Chapter 10: I'm so sick of them coming at me again (62 days)

The alarm buzzed at 5:00 a.m., and for the first time in weeks, I hesitated before getting out of bed. The exhaustion was creeping in, the kind that settled deep in your bones. Doug stirred beside me, his hand brushing mine in a silent gesture of support.

"Big day," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

"Every day's a big day," I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

I made my way to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face to wake myself up. The campaign trail had a way of making time blur—one speech, one rally, one crisis blending into the next. But today felt different, though I couldn't quite put my finger on why.

By 6:00 a.m., I was in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee and scanning the morning briefing Lorraine had emailed overnight. Polling numbers, key talking points for the day, media coverage of Trump's latest rally. Same routine as always.

But then my phone buzzed with a call from Lorraine. I glanced at the clock. She never called this early unless it was urgent.

"Lorraine?" I answered, my voice sharp.

"We've got a situation," she said without preamble. "It's all over the news—Trump's claiming you were involved in a 'voter suppression scheme' in California during your time as attorney general."

"What?" I stood up, pacing the kitchen as I processed her words.

"He's saying you targeted conservative groups and prevented them from registering voters. It's baseless, of course, but the right-wing media is eating it up. Fox News has been running with it since 4 a.m., and it's already trending on Twitter."

I closed my eyes for a moment, willing myself to stay calm. "What's our response?"

"We're drafting a statement now," Lorraine said. "And we've got surrogates ready to push back. But you need to address this directly today—set the record straight before it gains too much traction."

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "Fine. Let's schedule a press conference for this morning. I want to confront this head-on."

—

By 7:30 a.m., I was in the motorcade, heading to the campaign headquarters in Washington. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a golden glow over the city, but I barely noticed. My mind was racing, running through every decision I'd made as attorney general, every policy, every case.

This wasn't the first time Trump had lied about me, but this attack felt particularly insidious. Voter suppression was a serious accusation, one that cut to the heart of everything I stood for. I'd spent my entire career fighting for voting rights, ensuring that every voice could be heard.

Doug called as we neared the office. "You okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine," I said, though my voice was tight.

"Just remember—you've faced worse. Don't let him rattle you."

"I won't," I said, though I wasn't sure if I believed it.

—

By 9:00 a.m., the press conference was underway. The room was packed with reporters, their cameras and microphones pointed at me like weapons. I stood behind the podium, my hands gripping its edges as I prepared to speak.

"Good morning," I began, my voice steady. "Before we get into today's campaign updates, I want to address a false and malicious claim being spread by Donald Trump and his allies."

I took a breath, meeting the eyes of the reporters in the room. "Let me be clear: during my time as attorney general of California, I fought tirelessly to protect and expand voting rights. I prosecuted individuals and groups who attempted to suppress votes, regardless of their political affiliation. The idea that I would ever engage in voter suppression is not only false—it's offensive."

I paused, letting my words sink in. The room was silent, the reporters hanging on my every word.

"This is a desperate attempt by Donald Trump to distract from his own failures," I continued. "He knows that his record on voting rights is indefensible. He knows that this campaign is resonating with people across the country who are tired of his lies and his divisive rhetoric. And so he resorts to baseless attacks, hoping to undermine my credibility and shift the focus away from what really matters: the issues that affect everyday Americans."

I straightened my posture, my voice rising slightly. "But let me tell you something: I will not be distracted. I will not be deterred. And I will not let Donald Trump or anyone else silence the voices of the American people."

The reporters began shouting questions as I stepped away from the podium, but I ignored them, walking out of the room with Lorraine and Adam close behind me.

—

Back in the campaign office, the team was already hard at work responding to the attack. Lorraine was on the phone with media outlets, ensuring they had accurate information about my record. Adam was monitoring social media, tracking how the story was spreading.

"We're getting support from civil rights groups," Lorraine said, hanging up the phone. "The NAACP just released a statement backing you, and Stacey Abrams tweeted her support an hour ago."

"Good," I said, sitting down at the conference table. "But we need to do more. I want to release an op-ed today—something that lays out my record on voting rights and highlights Trump's history of voter suppression efforts. Let's take this opportunity to go on offense."

Adam nodded, already typing on his laptop. "I'll start drafting something now."

—

By midday, I was on a Zoom call with volunteers from across the country. These were the people on the front lines of the campaign, knocking on doors, making phone calls, and registering voters.

"Thank you all for being here," I said, looking at their faces on the screen. "And thank you for the work you're doing. I know this morning's news might feel discouraging, but I want you to know that we're not letting this attack slow us down. If anything, it's going to make us fight harder."

The volunteers nodded, their expressions resolute.

"One thing I've learned in this fight is that the truth always wins," I continued. "And the truth is that this campaign is about ensuring every voice is heard, every vote is counted, and every community has a seat at the table. That's what we're fighting for, and that's what we're going to achieve—together."

The call ended with a burst of applause and words of encouragement from the volunteers, and I felt a renewed sense of determination.

The morning had been chaotic, but we were holding steady. There were 62 days left, and I wasn't going to waste a single one.

By 3:00 p.m., we were descending into Las Vegas. From the plane window, I could see the sprawling desert landscape, broken up by the glimmering skyline of the Strip. The city looked almost otherworldly in the daylight, its neon lights muted but still hinting at the energy that pulsed through its streets.

The rally was set to take place at an outdoor venue, a large park just off the Strip. As we drove toward the site, I could already hear the hum of the crowd, a faint but growing roar of voices. Volunteers in blue campaign shirts were scattered across the park, handing out signs and water bottles.

I leaned forward in my seat to address Lorraine. "What's the tone for this rally?"

"Focus on economic justice," she said without looking up from her tablet. "Nevada's unemployment rate is still higher than the national average, and inflation is hitting working families hard. But tie it to the bigger picture—how Trump's policies failed to support working-class Americans and how your administration will prioritize them."

I nodded, mentally rehearsing the points I wanted to hit. This rally wasn't just about firing up the crowd—it was about offering them a vision, something tangible to hold onto.

—

The backstage area was a flurry of activity when we arrived. Staff members scurried around, checking the sound system, adjusting the teleprompters, and making sure everything was running smoothly. Lorraine handed me a final copy of my speech, though I'd already reviewed it on the plane.

"You've got this," she said, giving me a firm nod.

I took a deep breath, centering myself. Even after all these years, there was still a rush of adrenaline that came before stepping onto a stage. It wasn't nerves, exactly—it was the weight of knowing that every word I spoke would be dissected, analyzed, and, hopefully, remembered.

Doug appeared at my side, offering a quick squeeze of my hand. "Knock 'em dead," he said with a grin.

"I always do," I replied, my confidence returning.

—

The cheers erupted the moment I stepped onto the stage. The crowd was massive—easily thousands of people, a sea of faces stretching out as far as I could see. Some held handmade signs: Workers for Kamala, Economic Justice Now, Protect Our Families.

I paused for a moment, letting the energy wash over me.

"Las Vegas!" I called into the microphone, my voice ringing out across the park. "Thank you for showing up today. Thank you for making your voices heard!"

The crowd roared in response, their enthusiasm palpable.

I began by talking about the struggles working families were facing—how wages weren't keeping up with the cost of living, how healthcare and childcare were out of reach for so many, how people were working harder than ever and still falling behind.

"Let me tell you something," I said, my voice firm. "When working families succeed, America succeeds. When we invest in our workers, in our unions, in our small businesses, we all benefit. That's why this campaign is about building an economy that works for everyone—not just the wealthiest among us, not just the corporations, but for you. For your families. For your futures."

The crowd erupted into applause, and I let the moment breathe before continuing.

"And let's talk about unions," I said, my tone sharpening. "Because you know who doesn't want to see unions succeed? Donald Trump and his allies. They want to bust unions, suppress wages, and keep workers divided. But let me tell you something, Las Vegas: this campaign stands with unions. This campaign stands with workers. And as your president, I will fight every single day to protect your right to organize, to negotiate, and to earn a fair wage."

The chant began slowly but gained momentum: Union strong! Union strong!

I stepped back for a moment, smiling as their voices filled the air.

—

After the speech, I spent nearly an hour shaking hands, taking selfies, and listening to people's stories. A hotel worker told me about the challenges of balancing three jobs to support her family. A young man shared how his father, a union organizer, had inspired him to get involved in politics.

Each conversation reminded me why this fight mattered. These weren't just campaign stops—they were opportunities to connect, to listen, and to reaffirm my commitment to the people I was fighting for.

One woman, holding the hand of her young daughter, looked at me with tears in her eyes. "You're the first candidate I've ever felt really sees us," she said. "Thank you."

Her words stayed with me as I made my way back to the motorcade, the cheers of the crowd still ringing in my ears.

—

The plane ride back to Washington was quiet. Lorraine and Adam were huddled over their laptops, strategizing for the next day. Doug was reading a book, his face calm and focused.

I stared out the window at the dark sky, my mind racing. The rally had been a success, but the attacks from Trump and his allies were relentless. Every day brought a new challenge, a new battle to fight.

But I also thought about the people I'd met today—the hotel worker, the young man, the mother and daughter. Their stories were a reminder of what this campaign was really about.

As the plane descended into Washington, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. There were 62 days left, and I wasn't going to waste a single one.