The Race (34 page)

"Not funny, these days. And I'm not sure you're my type. But here's what I wanted to say to you, as sincerely as I know how." Christy spoke each word slowly, as though hoping to establish a bond. "I'm not naive, Corey. I know you have your reasons. But you've got too much integrity to say what you don't believe.

"I don't care about Marotta. But the opinion of a hero matters to me. Whatever happens, I won't forget this day." Christy paused, then chuckled softly. "By the way, I'm staying in the race. I'd hate to leave you with only Rob for company."

TWO WEEKS LATER, SENATOR COREY GRACE LANDED IN CALIFORNIA for the final days of the primary campaign.

In a motorcade headed for Los Angeles, Corey and Spencer watched CNN as Dana Bash described the stakes. "The math is brutally simple," she explained. "To keep his campaign alive, Senator Grace must win in delegate-rich California.

"The California primary is 'winner take all': no matter how narrow the margin, the winner will claim all of California's one hundred and seventy-three delegates—by far the biggest prize of the primary season. And in a state where gay marriage, border security, and illegal immigration are hot-button issues, Senator Grace will face voters who are in a particularly volatile mood."

"Unlike the ones I've already met," Corey remarked. Studying new polling numbers that showed Marotta ahead in California, Spencer merely grunted.

On CNN, the picture shifted to a map of the primary states already decided. "As you can see," Jeff Greenfield told Wolf Blitzer, "Senators Marotta and Grace have played a game of electoral leapfrog, trading victories as Reverend Christy has siphoned just enough delegates to keep either senator from clinching the nomination—a task made even more difficult because favorite-son governors in New York, Illinois, and Mississippi have kept those states out of play. But the dynamics of this seesaw contest confirm that these two very different men have different weaknesses and strengths."

"Yeah," Spencer grumbled. "One tells lies."

Greenfield touched the computerized map, causing Michigan to turn blue—the color designated for a Grace victory. "In Michigan, Grace won by garnering a large crossover vote from blacks, Catholics, and independents, even while losing conservative Republican votes by thirty-five percent." Touching Virginia, Greenfield turned it to red. "Contrast this to Virginia, a more conservative state, where a similar cushion for Marotta among Republicans gave him a nine percent margin over Grace, who barely edged Christy for second place.

"So just for fun, let's look at Alabama." Once again, Greenfield tapped at the screen. "We've classified it as a purple state because no one knows
what's
going on. To everyone's surprise, Grace won the Alabama primary with a crossover vote from blacks and a whopping plurality among veterans, while social conservatives split their votes between Marotta and Christy.

"But then the party's state chairman—allegedly prodded by Magnus Price—challenged the legality of the election, and held a state convention that elected delegates pledged to Marotta. So now we have two delegations—one elected and one appointed—who will fight it out at the convention for the right to vote for their candidate of choice. In this tense and rancorous contest, such backroom maneuverings may ultimately determine the nominee and, perhaps, the next president."

In the car, Corey and Spencer were silent and intent. "That's a big part of the story," Greenfield continued. "But in terms of the candidates themselves, in many ways Senator Grace
is
the story. On the Democratic side, the contest ended swiftly, focusing national attention on the dogfight among Republicans. Based on candor, charisma, and his appeal across party lines, Senator Grace has lasted longer than most prognosticators thought he would—despite, or maybe because of, the drama surrounding his relationship with Lexie Hart."

Who rarely talks to me now,
Corey thought. Since South Carolina, they had not seen each other; their conversations, while filled with affection and concern, were bereft of any plan for the future. When Corey had said, "I don't want to just be your friend," she had answered softly, "But we are friends, Corey. Friends care for each other and speak the truth. Unless the truth hurts too much to speak."

"But with or without Ms. Hart," Greenfield was saying, "Corey Grace is a political rock star, drawing young people, minorities, independents, and suburban women, all of whom have typically shunned Republicans." Smiling, Greenfield concluded, "One sentence sums up his promise and his dilemma: Corey Grace is the most popular politician in
neither
party."

Gazing out at the clogged six-lane highway, Corey took out his cell phone and called Governor Charles Blair. "It's Corey," he said. "Just calling to take your pulse."

"It's still beating," the youthful governor said, his chuckle at once practiced and evasive. "You know who I feel closest to, personally and philosophically. But Marotta has some powerful supporters out here. Best I keep the party together by keeping our delegation out of play."

"And maybe become the candidate?" Corey inquired wryly. "Or, at least, vice president?"

Blair chuckled again, the disarming laugh of a man caught out. "I'm a red-blooded American governor, Corey—I wouldn't hide if the lightning struck."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then I promise you this much: if my choice comes down to deciding which of you becomes the nominee, you know where I stand."

And where is that?
Corey wanted to ask. "Thank you," he said graciously. "Knowing that means a lot."

Corey got off. "How'd it go?" Spencer asked.

"More foreplay and polite evasion. He's waiting for the moment when I have to offer him VP. Why commit now in exchange for nothing?"

"Still," Spencer said, "it's good to remind him that you care. Among the things the so-called experts sometimes forget is that politics is about people. Who would have guessed that you and Christy would have this odd rapport?"

At once, Corey thought of Clay. "I do what I have to do," he said softly. "At least as far as conscience allows."

Spencer gave him a puzzled look, then returned to his computer run.

REPORTERS CLUSTERED IN front of the hotel in downtown Los Angeles. Looking out the window, Corey said, "What a bizarre place this is—office towers with no people in the streets. Looks like a giant Lego set someone dropped from the moon."

"Don't ever fail to not mention that," Spencer advised dryly, and both men clambered out of the limo.

Kate McInerny was in the front rank of the media, as avid as the others for an encounter with a candidate disinclined to duck their questions. "Senator?"

Corey smiled. "Loitering again, Kate? What's up?"

"This morning, Senator Marotta called for a massive effort to deport all illegal immigrants, and a thousand-mile security wall along the Mexican border. What's your reaction?"

"That Senator Marotta calls for lots of things. In the country I'm familiar with, some important segments of our economy depend on illegal immigrants. And we don't have the manpower to find ten million illegals, let alone deport them."

"And so?"

"We should tighten border security and offer illegal immigrants a carefully designed path to citizenship." Corey shrugged. "I believe that on principle. In terms of politics, Senator Marotta's trying to win a primary by pushing a volatile issue. But if he wins the nomination by offending Hispanics, come November he'll lose California by twenty points. When bad policy meets bad politics, it's an achievement of a kind."

Spencer, Corey noted, watched with resignation and veiled amusement—these unscripted encounters, for all their risk of disastrous comments, had become integral to Corey's appeal. "Senator Marotta," Jake Linkletter from Rohr called out, "has just scheduled a Senate vote Thursday to pass a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage. Clearly, this requires you to duck that vote or to cast a vote that might well influence the outcome of this primary. What is your intention?"

Corey tried to choke back his disdain. "If Rob wants to play this game," he said in a tone of resignation, "he can. All I can promise is to be there on Thursday."

"Senator Marotta," Linkletter pressed, "also repeated his charge that gay marriage is, quote, 'a second cousin to incest, polygamy, and people having sex with animals.' What is your response?"

Corey shot him an incredulous look. "What do you expect me to say? That I tremble for our nation's innocent sheep population? That I fear the day when our national anthem will become 'Embraceable Ewe'?"

Except for Linkletter, the cluster of reporters burst out laughing. "Perhaps that's not a very presidential remark," Corey told Linkletter. "But when a presidential candidate actually says things like that, all one can do is make an offering to the god of laughter.

"Listen to Senator Marotta, and you'd think America's biggest problem is gay couples burning flags to celebrate their anniversary. This strategy of turning Americans against each other is tearing us apart. That's the most unpresidential thing a candidate can do."

"What
is
America's biggest problem?" Linkletter asked in a gibing tone.

"Where do I begin—global warming, nuclear proliferation, oil gluttony, and instability in the Middle East are all contenders. But let's take another issue: fighting domestic terrorism.

"I'm grateful we've had no recent incidents of terror. But as suggested by last year's attempt to assassinate Senator Marotta, we're pressing our luck. As one example, I worry about terrorists crashing a private plane loaded with explosives into a football stadium. Our ability to prevent that is nil—"

"Senator," Linkletter interrupted, "don't you worry that simply by suggesting such things you'll give our enemies ideas?"

Corey fixed him with a cold stare. "They're not stupid. The terrorists who brought down the World Trade Center figured
this
one out a decade ago. And people who suggest that it's wrong to point that out make ostriches look like visionaries."

With that, Corey headed for the hotel entrance. "Senator," Linkletter called out, "is there a reason Lexie Hart has stopped campaigning with you?"

Bastards like you,
Corey thought,
and your boss
—_not to mention your candidate and the maggot who runs him_. "Lexie's easily bored," Corey said over his shoulder. "Questions about gay marriage do that to her."

ON WEDNESDAY NIGHT, Corey took a red-eye back to Washington. "This tactic stinks," Spencer had told him at the airport. "But no Republican is getting a big crossover vote from gays. And Californians overwhelmingly approved a ballot measure banning gay marriage ..."

"So now they need a constitutional amendment," Corey had said disgustedly.

"They don't. Marotta's hijacked the Senate agenda just to fuck you. But your vote won't make a difference: a constitutional amendment needs a two-thirds majority, and the Democrats will beat this back without you. So why lose voters in California just because Magnus thinks you'll take the bait?" Spencer had unfastened his tie like a man slipping out of a noose. "Don't hand Marotta the nomination, Corey. That's too high a price for one meaningless vote."

Now, sipping Scotch, Corey consulted his conscience, suspended between memories of the past and hopes for the future. He wished that Lexie were with him.

THE GALLERIES WERE packed with spectators and reporters, anticipating what the Rohr News commentator had called "the moral watershed of this campaign."

Rob Marotta led the debate. "This," he said, "is a decisive moment in our nation's history. The future of America hangs in the balance, because the future of marriage hangs in the balance."

At that moment, Corey Grace decided to vote as, in his heart, he had always known he must.

WHEN COREY ROSE, a hush fell over the galleries. "The future of America," he said, "does not hang in the balance. Nor is the institution of marriage in jeopardy.

"I do not support gay marriage. But this subject is best handled by the citizens of our states. And
no
state has to recognize a marriage that violates its own laws.

"Those are the facts. Nothing is gained by holding this vote, and some piece of our humanity is lost." For an instant, he imagined Clay as he might have been had he lived. "Without our help, countless families deal with members who are gay—accepting and, eventually, embracing them. If anything, we should focus on giving gays the freedom to select stable partnerships and the responsibility to do so.

"We need not call it marriage. All we need is some small measure of decency and compassion." After pausing, Corey finished simply: "I will vote against this amendment. The consequences of that will be whatever they are."

The gallery burst into applause. But this did not alter the satisfaction Corey read on Rob Marotta's face.

AS HE DROVE back to the airport, feeling glum and resigned, Lexie called. "I'm proud of you," she said.

A burst of hope lightened Corey's mood. "Enough to see me?"

Lexie hesitated. "We should wait, Corey. After Tuesday, things could change."

She did not need to explain this. After Tuesday, Corey's race for president might be over.

"After Tuesday," he said.

BY THAT EVENING, Marotta's new television ads had hit the state's major media markets, excoriating Corey for "failing to oppose gay marriage." On Friday morning, Corey's latest overnight tracking poll showed a 4 percent slippage: Marotta 38 percent, Grace 31 percent, Christy 17 percent. Straining the campaign's finances, Hollis Spencer scheduled a final media buy: a positive ad touting Corey's expertise in military and homeland security matters, plus one showing Marotta with Carl Cash as quotes from both men scrolled across the screen. "Rob Marotta," the ad concluded. "He'll do anything to win."

Corey, Spencer judged, needed a big turnout in the less conservative areas of the state—principally in San Francisco, San Jose, and Silicon Valley—to have any hope of winning. And so on Friday afternoon, just before rush hour, Corey addressed an overflow crowd at Justin Herman Plaza in downtown San Francisco.