Prophet (76 page)

The governor’s eyebrows went up, and he exchanged a glance with Mr. Devin. “That’s very interesting, Mr. Barrett, considering the approach you’re taking now.”

John continued to build his answer. “I was embarrassed by his behavior. Most everyone knew who he was, and here
I
was, an up-and-coming television news anchor very concerned for my image and reputation, with a religious kook for a father.”

The governor said nothing but eyed John warily.

John continued, figuring the governor was giving him the floor. “But his religious zeal aside, as I considered the gist of what he had to say . . . I came to realize he had a valid point. Mr. Governor . . .” John tried to keep a gentle, even tone. He was venturing onto thin ice, and he knew it. “I was running scared. Running from the Truth, running from the man I truly was, hiding behind an image that portrayed me as more than I truly was. I couldn’t see that Dad was just trying to warn you—all of us actually—that we’re not being honest with ourselves or with others or with God. Mr. Governor, contrary to what your PR
people have told you, image is
not
everything. It’s an illusion, a trick, a lie that we even start to believe ourselves. And like Dad said, someday the image will collapse—your image, my image—and . . . well, I had to ask myself, when the image collapses, will there be a real man left standing in its place?”

The governor grew restless. “So please tell me what all this has to do with the story you’re doing and with this interview.”

“The story, and this interview, have to do with Truth. Dad told me once that the Truth can be your best friend or your worst enemy. If you’re willing to hear the Truth, it might hurt a little, but you’ll come out ahead, you’ll benefit. If you’re encasing yourself in an illusion and running from the Truth . . . well, sooner or later it’ll catch up to you, and then the blow will be a lot more severe. You may not be able to pick up the pieces. That’s what Dad was trying to get across, and I’ve since concluded that he was right.”

Governor Hiram Slater sneered just a little. “And now . . . I suppose you have picked up the mantle of your father—hence this vindictive, prying, moralizing story of yours?”

“I’ve come to know the same God my father knew, and I’ve tried to know and live according to God’s Truth. That’s what brought about this story.”

“But you do realize what you’re up against?”

“A bubble? An illusion?”

Slater slammed the top of his desk in anger.

Devin stepped forward. “Okay, that’s enough. The interview’s over—”

Slater put out his hand. “No, Martin, not yet. I’m not through with this . . . this self-righteous, hypocritical bigot . . . this . . . this . . .” Not able to think of a greater insult, he skipped ahead. “Barrett, we’re going to talk in practical terms here. We’re going to be reasonable. We’re going to weigh the alternatives and come to an understanding, all right?

“Now, what do I have? Let’s just lay it out in the open. I have an ad campaign saturating every household in the state even as we speak, and it’s weeks ahead of you. I’ve already come out publicly with the true cause of Hillary’s death, and I’ve pledged to look into the safety standards of abortion clinics. I have the public mind on my side,
way
on my side. I’m on your 1-yard line, all right?

“Now, what do you have? Some little mud-slinging story about . . . what? That I knew how my daughter died in the first place but covered it up and so another girl died in the same clinic. Well, big deal. You really think anybody out there really cares? And how much time do you have to do the story? Two minutes! Just two minutes! Yes, I’ve talked to Loren Harris. He’s a friend of mine. We look out for each other, which means
you’d
better look out!

“So just imagine how much effect your little two-minute package is going to have against all the other media saturation we’ve already established, not even including the paid advertisements! Hey, the papers are telling
my
side of the story, and so are all the other stations, and tomorrow, Barrett, so will
your
station! It’ll be like you were never there, like you never said a word!

“So why do the story? That’s what I want you to tell me. Why even attempt something so futile and potentially self-destructive?”

John could see Slater thought he was prevailing in this bout of ideas and wills, and yet . . . there was that little four-footer again, saying the same words but in stark terror, as if begging for his life.

John slowly rose from his chair. The power—the conviction—of his words was too much for him to remain sitting. “Mr. Governor, the image you have built has drawn the eyes of the people, and many of them believe the image and praise it. But the image will topple, and then, Mr. Governor, will a man remain in its place?”

Slater shouted at him, his face reddening in anger.

“Just answer my question, Barrett! Give me one good reason why you’re trying to destroy yourself!”

John could see it even as he said it. “All your life you’ve devoted yourself to the building of an image, and now . . . full of fear, you’re tumbling around inside it, getting smaller and smaller . . . You’re lost in there, but you’re afraid to come out, afraid of the Truth. That’s why you’re afraid of this story.”

Devin rushed forward again. “Mr. Governor, you don’t have to put up with this nut!”

John could see the little four-foot man scream back at his special assistant, “Leave me alone! I can handle this!” The little man looked at John, his eyes burning with anger—and fear. “I can handle
you
—anytime, anywhere! You’re nothing, you hear me?
Nothing!
” He was like a
child screaming in defiance at his parents.

John spoke it even as he came to know it. “You will win the election, Mr. Governor.”

That at least stopped the escalation of the governor’s anger. He backed off a little, then even forced a smile.

“So you admit that.”

“But win . . . and serve . . . as
what
? What will you be? What will the people elect?” John sat back down, pondering out loud. “The Adam Bryant School has survived their involvement in the death of Hillary Slater, but . . . as what? Are they better people now? Have they become more human, more virtuous for having deceived others? The doctor who falsified the death certificate has survived, and his practice remains, but . . . as what? What has he gained that is worth surviving
for
? Not more integrity. Not more dignity. Not more honor.

“And what about the women? Now they have the right to choose, and yet . . . how will they find the sacredness of their own lives if life itself is no longer sacred?” John looked directly at the governor. “But even as all these have survived as less than what they were before . . .
we
—you, the Brewers, all of us—have survived, but none of us are richer. Just consider what we’ve lost—our character, our integrity, our honor, our sacredness, and now . . . our
children
.”

The governor took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and responded, “But I
will
win the election, Mr. Barrett, no matter what you try to do! You can put
that
on your little videotape and report it!”

“You’ll win the election,” John repeated, “but by a smaller margin than you’re projecting now.” Then he added firmly, “And you’ll be unable to complete your term of office.”

The governor looked laughingly at Mr. Devin, who broke into a mocking smile of his own.

Slater asked with a sneer, “What’s this—a doomsday message from the junior prophet?”

John continued quietly but firmly, his eyes locked on the governor. “The image will collapse, and the man inside will wither from shame.”

Before the governor could dismiss the words, John jumped in with some more. “And here’s how you’ll know that the Lord has given you this message: Before you go home tonight, you’ll spill coffee on yourself.”

The governor rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair incredulously. Mr. Devin broke out in rude, mocking laughter. Slater’s voice was cracking up with laughter as he asked, “That’s it? No bolts of lightning? No earthquakes?”

John received more. Even he was amazed. “There’s more. When you go home tonight, you’ll receive a new pair of running shoes. Uh . . . navy-blue running shoes.”

Now Mr. Devin approached the governor’s desk, amused and not wanting to miss a thing. “Mr. Governor, we should have sold tickets. This is great.”

“There’s more,” said John, and now even Mel the cameraman was coming closer, all ears. “On Wednesday you’ll discover that your chief of staff has been lying to you.”

Mr. Devin didn’t think that was funny at all. “Are you talking about me, Barrett? I’d be careful if I were you.”

John looked Devin squarely in the eye and told him, “You never destroyed that tape cassette of Shannon DuPliese’s 911 call. Instead you kept it in your desk, hoping to use it to further your own power. But Ed Lake stole it from your desk drawer, hoping to use it himself, and after you fired him, he gave it to my father . . .” John looked at the governor. “. . . and that’s how this whole news story began.”

Devin cursed loudly, denying the charge, then grabbed John by the arm. “That’s it, buddy, you’re out of here!”

“Hold it, Martin!” ordered the governor.

Devin stopped and put on a sudden grin. “Mr. Governor, this guy’s a loony! He isn’t making a bit of sense! I’d just as soon be rid of him.”

Hiram Slater’s countenance was filled with rage and loathing. He glared at the prophet and said, “What else?”

Devin’s big hand was locked around John’s arm, ready to snatch him out of his chair, but John spoke anyway. “On Wednesday you’ll also learn that your other daughter, Hayley, is pregnant.” John saw the little four-footer leap onto the desk, jumping and screaming like a wild dwarf, his eyes wild with fear, “Out! Out! Get away from me!”

Hiram Slater was on his feet, yelling, “Of all the indecency! of all the arrogance!”

Devin’s grip tightened on John’s arm. Devin was just waiting for a word from the governor.

“First your father,” the governor said seethingly, his face red with fury, his body trembling, “and now
you
!” He looked at Devin. “Get this kook out of here!”

John was lifted out of the chair. Devin’s huge hand was crushing his arm as the chief of staff dragged him toward the door.

Devin pushed the door open and practically carried John around Miss Rhodes’s desk, finally releasing him just inside the huge, carved oak doors.

John straightened his clothing and looked back, wondering what had become of Mel.

The door to the governor’s office burst open once again, and out came Mel like a man escaping a burning building. “And you can be sure Loren Harris will hear about this!” came the governor’s final words over Mel’s shoulder. Mel dragged all the equipment through the door as quickly as he could, hoping Mr. Devin would see he didn’t need any assistance. John dashed over to help him, and Mel could only puff, “Boy, you sure got us in deep soup this time!”

Devin swung the big door open and held it there. “Good day, gentlemen.”

John let his eyes meet Devin’s just one more time before they went into the hall and began to work their way back out of the King’s lofty chambers.

CHAPTER 32

IN FRONT OF
a bank of monitors with still pictures pasted over their screens, Ali Downs was ready for the camera, looking stunning as usual. Walt Bruechner, the late-night news anchor with the big teeth and thinning hair, looked pretty good, all made up and suited up and ready to sell the news. Marvin the photographer was back again, chubby, bearded, and fretting, all his strobes, umbrella reflectors, and floodlights in place, and just like before, he was peering through the viewfinder of his big camera on a tripod and trying to elicit the right response from his subjects.

“All right, all right, gimme news, gimme action, gimme that old intensity,” he chattered.

Ali and Walt had some dummy scripts and looked at them. “Ali,” Marvin said, waving his hand at them, “you’re checking a story with Walt, checking for accuracy, okay?”

Ali held her script so Walt could see it. “John—I mean, Walt—what do you think of this? I don’t trust the source. And look at that spelling!”
Flash.

“Hmmm,” said Walt, “just how do you spell supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?” Then he cracked up. He loved his jokes.
Flash.

“Hey, come on, come on, let’s get serious!” said Marvin.

Walt read from the script, “The annual Ostrich Egg Toss was held in Veteran’s Park yesterday, and as always there was no winner . . .”

“Yeah, that’s good, that’s good.” Marvin kept peering down through
the viewfinder. All they could see was the top of his head. “Now look at me. Make me trust you.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” said Ali in mock seriousness.
Flash.

They smiled.
Flash.

They looked at the script again.
Flash.

They posed with a TV camera.
Flash.

Walt in shirtsleeves.
Flash.

Ali close-up, jotting notes.
Flash. Flash.

“Wet your lips and smile.”
Flash.
“Lean forward, Walt. Ali, move in.”
Flash.
“Okay, turn this way a little. Closer together.”
Flash. Flash. Flash.

Then the video shoot. Mounted cameras, handheld cameras, high angles, floor angles, close-ups, traveling shots. News in the making. Faces full of business, like the world’s going to end if we don’t get this story out, working, editing, rushing about, handheld shots racing through the newsroom, quick conversations, zoom-in shots of Walt, then a blurry pan, then Ali brought into focus and zoomed in some more. Intensity, intensity. Walt with sleeves rolled up, banging away at the computer, not just taking but
tearing
news copy from the printer, nodding in agreement with no one in particular. Ali busy at work, then consulting with a reporter (over-the-shoulder shot), then a wry, you’re-not-fooling-me smile at someone off-camera.