“Hi there,” the female caller says. “May I please speak with John?”

“Who’s this?”

“Gretchen Whitmer.”

A three-second pause.

“Governor Whitmer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh ma’am,” John says, his tone apologetic. “Hi. How are you?”

Whitmer preps for an April 6 press conference about Michigan’s Covid-19 outbreak. | Julia Pickett

It’s a loaded question. This particular call, one of dozens Whitmer will make on Monday, April 6, comes at a moment of relative calm for the governor who has become one of America’s most visible political leaders amid the Covid-19 pandemic. But the last few weeks have been madness. Since Michigan’s first cases were identified on March 11, Whitmer, having already declared a state of emergency, shut down schools and businesses, banned large gatherings, broadened unemployment benefits and ordered citizens to shelter-in-place.

It wasn’t enough. With Michigan’s death toll soaring, and the state running low on resources, Whitmer began pleading with Washington for help while publicly criticizing the lack of a national Covid-19 strategy. Predictably, this provoked ad hominem retribution from President Trump. He called her “Gretchen ‘Half’ Whitmer.” He dismissed the governor, during a White House press briefing, as “the woman in Michigan.” He declared that his administration would help only governors who were “appreciative” of his efforts.

Meanwhile, with Whitmer’s handling of the outbreak garnering praise, she has gained altitude as a trendy choice to become Joe Biden’s running mate—a reality not lost on Trump, who has continued to single her out for attack. All of this has further complicated Whitmer’s nightmarish circumstance, injecting fragile egotism and election-year politics into a public health disaster that’s grown bleaker by the day.

“Well, I’m doing all right,” Whitmer replies. “You know, I got a message that you had called our office on Tuesday and spoke with Nathan. And I know that you shared your wife’s experience at Henry Ford [Hospital] and just wanted to touch base and see if there’s any updates. We’ve been working so hard to get her the Personal Protection Equipment, but I’d love to hear directly from you.”

“Well,” John says, clearing his throat, “I’m a little choked up right now. Because, umm, literally my brother-in-law’s dad just died at 2:30 at the hospital from Covid.”

Whitmer gasps. It’s 3:07 p.m.

“Oh my gosh,” the governor mumbles, her eyes shut. “I’m so sorry.”

Whitmer had spent the day absorbing anecdotal body blows. There was the medical professional who, after emerging from a 19-day quarantine, was placed on indefinite leave because of his underlying health conditions. There was the school superintendent who worried about the hungry students and indigent bus drivers in his district. There was the doctor who told of seeing numerous patients through to their last moments, then phoning family members waiting in the parking lot and breaking the awful news.

The governor had kept an even keel, looking anxious only once, when upon hearing about the overwhelming fatality rate at one hospital, she hung up and said quietly, to no one in particular, “What are we doing with all the bodies?”

But now Whitmer sounds a bit unsteady. John’s story—the suddenness of his loss—has landed like a haymaker.

Maybe a governor isn’t supposed to show vulnerability in a time of crisis. But John, an Army veteran who served three combat tours, doesn’t seem to mind. The two are bonded now, talking about his family, his circumstances, his fears. John’s fiancée—not his wife—is a labor and delivery nurse who’s been wearing the same mask for seven days. Some medical personnel at her hospital have tested positive, adding to the panic over insufficient PPE. For the next 10 minutes, Whitmer quizzes John on the hospital’s safety protocol, pleads with him not to rouse his fiancée for answers (she worked the overnight shift), and reassures him that help is on the way.

“Well, I appreciate the call, governor,” John says. “I tried to call the White House. I’ll be honest, I’m conservative. Always have been. I voted for President Trump. But I just wish he would stop with the petulance. You know, this is not the time—at all. And I would tell him that to his face.”

John continues, “I can’t understand the president saying … ‘The states have to have a plan.’ It can’t just be on the states. I mean, we’re the United States of America. We’re supposed to be united.”

Ever so fleetingly, a smirk tugs at Whitmer’s cheeks. It’s the smirk known to anyone who has tried to steamroll her, anyone who has been on the receiving end of her Lansing-famous wit. In this moment, it’s a smirk of satisfaction. After all the abuse she had taken from the president, here was a Trump loyalist, someone hurting and anxious and sick of the smallness, telling Whitmer he had her back. She looks ready to drop a one-liner.

But the governor quickly regains her poker face. This is not the time, indeed.

