Denver Magazine / Denver Magazine December 2008 / The New Face of Campaigning

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The New Face of Campaigning

I'm sitting in my car outside a small, one-story building. The sign above the door reads "Boulder Jewish Community Center," and although it's nearly 7:30 at night, the lights are on, and a handful of people are buzzing in and out of the front door. It's March, and the sun is slowly disappearing behind the foothills.

Fidgeting, I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans for the second time in as many minutes. My red camera bag is on the passenger seat, and I run through its contents again: video camera, voice recorder, note pad, tripod and an assortment of connecting wires; my roving arsenal. I feel like an infantryman huddled in a trench, waiting for my order to run straight into the line of fire.



The e-mail I received today was forwarded through a handful of people before it reached my inbox: "Bob Schaffer, former congressman, passionate friend of Israel and the best candidate for Colorado's U.S. Senate seat, will address Boulder Jewish Republicans on Monday, March 10, 7:30 pm, at the Boulder Jewish Community Center, 3800 Kalmia."



I wasn't sure who half the people on the e-mail chain were, but somewhere along the line, it found its way to headquarters. At the time, I felt as though this, in itself, was a small victory, an indicator of the network of dedicated Democrats that had been developing over the past few years.

Schaffer had been elusive, refusing to give media interviews, only appearing in front of small Republican groups. Despite announcing his candidacy eight months earlier, he had let his campaign manager do the talking, compounding the frustration of dedicated political watchers on both sides. But tonight he was speaking, and I had been dispatched to document it.

Turning down the radio, I crack the window to let in some air. My body is cranking on all cylinders, fully alert as I check the clock: 7:28 "” go time. I take a deep breath, grab my bag and open the car door. Stepping out, I stretch my arms and legs, taking a few more breaths to try to calm my nerves. I wipe my palms on my jeans again then grab my blue blazer, feed my arms into the sleeves and tuck in the front of my shirt.

I move toward the Community Center door, scanning back and forth for someone who looks like he might work there. The front door opens into a dim hall, and I note concrete walls covered with children's artwork, notices of upcoming events and various inspirational messages as I make my way down the narrow corridor trying to find any sign of something that looks like a Republican meeting. The place has the feel of a sleepy elementary school. As I walk a little farther, I hear a door close, followed by faint footsteps. A kind-looking, middle-aged woman appears from around a corner and flashes a smile. She is draped in expensive and colorful silk scarves, her cropped hair and pearls suggesting a comfortable life.

"Are you looking for the roundtable?" she asks. My nerves race again, and I hope my voice doesn't crack when I answer her. This is my chance to make a favorable impression, to find an ally.

"Yes." I manage a smile. "Actually, I have a question," I say. "I work for the Democratic Party, and I was wondering if I could sit in on tonight's meeting and film the speakers?"

She pauses and looks at me again with a slightly raised eyebrow. "Well, we'll have to ask the speakers. Why don't you come with me?"

My name is Cooper Reveley, and I'm a political tracker. Just nine months ago, I was waiting tables, a recent CU graduate with a degree in political science. Then, during a trip to Thailand, I met a woman who spent her career working for political campaigns. She and her boyfriend convinced me the fast-paced political world would be a great fit, something that would pique my interest and lay a solid foundation for whatever might come my way.

I had followed Mark Udall's congressional career during college. The affable and inspiring representative from the second congressional district was elected in 1998 and embodied the values with which I had been raised. I was drawn to him because I connected to his Western roots and his commitment to individualism. He and my father had run in similar circles during their youth, drawn, as I had been, to the awe-inspiring beauty that is Colorado. My dad remembers him as "a genuinely good guy." That struck me as rare in today's political world.



After a prolonged regimen of phone calls and e-mails, I sat down for an interview during which the nature of the job was described at length. I quickly realized that lines could easily be crossed and made clear that I would not feel comfortable looking at any element of Schaffer's private life. Political events were fair game, but I would not become "the guy in the bushes."

At first, my primary responsibility was to videotape Schaffer campaign events to get an idea of what he was saying and how he was saying it. I immediately ran into a problem: Schaffer was hiding. For months, he remained elusive, rarely granting interviews. When he would speak, it was to closed-door meetings full of staunch Republicans.

I filled my time by diving into the state archives, researching Schaffer's background as a state senator. I dug up nine years' worth of votes and found what I consider to be terrible things. He revealed himself to be as right-wing as they come, which only reinforced my notion that helping to elect Udall to the U.S. Senate was time well spent. I helped the communications department at the state party, editing press releases and occasionally writing. I made myself useful in Schaffer's absence but still worried about his lack of appearances.

Then everything changed with the official addition of Republican attack dog Dick Wadhams to the Schaffer campaign in February. After months of hiding, Schaffer began campaigning in earnest. To date, I've put thousands of miles on my car, attending campaign rallies and events all over the state, and occasionally think wistfully about the days when Schaffer was avoiding the public.

I follow the woman in pearls to a small room. A few people are milling around, yet the silence is startling as we walk through the door. There's a foldout table with cookies and punch. There are several chairs arranged in a half circle against the wall, but no one is sitting. She walks over to a dark-haired, middle-aged man with a potbelly dressed casually in slacks, loafers and a button-down shirt tucked halfway into his pants. He is wearing a yarmulke clipped into his thinning hair, and his beard is nearly as long and scraggly as the hair on his head. She whispers something into his ear.

Looking around the room, I immediately feel over-dressed in my sport coat. The few attendees are wearing jeans with t-shirts or sweaters, already having shed their winter coats in the warmth of the small room. I feel many sets of eyes on me, and I try to smile back, making strong eye contact to let them know that I can be trusted, that I'm at ease with the situation and that they should be, too.

The potbellied man nods to the woman and walks over to me, smiling. He extends his hand, and I shake it, wondering if he can feel my clammy nervousness. "Hi there," he says in a soothing voice. "How can I help you?"

I smile and repeat my introduction: "My name is Cooper, and I work for the Democratic Party. I was wondering if you would be ok with me filming tonight's roundtable." The room is silent. Everybody is waiting to gauge his response, to get a sense of how they should react.

"Well, of course, you're welcome to stay. I'm not sure about the camera though. We'll have to ask our speaker to see how he feels about it."

I find a seat in the corner, situate myself and shuffle through my bag. Minutes later, I hear a loud voice. A short, squat man with graying hair and glasses walks through the door, nods as he finishes his conversation and slips his phone into his pocket. He smiles and shouts a question to no one in particular, "Everybody excited about tonight?" He gets a few uh-huhs and nods from the handful of people. Satisfied, he walks over to the woman in pearls. She grabs his upper arm and begins speaking quickly into his ear. The conversation is clearly about me. In response, the graying gentleman grunts slightly and turns toward me and quickly covers the short distance between us. I stand and shake his hand. He doesn't offer me a name but immediately demands to know what he can do for me. I repeat my previous introduction. He steps back, puts his hands on his hips, shakes his head, narrows his eyes and bellows, "As far as I'm concerned, you can't even stay here!" The room, once again, goes silent.

Some say the practice of political tracking became a part of opposition research during the 1996 primaries in New Hampshire, when Joe Elcock, a 35-year-old field organizer for the Democratic Party, was handed a Canon L1 pro Hi8 camcorder and told to travel the state. This was the first time recording equipment had been cheap enough and the technology readily available for daily use on the campaign trail. At the time, Elcock was the only man tracking in New Hampshire, working sometimes as many as 16 hours each day, tracking the nine republican candidates.

The practice was catapulted into the public eye in 2006 when Dick Wadhams, Schaffer's campaign manager, signed on to manage the reelection campaign of a sitting senator from Virginia, George Allen. Things fell apart for Allen (and subsequently for Wadhams) when he used a racial slur to refer to the democratic tracker. People in the business often refer to a serious campaign gaffe as a "Macaca moment" after the widely replayed Virginia incident. This, I'm sure, left Wadhams with a bad feeling regarding anyone pointing a camera at his candidate, which might explain his counter-productive strategy of keeping everything hush-hush.

The past few months have exposed me to a broad spectrum of reactionary behavior from event organizers and Republican Party bosses. I became accustomed to being denied access to private events, at times driving long distances simply to get back in the car and drive home. Given his closed-door mentality, especially in the beginning, Schaffer was successful in hiding notice of campaign stops, though I can't help but think this worked against him. For a while, they actively tried to suppress any word of events, specifically for the purpose of keeping me away. That gave me a certain sense of accomplishment, simply because they were drawing very small crowds. Eventually, the campaign realized the folly of this strategy and began posting events on its Website (although the crowds continued to remain small).



The woman in pearls jumps out of her chair, saying, "If he's not welcome here, we're not welcome." The challenge seems to surprise the grey-haired man, and he looks around at the others to gauge their reaction. There are mumbles of agreement from the others. Sensing that he's outnumbered, the grey-haired man huffs in disgust and walks out of the room, reaching back into his pocket for his phone.

A few minutes later, I hear some commotion down the hall and assume Schaffer has arrived. The grey-haired man walks back through the door and shoots me an icy glare. He is followed closely by Schaffer and two staffers. He whispers something to the woman in pearls, and she comes over to where I'm sitting. "Bob would prefer that you did not film the talk," she says, smiling briefly.

"Of course," I reply and put my camera back in the bag, zipping it shut. She seems satisfied with this response and walks back over to

her seat.

Schaffer is huddled in a corner, talking quickly with his staff. They finish their conference, and Schaffer stands up and moves to the table in front of the half-circle of chairs. He is dressed in a shiny grey suit with a light blue silk tie in a small, tight knot. His black cowboy boots stand in stark contrast to his corporate executive attire, and he seems altogether out of place among the group.

The grey-haired man stands up and begins to introduce him. "Bob Schaffer has been a voice of optimism in business, in the community and in the halls of government. He has helped Colorado achieve common-sense goals by firmly advancing our Western traditions and by bringing people together to find common ground." I recognize the language. He's reciting directly from Schaffer's Website.

He ends the pre-scripted introduction with "I am so excited to have the pleasure of introducing our candidate for the United States Senate. I wrote Bob's position paper on Israel, and I'm sure you will all agree with me that he is the best candidate on a host of issues. I know you're all excited to hear Bob's view on U.S."“Israel relations, so I'll get out of your hair and hand it over to Bob." He manages to shoot me another glare.

The heavyset man sitting in front of me leans over and whispers to the woman next to him, "I would have thought Bob Schaffer would have written his own position paper on Israel." The woman shrugs and turns her attention back to Schaffer who pops up and walks to the center of the room, carrying a small folder.

"Well," he says, "I didn't really know I was supposed to talk about Israel today, but I would be happy to talk about a few other issues that might be on your mind." Silence. "So, have you guys heard of Vic's coffee shop?" he asks. A few people nod and raise their hands. "So is it a liberal, hippie hangout here in Boulder or what?" Schaffer gets some blank stares.

Schaffer seems deflated. "Well, there's this story in the Boulder Daily Camera about Vic's Coffee shop and their free cup of coffee that they give away after you buy 10 at the regular price. The Boulder City Council decided that the free cup of coffee should be taxed, so they stormed into Vic's coffee shop and demanded to see all their receipts from the past few years. Well, they tallied up all these receipts and decided that the owner owed them some money as the "¦"

"Excuse me," interrupts an elderly man on the end of the semi-circle. "We all thought you were coming to give a talk on Israel." He folds his arms across his chest, waiting.

"Umm, well, like I said, I was planning on saying a few words about some other things. I hope that's ok with you." The older man looks disappointed.

Schaffer continues, jumping haltingly into his stump speech. It takes him about 10 minutes to get through his story about Vic's coffee shop. The crowd doesn't take well to it. The story is designed as an attack on Boulder and this crowd is filled with Boulderites.

About 15 minutes into Schaffer's presentation, the gentleman on the end has had enough. He stands up, vocally expresses his displeasure, and makes his way to the door. Over the next 40 minutes, two others follow suit.

Schaffer looks beaten. He's staring at the ground, trying to figure out where to go next, stumbling through an unscripted bit about how the United States needs to maintain a relationship with Israel, and he ends the evening by passing out envelopes for campaign contributions. Only the grey-haired man reaches for his checkbook. Schaffer shakes a few hands before his staffers usher him out of the room.

I walk over to the pot-bellied man in the yarmulke and thank him for letting me attend. "What did you think?" he asks.

I smile. "I think he's got some work to do," I reply.

"Boy, you're not kidding," he says.

I wave to the woman in the pearls and nod a thank you. I find my car, get in and take a deep breath. I can feel my entire body relaxing, and I lean my head back and laugh to myself. I laugh out of relief. I laugh to calm my nerves. I laugh because this is just another day at the office.