Authors: Lis Wiehl,Sebastian Stuart
© 2016 by Lis Wiehl
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherâexcept for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
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Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-7180-3890-8 (eBook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Wiehl, Lis W., author. | Stuart, Sebastian, author.
Title: The candidate / Lis Wiehl with Sebastian Stuart.
Description: Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2016. | Series: A Newsmakers novel; 2
Identifiers: LCCN 2016018974 | ISBN 9780718037680 (hardcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Women journalistsâFiction. | Reporters and reportingâFiction. | Presidential candidatesâFiction. | Conspiracy theoriesâFiction. | Political fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3623.I382 C36 2016 | DDC 813/.6âdc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016018974
16 17 18 19 20 21 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Dani and Jacob. With unconditional love always and forever.
âMom
CELESTE PIERCE ORTIZ WINCES AS the needle slides into her forehead. She should be used to itâafter all, she's been Botoxing for, what is it, six years now? Of course it's worth it, but there's just something about the first sight of that hypodermic that makes her afraidâjust for a moment. Celeste is never afraid for more than a moment. Fear is for weak people. Little people. Tragic little people. Lily taught her that. And so much more.
“All done,” Dr. Martin says, withdrawing the needle.
Celeste looks out her dressing room window. The mansions of Pacific Heights march like gilded bullies down the hillside to the Marina, the Presidio, and the waters of San Francisco Bay. Looming above the scene is the Golden Gate Bridge. This morning the iconic orange span is shrouded by fingers of fog that creep up its foundation like the tentacles of some ghostly sea creature. Celeste loves the fog. It slinks in silent and silvery, obscures things, hides them in plain sight. Under the cover of fog all manner of deeds can be done, safe from prying eyes. And when the fog lifts, plans are in place and no one is the wiser.
“I don't think you need any filler touch-ups today,” the doctor says.
Celeste looks in the mirrorâher face is as smooth as a plate. “No, I think we're fine,” she agrees. She clasps the doctor's hand. “Thank you, Phillip. How's the family?” She rarely gets into the whole family thing with employees. It can drag on forever, and does she really care that so-and-so's daughter made a goal at her last soccer game? But her dermatologist ranks right up there with her lawyer and her husband's top donors as people she needs.
And the media, of course. But they're in a separate league, a big league, and they have to be cultivated and stroked and wooed and, yes, manipulated. Because no one gets to the White House without having the media in their corner. But you can't trust them. They can turn on you. And start digging, rooting around in your darkest corners. They're dangerous. They have to be watched. Like a hawk. Like a hungry hawk. And if need be, stopped. By any means necessary.
The doctor leaves, and Celeste walks into her small private office adjoining the bedroom. She switches on the TV to GNN, her preferred cable news network. Newscaster Erica Sparks is on, delivering a special report on the thousands of earthquakes that have rattled states where fracking is used to extract gas. Celeste watches carefully. Sparks is good. Really good. Beautiful and charming, yes, but also serious and thorough. As well as powerfulâshe's host of the highest-rated news show in the country. As she watches, Celeste is intrigued by Erica. There's something in the newscaster's eyes that hints at hidden depths, at some secret she keeps from the world. What could it beâand could it possibly be used to the campaign's advantage? Celeste makes a mental note:
It's time to begin investigatingâand wooingâErica Sparks
.
The latest polls are out today. Why hasn't Samantha called? Not a good sign. Celeste picks up her phone and dials her public office, which is in a separate wing of the mansion.
“I'm just on my way up with them,” Samantha says preemptively.
Celeste gets down on the floor and does a series of core-strengthening exercises. Not that her core needs strengthening. It's steel. Always has been. Hasn't it? She could have just coasted through
life as the Princess on the Bay, as that story in
Town & Country
labeled her two decades ago. Going to parties and benefits and sprinkling her vast inherited fortune on various worthy causes. That's what her mother wantedâher silly, shallow socialite mother. How insulting. To Celeste. To all women. Of course she ignored Mummy's wide-eyed admonitions. Celeste went to Stanford and then Stanford Law and then the Harvard B-school, and then into international banking where, armed with her fluency in Mandarinâand her friendship with Lilyâshe became Wall Street's go-to person for navigating the Byzantine byways of Chinese finance, making her
own
vast fortune in the doing.
And now.
Now
. Now she is married to Senator Mike Ortiz, who stands a very good chance of becoming the next president of the United States. Which will make Celeste the most powerful person in the world. With Lily Lauâwho will be named President Ortiz's chief of staffâby her side. Sometimes, usually in the early-morning hours as the world sleeps, she imagines what they'll do with that power. And it won't be half measures. It will be a tectonic shift. They will do nothing less than remake the world as we know it.
There's a knock on the master suite door. Celeste stands up. “Come in.”
Samantha Baldwin enters. Celeste can tell instantly from the expression on her pudgy face that the polls bring bad news. Samantha is such a homely girl, with those porcine features and that lank hair. Celeste likes to hire unattractive girls; their pathetic insecurity makes them putty in her hands. A single inflection in her voice can make them squirm or jump, which is always such fun to watch.
She takes the pages from Samantha's hands and scans the poll results. There are only two Democratic candidates left fighting for the nomination, her husband and that folksy Fred Buchanan. He and his drab wife, Judy (she really should change her name to Mousy), with their lack of charm and charisma, make these latest results doubly hard to swallow. Buchanan is gaining on her husband, is up six points in the last two weeks. Measures must be taken. Celeste walks over to the
window and looks out. The bridge, which on clear days looks almost close enough to touch, is barely visible through the thick fog. The fog of war.
Without turning from the window Celeste says, almost casually, “Samantha, that gardener you hired last month chopped down the peony hedge.”
“He says he didn't recognize them.”
“Don't they have peonies in Mexico?”
“He's Ecuadorian.”
“Tell that to the peonies. I'm afraid he has to go. I've been paying for his daughter's tutor. I'll continue that for six weeks and give him a month's severance.”
Samantha looks stricken. She didn't hire the gardener; Celeste did. But that's a piddling detailâSamantha was in charge of the search.
“Butâ”
Celeste whirls around. “Don't bore me with your
buts
. Go and do your job.”
Samantha turns and is just about out the door when Celeste says, in a whole new tone of voice, “Samantha . . .” The poor thing turns and Celeste goes to her, takes her hand, and gives it a squeeze. “I'm so sorry about your father's diagnosis. I've donated ten thousand dollars to the Pancreatic Cancer Foundation in his honor.”
Samantha looks like she might burst into tears. “Thank you.”
“We're all in this together.”
Alone again, Celeste's wheels start churning, churning. These poll numbers are unacceptable. She feels her anxiety skyrocketing, that awful claustrophobia that strikes when she senses control slipping away. Celeste
needs
to be in control. She slips off her robe and stands there in her bra and panties, then walks into the dressing room and looks at herself in the full-length mirror. Thanks to a combination of genes, discipline, and the very best doctors, she still has the body of a teenager.
She walks into her office and over to the console that connects her
to the rest of the house. She clicks on the gym. As expected, she sees her husband, Senator Mike Ortiz, exercisingâright now he's on the rowing machine, wearing nothing but gym shorts, his muscular, nearly naked frame covered in sweat. He's an amazing specimen. And he's hers. She has him on a strict regimen of campaign events, policy tutorials, and exercise. She and Lily take care of strategy.
She clicks on her own cam. “Hello, darling.”
Mike Ortiz looks up at the camera and smiles. That smile.
“I need you to get up here as soon as possible.”
“I have a Middle East policy session in fifteen minutes,” Mike says in that earnest way of his that voters mistake for sincerity. Celeste knows better.
“I'll postpone it,” she says.
“What's up?” he asks.
Celeste reaches behind her, unhooks her bra, and lets it drop to the floor.
“I'll be there in a flash,” Mike says, leaping off the rowing machine.
A half hour later, after he's performed his husbandly duties to Celeste's satisfaction, she sends him off to his policy session and slips back into her robe. The thought that he could even begin to understand the political and strategic complexities of the Middle East makes her smile.
She walks back into her office, picks up her secure line, and calls Lily. Her heart is racing and she feels that surge of exhilaration, adrenaline, and power that is her drug of choice.
The call is brief, just long enough to set things in motion. When she's done, she looks out the window. The fog is lifting.
IT'S MONDAY MORNING AND ERICA Sparks is in the elevator at GNN headquarters in New Yorkâgoing up. She's on her way to a meeting with Mort Silver, the head of the network. Silver called her yesterday and scheduled it. She isn't sure what his agenda is, but she suspects it has to do with her hopes of moderating one of the presidential debates in the fall. With her nightly news show
The Erica Sparks Effect
dominating its time slot, and her reputation as one of the best in the business, Erica is searching for new challenges, and the prospect of being part of America's quadrennial exercise in democracyâmessy and imperfect as it isâexcites her.
She feels a little shiver of expectancy as the elevator shoots skyward. Erica loves morningsâwhen the world is still fresh and her mind clips along, almost tripping over itself with plans, ideas, and inspiration. Her life, so tumultuous over the past few years, is finally settling down. She's achieved her two great goals: success in the news business and gaining custody of her daughter, Jenny. Yes, things get edgy at timesâErica feels like she still has the training wheels on her mothering skillsâbut they usually manage to work it all out. Jenny means more to her than anything in the world.
The only piece missing from her life is Greg, the man she loves. He's a world away, in Australia, working insane hours helping to launch a cable news network. It's an amazing opportunity, and Erica was supportive of his seizing it, but not having him around has been tough. There are nightsâafter her daughter has gone to bed, as she goes around the apartment turning off lightsâwhen she feels almost overcome with loneliness, with a yearning to have a man by her side during these exciting and fulfilling times.
The elevator doors open on the fortieth floor and Erica gets off. She takes a deep breath. She likes Mort Silver, but his leadership style can be a little intimidating. After Erica's investigation sent GNN's founder Nylan Hastings to jail for the rest of his life, several large media companies vied to buy the network. Google was the winner, and CEO Sundar Pichai has turned out to be a demanding if distant boss. He was smart enough to hire Silver, a seasoned broadcast pro, to run the networkâthese men play to win, and the company's results prove the wisdom of their ways. But they're known for pushing employees to deliverâand if they don't, well, sayonara.
Silver's receptionist gives Erica a deferential smile and says, “Mr. Silver is expecting you.”
Erica walks down the wide hallway and into Silver's large corner office. Unlike Nylan Hastings, who filled the space with modern art, Silver's taste is more traditionalâone wall has been lined with mahogany shelving that holds his three Emmys and other awards, and the other walls are home to numerous framed articles about Silver and his successes in the news business. Modest the man isn't.
“Erica!” Mort Silver says with a big smile, leaping up from his chair and coming to greet her. He's around fifty, tall, and a little bulky, with an avuncular manner that borders on the overbearing.
“Nice to see you, Mort.”
He ushers her into the office. “Can we get you something to drink, something to eat?”
“I'm fine,” Erica says, sitting down opposite his desk.
Mort sits back down and leans forward, elbows on the desk. “It's always such a pleasure to see you,” he says. He works hard at being charming, but it always comes across as just thatâwork.
“Likewise,” Erica says.
Silver grows serious, lowers his voice. “Sometimes, in the hurly-burly of our daily efforts, we forget how important journalism is to our democracy, indeed, to the world.” He looks Erica in the eye. “It truly is an honor to work with you.”
Erica's bullcrap alarm begins to soundâplatitudes have a way of setting it off.
“Thank you.”
“But as crucial as our role is in uncovering the truth and exposing injustice and criminality, at the end of the day, GNN is a business.” Silver pauses, looks out the window as if he's searching for his next wordsâbut Erica can tell this has all been rehearsed. He turns back to her. “As you know,
The Erica Sparks Effect
is very important to the network's bottom line. Which is why we're so concerned.”
Erica is thrown. After her work in exposing Nylan Hastings as a psychopath bent on world domination, her celebrity was transcendent, and for months her show had a firm grip on the number one spot in the ratings. Erica knows it has slipped a little since then, but she avoids tracking the ratings race. She's a journalist, not an entertainer, and she's seen integrity compromised in the hunt for higher ratings. She's not about to let that happen on her show.
Silver stands up and starts to pace, his whole demeanor changing as his jaw sets and his eyes narrow. “Last month FOX beat you three times and CNN twice. That's five weeknights out of twenty-two. There were six other nights where your lead was miniscule.” He stops abruptly and turns to her. “These numbers are unacceptable.”
Erica knew she'd lost a few nights, but she didn't realize that her lead all month was that tenuous. And Silver's ultimatum is so stark and brutal. She feels the fiery demons of insecurity that have haunted her for her whole life flare up. She hears her mother's mocking voice.
Ha-ha, smarty pants, got a little too big for your britches, didn't you?
And then, after the taunts, comes
Slap! Slap-slap! Take that, you little brat!
Erica feels a bead of sweat roll down from her left armpit. She crosses and uncrosses her legs. Mort Silver has taken a step closer to her, seems to tower over her.
She's starting to feel a little bullied, and Erica has never liked bullies. She sits up tall and says, “I'm proud of the show, Mort, proud of my team. I think we've become a consistent source of superior journalism. We're taken seriously across the country and around the world.”
“That's a given. And your being in the top spot
used
to be a given. Now it isn't. And that's a problem. For me. For Sundar. For our shareholders. And for you.”
“If you think I'm going to start chasing sensational stories just to give my ratings a temporary boost, you've got yourself the wrong woman.”
Mort looks at herâor is that a glare? Maybe he didn't expect her to respond so forcefully. In any case, he seems to switch gears; his face softens and he sits back down. “We all have the same goal. To see
The Erica Sparks Effect
firmly on top. Any thoughts on how to make that happen?”
“The presidential campaign is heating up. We may well have the first woman
and
the first Latino nominees. This is history in the making. I want to be a part of it. Moderating one of the debates would put me in the spotlight in a whole new way and take my reputation to the next level. Let's make that happen.”
Mort nods. “We'll put your name forward to the Commission on Presidential Debates. You do have a rep for being nonpartisan, which should help your chances, but there are no guarantees. Both of the eventual candidates have veto power.”
“Lucy Winters has a lock on the Republican nomination,” Erica says. “The Democrat will be either Ortiz or Buchanan. I'll do my best to let all three candidates know I'm interested and impartial.”
“Debate moderator or not, I think we have to address the underlying cause of your slippage.”
“Which is?”
Silver drums on the desktop with his fingertips and takes a deep breath. “You've lost some of your mojo, Erica. Sometimes you seem to be gliding through your show. Other times you seem distracted. You're not as hungry as you used to be. You have to stay famished in this business.”
Erica feels anger rising up in her. “I'm the top-rated cable newscaster in the country, and you're telling me I've lost my mojo?”
“
I'm
not telling you; the
numbers
are,” Silver says forcefully, harshly.
Suddenly Erica's position at GNN feels, if not quite precarious, far less secure. And if her career is uncertain, so is every other aspect of her life. She feels the sweat spread to her forehead, and suddenly the room feels close and airless. Her breathing grows shallow.
Silver leans back in his chair and tries to contain his smirk. “Have you caught any of Sara Kenyon's show over on CNN? She's interesting. Bright. Driven. Incredibly self-possessed for a twenty-six-year-old.”
Sara Kenyon is the new flavor of the month. Yes, she's smart and watchable, but she began her career as a meteorologist; she has no journalism training. And there's a rumor going around that she had plastic surgeryâto look more like Erica Sparks.
“I'll give her a look,” Erica says.
“
Her
ratings keep going up,” Silver says, standing up, signaling that the meeting is over.
Fifteen minutes ago Erica was walking on sunshine. Now it feels more like quicksand. As she walks back down the cold white hallway, she has one thought:
I need a story. A big story.