The Man Who Would Be President

Among those in attendance at the fundraiser were well-fed, well-groomed, well-dressed children, some with plates of food, at least one with his portable video game. When Brumskine told the crowd he wanted an 11-hour school day to remake the Liberian school system, the people in the room tittered and shuffled in their seats. Not two months later, in the sweltering Liberian upcountry, he would stand before another audience. The children there would be wearing donated clothes and fighting for spots under the single bare bulb in a concrete gymnasium. When Brumskine made the same campaign pledge, the crowd would whoop and cheer as if he'd promised each of them $1 million and a seat in Heaven.

By the end of the evening in Beltsville, many in the audience were ready to drop a pledge or a donation into the collection plate -- a flimsy cardboard box -- but they had a few questions first.

And there are good questions to be asked. How can you see inside the heart of a man who once joined forces with the foul tyrant Taylor? How, in the muddle that is Liberian politics, can you be sure he is not still somehow on Taylor's side? But how, on the other hand, can you question the mettle of a man who returned to Liberia to challenge Taylor directly -- and publicly, and without an army?

With her husband back in Liberia now for the election, Estelle Brumskine calls him on the phone from Alexandria maybe six or seven times a day. Sometimes she'll call him at work just to tell him she'll be out at the grocery store if he tries to call her. Sometimes Charles will be watching something on satellite TV, and he'll call Estelle in Virginia so they can watch it together and chat.

Estelle still remembers one Saturday morning in March 1999, she says, when he called to let her know he was alive.

Estelle describes taking the phone and perching on a couch in the sitting area of their three-story townhouse off Franconia Road. At the time, Brumskine was president pro tempore of the Liberian Senate, a leader of Taylor's party, and there had been reports of friction between them. Estelle was an ocean away. There on the couch, she says, surrounded by the perfect order of her home, the graceful lines of the drapes, the perpetually set dinner table with the gold-colored chargers and china, she heard the story of his escape.

The night before, he says, he was sitting watching TV in his villa at the Hotel Africa compound outside the capital, Monrovia. For no good reason, he had parked around back. The lights were out.

A goon squad -- men he assumes were working for Taylor -- came by, but it looked like no one was home, so they left. Brumskine, dozing off, didn't even know they'd been there.

They kept coming back, every hour, he says, until a neighbor rapped on his window at 2:30 in the morning.

"You've got to get out," the voice outside said. "They're going to kill you."

Brumskine and five loyal security officers sneaked out of the waterside hotel compound and along a moonlit riverbank to hide at a friend's house. That morning at the airport, after a white-knuckled wait at passport control, he made his exit, to Brussels. There he called Estelle before getting on a plane to Washington.

His desperate flight from Taylor is the central story of Brumskine's candidacy, which strikes a delicate balance between touting his experience in government and distancing himself from the destruction that marked Taylor's reign. The story establishes his credentials as a Taylor opponent, and it helps mask the awkward fact that until that point Brumskine had been in very tight with Taylor. It's a dramatic tale. The only question is: Is it true?