HAMMOND, La.—Mary Landrieu is dead, and everyone knows it but Mary Landrieu.
The senior senator from Louisiana, a diminutive blond woman with a round, youthful face, is standing under a green canopy in the middle of an airfield. The canopy reads, "City of Hammond, Too Lovely to Litter." There is frustration in her voice as she repeats, yet again, the message nobody seems to be hearing. "The national race is over," she says. "This race is clearly now about what's in Louisiana's best interest."
Landrieu's death was foretold on November 4, when any remaining hope Democrats might have had that their candidates' individual qualities could overcome voters' hostility to the president was washed away in a national Republican wave of unexpected proportions. Though Landrieu was also on the ballot that day, thanks to Louisiana's quirky election laws, it was only the first round—an all-parties primary featuring four Democrats, three Republicans, and a Libertarian. Landrieu got 42 percent of the vote; Bill Cassidy, a physician and Republican congressman, got 41 percent. Now the two of them are pitted head-to-head in a runoff election Saturday.
It is the last Senate contest of 2014 to be decided, a lingering loose end, a hangnail of an election that—now that Republicans have already won the Senate majority—will affect practically no one, except Mary Landrieu and her constituents.
Since the primary, Landrieu has undergone a series of humiliations. First, the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee announced it would not spend any money supporting her in the runoff. Landrieu's campaign was already practically broke, and in the weeks following the primary more than 90 percent of the television ads Louisiana voters saw were from Cassidy or groups supporting him.
Then, in a last-ditch attempt to demonstrate her clout in the Senate, Landrieu—who describes herself as "a strong supporter of the oil and gas industry"—persuaded Harry Reid, the outgoing Senate majority leader, to hold a vote on a bill to build the Keystone XL oil pipeline. She spent several days pleading with her Democratic colleagues to vote for it. On November 18, every Republican and 14 Democratic senators supported the bill. It fell short by a single vote. "FAIL MARY," declared a Politico headline.
Now, no one gives Landrieu much of a chance. "She's going to lose—it's just a matter of how much," Bernie Pinsonat, a pollster who works for both Republicans and Democrats, tells me. (Pinsonat began as a Democratic pollster, but that is no longer much of a viable occupation in this state.) Elliott Stonecipher, a Shreveport-based political analyst, adds: "She'll have trouble doing better than the 42 percent she got in the primary, and it could be worse than that." Many observers question Landrieu's campaign strategy, from her muddled message to the way she has allocated her funds. But, says Bob Mann, a former Democratic staffer who now writes a newspaper column and teaches at Louisiana State University, "She could be the best swimmer in the world, and it wouldn't matter. The tide is just too strong."
Still, Landrieu must go through the motions. She must play out the string. "I am fighting hard until the end," she announces in Hammond, surrounded by several local mayors and state legislators and a couple of dozen supporters. December in Louisiana: sunny and 80 degrees. Outside the canopy, a man and a woman with six platinum-blond children are waving a sign that says, "Babies are a blessing. Choose life." They are handing out pro-Cassidy literature. On the other side of the canopy, a woman is holding a Sierra Club sign that says, "Keep the Frack Out of My Water." (Landrieu is pro-fracking.)
Landrieu approaches a pair of grandmotherly women in Democratic Party T-shirts and puts her arm around one of them. They've been making phone calls on her behalf, and she wants to know if the word is getting out—are people starting to see that this race isn't about the national parties, but about the local matters Landrieu wants it to be about? Has anything changed since the primary?
"I haven't seen any change," says Jeanne Voorhees, a 72-year-old with a cross necklace. Bernadette Powell, who is 68 and moved to this part of the state when she lost her New Orleans house in Hurricane Katrina, tells Landrieu she thinks she spent too much time in this week's debate haranguing Cassidy about a late-breaking scandal involving his Louisiana State paycheck.
"Focus on your record! Your record is good!" Powell tells Landrieu.
"You would think people would be focused on that," Landrieu says, shaking her head, "but it's tough."
A couple of hours later and an hour down the road in Baton Rouge, a reporter asks Landrieu how she feels about her party abandoning her, and her defiant facade cracks a bit. "I am extremely disappointed in the Democratic Senatorial Committee," she says. "This is a fight worth fighting. I mean, I have a very good record! Records should matter!" It doesn't seem to occur to Landrieu that it is precisely her record—of supporting an unpopular president and voting for all his major initiatives, including the Affordable Care Act—that voters object to.
Landrieu's soft voice takes on a pleading cast as she contemplates the electorate that, having sent her to the Senate three times, now seems poised to cast her out. Why can't they appreciate all she's done for them? "People say they want somebody to break the gridlock," she says. "I've been breaking it up and busting it up for 18 years! I mean, what is not clear about this? They want politicians that are honest, I've been honest! I've served with integrity!"
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