The Race

by Richard North Patterson

  "Funny," Corey countered, "that's what they're saying about me."

  Hart shrugged his broad shoulders. "My last election, your party put up a white guy whose outreach to the black community was to call me a friend to gays and abortionists. I went right at him, reminding folks that Jesus wasn't about persecuting the weak or the despised, but ministering to them." His tone became milder. "Saw your speech at Carl Cash. You've got a good enough handle on that part."

  "Johnny," Lexie intervened, "whether you help him or not, in an hour or so I'll be introducing Corey at our church. What's your advice to him?"

  "Simple." Hart fixed Corey with the same impenetrable stare. "It's not enough you've been picked on--when it comes to victims of racism, you're just passing through. And don't get hung up on style: unless you're Bill Clinton, there's nothing funnier than seeing some white politician try to act all loose and comfortable in a black church. It's like watching a bear on roller skates.

  "Let Lexie handle that part. When your turn comes, remember that there's no substitute for substance." Jabbing the table, Hart admonished, "Black folks can smell a phony ten miles down the road. They want to know what you'd do for their mama who's got no health care, or their kid whose textbooks are twenty years old.

  "One more thing." Hart sat back, hands folded across his ample stomach, looking from Corey to Lexie. "It's all right to care for each other, but don't flaunt it. Folks aren't going to look at you and see Romeo and Juliet--let alone themselves. Let them come to the idea of you in their own way.

  "God knows it's gonna take me a little while."

  THE CHURCH WAS packed. But what struck Corey was the difference in atmosphere from the all-white congregation of his youth.

  Even at nine or ten, Corey had intuited a joyless sense of duty among the worshippers; to him, they had seemed like bodies in life's harness, spending an hour as they would at a Kiwanis meeting, but with far less animation. Emerging into the sunlight, they engaged in desultory chitchat, then went home to mow the lawn or pay the bills or watch sports on TV, their duty to propriety discharged until next Sunday. It was little wonder, he supposed, that the parched soul of Nettie Grace had responded to Bob Christy.

  Here, the pews overflowed with families dressed in their Sunday finery--from matriarchs to wriggly kids--filled with the expectation that what happened within these modest walls would help sustain them in the week ahead. The major difference for them, Corey was certain, were the reporters and TV cameras gathered because of his appearance with Lexie. Noticing a family in the front row--a gray-haired grandmother, a plump wife and her wiry husband, a fidgety boy and his little sister, her hair in cornrows--Corey read in their faces a deep pride in their returning daughter. As Corey sat next to the minister, Lexie stood at the pulpit and bathed in a collective embrace to which Corey was a stranger.

  "I'm home," she said simply.

  "I see Barbara Daniels, my first friend in kindergarten, with her handsome husband, and two beautiful babies I only wish that I could borrow. I see our neighbor, Mrs. Jones, the first to bring us a casserole the night that Daddy died. I see Mrs. Phillips, who taught the first Sunday school class I ever went to. And I see Mr. Jefferson, the first teacher--the first person--who ever told me that I could act."

  There were murmurs of affirmation. "Without all of you, I wouldn't be who I am. You helped bury my daddy, and you loved my mama way past the day she could remember you. So now I've come back home to introduce the man I care for, and to talk about what kind of people we are, and what kind of future we're going to make for those who follow us."

  Lexie's gaze swept the congregation, at one with her audience in their common memory of hardship. "All things change," she said softly. "But some things change too slowly. I remember stories Mama told me about the diners we couldn't go to, the schools we couldn't attend, the ballots we couldn't cast. I remember white boys disrespecting me when I was a little girl. And now, even though I'm three thousand miles away, I'm hearing the same old thing.

  "Why?" Lexie's gaze swept the congregation, her voice firm, her carriage proud. "Because Senator Grace thinks we can be a couple, and that he can also be president. Just like he believes that hatred has no rightful place in our politics, or our lives.

  "You all have heard about the phone calls, or read the flyers, or seen the ads on television." Her voice filled with quiet anger. "No one's come forward to claim them, and no one ever will. The authors of this evil mean to defeat Corey at the ballot box and just move on. But--if enough people down here are willing to stand with us--sooner or later things done in the dark will come to light, and those responsible will be exposed. And then the rest of us, black and white, will be that much closer to realizing our common humanity."

  The murmurs of assent multiplied and deepened. "Will you stand with me?" Lexie asked.

  "Yes," a man called, and then a woman, and then the calls of affirmation filled the church.

  Lexie's eyes shone with emotion and, perhaps, tears. "Then please stand now," she called out in a husky voice, "and meet Senator Corey Grace."

  When Corey stepped forward, no one was left sitting.

  COREY WAITED UNTIL they sat down again and his words could be heard above the buzz. As he faced them, he was also conscious of the cameras and his own concealed nervousness.

  "Thanks for making this easier," he opened with a smile. "Until a minute ago, I was feeling like the guy who found out that his new girlfriend had a five-hundred-person family--all of them ready to pass judgment."

  As the congregation chuckled, Corey felt himself relax. "Actually," Corey added, "Congressman Hart feels like five hundred parents all by himself."

  This got outright laughter. Standing to the side, Hart gave a small smile of self-recognition. "The congressman and I," Corey went on, "had what diplomats call a frank and candid exchange--about everything from proper dating decorum to how the Republican Party has handled race. And last but not least, his niece.

  "Though I haven't known her as long as you have, I think I know how you feel about Lexie. But Americans, whether black or white, can't look at us without thinking about race. That's the reality for both of us. And it's one of the hardest things for any of us to talk about."

  The parishioners were silent now, attentive. "As a candidate--and, frankly, as a Republican--it's my obligation to put race on the table, and talk about how it affects us all.

  "All too often, some within my party--like Democrats in the past--have lived off racial hatred and distrust. That's happening in this election. And, once again, those who perpetuate racial division do so because they've got nothing else to say.

  "Nothing about people without health care.

  "Nothing about a minimum wage too minimal for anything but poverty.

  "Nothing about schools that don't teach, and kids who can't read.

  "Nothing about what separates the people who bear these burdens from those who don't: wealth and class and--all too often--race."

  Pausing, Corey saw some people nodding amid a rumble of assent. "So I'm not here asking for your help just because I'm on the wrong end of a drive-by shooting where racism is the weapon. Like Johnny Hart told me, when it comes to being on the wrong end of that stick, I'm just passing through."

  There were rising murmurs of approval, appreciation of a truth acknowledged. "So let's start with the truth about health care," Carey told them, "and go from there ..."

  COREY AND LEXIE drove away buoyed by her minister's resounding final words: "On Tuesday, help our sister help the senator."

  Congressman Hart sat between them in the back seat. With the crisp pragmatism of a professional, he asked, "What's your schedule today?"

  "Three more churches," Corey said. "Then Lexie's taping a radio show and a recorded message--we're phone-banking the eastern part of the state."

  "That's all fine," Hart said in a neutral tone. "But you got no field operation among blacks to speak of, right?"

  "Not much of one."

  Johnny H
art gazed out the front window. "I'm sure as hell not coming out for you," he finally said. "But maybe I'll do more than just stay out of your way. There are calls I can make--ministers, folks who can get people to the polls. Looks to me like if you can turn out thirty thousand extra voters, you're close to catching Marotta."

  Turning to her uncle, Lexie started to speak. "Don't thank me, girl," Hart said brusquely. "Your boyfriend here's just my excuse. I'm tired of this crap, that's all--sick of it to my very bones. I don't want to die on Magnus Price's plantation."

  PRICE AND MAROTTA sped through the suburbs of Greenville, heading for another church while they watched a tape of Corey and Lexie leaving hers. "It's like the battle of the bands," Price said. "The battle of the churches--or, more aptly, the races. Too bad Grace forgot which party he's in."

  Marotta's discomfort deepened. "Too bad," Marotta said. "Period. Even if I win the nomination, come November I won't get one black vote in a hundred."

  "'Bloc votes,'" Price amended coolly. "That's what tomorrow's ads are gonna call them. Grace is attempting a 'hostile takeover of the Republican Party' by 'outside forces.' Can't let that happen, can we?"

  "Jesus," Marotta said in genuine disgust.

  "Look, Rob, Christy beat you in Iowa, Grace creamed you in New Hampshire. You gotta take South Carolina as it is, not as Grace and his girlfriend want it to be. That means giving folks permission to be racist without saying so." Price fished out his cell phone. "We need to rally whites in defense of their party, and make sure Christy doesn't split that vote. It helps that some of the most far-out evangelicals, Christy's people, open their doors to blacks. Churches we've seen, you can count the blacks on your fingers and toes and still have a foot left over."

  Price hit speed dial. Silently, Marotta thought of his father, who had believed in better, and then of Mary Rose. "Magnus here," he heard Price say. "Time to napalm the 'forces of darkness.'"

  12

  BY TEN O'CLOCK, THE SECRET SERVICE HAD CAUGHT UP WITH THE campaign, and Lexie and Corey were back on the Silver Bullet.

  They careened from church to church, Lexie and Corey in a rear seat as reporters asked questions, photographers snapped photos, Dakin Ford told stories, and Blake Rustin looked quietly miserable--a man who had lost control of both campaign and candidate. But Lexie appeared serene in Corey's company: she had assessed the risks they were taking and, her decision made, seemed focused on the here and now. With quiet good humor, she answered some questions and deflected others; every so often she would take Corey's hand. When the cameraman from Rohr News seemed to zero in on their intertwined fingers, Corey gripped hers tighter.

  Word spread fast. At each stop the crowds were bigger--they waited outside the churches, mostly black but some white, cheering and applauding the candidate and his lady. "Great-looking couple," he heard a reporter comment. "Who ever said politics is show business for the ugly?"

  At the last appearance, the crowd waiting numbered in the thousands, and handmade "Lexie for President" signs had appeared. "What do you think of that?" Kate McInerny asked her as they clambered off the bus.

  Lexie shot Corey a grin. "They've finally got it right," she answered. "But I'll give Corey's vice presidential aspirations every consideration."

  When she said that to the congregation, the applause drowned out the laughter.

  THEY WERE HEADED to a recording studio in Columbia when Dakin Ford, eyes glued to the TV screen, turned up the volume.

  On Rohr News, a small blond woman stood behind a podium flanked by two middle-aged men in suits--one chubby, the other sleek--identified as her lawyers. Awkwardly, she shuffled the papers in front of her and began reading to a clutch of reporters in a quavering Carolina drawl.

  "My name is Mary Ella Ware. I'm recently divorced, the mother of two young children, and I'm a member of a Bible-believing congregation right here in Columbia." Her throat quivered visibly. "Until yesterday, I was a volunteer in the Christy for President campaign ..."

  "Oh, no," Ford said in disbelief.

  Glancing at Lexie, Corey detected a shiver of instinctive apprehension. "I am here today," Ware read in a nearly inaudible voice, "because Reverend Christy betrayed my trust."

  She was dressed as if for Easter Sunday, Corey noted, and her light pink suit seemed to add to an air of girlishness. Pausing, she touched her eyes, and then continued reading. "Two days ago, worried about how my little boy was handling our divorce, I turned to Reverend Christy for pastoral counseling." She bit her lip. "When he invited me to his hotel room, I thought he was being respectful of my privacy."

  Leaning toward the screen, the reporters scribbled frenzied notes. "He knelt down beside me," Ware read on. "Together, we prayed for God's guidance. Then he told me to keep kneeling with my eyes closed.

  "I could feel him standing in front of me, listening to my prayers." Watching Ware dab her eyes, Corey felt a wave of horror and pity, though he was not sure for whom. "Then," Ware blurted out, "I felt his hand behind my neck, and heard him unzip his fly ..."

  Lexie turned away. From beside her came a bark of laughter, Dakin Ford's.

  THEY CLUSTERED IN Corey's hotel suite--Corey, Lexie, Ford, Rustin, and Dana Harrison--watching a tape of Ware's press conference, by now the lead story on the Sunday evening newscast. "I know her," Ford said. "She was a volunteer in my last campaign, always trying to get near me. Cute little thing. But it's dumb to trust a woman so needy that she scares you."

  Lexie glanced at Dana, the other woman in the room. "Doesn't mean she's lying," Dana objected. "Sometimes the fragile types are the ones that predators go for."

  "She's an actress," Ford responded, darting a glance at Lexie. "No offense to the real ones, but this is right out of Elmer Gantry--the fallen preacher. People are conditioned to half-expect it.

  "Look at the timing. It's the Sunday before Election Day, not enough time for anyone to check this out. All Christy can do is deny it, guaranteeing twenty-four more hours of lousy coverage right before the voting. He's cooked."

  "And so are we," Rustin said glumly. "I can hear Price's line already: Marotta alone can protect God and the party from all the evils Corey represents."

  Lexie ventured nothing. "Do you believe this woman?" Corey asked her.

  Lexie looked at him, a wealth of emotions he could not assess surfacing in her eyes. "All I know for sure," she answered, "is that lives are being destroyed."

  Abruptly, Corey made up his mind. "I'm calling Christy," he said.

  CHRISTY'S VOICE WAS SO wan that he sounded like someone else. "Somehow, I knew you'd call."

  Alone in the bedroom, Corey answered, "It's just something I wanted to do."

  "Good politics, too," Christy responded wearily. "But it's important to me that you know this is a total lie."

  Not for the first time, Corey wished that he could separate truth from falsehood; fifteen years in politics had taught him that a gifted liar could be more persuasive than a frightened man who told the truth. "What will you do?" Corey asked.

  "I helped Magnus Price get started in politics." Christy's tone combined resignation with resolve. "Remember Marotta's question about adultery? Maybe this is God's retribution for working with a man I sensed lacked any scruples. But that only deepens my obligation to keep Price's dirty hands off the White House. Marotta has become his instrument of evil."

  This was what Corey wished to hear. "Guess you're holding a press conference."

  "Nine A.M.," Christy said simply. "The media mortification of the flesh, complete with my beloved, shell-shocked Martha. Never thought I'd be the one saying I didn't have sex outside my marriage."

  The futility of such a denial seemed to weigh on Christy's words. After a moment, Corey asked, "Need the advice of a good press person?"

  "Couldn't hurt, Corey. Couldn't hurt."

  "Then I'm sending Dana Harrison over. She won't love this, but she's a pro. And if she winds up believing you, maybe you've got a shot."

  When Corey emerged from the
bedroom, Lexie had gone to speak at another church. That night they slept apart again, Corey in a suite watched by Secret Service agents, Lexie at her uncle's house, guarded by state troopers.

  THE SILVER BULLET rolled out early the next morning. An hour before Christy's press conference, the last wave of attack ads started.

  Its focus was a wooden ballot box. As the voice-over urged Republicans to combat a "bloc vote by liberal Democrats" two black hands reached out to steal it.

  When Corey glanced at her, Lexie had turned from the screen.

  "Jesus," someone murmured, "this is getting pretty raw."

  Hastily switching channels, Ford discovered a gauzy ad of Marotta with Mary Rose and the children. "A neat contrast to Christy's dilemma," Ford remarked. "Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

  "About what, Senator?" Jake Linkletter prodded.

  "Synchronicity," Ford answered tartly, and then Bob Christy appeared.

  Flanked by his wife and grown son and daughter, Christy spoke with quiet determination. "I want all of you to know," he began, "that these charges are utterly false.

  "Here's what is true. Mrs. Ware asked to speak with me in private, as she said. We prayed on our knees, as she said. Then I offered her advice--about divorce, her children, and the need for ongoing pastoral counseling to mend the bonds of her broken family. And then she left.

  "That is all. My only sin was a lapse in judgment--meeting with her alone."

  Martha Christy nodded, the picture of a pastor's supportive wife. "I cannot know," Christy went on, "why God has sent us this new challenge. I can only guess at why Mrs. Ware has chosen to bear false witness against me, and the emotional or economic pressures she may be feeling. And so I bear her no ill will.