“Apparently Mr. Mitchell has no comment,” the reporter on the local news station said. “I guess he wasn’t prepared for his opponent to be so friendly.”
“If they only heard what Leon really said.” Leif told his parents the whole story. “The guy actually threatened me.”
“Let it go, son; there will be other battles,” his father said. “You may have lost this one, but it doesn’t matter, as long as you win the war.”
“Dad, I know it sounds cocky, maybe even crazy, but I just know I will win. Most people would question why I’m even running against him and say I don’t stand a chance. But even though Leon Slater is more experienced and way bigger, not only physically but in the public eye, I just have a gut feeling I can do this. I’ve been praying about it and I think God is on my side.”
Vice President Martin Greene stood alone in his office in the West Wing, looking out the window over the White House lawn and gardens.
But the vice president didn’t really see the varying bright shades of green, the vivid pink tulips, nor the happy yellow daffodils just starting to bloom.
His mind was sharply focused inward on the turmoil that he faced, and he felt like a man obsessed. His bid for election to the highest office in the country was only a little over a year away. It would be nearing the end of President Thomas Stone’s second term, and Martin, who had served him and the country faithfully as vice president over the years, would be announcing his campaign for President. The nation’s economy had finally recovered following the past recession. It had been a long climb and the recovery had been slow and modest. Still, for most leaders, any economic incline during their tenure normally came as good news.
But not for Greene. As was typical, Americans—aided by their window on the world, whether it be a tablet, cell phone, laptop or television set—just shifted their focus onto another area of bad news the media covered. Their attention had veered from the local economy to the situation in the Middle East which, unlike the economy, had only gotten worse for the current administration.
Greene thought the President had made fairly good strides in the past few years to develop more allies among the Arab nations, hold the Islamic extremists and terrorists at bay, and keep gas prices from climbing any higher. Another 911 had never materialized. The wars were all but over. And while internal skirmishes still cropped up from time to time, the US was helping maintain a tenuous truce of sorts there. Still, despite the fact that he and President Stone had fought and won several battles both in the Middle East and back home with Congress, the president and vice president had a lower popularity rating that ever.
His advisors told him it was because of Israel. President Stone had worked closely with the Secretary of State to keep peace in the Middle East by providing aid for war-torn Arab countries and even lifting sanctions against a few, but his critics claimed that he had virtually sacrificed Israel, putting the small country in a precarious and isolated position. Jews in the United States were increasingly holding protests, carrying signs that proclaimed slogans like “Peace at What Cost?” and “Save Israel, Get Rid of Stone and Greene.”
In addition to most members of the cabinet, Ray Silas had warned the President that he had gone too far in supporting the Arab countries. Usually not one to admit mistakes, Martin Greene prided himself that he had at least finally heard Silas, realizing perhaps the administration had gone overboard to please Americans by making deals with the oil-rich Arab countries to bring gas prices down and bring US troops home to their families.
But he had tried in vain to impress this upon the President, who apparently wanted to coast out of office without any major upheaval. Martin just hoped it wasn’t too late to promote striking a better balance. It had been impossible to distance himself from President Stone, but Martin had managed to rearrange his platform and he was leading, just barely, in the polls.
At least Silas had brought him back good news about the Republican candidates running for state offices in the upcoming elections. Martin would need strong support from his fellow Republicans.
Silas had seemed particularly interested in one candidate he was grooming for the Kentucky gubernatorial special recall election in October. His name was Leif Mitchell.
The vice president had read Silas’s briefing and couldn’t quite comprehend what his trusted advisor had seen in the cowboy turned budding country rock star. He had thought the other Mitchell boys had far greater potential upon reading their dossiers. But Silas was the National Republican Party leader and expert in all things politic so he decided not to argue with him.
Suddenly a brilliant thought crossed the vice president’s mind as he continued to gaze out of the windows of his West Wing office. He picked up the phone and called Ray Silas. He decided it was time to hold another benefit concert at the White House. And he would include the Kentucky candidate, since he was a singer. Perhaps it would help the kid win the governor’s seat. After all, he was up against formidable competition. Either way, it would draw some good press, which Martin knew he sorely needed. And it would once again show Americans that the Republicans could be charismatic and entertaining and still get the job done. They had loved Ronald Reagan, after all.
Leif’s mouth hung open in awe as he stared at the invitation from President Stone to perform in the Fourth of July show, “In Performance at the White House PBS Special.”
He called the president’s press secretary to accept and was informed he would join a variety of country-rock singers and bands like old-timers Bon Jovi and Martina McBride and hit sensations Lady Antebellum, Carrie Underwood and Taylor Swift.
The special was aired on July Fourth in conjunction with the fireworks on the Mall in DC. The actual concert took place a few days prior on a Friday night in the East Room of the White House. Afterward, a special dinner was hosted in the State Dining Room by the president and vice president and their wives for all of the performers and a select group of family, friends, and dignitaries.
The Greene’s children were in attendance as well—their twenty-eight-year-old son Jordan, and two daughters, Victoria and Wendy, ages twenty-six and twenty-four respectively. None of their children had dates, as none were in serious relationships with significant others at the time.
Leif was dressed more formally than normal for the dinner, in a white starched shirt and dark-brown suit that accentuated his golden-brown hair and light-blue eyes. He had gotten a tan, both from working on the farm when he could, and on the campaign trail attending picnics and going door-to-door to meet and greet potential voters.
He was pleased with his performance; he had chosen to play his two top songs acoustically, since he didn’t have his backup band to accompany him. One was more of a fast-paced rock song about being on the road, both as a performer and politician, called “Trail to Somewhere,” which had recently hit the charts, and the other was an older, soulful blues-and-country ballad about his love for fillies, called “Love You, Girl,” which many of his female fans loved, interpreting it as a personal message.
After the dinner, Wendy sidled up to Leif and asked for his autograph, then strategically sat entranced across from him at dinner. Unfortunately for Wendy, Victoria sat right next to her and Leif had to divide his attention between them.
Both girls were beautiful but strikingly different from each other. Except for her brown eyes, Wendy had her father’s Aryan looks with her fair skin and straight sandy-blond hair, while Victoria looked exactly like her mother, who was descended from the Mediterranean region. Wendy was bubbly and outgoing and went on at dinner about how well Leif sang and how she so enjoyed his performance. Victoria, meanwhile, was noncommittal and mostly listened, seemingly lost in her own thoughts.
Leif was flattered, although a little uncomfortably, by Wendy’s obvious adoration. It was so evident that Vice President Greene noticed it out of his peripheral vision as they bade farewell to the stars and other guests that evening.
Despite the televised concert and all of the hard cam
paigning Logan had forced him to do, Leif was still down by a whopping twenty points in the opinion polls heading into the election, and most political pundits predicted he didn’t stand a chance.
According to them, the only people who were going to be casting votes for Leif Mitchell were staunch white Republican men who were casting a vote against having a black man as governor of their respected Southern state.
It didn’t even matter to the electorate majority that Leon Slater had been caught partying with a harem of young girls one night, some of whom looked barely eighteen. It didn’t matter that his campaign pockets had been filled to the brim with illegal corporate donations, and that he would probably never fulfill all the promises he had made in return for all of those sizeable sums. It didn’t matter that the fighter had attacked his opponent with low blows about his Derby horse being pregnant and being pulled out of the big race, accusing Leif of poor handling and a lack of judgment. Just as the Mitchell boys had predicted, the matter had come to light and had resulted in a few lawsuits they had fought and won. But the press coverage had faded—that is until the heavyweight candidate resurrected it again. “How can such a poor businessman, who can’t even manage a horse, manage the great state of Kentucky?” one commercial repeated over and over again.
Those commercials had been aired along with others that showed Leon being decorated upon his return from the Iraqi war, Leon’s glove-clad fist being held up in victory in the ring, and Leon holding a small black child in his arms with the words of Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech being played in the background.
Appearance was everything, and it didn’t look good for Leif Mitchell, despite his performance in the White House PBS special.
The special election-day dawned cool and dreary as a fine mist blanketed most of Kentucky.
Leif showed up early at the local elementary school to vote after having breakfast with Logan, a handful of campaign workers, and his parents at Little River.
Then he went to visit his opponent, with television news crews in tow, just as Leon had done months ago. Only this time, it was Leon who was taken by surprise.
When Leon Slater, dressed in his finest suit, showed up in all his glory to vote at his local polling place, FBI officials pulled up in Dragnet fashion to the curb of the school building turned polling place, hopped out and put handcuffs on the prize fighter. Then they led him to a waiting squad car and pushed him into the back seat, stuffing his head down like he was a common criminal.
Leif Mitchell was waiting at the door of the school, watching the scene unfold, a half-dozen camera crews behind him.
The media assaulted the hulking black man as he was shoved into the police car with a barrage of shouted questions and accusations. Leif stood to the side and simply watched his opponent’s face contort in anger and his lips tighten in defiant silence.
When Leon’s dark eyes found and locked with his, Leif thought he saw murder in them.
The story went viral via YouTube and the Internet by noon.
After a tip from Martin the night of the concert, Leif had spent countless hours looking into the financial disclosures, background documents and life history of Leon Slater, praying each day for God to guide him, constantly wondering if he was doing the right thing by prying into his opponent’s campaign, trying to win by bringing him down. But the more he found, the more justified he felt in digging further to do what was in the best interests of the people of Kentucky.
And then he hit the mother lode. Just a week before the election his small team of investigators, including Logan, his brother Will, and two hired hands, had amazingly found a financial trail officially linking the former heavyweight champion to the Muslim Brotherhood.
Following weeks of research and phone calls to the CIA, NSA and FBI, reading documents and news clippings, watching hundreds of newsreels, and putting together the pieces of the puzzle, Leif had discovered the truth: that the big Leon Slater had received funding from an extremist wing of the Muslim Brotherhood for his campaign. Leif discovered that the Brotherhood had also invested in Leon so he would support their terrorist activities domestically.
Leif had taken a big risk by waiting until Election Day to make the scandal public. But he had to make sure his investigation was as complete as possible and decided to rely on the element of surprise, afraid that if Leon had been alerted any sooner he would have either fled the country or found a way to deny the charges.
Many had already voted on election day, but the story spread so rapidly that enough people found out in time to change their minds.
The votes seesawed back and forth as each district’s results came in.
Leif won the election by a scant two percent of the vote. After waiting for the final tally that cast him as the winner, Leif gave a victory speech to his small but elated campaign crowd that gathered at the local VFW hall to await the results.
The national news crews not only covered Leif’s discovery of his opponent’s shady dealings, but the election results, dwarfing the other political races and turning Leif into a political icon.
With just a few hours of sleep, Leif was on a plane to New York City to appear on various talk shows over the next few days. The boy from Kentucky had literally gone from being a barely discovered country rock singer with two hit songs and an unknown candidate for governor to an overnight sensation.
CHAPTER 5
Chessa
After working as a writer for an online New York City entertainment website and then as a reporter for New York Daily News online, Chessa finally found a job in her chosen field of social work at the local Safe Horizon center for domestic violence and rape victims in Manhattan. At the age of twenty-three Chessa had discovered that the reporter’s life was not for her. She especially disliked working at a computer for long hours, doing research and feeding stories into online newsfeeds. She needed human interaction, and a more concrete knowledge that she was touching someone’s life and making a difference—even if it was only in a small way.
She and Darren had settled into somewhat of a routine in the year that followed their wedding, Darren flying back and forth between his apartment and Senate position in DC and their new house in the rich Manhattan suburb of the Upper East Side to be with his wife on the weekends, and Chessa keeping busy during the week working at the center while he was in Congress.
Chessa became increasingly fascinated by her husband’s growing political aspirations, which he shared with her when they were together over cocktails, dinner, or even before or after making love.
But sometimes he could become publicly derisive over members of the Republican Party, whom he seemed to despise. And if he was drinking, he often became moody, argumentative or even nasty.
Lately, there were times when Chessa was glad she didn’t see her husband more often than she did. Over the short time they had been married, his usual glass or two of wine during dinner on their weekends together had gradually started turning into several drinks before, during and after. His occasional golf outings with his buddies once every few months had lately turned into a regular occurrence nearly every Saturday and he almost always came home drunk.
It didn’t matter how many times she scolded or chastised him, pleaded with him or gave him the cold shoulder. He would apologize the morning after and try to moderate, or even curtail his drinking for a time, and Chessa would hope that he had changed.
And then his drinking would resume.
Chessa bolted upright when she heard a glass smashing against the wall.
She scurried out of her warm bed and went downstairs and into the living room, where she saw Darren plopped on the couch watching the news blaring loudly from the TV screen.
“What’s wrong with you?” Chessa blinked in disbelief, shaking off the veil of slumber that had cloaked her. She had fallen asleep while watching the network news coverage in bed, waiting for Darren to return from his rounds at the various campaign parties in New York. It wasn’t his year to b
e re-elected but he was obligated to support his Democratic colleagues that were running in the general election.
He didn’t return to their Manhattan condo until close to one in the morning.
She could smell the stench of stale liquor coming from her husband’s breath several feet away.
A news anchor was on the screen still talking about the close race for governor in Kentucky, which had finally just been decided.
Darren had evidently hurled his glass, half full of whiskey, toward the TV set and just missed.
He stood and turned around to face his wife. His words came out in a slur. “I’m dishgusted with my party,” he said, swaying a bit on his feet. “That stupid Democrat is an idiot. That singing cowboy Leif, uh, what’s his name?”
“Mitchell.”
“Yeah, he didn’t deserve to win, but the Democrats managed to mess up again.”
“But I thought Leif Mitchell did America a favor by uncovering that boxer’s ties with the terrorists when he won in the special election last year. The news said he’s done a good job as governor his past term and that he deserved to win again. According to the news….”
“News, schmooze. Don’t believe everything you hear.” Darren rudely cut her off, pacing back and forth on the living room carpet.
“Are you blaming the reporters now?” Chessa suddenly didn’t feel tired anymore. She knew she should just ignore her husband, go upstairs and go to bed and let him sleep it off. But he had not only woken her physically, he had roused something inside her emotionally. She was sick and tired of him dismissing her like some dumb schoolgirl. Darren always thought he was right. And he always blamed everything and everyone else for his problems—her, his staff, the Republicans, the Democrats, the media, the weather.
The Peace Maker Page 6
