The Race (48 page)

Feeling clammy, Marotta looked at Price and saw that his expression remained opaque. With a burst of indignation, Ware said, "I told him I couldn't do that. Don't worry, he told me, I didn't have to 'do' anything. All I needed was to get Reverend Christy alone.'"

Seeing Ford gaze off in the distance with the fleeting trace of a smile, Marotta felt his mouth go dry. "I told this person," Ware said, "that I couldn't discuss this with someone who was only a voice on a cell phone. He said he'd call me back.

"Two days later, he called me to say I should meet with a lawyer who could counsel me about my financial problems, Dalton Frye."

When the other man beside her seemed to examine his shoes, Marotta knew the worst was yet to come. Then it struck him that Price had still not spoken a word.

TOGETHER, COREY AND Spencer watched CNN. "Hard to believe," Spencer told Corey, "that this guy's going to admit all that."

As Ware stepped aside, the man beside her bent to the microphone.

"You heard Dakin," Corey answered. "He's already got the canceled checks."

"My name," the man began, "is Dalton Frye."

WATCHING, MAROTTA FELT his apprehension turn to dread.

Frye appeared paunchy and chinless, a man whose native shrewdness was unleavened by much character. "In February," Frye began, "I received a call from an old friend, Governor Linwood Tate. He asked if I could undertake a 'special project' for someone who might become my most important client.

"When I asked him who the client was, he swore me to secrecy." Frye took a hasty sip of water. "Then he told me it was Alex Rohr."

Ashen, Marotta glanced at Price, who remained impassive. "According to the governor," Frye went on, "I was to receive a check from the Netherlands Antilles Corporation, an offshore subsidiary of RohrVision. My initial role was to convert this check to cash, then await instructions on who to give the money to, and exactly what to say ..."

In his mind, Marotta was back on the flight to South Carolina.
What you need to do,
Price told him,
is leave the details to me
. And then Rohr said,
I assume, Senator, that you still wish to become president
...

"I wasn't comfortable," Frye continued, "doing what seemed like laundering money. When I asked what the money was for, the governor told me, 'Politics.' If I went along, he promised, my fee would be another check for two hundred thousand dollars."

Frye stopped abruptly, as though he was losing his resolve. Ford fixed him with a gelid stare until Frye continued in a halting voice: "I asked Governor Tate to at least tell me who'd be giving me my instructions and whether he could be trusted. As if it were enough, all he said was 'Magnus Price.'"

"He's lying, of course," Price interposed calmly.

Marotta stood and jerked Price upright by his shirt collar. "You sonofabitch," Marotta said tightly. "You set this up and now you're going to walk away."

His eyes hard, Price placed both hands on Marotta's wrists. "Yes.
I
am."

Sickened, Marotta stared at his manager, seeing the contempt Price no longer bothered to conceal. The cell phone in Marotta's pocket had begun to vibrate.

Releasing Price's collar, Marotta jerked his right hand free and snatched out the phone to read its caller ID.

Corey Grace
.

Marotta's hand shook as he hit the talk button. "Corey?"

"You're done, Rob—Costas is backing out. Price finished you off in South Carolina. But it took this long for that to become obvious." Grace's voice was implacable. "You could try to survive, but that would only make things worse. I'm having my own press conference at ten o'clock. If you want to come out of this marginally better than Blair did, I suggest you watch for cues."

Grace got off without waiting for an answer, leaving Marotta alone with Price.

PUTTING AWAY HIS cell phone, Corey turned to Christy. "Well, Bob?"

His expression somber, Christy shook his head. "Imagine being Marotta."

"You can't. That's among your saving graces." Glancing at Spencer and Dan Hansen, Corey said, "Mind if we talk alone?"

"No problem," Hansen said. "We'll see you two downstairs."

When they had left, Christy said, "I guess you know how grateful I am—makes me wish I could support you."

Corey shrugged. "If you were a politician, you could. Politics is compromise, a search for common ground. But religion as you define it is a matter of absolute belief. We've been fated to disagree since that first day in Lake City."

Christy shook his head, his expression rueful. "Sad, isn't it? We respect each other, and we love our country. But our idea of what that means is different."

"As I said," Corey answered with a smile, "politics is compromise. For the moment, at least, you
are
a politician. So let's go downstairs and see what we can do."

THE SCENE IN THE BALLROOM WAS CHAOTIC BUT ELECTRIC: REPORTERS overflowed the folding chairs and crowded two deep along the walls, while cameramen elbowed for position, their competitive instincts ratcheted to a fever pitch by Blair's humiliation, the charges against Rohr and Price, and the abrupt cancellation of Marotta's press conference with George Costas. When Corey Grace and Bob Christy entered, followed by Governors Costas and Larkin and former secretary of state Cortland Lane, the forward surge of the media was so disorderly that Corey was forced to stand silently at the podium, the others seated behind him, waiting for the tumult to subside.

These few minutes gave him time to experience all of his conflicting emotions: hope, regret, apprehension, and a profound weariness from making so many decisions with so little time to reflect. But as quiet descended, what he felt most deeply was a certain peace, and his voice was calm and firm.

"In the last twelve hours," he began, "much has happened, much of it troubling: the withdrawal of Governor Blair; the accusations against Alex Rohr and Senator Marotta's campaign; the intensification of the already bitter divisions within the convention itself. But this moment of crisis has impelled Reverend Christy and me to put aside our differences in an effort to find a new beginning for our party and our country."

Corey paused, poised on the brink of a life-changing moment. And then, believing that this was best, he continued in the same steady voice: "Reverend Christy cannot support my candidacy, nor can I support his. But we agree that there is one man we
can
support: a man of unquestioned patriotism, deep religious faith, unparalleled experience, and the capacity of mind and spirit to make America a place that all Americans—of every race and circumstance—can believe in.

"The best evidence of this," he added with a smile, "is that Governors Costas and Larkin also agree." At once, Corey saw, Kate McInerny of the
Post
grasped where he was going and turned to Jake Linkletter with a grin of surprise and satisfaction. "This afternoon," Corey continued, "we will ask the chair to reopen the nominations, so that we can place before the convention the name of Secretary Cortland Lane."

The room erupted. Amid the deafening noise, Corey turned to Lane and said, "Seems like they're excited, Cortland."

Lane smiled, his eyes keen—the look of a man resolved within himself to answer a challenge that he thought had passed him by. Seeing this, Corey knew with certainty that what he had done was right. Facing the media again, he held up his hand for silence. "This is the secretary's moment," he told them, "and, the Reverend Christy and I agree, the final and finest moment of our campaigns. And so we have also pledged that neither of us will seek, or accept, an offer to become the vice presidential nominee. From now until November, our sole ambition is to help this good and gifted man become president of the United States." Corey paused, then added with irony so faint it was almost undetectable, "We have every reason to believe that Senator Marotta, once he reflects on this opportunity to renew our party and our politics, will join us in this effort."

He turned again as Cortland Lane, his mentor and old friend, stood. As they shook hands, embracing briefly, Corey recalled that long-ago day at the White House and his impulsive confession about Joe Fitts. "Who knew?" Corey said into Lane's ear.

"Who indeed," Lane answered with the briefest of smiles, and then stepped forward to face the media, a commanding yet calming presence.

WHEN THE PRESS conference was over, Corey shook hands with Sam Larkin, who looked sourly amused; George Costas, plainly hopeful that he might become Lane's running mate; and then Bob Christy. "As we say in the South," Christy told him, "you done good."

Corey smiled. "We both did."

"Well," Christy said with a trace of humor, "we put off Armageddon for a while. At least until next time."

"I think the country can afford to wait," Corey answered. "By that time, I'm hoping to be raptured."

Christy had the grace to laugh.

BACK IN HIS suite, Corey and Hollis Spencer busied themselves with details, postponing the inevitable letdown.

In the next few hours, there was much to accomplish, and neither would leave anything to chance. On CNN, Wolf Blitzer said, "As of this hour, the Grace and Christy delegates are falling into place for General Lane, as are the New York and Mississippi delegations. It now seems certain that sometime this afternoon, Cortland Lane will become the Republican nominee for president of the United States."

Listening, Corey felt both satisfaction and a certain residual sadness. After a time, he tried to acknowledge all that Spencer had done to deliver him the prize that he had given away.

"I owe you a lot," Corey told him. "I'm sorry if I was a difficult client."

"You always were," Spencer acknowledged with a rueful laugh. "But that also made you my best one. And this morning was one for the books. How long did you have this trick in mind?"

"A few days. The first glimmer was on Sunday, when Blair went over to Marotta."

Spencer's eyes lit with interest. "I thought as much. So when you interviewed Lane for vice president, you were also figuring out whether he'd run for president?"

"I was," Corey conceded. "But a lot of things had to fall into place, some of which I couldn't anticipate. The one that surprised me most was Sam Larkin's historic role as a catalyst for social progress—making Cortland Lane the first African-American nominated by a major political party. But not as much as it wound up surprising Sam."

Spencer laughed. "Karmic justice."

"To a point. But I think he'll get away with screwing Blair."

"_That_ poor bastard. What made him think he wouldn't get caught out?"

Once again, Corey thought of his brother. "Denial is a complicated thing," he answered. "Too bad we seem to require it."

THOUGH THERE WAS scant time before the convention reopened, Corey needed to see Lexie.

They stood at the large picture window of her suite, looking out at Central Park on another hot summer day. Deprived of purpose, the assembled demonstrators milled about, their numbers slowly dissipating.

"So," she asked, "are you okay?"

Corey still gazed out the window. "Pretty fair, all in all. I've settled my accounts. Marotta's done, as he should be. Price may be done, and Rohr's tainted if not indictable.

"On the more positive side of the ledger—no small thing—my friend Bob Christy and I may have helped change our country for the better, and given it a candidate who can meet all the challenges we have to face. Cortland Lane is a good man, and for reasons both philosophical and personal, his nomination means a great deal to me. Now we'll see if he can win."

Lexie turned to him. "And you?"

"I'm still a senator. I'm just not a would-be president—certainly not in the present, and maybe ever. That means I'm free to define my future for myself." Smiling, he added, "Starting with a week or so in Cabo San Lucas, hopefully with some company."

The implications of this, he saw, were too serious to prompt a smile of her own. Gazing up at him, she inquired softly, "Does that mean I'm still free to consider your proposal?"

He
was
lucky, Corey realized. Fate had given him a life beyond his youthful imaginings and now, if he was wise enough to deserve it, a new beginning. Quiet, he looked into her face.
I'll be a good husband,
he silently promised,
a good father to our children. Whatever else we decide will be right for us
.

"Of course," Corey answered with a smile far more careless than he felt. "Why do you think I did all this?"

I began researching
The Race
in early 2004. Late that same year, I put the project aside in favor of writing
Exile,
my Palestinian-Israeli novel, reasoning that a novel of American politics would be more pertinent closer to 2008.

In the intervening years, some of the principal themes of
The Race
have become more widely perceived: the uneasiness of the alliance between business interests and religious conservatives; the politicization of science; the adverse impact of political polarization on governance and public policy; the corruption of our system of campaign finance; the erosion of America's social compact by a politics of self-concern; and the domination of our political dialogue by a marketing mentality so cynical it invites contempt and disbelief. Other themes, including the consolidation of the media and our continuing difficulties in honestly confronting race, are becoming more salient by the day.

In the end, I wrote
The Race
because, like so many of us, I think contemporary politics as practiced are accelerating America's decline. The 2006 election made one thing clear: millions of Americans want common-sense solutions to our common problems, not more division, distrust, and disdain. Even clearer is the central theme of
The Race
—our craving for authentic leaders who tell the truth as they perceive it, and care more about the country than themselves.

Hence Corey Grace, a politician as we wish politicians to be.

One of the pitfalls of creating a fictional politician is that observers start casting real politicians as his prototype. Given that, my debts to two friends in public life include absolving them of any blame for what Corey Grace believes about politics or religion. Specifically, Corey's debt to John McCain ends with his military biography and his penchant for candor; his debt to Bill Cohen ends with Bill's political and personal integrity and his marriage to an exceptional African-American woman, Janet Langhart Cohen. Most important, Corey's views diverge so markedly from John's and Bill's that he can only be blamed on me. Facing the partisan primary process uncomfortably perched in the political center, Corey Grace is sui generis.