It happened sixty-four minutes in. The president had just recited a string of somewhat abstruse economic indicators suggesting that the U.S. economy might actually grow its way out from under the crushing deficit.

The moderator, John Tierney of The New York Times, turned to Randy and said, “Senator Jepperson, you have ninety seconds to respond.”

“Thank you, John, but I don’t need ninety seconds to respond. I can respond to what the president just said in four words: Shut the fuck up.”

Chapter 36

The incident posed a challenge to news organizations-namely, how to report, verbatim, that a candidate for president of the United States told the incumbent president to “shut the fuck up”-without incurring fines by the Federal Communications Commission. The cautious evening network news shows bleeped the word.

For a moment, everyone in the auditorium-and across the nation-watched in mute amazement. For a few seconds, it looked as though President Peacham were going to cross the stage and punch Senator Jepperson in the nose. The rest of the candidates gripped their podiums while their mouths made fish-out-of-water motions. Randy held his ground like Stonewall Jackson at the Battle of Bull Run. Tierney, the moderator, bit down on his lip. After a pause that seemed to last an eternity, President Peacham turned on his heel and stormed offstage, surrounded by scowling Secret Service agents who looked as though they might open fire on the senator. The rest of the debate was somewhat less memorable.

Spin Alley, the area outside the hall where the candidates’ aides rushed to proclaim their man’s or woman’s (“obvious”) victory, was normally a hive of chatter. This night it was uncharacteristically hushed. Declaring victory tonight would be beside the point, like standing outside Ford’s Theatre after President Lincoln had been shot to proclaim the excellence of the acting.

When Cass arrived, reporters instantly abandoned whomever they had been interviewing and swarmed in on her. She was pressed up against a wall so tightly that Jepperson staffers had to form a flying wedge to save her from being asphyxiated.

“Cass, Cass-was that your idea?”

“Does this signal a new aggressiveness on the part of the Jepperson campaign?” (Du-uh.)

“Aren’t you concerned that the Federal Election Commission will fine him?”

She let them gabble on at her for a few minutes before even trying to answer. Finally, in order to obtain an audible sound bite from her, the beast quieted.

“I think Senator Jepperson succinctly said tonight what many Americans, especially younger ones, think when they hear the president of the United States tell them that the economy is in sound shape. It’s not, and perhaps it’s time for some plain talk.”

“But he told the president of the United States to-to shut the-to…” The reporter couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“I heard what he said. It’s an expression favored by young Americans to signify ‘Really?’ or ‘Gosh, that’s wonderful.’ The senator was, I believe, using it ironically. For his generation, it has a more, shall we say, literal meaning.”

“But you can’t talk to a president that way. It’s not-presidential.”

“Is it presidential to deceive the nation over and over? Senator Jepperson feels that the young people in this country are being robbed of their future by politicians who can’t see past the next election. Why should they be accorded respect? Respect is something you earn. Senator Jepperson respects the office of the presidency. And he will treat it with respect when he becomes president. Meanwhile, my guess is Americans tonight are saying, ‘Give him hell, Randy.’”

Not quite. In fact, large numbers of Americans were phoning in death threats to Jepperson campaign headquarters and calling their congressmen and senators and demanding that they denounce him; others were calling the White House to say that they were appalled and writing scorching letters to the editor. But this barrage was coming from older voters. The younger ones, Cass’s U30s, generation whatever-they, too, were communicating as fast as they could, texting and blogging. And they liked-quite liked-what they had seen that night.

“Senator, many, including a number of your own colleagues in the Senate, have called on you to apologize to President Peacham. There’s even some movement to censure or even to impeach you. Will you apologize to the president?”

Randy was on Greet the Press.

“No, Glen. I have no plans to do that.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t regret what I said. In fact, I’d say it again. In fact-”

“Please,” Glen Waddowes said with a look of panic on his face, “this is a family show.”

Randy smiled. “I wouldn’t want to upset the sensibilities of any of your viewers, Glen. Sure it’s tough talk. But these are tough times. And when a president of the United States stands at a podium and tells outright lies as the nation comes down around him in ruins, maybe it’s time someone grabbed him by the lapels and said, ‘Enough!’”

“Speaking of lapels, that button on yours…is that…?”

“It says STFU, Glen.”

“I won’t ask you to explain what that stands for.”

“I understand”-Randy smiled-“but if I may, let me explain what I stand for.…”

The buttons were Cass’s idea. She had had tens of thousands of them ready to distribute the morning after the debate. It had all been hush-hush. She’d even had the campaign’s lawyer make the button manufacturers sign enforceable confidentiality statements. She didn’t want it to get out that the Jepperson campaign had prepared them in advance of the debate. No sense in ruining the illusion of spontaneity.

Editorials were predictably shocked-shocked: “Gutter Politics,” “The Gloves Come Off,” “Senator Foulmouth,” “Candidate X-Rated,” “No, Senator, You Shut the @#$% Up!”

The blogosphere, however, was delighted, wallowing, humming, aglow, streaming video, happy as a giant cyberclam. To the U30s, Randy had “dropped the f-bomb.” The TV and newspaper punditariat acknowledged that it was a “hinge event” and “for better or worse-almost certainly worse-a paradigm shift.” To reporters mind numbed by prepackaged, sanitized candidate statements, it was a gift from the campaign gods. Meanwhile, the Jepperson campaign was overwhelmed with U30 volunteers wanting to help. Fashion designers were rushing out lines of STFU clothing. Cass was triumphant. Time magazine put her on the cover-her second cover of Time and only thirty years old-with the headline THE UN-SHUTUPABLE CASSANDRA DEVINE.

Ten days later, Senator Randolph K. Jepperson finished second in the Iowa caucuses, behind President Riley Peacham.

Cass knew from the look on Terry’s face that something was wrong. They were in Manchester, New Hampshire, two days before the primary. Randy was within three polling points of Peacham.

“What?” she said.

“I just got a call from The Washington Post. Wanting to know about our North Korean golf tournament.”

Cass sat without taking off her parka. “Aha.”

“Yeah.”

“Trumble.”

“Probably.” Terry snorted. “Though I doubt Peacham-or even your dad-stood in his way.”

Cass considered. “Did the Post have…details?”

“Enough”-Terry sighed-“for a headline on the order of JEPPERSON’S TOP AIDES ASSISTING EVIL, ROTTEN, DESPICABLE NORTH KOREAN DICTATORSHIP WITH IMPROVING IMAGE.”

“Oh dear,” Cass said. “Well, that’s it, then. Did you explain that the North Koreans came to you, not the other way around?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think that’s going to be the lead.”

Cass stood. “He’s speaking to that self-esteem group. I better intercept him before the Post reaches him.”

Randy listened to what Cass and Terry had to say with a mix of facial expressions, most of which included a furrowed brow. When there was no more to say, Cass handed him a piece of paper.