The Race

by Richard North Patterson

  "That," Marotta replied with real anger, "is the kind of irresponsible invective that disqualifies you to be president."

  "Senator Grace," Coburn interjected with an air of desperation, "do you have anything to say on your own behalf?"

  Corey smiled. "Why spoil the moment? All I can add is that someone who'll do anything to be president shouldn't be president."

  A tense silence filled the room. "I think it's your turn," Coburn told Marotta in a mollifying tone. "You've made a constitutional ban on gay marriage a centerpiece of your campaign. When all states but one ban such marriage, why is this so important?"

  Seeking to recover, Marotta began speaking in a slow, insistent voice. "John, there is nothing more important than the moral strength of our families.

  "Since before the time of Jesus Christ, marriage has been the union of a man and woman. That's the only means of raising children who are morally, spiritually, and psychologically whole." Gesturing toward Corey, he said, "Three-quarters of Americans oppose gay marriage. Yet Senator Grace does not support a constitutional ban. No one who refuses to defend the institution of marriage should be our party's nominee."

  Corey turned to him. "America faces terrorism, nuclear proliferation, massive deficits, rising unemployment, and a gap between the wealthy and the rest of us in wages, education, and health care. And you're running on gay marriage and the Confederate flag." Corey made his tone both wry and weary. "I oppose gay marriage, Rob. You know that. And if you and Mary Rose need a constitutional amendment to protect your marriage, I'll vote for it. If only for the sake of the kids."

  "This isn't a joke," Marotta said stonily.

  "And I'm not laughing. But we both know that the greatest threat to marriage is divorce. Are you proposing a constitutional ban on that?"

  "Of course not," Marotta said in exasperation. "But America needs a moral renewal every bit as much as economic prosperity. And it's all too obvious that you can't lead it."

  They were perilously close, Corey knew, to bringing Lexie into this debate. Thinking of the unknown man delving into her past, Corey felt a retort die on his lips. Heartened, Marotta continued: "In other times, your dating life might not be an issue. But the problem with your current relationship is not that the woman involved is an entertainer, but that she personifies a Hollywood culture that glorifies drugs, violence, and illicit sexuality.

  "We've all seen those pictures, Corey. So have many of our kids. That's the behavior of a playboy, not a president ..."

  "Enough," Christy intervened. "Let me say what I think.

  "I disagree with Corey about gay marriage. Its fundamental ideology is 'God goofed by making men and women.' Nonsense--God made us as we are for a reason, and we ought to have the sense to put that in our Constitution." To Corey, he said evenly, "I'm also troubled by your relationship. You're not a private citizen. You're a presidential candidate involved with a woman who is at once a celebrity, a representative of Hollywood, and a liberal who embraces gay rights, abortion, and the abomination of stem-cell research. In all sincerity, I wish none of that were so."

  As Corey groped for a response, Christy turned to Marotta. "But I must also say, Rob, that the aroma arising from your exploitation of Corey's involvement troubles me just as much. I don't like those signs with an X across her face--"

  "I'm not responsible for those," Marotta said quickly.

  "Nor for anything else, it seems. I don't agree with Ms. Hart on the issues, but I don't doubt that she's sincere. And when I see those placards, I smell racism.

  "God is not a racist, Rob. His Word is meant for all of us. So tell whoever it is to take down those vicious signs."

  A few women in the audience applauded. "I second that," Corey said. "But I have to say this to you both. Candidates are people, and so are actresses. Like anyone, we're entitled to choose the people we love.

  "I make no apologies for that. And if you, Senator, want to exploit our relationship in whatever rancid way you will, I can't stop you. Just understand the point you're really making: that Lexie Hart is way, way out of your class."

  "Don't patronize me," Marotta snapped. "Presidents should set a moral example. I'm not divorced, and I can honestly say that I've never been unfaithful to Mary Rose. Can you say that to this audience, and to the American public?"

  Corey managed a smile. "Absolutely. I have never, ever been unfaithful to Mary Rose."

  Marotta's own smile was hard. "And your ex-wife?"

  To one side of the room, Corey glimpsed Tommy sitting with his mother, their expressions filled with doubt. "My divorce," Corey said softly, "was one of the saddest events of my life. That's all anyone needs to know, and more of an answer than you deserve.

  "You're lucky in Mary Rose. But it must be sad for you to believe that she's your foremost qualification."

  "That's no answer," Marotta said dismissively. "What about you, Bob?"

  Christy looked genuinely startled. "In nearly forty years with Martha, no one's ever asked. I find it deeply offensive that you just have."

  "If I understand your answer," Marotta responded with a shrug, "you should be proud."

  At this, Corey made a snap decision. He pulled out the miniature tape recorder Dakin Ford had given him, placed it in front of Marotta, and pushed the button. A disembodied voice intoned: "Would you vote for a man who gave his ex-wife AIDS, is conducting an illicit affair with a radical black actress, and supports taking away your guns? If these values are your values, then Corey Grace is your candidate."

  The audience was silent, stunned. "Are you proud of that?" Corey asked.

  Marotta shook his head. "I know nothing about this tape."

  "Really? Then it's coincidence that anonymous phone calls, whispering campaigns, and sleazy mailers from out of state seem to have followed you here?" Corey leaned close to Marotta. "Why don't you start with your campaign manager? It shouldn't take long to find out who's paying for these calls."

  "Look," Marotta snapped, "I can't be held responsible for people I don't control. If I find out that this involves anyone from my campaign, I'll fire them."

  "They won't tell you--unless you already know. One more time: are you willing to find out if this comes from your campaign?"

  The audience was hushed. "It's not enough to say you're a Christian," Christy told Marotta softly. "You actually have to be one. Why don't you just stop this stuff?"

  Marotta looked from Christy to Grace. "You're both guilty of Mc-Carthyism," he said. "The voters of South Carolina will have no trouble seeing through this concerted effort to smear me."

  Christy chuckled softly, and then the moderator came to Marotta's aid. "Time for final statements," Coburn said with evident relief. "Senator Marotta?"

  When Marotta commenced, plainly off his rhythm, Corey could have sworn that Christy winked at him.

  STANDING NEXT TO BOSS MOSS, Dakin Ford watched Corey's final statement on a giant TV screen. "I know," Corey finished, "that many of you disagree with me about one issue or another. But that's because you know what I believe.

  "Americans are sick of being pandered to, condescended to, and lied to by politicians whose only principle is to say whatever they think people want to hear. These times are much too serious for that. You deserve a president who tells the truth."

  Ford looked around Moss's living room--tackier than Graceland, filled with men and women wearing everything from motorcycle jackets to tuxedos, all looking to Moss for cues. Studying Moss's expressionless face, Ford imagined him contemplating the ruin of his evening with the future president of the United States. "I'll say this much," Moss said solemnly. "The man has guts. I hope y'all are still thirsty."

  MAROTTA SAT WITH Price as their dark limousine sped away from the mall. "They double-teamed me," he said. "Christy played the real Christian, and Grace the plain-speaking voice of truth. He means to use South Carolina against me in Michigan, California, and wherever else there's a Catholic vote."

  "Got to beat him here first," Price
said calmly.

  "Tonight didn't help. I told you, Magnus, that going to Cash was a mistake."

  Taking out his cell phone, Price pushed the speed dial. "Carl?" he said. "Yeah, I know. But there's still time for Grace to blow a gasket--watch the morning show tomorrow on Rohr News.

  "So do me a favor, will you? Invite Grace to speak at your school. By the time he gets there, he may not be able to stay cool."

  As Price listened, a smile played at the corner of his mouth. "You're a blessing, Reverend."

  Price put the cell phone in his pocket. "The stuff about Christy and women," Marotta asked, "you sure about that?"

  Price slowly nodded. "The Reverend Bob," he said, "is headed for the Fall."

  ENTERING MOSS'S LIVING room, Corey looked around himself in bemusement. "Corey," Ford called out cheerfully. "Like you to meet your host, Boss Moss."

  It's Willie Nelson's cousin, Corey thought, taking in Moss's beard and ponytail. But what caught his eye was the Confederate flag folded in the grizzled veteran's hand. "Thought you might appreciate a souvenir," Moss informed him. "Tell your lady friend I mean no disrespect."

  Smiling, Corey took the flag. "I'll do that, Boss. Drink some bourbon with me?"

  9

  "THE RULES OF THIS DEBATE," CANDY CROWLEY SAID ON CNNTHE next morning, "encouraged politics waged as mortal combat. But the early consensus is that Senator Marotta lost ground to both opponents.

  "Late last night, in a surprising development, the Reverend Carl Cash invited Senator Grace to speak at his university."

  "No way I could have ducked this one," Corey told Rustin.

  He sat on the edge of his bed in boxer shorts, briefing papers scattered around him. Dressed in the same rumpled suit he had worn yesterday, Rustin looked like a man who had not exercised in weeks, or even seen the sun. "Maybe so," he answered dubiously. "But they're counting on you to defend Lexie in a way that turns more whites against you."

  Corey's cell phone rang. When he answered, Dakin Ford said, "Click on Rohr."

  Rohr's leading right-wing talk-show host, Frank Flaherty, had preempted the morning news. "This relationship," he was saying in a voice etched with scorn, "involves more than extramarital sex. She wants a president who'll advance her radical agenda; he needs her to help him carpetbag for black crossover votes in South Carolina. And Lexie Hart is no amateur when it comes to playing the race card."

  The clip of Lexie that Rohr used seemed several years old. "Can Cortland Lane," the interviewer asked, "become the first African-American president?"

  "Why ask me?" she answered mildly. "White people get to make that call."

  "Jesus," Rustin murmured.

  Shaking his head in disapproval, Flaherty declared, "By implicitly calling white voters racist, Ms. Hart introduces a divisive strain into a contest that Senator Grace insists should be more elevated. And after last night's debate, it's clear that Senator Grace has chosen to make Lexie Hart his 'running mate.'" The commentator's smile was smugly knowing. "One of the many average Americans unhappy about this is Senator Grace's own mother."

  Astonished, Corey saw a clip of Nettie Grace in her living room. "If Corey wants to date a black woman," she maintained stoutly, "that's his affair. I'm more worried about the sex and violence in her movies."

  Corey felt a jolt of shame and anger. "Mom should be worried," Flaherty said. "Look at this, folks."

  In clips from a science-fiction movie, Lexie dispatched a creature with a laser gun and kissed her leading man, conveniently white. "Is that," Flaherty asked, "the role model we want for our children? In raising this question, Senator Marotta is not only speaking for America's kids but for Senator Grace's mom."

  Walking to a corner of the room, Corey called her. "Corey?" she said, her voice tentative. "It's been so long since we've heard from you."

  "Doesn't seem like that to me, Mom. I just heard from you on TV."

  "Well, I'm worried about you. I thought you should hear what normal people say every time I go for groceries."

  "I know what they think," Corey told her softly. "I've known since I was six."

  "Corey?" It was his father, sounding blurry and hungover, speaking on an extension phone. "You've gotta get tougher on gay marriage, son. I'm telling you, people hate that."

  It was all Corey could do not to answer, You mean like your dead son? "Don't worry about gays," he said softly. "It's harder for them than you'll ever know."

  "I'm so proud you're speaking at Carl Cash University," his mother chimed in with artificial brightness. "I so wish Clay had gone there--in a proper Christian atmosphere, he wouldn't have fallen into his depression."

  Corey closed his eyes. "Yeah," he said. "I'm trying to make that up to him.

  "Please do me a favor. Next time some reporter wants to talk to you, tell him to try me. Trust me that you've made my life much harder."

  His mother fell quiet. "All right," she answered dubiously. "I'm sorry."

  Hanging up, Corey felt as though he were trapped in a recurring nightmare. "Family," he said to Rustin. "The people you didn't choose, and can never escape."

  A VOLUNTEER DROVE Corey to Greenville, home of Carl Cash University; he needed solitude and--at this moment--did not trust himself in a bus full of reporters. The fact that another ad had hit the airwaves, using the same clips of Lexie, had further soured his mood.

  Sitting in the back seat, he took in the rolling, wooded countryside, the Smoky Mountains receding in a hazy distance. When he did not think of Lexie, he thought of Clay. He was tempted not to answer when his cell phone rang.

  "Corey?" the deep voice said. "It's Cortland Lane."

  This, Corey realized, was a call he welcomed more than any. "I guess you've been watching," he said.

  "Pretty rough," Lane said. "The whole tone last night was a little sharp. Before you give this speech, would you mind some advice about religion, and maybe race? Or would you rather be left alone?"

  It struck Corey anew that at several turning points in his life, Cortland Lane had helped sustain him. Taking out his pen, Corey answered, "Go ahead, Cortland. If you'd left me alone, I'd have never come this far."

  ENTERING THE CAMPUS, Corey saw one sterile beige building after another, as though the color was being leached out of the students' lives. The students themselves, pleasant looking and uniformly white, seemed like actors portraying some mythic time of innocence. But the school's Web site was militant in tone: "We deny the right of anyone to call himself Christian who questions the authority of the Bible. We oppose all atheistic, agnostic, liberal, modernistic, or humanistic attacks upon the Scriptures. Grounding young people in the Word before they are exposed to godless secularism inoculates them against sin, immorality, and loss of faith." In a bow toward racial amity, the Web site encouraged donors to fund scholarships for minorities, "because of the shortage of trained Christian leadership among the non-Caucasian population."

  Lexie, Corey thought, would be gratified. As they approached the auditorium, he took a last look at the words that Cortland Lane and he had crafted.

  AFTER THE BRIEFEST of courtesies, Carl Cash--whom Corey mentally compared to a walking cadaver--led him to the stage. As Corey had required, and unlike the rules for Marotta's appearance, the reporters at the back of the auditorium were armed with minicams and tape recorders. The students seemed to regard him less with hostility than curiosity, as though Corey had dropped in from Zimbabwe.

  Stepping to the podium, Cash told them sternly, "Listen to this man's words, and ask yourselves these questions: where does he stand on the deadly sin of homosexual congress, the degraded culture of Hollywood, and the immorality that allows so-called leaders--such as Martin Luther King himself--to preach virtue in public and practice sexual license behind closed doors?" Pointing to Corey, he concluded, "Listen, and judge."

  This, Corey supposed, was calculated to unnerve him. Walking to the podium in silence, he nodded to Cash. "Thank you, Reverend, for that gracious introduction. To be compared to M
artin Luther King--however obliquely--is an honor."

  In contrast to the solemn students, Corey saw Kate McInerny shoot Jake Linkletter of Rohr News a wicked grin. "So here's what I believe," Corey began.

  "I believe in a God of love.

  "I believe that truth can be found in all religions, and that all who pray address the same God.

  "I believe that how we live is a truer expression of faith than any prayer we recite in public.

  "I look to God for wisdom and calm. And," he finished pointedly, "I am far more concerned with whether I'm on His side than with asserting that He is on mine."

  Standing to his right, Cash eyed him with the chill sharpness of a bird studying its prey. Carey focused on two students nearest him--a pretty brunette and a boy with a crew cut--wondering who they might become if they were encouraged to open their minds. "Frankly," he told them, "I don't think God cares much about this election. The God I believe in doesn't vote, nor is He a tool of the politically ambitious. For me, there is no candidate or party of God--only people of God."

  The brunette's mouth accented a dubious frown. "Nor does the God I believe in," Corey said, "tell us which car to buy. Instead, He gave us minds to think for ourselves, and to help improve the human condition."

  Pausing, Corey reminded himself that he was speaking to two audiences: the students in this auditorium, who might be beyond his reach, and the media and voters across America, for whom this speech, given at a moment of bitter political antagonism, might define him. Kate McInerny scribbled furiously, her face as intent as her peers'. "The human condition," Corey continued, "counsels humility. For even if we deem the Bible infallible, we are not. And in this very dangerous world, religious absolutism--at its worst--breeds a hatred and violence that may well consume us all."

  The young faces in front of him became more sober and attentive. In even tones, Corey told them, "I don't write off people who, like you, believe in the same God I do but express that belief in different ways. I believe in listening to one another. And given that it's my turn to talk, I should mention that--as one example--I can't find a single line where Jesus condemns homosexuals for being who they were born to be."