The Candidate Page 3

  Erica has a terrific staff at the network, but she’s resisted hiring a personal assistant, someone who would bridge her professional and personal lives. She prides herself on being able to handle it all, but the stark truth is she isn’t handling it all. Not well, anyway. Pride can be a dangerous thing. Maybe it’s time to relent. It would be such a relief to have someone who could handle the thousand prosaic details that clutter up her life, someone who could tie up odds and ends, engage Jenny, and hopefully anticipate both Erica’s and Jenny’s needs.

  But it has to be the right person. Female. Young. Bright. Takes initiative. And most important, of course, clicks with Jenny. Erica has several interns on her show, kids just out of college trying to build their resumes. She runs through them in her head. There’s that super-organized one—Amanda, Amanda Rees. She’s a hard worker, a self-starter, upbeat. Hmm. Certainly worth talking to.

  Erica calls Shirley Stamos, her amazingly efficient, dry-witted secretary, on whom she has come to depend. “Can you get me Amanda Rees’s resume?”

  “Will do.”

  “I’ve decided I need a personal assistant. What do you think of her?”

  “I think she’s terrific, a real go-getter, heading for big things.”

  “I had the same impression. If you think of anyone else, let me know. Maybe put out the word that I’m looking.”

  Erica hangs up. She’ll contact Amanda Rees in the next couple of days. Right now it’s time to concentrate on tonight’s debate. The candidates have fought to a near draw in the primaries and delegate count, and—as the final round of primaries looms—this debate could be the deciding factor. It also gives Erica an opportunity for face time with the candidates and their staffs—the more comfortable they become with her, the more likely it is they’ll consent to her moderating one of the general election debates. Which would be a career coup.

  There’s a lot at stake. As her focus sharpens and her juices flow, Erica tosses a pair of heels, a light sweater, and a half dozen pairs of her clip-on earrings into her suitcase. Then she grabs it and races out the door.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE SCENE OUTSIDE THE VEALE Center at Case Western Reserve University is a raucous testimony to a vibrant democracy. There are crowds, contained by police barricades, on either side of the walkway that leads from the curb to the sleek, low-slung glass building. On one side are the Ortiz partisans, on the other are Buchanan’s supporters—there are hats and flags and signs and cheers and chants; everyone is pumped and primed and passionate. Erica finds it all energizing, thrilling. She has zero respect for people who don’t vote, are cynical about our system, or take our freedoms for granted.

  She is standing near the entrance to the center, between the two sides, ready to go live. She’s still working with the same pod—cameraman Derek, soundman Manny, and associate producer Lesli—that was assigned to her on her first day at GNN, which seems like a lifetime ago. They’ve been through the crucible with her—Derek and Manny risked their lives that terrifying day in Miami—and her loyalty to them is unshakable.

  Just as Erica is getting her game face on, there’s a small commotion down by the curb. Lo and behold, it’s CNN’s Sara Kenyon arriving with her crew and taking up position just where the candidates’ cars will be pulling up. Sara looks over to Erica and feigns excited surprise. Then she dashes over. She’s pretty and perky, but her green eyes have a hard edge.

  “Be still my heart. It’s an honor to meet you, Erica.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sara.”

  “Well, I better go woman the battlements, the candidates will be arriving any minute. Can we do lunch?”

  “Of course.”

  Sara mouths Call me and dashes back to her crew. She still has a lot to learn, Erica thinks. First of all, she made a freshman error by positioning herself where she has. When the candidates first get out of their cars they’ll be engulfed in cheers and outstretched hands. They won’t turn their backs on their supporters to grant an interview. Erica, by placing herself in front of the entrance to the hall, has increased her chances of snagging at least a few words.

  “All set, Erica?” Lesli asks.

  Erica nods. Like all newscasters, Erica has had to master the art of peripheral vision. She looks right into the camera when she speaks, but keeps half an eye on a monitor below the camera that shows what’s on-screen as seen by viewers. Now she sees Patricia Lorenzo, the GNN anchor in New York. In her earpiece Erica hears Lorenzo say, “Now let’s go to Erica Sparks live in Cleveland.”

  “Thanks, Patricia. This is Erica Sparks reporting from Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland, where the final debate between the two remaining contenders for the Democratic presidential nomination—Senator Mike Ortiz of California and Pennsylvania governor Fred Buchanan—will begin in just under an hour. As you can see, the crowd outside is divided into the Ortiz and Buchanan camps, and passions are running high. The candidates themselves are expected to arrive at any minute. They’re both fighting for the right to take on the presumptive Republican candidate, Minnesota senator Lucy Winters.”

  A great cheer goes up as a caravan of black SUVs pulls up to the curb. A Secret Service agent leaps out of the first car, rushes up to the second car, and opens the door. A blond woman of about forty, with perfect makeup and hair and wearing an exquisitely tailored suit, steps out—she has show-stopping presence and a dazzling smile that is at once both welcoming and off-putting.

  “It looks as if Mike Ortiz has just arrived. That’s his wife, Celeste Pierce Ortiz, we see getting out of the vehicle first. She’s a powerful and intriguing woman in her own right—heiress to a car dealership fortune, an international banker specializing in China markets. She has put her own career on hold to work for her husband’s campaign, to which she has donated over twenty million dollars. And here comes Senator Ortiz.”

  Mike Ortiz steps out of the SUV to frenzied cheers from his supporters. He’s in his midforties, handsome with close-cut black hair and a powerful build that looks like it’s barely contained by his expensive suit. He breaks into a broad smile that could melt the darkest heart. Standing side by side, the couple is blindingly glamorous.

  They ignore Sara Kenyon’s entreaty for a few words, and as they make their way along the police line, touching outstretched hands, patting babies’ cheeks, signing autographs, Erica can’t help but be a little starstruck—and she’s seen her fair share of stars. They reach the end of the line, and when Celeste sees Erica she turns into a heat-seeking missile and steers her husband over.

  And now they’re in front of her. “Senator Ortiz, can I ask you a couple of quick questions?”

  The senator shoots a glance at his wife, who, without missing a beat, says, “Anything for you, Erica.”

  In spite of her tough reporter’s hide and professional neutrality, Erica is flattered. “What do you need to accomplish tonight, Senator?”

  “The American people are looking for answers, and I want to make sure they know what I stand for and why.”

  “How do you respond to criticism that you’re relying too heavily on your admittedly powerful capture and escape from Al-Qaeda?”

  “My experiences in Iraq shaped the man I am today. During my tour as a marine I saw unimaginable suffering. After I was elected to Congress, I was determined to return to Iraq to help the civilian population. Then I was kidnapped. I knew that if I made it back home, I would redouble my commitment to the common good. And my escape taught me that anything is possible.” He speaks with heart—making the words sound like he’s never said them before, when in fact he repeats them at every opportunity. Like a great actor, he makes the stale sound fresh—the man has enormous political talent.

  Celeste Ortiz leans in and squeezes Erica’s hand. “We’d better get inside, Mike has some last-minute preparations.”

  As they enter the arena, another phalanx of black vehicles pulls up, and a great cheer goes up as Fred and Judy Buchanan step out of their car. They are the anti-
Ortiz—they both have gray hair, Judy is in a plain cotton dress, and her husband’s suit is wrinkled. There’s art to their homey image—Buchanan is running as the champion of the working and middle classes. They too ignore Sara Kenyon, who gamely smiles into her camera and chatters away.

  Watching the Buchanans, Erica is struck by their sincerity and warmth. There’s nothing rote about the way they’re greeting their supporters; they seem to genuinely listen and connect. Their lack of polish is refreshing, but Erica isn’t sure it will carry Buchanan to the White House. Americans want their presidents and movie stars to be idealized versions of themselves—better looking, smarter, richer. The Buchanans look like a couple of bird watchers you’d strike up a conversation with on a hiking trail in Vermont. Thoughtful, compassionate, and a little dull.

  Still, they seem like lovely people, a reflection of Americans’ core decency. As they approach the end of the police line, a young mother hands Judy Buchanan her baby and Judy holds it up and makes a funny face—the baby smiles in delight.

  Then there’s a flash of light and a deafening boom and Erica’s world goes black.

  CHAPTER 4

  ERICA COMES TO A MOMENT later. She’s lying on the ground, an intense pain shooting through her right shoulder, which took the brunt of her fall. But otherwise she’s in one piece. Screams and cries for help fill the air. Erica looks over to where the Buchanans stood, now a scene of horror and carnage. Bodies and body parts lie bloodied and mangled. She stumbles to her feet, afraid she’s going to vomit; she suddenly feels cold, frigid, and realizes she’s going into shock. But people need help; they’re crying and screaming. Erica sees a teenage girl lying on the pavement—all that’s left of her right leg below the knee is the jagged tip of her shinbone. The girl is frozen, looking down at the place where her leg was thirty seconds ago. Erica races over to her as the wail of ambulances is heard in the distance. The girl is wearing a belt, and Erica swiftly takes it off and wraps it tightly just above the girl’s right knee. Then she lifts the thigh, angling the leg up, and the blood flow diminishes. Two EMTs arrive and take over.

  As the first responders flood the scene, Erica realizes she’s just in the way. She stands up, and that’s when she notices the twisted, lifeless bodies of Fred and Judy Buchanan. A terrible sadness washes over her, grief for the loss of these two sincere people who clearly loved their country and each other. Then fear takes over. If she’d been standing ten feet closer to them, her own body would look like that right now. Her hands start to shake.

  She goes back over to her pod—who were just far enough away from the blast to escape injury—and picks up her mic, sucking air, willing herself to stop shaking and do her job. “This is Erica Sparks reporting from the campus of Case Western Reserve University, and a bomb has just exploded near the entrance to the Veale Center, where the final Democratic primary debate was scheduled to start within the hour. Both Fred Buchanan and his wife, Judy, have been killed. As you can see, the scene here is one of carnage and chaos. First responders have arrived in force, and the injured are being taken to local hospitals. We have no count of the casualties and fatalities yet, but I would estimate them in the dozens. This is simply horrific.”

  Erica sees a campus security guard standing nearby, his uniform covered in blood. She goes over to him, her pod following, taping.

  “Did you see anything suspicious before the bomb exploded?”

  The man is fighting back tears. “I was over there on the Ortiz side. When Buchanan was shaking hands, I thought I saw a teenager, or maybe he was a young man, pushing forward to get close to him. Next thing I knew the bomb went off. Oh, this is terrible, just terrible.” The man turns away from the camera, unable to continue.

  “Once again: a bomb exploded less than five minutes ago here at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland.”

  A man and a woman, both in dark suits, approach Erica. They flash FBI badges and signal for her to stop taping.

  “This is Erica Sparks reporting. I’ll bring you any updates as they happen. Now back to GNN headquarters in New York.”

  Manny turns off the camera. The female FBI agent says, “We’ll need that footage.” Manny looks to Erica and Lesli, who both nod assent.

  “Let us know if there’s anything else we can do,” Erica says as the agents take the camera and walk away. “Get the backup camera, Manny.”

  Erica grabs her bag, takes out her cell, and turns it on. There have been three calls from Jenny in the last five minutes. She ducks inside the Veale Center and calls back.

  “Mommy, Mommy, I saw it on TV, are you all right?” Jenny is sobbing.

  “Yes, I’m fine, honey. I’m fine. It’s a horrible thing that’s happened but I’m fine.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “I’ll be spending the night out here. I have a job to do. This is a very important story.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t want you to have that job anymore. It’s too scary.”

  “No one said it was an easy job, Jenny, but it’s an important one.” Erica takes a deep breath—just talking to Jenny is grounding her. She’s still a mom. “Can you please ask Yelena to stay over tonight?”

  There’s a pause and then Jenny says, “Yes.”

  Law enforcement is swarming around the arena, and Sara Kenyon and other newscasters are delivering live on-the-scene coverage. GNN isn’t. That’s unacceptable.

  “I better get going, honey.” Out the glass doors, Lesli is gesturing to let Erica know they’re ready to go. Erica walks back outside. All of the dead and injured have been removed, but their blood remains, staining the concrete like a demonic Rorschach test. Evil. There’s so much evil in the world.

  Erica flashes back to the Staten Island ferry crash that launched her career. Is it possible this horrific act was also orchestrated by unseen forces who want Erica to be on the scene? No, that’s ridiculous. No one except a few people at the network knew where she would be positioned. And she can trust everyone at GNN. Can’t she? She’s being paranoid. Isn’t she?

  Erica takes the mic from Derek, and as she opens her mouth to begin reporting, she wonders if it’s all really worth it.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE NEXT MORNING ERICA IS sitting at her desk in New York. She was on the air for another four hours anchoring GNN’s coverage of the bombing, and then she crashed for a few hours at an airport hotel. The network’s plane flew her back to New York and she came straight to the office, where she showered in her private bathroom and changed into a clean dress.

  Fifteen people died in the bomb attack, forty-two were injured, eight are in critical condition, and the country is reeling. Cell phone and network footage clearly show a young man—first described to Erica by the campus security guard—pushing his way forward in the crowd in the moments before the explosion. He was wearing sunglasses, had a ski cap pulled low on his forehead, and was carrying a backpack. Some anchors at other networks—eager to get ahead of the story—are already speculating that he’s an Islamic terrorist. Erica refuses to engage in that kind of inflammatory reporting. It’s irresponsible, demagogic, and just plain lousy journalism. She’ll wait until identification can be made and the facts uncovered. She’s told Eileen McDermott that she wants to stay off the air until there’s a break in the story.

  Something from last night has lodged at the back of Erica’s mind, but she can’t remember exactly what it is. It happened before the bomb blast, and with the ensuing panic and pandemonium she can’t bring it up. It’s like an itch she can’t scratch, and it’s driving her a little nuts. But she pushes her frustration away—if it’s gone, it’s gone.

  Her phone rings.

  “Great job last night, Erica,” says Mort Silver. “We topped the ratings.”

  Erica understands that the news is a business, but the obsession with ratings at a time like this, when the nation has lost an admired public servant and been traumatized by an act of terrorism, makes her uneasy.

  “I’m glad to he
ar it, Mort.”

  “Let’s stay on top,” he says, and there’s an edge in his voice, subtle but unmistakable.

  Erica isn’t ashamed of being ambitious, but she never wants it to cross the line into ruthless. Since she helped nail Hastings and his cohorts, she’s enjoyed a unique status among American journalists. She even got a call from the president, asking her to become chief of the Broadcasting Board of Governors, the state department agency charged with delivering accurate news to strategic audiences overseas and serving as an example of a free and professional press. It’s an important job, but she turned him down because it would have demanded too much of her time. But just to be asked was evidence of her stature. And she’s definitely earned that most coveted of American titles—she’s a celebrity! A fact she does her very best to ignore. Erica refuses almost all requests for interviews; she shuns parties, benefits, and photo ops. Over the last eight months, since Hastings was sentenced, she has waited for the hoopla and buzz to subside. She wants to be less famous, wants to return to her roots as a journalist who is in it for the long haul. And if she loses the ratings battle to FOX or CNN now and then, so be it.

  With her vast office—complete with kitchen, bath, and closet/dressing room—and staff of writers, directors, producers, and researchers, Erica is in a position of enormous power. She wields it gently. She hates diva behavior—everyone at The Erica Sparks Effect is treated with respect and integrity. No games, no backbiting, no bull.

  Erica spoke to Jenny a little earlier. Yelena stayed overnight and got her off to school. Erica hopes she can make it home for dinner, but everything depends on the Buchanan bombing story. If there are any developments, it could be a very long day. Which would mean Jenny will be alone again for another night. Just when Erica thinks things will quiet down, an important story breaks and Jenny suffers. Erica calls Shirley.