The Candidate

by Lis Wiehl

  Just at that moment, the presidential motorcade pulls into view. It stops abruptly before reaching the cathedral. Then it speeds up and roars past.

  “The presidential motorcade has left the scene,” Erica reports. “We can presume they heard about the suspected arrival of Tim Markum in Philadelphia and for security reasons are not going to attend the funeral.”

  GNN goes to the pool feed inside the cathedral. The organist has stopped playing. There is agitation among the mourners; silenced phones are turned on; heads are bent over them, reading avidly, tense, afraid. Are they in danger? Is another bomb about to go off? Time seems suspended—and no one is in charge. People turn and whisper, their faces filled with questions and fear. Some start to move out into the aisle, to head to the exits. There’s a feeling of an imminent unraveling.

  And then a young man in the front row stands up and walks to the pulpit. He seems remarkably composed. Everyone freezes, and those who have started to leave turn and watch.

  “Hello, everyone. I’m Jeff Buchanan, Fred and Judy’s oldest child.” His voice is strong and steady. “I think many of you have heard that the suspected bomber may be in Philadelphia. I think the best way to respond is to move forward with this service. It’s what my mom and dad would want.”

  The cathedral grows hushed; people return to their places; a calm seems to pass over the pews.

  “My parents had boundless faith in the American people, in all of us. If we cower or panic, fear wins. Surrender wins. Evil wins. We’re better and stronger than that.” He looks up toward the heavens. “Aren’t we, Dad?” And now his eyes fill with tears.

  As the organist strikes up “Amazing Grace,” the mourners put away their phones, take their neighbors’ hands, and sit up straight as a serene resolve takes hold. Outside, as they watch on the jumbo screen, the crowd has a similar response—people stop running and grow still, rapt, children are hugged, hands are held, shoulders sway, voices are raised in song, eyes grow moist, and for a moment the crowds both inside and outside the cathedral become one—a unified sea of humanity defying mankind’s darkest impulses.

  Erica’s own eyes well up—and she knows that the most eloquent way to convey the mood in Philadelphia is to remain silent.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE PLANE BANKS LOW ACROSS San Francisco Bay as it approaches SFO. Erica has flown west to tape her “The Candidates at Home” segment with Mike and Celeste Ortiz. It’s been a week since the Buchanan funeral. It was confirmed that Tim Markum—using highly sophisticated false identification—did fly into Philadelphia that morning, but he has since slipped away. His presence was a taunt—a sick head game with the mourners, the media, and law enforcement—an act of terrorism that left the whole nation fearful.

  Some progress has been made in tracking Markum’s steps, but he remains a cipher. For the six months before the bombing, he’d been living in a bland, furnished studio on the outskirts of Tucson. A search of the apartment yielded almost no insight into his motives or history. In fact, the place was devoid of any revealing idiosyncrasies—except one. The bookshelves were empty, the kitchen almost bare, the closets hung with a couple of shirts. Even though Markum had no known source of income, his rent and utility bills were paid on time, by money order. There was no computer, although a forensic investigation found an e-mail account—but it held little but spam. The websites he visited were banal: Kohl’s, a few news sites, a Celine Dion fan page. The one eye-opener was his taste in pornography. He spent hours at sites featuring Asian mistresses who abused and humiliated willing men.

  There’s no evidence that links Markum to any terrorist organization or cell. But would a stand-alone crazy be able to seamlessly engineer such a horrific crime? And forge the high-tech fake ID that enabled him to fly into Philadelphia?

  While the search for Markum remains a hot story, time moves on, and it is no longer the lead every night on The Erica Sparks Effect. With the candidates decided—although not formalized at the parties’ conventions—the nation’s focus is turning to picking its next president.

  Erica has spent the flight studying her file on Mike Ortiz—his working-class upbringing in Oakland, his early years as an activist and community organizer, his tour of duty as a marine in the second Iraq War, his subsequent election to Congress and marriage to heiress and banker Celeste Pierce, and, most dramatically, his capture and incarceration by Al-Qaeda while on a humanitarian mission to Iraq. His subsequent escape made him a national hero and propelled him into the Senate. It’s a compelling story—one that, coupled with his raw political talent, may carry him into the White House.

  Erica will have her preliminary meeting with the Ortizes this afternoon, and the taping is scheduled for tomorrow. There’s nothing more telling than getting inside someone’s house and taking a peek, albeit sanitized, into their private lives. Often, the more people try to conceal, the more they reveal.

  What most fascinates Erica about Mike Ortiz is his power dynamic with his wife. Celeste Ortiz exerts an extraordinary level of control over him. And she’s a . . . strange woman. Yes, she’s brilliant and driven, but it goes beyond that; there’s something feral in her eyes, and when her jaw sets, Erica senses rage lurking just below the polished surface. And her body, coiled and freakishly fit—she’s a snake about to strike. Erica can’t wait to observe this reptilian creature in her native habitat.

  Last week Erica spent two days on an expansive farm in rural Minnesota with Lucy Winters, the presumptive Republican nominee, and her family. Erica found Winters down-to-earth and sincere with enormous ambition, intelligence, and charm. Her husband, who runs the farm, stayed mostly in the background, but Winters wasn’t shy about using her three well-mannered teenagers to bolster her image as America’s Mom in Chief, in contrast to the glamour and wealth of childless Mike and Celeste Ortiz. Winters has been able to thread a tough needle, using her warmth and charisma to compensate for some of her more moderate positions with the party’s base. Polls show her trailing Ortiz, but the race remains fluid and she has plenty of time to make up the gap.

  The plane lands and Erica retrieves her luggage and gets into the waiting car. It’s a bright, sparkly California day and the driver takes her to the Huntington, a quiet luxury hotel that sits atop Nob Hill. She prefers the relative anonymity of small hotels—fewer distracting fans to chat up and selfies to pose for. Erica’s room has a view of Grace Cathedral, the Union Club, and Huntington Park. This is her fourth trip to San Francisco and she’s always enchanted—the city is like Paris or Venice, a cliché until you get there and its sheer charm and beauty disarm you.

  She unpacks and changes into slacks and a blue oxford and goes down to her car. Her driver heads north through Russian Hill, then turns west on Broadway until they reach Pacific Heights, which Erica has never visited. The neighborhood is perched on a hill overlooking the bay, and the streets are lined with one enormous, perfectly tended mansion after another. Flowers sprout in dazzling displays; exotic specimen trees bloom and sway; there isn’t a single crumpled candy wrapper on the sidewalk. To Erica it doesn’t seem quite real somehow—it feels like a movie set or a fantasy sprung to life or even a parody of extreme wealth. She knows she has driven into the heart of the buffered bubble that the one-tenth of one percent calls home. Then they pass an ambulance and she sees an old man—skeletal, his eyes wide with fear—being wheeled out of his house on a stretcher. All the gold in the world can’t keep decay and death at bay.

  The Ortizes live in a towering redbrick Edwardian that looks like it could shrug off a drone strike with barely a broken window. As Erica’s car pulls up to the portico, Mike and Celeste appear from inside. They’re both casually dressed in a sort of tossed-off lunch-at-the-country-club way—he’s in chinos and a denim work shirt; she’s in slacks and a blouse, with a sweater draped over her shoulders and knotted in front. In spite of it all, Mike retains a certain working-class virility, while Celeste radiates casual ease and confidence. But Erica knows that under her smooth surf
ace the woman is paddling like mad. Fine. Erica admires ambition.

  Celeste lets Mike take the lead—holding back as he steps forward and extends his hand. “Welcome.”

  “It’s nice to be here.”

  Now Celeste takes her turn, grasping one of Erica’s hands in both of hers and saying in a low-key way, “We’re not usually this upbeat. Blame it on the Erica Sparks effect.”

  Erica musters a smile at the pun.

  “Seriously, I’m a big believer in the importance of a free press—passionate journalists have saved this country more than once. Present company included.”

  Erica follows them into the house. It’s like stepping into a glossy real estate brochure—rooms seem to stretch on forever, and everything is immaculate and glistening and looks unlived-in. They’re halfway across the foyer when a mixed-race teenage girl appears with three straining dachshunds on leashes.

  Celeste says, “This is Alicia. Alicia, meet Erica Sparks.”

  Alicia looks starstruck. Erica puts a hand on her shoulder and says, “What a pleasure.”

  “Yes. For me too,” Alicia says with a shy smile.

  “Alicia is my mentee. We connected through a wonderful program Mike and I support called A Hand Up. She’s only been in this country for eighteen months. Her mother is struggling to raise six children on her salary as a hotel maid.”

  “You’re a lovely young woman, Alicia, and you’re going to do very well here,” Erica says.

  Celeste puts a hand on Alicia’s lower back and says, “Have a nice walk.”

  They head past the kitchen and through several living rooms before coming to a sun porch that offers one of the most spectacular views Erica has ever seen—the city, the bay, the bridge, the boats, Alcatraz. Again, a sense of unreality prevails—it’s almost too beautiful, and to live like this every day seems like an impossible dream. But under it all Erica senses something darker—a drive that knows no bounds, a pitiless hunger.

  “This is breathtaking,” she says.

  “We don’t even notice it anymore,” Celeste says. A rolling cart is topped with a plate of sandwiches, one of cookies, a teapot, a coffee pot, and a pitcher of lemonade. “Would you like some coffee, or a sandwich? We have PB&J.”

  Erica is brought up short—in an interview with Robin Roberts last year she admitted that her favorite midnight snack was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. This is the part of being a celebrity that she hates—this loss of a private life, this intrusion, right into her kitchen. What do her eating habits have to do with her work as a journalist? She regretted doing the Roberts interview and hasn’t done another since.

  “I’m fine,” she says.

  Mike Ortiz sits on an ottoman and leans forward, elbows on knees—it’s an engaging pose and he seems eager to talk. Celeste sits on a chaise and crosses her ankles, trying her best to look casual.

  Erica was hoping to have some time alone with Mike but sees that’s probably not in the cards. Today anyway. She’s going to insist on a one-on-one tomorrow when the cameras are rolling.

  “I’d love to hear how you two met,” Erica says.

  Mike shoots a glance at his wife, whose expression doesn’t change. “I was a congressman from the East Bay. Celeste was a major Democratic donor. We met at a fundraiser for my 2006 campaign.”

  “You obviously come from very different backgrounds. What was it like for you to adjust to Celeste’s lifestyle?” Erica asks.

  “It was difficult at first. My father worked for Caltrans; my mother was a waitress. I felt uncomfortable around Celeste’s friends and family. As if they were judging me.” Again he looks to his wife, who is smiling in approval. “But we were in love. And we still are. And that’s more important than any differences.”

  “I think our first Thanksgiving was a little rocky,” Celeste says.

  “Yes, my mother cleared the table.”

  “And my mother let her!”

  They both laugh, in a rehearsed kind of way.

  “I’ve always wanted to make a difference with my life, but with Celeste by my side, I feel that anything is possible.”

  “I find that so touching,” Celeste says. She swings her legs to the floor and perches on the edge of the chaise. “Mike had nothing to prove to me. He was a great congressman, a fighter for those who need a champion. His experiences as a marine in the Iraq War gave him a strength and a perspective that I felt the country needed.”

  “You can’t see death and destruction up close and not be affected by it,” Mike says. “The innocent victims, wounded children, the orphans, seared themselves into my soul. That’s why I led that humanitarian mission back to Iraq as a congressman in 2008. I was determined to secure congressional funding for schools and orphanages.”

  “But you were captured by Al-Qaeda,” Erica says.

  Ortiz nods. He looks down; his voice softens; his tone becomes intimate. “The months I spent as an Al-Qaeda prisoner changed me. Deeply. I went days without food or water. I was tortured. Threatened with beheading. I thought I would never see my family again. There was more than one dark night of the soul. But then I decided to fight, to escape or die trying.” He looks Erica right in the eye and continues. “And once I made that decision—to fight—everything changed. I had purpose, a mission. And I accomplished it. I want to inspire every American to join me in the fight, the mission to make this country a more perfect union. A house divided will not stand. My America is a house united.”

  He seems sincere, and his magnetism is seductive. Celeste is watching him with a reverent expression. Maybe Erica was wrong about these two. Maybe under their ambition they are caring and compassionate and would be able to bring the country together.

  As if he’s reading her mind, Mike says, “You know, Erica, all of this”—he gestures to the house and view—“means nothing to me. What matters is what’s inside. The heart.”

  Celeste beams. “Mike has a vision for this country.” She leans forward and lowers her voice. “You’re a fighter too, Erica. You fought Nylan Hastings and you won. You saved this country, the whole world in fact, from a very dangerous man.”

  “I was just doing my job.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second,” Celeste says. “Most journalists would have turned the investigation over to law enforcement. You didn’t. At great personal risk.”

  “There must have been times when you were afraid for your life,” Ortiz says.

  “And even for your daughter’s,” Celeste adds.

  They’re both leaning toward her with warm, encouraging expressions, and for a moment Erica forgets where she is, even who she’s with, and she’s back in Miami on that terrifying day. “I had help. I had my colleagues . . . but, yes, I was afraid.”

  “You must miss Greg Underwood a great deal,” Celeste says.

  Erica nods and looks down, thinking of Greg and Moira and Manny and Derek and all the people who got her through that terrifying time. She feels a swell of emotion and wishes she were back in her hotel room so she could call Jenny.

  And then—with a jolt that makes her sit upright—she realizes something: the Ortizes have effortlessly, artfully succeeded in making this visit about her. She looks at them with wry admiration. They’re world-class charmers, and she waltzed right onto their dance floor.

  Then she notices Celeste noticing her realization—it’s a fleeting moment between them, but unmistakable. Celeste Pierce Ortiz doesn’t miss a thing. Well, guess what, Celeste, neither do I. Something shifts in the room, in the mood.

  And then, from the front of the house, come cries and sobs and commotion. Mike and Celeste jump up just as Alicia runs in, distraught. “I am so sorry, so sorry. He ran away; he pulled away and pulled the leash out of my hand and ran into the street! I tried to catch him; he ran into the street. I am so sorry.”

  A stout older woman, whom Erica assumes is the housekeeper, walks in and says simply, “Jasper was run over.”

  Celeste gasps. “Not my Jasper!”

&nbs
p; “I am so sorry, so, so sorry; he ran away from me,” Alicia sobs.

  “Is he dead?” Celeste asks.

  The housekeeper nods. “I called the vet. They’re on the way over to pick up the body.”

  “What about Molly and Adrian?”

  “They’re fine. A little upset, but fine. I put them in their crates.”

  Celeste stands stock-still. “I’ve had Jasper for eleven years . . . He was my first dachshund.” She looks down—when she looks up, her eyes are filled with tears.

  “He was a wonderful little fellow,” the housekeeper says.

  A pall comes over the room. Celeste is disconcerted. Alicia is terrified. The housekeeper is resigned.

  And Mike Ortiz is blank. Nothing. No affect. Just blank.

  Erica feels out of place, and the whole scene creeps her out somehow. “I’m very sorry about your dog. I’m going to go now. Call me when you’re ready to continue, but let’s wait until at least tomorrow.”

  Celeste looks a little embarrassed by her momentary loss of control. Then she takes a deep breath and shoots a look at Alicia—it’s a fair bet this mentor/mentee relationship just went south. Then Celeste says “Mike” and nods toward the front door.

  Mike escorts Erica out to her car. The driver opens the door for her.

  “I’m sorry this happened while you were here,” Mike says, but in a detached way, as if a pipe had sprung a leak or dinner had burned. Then he extends his hand to the driver. “Mike Ortiz.” Then he smiles. That blazing movie star smile.

  As Erica heads back to Nob Hill, she’s reminded again that there are some things money can’t protect you from. And there are some people who aren’t what they seem.

  CHAPTER 10

  AN HOUR LATER CELESTE IS sitting at an outside table at Gott’s in the Ferry Building on the Embarcadero, waiting for Lily Lau to appear. As soon as Erica Sparks left, she called Lily. The two met in a Chinese history class their freshman year at Stanford, where the professor’s passion for the subject—coupled with Lily’s brilliance and beauty—ignited Celeste’s fascination with China. And Lily was hardly averse to having smart and socially connected Celeste in her orbit. That first day they went out for lunch after class and bonded immediately, kindred spirits. Their relationship has since evolved into something profound. Transcendent. And they’re just getting started.