The Abduction (3 page)

All four thousand red velvet seats at Atlanta’s Fox Theatre were filled with partisan politicos. Signs and hats were prohibited inside the auditorium, but the political buttons fastened to lapels indicated an audience fairly evenly divided between Leahy and Howe supporters.

Immediately following Allison’s Monday-night acceptance of General Howe’s challenge, the Commission on Presidential Debates scheduled the debate in Atlanta on Thursday, twelve days before the election. Allison had spent the balance of Wednesday night and all of Thursday studying up on the issues, meeting with advisers, and gathering last-minute tips from her consultants.

Allison stood behind a mahogany podium to the audience’s left. She wore a bright blue St. John suit, and her hair was up in a stylish twist that completed the serious but feminine look that had graced the cover of thousands of magazines. Lincoln Howe was to the right, dressed in a well-tailored suit with a light blue shirt, red tie, and gold cuff links. He’d campaigned in civilian clothes all along, of course, but he had somehow always looked like a soldier caught out of uniform. Tonight, he looked decidedly presidential.

“Good evening,” said the moderator, “and welcome to the Campaign 2000 presidential debates.
We have an unusual format tonight. A panel of four distinguished journalists, two selected by each candidate, have absolute freedom to ask whatever questions they wish.”

Allison scanned the audience as the moderator introduced the panel. She shared a subtle smile with her husband, who was seated in the second row. Peter Tunnello was, according to
Business Week
magazine, “a visionary self-made millionaire” who had pioneered the plastic recycling business—a highly profitable and politically correct line of work for a politician’s spouse. At age fifty-six he was eight years older than Allison, with distinguished flecks of gray in his hair and dark eyes that could charm his wife or chill his enemies. They’d dated casually a few months before Emily’s abduction. He’d never been gorgeous, but if the ensuing tragedy and endless search had proven anything, it was that Peter was that rare breed of man who came through in times of need.

Allison was no slave to intuition, but something in the air—the vibes, the setting—was suddenly making her feel as if tonight could be one of those times of need.

The moderator continued, “As this is the third debate, we will dispense with opening statements and move straight to questions.”

Allison sipped her water, relieved that she wouldn’t have to hear the general recite his résumé yet again. Certainly it was impressive. A Medal of Honor from Vietnam. His bold triumph as the four-star general in charge of the Special Operations Command that had liberated thirty-eight American hostages from heavily armed terrorists in Beirut. The well-earned reputation as a
fearless hawk at the Pentagon. She wondered, however, when his strategists would finally realize that all the military machismo was making even his biggest fans nervous about electing a president who might be a little too eager to send their sons and daughters marching off to war.

The moderator turned to the panel. “Mr. Mahwani, we begin with you, sir.”

Abdul Kahesh Mahwani was a radical but respected former president of the National Association of Black Journalists. He’d made a name for himself covering the civil rights movement in the sixties, then turned Muslim and changed his name. His dark shaved head glistened beneath the stage lights. His wrinkled hand shook as he slowly removed the folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his moist forehead.

Mahwani was one of General Howe’s selections. Of the four panelists, he made Allison most nervous.

“Mr. Mahwani, your question, please.”

The distinguished old gentleman shuffled the note cards on the table before him, then laid them aside. He removed his reading glasses and held them in his hand, like a professor with his pointer.

“Congratulations!” he shouted, startling everyone. “Congratulations to both of you, for what will surely be a healthy discussion of important issues.”

He leaned back in his chair, as if he were no longer speaking to the candidates, but to the world. His voice took on the rhythmic cadence of a southern preacher. “Come November seventh, however, the American people will do more than choose sides on issues. They will choose a leader. A
person
to lead them in this new millennium. A
man or a woman who they will call their president.

“This campaign has been utterly bankrupt of any discussion of the character of either candidate. Yet I’m certain that millions of people watching at home tonight are asking themselves some fundamental questions. How can a president lead, if not by example? Is this man, or this woman, a model citizen for our children?”

Mahwani leaned forward for effect, then looked at each candidate—first at Howe, then at Allison. His voice took on a hushed tone, forcing everyone in the auditorium to listen more carefully. “My question to both candidates is simply this: Have you ever broken your marital vow of fidelity?”

The audience fell silent. After an uneasy pause, the moderator spoke up. “Ms. Leahy. Your response, please.”

Allison swallowed hard. Going first always had risks, but responding first to a question like this one raised special concerns. She thought carefully about the question, measuring her response. She found Peter’s eyes again in the second row. He seemed stoic but supportive. Finally she answered, speaking to the audience at large rather than directly to Mahwani or even her husband.

“First of all, let me say that while I respect Mr. Mahwani’s right to ask whatever he likes, this character question is completely out of step with the tone of the issue-oriented campaign that both I and General Howe have waged so far. I’m proud of the fact that this presidential campaign—unlike many of those in the past—has been conducted in a civilized and informative manner. I’m proud that both candidates have refused to stoop to the character bashing, personal insults, and attacks on
family members that have sadly become a trademark of American politics.

“Mr. Mahwani’s question really raises a larger issue. Will we as Americans hold fast to this important step forward we’ve taken and talk about issues, rather than resorting to insults? Or will we move backward to a time when running for office meant open season on a candidate’s most intimate and personal secrets, no matter how irrelevant to the issues in the election?

“Please understand what I’m saying. I can see circumstances where extremely personal questions might be relevant. If a candidate directly challenges the media and puts his or her marital fidelity at issue, that candidate should be prepared to answer some probing questions. If a credible third party comes forth with evidence that a candidate has engaged in immoral conduct, the public should expect a response. I do not think, however, that every candidate in every election should be forced as a matter of course to let the media look inside their bedroom.”

She paused, but her voice remained resonant. “Therefore, in the interest of restoring a level of dignity to American political debate, I decline to answer the question simply as a matter of principle.”

A hearty applause rose from the left side of the auditorium. She glanced once again at her husband in the second row. He too was applauding. She breathed a discreet sigh of relief.

“Quiet, please,” said the moderator.

The applause slowly faded. Mahwani looked away, shaking his head in visible disgust.

“General Howe,” said the moderator. “Same question. Your response, please.”

All eyes turned to the general. Mahwani, in particular, shot him a steely glare—though Allison could swear she detected the silent exchange of an insider’s smile between the two men.

Howe gripped the podium, squaring his shoulders to the center television camera.

“My fellow Americans,” he said solemnly. “Nearly four decades ago, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., stood on the marble steps of the Lincoln Memorial and proclaimed to the American people, ‘I have a dream.’ He dreamed of a day when all people were judged not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.

“I share that dream.
All
people should be judged by the content of their character. That includes men; that includes women. That includes whites, blacks, and people of all races. And most of all, that includes candidates for public office—men and women who seek a public vote of trust and confidence.

“It would seem that my opponent and I hold a very different set of principles. While Ms. Leahy refuses to answer the question as a matter of principle, I
will
answer it—based on
my
principles.”

Howe looked directly into the center camera. “No, I have
never
broken my vows of marital fidelity. And I would never stand silent on something that, in my view, is the most sacred test of character for any man.” He paused, then shot a judgmental glare at Allison. “Or for any woman.”

The Howe half of the auditorium erupted with a standing ovation. The moderator raised his arms. “Quiet, please. Quiet.”

The cheers only grew louder.

Allison’s heart thumped. The lights overhead suddenly seemed hotter. Her palms were sweat
ing. She glanced at David Wilcox, who had warned her about an ambush from the very beginning. He was normally poker-faced in public. This time, however, his eyes said it all.

The rest of the night was irrelevant. She’d just been slaughtered.

LEAHY TAKES THE FIFTH ON ADULTERY
, blazed Friday morning’s headlines.

Last night, Allison had retired to her hotel room at the Ritz Carlton with a sick feeling in her stomach. She had hoped it would be gone when she woke in the morning.

It was only worse.

She tossed the
Atlanta Journal
on the unmade bed. The
New York Times
and
Washington Post
were less sensational in their headlines, but by 8:00
A.M
. she’d seen and heard enough to know that even the most respected print and television media were raising the same damning questions about her character. Was she hiding something? If so, would the American people elect as president a woman who had cheated on her husband?

As the warm shower waters pelted her body, she recalled her mother’s words eight years ago, when Emily was abducted—the Leahy creed that “everything happens for a reason.” This morning, not even the creed made sense. Allison had come to terms with the loss of her daughter only by reasoning that she was destined to do something else with her life, something so great that it was beyond even motherhood. She immersed herself in volunteer work, eventually landing as executive director of the Benton Foundation and head of the Coalition for Amer
ica’s Children, where she became friends with the First Lady. The crusade continued as attorney general and Democratic nominee for the presidency. Losing Emily would never make sense, but she had tried to make as much sense of it as she possibly could.

The adultery scandal not only threatened her presidential hopes, but it shook the inner peace she’d built on the shaky bedrock of ambition.

“I told you so,” she whispered to herself, staring at her wet reflection in the glass shower door. It was exactly what her mother would say if she were still living. Washington was fickle, she’d warned, especially about women. But Allison had been too busy climbing to worry about falling. “Women want to be her, men want to meet her,” was the way
George
magazine had summed up the Leahy phenomenon four years ago. “The class of Jackie O., the charisma of JFK,” the
Times
had proclaimed. She’d brought enthusiasm to her post, so much so that people had good-naturedly dubbed the Department of Justice the department of energy. Talented lawyers who ordinarily wouldn’t think of leaving their lucrative private practice were flocking to her door for low-paying government positions, just to work with her. She could start a fashion trend by wearing a sweat suit into the office on Saturday morning, or make a local restaurant “chic” just by stopping in for a muffin on her way to work.

And now the slide—just eleven damn days before the election.
Okay, Mom, you were right again. Now get these bastards off my back.

By eight-thirty Allison had taken breakfast in her room, her bags were packed, and she was ready for a full day of appearances in Atlanta. She and David Wilcox shared the backseat of a limo
from the Buckhead Ritz Carlton to the downtown Five Points area. The FBI normally guarded the attorney general. As a presidential candidate, however, she also received Secret Service protection. A Plexiglas partition separated her and Wilcox from the agents in the front seat, giving them the privacy they desired. They said nothing on the ride down Peachtree Street, each deep in thought. The limo’s interior blackened, then brightened in the intermittent shadows of glass office towers. Finally Wilcox broke the silence.

“I need to know, Allison.”

Her head turned. “Need to know what?”

He raised an eyebrow, as if she had to be joking. “Why did you dodge the question?”

“Because it didn’t deserve an answer.”

He chuckled, but it was an angry chuckle. “Who do you think you are, Meryl Streep in
The Bridges of Madison County
? Maybe it plays in the movies, but extramarital sex is still a serious political liability.”

“Is it?” she said in a voice that challenged. “I must say that I find this whole controversy very intriguing. Think of all the philandering
men
this country has elected president. But the minute there’s the slightest possibility that a
woman
candidate may have been unfaithful to her husband, the old double standard kicks in. The entire nation is suddenly in a time warp. It’s like a throwback to 1952, when the cover of
Look
magazine asked about Adlai Stevenson, can a divorced man be elected president?”

Wilcox was deadpan. “I would remind you that the answer to that question was no. And he lost to a respected national war hero, a general in the United States Army.”

“Lincoln Howe is no Dwight Eisenhower.”

They fell silent again, until the limo passed a towering cylinder that resembled a seventy-story silo.

“I think you should answer the question.” He stared out the window as he spoke.

Allison shot him a look. “No.”

“
Are
you hiding something? Is that why you won’t answer?”

She grimaced. “I stood before fifty million viewers last night and refused to answer any questions about marital fidelity—based on principle. If I check the public opinion polls twelve hours later and decide I will answer, what would
that
say about my principles?”

His eyes were suddenly bulging. “It’s not just
your
reputation that’s at stake here, okay? I don’t make a name for myself in this business by losing elections in the homestretch. A year of my life—eighteen-hour days, seven days a week—has gone into your campaign with one goal: getting you elected. I won’t have it pissed away by some weekend romp with some nineteen-year-old campaign volunteer you won’t tell me about.”

“Is that really what you think of me?” she asked bitterly.

“I don’t know what to think. I just deserve to know the truth.”

“The only person who deserves to know anything is Peter. And you know what? Peter didn’t even think to ask such a stupid question before he left the hotel this morning. But if you really must know, I’ll tell you: No, I have never cheated on Peter. Now, would you like to know what positions I prefer?”

His cellular phone rang. He looked away and answered it. “Wilcox.”

Allison took some deep breaths as he took the call. It surprised her that even her own strategist would question her integrity. It hadn’t occurred to her until now, but maybe Peter could have used a little reassurance, too. Maybe it wasn’t really “business” that made him check out of the Ritz earlier than expected.

Her glance shifted back to Wilcox. He was massaging his temple as he switched off the phone. She asked, “What is it?”

“The results of last night’s Gallup poll are in. Your six-point lead is down to one and a half. With the statistical margin of error, you and Howe are in a dead heat.” He blinked hard, then looked her in the eye. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” she said in disbelief. “It’s 1952 all over again.”

From a hotel suite fifteen stories above Atlanta, Lincoln Howe smiled down upon the scene of last night’s rout. The old Fox Theatre was built like a mosque, complete with onion domes and minarets, a grandiose monument to America’s passing fascination with “anything Egyptian” after the discovery of King Tut’s tomb in 1922. The marquee above the main entrance on Peachtree Street still proclaimed,
PRESIDENTIAL DEBATES, TONIGHT
9:00
P.M
. The general’s eyes lit up, wishing it
were
tonight, wishing he could live it all over again.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” he said as he turned away from the window. But his campaign director wasn’t listening. As usual, Buck LaBelle was on the telephone with five lines holding.

For years, General Howe had known the forty-four-year-old LaBelle by reputation as a cigar-
chomping former Texas state legislator, a graduate of Texas A&M University, and a campaign spin doctor who could have made the Alamo sound like a resounding American victory. As chairman of the Republican National Party in the early nineties, he was a tenacious fund-raiser and a principal author of the Republican National Committee Campaign Handbook. Howe had personally recruited him to serve as his Texas state chairman in the Republican primary, seeing him as the perfect experienced complement to a candidate who’d never before run for public office. By Memorial Day, LaBelle had earned himself the top spot as national campaign director.

Howe shot a commanding look across the room. LaBelle dutifully hung up the phone, lending the general his full attention.

With a quick nod, Howe pointed out the window. “You see that fire escape on the side of the theater? Over there,” he indicated. “On Ponce de Leon Avenue.”

LaBelle walked to the window and gazed down. “Yes, sir. I see it.”

“When I was a boy, my aunt brought me and my brother right here to the Fox to see a Saturday-afternoon matinee. I thought she was sneaking us in. I couldn’t understand why we had to go in through the fire escape. But that was the only entrance for colored people. White people used that fancy entrance up the street. The one that looks like a shrine.”

LaBelle blinked, embarrassed for his race. But he was suddenly all business. “I’m glad you didn’t mention that in last night’s debate, sir.”

“Why?”

He grimaced, uncomfortable. “White people
will do a lot of things out of guilt. We’ll smile at you. Invite you to our home. Even let you walk in the front door of the Fox Theatre. But so long as there are secret ballots in this country, guilt will never get a black man elected president.”

“And character will?”

“You bet it will. The media is feasting on this already. Just wait until our local organizations turn up the heat. We’ll have every preacher, priest, and rabbi talking about adultery this weekend. Talk radio and television will be flooded with phone calls. Concerned parents will barrage the local papers with letters to the editor. Teachers will be lecturing about morality in schools. The potential here is endless.”

“What about me? What am I going to say?”

“I’ll script something myself. I didn’t like what our speechwriters came up with. They’re a little timid, which is somewhat understandable. Lots of people have had affairs or have forgiven someone who’s cheated on them. They’re afraid we’ll sound too judgmental—like we’re condemning
them,
instead of Leahy.”

“What do you think?”

“Sir, I firmly believe you should never underestimate the hypocrisy of the American people.”

“You’re a political genius, Buck.”

“Just leave it to me, sir. Between now and the election, I’ll have every man and woman in America talking about marital infidelity.”

The general turned to the window, glancing again toward the Fox marquee heralding last night’s debate. “Everyone,” he said smugly, “except Allison Leahy.”