The Ambition (6 page)

“I’m sorry — I guess I should have let you know. I’m just nosing around for an in–depth feature. Talked with Art Bullock the other day.”

“The associate pastor? What’s he like?”

“You’ve been going there for six months and you’ve never met him?”

“Strider, it’s a big place. This isn’t your little corner chapel.”

“No kidding — did you know the auditorium cost fifty million?”

“They need to accommodate a lot of people. Apparently, a whole bunch of folks are benefiting from what they do — like me.” She sounded more defensive than she intended. “So what is Art like in person? I’ve only seen him up front.”

“Nice guy. We had a good talk.”

“Are you going to interview Eric Snow?”

“Yeah, at some point. There’s no focus to the story yet. You’ve said such good things about the place that I thought it would be worth checking out. You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“I feel a little used that’s all,” she said. “Why would you keep this from me?”

“No reason. Look, honey, I’m sorry. I’ll keep you looped in from now on.”

Gina hesitated as she sized up Strider. “Okay, thanks,” she said, then paused. “I was just hoping that you had personal reasons for going. That you were checking out faith.”

Strider looked around the room, stalling for time. He took a swig of his wine and put down his glass.

“Look, Gina,” he said, speaking calmly in an effort to deescalate the conversation. “It’s fine if you want to pursue your spiritual side. I’m just not particularly interested in the subject on a personal level. I find a lot of it hard to swallow. The truth is that we’re wired up differently, and that’s okay. Opposites attract. But I don’t want your religion to get between us. I’ve really missed you since you moved out. I feel like we’re starting to drift apart — and I don’t want that. I want us to be together.”

Gina shook her head. “Strider, listen to what you’re saying. It doesn’t make sense. You say it’s okay for me to grow as a Christian but that it shouldn’t affect our relationship. Well, it’s inevitable that it will. It’s changing the way I look at the world; it’s changing
me
— in a good way.”

“Honey, there’s no reason we can’t be together while at the same time having different spiritual perspectives. Gina — I love you. That’s why I brought you here tonight — to tell you that.”

“Oh, Garry, I love you too. And that’s why this is so hard.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Gina, I’ve loved you since the first day we met. You mean the world to me. I can’t picture my future without you.”

“Oh, Garry.”

Strider reached into his pocket and pulled out a maroon velvet pouch. He tugged the drawstring and withdrew a gold ring crowned with an oval–cut diamond, its brilliance glimmering as it caught the candlelight.

“Gina,” he said, his voice almost a plea, “will you marry me?”

Gina’s eyes darted from the ring to Strider’s face and back again — and then she sprang to her feet, her chair almost tipping over, her napkin falling to the floor and her glass tumbling, spilling water that spread all over the white tablecloth.

“Oh, Garry!” she cried as she turned and ran toward the door, every head in the restaurant snapping around to watch.

“Gina!”

Strider sprinted after her. She made it out the front door and a few steps down the sidewalk before he grabbed her arm and flung her around, pinning her against the red brick building. “Gina! What’s wrong?” He tried to pull her close but she resisted. “Gina, will you marry me? I love you!”

“I
want
to marry you — but I can’t!”

“Why? What’s stopping you?”

Gina pulled away from him. “Christians aren’t supposed to marry outside the faith,” she said. “Oh, Strider, I thought you were going to Diamond Point because you were starting to think about God. I was so excited because I thought you might end up in the same place I am. But now I see you’re just writing another one of your stories. Garry — I love you.
I do!
But I can’t be your wife. Not now. Not like this!”

CHAPTER
FOUR

I

There was a long period during which Eric Snow would arrive at his office before dawn and go straight to a corner where he had a kneeler and an oversized Bible on a small wooden stand that a friend built for him years ago.

For those sixty minutes, shrouded in the early–morning shadows, he would do nothing but pray and meditate on Scripture. He would intercede for himself and his family, for his staff and key volunteers, for his congregation and — equally important to him — everyone living within driving distance but who had yet to darken the door of Diamond Point Fellowship.

He would pray for the government and its leaders, for the unemployed and the needy, for world peace and prosperity. He would ask God for insights as he prepared his sermons, for wisdom as he wrestled with decisions, for faithfulness as he resisted temptations, for joy in the midst of the burdens of leadership.

At the end he would take out a small notebook that he carried throughout the day. Whenever people would ask him to pray for them, he would scrawl a note. On his knees as the sun would be rising in an adjacent window, he would lift up each and every one of those requests to God.

Children with cancer, wives with alcoholic husbands, parents fretting over wayward kids, a friend under arrest, an executive facing bankruptcy, a teenager pondering suicide, a family fighting off foreclosure — one by one, he would implore God to intervene in these everyday tragedies with every bit as much passion as if the need were his own.

Those days had long passed.

Oh sure, he still prayed — after all, he’s a
pastor.
But more often than not, his impromptu petitions were now tossed hurriedly toward heaven. He still listed requests in his notebook, but a quick blanket prayer covered them.

He knew God was still there — listening, caring, even responding. But Eric Snow wasn’t quite so convinced that prayer and the church were the most effective channels for transforming the world.

Even as he witnessed the meteoric rise of his megachurch, he had become increasingly frustrated over the intractability of the social problems that breed personal despair. Maybe —
just maybe
— he was being nudged toward a new assignment, like the Old Testament character Joseph in ancient Egypt, who wielded the power of government for the greater good.

On this day, his feet propped up on the credenza, Snow perused the
Examiner
while leaning back in his leather chair. He was killing time before his weekly conference call, when leading Republican strategists shared inside tidbits about trends, polls, and opportunities. Snow was the sole pastor allowed to participate in these covert conversations, which always fueled his desire to become an influential player in the political world.

Snow’s intercom buzzed. “Debra Wyatt on line two,” said his assistant.

Snow picked up the receiver. “Debra, hi.”

“Quick — turn on WGN.”

“I’ll call you back.”

Snow stood and grabbed the remote to turn on the flat screen on his wall, just as an anchorwoman segued to a press conference at the Dirksen Federal Building in downtown Chicago.

“I’m here to announce that a grand jury has indicted U.S. Senator Samuel D. Barker for tax evasion, mail fraud, and perjury,” said Maxwell Harringer, the chief prosecutor for the Northern District of Illinois, as he stood behind a podium emblazoned with the seal of the United States Attorney’s Office.

“According to the indictment, Senator Barker filed false federal income tax returns for the last three years, in which he knowingly failed to report $215,000 in ‘consulting fees’ paid to him by lobbyists in the energy industry. These fees were concealed on the books of these lobbying firms. He is also charged with perjury for lying to the grand jury about facts material to this investigation. If convicted, Senator Barker faces a maximum sentence of 30 years in prison. I admonish the public that Senator Barker is innocent until proven guilty. I’m sorry that due to federal guidelines I’m unable to take questions at this time.”

With that, Harringer collected his papers, nodded at the camera, and strode off the platform, ignoring a cacophony of questions shouted by the press corps. After Harringer disappeared through a side door, the camera turned to WGN reporter Marv Dixon.

“There you have it,” he said. “Rumors about the two–term Republican senator have been flying for months, and now he’s been formally charged. Sources confirm that arrangements have been made for him to surrender to federal marshals at one o’clock this afternoon; no doubt he’ll be released on his own recognizance awaiting trial.

“There’s nothing that would require Senator Barker to resign at this point. However, if he’s convicted of any one of these felonies, he would be forced out of office and Republican Governor Edward Avanes would appoint a successor who would serve until the next congressional election. Now back to the studio.”

Snow clicked off the set, sat back down at his desk, and hit Debra’s number on speed dial.

“We’re off and running,” were her first words.

“I didn’t think this was going to happen for a while,” Snow said.

“Washington pushed Harringer to move ahead. They hit some snags in the plea negotiations, but Barker is going to cave. Here’s the key: everybody’s expecting Barker to go to trial, which would be at least a year down the road, so the press isn’t going to be speculating about who Avanes might appoint to replace him. That gives us time to get everything lined up.”

Snow eased his feet back onto the credenza. “What’s our next move?”

“We’ll leak your name as a replacement for Barker at the right moment,” she said. “Get someone else to fill the pulpit for a while. Don’t do anything to remind people you’re a pastor. That’s our Achilles’ heel, Eric. Religion makes people skittish.”

“Absolutely. I’ve got to position myself as a leader.”

“Right. Not a spiritual leader, not a church leader, not a religious leader, but a leader with a track record of incredible success in the public, private, and not–for–profit sectors.”

“I’ve written that op–ed piece you suggested about how to improve mass transit,” he said.

“Perfect. That’ll remind people how you fixed the RTA. Email it to Tom at our PR firm; he’ll feed it to the
Tribune.”

“Anything else?”

Debra thought for a moment. “Yeah, one other loose end. Remember I called to warn you that Garry Strider was asking questions about the church? Have you heard anything from him?”

“He’s already interviewed Art and he’s asked to interview me.”

“Ugh. How did Art think his interview went?”

“He said Strider seemed to be looking for a scandal. Someone told me he was spotted at a weekend service recently. He’s going to get impatient if I don’t talk with him pretty soon. Do you know what set him off?”

“Usually he starts with a tip, typically an allegation by a disgruntled former employee. Any ideas?”

Snow mentally reviewed the names of possible whistle–blowers. “Hard to say. People get mad and might twist something to make us look bad.”

“We don’t need Strider doing an article that raises any questions about you or the church. Strider said he wanted to get together with me. Maybe I’ll take him up on that and see what I can find out.”

“Thanks. In the meantime, I’ll sit tight.”

“Yes,” Debra said. She was just about to hang up when she added as an afterthought, “And pray.”

Snow chuckled. “Right.”

II

Garry Strider knew there was big trouble as soon as Mitchell Montgomery III stepped out of the elevator and headed straight for the City Desk without making eye contact with anyone.

Murmurs swept like a tsunami through the
Examiner
newsroom. Even before the loudspeaker could ask the staff to gather for an announcement, people were already moving toward the nest of desks where Montgomery had come to stand, stiff and nervous, next to an equally uncomfortable John Redmond.

Except for the random ringing of a few telephones in the background, the newsroom fell eerily silent. Strider leaned against a pillar, arms folded, lips pursed, his collar unbuttoned and tie askew.

Like mourners lingering in the back of a funeral, nobody wanted to get too close to Redmond, the editor for the last dozen years, and Montgomery, the senior member of the family that has owned the
Examiner
for four decades.

In his late sixties, Montgomery was trim, balding, and genteel–looking, with close–cropped salt–and–pepper hair and a thick mustache that had turned mostly white. He was wearing a charcoal suit over a blue–and–white striped shirt and no tie.

Montgomery hardly needed to say anything. Although they dreaded hearing it, everybody knew what was coming. Just five months earlier, twenty–six people had been laid off in a similar announcement. Since then, rumors ran rampant that the paper’s finances were continuing to spiral down. It was the same story across the country as the newspaper industry withered in the face of rapidly deteriorating revenues.

“You’re journalists, so you’ve already figured out what’s going on,” Montgomery began, holding his chin up and speaking in a clear, loud voice. “You know that Craigslist and eBay have drained our classified advertising revenue. The recession has wreaked havoc with our remaining help wanted and real estate ads. You’re aware that our circulation has been dwindling. Young people aren’t subscribing, and they’re the most desirable demographic for advertisers. No matter what we do to try to stem our losses in readership, the numbers keep getting softer.

“It’s no secret that the economic realities are causing advertisers to pull back. More people are getting their news for free on the Internet; we’ve poured a fortune into our website, but we only get relative pennies from the banner ads. And operating costs are going up — newsprint, utilities, you name it.”

He was right and everybody knew it. A secretary dabbed her eyes with a tissue. Strider felt nauseous. Out of habit, he had flipped open his spiral notebook and had been writing down Montgomery’s words until he started feeling a little foolish. He jammed the notebook into his back pocket.

Montgomery clasped his hands behind his back. “So I’m here to inform you that my family is putting the
Examiner
on the auction block. For the next six months, we’ll solicit bids from all responsible parties who have the financial wherewithal and the vision to take over. I wish I could tell you there will be no more layoffs in the interim, but we must continue to trim expenses as we get our balance sheet in the best possible shape.”

He paused. “I’m very sorry to have to say that,” he added, his voice catching toward the end.

Montgomery took a moment to gather himself. He let his eyes slowly sweep back and forth over the staff — a ragtag collection of smart, talented, free–thinking individuals who had somehow managed to coalesce into a tight–knit journalism team that rivaled the best in the business.

Now his voice was more personal. “This is a very sad day for me and my siblings. We have resisted this and agonized over it. Our most fervent hope was that there would be another way. But there’s no alternative. So let’s press onward. Let’s hope that someone with deeper pockets will recognize that the
Examiner
still has a future.”

Montgomery turned to Redmond, who looked for an instant like he was going to launch into a speech of his own. But as Redmond glanced over the dispirited staff, he quickly discerned that a pep talk would ring hollow.

The employees had every right to feel deflated. Most were savvy enough to surmise that there would be no financial white knight to rescue the
Examiner.
Their world — the grit and glamour of the bigcity print newspaper — was dying. No words of exhortation would change that. These reporters would see through that kind of phony cheerleading as quickly as they could skewer a politician’s hypocrisy.

“Okay, everyone,” was all Redmond could say. “Let’s get back to work.”

The staff started to disperse, quietly at first, and then the chatter began to return to the newsroom. Strider drifted toward the far side of the room, where he worked in a warren of cubicles amidst specialty reporters who covered politics, medicine, law, education, transportation, religion, and a dozen other subjects.

Like everyone else, he was mentally doing the math: he would get nearly four months of salary if the paper shuts down. At the most, he had a few grand in the bank — not nearly enough in a deteriorating economy where reporting jobs were evaporating fast.

As Strider was ambling toward his desk, eyes downcast, he inadvertently bumped shoulders with someone walking briskly in the opposite direction. “Sorry,” was Strider’s reflexive response. As he looked up, he saw it was Howard Preston, the assistant managing editor.

“Strider — hey, I missed the meeting. How’re people taking it?”

Strider shrugged. “Everyone knew something was going to happen, but it always stings when you hear the words.”

Then Strider realized this chance encounter was a real opportunity. “Have you got a second? C’mere,” he said, motioning for Howard to join him in a small alcove where the vending machines were located.

“Give it to me straight,” he whispered. “How many are getting canned?”

Howard looked around; a couple of other reporters were meandering in their direction in search of a cup of coffee. Howard had been told to keep quiet about specifics, but this was his friend. Certainly Strider deserved some details.

“Let’s go,” Howard said, giving Strider a shove in the direction of his glass–walled office that overlooks the horseshoe–shaped copy desk.

Strider sat on the couch, his back to the glass, and slumped down so that nobody could identify him if they peered inside. Howard, a pugnacious and chronically impatient former collegiate wrestler, sat on the edge of his desk.

“Here’s the thing,” Howard said. “I want to keep you, Redmond wants to keep you, but you’ve got to give us a reason to keep you. Getting passed over for the Pulitzer didn’t help you.”