Published March 16, 2008
The New York Times Magazine
When old-time Democrats in Washington reminisce about the days of brokered conventions — floor fights and frantic early-morning calls, deals cut under the haze of cigar smoke — they talk about them the way a paleontologist might describe the hurtling stride of a velociraptor: an awesome spectacle, to be sure, but not one you would really want to see up close. Last week, Democrats woke up to find that the unthinkable may be upon them.
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