A ruling passion : a novel (81 page)

The next day, the campaign against E8cN began.

Pickets arrived early Monday morning, marching around the E8cN building in three groups of ten. Every hour they were replaced by three new groups. "Too organized, and not enough passion," Nick said, standing at the window of his office with Les and Valerie. "They're probably hired. It has the staged look of something Sybille would do. She must feel this is a real crisis."

"Or it's the board that's doing it," said Les. "What did you say to those guys?" he asked Valerie. "Tou must have scared the shit out of them."

She shook her head. "I only talked to the three board members who aren't on the executive committee, and we were very low-key. I just asked questions, no accusations, and as far as I know Earl was the same. He talked to James and Warman and Bassington. And got nowhere."

"But something scared them," said Nick. "Or it was just the fact that you were asking questions. I suppose up to now they felt immune from all the scandals around them, because of Lily. Who could believe she'd be mixed up in anything illegal?"

"Not me," said Les. "Did you get anything, Val, from the ones you talked to?"

"Nothing; I'm sure they don't know what's going on. If anything is. One of them, a religion professor named Lars Olssen, is so good I thought Sybille might have invented him for the part."

"You mean a good actor?"

"I mean a good man. He believes absolutely in goodness. He doesn't pretend there isn't a lot of bad around, but he has no doubt that it can be isolated and turned to good if good men care enough and take action. If anything peculiar is going on at Graceville, he doesn't know about it."

"But you know some of them have got to be raking in millions."

"I'd put money on it," said Nick, "but not if I had to have proof We've nibbled around the edges and made a lot of smart guesses. What can we do with that? We can't go on the air with innuendoes."

"So you haven't got a program."

"Not right now. And I don't see it happening."

"Shit." Les shot a glance at Valerie. "Lousy deal."

She was gazing at the pickets below. A crowd was watching from across the street. We should film it, she thought, in case we do have a program on Graceville. They already had a lot of background film, ready to be spliced together: clips of Lily preaching, footage of Graceville, the church, building permits for everything in the town issued to Marrach Construction, shots of Arch Warman's construction foreman making regular visits to Warman Developers and Contractors, Floyd Bassington's vacation houses in the Cayman Islands and northern Minnesota, Monte James's Hour of Grace Foundation Porsche, and his homes in Aspen and Beverly Hills, and the Hour of Grace Foundation jet.

But all that was only the tip of what was probably a very large iceberg. It was not enough for a feature on "Blow-Up." Valerie couldn't pretend it was; she and Nick had gone over and over it. It had been eating at her all weekend: her idea, her show... and she couldn't do it. "Two in a row," she said to Les. "Is that a record: losing two stories before I've even officially begun?"

"Lousy deal," he said again. "I wish I could do something."

"So do I. Of course, if we could get a look at the Foundation books, or the construction company's, or find out who were the shareholders in Beauregard Development..." The pickets had started a chant; through the closed window, she could hear the rhythm, but not the words. "But that probably won't happen, so we're stuck. Graceville is still a mystery, and so is my first program on 'Blow-Up.' I may have to rely on superstition."

"Meaning?"

"The third time has to be a charm."

Les chuckled. "Sounds fine to me. First things first, though." He turned back to the window. "Why don't we get rid of that army down there? They don't exactly improve our image. If we tell them there's no program, they'll disappear."

"No," said Nick. "Why give it away that we haven't got anything? I don't mind a few pickets, and the publicity may jog somebody's memory, maybe even a conscience here or there; something could break that would give us a program after all."

"That makes two wishftil thinkers," Valerie said, and she and Nick smiled together.

Les eyed them approvingly, feeling middle-aged and well married.

and suddenly driven to nudge romance forward. "Why don't you two come to dinner this weekend?" he asked casually. "I kind of like the idea of the four of us spending some time together."

"I like it, too," Valerie said, still smiling.

"Friday," Nick suggested to Les. "Valerie and I have something to do on Saturday."

"I'll check at home," Les said, and returned to his office.

"Saturday?" Valerie asked.

"If you're free. By then Sybille's pilot will be back from vacation. Is that all right?"

"Yes. Thank you. I'd like to have this behind us."

"We may not learn anything," Nick said.

"Then we'll have to look somewhere else," Valerie said, trying to keep it light. "Do you know, Carl hated mystery novels and movies. I never would have thought he'd leave me a mess of them." She cast another look at the pickets. Someone was photographing them, and also the crowd across the street. Reporters, Valerie thought. And soon there will be television cameras. "I'd better get to work," she said. "I haven't started my segment for this week."

"Friday night," Nick said as she turned, "after we go to Les's for dinner, will you come home with me?"

"Yes. I'd love to. For a few hours."

He gave her a long look, then put his arms around her. "Listen. You know this, but I'll tell you again. Chad thinks you're terrific. He talks about you all the time, he can't wait to see you, he saves up things to tell you. Just like his father. He'd like nothing better than to find you at our breakfast table. Just like his father."

"He might, for a few minutes. But then he might start worrying, in case nothing comes next with us. Then he'd be worse off, not knowing and afraid to ask."

"Chad is never afraid to ask. His curiosity is insatiable and bigger than all of us. He'll ask."

"And what will we say?"

Nick paused. "I'd say, for two people who are rediscovering each other, with almost everything in their lives different from the first time around, we're moving very fast and having a wonderftil time, and that's all we know right now. And then he'll ask you."

Valerie smiled. "I like your answer. But I still think I'd better not greet Chad at the breakfast table, at least until I have an answer of my own." She laid her hand along Nick's cheek and kissed him with a

lingering softness. "And now I'm going back to work."

The next day, Tuesday, the first trickle of what would be a deluge of hundreds of thousands of letters and telegrams arrived at E8cN, and the orderly pickets were joined by less orderly and far more emotional demonstrators. By noon they numbered three or four hundred, chanting and singing and parading with signs that said save our angel! and PROTECT our reverend lily!

"What is it they think she ought to be protected from?" Les asked, reading the signs from Nick's office.

"Bassington was a litde vague on that," said Nick. "In fact, I taped his sermon and watched it a couple of times and still couldn't think of anything he'd really said, except that Lily was in danger. From us."

"Look at this," Les said, and Nick joined him at the window. There were new signs: E AND N = EVIL AND NOXIOUS, and shut down SATAN'S network, and cut their cables, and why does Fairfax

HARBOR THE DEVIL?

"What the hell," Les expostulated. "They want the town to kick us out."

"It may happen to them first," Nick said. The police had arrived.

At first the police simply contained the marchers so traffic was not disrupted. But by midafternoon the demonstrators were lying across the sidewalk leading to the front and side doors of Nick's building. Owners of other companies in the building grew testy. At that, the police began to carry the protesters away. There were screams and sobs; men and women knelt in prayer in the middle of the street, bringing traffic to a gridlocked halt. Someone climbed a nearby tree and led the milling demonstrators in a hymn. Babies cried. Dogs barked. Drivers honked their horns An ice-cream wagon appeared, playing a tinkling tune, and mothers, still singing, bought their children Popsicles and cones.

"I've got two cameramen filming it," Les told Nick. "One on the roof, one through the window of my office. Any problem with that?"

"Absolutely not. Even if we never use it, we should have it on record. I'm glad you thought of it." Nick went back to his computer, where he was typing a statement.

"You're not going to be the one to read it, are you?" Les asked.

"Sure, why not?"

"They think you're the devil."

"I'm not reading it to them; this is for the six-o'clock news. I'll have copies to hand out tomorrow, when they come back."

"Which of course they will. What would they say, do you think, if they knew there was no program?"

"They'd probably try to shut us down for deception." Nick printed out the statement and in a moment handed Les two sheets of paper. 'What do you think?"

Les read it. "I like it. Don't change a word."

The statement was taped for the six-o'clock news. Nick sat in the chair used by Valerie on her segment on "Blow-Up." Through the window behind the chair a tape of the demonstration could be seen.

"I'm Nicholas Fielding, president of E8cN," Nick began, looking at the camera and reading from the TelePrompTer. He was self-conscious and stiff, and wished he could have delegated this job to someone else. But he knew he could not. He owned the network; he was the one to speak for it.

"Today, passionate demonstrators threatened to shut down this network if we continue our investigation into a church and its minister, who has a national following on television. I'm not here to criticize the demonstrators, or those who are sending us letters and telegrams saying the same thing. As far as I'm concerned, it would be far worse if there were no demonstrators, if America fell silent because no one cared enough to march and try to change things.

"But it's no good, either, just to give in automatically to a crowd of demonstrators. I'll listen; I'll think about what they're demanding; but on a practical level, I can't give in unless my convictions match theirs. Because if I issued orders just to please them, there's no obvious reason why tomorrow I wouldn't issue new, possibly contradictory orders because a different group of demonstrators, with a new agenda, had turned up. And the third day I might change my orders yet again, to please a third crowd. If I had no firm beliefs of my own, I'd be blown every which way by whoever shouted the loudest, and nothing would get done and no one would be pleased.

"But that's not the main reason why I can't give in. The real reason is passion. The demonstrators have theirs; I have my own. In fact, I have several.

"There is the passion for seeking out truth, because lies and evasions and hidden agendas are poisonous to a democracy. And the only people, whether you like them or not, whose job is to expose lies and evasions and hidden agendas are the journalists.

"There is the passion for collecting information and listening to all sides and then choosing a place to stand.

"There is the passion that says trust your judgment, be prepared to

defend die place you've chosen, and invite odiers to share it with you not through force, but through reason.

"Those are the passions that guide E&N. If we work at it, we'll be able to live by them. If we falter, we hope you let us know, not with demands that we do what you want, but with suggestions for improvement. We're counting on you for that. Thank you." He held his position, looking somberly into the camera, until the tape was shut off.

"Bravo," Valerie said quiedy.

He turned, shielding his eyes, and saw her standing to the side. "I didn't know you were here."

"I thought it might make you nervous if you knew."

"I was nervous anyway. Was I all right?"

'Tou were wonderful."

He was grateful for that; at this moment, she was the professional and he was the newcomer. "I'd better watch the tape before I let it go on," he said. "Come with me. I'd like you there."

They watched it in silence, trying to gauge its impact. "I don't suppose it will sway many demonstrators," Nick said when it ended. "But some of the audience may think about it and approve."

"I'm more interested in the Foundation board," said Valerie. "I wonder if they'll think you're talking to them, and what they might do about it. Especially Olssen," she added thoughtfully. "I have a feeling he's the unpredictable one."

Nick smiled. "You're assuming he watches our newscasts."

"Oh. You're right; he may not. Well, I'm going to make sure he watches this one. I'm going to make sure they all watch this one. If you'll excuse me, Nick, I have a few telephone calls to make."

At six-thirty that evening, half an hour after he watched Nick's statement on television, Lars Olssen telephoned him at his office. Nick was still there; he and Valerie had watched the news together and were planning to go to dinner. "I admired your statement," Olssen said. His words were measured, his voice resonant. It was a voice that always got attention. "I knew nothing about the demonstration until I saw it on your newscast. Of course I know how it arose: it was fomented by Floyd Bassington in his sermon on Sunday. I doubt that Floyd thought of it by himself His imagination is quite limited, and he is close to two other board members who are more aggressive then he."

"James and Warman," Nick said. "There seems to be a split in your board."

Olssen was silent.

"Of course that may not affect your decisions," Nick said deliberately. "If you all agree on how to run the Foundation and manage Graceville, there's no problem."

Olssen sighed. "Two people from your network have been asking us questions. Valerie Sterling and Earl DeShan. I assume they did this with your permission."

'Tes," said Nick.

"I spoke to Valerie Sterling. Her questions were well chosen, and discornfiting. They made me look more closely at an organization to which I have, perhaps, paid too litde attention. Lily Grace, a charming and talented young woman, lulled all of us, I think. We trust her, and so we trusted everything. But Miss Sterling's questions, and then this demonstration... Why would anyone unleash such an action unless he were afraid? In short, I no longer trust. I am very worried, though I have no concrete reason to be so."