by Ralph Reed
“Do you realize what today means?” asked one of Andy’s obsequious aides. “You’re the new Billy Graham.”
Andy frowned, dipping his chin and clasping his hands firmly behind his back. “There’ll never be another Billy. Besides, I’m controversial, too political, don’t ya know.”
“Billy prayed with presidents; Andy elects ’em,” corrected Ross with a wicked grin. He turned to Andy. “Andy, you’re Billy, Richard Daley, and Samuel Gompers all rolled into one.”
Andy seemed momentarily taken aback by the comment. Then suddenly he broke into a little-boy grin and cackled with laughter, clapping his hands as he enjoyed the joke at his own expense. The posse, lined up on the couch like blow-up dolls, helmet hair frozen into place by too much hair spray, chuckled nervously. The comment struck close to home, but Andy’s self-deprecating sense of humor gave everyone else permission to laugh.
The door swung open and a security guard stood at attention. “Reverend Stanton, time to go, sir.”
Andy, followed in single file by the posse, headed out of the suite to an elevator.
SENATE MAJORITY LEADER SALMON Stanley strode through the Capitol Rotunda on his way to the inauguration of his sworn enemy wearing the plastic face of a defeated candidate. His puffy, white countenance masked the trauma beneath: resentment at Long’s successful betrayal of the Democratic party and his preternaturally charmed rise, anger at the investigation of his campaign by a Republican Justice Department, and bitterness at the vicious attacks on his candidacy from the media. Still, Stanley was determined to grit his teeth and get through the ordeal, if only to deny his enemies the joy of his absence. But that didn’t make it any more pleasant. Even though he claimed to have a hide as thick as an elephant, Stanley’s wound went deep.
“We’ll get through it fine,” Stanley said in a hollow voice to his chief of staff, walking briskly beside him. “My father used to say, ‘Son, when you get knocked down, get up, dust yourself off, and keep putting one foot in front of the other.’”
“You’re a far better man than the one taking the oath of office today,” the aide replied.
“Maybe,” Stanley said. “Sometimes you just have to put the country first. John Adams left town rather than attend Jefferson’s inaugural. Not me. I’m going to be on that platform when he takes the oath.” He paused. “I’m not a quitter.”
“Absolutely not,” the aide agreed.
The rotunda was eerily silent save for the echo of their footsteps. A few stragglers passed awkwardly, averting their eyes. A security guard who normally waved at the majority leader simply looked away. Clearly, it was going to be a tough day.
“Will you go again in four years? I hope so.” The aide turned philosophical.
“I don’t know,” said Stanley. “That’s a long way off.” Stanley turned to the aide with a twinkle in his eye. “The first step in a comeback is survival. And I am a survivor.”
They walked down the stairs leading to the doorway to the west front of the Capitol. As he came down the stone passageway, the director of the ceremony greeted him and escorted him onto the sun-splashed stage where he was greeted by muffled applause from glove-handed admirers. He took his seat on the second row. It struck him that he would be sitting less than ten feet from Long when he ascended to the office they had both sought. He adjusted his scarf, checked the buttons on his overcoat, and braced himself against the cold.
TWO
At 11:30 a.m. the couples emerged from the White House and appeared on the North Portico, the mammoth and stately “front door” added in 1830 in keeping with the federal style of the time. They posed briefly for the cameras. The president then gingerly guided Claire Long to her car with an affectionate hand placed at the small of her back. The First Lady got in behind her. The president motioned for Long to get into the presidential limousine. He climbed in last. The secure package completed, surrounded by Secret Service agents on foot and surveyed by Navy Seal snipers perched on buildings above, the motorcade slowly inched down the driveway at a snail’s pace.
For his part, Long was glad the show was finally on the road. The traditional preinaugural coffee in the Oval Office featured stilted chit-chat. The occasional pregnant pause spoke more than words, the chemistry between Long and the outgoing president awkward. And for good reason. After all, the president’s handpicked successors were respectively dead and defeated. Vice President Harrison Flaherty was murdered by terrorists as he departed the Republican convention; his running mate, former Secretary of State David Petty, imploded in a sex scandal in the final days of the campaign. It was no exaggeration to observe that Long owed his election to an assassin’s bullet and a rival’s zipper.
As Long sat across from the president for the brief ride to the Capitol, it occurred to him that he was the last person on earth the president wanted taking his place—other than Salmon Stanley, whom they both despised. Long knew the president viewed him as the accidental president, a conniving opportunist who reached the White House by a maddening combination of cutthroat opportunism and dumb luck. He hoped their mutual hatred of Stanley would unite them in a partnership, if only based on shared disdain for their nemesis.
The president shifted to the edge of his seat, leaning forward from his torso. “Have you given any further thought to Iran?” he asked, the question landing like a howitzer.
I guess the small talk is over, thought Long. The president’s steely eyes bore into him. He felt the walls of the limo closing in on him.
“The sanctions package before the Security Council is a start,” Long answered haltingly. “If we could pass those, it could turn the screws. We can also interdict Iranian shipping.”
The president frowned. “The Chinese are slow-walking it,” he said, his irritation apparent. “They have the veto.” He leaned forward, tapping his right index finger on Long’s knee. “Iran is gaming us. If you want to stop the Iranians from getting a nuke, you’re going to have to get more proactive.”
Long was thunderstruck. He felt as though he was trapped in a metal tube falling to earth. A thought raced through his mind: Thanks for the advice as you head out of town.” He reached for a question: “Is there a good military option?”
“Not really,” the president sighed. “Unless you give the green light to the Israelis and that’s complicated.” He looked gravely into Long’s eyes. “The CIA traced the funds from the terrorists who killed Flaherty to Iran through a bank in Caracas. They know we know. If we don’t respond, they’ll interpret your inaction as weakness.”
“They’ll find out soon enough that I’m not weak,” Long replied firmly. Long agreed with the president on a theoretical level. He did not want a repeat of 2000, when the attack on the U.S.S. Cole in Yemen went unanswered.
“Salami is a lying, duplicitous terrorist and a cold-blooded killer,” the president scoffed, referring to Mahmoud Salami, the president of Iran. “He hates Jews, hates Israel, hates Christians, hates America. I should have acted after the election when there was still time.” The president looked out the window, his eyes searching. “But Petty convinced me it would be disruptive during the House election.” His eyes returned to Long’s. “Now I’ve left it to you.”
“What about the mullahs?” asked Long. “Salami is just their puppet; he’s a clown, and they hold the strings. Can we reach them through a back channel?”
“They’re intimidated by Salami,” the president replied. “He’s a demagogue, and he has the radicals eating out of his hand. If you want him gone, you’ll have to push him out.” He leaned forward, his steely blue eyes unblinking. “Or have him removed from the picture.”
Long could hardly believe his ears. Was the president really suggesting that he have the president of Iran assassinated?
The president read his facial expression. “Bob, we’ve been at war with Iran since they took our hostages in ’79. They’re bankrolling Hezbollah and Hamas. They tried to overthrow the Iraqi government. They murdered Flaherty. They’ll have a nuke
by the end of the year, maybe sooner. If you don’t solve it, this will haunt your successors for the next fifty years.”
“I said during the campaign that we can’t allow Iran to have nuclear weapons, and I meant it,” Long assured him, his gaze steady.
“Then may God be with you,” said the president. “You’ll have my support without reservation. I’ll say something publicly if that will help.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. President,” Long heard himself say. Start a war in the Middle East, check, he thought. As he saw it, the president’s sense of personal responsibility for avenging Flaherty’s murder was eating him inside, and he was leaving office a tortured soul.
The president suddenly brightened. He glanced at his watch. “You’ll be able to call me that for about fifteen more minutes,” he joked. “Then it’s all yours.”
The presidential motorcade had arrived at the Capitol. Marine guards opened the doors of the limo. The couples emerged from their cars, the First Lady and Claire from one and the president and Long from the other, smiling and waving. A crowd of spectators behind police barricades on Constitution Avenue let out a loud cheer. Arm in arm, they walked up the steps into the Capitol.
IN ROOM 950 OF the Capitol Hill Hyatt, Senator Joseph Penneymounter, chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, lay with a woman young enough to be his daughter. He kept one eye on the nightstand clock as it ticked toward the ceremony.
“Sorry I have to run,” he said as he slipped into his suit pants. “If I’m late, they won’t seat me on the platform. I’ll be in the nosebleed section.”
“I’m surprised you want to go at all, given that it’s Long,” the woman replied.
“It’s painful, but I don’t have a choice. If I don’t go, it will be a story.” He turned back and smiled mischievously. “Call you later?”
“Sure,” she said, sliding out from underneath the sheet. Penneymounter noticed how fit and trim her physique was as she slipped on a bathrobe. How he envied her youth. He glanced down at the paunch at his own midsection. Age is a cruel thing, he thought.
“Gotta run,” said Penneymounter. “I have this room for another night, so you don’t have to rush out.”
“Another night?” she asked seductively, walking over to him and pressing up against his chest. “In that case . . . maybe I’ll stay. That is, assuming you can handle me.”
Penneymounter smiled. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”
“You’ll die with a smile on your face,” she said with a grin.
Penneymounter laughed as he knotted his tie. He opened the door slowly, checking to see if anyone was in the hallway, and walked briskly to the elevator. As he waited for the elevator to arrive, he looked at his watch. He had twenty minutes to get to his seat.
THE CHIEF JUSTICE OF the Supreme Court took his seat on the front row while the other members of the Court sat as a group to the right. One justice remained conspicuously absent. It was Peter Corbin Franklin, the eighty-eight-year-old senior justice and liberal lion of the Court. Some wondered: Was he boycotting the ceremony? Beset by old age and dementia, Franklin had taken to nodding off during oral arguments. His deteriorating mental state was an open secret among the media and Supreme Court watchers. But the feisty jurist, keeper of the progressive flame on the Court, had refused to resign his seat to prevent the outgoing Republican president to nominate a conservative to replace him. Long’s election now made retirement even less likely. His absence would be a slap in the face at Long or a further sign of his declining physical condition; his presence in temperatures barely hovering above zero degrees Fahrenheit would say loud and clear that he planned to leave the Court only one way: feet first.
At ten minutes to noon, an ambulance pulled up to the east front of the Capitol. Lifted out of the ambulance on a stretcher and helped into a wheelchair by a team of paramedics was Peter Corbin Franklin. His withered frame was folded into a dark suit and a shock of white hair topped his weathered face. A wrinkled hand, twisted by arthritis and covered with blue veins and age spots, gripped a cane. The medics wheeled him through the Capitol. When he reached the stairs on the West Front, he insisted on walking and descended the steps with agonizing deliberation, balancing himself with the cane while he held onto the arm of the Marine guard who assisted him.
As Franklin struggled to his seat, people tried not to stare. But the sight of the frail and weak man, the liberal conscience of the Supreme Court who was determined to be present at the swearing in of the new president, was moving.
“Peter made it,” whispered Salmon Stanley to a Democratic senator who sat next to him. “I’m so glad. Good for him.”
“I hope he’s going to be alright in this cold,” the colleague replied.
“Me, too,” said Stanley. “We need him healthy for four more years at a minimum.”
“You mean until you’re elected president?” the senator replied, jabbing the majority leader in the side with an elbow.
“Oh, you never know about things like that,” replied Stanley. “It’s a funny business.”
“What better evidence is there than the fact that you and I are sitting here at Bob Long’s inauguration, after you beat him in the primaries?”
“God help us,” Stanley muttered.
ANDY STANTON ROSE TO give the prayer as everyone on the platform held their collective breath. As the most prominent evangelical leader in the nation, Stanton had led a flock of millions out of the Grand Old Party, helping deliver the presidency to Bob Long. His Norman Vincent Peale demeanor and aw-shucks Southern charm masked a Christian orthodoxy blended with rare political instincts. Even standing behind the podium, Stanton’s six-foot-four-inch frame, which carried 224 pounds of the muscle and sinew of an aging Golden Gloves boxer, dominated the stage. At age fifty-six, his salt and pepper hair now showed more salt than pepper.
“Let us pray,” Andy said as he bowed his head. “Father, we come before You today in a spirit of humility, gratitude, and repentance. Humility because we have too often followed our own ways and forsaken Your paths. Repentance because our sins are legion, both as individuals and as a nation. Gratitude because of the blessings You have mercifully bestowed on us, an undeserving people.” The wind blew the sheet of paper on which Andy had written his prayer, causing it to rustle in the microphone. “Forgive us. Heal our land, and grant us leaders of uncommon integrity and honor, who will walk humbly before You, seeking to do Your will and govern according to Your precepts.”
Seated directly behind him, President-elect Long reached across his chair and grabbed the gloved hand of Claire, squeezing it firmly.
“We pray for our new President, Robert W. Long. We pray also for the members of the Cabinet, members of Congress, both House and Senate, the Supreme Court, and all those in authority,” Andy continued in his booming baritone, which echoed down the Mall. “May they serve You and their conscience, not partisanship or political expediency.” It was a veiled reference to Long’s status as the only independent candidate ever elected to the presidency, beholden to neither party. “Turn the hearts of parents back to their children, the hearts of husbands back to their wives, the hearts of our leaders back to the common good, and the hearts of all of us back to You.” Andy’s breath fogged as he spoke. “Today, as we reaffirm the American experiment in self-government and celebrate the freedoms we enjoy, of which You are the Author and Protector, we ask for Your grace over our nation. Give us what we need, not what we deserve. We ask all this in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, the strong Son of God, Savior of all mankind, and Lord of the nations.”
Andy had punched the words “strong” and “all” for emphasis, so as to leave no ambiguity in his use of evangelical vernacular for the secular ear. As he turned, Long rose to greet him. Their eyes locked. Long shook his hand and whispered words of thanks.
After the Chief Justice administered the oath of office to Vice President Johnny Whitehead, it was Long’s turn. He took his place to the right of the Chief Justice a
s Claire stood between them, holding the family Bible, which had once belonged to Long’s grandmother.
“I, Robert Whitney Long, do solemnly swear,” the Chief Justice began.
“I Robert Whitney Long, do solemnly swear,” repeated Long, trying hard to concentrate on the words rather than on his rapidly beating heart, which pounded like a jackhammer in his chest. His mind raced, backward in time to his first race for the state legislature and forward to the challenges of the offices he was about to assume. He heard himself say, “And to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God.”
“Congratulations,” said the Chief Justice firmly.
Long reached over and kissed Claire. She beamed. Army cannons boomed a twenty-one-gun salute, the percussions echoing off the Capitol with a ceremonial thud. A loud cheer rose from the throng that stretched out before him like a human carpet, from the Capitol all the way to the Lincoln Memorial. The Capitol Police estimated the crowd at more than a half million, the largest gathering ever to attend a presidential inauguration.
“My fellow citizens, today begins a new era in America,” Long began. “It is a day in which there are no Republicans or Democrats, no liberals or conservatives, no blue states, red states, or green states. Today we are all Americans, and we stand united.” It was a safe beginning, and the crowd dutifully applauded. “I did not seek this office to deliver more of the same to the American people. I came to bring honest change to the federal government. The people have spoken; they have demanded that Washington change, and change we must.”