by Lee Strobel
For those sixty minutes, shrouded in the early–morning shadows, he would do nothing but pray and meditate on Scripture. He would intercede for himself and his family, for his staff and key volunteers, for his congregation and — equally important to him — everyone living within driving distance but who had yet to darken the door of Diamond Point Fellowship.
He would pray for the government and its leaders, for the unemployed and the needy, for world peace and prosperity. He would ask God for insights as he prepared his sermons, for wisdom as he wrestled with decisions, for faithfulness as he resisted temptations, for joy in the midst of the burdens of leadership.
At the end he would take out a small notebook that he carried throughout the day. Whenever people would ask him to pray for them, he would scrawl a note. On his knees as the sun would be rising in an adjacent window, he would lift up each and every one of those requests to God.
Children with cancer, wives with alcoholic husbands, parents fretting over wayward kids, a friend under arrest, an executive facing bankruptcy, a teenager pondering suicide, a family fighting off foreclosure — one by one, he would implore God to intervene in these everyday tragedies with every bit as much passion as if the need were his own.
Those days had long passed.
Oh sure, he still prayed — after all, he’s a pastor. But more often than not, his impromptu petitions were now tossed hurriedly toward heaven. He still listed requests in his notebook, but a quick blanket prayer covered them.
He knew God was still there — listening, caring, even responding. But Eric Snow wasn’t quite so convinced that prayer and the church were the most effective channels for transforming the world.
Even as he witnessed the meteoric rise of his megachurch, he had become increasingly frustrated over the intractability of the social problems that breed personal despair. Maybe — just maybe — he was being nudged toward a new assignment, like the Old Testament character Joseph in ancient Egypt, who wielded the power of government for the greater good.
On this day, his feet propped up on the credenza, Snow perused the Examiner while leaning back in his leather chair. He was killing time before his weekly conference call, when leading Republican strategists shared inside tidbits about trends, polls, and opportunities. Snow was the sole pastor allowed to participate in these covert conversations, which always fueled his desire to become an influential player in the political world.
Snow’s intercom buzzed. “Debra Wyatt on line two,” said his assistant.
Snow picked up the receiver. “Debra, hi.”
“Quick — turn on WGN.”
“I’ll call you back.”
Snow stood and grabbed the remote to turn on the flat screen on his wall, just as an anchorwoman segued to a press conference at the Dirksen Federal Building in downtown Chicago.
“I’m here to announce that a grand jury has indicted U.S. Senator Samuel D. Barker for tax evasion, mail fraud, and perjury,” said Maxwell Harringer, the chief prosecutor for the Northern District of Illinois, as he stood behind a podium emblazoned with the seal of the United States Attorney’s Office.
“According to the indictment, Senator Barker filed false federal income tax returns for the last three years, in which he knowingly failed to report $215,000 in ‘consulting fees’ paid to him by lobbyists in the energy industry. These fees were concealed on the books of these lobbying firms. He is also charged with perjury for lying to the grand jury about facts material to this investigation. If convicted, Senator Barker faces a maximum sentence of 30 years in prison. I admonish the public that Senator Barker is innocent until proven guilty. I’m sorry that due to federal guidelines I’m unable to take questions at this time.”
With that, Harringer collected his papers, nodded at the camera, and strode off the platform, ignoring a cacophony of questions shouted by the press corps. After Harringer disappeared through a side door, the camera turned to WGN reporter Marv Dixon.
“There you have it,” he said. “Rumors about the two–term Republican senator have been flying for months, and now he’s been formally charged. Sources confirm that arrangements have been made for him to surrender to federal marshals at one o’clock this afternoon; no doubt he’ll be released on his own recognizance awaiting trial.
“There’s nothing that would require Senator Barker to resign at this point. However, if he’s convicted of any one of these felonies, he would be forced out of office and Republican Governor Edward Avanes would appoint a successor who would serve until the next congressional election. Now back to the studio.”
Snow clicked off the set, sat back down at his desk, and hit Debra’s number on speed dial.
“We’re off and running,” were her first words.
“I didn’t think this was going to happen for a while,” Snow said.
“Washington pushed Harringer to move ahead. They hit some snags in the plea negotiations, but Barker is going to cave. Here’s the key: everybody’s expecting Barker to go to trial, which would be at least a year down the road, so the press isn’t going to be speculating about who Avanes might appoint to replace him. That gives us time to get everything lined up.”
Snow eased his feet back onto the credenza. “What’s our next move?”
“We’ll leak your name as a replacement for Barker at the right moment,” she said. “Get someone else to fill the pulpit for a while. Don’t do anything to remind people you’re a pastor. That’s our Achilles’ heel, Eric. Religion makes people skittish.”
“Absolutely. I’ve got to position myself as a leader.”
“Right. Not a spiritual leader, not a church leader, not a religious leader, but a leader with a track record of incredible success in the public, private, and not–for–profit sectors.”
“I’ve written that op–ed piece you suggested about how to improve mass transit,” he said.
“Perfect. That’ll remind people how you fixed the RTA. Email it to Tom at our PR firm; he’ll feed it to the Tribune.”
“Anything else?”
Debra thought for a moment. “Yeah, one other loose end. Remember I called to warn you that Garry Strider was asking questions about the church? Have you heard anything from him?”
“He’s already interviewed Art and he’s asked to interview me.”
“Ugh. How did Art think his interview went?”
“He said Strider seemed to be looking for a scandal. Someone told me he was spotted at a weekend service recently. He’s going to get impatient if I don’t talk with him pretty soon. Do you know what set him off?”
“Usually he starts with a tip, typically an allegation by a disgruntled former employee. Any ideas?”
Snow mentally reviewed the names of possible whistle–blowers. “Hard to say. People get mad and might twist something to make us look bad.”
“We don’t need Strider doing an article that raises any questions about you or the church. Strider said he wanted to get together with me. Maybe I’ll take him up on that and see what I can find out.”
“Thanks. In the meantime, I’ll sit tight.”
“Yes,” Debra said. She was just about to hang up when she added as an afterthought, “And pray.”
Snow chuckled. “Right.”
II
Garry Strider knew there was big trouble as soon as Mitchell Montgomery III stepped out of the elevator and headed straight for the City Desk without making eye contact with anyone.
Murmurs swept like a tsunami through the Examiner newsroom. Even before the loudspeaker could ask the staff to gather for an announcement, people were already moving toward the nest of desks where Montgomery had come to stand, stiff and nervous, next to an equally uncomfortable John Redmond.
Except for the random ringing of a few telephones in the background, the newsroom fell eerily silent. Strider leaned against a pillar, arms folded, lips pursed, his collar unbuttoned and tie askew.
Like mourners lingering in the back of a funeral, nobody wanted to get too close to Redmond, t
he editor for the last dozen years, and Montgomery, the senior member of the family that has owned the Examiner for four decades.
In his late sixties, Montgomery was trim, balding, and genteel–looking, with close–cropped salt–and–pepper hair and a thick mustache that had turned mostly white. He was wearing a charcoal suit over a blue–and–white striped shirt and no tie.
Montgomery hardly needed to say anything. Although they dreaded hearing it, everybody knew what was coming. Just five months earlier, twenty–six people had been laid off in a similar announcement. Since then, rumors ran rampant that the paper’s finances were continuing to spiral down. It was the same story across the country as the newspaper industry withered in the face of rapidly deteriorating revenues.
“You’re journalists, so you’ve already figured out what’s going on,” Montgomery began, holding his chin up and speaking in a clear, loud voice. “You know that Craigslist and eBay have drained our classified advertising revenue. The recession has wreaked havoc with our remaining help wanted and real estate ads. You’re aware that our circulation has been dwindling. Young people aren’t subscribing, and they’re the most desirable demographic for advertisers. No matter what we do to try to stem our losses in readership, the numbers keep getting softer.
“It’s no secret that the economic realities are causing advertisers to pull back. More people are getting their news for free on the Internet; we’ve poured a fortune into our website, but we only get relative pennies from the banner ads. And operating costs are going up — newsprint, utilities, you name it.”
He was right and everybody knew it. A secretary dabbed her eyes with a tissue. Strider felt nauseous. Out of habit, he had flipped open his spiral notebook and had been writing down Montgomery’s words until he started feeling a little foolish. He jammed the notebook into his back pocket.
Montgomery clasped his hands behind his back. “So I’m here to inform you that my family is putting the Examiner on the auction block. For the next six months, we’ll solicit bids from all responsible parties who have the financial wherewithal and the vision to take over. I wish I could tell you there will be no more layoffs in the interim, but we must continue to trim expenses as we get our balance sheet in the best possible shape.”
He paused. “I’m very sorry to have to say that,” he added, his voice catching toward the end.
Montgomery took a moment to gather himself. He let his eyes slowly sweep back and forth over the staff — a ragtag collection of smart, talented, free–thinking individuals who had somehow managed to coalesce into a tight–knit journalism team that rivaled the best in the business.
Now his voice was more personal. “This is a very sad day for me and my siblings. We have resisted this and agonized over it. Our most fervent hope was that there would be another way. But there’s no alternative. So let’s press onward. Let’s hope that someone with deeper pockets will recognize that the Examiner still has a future.”
Montgomery turned to Redmond, who looked for an instant like he was going to launch into a speech of his own. But as Redmond glanced over the dispirited staff, he quickly discerned that a pep talk would ring hollow.
The employees had every right to feel deflated. Most were savvy enough to surmise that there would be no financial white knight to rescue the Examiner. Their world — the grit and glamour of the bigcity print newspaper — was dying. No words of exhortation would change that. These reporters would see through that kind of phony cheerleading as quickly as they could skewer a politician’s hypocrisy.
“Okay, everyone,” was all Redmond could say. “Let’s get back to work.”
The staff started to disperse, quietly at first, and then the chatter began to return to the newsroom. Strider drifted toward the far side of the room, where he worked in a warren of cubicles amidst specialty reporters who covered politics, medicine, law, education, transportation, religion, and a dozen other subjects.
Like everyone else, he was mentally doing the math: he would get nearly four months of salary if the paper shuts down. At the most, he had a few grand in the bank — not nearly enough in a deteriorating economy where reporting jobs were evaporating fast.
As Strider was ambling toward his desk, eyes downcast, he inadvertently bumped shoulders with someone walking briskly in the opposite direction. “Sorry,” was Strider’s reflexive response. As he looked up, he saw it was Howard Preston, the assistant managing editor.
“Strider — hey, I missed the meeting. How’re people taking it?”
Strider shrugged. “Everyone knew something was going to happen, but it always stings when you hear the words.”
Then Strider realized this chance encounter was a real opportunity. “Have you got a second? C’mere,” he said, motioning for Howard to join him in a small alcove where the vending machines were located.
“Give it to me straight,” he whispered. “How many are getting canned?”
Howard looked around; a couple of other reporters were meandering in their direction in search of a cup of coffee. Howard had been told to keep quiet about specifics, but this was his friend. Certainly Strider deserved some details.
“Let’s go,” Howard said, giving Strider a shove in the direction of his glass–walled office that overlooks the horseshoe–shaped copy desk.
Strider sat on the couch, his back to the glass, and slumped down so that nobody could identify him if they peered inside. Howard, a pugnacious and chronically impatient former collegiate wrestler, sat on the edge of his desk.
“Here’s the thing,” Howard said. “I want to keep you, Redmond wants to keep you, but you’ve got to give us a reason to keep you. Getting passed over for the Pulitzer didn’t help you.”
Strider stifled an objection. After all, his work speaks for itself. His last series won every investigative award in the region.
“We’re going to jettison the other two guys on your team,” he continued. That wasn’t news to Strider; he already assumed they would get cut. “But I want you to dig up the kind of exclusives that will keep us the talk of the town. What are you working on now? Please tell me it’s something big.”
Strider knew that Howard didn’t like expansive explanations, so he simply said: “Eric Snow.”
Howard slapped his forehead and let loose with an expletive. “You’ve got Snow? Fantastic! What — banging his secretary? Covering up child abuse? This is great, Strider! Snow’s a big fish. He’s a rising star.”
“Whoa, I’m still in the investigatory stage.”
“Is someone leaking something to you? You got insider stuff?”
“It started with a hunch,” said Strider.
“A hunch? I hope you’ve got more than that.”
“I’ve been turning the place upside down, poring over everything I can get my hands on, talking with former staffers and members who’ve left the church — you name it.”
As usual, Howard was after the headline. “So what’s the angle?”
Strider swallowed hard. “Nothing concrete yet, but I’m tracking down some real possibilities.”
Howard looked off into the distance as he imagined a front–page Sunday headline exposing one of the nation’s most prominent clergymen and one of the country’s most influential churches — a celebrated citadel of modern American evangelicalism. He liked what he saw. It was the stuff of Pulitzers.
“Listen, Strider, nail it down,” he said, standing to signal the end of their meeting. “Nail him.”
III
“Tommy O — it’s Dom. Pick up … I don’t like machines. Where were you last week? You’re not bailing on me, are you? You missed a great set — Witkowski walked away with 40 large. He’s back tonight and ripe for the picking. I’ll see you tonight, pal!”
Tom’s eyes widened as the answering machine clicked off. Forty grand. That would solve a lot of problems. Chase off a lot of creditors. And Witkowski’s an idiot; how many times has he botched a hand? Who knows how much a real player could have scored? Forty grand wo
uld get my chin above water …
Tom put down his beer and massaged his face with both hands. But Bugatti … Maybe there’s another game someplace. Maybe on the North Side. There’s one over on Fullerton …
He took another swig. No, the Bugattis have their tentacles everywhere; Dom would find out — and then what? I don’t need him coming after me … Still, forty large. One night …
He glanced around his small house. All the little touches that Laura had added to make it a home were gone with her. Now the place was Spartan, cold, stark. He let his mind linger on Witkowski’s take. Maybe with that kind of money, he could have kept her.
He gave his head a shake. He reached over and picked up his car keys. Friday night. Time for a weekly date with Phillip Taylor.
IV
Gina pulled out a chair and sat down at the round wooden table. Looking up from her salad, Audrey Byrne spoke so softly that she was basically just mouthing the words: “Nothing yet?”
Gina only briefly looked at her friend and shook her head, afraid she might start to cry if she talked about how Strider hadn’t called in the five days since their blowout at Le Boujolais.
Gina removed a sandwich from a brown paper bag and the two of them ate in silence. Four or five other teachers murmured throughout the Teacher’s Lounge, quietly enjoying a respite from their students.
Finally, unprompted, Gina managed to speak. “This is his pattern — whenever we have a fight, he freezes me out. But this time … I don’t know. It seems so final.”
Audrey looked around the room. “Too many ears,” she whispered. “Let’s go for a walk.”
They tossed their trash and exited the lounge, turning left down a corridor that became a curved hallway. With the students at lunch and other teachers covering monitor duty, there was nobody around. Audrey unlocked the door to her fifth–grade classroom and the two of them slipped inside, Gina perching on the edge of Audrey’s desk while Audrey eased herself into her chair.
“I really don’t want to lose him,” Gina said. “I feel like he needs me. Moving out was hard enough, but then to have him propose — oh, Audrey, I don’t know …”