In March, 1987, Connaughton started working at the Biden campaign headquarters, in a downscale office complex outside Wilmington. Having done well in Georgia, he was going to be a fund-raiser. Although it wasn’t what he’d imagined the night he met Biden in Tuscaloosa, he said, “Just tell me where to go.” He began working twelve-hour days.
Biden, meanwhile, was giving one stump speech after another. Connaughton felt that Biden’s words were stirring but superficial. He always brought the house down with the line “Just because our political heroes were murdered does not mean that the dream does not still live, buried deep in our broken hearts.” Connaughton disliked the allusion to the Kennedys, which seemed canned. He wanted Biden to give more substantive speeches, like the old Salt II lecture.
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Connaughton’s Senate job ended in the middle of the month. He flew to Costa Rica and went on an eight-hour hike. When he returned to his hotel room, he took a long shower, letting the water soak him and soak him until he felt clean.
Connaughton wanted to live in the South again, near the ocean. In Savannah, Georgia, he bought a turreted Victorian near the pretty squares lined with live oaks and Spanish moss.
Savannah, beneath its quaint stylishness, had been hit hard by the crisis. In his neighborhood, there was a sign for a ten-thousand-square-foot house that had been marked down from three and a half million dollars to one and a half million. The guy who gave tours of historic Savannah was an unemployed mortgage banker. Soon after Connaughton’s arrival, his neighbors invited him to a monthly potluck gathering, where the host that month was a prosperous-looking man in his sixties, with holdings in real estate. A week later, the man killed himself—the rumor was that he’d got overextended.
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