by Lee Strobel
Standing in front of the hulking courthouse on Chicago’s West Side, amidst a cluster of other reporters and photographers, Noonan acknowledged Foster with a dip of his head.
“Reese McKelvie arrived moments ago and entered the courthouse without comment,” he said while a tape played of the judge walking up a flight of stairs and into the front of the building — obviously staged for the cameras as deliberately as Snow’s appearance had been.
“McKelvie practiced law with the governor for several years before being elected to the General Assembly, where he served for two terms. Later he was elected to the circuit court and was elevated to the top position in the criminal court after a scandal that sent several judges to the penitentiary. He’s best known for cleaning up the way cases are assigned by removing any possibility of bias or favoritism.”
Foster jumped in. “So like Eric Snow, he’s been riding above politics,” she observed.
“Actually, McKelvie was elected to the court as a conservative Democrat; only later did he become a Republican. Rumor has it that he was piqued after the son of a Democratic party leader jilted his daughter.”
“Any downside to the fact that he was once the governor’s law partner? That seems a little cozy.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” replied Noonan. “On the other hand, the governor may feel that McKelvie is somebody he can trust. And certainly McKelvie has a positive record of cleaning up corruption.”
Back at the studio, Foster wrapped up the segment and went on to other topics. Outside Snow’s house in Diamond Point, Julia Holderman was handing her mic to the sound technician as they strolled back to their news van.
“You know, one thing still bothers me,” she said to her producer.
“What’s that?”
“The story in the Examiner. When you boil it down, there’s really very little news in it — Barker’s going to plead guilty soon, and McKelvie and Snow are up for the appointment. Normally, they would have padded out the story with some stale background about the candidates.”
“Yeah? And?”
“The material on Snow and Diamond Point wasn’t canned; it was really fresh stuff. Up–to–date statistics, interesting details. Obviously, Garry or Hal had already been digging into Snow and Diamond Point for a while. They’re way ahead of the game.”
Interesting, mused the producer. “Let’s get over to the church and see what we can find out,” he said. “The Examiner wouldn’t be wasting its time over there if they didn’t know there was a bigger story.”
IV
His radio was blaring, but the sound of the shower drowned out most of the chatter. Tom O’Sullivan wasn’t paying much attention anyway; he was rinsing the shampoo from his hair while thinking about the day that was about to unfold — three perfunctory court appearances on behalf of long–time clients, then a couple of office appointments in the afternoon.
It was the name that snapped his attention toward the news report: Was he imagining things or did he really hear the anchorman mention Reese McKelvie?
Tom wrapped himself in a towel and hustled into the bedroom, which doubled as a home office. Still standing, he leaned over the computer and clicked the bookmark for the Examiner’s home page — where he instantly saw a smiling photo of the chief criminal courts judge adjacent to a headline naming him as a potential successor to United States Senator Samuel D. Barker.
Fortunately, his swivel chair was there to catch him.
V
“Remember, I’m not here,” insisted Nicholas Halberstam. “Never been here. Never talked to you. The next sixty minutes never took place.”
Few circumstances generated apprehension in Eric Snow. Preaching to thousands of people didn’t elevate his heart rate anymore. Even meeting in the Oval Office became routine after a few visits. Sitting on a brown leather couch, holding hands with Liz, and watching Halberstam pace back and forth in between questions — now that was disconcerting.
“Gut check” was how Halberstam described the purpose of their meeting in Snow’s office, just hours after news broke that he was a finalist for replacing Senator Barker. A stout, forty–something, black–haired man with a closely trimmed beard, nattily dressed in a dark blue suit, bright white shirt, gold cuff links, and a vibrant red–and–yellow tie, Halberstam was the top political advisor to Governor Avanes.
His demeanor never changed during the meeting–that–never–took–place: there was no chit–chat or casual pleasantries, only his staccato questions and terse observations that demanded complete focus.
“You’re not my first choice,” he declared as he paced from one side of the room to the other, the mild aroma of stale cigarette smoke trailing in his wake. “Too many unnecessary issues with the church thing. Religion polarizes people. That’s your biggest obstacle. To me, it’s a fatal one, but, hey, I’m not the governor. On the other hand, nobody important is going to oppose you.”
“Why’s that?” asked Snow.
“Because you’re weak. Politically, you’re a lightweight. Democrats and Republicans will both like that. They’ll see you as a placeholder, someone in there for just eighteen months. That suits them just fine, because it means that everyone with ambition to be senator can start planning their own campaigns to replace you — the secretary of state, the mayor of Peoria, Congressman Dillard and Pickering, you name it. So you’d be popular with them. They know they’re not going to get the appointment, so their second choice would be a political nobody like you.”
Eric and Liz exchanged glances, and then he looked across the room at Debra Wyatt and Art Bullock, who were sitting side by side in red upholstered chairs. Art’s eyes were wide; Debra looked stoic, her arms folded across her chest, her thin lips betraying no reaction.
“If the governor does go with you, then Job One is to start your election campaign the minute the announcement is made. In fact, if you wait sixty seconds, you’ve waited too long. Everything you do, every decision you make, needs to promote your election. Fund–raising starts immediately. Eighteen months isn’t a long time to gain the advantages of incumbency. Or to build a war chest, even though you can seed it with your own cash.”
Snow spoke up. “What are the odds—”
“Of getting the nod? As I said, I advised against it, but who listens to me? The governor is leaning your way. Slightly. That’s why I’m here — or not here, I should say. We’ve got to get some things crystallized.”
He made direct eye contact with Snow. “I know you’ve filled out the forms we sent you, so we’ve got the basic background. But I’m here to ask you point–blank: is there anything in your background — anything whatsoever — that would embarrass the governor if he gives you this appointment?”
Snow shook his head. “You’ve seen our tax returns,” he said.
“Right. No red flags there. In fact, our analyst says you actually overpaid last year. And you’ve given plenty to charity — nice touch. No, I don’t see a problem with your taxes. I’m asking about your personal life. You’re good–looking, charismatic, influential. I need the background on all girlfriends, affairs, one–nighters, whatever you care to call them — no offense, Mrs. Snow.”
“There are none,” Snow said firmly, squeezing his wife’s hand. Liz echoed, “None.”
Halberstam’s eyes bore in on him. “You sure? Nothing inappropriate? No potential lawsuits for sexual harassment?”
Snow returned the stare. “As I said, no, there’s nothing.”
“No inadvertent touching?”
“No.”
“Nothing that could be misconstrued?”
“No.”
“Are you positive? Better to get it out now than later. Think for a moment.”
“I don’t have to think about it, Mr. Halberstam. The answer is no.”
“Porn? The convenience store down the block doesn’t have surveillance video of you buying girlie magazines, does it? Or your computer — any incriminating stuff on there?”
“Again,
no, Mr. Halberstam.”
Halberstam’s gaze shifted to Liz. “You? Anything you’d be embarrassed to have Garry Strider find out?”
Liz bristled at being cross–examined. She was still a reluctant convert to her husband’s Senate aspirations; if she had it her way, she’d never have to venture into the public arena.
“Mr. Halberstam,” she said in a measured tone, “there’s nothing I would try to hide from you or from him. Eric and I have had our ups and downs like every couple, but we’re faithful to each other. Corny as it sounds, we try to live what we preach.”
“Ups and downs, huh? Ever been separated, even for a little while?”
“No, never,” she said.
“Cops ever been called to the house for a domestic dispute?”
That evoked a small smile. “Of course not.”
“We live in a fish bowl at the church,” Snow added. “People at Diamond Point are observant. If there were the slightest whiff of a problem in our relationship, it would have gotten out. There’s nothing like that, Mr. Halberstam.”
Halberstam grunted. As he turned, he muttered as an aside: “At least you’ve got an edge with the black vote.”
“Only from a racist, political point–of–view — no offense, Mr. Halberstam,” Liz shot back. Eric, thinking she might lunge out of her chair, squeezed her hand tighter in a show of both support and restraint. “I’m not a poster girl to appease some constituency.”
“Mr. Halberstam, you owe my wife an apology,” Eric said crisply.
Halberstam looked surprised. “Look, I meant it as a compliment. You’re an asset, Mrs. Snow. If I were you, I’d embrace that.”
Eric could sense her withdrawing from the conversation — if she couldn’t fight then she became detached. Her pale green go–ahead light had just flickered into the golden glow of caution.
Halberstam, undeterred, bent over to retrieve a manila envelope from his oversized attaché case. He opened it and paged through some papers. “This lawsuit is a bit of a problem. The Fredricks case.”
Snow and Bullock knew it well: it was a wrongful–death suit filed by the parents of a teenager who drowned at the church’s Quad Cities camp two summers ago. The suit claimed negligence on the part of the church’s staff, safety violations, and insufficient oversight of the campers.
“That’s being settled,” Bullock offered. “It’s trumped up; the truth is these kids sneaked out at night and took a boat out on the lake without permission.”
Halberstam closed the file. “It might not get settled now that the word is out that Snow might become a senator. The parents might think they’ve got new leverage. In any event, I want copies of all the depositions. Were you deposed, Eric?”
“No.”
“Good. Make sure when you settle this thing that there’s a confidentiality provision. Any other pending suits?”
“No, none,” Debra said, drawing Halberstam’s attention to her. She was the elder liaison with the staff for all legal matters. “And that suit will be settled.”
“Whatever you say, counselor. Any other lawsuits on the horizon?”
“We’ve had a few skirmishes with the municipality of Diamond Point,” she replied. “Little things — they don’t like the lights on our ball field after ten o’clock. They want more trees planted over on the corner. Small stuff, no big deal.”
“Okay. I want a complete report on all litigation involving the church since its inception. Everything. Are there any credible threats of future lawsuits?”
Snow spoke up. “Not to my knowledge — Art?”
“Me either.”
Halberstam tossed the Fredricks file back into his briefcase. “Any other potential problems?” he asked of no one in particular.
For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Bullock said simply, “Strider.”
Halberstam’s interest piqued: “Garry Strider? What about him?”
Snow cleared his throat. “Well, he’s been snooping around here for the last few weeks. He interviewed Art.”
Halberstam spun to face Bullock. “What was he after?”
“Just fishing around.”
Halberstam sighed. “My dear Reverend Bullock, Garry Strider never just fishes around. Something has grabbed his interest. Any idea what it could be?”
“I don’t know. But I taped the interview.”
“Good. Give me a copy before I leave today.”
After a pause, Liz added in a soft voice, “And you should know about the miracle.”
“Miracle?” barked Halberstam.
Eric patted her hand. “It wasn’t a miracle, honey. At least, we’re not calling it that.” He looked up at Halberstam. “Our head elder prayed for a blind and deaf girl and she regained her hearing and sight. Garry Strider happened to be there.”
“And he saw this?”
“He was in the back but, yeah, he was there.”
“We don’t need anything like that. People are skittish enough about your church connection; they’re gonna think you’re a faith healer or something.”
“We’ve told the girl’s parents to keep quiet, but Strider’s still checking it out. I think we’re okay for now.”
“Well, be careful what you say about it. Don’t use the word ‘miracle’ or ‘healing’ or ‘supernatural’ or anything like that. And call me if that heats up.”
Halberstam scratched his beard as he looked around Snow’s expansive office, its large windows overlooking a lush courtyard dominated by a larger–than–life statue of Jesus toweling the outstretched foot of an astonished disciple.
“One thing’s for sure,” Halberstam said. “You’ve got to move out of this place — and I mean this afternoon. You can’t have the media coming to interview you at the church. It’s a constant reminder that you’re a pastor. Do you have another office somewhere?”
“Only at home.”
“That won’t work. Your ‘home’ is bigger than the Governor’s Mansion.”
“I could rent an office in downtown Diamond Point.”
“Do it now,” Halberstam said. “You can make it your campaign headquarters if and when that time comes. Rent some furniture; make it austere but tasteful. Hire an assistant who isn’t on the church payroll; in fact, hire a Jew or an atheist or something. Just not a Muslim. And don’t come back into this church for the time being. Not even on Sundays. When you walk out of here today, that’s it.”
“We could put him on a leave of absence,” Art suggested.
That seemed to resonate with Halberstam. “It would help if we could call you a former pastor,” he said, thinking out loud. “What if you resigned? That would dilute the church/state issue.”
Snow hesitated. “Obviously, I’d resign if I were selected. But before then? I don’t know …” Liz was already shaking her head, avoiding eye contact with him.
“I don’t like it,” Debra said flatly. “Everyone knows he’s been a pastor; we’re not going to fool anybody by having him quit now. If he gets chosen, fine. But otherwise, I don’t think so.”
Halberstam ignored her, a plan clearly forming in his mind. “What if he resigned to start a charity dedicated to some altruistic purpose — like attacking global poverty, or curing AIDS, or cleaning up the environment? Some sort of noble cause that everyone would nod and say, ‘Yep, that’s great.’ That would go a long way toward defusing skepticism about him being a pastor.”
Halberstam glanced from face to face, reading uncertainty if not outright contempt for his strategy. “Well, I’m telling you: all this church stuff is a problem,” he continued, turning toward Snow. “Your qualifications aren’t bad; you look good, you talk good, you’re a leader. Your business background is a plus. The way you handled that regional transit mess was pure genius. You’d probably make a fine senator. But people are going to wonder if you’re going to represent everybody or just evangelicals. What have you got — an archive of a dozen years of sermons? Who knows what your critics will find on those? Do you talk about hell and stuff?”
“Not a lot …”
“Good grief! We’ll have to get those sermons off your website and scrub any videos from YouTube.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Halberstam, 76 percent of Americans call themselves Christian. We’re not some out–of–touch cult.”
“But, Senator, most people who call themselves Christians aren’t evangelicals. That’s the problem. Do you believe only Christians are going to heaven?”
“The bottom line is that all evangelicals believe Jesus is the only way to God.”
“But you can’t say that. You can’t tell a Muslim from Chicago or a Jew from the North Shore or an atheist from Hyde Park that they’re headed for hell. You can say stuff like that in the safe confines of your sanctuary, but that’s not the way to talk to a constituent.”
“What do you suggest I say?”
“Express it as a personal opinion that’s just as valid as anyone else’s. You could say, ‘I’ve chosen to be a Christian; you may have made a different choice. That’s fine. We may have some disagreements about theology, but let’s agree that we need to move the state and nation forward.’ Something like that.”
Bullock had heard enough. “You want him to sell out!” he blurted.
Halberstam glared at him. “It’s called politics, Mr. Bullock. If you don’t have the stomach for it, then you should leave.”
“This church is built on the teachings of Jesus,” Bullock shot back. “There are some things you just can’t water down.”
“I’m not asking you to water down your beliefs; I’m suggesting you express your theology in a way that doesn’t unnecessarily alienate the very people you’re going to try to convince to cast their vote for you.”
Halberstam turned toward Snow. “I think you’re smart enough to understand this. And if you’re not, then you have no business in the United States Senate.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
I
Phillip Taylor pulled Tom O’Sullivan into an alcove after the weekly meeting of their gambling group. “You were quiet tonight. Something wrong?”