"Our news product isn't some abstract notion of truth, or even reality. It's a story--consistent and repetitive, with a message that's emotionally fulfilling to the viewer." He flashed Marotta a smile that was no smile at all. "We mislead no one. Turn on Rohr News, and you're getting exactly what you want. I can help you feel better about this war, or fighting terrorists, and you don't have to think about them anymore. If we also use that power to promote our friends and advance our interests, so be it. News is a business, not a public service."
Looking directly at Marotta, Price cupped his Pepsi in both hands. "Fortunately for us all, Rob, Alex's interests and ours are aligned. Your interest is in becoming president." Price allowed himself a wispy smile. "Through Rohr News, millions of Americans will begin to see you as a president--principled, rooted in deep religious values, and Churchillian in your resolve to save America."
The sardonic undertone nettled Marotta; listening to these two pragmatists discuss his future, he felt less like a senator than a bottle of shampoo. Seeking to restore the balance, Marotta asked sardonically, "If I'm Winston Churchill, who do you get to be, Alex? Citizen Kane?"
"Kane wanted to be president," Rohr replied with imperious calm. "All I care about is an economic policy that rewards my enterprise, and a political system that respects my interests."
Price shot Marotta a cautionary glance. "Nothing wrong with that," Price said easily. "Alex helps because we believe as he does. And because he's in a position to help."
Nodding, Rohr gave Marotta the same cool smile. "News, as Magnus often tells me, is the software of his message machine."
Marotta glanced at Price. With his sloping belly, thin sandy hair, and mask of shrewd self-satisfaction, Price reminded Marotta of the archetypal sly southern lawyer of film and fiction, except that he was far more dangerous--including, whatever his exceptional gifts, to Marotta himself. "And the purpose of that machine," Price elaborated in an amiable tone, "is not to persuade our opponents, but to shrink their nuts to the size of raisins. That means pounding home the message that they're weaselly and effete; godless; spineless and morally lax; beholden to deadbeats, gays, illegals, and, worst of all, liberals; pathetically cowed by Arab murderers; utterly unable to defend our country or our families; and, altogether, the losers in Darwin's lottery. I mean, who would want to be one of them?"
Rohr laughed softly. "Message," Price continued with a smile, "takes money, organization, and ideas. We've got them all: two hundred foundations and four hundred advocacy groups spending almost one billion dollars a year to advance the ideas we all believe in: lowering taxes, curbing lawsuits, fighting environmental extremists, ending affirmative action, and, critically, turning conservative lawyers into judges who'll control the American legal system for decades to come." Price smiled approvingly at Rohr. "Alex is helping us change the legal, political, and economic landscape of America."
"Christy," Marotta pointed out, "doesn't seem all that enamored with your vision."
Price sat back, taking in the nighttime panorama lit before them. "Christy," he said at length, "is my only mistake in an otherwise inspired notion--to persuade Christian voters to help underwrite our power by focusing on issues that don't cost the likes of Alex a fucking dime.
"Prayer in school--if we ever get it--is free. So's a ban on abortion. Alex doesn't run honeymoon cruises, so banning gay marriage won't dent his bottom line. But all of that means so much to these pious folks that it would ruin your day to deny them."
"There's also soccer moms," Marotta responded. "The suburban moderates--the ones who deserted us in droves in the last congressional elections. Strangely enough, they're still looking for a 'kinder, gentler' party than the one you have in mind."
"That's what black Republicans like Cortland Lane are for," Price replied. "You put them in the cabinet--not because black voters will love us, but because it makes white folks of good intentions feel so much better. And, once again, it's free.
"Though they're a problem, middle-of-the-roaders are still eclipsed by conservative Christians, especially in Republican primaries." Turning to Rohr, Price asked, "You know what the most accurate predictor of voting was in the last two presidential elections?"
Rohr shrugged. "Illiteracy?"
Chuckling, Price shook his head. "Religion. Two-thirds of regular church attendees voted for us. You're not gonna win elections if all you've got is atheists and agnostics. And I, to my lasting credit, figured that out in the 1970s.
"Thirty years ago, Alex, conservative Christians were like a seven-foot-tall basketball player with no experience--scary in their potential, but not a real factor in the game. They didn't even vote. But I could see all that potential--if I could persuade the party to reach out to them, we'd change the game entirely." Turning to Marotta now, he said, "Back in South Carolina when I was a kid, the rich folks got the votes of poor whites by pitting them against the blacks. But racism became less cool--blacks started voting, so establishment whites had to pick their spots and speak in racial code. But I ..." Here Price paused, holding one finger in the air, "I, Magnus Price, figured out a whole new and more uplifting way to reach out to ordinary white folks--by signing up their God. Now Christian conservatives are over forty percent of the entire electorate. And we're still sitting in the catbird seat unless Christy fucks it up."
Rohr frowned. "How, exactly, can this clown accomplish that?"
"Because the whole design depends on keeping Christian conservatives and capitalists like you united. That's the beauty of Rob Marotta's candidacy--he shares your beliefs while being genuinely religious.
"But Christy sees a contradiction: entrepreneurs like you live off the 'debased popular culture' he rails against on television. That's why his speech tonight made me shiver." Price paused, his expression hard. "If Christy runs for president, it'll be mammon versus morality--our nightmare scenario. If Christy beats Rob in the primaries, he'll lose the general election--most voters still won't go for President Elmer Gantry. But even if Rob beats Christy, the party's gonna be divided ..."
"I'll beat Christy," Marotta told him. "And with all due respect, I'd do that with or without the two of you."
"Today you would," Price shot back. "But suppose fucking Al Qaeda blows up Notre Dame stadium at halftime? That could unleash a craziness only God could fix. And God, as we know, speaks through the Reverend Christy--"
"So how do we keep him from running?" Rohr interrupted.
"By anointing Rob--endorsements, favorable polling, pledges from donors, the whole drumbeat of inevitability." Price placed a friendly hand on Marotta's shoulder. "And by reminding Christian conservatives that Rob's as committed to them as Christy is. That means fighting gay marriage, promoting prayer in school, and promising judges who know that 'our rights came from God Almighty.' Then we can float the message that the presidency isn't an entry-level job. Trust me, a lot of other evangelists will be glad to hop on board."
"Why?" Rohr asked.
"Think they want their chief competitor in the religion-for-profit game to become the president of the United States? They'll help spread our message: 'Bob's running to expand his mailing list,' or 'Bob's confusing himself with God,' or 'What does Bob know about dropping the hammer on fucking Iran?'
"We need Christians to believe that Christy's a self-serving egomaniac and that his candidacy is an embarrassment to the good religious people who just want to protect their families." Eyes fixed on Rohr, Price finished: "You can spread the word through Rohr News, talk radio, newspapers, and whatever else you own. After Christy's performance tonight, you oughta have the motivation. Do you?"
"If Rob wants me to." Rohr turned to Marotta. "All I want, Rob, is what Magnus tells me you believe in--a government that doesn't hamstring wealth creators."
Marotta understood immediately that this was a crucial moment: he was seated between two arrogant men who believed that they controlled his future, and who needed to know that he--like Christy--could not be controlled. "This is all very
nice," he said with an edge in his voice, "and I'd be very grateful if you'd support me. But you're forgetting a couple of details. The first is that I'm where I am for a reason, and I got here without you. If our beliefs coincide, fine. But I'm going to trust my instincts and run my own campaign." Pausing, he looked from Rohr to Price, underscoring his words. "The second detail is all the things you don't control. Starting with stem cells."
"True enough," Price responded. "Seems like they're Bob's excuse for running."
Marotta nodded. "If we lose that stem-cell vote, he runs."
"If you lose, Rob--you're the majority leader." Turning to Rohr, Price asked, "Suppose we find some scientists to say the whole stem-cell thing is bogus. Think you can give them airtime?"
"Of course," Rohr answered with a trace of impatience. "But if you'll forgive my amateur opinion, you're overlooking the biggest problem of all."
"I haven't forgotten," Marotta said softly. "Corey Grace."
Nodding, Rohr repeated with equal softness, "Corey Grace."
"He's surely a problem for you, Alex--the phrase 'Hook-Up' comes to mind." Marotta's voice turned cool again. "So let me spell it out for you. In effect, Grace is a creature of Christy. If Christy enters, siphoning off Christian votes, that's Grace's invitation to run--"
"Not if I can help it," Rohr interrupted harshly. "I don't want that careless sonofabitch anywhere near the White House. No one I know wants him."
"Which," Marotta answered dryly, "absolutely breaks his heart. Corey lacks what you might call the normal incentives. Including any discernible interest in how you feel about him."
Rohr fixed the senator with a hard stare. "Isn't there anything you can give him?"
"Nothing I've been able to identify."
"It's better not to even try," Price interjected. "Why give our hero ideas?"
"He already has them," Marotta said flatly. "I was watching him during Christy's speech, and he looked absolutely chipper. Whenever he looks like that, it's a lousy day for me. In his heart of hearts, Corey is certain that he should be president of the United States, and he knows that his only chance depends on the Reverend Christy."
Rohr stared at his drink. "Let us pray," he said in a tone of disgust.
"Oh," Price answered with a smile, "I think we can do better than that."
6
THE DAY AFTER CHRISTY'S SPEECH, COREY MADE A POINT OF WATCHING his daily television show.
Perched in front of the television in Corey's office, Corey and Jack Walters ate Reuben sandwiches. Head bowed, Christy stood alone on a sound-stage. "Thank you, Lord," he intoned, "for causing Hurricane Sarah to veer away from our beloved state of Virginia ..."
"Problem is," Jack remarked, "it's about to hit Long Island. Seems like Christy's pull with the Almighty is strictly regional."
Corey shrugged. "Hitting Long Island is part of God's plan."
On the screen, Christy raised his head, his voice thick with emotion. "I can feel the presence of God today, hear the stirrings of His people. In the words of John F. Kennedy, 'Here on earth God's work must truly be our own.'"
"God's one thing," Jack opined, "but channeling JFK is shameless."
Intently watching the screen, Corey held up his hand to ask for silence. "I'm facing a great decision," Christy told his audience. "Should I run for president, or should I resist the siren song of temporal power? Please, I remind you, tell your Senate to spurn the abomination that is stem-cell research. Most of all, keep our country in your prayers."
Jack gave the screen a blank, puzzled look--though his appearance was guileless, Jack had seen two decades of Senate infighting and was used to gauging politicians thoroughly grounded in this world. "This guy really is from some other planet. Didn't you tell me you'd once met him?"
For a moment, Corey was silent. "Our paths crossed," he amended. "We never actually met."
He said this dismissively, as though the memory were of little moment. But this was far from true--for reasons too personal, and too painful, ever to reveal to Jack. When Jack turned back to watch Christy, Corey's gaze, inevitably, lit on the photograph of his brother, Clay.
Throughout the rest of the program, Corey was silent. When it was over, he left to meet the adviser he valued most.
"I'M THINKING ABOUT running for president," Corey said bluntly. "And I still don't get Bob Christy. Never have."
Standing at the helm of his powerboat, Cortland Lane steered them at a leisurely pace down the brown-blue waters of the Potomac. Even here, Corey thought, Lane's close-cropped steel-gray hair made him look more like a general than a recreational boater. But at sixty-four, Lane was now retired: four years before, while he was secretary of state, his quiet but persistent reservations about the president's Middle East policy had led to his resignation. Yet Lane was still so widely admired that some in the party, and many around the country, had hoped aloud that he would run for president.
Instead, Lane had withdrawn from public life to pursue his lifelong interest in religion at Harvard Divinity School. Over the years, Senator Grace had sought Lane's council, first on military matters, then on foreign policy, until the general who'd once daunted Corey had become a friend. But the purpose of this meeting was unique: to seek Lane's thoughts on the intersection of politics with religion--a subject, Corey readily conceded, to which he had never given enough thought.
Scanning the water, Lane inquired, "What precisely don't you 'get'?"
"His whole worldview." Corey took a sip from a bottle of mineral water. "To me, Christy's a cousin of Alex Rohr, a man who seeks power by narrowing the American mind. And he's succeeded to the point where you damn near can't admit you believe in Darwin and hope to win our party's nomination.
"As far as I can tell, he's never read On the Origin of Species. To him, the Flintstones are a documentary--people living with dinosaurs. I find that incredible."
In profile, Lane's mouth showed the trace of a smile. "A word of caution, Senator. First of all, more Americans believe in the Virgin Birth than the theory of evolution. Second, Christy is nothing new: evangelists have been in and out of politics for the last two hundred years, mostly to advance progressive causes like abolition and women's suffrage."
"And the temperance movement," Corey pointed out. "In that inspiring episode, they set out to make us sober and wound up giving us Al Capone."
"True enough," Lane conceded. "That was one of the things that helped drive them to the political sidelines. But the biggest factor was the Scopes monkey trial, where the great fundamentalist William Jennings Bryan prosecuted a high school biology teacher in Tennessee for implying that monkeys were, in fact, our ancestors."
"When I saw the movie about Scopes in high school," Corey said, "I thought it was a comedy. But now they're running the government--albeit with the help of that southern-fried Machiavelli Magnus Price."
Steering to avoid a water-skier, Lane was quiet for a time. "Magnus," he said at length, "may think he's Moses. But it all began with the sixties, and a chain of social shocks that, in Christy's words, 'caused the believers to awaken from their trance'--abortion, drugs, promiscuity, flag burning, gay teachers, and barring prayer in school. To Christy, these issues symbolized the moral and intellectual arrogance of a self-selected liberal elite toward ordinary Americans. I'd think a boy from Ohio would grasp that well enough."
"I do," Corey said softly. "I'm my parents' son, after all."
Nodding, Lane asked, "They still don't know about your brother, do they?"
"No." Corey paused. "Last night I had a flashback in the middle of a thousand donors, most of whom can't stand me. Suddenly, I just looked at Christy and thought, You helped kill my brother, you sanctimonious bastard."
Lane stared straight ahead. "Not your parents?"
"Them, too. My mother's still convinced that Christy and the Bible have all the answers." Voice rising in frustration, Corey added harshly, "My God, Cortland, the Old Testament God is a psychotic monster. Now even Jesus--if you believe pe
ople like Christy--is coming back as an avenging angel to slaughter all the bad people. What am I supposed to do with that?"
"Detach yourself." One hand on the wheel, Lane faced him. "Years ago, you learned to perceive Christy as a messenger of hate. But to his followers, he's only trying to defend their families and their country against a government bent on destroying the moral fabric of our society. And it's pretty hard to argue that AIDS, familial breakup, and sleazy popular entertainment are changes for the better."
"Who thinks that?"
"So what are you going to do about it? At least Bob Christy has an answer."
"Yeah," Corey replied. "The Apocalypse."
"That's the point. In Christy's mind, he's a patriot, trying to save the America of God's design before we--quite literally--commit suicide. Tell me this: do you think we're on the brink of a national decline?"
"Yes."
"So do I. And so does Christy. I'd say most religious conservatives, just as we do, fear for our society in the here and now. For example, wouldn't you feel better if there were fewer divorces?"
The question, Corey suspected, carried a trace of the personal: Lane's wife's battle with depression, he had confided, had come to shadow his own marriage. "Depends on the marriage," Corey answered. "Some days I'd just feel better if I weren't divorced."
Lane turned to him. "When was the last time you heard from Kara?"
"Two months ago--in a postcard. I was so pathetically grateful I wrote her a four-page letter, the kind of newsy thing that you'd put in a fucking Christmas card. But then it's hard to communicate with a daughter who's grown up half a world away."
Looking to their right, Lane studied the Pentagon, his old workplace. "Open to trying again?" he asked. "Marriage, I mean."
The Race Page 6