by Davis Bunn
“It’s time for us in the family of Jesus to stand up and be heard. We need to tell them, no more. We need to speak in the only language they hear or understand. Money. You know the drill. Go to the website at the bottom of your screen. All the companies that back this negativity, refrain from buying their products.
“It’s time the world realizes what we stand for. Hope is alive and well. Hope lives in Jesus. For all time and beyond.”
20
“… by the truth …”
LOS ANGELES
Three-thirty the next morning, Trent rose from his rumpled bed, ordered coffee, and paced. He turned on his laptop and studied the video John Jacobs had shot in the Barrett Ministries studio. By this point he had the quietly irate message almost memorized. He viewed it now in order to take aim. Today was the day he took this man down.
The enemy was out there, and needed to be crushed.
At a knock, Trent turned off his computer and greeted the room service waiter. He drank his first cup standing by the window, looking out over the hotel grounds. He felt a subtle gnawing at his core. Much as he tried to tamp it down, the video struck a chord from his own past. John Jacobs could have been a member of his parents’ church. The feeling of being drawn back into everything he had been so determined to leave behind made Trent tight with fury.
Gayle arrived at seven-thirty. They took the limo to the office in silence. Trent idly observed the sleepy streets through the side window, gathering himself for the day ahead. When Gayle’s phone rang, she handed it over. Edlyn wanted a word.
“Where are you?”
“Five minutes from Wilshire. Less.”
“Have Colin show you the new Barrett video, then call me.”
Trent felt a surging heat rise from his gut. He handed the phone back and said, “Apparently the ministry has come out with yet another video.”
“Is it serious?”
“Bad enough to rattle Edlyn’s cage.”
Colin and most of his team were upstairs when they arrived. From the grim expressions, Trent assumed they had already seen it several times. He asked, “What have they done now?”
“See for yourself,” Colin spat out. He rolled a finger at the technician, who hit the button.
John Jacob’s burly features did not gain anything by being portrayed on the massive screen. Trent watched in silence, his rage mounting by the second. The video was utterly unprofessional. Even the timing was wrong. It ran a full three minutes and fifteen seconds, more the length of a cinematic short than anything that could be fit into an advertisement slot. Trent’s marketing expertise told him an audience’s interest waned after ninety seconds, even when faced with the most appealing of film leads. Three minutes and fifteen seconds of a message-driven video was absurd. It broke all the rules. It was made to fail.
The video started with what had actually been the end of the choral performance, a kid standing on a stool and another seated on the right shoulder of a massive baritone. Both of the kids, African American, were dressed like little dolls in rented tuxedos. Their smiles defied the flattening effect that digital cameras tended to have on emotions. Their unmasked joy was a fist that punched straight at Trent’s soul.
The “Hallelujah Chorus” continued to play throughout, but was muted so the people speaking could be heard. The music formed a chorale to the scene that unfolded backstage after the performance. John Jacobs down on the bare plank floor on a knee, a burly depot manager surrounded by several dozen children. They in turn were flanked by a huge number of choristers. John asked the same questions over and over. How did they feel? As if kids’ sentiments mattered to anyone.
With very little prompting, the children responded along the same lines. Through this experience and the people they had met, they were learning to see a future that held hope. How they were determined to hold on to this lesson. How great to see what it meant to make goals and work hard and hold fast to tomorrow.
Occasionally the camera switched back to a view of the kids singing, flashing on their faces in time to their words spoken backstage. The music welled high and strong as the camera moved back to take in the entire stage, then it cut back to John Jacobs and his final few sentences. The music rose again, the last bars of the chorus, the kids lifting their voices and their hands. And then the audience rising, quick tight views of a dozen faces, a hundred, all of them mirroring the same joy as the kids. The same hope.
When the screen went blank, Trent asked, “When did they shoot this?”
“Apparently last night at the Kennedy Center,” Colin replied. His British polish only barely managed to keep a lid on his fury. “The Gospel Channel is running this at the top of each hour. Their ratings have taken a significant rise.”
Gradually his mind moved beyond the anger and the fear over this unexpected assault. From his position at the rear of the large studio, he could observe the LA crew. The room seemed to hesitate, uncertain how to respond to what they had all just witnessed. He asked, “What’s the traffic on the sites carrying their video?”
A young technician by the side wall had the figures ready. “Four million hits since this went online. Don’t know what it is on YouTube.”
Trent took a hard breath. John Jacobs might as well have invaded their space and exploded a bomb inside the studio.
Colin Tomlin declared, “This cannot go unanswered.”
“I absolutely agree.” Trent turned to Gayle and said, “Make the call.”
Edlyn’s first words were, “I’m waiting.”
Trent heard a mirror image of the woman’s terseness in his own response. “We go on the attack. The team will prepare a response using the pastor you have on stand-by.”
“I’ve already placed the call. I’m waiting for him to get back. What else?”
“We get Stone Denning to bring together his cast. Make it look impromptu, but have marketing script a tight, focused response. He’s pushing hard to script and film the new scenes, so the cast should be available. You’ll need to make that call.”
“Done. Anything else?”
There was, as a matter of fact. “Call back your sponsors, the ones that are getting cold feet. Tell them the cost of a minute’s air time has just doubled.”
There was a silence. Then, “Say again.”
“Look, we might as well face it. We’ve lost them.”
“We are talking,” Edlyn replied, “of over a hundred million advertising dollars per annum.”
Trent swallowed against the rising gorge. “If we run after them, word will get out. We need to hold to what Barry said. There’s no such thing as bad publicity. We go on the offensive. We talk about how only life’s losers hold on to yesterday. Which is what we’re talking about here. Yesterday’s lie.”
“I like that.”
So did he, matter of fact. “Then tell Stone that’s the line he should use.”
“I want Colin to personally supervise the taping,” Edlyn said. “Do I need to make that call?”
“He’s here beside me.”
“I want this cut and ready to play with our news channel’s talk shows. Select two talking heads we should bring on air for support.”
“You can count on me, Edlyn.”
There was a momentary pause, then she replied, “I’m coming to see that. Now give me Colin.”
He accepted the phone and said, “Yes, Edlyn. I agree, we were completely blindsided. Yes. Blood on the street.”
He handed the phone back. “She wants a final word.”
The phone felt lava hot as Trent pressed it to his ear. “Yes.”
“I have a message from my father.”
“I’m listening.”
“Whatever it takes.” Edlyn cut the connection.
Trent took a moment to gather himself. How dare that bumbling idiot stand between Trent and his dreams? Edlyn’s abrupt message echoed through his head like a cannon shot. Whatever it takes. Trent was going to destroy that man and everything he stood for. And enjoy every minute.
The people gathered here, his frontline troops, waited in silent readiness. Trent had the distinct impression that many could not understand what had just happened. They’d had everything on their side. The money, the power, one of the greatest empires the entertainment industry had ever seen. Brought low by the assistant manager of a truck depot?
Trent had no idea how to address such a demoralized group. So he did the only thing that came to mind. Which was to pretend he was someone else. For a minute, one brief breath, he forced himself to act as Barry Mundrose might.
He handed Gayle her phone. Then he clapped his hands hard. People jerked involuntarily and turned his way. “Listen up,” Trent barked. “Our guns are charged. And now it’s our turn.”
“Hear, hear,” Colin murmured.
“We are going to take the fight to them. On our terms. And we are going to obliterate the opposition.” Trent began pacing slowly, timing his tread to his words. “Colin, we need to split our team into three groups. The first is going to design a script for Stone Denning and one of his stars. The theme is the same. Splice in scenes from the film and the television pilot. We’ll pitch it as an advertisement. It goes out tomorrow. It plays all day. Gayle, check and see if Stone and his team are on set.”
“Certainly, Mr. Cooper.” She turned away.
“The second group is going to feed information about this John Jacobs to every news source we have. People, hear this: their spokesman is a convicted felon. Your job is to spice that dish as hot as you can make it. Are we clear on this?”
“Perfectly,” Colin said. “And the third group?”
“That will be my team. We are going to plan the assault to follow this one.” Trent clapped his hands a second time. “Who wants to work on strategy?”
To his astonishment, every person in the room responded.
Gayle turned back and said, “I have Stone Denning on the line. He received a call from Barry himself. He has seen the video. Several times, actually. He is on set. He is ready to go.”
Colin spoke, his voice crisp and electric. “I will personally supervise that crew. Who is with me?”
Trent smiled at how the assembled group threw their hands in the air a second time. “Colin, could you split us into three teams?”
“With pleasure.”
“Gayle, I want you to head the third group.”
His words caught them all by surprise. Including himself. Gayle managed, “Excuse me?”
Trent said, “You know the news outlets better than anyone except Colin, and he’s going to have his hands full.” When she started to object, he added, “It’s time. Say yes.”
“I—Yes.”
Trent then took a step back, and watched the LA manager form his teams. He let the wall take his weight, his legs suddenly weak. He saw that the people were not just reenergized, but maybe even excited, eager to get at it.
Colin moved in close and murmured, “I say, well done.”
They worked hard through the night. Sometime after midnight, the film crew returned with enough raw footage to create a bevy of sixty-second bombs. Colin politely enquired if Trent would release some of his own team to assist in the process of editing. Trent could not have cared less. He had accomplished what he intended. They were unified in their desire to bring the opposition down, crush them into the dust.
Toward dawn he reviewed and approved the rough cuts of three ads that would run on the morning news shows. Colin had ordered his other employees in early, and the entire building buzzed with feverish energy. Trent went into the executive kitchen where a buffet had been set up, part breakfast and part all-day meal. He loaded a plate but declined the waiter’s offer of fresh coffee. His mouth felt furry from fatigue and an overdose of caffeine.
“Mind some company?”
“Not at all.” Trent watched Gayle settle into the chair next to his own. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“You look as fresh as you did last night.”
“It’s just a shell. On the inside I’m utterly undone.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute.”
She took a bite, then put her fork down. “I don’t know why I took all this food. I’m far too exhausted to eat.”
“I saw the press release your group put together. It’s fabulous, Gayle.”
“It’s gone out to over fifty newspapers. We’ll feed it to the morning shows as we can. Let’s hope it does the job.”
“The guy is going down,” Trent assured her.
She pushed her plate to one side. “You did an excellent job last night, rallying the troops.”
“I had no idea what to do,” he confessed. “So I pretended I was Barry.”
“Well, it worked.” She sipped from her mug, sighed, and turned to stare out over the pale wash of another LA dawn.
“What is it?”
“I can’t thank you enough for the chance,” she said slowly. “It will be hard going back to being Barry’s aide.”
“Then don’t.”
She continued to stare out over the Hollywood skyline. Imperial palms rose like inked-in silhouettes against the gathering light. “I found myself thinking back to that earlier trip out here.”
“Your screen test,” Trent recalled.
She nodded slowly. “There is only one line of work open for an actress with dead eyes. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Because I am beautiful and fresh, they offered me a million dollars.” She lifted her mug, then set it down untasted. “I was so tempted. I hated myself for how much I wanted something that I would be willing to degrade myself in that fashion. I left LA the next day. I promised myself I would not come back until I could do so on my own terms.”
He reached for her hand. “Let’s do this together. You and me. Make the dreams real for both of us.”
She looked at him, her expression solemn, her eyes holding a grave light. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
21
“… as citizens of heaven …”
WASHINGTON DC AND WESTCHESTER COUNTY
They traveled straight from the Kennedy Center to the airport, flying north through a starlit night. Kevin’s production crew spent the journey huddled together, working on a concept they aimed to put online before dawn. John heard them field several calls from the Gospel Channel, but did not try to follow the high-octane discussion.
It was after two in the morning when they arrived back at the Barrett Ministries’ center. They wished one another a good night and drifted away, all but the production crew. John slept peacefully, a deep and dreamless slumber that held him in a sweet embrace far longer than normal. He was vaguely aware of Heather rising and leaving. He heard birdsong and the sounds of his wife dressing and closing the door behind her, then he slipped off once more. He’d felt a vague desire to join her, there and gone in an instant. When he awoke, the cottage was silent, and the bedside clock read almost noon. He had not slept so late in years.
John dressed and headed toward the main house. The angle where the porch railing met the grove of cherry trees had become their designated prayer corner. As he climbed the stairs, Ruth and Jenny Linn and her parents halted their quiet conversation long enough to greet him. John asked, “Where is everybody?”
“Busy,” Ruth replied.
He took that as a polite dismissal, went inside. The two young women were setting up a buffet lunch on the long central table. Well used to maintaining a discreet distance from Ruth and her guests, they greeted John, directed him to the coffee urn, and returned to their work.
John borrowed a Bible from the shelf holding a dozen or so well-thumbed volumes. He took his mug back outside and down to a wooden bench placed between the oaks and the creek. A hummingbird flitted into view, hovering not two paces away so as to drink from a wildflower. He drank his coffee, read a few passages, but mostly he sat and listened to the wind creak the boughs overhead. John sensed a vague rumble of thunder on the horizon, which
was absurd, since the sky overhead was clear and milky blue. He thought it probably foreshadowed some great effort that was going to be required of him. But he drained his cup and leaned back in the bench and stretched out his legs. For the moment, it was enough.
He must have dozed off, for the next thing he knew Richard Linn was saying, “John?”
“Eh, yes?”
“The ladies would like to have a word, if you wouldn’t mind.”
John shifted his bones, stretched, and decided he needed another mug. “Where is everybody?”
“Following your lead.”
He rose to his feet and followed Richard back toward the house. “What do you mean?”
Instead of responding directly, Richard said, “What you said last night was truly inspired.” There was a certain formality to the way Richard spoke that left John feeling like his words were only a small component of what was going on inside his head. Richard paused at the foot of the stairs. A head shorter than John, stumpy and strong, his dark eyes burned beneath their Oriental fold as he said, “I felt the hand of God resting upon you while you were with the children.”
John had no idea what to say, except, “So did I.”
Richard went on, “My wife and I are honored to be a part of this.”
John felt the day’s ease slip away. He knew without being told that beyond Richard’s compliment rose yet another duty. He thanked Richard and followed him up the stairs, then pushed through the kitchen door and recharged his mug. He needed to be more awake than he was for whatever they had waiting for him out there in the prayer corner.
The warm afternoon wind rushed through the trees to his right as he seated himself in the rocker. John knew they were giving him a moment to settle, and appreciated the gesture. When they did not speak, he repeated the question, “What’s going on around here?”
It was Jenny who answered. “I woke up this morning with the strong need to follow your lead. I spoke with the others, and they agreed.”
