The Candidate (3 page)

ERICA IS SCRAMBLING EGGS FURIOUSLY. She has no time, no time. It's two days since her meeting with Mort Silver. Her flight to Cleveland leaves in ninety minutes and she hasn't packed. And she still has so much prep yet to do for tonight's show. “Jenny!” she calls. If they don't hustle, Jenny will miss her school van and Erica will miss her flight.

She plates the eggs, adds a piece of toast and a slice of cantaloupe, and puts it down on the kitchen table just as Jenny walks in.

“Why the long face, honey?”

Jenny sits and looks at her breakfast without touching it.

“You have to eat, sweetheart.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“I have a very busy day.”

“You have a very busy day
every
day.”

Not this again.
Erica bites her tongue. She wants to tell Jenny that her hard work is what pays for this beautiful apartment on Central Park West, for her tuition at Brearley, for the camp in the Adirondacks Jenny is going to this summer. Her job is what gets them invited to the movie premieres and Broadway opening nights Jenny loves. And that if she doesn't push and sweat and put in long hours, it could all disappear.
Mort Silver made that pretty clear. But more than anything, she wants Jenny to understand that she
loves
her work—she loves the platform her nightly news show affords her; she loves the power she has to uncover the truth, to stand up to the high and mighty, to shine the light of fairness on injustice and inequality.

But she's explained all this to Jenny before—and it doesn't make up for all the late nights at the network, all the missed dinners and broken dates, all the weekend plans upended by a breaking story. Jenny feels neglected, and she can be resentful. Her transition to New York and living with Erica has been a little rocky. No doubt she sometimes feels like a fish out of water in the competitive and ultra-wealthy world of Brearley, and it's only natural that she misses her father and her old friends up in Massachusetts. And then there are those other, darker things . . . things Erica can't blame her daughter for having trouble forgiving.

Erica hears that haunting echo, that mocking voice—
You'll never be a good mother; you're a fraud, a fake, a pretender
. And it spreads like a toxic spill deep into her psyche. Some nights she bolts awake at three a.m. in a cold sweat, gripped by intense fear and a certainty that something terrible is going to happen. The slip in her ratings and the driving pressure she feels to deliver a big story have only exacerbated her night terrors.

Erica exhales with a gush, puts the frying pan in the sink, and sits down across from Jenny. She reaches out and strokes her hair. “Yes, I'm busy, but there's
nothing
in the world more important to me than you are.”

“I don't believe you. You won't even raise my allowance. Morgan Graham gets
twice
as much as I do.”

Oh—so
that's
what this is about. A little bit of emotional blackmail as practiced by a smart eleven-year-old. Erica feels a surge of relief—allowance disputes she can handle.

“No, Jenny, I'm not going to raise your allowance. I don't care how much Morgan Graham gets. I think twenty-five dollars a week is more
than enough for a girl your age. You know that if there's something special you want, you can come to me and we'll discuss it.”

Jenny looks Erica in the eye, and Erica smiles. Oh, how she loves this little girl! Jenny picks up a piece of toast and takes a bite.

“Did you get all your homework done?”

Jenny nods as she digs into her eggs.

“You remember that I'm flying out to Cleveland today to cover the final Democratic debate.”

“Who do you root for?”

“Well, as a journalist, I stay neutral. But between us, I do think the prospect of a Latino candidate is exciting.”

“So do I. We talked about the election in class. Senator Ortiz was a marine who served in the Iraq War. Then after he was elected to Congress he went back on a humanitarian mission and was kidnapped by Al-Qaeda and held hostage.”

“And then he escaped from Al-Qaeda.”

“Yes, the escape was like in a movie.”

“But it was real, Jenny. He's a brave man.”

“He's cute too.”

“Yes, he is cute, isn't he?” They smile at each other. “Yelena will make you dinner.”

Yelena is Erica's part-time housekeeper, a middle-aged Russian woman. She's dependable and a terrific cleaner, but her English is limited, making it tough for her to engage with Jenny.

“I hope she doesn't make those potato dumplings again. They're a carb-a-thon.”

Erica laughs. Her cell rings. It's Eileen McDermott, her lead producer.

“Good morning, Eileen.”

“We're setting up a temporary studio at Case Western, but it's across the quad from the debate hall, and neither Ortiz or Buchanan will commit to an interview.”

“If they won't come to me, I'll go to them. I'll be on the ground in
front of the hall as they arrive, and I'll grab each one for a few questions.” Getting out of the broadcast booth—which is where the other anchors will be—will create exciting television.

“Perfect,” Eileen says. “It's a big night. See you at the airport in a few.”

Erica hangs up and stands. “Your van will be downstairs in fifteen minutes, and my car will be here in twenty. We're a couple of busy girls. Now, I better go throw a few things in a suitcase.”

“This is our only time together all day and you're leaving.”

“Oh, honey . . .”

“Never mind.” Jenny pushes away from the table, pops in her headphones, grabs her knapsack, and heads out of the apartment.

Erica strides back to her bedroom and opens her closet—but she can't concentrate. All she sees is the expression on Jenny's face as she walked out of the kitchen. She imagines her daughter's lonely evening, filled with homework and indigestible dumplings and incomprehensible Yelena.

Snap out of it, Erica. You're doing the best you can.
Erica grabs a simple, never-fail peach dress. Nancy Huffman made it for her, and it fits like a glove. She also pulls a black suit as a backup. But her mind—and heart—just won't let go of her daughter. The demands of her job are staggering—it's a pressure cooker in a minefield—but it's what she wants to be doing. What she hasn't figured out is how to carve out enough time with Jenny. She needs help.

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.

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.