CHAPTER
SIX

I

Debra Wyatt wasn’t budging.

Give Garry Strider credit, he tried everything on her. Only, his charm didn’t get him as far as it used to; she seemed impervious to the flirting that once succeeded in piercing her tough veneer. His subtle and not–so–subtle queries dislodged nothing worthwhile from her. He even tried to bluff her into thinking he knew more than he did, but she saw through him as quickly as she used to disarm sketchy witnesses who were trying to scam her.

Strider was running out of tactics. And unlike the old days, when a few too many Black Russians would lubricate her inhibitions, Debra was nursing a diet soft drink as they sat in the first–floor coffee shop of her Loop office building.

“Garry, this is getting ridiculous. I understand that you want the dirt on Judge Sepulveda, but there’s absolutely nothing I can tell you.”

“Then there is dirt.”

Debra laughed, chasing a wayward lock of blonde hair from her face with a subtle flick of her head. “Strider, you haven’t changed.”

Finally ready to concede defeat, Strider settled back in his green vinyl booth. “You have,” he said.

Again, she smiled. He was right — more than he knew.

“Look, Strider, all you’ve talked about is Sepulveda. I thought you also wanted to talk about Diamond Point. You’ve been snooping a lot over there. What are you looking for?”

Strider drained his black coffee and gestured to the waitress for a refill. He waited until she topped off the cup and walked away. “Yeah, I’m interested in Diamond Point. How did someone like you get involved in a church like that anyway?”

Debra arched her eyebrows. “What do you mean, ‘someone like me’? What am I — the seductive temptress who corrupted an innocent young reporter?”

“I thought it was the other way around.”

“That was a long time ago. We both made mistakes.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Okay, I made mistakes. I never should have gotten involved. It was unhealthy for both of us.”

“We both came out all right,” he said, gently blowing swirls of steam from his cup. “I thought you were going to go into politics. What happened with that?”

Debra glanced out the window onto the bustling sidewalk as she gathered her thoughts. “The stars didn’t align. The primaries were too crowded. The fund–raising — I never would have made it.” She looked at Strider. “The truth is I’ve always been much more interested in policies than politics.”

Strider grinned. “I would have voted for you.” All these years later, he still found himself mesmerized by her coral blue eyes, which somehow managed to look intelligent and probing while at the same time vulnerable and alluring. Or was that a look she had cultivated for her own purposes? Even now, he wasn’t sure.

“Let me be blunt, Garry — you’re not going to find anything at Diamond Point. Snow is one of the good guys.”

“Really? No hesitations?”

“None. He’s coming from a different place than you are. His worldview is different from yours. But his heart is right. His values are good. His goals are decent. It’s not a crime to be an evangelical Christian.”

“Maybe it should be,” he said.

“Garry, c’mon. It’s me — Debra. You think I’m part of some evil cabal of theocrats who are trying to shove superstition down people’s throats? I came to a place a few years ago where I totally reexamined my life. Coming out of the U.S. Attorney’s office, having my heart broken a few times, giving up my dream of politics — it was a tough time in my life.”

“And God saved you?”

“Strider, it’s not as simplistic as you want to make it.”

“I can’t believe you buy into that stuff.”

“I can’t believe you don’t. Have you ever really looked at the evidence for God?”

“I’m too busy looking into Diamond Point. Debra, I know you’re legit. I don’t have any reason to question your motivation or involvement at the church. But maybe there are some things going on that you don’t know about.”

She leaned forward. “If you find something, then as an elder I’d want to know about it. I’d want it fixed more than you would. But Garry, I’m not aware of anything that would warrant all of the time you’re spending out there.” She sat back and sized him up. “What’s really driving you?”

“I smell a story, that’s all.”

“Well, I smell something else,” she said, on the verge of smiling. When Strider didn’t respond, she chuckled. “Garry, you’re incorrigible. Really, I think you’d like Eric if you got to know him.”

“I can’t imagine myself hanging around with a religious fanatic.”

“Strider, why do you think our church is some kind of marginal, kooky, out–of–the–mainstream place? We’re Christians, so are the majority of Americans. So’s the president, for goodness sake. Eric Snow is not a cultist; he’s a leader — he’s been a business leader, the leader of a governmental task force, and now he’s the leader of a large nonprofit organization that helps all kinds of people in all kinds of ways.”

“Funny — Snow used virtually the same script with me,” Strider said.

“Well, it’s true.”

“What about this incident with the little girl at the Elders Prayer meeting?”

Debra sighed. “Nobody’s claiming that’s a miracle.”

“Her parents are.”

“Are they theologically trained? They’re just glad their girl is okay. We all are. But we’re not a bunch of fanatical faith–healers. Eric Snow is as sober–minded and responsible as any leader of any large and complex organization. I know you’re skeptical of faith, but I also know you can be an honest and impartial reporter. We’re counting on your integrity, Garry.”

They sat quietly for a few moments. Strider took off his glasses and slipped them into his pocket. At last, he said, “Regardless of what you might think, I don’t have an agenda, Debra. By your own admission, Diamond Point is a large organization that affects a lot of people in different ways. That makes it a legitimate subject for scrutiny.”

“Granted. And I know you’ll be fair.”

“Unlike Judge Sepulveda …”

“Strider! Give it a rest. I’m telling you — I’m not saying anything about Sepulveda.”

She looked into Strider’s face — and now she judged that the time was right. She knew he was starting to regret that he had spent so much time with her without extracting anything of consequence about Sepulveda. Everything was set on her end — even Elizabeth Snow had reluctantly set aside her objections and given her permission to go the next step. As the conversation was nearing its end, it was the opportune moment.

Her voice took on a confidential tone. “Strider, I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything about Sepulveda. But there is one thing I can tell you.”

Strider perked up. “Yeah? Like what?”

Debra quickly scanned the room; still, nobody was sitting close enough to overhear anything. “I want to make sure we’re off the record.”

Now Strider was getting somewhere. This was the Debra Wyatt he used to know. “Yeah, sure.”

“Let’s define our terms. I’m not your source. But I do have something you might be interested in.”

“Okay, deep background.”

“You can’t attribute this to me or even to an unnamed source. You’ve got to confirm it independently. I’m serious, Strider. You can use this as a lead, but someone else has got to spell it out for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Debra. So what’ve you got?”

They leaned toward each other. Debra paused to heighten his curiosity. When she spoke, she made every word count.

“Senator Barker is going to plead guilty — very soon. And when he does, Governor Avanes will appoint his successor. And it’s going to be Eric Snow.”

II

The commotion began at daybreak in the cul–de–sac at the end of Eric Snow’s winding driveway, guarded by an ornate wrought iron gate. Crews from half a dozen Chicago morning TV programs and news shows clamored for positioning, their microphone–clutching reporters searching for the right spot to shoot their stand–ups.

Photographers from several newspapers settled for a few static shots of Snow’s stone home as they sipped steaming coffee from white cups and paced themselves for what they figured would be a long wait. Though most print journalists preferred to work the phones from their office, reporters from the Examiner, Tribune, and several suburban newspapers milled among the crowd.

Snow peered out a second–story window as he pressed a cell phone to his ear. “Yeah, there’s no way I can get through there without at least acknowledging them. I’d look like a jerk.”

The story had broken at 3:00 a.m. when the Examiner, in an article by–lined by investigative reporter Garry Strider and political editor Hal Brooks, was posted on the newspaper’s website. The same story anchored the front page of the print edition when it hit the streets before the sun came up: SNOW, McKELVIE TOP CANDIDATES TO REPLACE BARKER AS PLEA NEARS.

“You’ve got to give them footage for the morning shows,” Debra Wyatt was telling Snow. “Remember — they need visuals, and you don’t want them showing file footage of you preaching somewhere. I’m sure they’ve staked out McKelvie’s house or the courthouse; we don’t want him on the air and not you.”

Snow stepped away from the window and walked over to his closet to choose a tie. He selected a red and blue striped one that looked — well, senatorial. “What’s the best way to do this without looking like a fugitive or celebrity in rehab?”

Debra pondered the situation. “Is your morning paper still in the driveway?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, perfect. Get in the SUV and back down the driveway to the paper. Keep the gate closed; it’s not an obstacle for the cameras and it’ll keep the reporters from swarming you.”

“Uh–huh.”

“Then get out of the SUV, pick up the paper, and casually wave to the reporters. They’ll be calling out questions; take a couple of steps toward the cameras but stick to our statement: ‘Thanks for coming out here this morning. I’ve seen the speculation in the press and I just want to say I’m honored to be considered for this important appointment, but I think it would be premature for me to comment further at this time.’ Then get back in your SUV, push the button for the gate to open, and ease out.”

“Okay, got it.” He let out a small chuckle. “Seems like everything’s on track so far.”

“So far.”

Snow went downstairs, where Liz was peeking out the drapes. She turned and sized him up. “Was that Debra? You two plotting again?” Her tone was less accusatory than their encounter coming home from O’Hare.

“Just trying to figure out how to escape.”

During long conversations in the preceding days, Eric had assured Liz that she could spend most of her time in Illinois while he was in Washington and that he would continue to privately fund her African philanthropy if he won appointment to the Senate. She didn’t relish the public spotlight or playing the role of hostess for Washington soirées, and there still was much to work out between them, but she had grudgingly given Eric the green light to proceed — even though it was a very pale green indeed.

Snow’s exit from his house proceeded according to Debra’s instructions, although he was a bit taken aback by some of the questions hurled by the reporters: “What about separation of church and state?” “Would you represent Muslims and Jews, or just Christians?” “Are people who disagree with you going to hell?”

III

After Snow’s black SUV — an American–made hybrid, he was always quick to point out — snaked through the crowd of journalists, several of them took up positions for live feeds back to the morning shows, including Julia Holderman of Have A Good Day, Chicago.

“I’m here at the suburban home of Reverend Eric Snow, who’s among two finalists for replacing indicted U.S. Senator Sam Barker, whose guilty plea is reportedly imminent,” she said, pushing an errant earpiece back into place while keeping her eyes fixed on the camera.

“Snow didn’t have much to say as he retrieved his morning newspaper.” She paused while the video of Snow’s comments was played for the home audience.

“Snow, of course, is the high–profile pastor of Diamond Point Fellowship, the megachurch attended by thousands each week, among them the daughter of Governor Avanes,” she continued. “Prior to founding DPF, he started Snow Visionary Software, drawing on his finance degree and MBA,” she said, in error on the last detail. “He advised President George W. Bush on the Israeli–Palestinian situation and gained statewide acclaim as a leader of the task force that solved the RTA’s seemingly intractable fiscal crisis.”

Back in the studio, co–host Deanna Foster posed a question — one for which the reporter had already researched an answer. “Isn’t it unusual for a pastor to be considered for appointment to a national stage like this?”

“Well, Jimmy Carter taught Sunday school at a Baptist church before and after his presidency,” Holderman replied. “William Harrison was a vestryman at an Episcopal church, James Garfield preached at revival meetings when he was in his twenties, and William McKinley studied to become a Methodist minister.”

Foster appeared satisfied with the prepared script. “What would be the political gain for the governor if he appointed Snow?”

“State Republicans are splintered into several warring factions; by appointing someone unaligned with any of those blocs, he avoids alienating large sections of the party. Also, Snow’s integrity hasn’t been challenged, which would be refreshing in light of this scandal surrounding Senator Barker. Of course, both those facts are also true of Chief Criminal Courts Judge Reese McKelvie, who’s also up for consideration.”

As Holderman recited her answer, Foster was frantically flipping through background notes prepared by a staff researcher. A producer prompted her through her earpiece: “No confirmation hearings.”

When the camera’s red light blinked on again, Foster looked up and said with an air of confident authority, “Of course, neither Snow nor McKelvie would have to worry about any confirmation hearings.”

“That’s right,” said Holderman. “The governor has the absolute power to appoint whomever he wants to succeed Senator Barker until the next congressional election, some eighteen months from now. And that would give the appointee plenty of time and leverage to run for a full term.”

“Julia, thanks for your report. Now let’s go over to Chad Noonan at the Criminal Courts Building.”

Standing in front of the hulking courthouse on Chicago’s West Side, amidst a cluster of other reporters and photographers, Noonan acknowledged Foster with a dip of his head.

“Reese McKelvie arrived moments ago and entered the courthouse without comment,” he said while a tape played of the judge walking up a flight of stairs and into the front of the building — obviously staged for the cameras as deliberately as Snow’s appearance had been.

“McKelvie practiced law with the governor for several years before being elected to the General Assembly, where he served for two terms. Later he was elected to the circuit court and was elevated to the top position in the criminal court after a scandal that sent several judges to the penitentiary. He’s best known for cleaning up the way cases are assigned by removing any possibility of bias or favoritism.”

Foster jumped in. “So like Eric Snow, he’s been riding above politics,” she observed.

“Actually, McKelvie was elected to the court as a conservative Democrat; only later did he become a Republican. Rumor has it that he was piqued after the son of a Democratic party leader jilted his daughter.”

“Any downside to the fact that he was once the governor’s law partner? That seems a little cozy.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” replied Noonan. “On the other hand, the governor may feel that McKelvie is somebody he can trust. And certainly McKelvie has a positive record of cleaning up corruption.”

Back at the studio, Foster wrapped up the segment and went on to other topics. Outside Snow’s house in Diamond Point, Julia Holderman was handing her mic to the sound technician as they strolled back to their news van.

“You know, one thing still bothers me,” she said to her producer.

“What’s that?”

“The story in the Examiner. When you boil it down, there’s really very little news in it — Barker’s going to plead guilty soon, and McKelvie and Snow are up for the appointment. Normally, they would have padded out the story with some stale background about the candidates.”

“Yeah? And?”

“The material on Snow and Diamond Point wasn’t canned; it was really fresh stuff. Up–to–date statistics, interesting details. Obviously, Garry or Hal had already been digging into Snow and Diamond Point for a while. They’re way ahead of the game.”

Interesting, mused the producer. “Let’s get over to the church and see what we can find out,” he said. “The Examiner wouldn’t be wasting its time over there if they didn’t know there was a bigger story.”

IV

His radio was blaring, but the sound of the shower drowned out most of the chatter. Tom O’Sullivan wasn’t paying much attention anyway; he was rinsing the shampoo from his hair while thinking about the day that was about to unfold — three perfunctory court appearances on behalf of long–time clients, then a couple of office appointments in the afternoon.

It was the name that snapped his attention toward the news report: Was he imagining things or did he really hear the anchorman mention Reese McKelvie?

Tom wrapped himself in a towel and hustled into the bedroom, which doubled as a home office. Still standing, he leaned over the computer and clicked the bookmark for the Examiner’s home page — where he instantly saw a smiling photo of the chief criminal courts judge adjacent to a headline naming him as a potential successor to United States Senator Samuel D. Barker.

Fortunately, his swivel chair was there to catch him.

V

“Remember, I’m not here,” insisted Nicholas Halberstam. “Never been here. Never talked to you. The next sixty minutes never took place.”

Few circumstances generated apprehension in Eric Snow. Preaching to thousands of people didn’t elevate his heart rate anymore. Even meeting in the Oval Office became routine after a few visits. Sitting on a brown leather couch, holding hands with Liz, and watching Halberstam pace back and forth in between questions — now that was disconcerting.

“Gut check” was how Halberstam described the purpose of their meeting in Snow’s office, just hours after news broke that he was a finalist for replacing Senator Barker. A stout, forty–something, black–haired man with a closely trimmed beard, nattily dressed in a dark blue suit, bright white shirt, gold cuff links, and a vibrant red–and–yellow tie, Halberstam was the top political advisor to Governor Avanes.

His demeanor never changed during the meeting–that–never–took–place: there was no chit–chat or casual pleasantries, only his staccato questions and terse observations that demanded complete focus.

“You’re not my first choice,” he declared as he paced from one side of the room to the other, the mild aroma of stale cigarette smoke trailing in his wake. “Too many unnecessary issues with the church thing. Religion polarizes people. That’s your biggest obstacle. To me, it’s a fatal one, but, hey, I’m not the governor. On the other hand, nobody important is going to oppose you.”

“Why’s that?” asked Snow.

“Because you’re weak. Politically, you’re a lightweight. Democrats and Republicans will both like that. They’ll see you as a placeholder, someone in there for just eighteen months. That suits them just fine, because it means that everyone with ambition to be senator can start planning their own campaigns to replace you — the secretary of state, the mayor of Peoria, Congressman Dillard and Pickering, you name it. So you’d be popular with them. They know they’re not going to get the appointment, so their second choice would be a political nobody like you.”

Eric and Liz exchanged glances, and then he looked across the room at Debra Wyatt and Art Bullock, who were sitting side by side in red upholstered chairs. Art’s eyes were wide; Debra looked stoic, her arms folded across her chest, her thin lips betraying no reaction.

“If the governor does go with you, then Job One is to start your election campaign the minute the announcement is made. In fact, if you wait sixty seconds, you’ve waited too long. Everything you do, every decision you make, needs to promote your election. Fund–raising starts immediately. Eighteen months isn’t a long time to gain the advantages of incumbency. Or to build a war chest, even though you can seed it with your own cash.”

Snow spoke up. “What are the odds—”

“Of getting the nod? As I said, I advised against it, but who listens to me? The governor is leaning your way. Slightly. That’s why I’m here — or not here, I should say. We’ve got to get some things crystallized.”

He made direct eye contact with Snow. “I know you’ve filled out the forms we sent you, so we’ve got the basic background. But I’m here to ask you point–blank: is there anything in your background — anything whatsoever — that would embarrass the governor if he gives you this appointment?”

Snow shook his head. “You’ve seen our tax returns,” he said.

“Right. No red flags there. In fact, our analyst says you actually overpaid last year. And you’ve given plenty to charity — nice touch. No, I don’t see a problem with your taxes. I’m asking about your personal life. You’re good–looking, charismatic, influential. I need the background on all girlfriends, affairs, one–nighters, whatever you care to call them — no offense, Mrs. Snow.”

“There are none,” Snow said firmly, squeezing his wife’s hand. Liz echoed, “None.”

Halberstam’s eyes bore in on him. “You sure? Nothing inappropriate? No potential lawsuits for sexual harassment?”

Snow returned the stare. “As I said, no, there’s nothing.”

“No inadvertent touching?”

“No.”

“Nothing that could be misconstrued?”

“No.”

“Are you positive? Better to get it out now than later. Think for a moment.”

“I don’t have to think about it, Mr. Halberstam. The answer is no.”

“Porn? The convenience store down the block doesn’t have surveillance video of you buying girlie magazines, does it? Or your computer — any incriminating stuff on there?”

“Again, no, Mr. Halberstam.”

Halberstam’s gaze shifted to Liz. “You? Anything you’d be embarrassed to have Garry Strider find out?”

Liz bristled at being cross–examined. She was still a reluctant convert to her husband’s Senate aspirations; if she had it her way, she’d never have to venture into the public arena.

“Mr. Halberstam,” she said in a measured tone, “there’s nothing I would try to hide from you or from him. Eric and I have had our ups and downs like every couple, but we’re faithful to each other. Corny as it sounds, we try to live what we preach.”

“Ups and downs, huh? Ever been separated, even for a little while?”

“No, never,” she said.

“Cops ever been called to the house for a domestic dispute?”

That evoked a small smile. “Of course not.”

“We live in a fish bowl at the church,” Snow added. “People at Diamond Point are observant. If there were the slightest whiff of a problem in our relationship, it would have gotten out. There’s nothing like that, Mr. Halberstam.”

Halberstam grunted. As he turned, he muttered as an aside: “At least you’ve got an edge with the black vote.”

“Only from a racist, political point–of–view — no offense, Mr. Halberstam,” Liz shot back. Eric, thinking she might lunge out of her chair, squeezed her hand tighter in a show of both support and restraint. “I’m not a poster girl to appease some constituency.”

“Mr. Halberstam, you owe my wife an apology,” Eric said crisply.

Halberstam looked surprised. “Look, I meant it as a compliment. You’re an asset, Mrs. Snow. If I were you, I’d embrace that.”

Eric could sense her withdrawing from the conversation — if she couldn’t fight then she became detached. Her pale green go–ahead light had just flickered into the golden glow of caution.

Halberstam, undeterred, bent over to retrieve a manila envelope from his oversized attaché case. He opened it and paged through some papers. “This lawsuit is a bit of a problem. The Fredricks case.”

Snow and Bullock knew it well: it was a wrongful–death suit filed by the parents of a teenager who drowned at the church’s Quad Cities camp two summers ago. The suit claimed negligence on the part of the church’s staff, safety violations, and insufficient oversight of the campers.

“That’s being settled,” Bullock offered. “It’s trumped up; the truth is these kids sneaked out at night and took a boat out on the lake without permission.”

Halberstam closed the file. “It might not get settled now that the word is out that Snow might become a senator. The parents might think they’ve got new leverage. In any event, I want copies of all the depositions. Were you deposed, Eric?”

“No.”

“Good. Make sure when you settle this thing that there’s a confidentiality provision. Any other pending suits?”

“No, none,” Debra said, drawing Halberstam’s attention to her. She was the elder liaison with the staff for all legal matters. “And that suit will be settled.”

“Whatever you say, counselor. Any other lawsuits on the horizon?”

“We’ve had a few skirmishes with the municipality of Diamond Point,” she replied. “Little things — they don’t like the lights on our ball field after ten o’clock. They want more trees planted over on the corner. Small stuff, no big deal.”

“Okay. I want a complete report on all litigation involving the church since its inception. Everything. Are there any credible threats of future lawsuits?”

Snow spoke up. “Not to my knowledge — Art?”

“Me either.”

Halberstam tossed the Fredricks file back into his briefcase. “Any other potential problems?” he asked of no one in particular.

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Bullock said simply, “Strider.”

Halberstam’s interest piqued: “Garry Strider? What about him?”

Snow cleared his throat. “Well, he’s been snooping around here for the last few weeks. He interviewed Art.”

Halberstam spun to face Bullock. “What was he after?”

“Just fishing around.”

Halberstam sighed. “My dear Reverend Bullock, Garry Strider never just fishes around. Something has grabbed his interest. Any idea what it could be?”

“I don’t know. But I taped the interview.”

“Good. Give me a copy before I leave today.”

After a pause, Liz added in a soft voice, “And you should know about the miracle.”

“Miracle?” barked Halberstam.

Eric patted her hand. “It wasn’t a miracle, honey. At least, we’re not calling it that.” He looked up at Halberstam. “Our head elder prayed for a blind and deaf girl and she regained her hearing and sight. Garry Strider happened to be there.”

“And he saw this?”

“He was in the back but, yeah, he was there.”

“We don’t need anything like that. People are skittish enough about your church connection; they’re gonna think you’re a faith healer or something.”

“We’ve told the girl’s parents to keep quiet, but Strider’s still checking it out. I think we’re okay for now.”

“Well, be careful what you say about it. Don’t use the word ‘miracle’ or ‘healing’ or ‘supernatural’ or anything like that. And call me if that heats up.”

Halberstam scratched his beard as he looked around Snow’s expansive office, its large windows overlooking a lush courtyard dominated by a larger–than–life statue of Jesus toweling the outstretched foot of an astonished disciple.

“One thing’s for sure,” Halberstam said. “You’ve got to move out of this place — and I mean this afternoon. You can’t have the media coming to interview you at the church. It’s a constant reminder that you’re a pastor. Do you have another office somewhere?”

“Only at home.”

“That won’t work. Your ‘home’ is bigger than the Governor’s Mansion.”

“I could rent an office in downtown Diamond Point.”

“Do it now,” Halberstam said. “You can make it your campaign headquarters if and when that time comes. Rent some furniture; make it austere but tasteful. Hire an assistant who isn’t on the church payroll; in fact, hire a Jew or an atheist or something. Just not a Muslim. And don’t come back into this church for the time being. Not even on Sundays. When you walk out of here today, that’s it.”

“We could put him on a leave of absence,” Art suggested.

That seemed to resonate with Halberstam. “It would help if we could call you a former pastor,” he said, thinking out loud. “What if you resigned? That would dilute the church/state issue.”

Snow hesitated. “Obviously, I’d resign if I were selected. But before then? I don’t know …” Liz was already shaking her head, avoiding eye contact with him.

“I don’t like it,” Debra said flatly. “Everyone knows he’s been a pastor; we’re not going to fool anybody by having him quit now. If he gets chosen, fine. But otherwise, I don’t think so.”

Halberstam ignored her, a plan clearly forming in his mind. “What if he resigned to start a charity dedicated to some altruistic purpose — like attacking global poverty, or curing AIDS, or cleaning up the environment? Some sort of noble cause that everyone would nod and say, ‘Yep, that’s great.’ That would go a long way toward defusing skepticism about him being a pastor.”

Halberstam glanced from face to face, reading uncertainty if not outright contempt for his strategy. “Well, I’m telling you: all this church stuff is a problem,” he continued, turning toward Snow. “Your qualifications aren’t bad; you look good, you talk good, you’re a leader. Your business background is a plus. The way you handled that regional transit mess was pure genius. You’d probably make a fine senator. But people are going to wonder if you’re going to represent everybody or just evangelicals. What have you got — an archive of a dozen years of sermons? Who knows what your critics will find on those? Do you talk about hell and stuff?”

“Not a lot …”

“Good grief! We’ll have to get those sermons off your website and scrub any videos from YouTube.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Halberstam, 76 percent of Americans call themselves Christian. We’re not some out–of–touch cult.”

“But, Senator, most people who call themselves Christians aren’t evangelicals. That’s the problem. Do you believe only Christians are going to heaven?”

“The bottom line is that all evangelicals believe Jesus is the only way to God.”

“But you can’t say that. You can’t tell a Muslim from Chicago or a Jew from the North Shore or an atheist from Hyde Park that they’re headed for hell. You can say stuff like that in the safe confines of your sanctuary, but that’s not the way to talk to a constituent.”

“What do you suggest I say?”

“Express it as a personal opinion that’s just as valid as anyone else’s. You could say, ‘I’ve chosen to be a Christian; you may have made a different choice. That’s fine. We may have some disagreements about theology, but let’s agree that we need to move the state and nation forward.’ Something like that.”

Bullock had heard enough. “You want him to sell out!” he blurted.

Halberstam glared at him. “It’s called politics, Mr. Bullock. If you don’t have the stomach for it, then you should leave.”

“This church is built on the teachings of Jesus,” Bullock shot back. “There are some things you just can’t water down.”

“I’m not asking you to water down your beliefs; I’m suggesting you express your theology in a way that doesn’t unnecessarily alienate the very people you’re going to try to convince to cast their vote for you.”

Halberstam turned toward Snow. “I think you’re smart enough to understand this. And if you’re not, then you have no business in the United States Senate.”