by Lee Strobel
—And your point —
— I’m saying it doesn’t sound like a psychologically induced illness.
We’ll see.
—What do you mean?
—The parents have agreed to have her tested. Genetically, I mean.
—Tested?
—Yeah, the Examiner’s paying for it. I’m curious about it. Aren’t you?
— But what can that really show? I’m sure you’ve heard of spontaneous healings, haven’t you? People get cancer, the tumor is there in the tests, and when they go in for surgery a while later and have a new test — boom, it’s gone. There’s been a spontaneous healing for some inexplicable reason. It’s a mystery. That happens, Mr. Strider.
— [pause] I suppose. [pause] But something’s bothering me.
—What’s that?
—The timing of this. Even I know the story where Jesus told the storm to calm down and it did. Now, I’m sure that’s just a legend, but here’s my point: all storms eventually die down. That’s not a big deal. But if Jesus told the storm to calm down and suddenly it did, then that’s something else entirely. You see what I’m saying? It’s the timing that seems to put it in the category of being a miracle, if you believe in that sort of thing.
—Mr. Strider, let’s get back to the case at hand. I want to repeat that nobody is making any claim that anything miraculous or supernatural occurred. I hope you’re clear on that.
—Yeah, I got that. But how do you account for the fact that this spontaneous, random, unexplained, mysterious healing just happened to occur immediately after Dick Urban prayed and asked God to heal her?
— [pause] Well, you tell me. Seems like you’ve got all the answers, Mr. Strider.
— [chuckles] Honestly, I wish I did. But I’m checking it out. Aren’t you interested in this?
—Of course. But you’re not going to print this, are you?
— I’m a reporter, Reverend Snow. That’s what I do. But obviously I’m not going to write something until I’ve checked it out thoroughly.
—Yes, you don’t want to be embarrassed if this turns out to be — well, nothing. Maybe it’s only temporary.
—You mean maybe her hearing and sight might disappear again?
— I’m just saying you don’t want to be embarrassed if this turns out to be — I don’t know, a hoax or a mistake or an exaggeration or a misdiagnosis or whatever.
—Yes, of course.
— I’ll tell you what. I know you’re in a competitive business. I’ll ask the parents to keep this confidential until a definite conclusion can be reached. That way, some other reporter won’t catch wind of it. And I promise if I get a call on this from any other media, I’ll alert you immediately. That way, you won’t get scooped. So there’s no hurry here. Take your time, check all your facts, and let’s talk again when we do our interview. Is that okay?
— [pause] Yeah, that’s fine. I’m not jumping to any conclusions; believe me, I’m as skeptical as the next guy. Probably more so. But … [pause] I’m just wondering … [pause] You do want this girl to be cured, don’t you?
—Mr. Strider, of course! I want the best for her. After all, I’m a pastor! I mean —
—What?
— I mean, I’m the leader of a large organization that, uh, helps all kinds of people in, um, all kinds of ways.
— Uh–huh. [pause] Well, why don’t you turn me back over to Diane and I’ll set up that interview we talked about?
—Okay, that’s fine. Hold on.
End of recording.
CHAPTER
SIX
I
Debra Wyatt wasn’t budging.
Give Garry Strider credit, he tried everything on her. Only, his charm didn’t get him as far as it used to; she seemed impervious to the flirting that once succeeded in piercing her tough veneer. His subtle and not–so–subtle queries dislodged nothing worthwhile from her. He even tried to bluff her into thinking he knew more than he did, but she saw through him as quickly as she used to disarm sketchy witnesses who were trying to scam her.
Strider was running out of tactics. And unlike the old days, when a few too many Black Russians would lubricate her inhibitions, Debra was nursing a diet soft drink as they sat in the first–floor coffee shop of her Loop office building.
“Garry, this is getting ridiculous. I understand that you want the dirt on Judge Sepulveda, but there’s absolutely nothing I can tell you.”
“Then there is dirt.”
Debra laughed, chasing a wayward lock of blonde hair from her face with a subtle flick of her head. “Strider, you haven’t changed.”
Finally ready to concede defeat, Strider settled back in his green vinyl booth. “You have,” he said.
Again, she smiled. He was right — more than he knew.
“Look, Strider, all you’ve talked about is Sepulveda. I thought you also wanted to talk about Diamond Point. You’ve been snooping a lot over there. What are you looking for?”
Strider drained his black coffee and gestured to the waitress for a refill. He waited until she topped off the cup and walked away. “Yeah, I’m interested in Diamond Point. How did someone like you get involved in a church like that anyway?”
Debra arched her eyebrows. “What do you mean, ‘someone like me’? What am I — the seductive temptress who corrupted an innocent young reporter?”
“I thought it was the other way around.”
“That was a long time ago. We both made mistakes.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Okay, I made mistakes. I never should have gotten involved. It was unhealthy for both of us.”
“We both came out all right,” he said, gently blowing swirls of steam from his cup. “I thought you were going to go into politics. What happened with that?”
Debra glanced out the window onto the bustling sidewalk as she gathered her thoughts. “The stars didn’t align. The primaries were too crowded. The fund–raising — I never would have made it.” She looked at Strider. “The truth is I’ve always been much more interested in policies than politics.”
Strider grinned. “I would have voted for you.” All these years later, he still found himself mesmerized by her coral blue eyes, which somehow managed to look intelligent and probing while at the same time vulnerable and alluring. Or was that a look she had cultivated for her own purposes? Even now, he wasn’t sure.
“Let me be blunt, Garry — you’re not going to find anything at Diamond Point. Snow is one of the good guys.”
“Really? No hesitations?”
“None. He’s coming from a different place than you are. His worldview is different from yours. But his heart is right. His values are good. His goals are decent. It’s not a crime to be an evangelical Christian.”
“Maybe it should be,” he said.
“Garry, c’mon. It’s me — Debra. You think I’m part of some evil cabal of theocrats who are trying to shove superstition down people’s throats? I came to a place a few years ago where I totally reexamined my life. Coming out of the U.S. Attorney’s office, having my heart broken a few times, giving up my dream of politics — it was a tough time in my life.”
“And God saved you?”
“Strider, it’s not as simplistic as you want to make it.”
“I can’t believe you buy into that stuff.”
“I can’t believe you don’t. Have you ever really looked at the evidence for God?”
“I’m too busy looking into Diamond Point. Debra, I know you’re legit. I don’t have any reason to question your motivation or involvement at the church. But maybe there are some things going on that you don’t know about.”
She leaned forward. “If you find something, then as an elder I’d want to know about it. I’d want it fixed more than you would. But Garry, I’m not aware of anything that would warrant all of the time you’re spending out there.” She sat back and sized him up. “What’s really driving you?”
“I smell a story, that’s all.”
“I can’t imagine myself hanging around with a religious fanatic.”
“Strider, why do you think our church is some kind of marginal, kooky, out–of–the–mainstream place? We’re Christians, so are the majority of Americans. So’s the president, for goodness sake. Eric Snow is not a cultist; he’s a leader — he’s been a business leader, the leader of a governmental task force, and now he’s the leader of a large nonprofit organization that helps all kinds of people in all kinds of ways.”
“Funny — Snow used virtually the same script with me,” Strider said.
“Well, it’s true.”
“What about this incident with the little girl at the Elders Prayer meeting?”
Debra sighed. “Nobody’s claiming that’s a miracle.”
“Her parents are.”
“Are they theologically trained? They’re just glad their girl is okay. We all are. But we’re not a bunch of fanatical faith–healers. Eric Snow is as sober–minded and responsible as any leader of any large and complex organization. I know you’re skeptical of faith, but I also know you can be an honest and impartial reporter. We’re counting on your integrity, Garry.”
They sat quietly for a few moments. Strider took off his glasses and slipped them into his pocket. At last, he said, “Regardless of what you might think, I don’t have an agenda, Debra. By your own admission, Diamond Point is a large organization that affects a lot of people in different ways. That makes it a legitimate subject for scrutiny.”
“Granted. And I know you’ll be fair.”
“Unlike Judge Sepulveda …”
“Strider! Give it a rest. I’m telling you — I’m not saying anything about Sepulveda.”
She looked into Strider’s face — and now she judged that the time was right. She knew he was starting to regret that he had spent so much time with her without extracting anything of consequence about Sepulveda. Everything was set on her end — even Elizabeth Snow had reluctantly set aside her objections and given her permission to go the next step. As the conversation was nearing its end, it was the opportune moment.
Her voice took on a confidential tone. “Strider, I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything about Sepulveda. But there is one thing I can tell you.”
Strider perked up. “Yeah? Like what?”
Debra quickly scanned the room; still, nobody was sitting close enough to overhear anything. “I want to make sure we’re off the record.”
Now Strider was getting somewhere. This was the Debra Wyatt he used to know. “Yeah, sure.”
“Let’s define our terms. I’m not your source. But I do have something you might be interested in.”
“Okay, deep background.”
“You can’t attribute this to me or even to an unnamed source. You’ve got to confirm it independently. I’m serious, Strider. You can use this as a lead, but someone else has got to spell it out for you.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Debra. So what’ve you got?”
They leaned toward each other. Debra paused to heighten his curiosity. When she spoke, she made every word count.
“Senator Barker is going to plead guilty — very soon. And when he does, Governor Avanes will appoint his successor. And it’s going to be Eric Snow.”
II
The commotion began at daybreak in the cul–de–sac at the end of Eric Snow’s winding driveway, guarded by an ornate wrought iron gate. Crews from half a dozen Chicago morning TV programs and news shows clamored for positioning, their microphone–clutching reporters searching for the right spot to shoot their stand–ups.
Photographers from several newspapers settled for a few static shots of Snow’s stone home as they sipped steaming coffee from white cups and paced themselves for what they figured would be a long wait. Though most print journalists preferred to work the phones from their office, reporters from the Examiner, Tribune, and several suburban newspapers milled among the crowd.
Snow peered out a second–story window as he pressed a cell phone to his ear. “Yeah, there’s no way I can get through there without at least acknowledging them. I’d look like a jerk.”
The story had broken at 3:00 a.m. when the Examiner, in an article by–lined by investigative reporter Garry Strider and political editor Hal Brooks, was posted on the newspaper’s website. The same story anchored the front page of the print edition when it hit the streets before the sun came up: SNOW, McKELVIE TOP CANDIDATES TO REPLACE BARKER AS PLEA NEARS.
“You’ve got to give them footage for the morning shows,” Debra Wyatt was telling Snow. “Remember — they need visuals, and you don’t want them showing file footage of you preaching somewhere. I’m sure they’ve staked out McKelvie’s house or the courthouse; we don’t want him on the air and not you.”
Snow stepped away from the window and walked over to his closet to choose a tie. He selected a red and blue striped one that looked — well, senatorial. “What’s the best way to do this without looking like a fugitive or celebrity in rehab?”
Debra pondered the situation. “Is your morning paper still in the driveway?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, perfect. Get in the SUV and back down the driveway to the paper. Keep the gate closed; it’s not an obstacle for the cameras and it’ll keep the reporters from swarming you.”
“Uh–huh.”
“Then get out of the SUV, pick up the paper, and casually wave to the reporters. They’ll be calling out questions; take a couple of steps toward the cameras but stick to our statement: ‘Thanks for coming out here this morning. I’ve seen the speculation in the press and I just want to say I’m honored to be considered for this important appointment, but I think it would be premature for me to comment further at this time.’ Then get back in your SUV, push the button for the gate to open, and ease out.”
“Okay, got it.” He let out a small chuckle. “Seems like everything’s on track so far.”
“So far.”
Snow went downstairs, where Liz was peeking out the drapes. She turned and sized him up. “Was that Debra? You two plotting again?” Her tone was less accusatory than their encounter coming home from O’Hare.
“Just trying to figure out how to escape.”
During long conversations in the preceding days, Eric had assured Liz that she could spend most of her time in Illinois while he was in Washington and that he would continue to privately fund her African philanthropy if he won appointment to the Senate. She didn’t relish the public spotlight or playing the role of hostess for Washington soirées, and there still was much to work out between them, but she had grudgingly given Eric the green light to proceed — even though it was a very pale green indeed.
Snow’s exit from his house proceeded according to Debra’s instructions, although he was a bit taken aback by some of the questions hurled by the reporters: “What about separation of church and state?” “Would you represent Muslims and Jews, or just Christians?” “Are people who disagree with you going to hell?”
III
After Snow’s black SUV — an American–made hybrid, he was always quick to point out — snaked through the crowd of journalists, several of them took up positions for live feeds back to the morning shows, including Julia Holderman of Have A Good Day, Chicago.
“I’m here at the suburban home of Reverend Eric Snow, who’s among two finalists for replacing indicted U.S. Senator Sam Barker, whose guilty plea is reportedly imminent,” she said, pushing an errant earpiece back into place while keeping her eyes fixed on the camera.
“Snow didn’t have much to say as he retrieved his morning newspaper.” She paused while the video of Snow’s comments was played for the home audience.
“Snow, of course, is the high–profile pastor of Diamond Point Fellowship, the megachurch attended by thousands each week, a
mong them the daughter of Governor Avanes,” she continued. “Prior to founding DPF, he started Snow Visionary Software, drawing on his finance degree and MBA,” she said, in error on the last detail. “He advised President George W. Bush on the Israeli–Palestinian situation and gained statewide acclaim as a leader of the task force that solved the RTA’s seemingly intractable fiscal crisis.”
Back in the studio, co–host Deanna Foster posed a question — one for which the reporter had already researched an answer. “Isn’t it unusual for a pastor to be considered for appointment to a national stage like this?”
“Well, Jimmy Carter taught Sunday school at a Baptist church before and after his presidency,” Holderman replied. “William Harrison was a vestryman at an Episcopal church, James Garfield preached at revival meetings when he was in his twenties, and William McKinley studied to become a Methodist minister.”
Foster appeared satisfied with the prepared script. “What would be the political gain for the governor if he appointed Snow?”
“State Republicans are splintered into several warring factions; by appointing someone unaligned with any of those blocs, he avoids alienating large sections of the party. Also, Snow’s integrity hasn’t been challenged, which would be refreshing in light of this scandal surrounding Senator Barker. Of course, both those facts are also true of Chief Criminal Courts Judge Reese McKelvie, who’s also up for consideration.”
As Holderman recited her answer, Foster was frantically flipping through background notes prepared by a staff researcher. A producer prompted her through her earpiece: “No confirmation hearings.”
When the camera’s red light blinked on again, Foster looked up and said with an air of confident authority, “Of course, neither Snow nor McKelvie would have to worry about any confirmation hearings.”
“That’s right,” said Holderman. “The governor has the absolute power to appoint whomever he wants to succeed Senator Barker until the next congressional election, some eighteen months from now. And that would give the appointee plenty of time and leverage to run for a full term.”
“Julia, thanks for your report. Now let’s go over to Chad Noonan at the Criminal Courts Building.”