by Lee Strobel
“Now, tell me, Eric,” he said, “what’s this I hear about your wanting to resign?”
Eric glanced at Dick, then at Art, then back at Dick. But he didn’t say anything — there was nothing to say.
After letting the silence speak, Dick leaned back in his chair and continued. “A funny thing happened to me last night. I couldn’t sleep, so I went into the family room and turned on the TV, and they were showing a black–and–white episode of The Lone Ranger. Must’ve been from the 1950s.
“Of course, it was silly and melodramatic, but one scene grabbed me. The Lone Ranger and Tonto ride up to a Spanish mission in the middle of the desert. Their horses are kicking up dust, they’ve got their guns drawn; they’re obviously hot on the trail of some bad guys.
“So this monk comes out — and I’m not joking, he looked a little like me. He was balding, with a bare patch on the crown of his head. He has some information about the whereabouts of the bad guys, so he points the Lone Ranger and Tonto in the right direction. Then he says, ‘I want to go with you.’
“The masked man looks at him in a sort of patronizing way and tells him, ‘You’re a brave man, Father, but this may be dangerous. You’d better stay here where it’s safe.’ Even so, the monk is persistent. He insists, ‘But I want to help!’ The Lone Ranger thinks for a moment, and then he says, ‘Well, then, you can pray.’ And with that, he and Tonto gallop off in a cloud of dust toward a showdown with the bad guys, while the monk shuffles back into the monastery.
“Now, normally I wouldn’t have given that scene a second thought. But in light of what’s been happening around here lately, something struck me. Who did the camera follow at that point? Of course, it followed the masked man and his faithful companion — after all, that’s where the action is, that’s where the thrills are, that’s where the adventure lies.”
As he relived the moment, Dick slowly shook his head. “But at that moment I realized that the real adventure was with that monk. The camera should have followed him! If he was actually going to intercede with the Creator of the universe — the God who can restore sight to little Hanna and cause a crippled old man like Harold to dance — then that’s where the real action is.” Again, Dick fastened his eyes on Snow, who had been listening with rapt attention. “All I want to say, Eric, is that I’m not so sure the real adventure is in Washington. I think it’s here at Diamond Point.”
For a moment, nobody said anything. When Eric finally did speak, his voice was more humble and reserved and sincere than either man had heard in quite a while.
“I appreciate what you’re saying, Dick. And I agree: these miracles have been amazing. Maybe I have had a selfish interest in trying to keep them under wraps. And I agree with you that Diamond Point has a bright future. But that doesn’t mean God can’t give me a new platform that goes way beyond Diamond Point. Talk about miracles — don’t you think it’s a bit of a miracle that the governor is even considering me for the appointment? Maybe that’s God’s way of nudging me toward Washington.”
Dick became stern. “You’re missing the point, Eric. God is doing something here. Something extraordinary — and it’s only the beginning. You’ve been saying it for years: the church is the hope of the world.
“Don’t gallop off on some quixotic mission to try and transform Washington. That’s a quest for fools and despots. You’ll get devoured by sharks in the next election. You’ll drown in the morass of government and party politics and constant effort to keep thirteen million constituents happy. I guarantee you, Washington will change you a lot more than you’ll change Washington.”
CHAPTER
TEN
I
Neither of them wanted to be there.
Not Dom Bugatti — he knew the FBI had been trying to keep tabs on him, and this was a risk he didn’t want to take. And certainly not Reese McKelvie. If one whiff of this got out, he’d not only lose his chance at the Senate appointment, but he’d be forced to resign from the bench in disgrace, his long and illustrious career in tatters. Besides, they loathed each other. No, neither of them wanted this rendezvous.
Yet there they were, Bugatti coiled on an unopened crate of Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7 while McKelvie, looking distracted and preoccupied, was pacing slowly back and forth, nervously picking at his manicured fingernails.
Not long after dark, McKelvie had driven to the Loyola University Medical Center in West suburban Maywood, just south of the Eisenhower Expressway, where he made a brief visit to see a former colleague who had just undergone surgery.
His alibi for being in the area established, McKelvie left his car in the parking lot and caught a cab going east on Roosevelt Road into the adjoining town of Forest Park, dropping him off near Des Plaines Avenue. He strolled down the block and ducked into Saturday Night Liquors, slipping through an unmarked door and down a flight of wooden stairs into the basement storage room.
Bugatti’s own journey that night was even more circuitous: two car changes, a couple of cabs, and two blocks of darting in and out of the shadows.
The storage room, dimly lit by a couple of bare light bulbs in the ceiling, smelled of stale wine and soured hops, empty kegs lining the back wall. Upon entering, the judge struggled to suppress his contempt, eyeing Bugatti carefully. A cheap thug, he mused. That’s all he is.
Despite their antipathy toward each other, McKelvie and Bugatti had transacted a fair amount of business through the years, with Bugatti representing his much more powerful — and far more urbane — older brother.
If given the choice, McKelvie preferred to deal directly with Tony, the sotto capo himself. At least he knew how to wear a bespoke suit, engage in a conversation, and respect McKelvie’s stature. At least he didn’t look like he had just come from beating up a bookie in an alley. But Tony was far too careful to meet concerning details — Dom was good enough to get the job done.
Usually McKelvie and the younger Bugatti conducted their affairs through a go–between — someone who owed a favor and wouldn’t attract attention. Someone the cops weren’t watching. Someone too afraid to say no.
Someone like Tom O’Sullivan — the subject of this clandestine summit.
“No doubt about it, he’s the weak link,” fretted McKelvie, shaking his head. “And I don’t like weak links.”
Bugatti fired up a stogie, took a few deep and satisfying pulls, and watched the acrid smoke waft toward the ceiling. “I’ll tell you what I don’t like,” he said, jabbing his Havana–made maduro in McKelvie’s general direction.
McKelvie ignored him and continued to inspect the labels on a variety of dark wine bottles. “Hey — siddown!” Bugatti barked, shoving a dented folding chair toward the judge. McKelvie ignored the invitation, leaning instead against the cement wall and pulling his tan trench coat tight around himself. The pungent scent of tobacco competed with the smell of stale alcohol.
“Two things I don’t like,” Bugatti continued between puffs. “One, O’Sullivan hasn’t been at our Friday night game since the two of you met. I called him on it; no answer. And, two, guess where he’s been going?”
“You had him tailed?”
“Of course I’ve had him tailed! He’s been driving out to Diamond Point and going to that big plastic church over on Hightower Road. He’s there for two, three hours on Friday night. Every Friday night. Far as I know, there’s no game running in the church basement — ‘less it’s old ladies playin’ bingo.”
“Whoa, whoa! Are you talking about Diamond Point Fellowship?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s unbelievable! That’s Eric Snow’s church — my only opponent for the Senate seat. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”
Bugatti grunted. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”
The judge removed the cheap Cubs cap that he had been using to conceal his luminous white hair. He ran his fingers through the snowy mane and tossed the hat onto the chair. “Well, I don’t either.”
“How well do you know O’Sulliv
an?”
“He’s appeared before me in court a few times, but so have most defense attorneys in the city. I knew Tommy Junior really well — figured his son must not have fallen far from the tree when he showed up with a message from you. His father was a player — now those were the days.”
Bugatti chortled. “Yeah,” he said, tilting his head to blow a smoke ring, which slowly undulated upward until it lost its shape and dissipated. “Only them days are over. You had him frisked?”
“Frisked? Of course.” McKelvie leaned over, picked up his cap, and sat down in the chair. “As I said, I assumed I could trust him because you sent him.”
Bugatti hacked up some phlegm and spit onto the concrete floor. “He’d been coming to our game for a long time. He was into me for a load. Now, I gotta say, based on his dad I thought he’d handle things smoother than he did. He seems … nervous.”
“Skittish.”
“Nervous,” Bugatti repeated. “Like a cat.”
“Uncertain where his loyalty lies.”
“Yeah. That’s why I don’t like him dropping outta sight like this.”
The judge coughed and fanned a plump hand through the fog of cigar smoke. “The church connection bothers me. Any other unusual destinations?”
Bugatti flicked some ashes on the floor. “Naw. But we can’t watch him all the time. We gotta be careful; if he thinks he’s being tailed, he might freak.”
“We can’t have that. Look, here’s the thing: he knows I’m up for the Senate, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So why attend this particular church all of a sudden?”
“Maybe his conscience is bothering him.”
“Perhaps. And why’s he been avoiding you?”
“He’s afraid I might have other errands for him.”
“Could be. He might feel guilty. He might regret repeating the sins of the father. Or, he could be conspiring with Eric Snow to cheat me out of what I rightfully deserve. Either way, I don’t like it. Not at all.”
Bugatti continued to process what he’d been hearing. He stood and tossed the glowing cigar butt on the floor, crushing it with his boot.
“I’ll tell you what, Senator,” he said, grinning to reveal dingy teeth. “We’ve both got a lot riding on this clown. You need to go to Washington, right? We both want that. And the Moretti case has got to go away, right?”
“Right. I assume you’re square with Sepulveda.”
“Yeah — he lined up, no problem.”
“No problem? Think again. As soon as Sepulveda makes his rulings and it becomes clear that Moretti’s going to walk, then everything’s going to hit the fan. The prosecutors are going to scream, the press will start digging around, and the feds will have their antenna up. Remember the heat when Judge Wilson tossed out the case against Aleman? Remember how the press howled?”
That was an understatement. Despite compelling eyewitness testimony, Criminal Courts Judge Harry Wilson acquitted Chicago’s most brutally prolific hit man, Harry “The Hook” Aleman, for the shotgun slaying of a Teamsters Union steward in 1972.
The media wailed and prosecutors ratcheted up their scrutiny of the mob. Ultimately, an attorney turned informant, revealing that Wilson had been slipped a $10,000 bribe to throw out the case. In the end, Wilson committed suicide as investigators were closing in on him; Aleman was subsequently convicted the second time around. Many years later, he died of cancer in prison.
“Ancient history, old man.” Bugatti clenched his jaw. “Still, we don’t need nobody caving under the pressure.”
McKelvie rose to his feet, cinched the belt of his trench coat, and returned his baseball cap tight on his head. “Why don’t you talk to O’Sullivan? Make an appointment at his office. Feel him out. See where he’s at, how he reacts. Once we know what he’s up to, then we can decide what to do.”
Bugatti grumbled and spit again on the floor. He turned toward the narrow stairs, but McKelvie grabbed his elbow. “I’m serious — just meet with him. Remind him who he’s dealing with.”
“I’ll handle it,” he said firmly. “But we gotta do what we gotta do. I don’t want Nick Moretti to end up like Harry Aleman.”
Then he stabbed a finger into McKelvie’s sternum, drawing his face close enough for the judge to get a whiff of sour breath.
“And you don’t want to end up like Harry Wilson.”
II
“Just who is Caroline Michelle Turner?”
Debra Wyatt’s accusatory tone sounded more like a lover scorned than a chief political advisor. She had barged into Eric Snow’s office, yellow legal pad in one hand, her other hand planted firmly on her hip.
Startled, Eric looked up from the paper he had been reading. “Excuse me?”
Wyatt often came into his office unannounced, at least ever since she had claimed one of the rooms down the corridor in his downtown Diamond Point suite. With the clock ticking down to the governor’s announcement, she had taken vacation time from her law firm to work full–time as Snow’s policy and political advisor. She figured it was good practice for when she would be his chief–of–staff in Washington.
Now, though, she was trembling with indignation. She rattled the legal pad in Snow’s face. “Caroline Turner? Ring any bells?”
Snow raised his hands as if defending against a blow. “Hold on, take it easy,” he said as he came from around his desk, took her by the elbow, and led her to a sitting area, where she claimed a chair while he sat down on the edge of the couch. “Is she someone I’m supposed to know? Debra, I’m sorry — I’m at a loss.”
Wyatt glanced down at the notes she had scrawled. “I just got a call from an attorney named Brent Vandervoort. He says he represents Caroline Turner, age twenty–six, from Schaumburg, who’s getting ready to sue you for sexual assault during a counseling session in your office a few weeks ago.”
Snow let out a spontaneous laugh. “What? Are you kidding me? I’ve never even heard of her! This is obviously some kind of ploy.”
Again, she referred to her notes. “He says she met you a few months ago after the sermon you did on how to deal with anger. She says she told you about her marital problems and you offered to counsel her.”
“Counsel her?” Snow’s face scrunched. “You know I never do that.”
“According to her, you told her to come by your office the next afternoon. She said she did and that you were there alone.”
Snow snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute — now I remember! I was alone. That was Diane’s day off. There was a woman who knocked on the outer door. I answered it and she told me she wanted to discuss some personal issues with me.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her to make an appointment with the church counseling center. She said it was urgent, but I told her it was my secretary’s day off and that I couldn’t meet with her. You know how careful I am — no way I’m about to let some strange woman into my office without Diane being around to make sure there were no false accusations.”
“That was it?”
“Absolutely. And she’s going to file a lawsuit? Claiming what — that I seduced her on my couch? This is absurd!”
Debra tossed her legal pad onto the glass coffee table and relaxed back in her chair. “I’m sorry I overreacted. I should have known. It’s just that this Vandervoort character came on with a lot of horsepower. He’s clearly fishing around for a settlement of some sort.”
As soon as she said that, the picture crystallized for Snow: this sleazy lawyer was threatening to file an embarrassing lawsuit on the eve of the governor’s announcement. Of course, the publicity over the suit would be enough to poison Snow’s candidacy; it would be years before the case got resolved — and by then it would be too late.
After all, the governor would be hard–pressed to appoint Snow to the Senate just days after a highly publicized suit accused him of cheating on his wife and violating the trust of a congregant. Yet if Snow were willing to cough up a chunk of his Internet
fortune to settle the case before it was filed, well, then this potential obstacle to the Senate could quietly go away.
“What should we do?” Snow asked. “I’m really vulnerable right now; just a mere accusation would be devastating. Should we just pay her off? How much was he asking for?”
Wyatt stood, now in full–lawyer mode, and started to wander the office, thinking aloud. “No, if it ever came out that you paid her, you’d look guilty. It would look like hush money. Besides, it’s wrong. We need to go on the offensive — somehow.”
“How?”
She offered an idea, but with little enthusiasm. “We could go the David Letterman route — call the state’s attorney’s office and tell them you’re being extorted. They could bring criminal charges against her.”
Before Snow could even comment, though, Wyatt’s mind flooded with obstacles. The line between extortion and soliciting a settlement can be pretty thin. Besides, investigators would want to arrange further meetings between Wyatt, Vandervoort, and Turner — and probably Snow — in order to surreptitiously record incriminating statements. Matters could get complicated real fast. And there was no guarantee that the state’s attorney — a Democrat, after all — would file any charges in the end.
Wyatt continued to ponder the situation — and that’s when her eyes lit up and she clapped her hands. “Hold on, I’ve got it! Vandervoort said he and his client had already told her story to Garry Strider at the Examiner.”
Snow threw up his hands. “Oh, great!”
But Wyatt was smiling. “Yes, actually that might be great. Follow me on this: I know Strider. He won’t publish anything on this until the lawsuit is filed.”
“Why not? He’s been nosing around here for weeks, looking for a scandal. This woman’s suit drops a smoking gun right in his lap.”
“Legitimate newspapers are reluctant to print these kind of ‘she said/he said’ accusations until the lawsuit is actually filed with the court clerk. That’s because reporters are protected from getting sued as long as they’re quoting from a suit. And in a matter this sensitive, they’re going to want to make sure they’re fully protected. Besides, I can whisper in Strider’s ear that this is bogus; he’ll listen and slow things down.”
