The Race (28 page)

As a smattering of applause greeted Corey's retort, he saw the first glimmer of uncertainty appear in Marotta's eyes.

"Closer to home," Coburn said, "you, Senator Marotta, have taken a strong position in support of the Confederate flag. Why should that be an issue in a presidential campaign?"

"Because I'm tired of people who divide us up by race." Turning to Corey, he said, "You've been waffling on this issue, Corey. Do you believe in punishing South Carolinians for honoring their heritage?"

At a front table, Blake Rustin shook his head, his gaze imploring Corey to deliver a politic answer. "Do you believe in slavery?" Corey asked Marotta. "To many Americans, black and white, that flag is the symbol of a cruel and degrading institution that haunts us to this day." Facing the audience, Corey said, "This is your state, not mine. But were it up to me, I'd put it in a museum with the other relics from a hundred-and-fifty-year-old war. I don't think we need to honor the dead by insulting the living."

"That's
not
what this is about," Marotta cut in. "And South Carolinians know it."

"Fine," Corey shot back. "So the next time you tell a group of African-Americans in Michigan that they should vote Republican, explain to them why black voters in South Carolina are being oversensitive. But you won't, of course. You're just trolling for votes until next Tuesday, desperate to pull out a campaign that's basically on life support. And I think South Carolinians know
that
."

A second spattering of applause made Marotta flush. "I'd like to associate myself with Senator Grace's remarks," Christy offered in an amiable tone. "I sincerely feel for those who love that flag. But I doubt you gave this five minutes thought, Rob, until someone told you there were votes in it. That's just not worthy of a president. And neither is your campaign."

Surprised, Corey repressed a smile. "That's uncalled for," Marotta shot back. "My campaign is about who's qualified to be president. You have
no
qualifications."

"Oh, I've got a couple," Christy answered, unperturbed. "One of them is that I say what I believe, and don't use other people to say what I'd be ashamed to say.

"Today—on a station owned by one of your great supporters, Alex Rohr—some former air force colonel showed up claiming that Al Qaeda sent two terrorists to your office so that Senator Grace could kill them just to make himself look good." Christy smiled. "All of us saw the picture, Rob. But do you really believe that Corey and Al Qaeda are conspiring against America, or do you agree with me that anyone who says that belongs in an insane asylum?"

A bark of nervous laughter came from a nearby table. Corey perceived anew the power of Bob Christy: neither a politician nor the product of conventional politics, he was free to do or say what he pleased, secure in the conviction that he spoke for a higher power. "That question," Marotta said with rote disdain, "doesn't deserve an answer."

Christy's eyes widened. "Are you saying," he asked in an incredulous tone, "that your campaign manager and his minions didn't put this colonel up to it? Are you telling me this lunatic got on Rohr's TV station based on the power of his own ideas?"

"That," Marotta replied with real anger, "is the kind of irresponsible invective that disqualifies you to be president."

"Senator Grace," Coburn interjected with an air of desperation, "do you have anything to say on your own behalf?"

Corey smiled. "Why spoil the moment? All I can add is that someone who'll do anything to be president shouldn't be president."

A tense silence filled the room. "I think it's your turn," Coburn told Marotta in a mollifying tone. "You've made a constitutional ban on gay marriage a centerpiece of your campaign. When all states but one ban such marriage, why is this so important?"

Seeking to recover, Marotta began speaking in a slow, insistent voice. "John, there is
nothing
more important than the moral strength of our families.

"Since before the time of Jesus Christ, marriage has been the union of a man and woman. That's the only means of raising children who are morally, spiritually, and psychologically whole." Gesturing toward Corey, he said, "Three-quarters of Americans oppose gay marriage. Yet Senator Grace does not support a constitutional ban. No one who refuses to defend the institution of marriage should be our party's nominee."

Corey turned to him. "America faces terrorism, nuclear proliferation, massive deficits, rising unemployment, and a gap between the wealthy and the rest of us in wages, education, and health care. And you're running on gay marriage and the Confederate flag." Corey made his tone both wry and weary. "I oppose gay marriage, Rob. You know that. And if you and Mary Rose need a constitutional amendment to protect your marriage, I'll vote for it. If only for the sake of the kids."

"This isn't a joke," Marotta said stonily.

"And I'm not laughing. But we both know that the greatest threat to marriage is divorce. Are you proposing a constitutional ban on
that
?"

"Of course not," Marotta said in exasperation. "But America needs a moral renewal every bit as much as economic prosperity. And it's all too obvious that you can't lead it."

They were perilously close, Corey knew, to bringing Lexie into this debate. Thinking of the unknown man delving into her past, Corey felt a retort die on his lips. Heartened, Marotta continued: "In other times, your dating life might not be an issue. But the problem with your current relationship is not that the woman involved is an entertainer, but that she personifies a Hollywood culture that glorifies drugs, violence, and illicit sexuality.

"We've all seen
those
pictures, Corey. So have many of our kids. That's the behavior of a playboy, not a president ..."

"Enough," Christy intervened. "Let me say what
I
think.

"I disagree with Corey about gay marriage. Its fundamental ideology is 'God goofed by making men and women.' Nonsense—God made us as we are for a reason, and we ought to have the sense to put that in our Constitution." To Corey, he said evenly, "I'm also troubled by your relationship. You're not a private citizen. You're a presidential candidate involved with a woman who is at once a celebrity, a representative of Hollywood, and a liberal who embraces gay rights, abortion, and the abomination of stem-cell research. In all sincerity, I wish none of that were so."

As Corey groped for a response, Christy turned to Marotta. "But I must also say, Rob, that the aroma arising from your exploitation of Corey's involvement troubles me just as much. I don't like those signs with an X across her face—"

"I'm not responsible for those," Marotta said quickly.

"Nor for anything else, it seems. I don't agree with Ms. Hart on the issues, but I don't doubt that she's sincere. And when I see those placards, I smell racism.

"God is not a racist, Rob. His Word is meant for all of us. So tell whoever it is to take down those vicious signs."

A few women in the audience applauded. "I second that," Corey said. "But I have to say this to you both. Candidates are people, and so are actresses. Like anyone, we're entitled to choose the people we love.

"I make no apologies for that. And if you, Senator, want to exploit our relationship in whatever rancid way you will, I can't stop you. Just understand the point you're really making: that Lexie Hart is way, way out of your class."

"Don't patronize me," Marotta snapped. "Presidents should set a moral example. I'm not divorced, and I can honestly say that I've never been unfaithful to Mary Rose. Can
you
say that to this audience, and to the American public?"

Corey managed a smile. "Absolutely. I have never, ever been unfaithful to Mary Rose."

Marotta's own smile was hard. "And your ex-wife?"

To one side of the room, Corey glimpsed Tommy sitting with his mother, their expressions filled with doubt. "My divorce," Corey said softly, "was one of the saddest events of my life. That's all anyone needs to know, and more of an answer than you deserve.

"You're lucky in Mary Rose. But it must be sad for you to believe that she's your foremost qualification."

"That's no answer," Marotta said dismissively. "What about you, Bob?"

Christy looked genuinely startled. "In nearly forty years with Martha, no one's ever asked. I find it deeply offensive that you just have."

"If I understand your answer," Marotta responded with a shrug, "you should be proud."

At this, Corey made a snap decision. He pulled out the miniature tape recorder Dakin Ford had given him, placed it in front of Marotta, and pushed the button. A disembodied voice intoned: "Would you vote for a man who gave his ex-wife AIDS, is conducting an illicit affair with a radical black actress, and supports taking away your guns? If these values are your values, then Corey Grace is your candidate."

The audience was silent, stunned. "Are you proud of
that
?" Corey asked.

Marotta shook his head. "I know nothing about this tape."

"Really? Then it's coincidence that anonymous phone calls, whispering campaigns, and sleazy mailers from out of state seem to have followed you here?" Corey leaned close to Marotta. "Why don't you start with your campaign manager? It shouldn't take long to find out who's paying for these calls."

"Look," Marotta snapped, "I can't be held responsible for people I don't control. If I find out that this involves anyone from my campaign, I'll fire them."

"They won't tell you—unless you already know. One more time: are you willing to find out if this comes from your campaign?"

The audience was hushed. "It's not enough to say you're a Christian," Christy told Marotta softly. "You actually have to be one. Why don't you just stop this stuff?"

Marotta looked from Christy to Grace. "You're both guilty of Mc-Carthyism," he said. "The voters of South Carolina will have no trouble seeing through this concerted effort to smear me."

Christy chuckled softly, and then the moderator came to Marotta's aid. "Time for final statements," Coburn said with evident relief. "Senator Marotta?"

When Marotta commenced, plainly off his rhythm, Corey could have sworn that Christy winked at him.

STANDING NEXT TO BOSS MOSS, Dakin Ford watched Corey's final statement on a giant TV screen. "I know," Corey finished, "that many of you disagree with me about one issue or another. But that's because you know what I believe.

"Americans are sick of being pandered to, condescended to, and lied to by politicians whose only principle is to say whatever they think people want to hear. These times are much too serious for that. You deserve a president who tells the truth."

Ford looked around Moss's living room—tackier than Graceland, filled with men and women wearing everything from motorcycle jackets to tuxedos, all looking to Moss for cues. Studying Moss's expressionless face, Ford imagined him contemplating the ruin of his evening with the future president of the United States. "I'll say this much," Moss said solemnly. "The man has guts. I hope y'all are still thirsty."

MAROTTA SAT WITH Price as their dark limousine sped away from the mall. "They double-teamed me," he said. "Christy played the real Christian, and Grace the plain-speaking voice of truth. He means to use South Carolina against me in Michigan, California, and wherever else there's a Catholic vote."

"Got to beat him here first," Price said calmly.

"Tonight didn't help. I told you, Magnus, that going to Cash was a mistake."

Taking out his cell phone, Price pushed the speed dial. "Carl?" he said. "Yeah, I know. But there's still time for Grace to blow a gasket—watch the morning show tomorrow on Rohr News.

"So do me a favor, will you? Invite Grace to speak at your school. By the time he gets there, he may not be able to stay cool."

As Price listened, a smile played at the corner of his mouth. "You're a blessing, Reverend."

Price put the cell phone in his pocket. "The stuff about Christy and women," Marotta asked, "you sure about that?"

Price slowly nodded. "The Reverend Bob," he said, "is headed for the Fall."

ENTERING MOSS'S LIVING room, Corey looked around himself in bemusement. "Corey," Ford called out cheerfully. "Like you to meet your host, Boss Moss."

It's Willie Nelson's cousin, Corey thought, taking in Moss's beard and ponytail. But what caught his eye was the Confederate flag folded in the grizzled veteran's hand. "Thought you might appreciate a souvenir," Moss informed him. "Tell your lady friend I mean no disrespect."

Smiling, Corey took the flag. "I'll do that, Boss. Drink some bourbon with me?"

"THE RULES OF THIS DEBATE," CANDY CROWLEY SAID ON CNNTHE next morning, "encouraged politics waged as mortal combat. But the early consensus is that Senator Marotta lost ground to both opponents.

"Late last night, in a surprising development, the Reverend Carl Cash invited Senator Grace to speak at his university."

"No way I could have ducked this one," Corey told Rustin.

He sat on the edge of his bed in boxer shorts, briefing papers scattered around him. Dressed in the same rumpled suit he had worn yesterday, Rustin looked like a man who had not exercised in weeks, or even seen the sun. "Maybe so," he answered dubiously. "But they're counting on you to defend Lexie in a way that turns more whites against you."

Corey's cell phone rang. When he answered, Dakin Ford said, "Click on Rohr."

Rohr's leading right-wing talk-show host, Frank Flaherty, had preempted the morning news. "This relationship," he was saying in a voice etched with scorn, "involves more than extramarital sex.
She
wants a president who'll advance her radical agenda;
he
needs her to help him carpetbag for black crossover votes in South Carolina. And Lexie Hart is no amateur when it comes to playing the race card."

The clip of Lexie that Rohr used seemed several years old. "Can Cortland Lane," the interviewer asked, "become the first African-American president?"

"Why ask me?" she answered mildly. "White people get to make that call."

"Jesus," Rustin murmured.