legs. Not getting a click rate that warrants airtime.

  I read her note twice, then unmute CNN. Right now they're covering what passes for a scandal at the Repub
lican convention. Michelle Harris, the VP nominee, was caught on a hot mic saying that she and Evan Westbrook were going to "kick the Democrats in the balls."

  The comment, of course, warrants hours of debate covering topics like: Is her phrasing appropriate? and Should politicians swear? and, my personal favorite: Doesn't America deserve a more ladylike vice presidential nominee?

  I resist the urge to spit at the screen, then check Fox and MSNBC. They're covering the same story. The Michelle Harris hot mic gaffe is the biggest story in the country.

  I open Twitter and find the CNN article about the note, the one Flores mentioned. It's a short piece, the kind they sometimes throw out there within an hour of a breaking story. It's got a few dozen retweets, compared to thousands each for their last few stories. Again, I check the trending topics and see that DB's note isn't making the list.

  What the hell is going on?

  For the next hour, I exhaust every contact I have in the mainstream press. I try producers and reporters at every major network and even some local affiliates. Again and again I hear a version of the story Flores texted me.

  The Republican convention is buzzing over Michelle Harris's hot mic comment, the Democratic convention is on edge over rumors of a final announcement about their VP, and no one is interested in using airtime to rehash a tragic suicide now half a year old.

  If the story gained more traction online, they tell me, the networks might pick it up. But that's not happening.

  And that's what I can't understand. Even after we posted the story to the official Ameritocracy page and emailed it to our list, no one seems to care.

  A couple floors away, Steph works her contacts the way I worked mine. Too lazy to walk to her room, I text her my frustration.

  Me: Nothing. No one will bite on this story.

  Steph: Hot mic gaffes always get top billing. Most likely Harris knew the mic was hot and did it to make her brand a little more 'edgy' and steal the Dem's thunder in the news cycle.

  Me: Why isn't the suicide note blowing up online, tho?

  Steph: No idea. We have to go. Lobby in 15?

  Me: K.

  I slam my laptop, feeling like I'm back in college. I remember when Facebook was taking off and I'd post a picture or an update and no one would engage. No likes, no comments. I'd wonder, what's the point of posting stuff if everyone just ignores it?

  That's happening again, but instead of a picture of the Seattle skyline or an amazing muffin, it's a suicide note that should be a huge story.

  And instead of my small circle of friends ignoring it, it's the entire country.

  21

  A month ago, I watched the last half of Knute Rockne, All-American on Turner Classic Movies. During the famous scene where George Gipp, played by Ronald Reagan, tells Knute Rockne to "Win one for the Gipper," I teared up.

  It's cheesy, I know, but I couldn't help it. I imagined myself standing in front of my top candidates before the last debate, giving a powerful speech about how we transformed American democracy, how they should go out there and have a debate full of passion, full of ideas, full of shared love of country and the promise of a better tomorrow for all.

  Now, I stand on a small stool in the corner of a breakout room behind the main stage. My seven candidates sit before me on folding chairs, an old air conditioner trying to keep up with the heat from eight bodies.

  Try as I might, I can't locate any of the lofty rhetoric. "Welcome, all of you."

  I make eye contact with all the candidates except Peter, who arrived first and sits, legs crossed, in the back.

  "The debate is three hours away, and you all have final preparations to make, so I'll keep this short. We received word yesterday that the winner of Ameritocracy will have time to get on the ballots in every state, or possibly every state but one. We've also worked out the details of how to transfer the funds we've raised to the general election campaign of the winning candidate without violating any campaign finance laws."

  Avery Axum and Marlon Dixon nod their heads, showing their approval. The rest of the candidates seem to be in sour moods. Except for Peter, of course, who smiles at me pleasantly.

  "Since Ameritocracy took off about a year ago," I continue, "we've attracted over forty million unique voters. Tomorrow, when voting opens, we expect at least ninety percent of them to vote in the finale. We raised $39 million from over one million individual donors. Subtracting expenses, that means that tomorrow's winner will receive over $30 million to run against Joaquin Herrera and Evan Westbrook."

  When I planned this speech in my mind, this is where I'd pause and wait for applause or stunned exclamations of "Wow!"

  Instead, Beverly Johnson raises her hand impatiently. "Ms. Rhodes, with all due respect. This isn't the time for self congratulations. My family is here. I have preparation to do. Unless you have something important to communicate, can we end this back-patting session and go back to being with our families?"

  I'm taken aback by her comments. I've known Johnson to be a no-BS kind of woman, but this is a level of vitriol I haven't seen out of her. "I'm sorry, have I done something to—"

  "It's what he's done." She nods toward Peter. "And what you haven't done to stop it."

  "Yeah," Tanner Futch chimes in.

  "I'm sorry," I say to Johnson, "what do you mean?"

  "An hour ago, The Seattle Times published a story about how I drove my teenage daughter to the abortion clinic. It's all over social media. People are leaving hate messages on my YouTube videos."

  Johnson is near tears. Avery Axum hands her a handkerchief.

  For any mother, this story would be difficult to bear. For Johnson, who is on the record opposing abortion, it could be enough to swing a large group of her voters to another candidate.

  "I haven't seen that," I offer.

  She points at Peter. "He planted the story. I know it." She narrows her eyes at him. "I was driving her to the clinic to talk to teenagers about adoption."

  Maria Ortiz Morales stands. "And I know he funded the group who tried to bring me down. I still can't believe that out-and-out lies about my service record are even legal."

  "Me, too," Futch says. "He tried to get my radio show shut down by the FCC. And how is it possible that the story about David Benson isn't getting more coverage? Seems like any one of the six of us can do the tiniest thing and the internet runs with it, then the TV news picks it up. This guy frames a movie star for rape and...crickets. I dare anyone in this room to tell me the media isn't biased as hell."

  "Yeah!" Johnson and Morales say in unison.

  Marlon Dixon stands, hands raised to quiet everyone down. "And I know he was behind some of the ridiculous attacks on me." He turns to me. "Don't get me wrong, Ms. Rhodes, I'm honored that you made the spot for me on stage tonight, but we all know Peter is so far ahead, this debate is for show more than anything. I can put on a show, believe me, but I think we all feel cheated by how this is ending. Now, I know you say you haven't put your thumb on the scale here, but whether that's true or not—"

  "People!" Justine Hall says, her voice steady. "Throwing around accusations isn't going to help. I believe Mr. Colton learned about my plan for green jobs in the Midwest and copied it. In fact, I'm sure of it. But there's nothing that can be done about it now. I don't know what you think Mia could have done to stop the negative stories. Maybe Peter orchestrated them, maybe he didn't. But it's what happens in politics. So far, he's better at it than anyone else in the room."

  She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "You know what else happens in politics? Debates. I plan to win tonight, and win the final vote tomorrow. Mia deserves our praise, and our thanks. In fact, when I win this thing, Mia, I'd like you to consider joining my general election staff."

  She gives me a little wink, and I smile weakly.

  Peter still hasn't said a word.

  "I agree with Justine," Dixon chimes in. "When I'm president you can be press secretary. Maybe chief of staff."

  Futch laug
hs. "I know you don't want a place on my staff, but—no joke—I'd give you one."

  I step down from the stool and walk between candidates, looking each in the eye as I do. Part of me wants to tell them everything, but it won't do any good. Telling them the full truth now would distract them from the debate. And I still have a faint glimmer of hope that one of them will do something extraordinary enough to sway the final vote.

  Instead, I find myself giving the speech I'd planned a month ago. And, to my surprise, I almost believe it.

  "I don't know who will win, and you don't either. But I have to believe that Americans can still be persuaded by facts, by reason, by argument. I created Ameritocracy because I was fed up with the system as it was. History will have to judge whether this was a good idea. Today, we still have the power to write that history. For my sake, and for your own, go out tonight and treat each other with respect. Argue like hell for what you believe, but don't let this debate devolve into cheap mudslinging. Millions of undecided voters are out there right now. They want to be inspired, they want to be challenged, and they want to be led."

  I walk to the door and open it. Outside, college staff hustle back and forth carrying chairs and podiums. Staffers for the candidates wait for us to get out of our meeting, hunched over iPhones and Blackberries.

  Standing in the open doorway, I turn to face the candidates. "If you don't believe your actions can change minds tonight, change votes tonight, you shouldn't show up on stage. If you do, then this competition is still wide open."

  22

  I sit in the center of the front row, looking up at the top seven candidates. In the center, Peter Colton. To his left, Maria Ortiz Morales, ranked second, Justine Hall, ranked fourth, and Avery Axum, tied for sixth.