The Race

by Richard North Patterson

  For a moment the tableau before him was almost motionless: the soldiers with their rifles aimed; the demonstrators recoiling; the fallen man in a spreading pool of blood. Then the driver spoke again; two soldiers came forward, picked up the victim by his arms and legs, and carried him away.

  Breaking free, Corey walked back to the van.

  For the rest of the drive Corey gazed out the window, gripped by an anger so palpable that no one chose to speak. His next words were to the Russian president: "Sorry to be late. But I was held up watching your soldiers try to kill someone for spitting."

  The story, and the photograph, gained currency as the years passed. Among some colleagues it was whispered that Corey was too rash, too prone to the sort of impulsive behavior that might have provoked an international incident had that day in Moscow taken a different turn. "Leadership," a Wall Street Journal editorial writer had opined, "requires far more than courage." And the closest allies of Rob Marotta gave the story an even darker tinge: however human Corey's instincts, the month of torture had unhinged him. "Making Corey Grace a senator was one thing," Marotta had supposedly remarked. "But do people want to put a hothead's finger on the nuclear trigger?"

  At that moment in Moscow, believing a man would die, Corey could have done nothing else. Nor would he change this now. But thirteen years later, awaiting Lexie Hart, he understood too well what else he had done; he had helped elevate his antagonists' distaste for his independence into a nobler cause: the statesmanlike conclusion that Corey Grace should never become president of the United States. And for Rob Marotta, every deviation from convention, each defiance of party orthodoxy, was added to the bill of particulars he was building against his rival.

  The door to Corey's office opened. "Ms. Hart is here to see you," Eve Stansky announced brightly, and Lexie Hart walked into Corey's life.

  BY NOW, COREY Grace had more than sufficient experience with women--just that spring, to the titillation of Washington and the considerable amusement of his staff, People had named Corey one of the fifty sexiest men alive. But entering his office with a brisk handshake and swift smile that did not quite reach her eyes, Lexie Hart had an electric beauty, a carriage that somehow made her seem separate, withheld from others in some mysterious way that no magazine cover could capture. For Corey, her impact was as vivid as the first time he had met Janice, save that Corey was older, more perceptive, and a good deal less impulsive.

  Motioning Lexie to his couch, he sat across from her in his favorite wing chair, swiftly taking inventory of the components that made her so compelling. She was slender and graceful, and the erect posture of a stage actress made her seem taller than she was. Her curly hair, cut short, accented features that carried a hint of imperiousness--high cheekbones, cleft chin, full lips. But it was her eyes that struck him most: their cool gray-green, surprising in an African-American, suggested the wary intelligence of a woman who employed her powers of observation as a weapon or, perhaps, a defense. Or so Corey imagined--instinctively he grasped that Lexie Hart would be a difficult woman to truly know.

  With a quick smile, Corey said lightly, "I understand you've come to rebuke me for my silence on stem-cell research."

  Her own smile was as slight as the shake of her head. "I've come to reason with you, Senator. If you experience that as a rebuke, it's only because you know that anyone who's really pro-life should care about the living."

  The comment was so pointed that Corey nearly laughed. "I guess you don't mean to make this easy for me."

  "I can't. The president is opposed to expanding stem-cell research. So are most senators in your political party. My information is that it may come down to one or two votes--or maybe just yours." Leaning forward, she spoke with quiet passion. "You can make a difference in the life of someone who can't move his limbs, or keep them from shaking. Or a woman who can't remember the daughter she gave birth to, even if that same girl is holding her hand as she looks into her eyes for a trace of recognition."

  She was an actress, Corey thought at once, with an actress's ability to draw her audience into whatever world she cared to create. Less easy to account for was Corey's near certainty that this performance was personal. "Your mother?" he asked.

  Briefly, Lexie hesitated. "Has Alzheimer's. There's no way back for her. But you can help keep other people from living in my mother's twilight zone. And not just that, Senator. I'm sure you know the science--embryonic stem cells have the potential to reverse diseases like Parkinson's and type 1 diabetes, and to repair spinal injuries that cause paralysis. How can a decent society turn away from that?"

  "Oh, I think you know the moral argument, Ms. Hart. For many of my colleagues, life doesn't start at birth. So any component of life, like a fertilized embryo, is entitled to protection--"

  "A frozen embryo," Lexie interrupted with a trace of asperity, "is not a life, and the leftovers in fertility clinics never will be. A humane society can make that distinction without opening up the floodgates to genocide and euthanasia."

  She intrigued him enough, Corey realized, that he wanted to move her off her talking points--or, at least, persuade her that he was not a fool. In an even tone, he countered, "A humane society, some would say, knows that a fetus is a life, and values it too much to play God. But without knowing you at all, Ms. Hart, I'd bet my town house you're pro-choice, and don't distinguish between a frozen embryo and the fetuses you and I once were before we escaped the womb."

  At this, Lexie sat back, arms resting at her sides, her cool eyes now appraising him. "Even if that were true, or fair, you can surely make that distinction. So please don't use my supposed beliefs as a reason for not considering your own. A petri dish is not a womb, and an adult with Parkinson's--I think we can both agree--is certainly a life. Or are you one of those pro-life folks who love people only till they're born?"

  Even as he chuckled, Corey realized that he found her lack of deference engaging. "Tell me about your mother," he asked. "I've never known anyone with Alzheimer's--for better or worse, I guess."

  As she folded her hands, looking down, Corey sensed her deciding how much to reveal. "It's terrible," she said at length. "When I sit with her, it's like being in the presence of death. I have this instinct to whisper, though it wouldn't matter if I shouted. She's living so deep inside herself that the simplest things, like eating a sandwich, can take minutes or even hours. It'll just remain in her hand, unnoticed, and then her hand moves to her mouth again, her eyes still dead, as if the hand has a life of its own.

  "I try talking to her, of course. But I can't know if my voice stirs memories, or whether it's like the drone of her television." Lexie shook her head. "The night I won the Oscar, her nurse turned it on for her. During my acceptance speech, the nurse said, my mother began blinking. I like to think that, for a moment, she knew me. But there's no way she fathomed what I'd achieved."

  Her voice, Corey thought, held the disappointment of a child proud of an accomplishment she could not share. "When did this start?" Corey asked.

  "Seven years ago. But each stage of the disease brought something more. First came the endless list making as she tried to remember chores; then the staring at my father's photograph, trying to remember him; then the day she could not remember him at all." Her voice became soft with resignation. "For a time after that, I was still me. Then she thought I was a friend she'd known when she was six. Then the friend, too, was forgotten. The simplest choices upset her. And then, just before she lost the power of speech, nothing upset her anymore. Her eyes turned as blank as marbles." Lexie sat back, as though distancing herself from her own emotions. "You and I have been debating human life. Our memories are what make us human, Senator. This disease took that from my mother."

  Corey studied her for a moment. "There are those who say we don't need human embryos to combat Alzheimer's--that adult stem cells are sufficient."

  Swiftly, Lexie left the personal behind. "That's nonsense," she answered. "It's a triumph of the culture wars over science
, where the moral status of embryos is more important than human suffering, or scientific fact. Adult stem cells are a diversion--the science just isn't there."

  "Nor," Corey responded, "can you be sure about embryonic stem cells. We're talking about hope, not certainty. Your side still doesn't know if any of this will work, does it?"

  Lexie shrugged her concession. "Not for sure. But those who are already suffering feel desperate for some breakthrough." Her face turned soft. "A few years ago I sat with Chris Reeve when he testified before a House committee. Chris really believed stem cells would cure him. Seeing all his hope I couldn't help being sad--knowing what I knew, I never believed that Chris could make it for that long.

  "But responsible scientists, including Nobel Prize winners, believe that fetal stem cells have real promise." Her smile was brief and pointed. "You know way more about the subject, Senator, than you've been letting on. Far too much to support your party leaders with a clear conscience. Rumor says you have one."

  For a moment, Corey looked back at her in silence. Then a knock on the door interrupted them, and Jack Walters leaned inside. "Sorry," he told Lexie; to Corey he said, "Time for that committee meeting. Your day of reckoning with Alex Rohr."

  "Be with you in a couple." Turning back to Lexie as the door shut, Corey asked, "Do you know Alex Rohr?"

  "Enough to know that he's despicable."

  "How so?"

  Lexie's eyes were cold. "The way a lot of powerful white men are despicable. They think money and position entitle them to anything they want."

  The chill in her tone piqued Corey's curiosity. But there was no time to pursue this. "I don't want to seem like Alex Rohr," he assured her. "But it doesn't feel like we're quite through yet. Could you break free for dinner?"

  Lexie's eyes narrowed, her expression less hostile than speculative. Then she slowly shook her head. "I'm afraid we'll have to finish up by phone. Tonight I've got more commitments, and I have to be in L.A. tomorrow morning. I won't be back until the vote."

  Corey hesitated, trying to decipher whether the last sentence was an opening. "Maybe," he said, "we could get together then?"

  She gave him a look that combined amusement with curiosity. "I might be persuaded," she finally answered. "Depends on how you vote."

  She shook his hand again, holding it for a brief moment while she looked into his eyes. Then she thanked him for his time and hurried off to her next appointment.

  2

  IN THE BOWELS OF THE CAPITOL, COREY RODE THE SENATE SUBWAY TO the hearing room, listening to Jack Walters worry aloud.

  "You really want to do this?" Jack inquired glumly. "I mean, Alex Rohr merely controls a string of newspapers, two major book publishers, half of conservative talk radio, and the highest-rated cable news station in America. All of which he can use to cut you to pieces."

  Nettled by Jack's persistence, Corey looked up from his notes. "So now we're supposed to give this bastard control of our leading Internet provider? That's really what we need--an America where Alex Rohr tells everyone what to think."

  "Enough Americans," Jack rejoined, "already think whatever Rohr wants them to. Why make yourself this guy's enemy?"

  "Maybe because he needs one."

  "Fine, but why does it have to be you? Look, Rohr not only can influence millions of people, he can raise millions of dollars to finance whatever presidential candidate sees the world his way. And now you want to get in his way." Jack looked at Corey intently, his face etched with frustration. "Rohr's already pissed about your great crusade to keep money out of politics. To deliberately pick another fight with this guy suggests you don't know when to stop."

  "I'll stop whenever Rohr does." Reading his friend's expression, Corey spoke with a weary fatalism. "As a matter of politics, you're right--I need Rohr coming after me like I need a second navel. I'd be thrilled if anyone else in our party tried to block him. But Rohr personifies everything that's going wrong with this country--"

  "Everything?"

  "Damn near. His guiding belief is that he needs more--more money, more power. He'll favor Republicans only as long as we give him what he wants: a media monopoly, immunity from lawsuits, lower taxes, and new ways of amassing wealth.

  "The last time Rohr honored the Senate with his presence, he wanted the right to set up his own broadcast network and buy a string of TV stations. Some of us started balking. So Rohr effectively bribed our former majority leader with a huge book deal worth hundreds of thousands more than his moronic screed was worth.

  "You remember what happened next: our peerless leader slipped Rohr's bill through the Senate before anyone realized that Rohr had bought him off. And when the stink from that got too great for our leader to run again, Rohr hired him to front a talk show on Rohr News, where, funnily enough, he shills for Rohr's pet causes." Corey shook his head. "Call me naive, but when they first asked me to run for the Senate, I was in awe. Becoming a senator seemed like something fine, where people would trust you to help make our country a better place. I haven't quite accepted that I'm a whore with a fancy title."

  Resigned, Jack shook his head. As they entered the hearing room, Corey rested a hand on his shoulder. "Cheer up, pal--the coverage should be terrific. There are still a few networks and newspapers Alex Rohr doesn't own."

  AS COREY TOOK his seat next to Senator Carl Halprin, the testy veteran who served as committee chair, a glance around the room proved his estimate correct: the hearing was standing room only, with reporters, cameramen, and photographers lined against the walls. As Alex Rohr entered the room, the cameras began snapping.

  Rohr took his seat at the witness table, flanked by two lawyers who specialized in media ownership. With his smooth face, slicked-back brown hair, and a hand-tailored suit that fit his trim form perfectly, Alex Rohr looked as sleek as a seal. But what struck Corey was his expression: closed off and yet self-satisfied, with an expression in his dark eyes that suggested disdain for this tiresome necessity. Rohr scanned the panel of senators, his gaze lingering on Corey. "The staff thinks you're looking to make trouble," Halprin murmured to Corey.

  Though Corey smiled, he kept watching Alex Rohr. "Not for you, Carl."

  THE INITIAL QUESTIONING after Rohr's statement--first from Senator Halprin and then from Senator Rives, the ranking Democrat--confirmed what Corey suspected: most Republicans would line up with Rohr, most Democrats oppose him. Which made Corey the wild card--or, in Carl Halprin's estimate, the joker.

  "Senator Grace," Halprin asked in a neutral tone, "do you have any questions for the witness?"

  "I do." Looking up from his notes, Corey paused, as if a new thought had struck him. "Let me ask you a philosophical question, Mr. Rohr. How much is enough?"

  Though one corner of his mouth twitched in ironic comprehension, Rohr feigned puzzlement. In his careful Oxbridge accent--which, Corey privately asserted, Rohr had learned by watching tapes of Masterpiece Theatre--Rohr replied, "I'm sorry, Senator Grace. But I'm not quite sure what you mean."

  "Then let's define 'enough.' According to this committee, you own five magazines; three major film studios; a home-video company; a cable provider; four record labels; two publishing houses, one for general-interest readers and the other for conservative Christians; a major broadcast network; the highest-rated cable news network; the nation's largest newspaper chain; and one hundred and nineteen talk-radio stations." Pausing, Corey flashed a smile. "Forgive me if I've omitted something--we have a hard time keeping up. But would you say that this laundry list qualifies as 'enough'?"

  Rohr spread his hands. "In the America I came to, of which I am now a citizen, the operative words were 'freedom' and 'opportunity'--"

  "Then you surely agree that all Americans should have the 'opportunity'--not to mention the 'freedom'--to read, watch, or listen to news provided by someone else."

  "Senator," Rohr countered with a soft laugh, "they can."

  "Less so all the time, Mr. Rohr. In St. Louis, for example, you own the daily newspa
per, two of the major TV stations, the principal talk-radio outlet, and the local magazine. The citizens of St. Louis didn't wake up and decide one day to give you a semimonopoly; we in the government let you gobble up their media." Corey leaned forward. "In the brave new world that you've created, a single corporation--Rohr Vision--dominates the local media in most American cities. It seems pretty clear that you'll never say 'enough.' So when do you think we should?"

  "That's a rhetorical question," Rohr countered with an ironic smile. "To which, I somehow sense, you're about to provide an answer."

  "I probably should," Corey said coolly. "After all, I'm a United States senator, and you're merely rich. So it's important that we both remember the difference.

  "'Enough,' Mr. Rohr, is what you already own. 'Too much' is what you're here for now: control of America's largest Internet provider."

  Next to him, Corey detected Halprin shifting impatiently in his chair. But Corey had ten minutes left, and he fully intended to use them. Knowing this, the reporters in the room were alert, looking from Corey to Rohr. "I humbly disagree," Rohr answered. "All that will happen is that Netcast will provide twenty-five million Americans with better and cheaper service."

  "Not all, I think." Corey's voice became sharper. "Here's what else you can do. You can make it easy for customers to get to Web sites that reflect your political point of view. You can make it harder to get to Web sites that don't. You can charge prohibitive fees to Web sites that displease you. You can even block users from going to them at all. You can hamper Internet fund-raising for candidates whom you oppose. And, on the theory that, in your America, Rohr Vision needs still more profits, you can steer customers to movies, games, and music owned by other arms of Rohr Vision. You can even steer them to a Web site you acquired last month: Hook-Up, which openly facilitates solicitations for underage sex--which, I have to admit, is pretty broad-minded for a man who just published a Christian book called Bringing Your Kids to God."