Ballots and Blood (50 page)

When the motorcade arrived, Stanton ducked into a holding room, its door guarded by security. The room echoed with the sounds of hymns being sung in the packed sanctuary. Even through the walls Andy's party could make out the familiar words.

“In my life, Lord, be glorified! Be glorified!” sang the congregation.

Andy sucked on a throat lozenge and downed a bottle of water, hydrating for his speech. “When do we go?” he asked. He was getting antsy.

“We hold here for five minutes,” said Ross, tapping his watch.

“But I want to go
now
. I want to join the praise and worship,” said Andy plaintively.

“The pastor doesn't want to distract the congregation.” Ross shrugged. “Andy, you're the featured speaker at the biggest church in the panhandle two days before the election. Please humor me!”

Andy laughed. He glanced at his body man. “He's got an answer for everything.”

The door opened a crack. It was one of the associate pastors. “Dr. Stanton, we're ready.”

They filed out of the holding room and walked down a carpeted hallway, then stepped through a side door into a darkened wing off the main stage. The pastor was leading the congregation in prayer. From the shadows a female figure appeared. Andy recognized the woman instantly as Twinkle Starr (her real name), a female country singing sensation of yesteryear whose career had since faded. At one time she sold millions of records and packed concert arenas throughout the country.

“Pastor Stanton, I'm Twinkle Starr. It's an honor to meet you,” she said. She wore a form-fitting, sequined gold top, skinny jeans embroidered with matching gold thread, and black cowboy boots with gold-tipped toes.

“I know who you are, and the honor is mine,” Andy gushed, his eyes drinking her in. “I've been a big fan of yours for years!” He was struck by how tiny she was in person and how artificial her appearance, with fiery red hair, large eyes, and china-doll makeup. “One of my wife's favorite songs is ‘Well-Behaved Women Ain't Never Made History.'”

Starr smiled, revealing gleaming white teeth. “That was a good one for me.”

“I'm surprised to meet you here. What are you doing here?”

“I'm good friends with Don Jefferson through my first cousin, who lives in Florida,” Starr replied. “So I'm singing here tonight and then performing on Don's fly-around tomorrow.”

“Good for you! God bless you, sister.” He leaned over, whispering in her ear. “I think we're going to win.”

“Me, too.” She hugged him, then she and Andy posed for some quick photos. Other members of Andy's entourage lined up for pictures as well.

A voice came out of the semidarkness. “Dr. Stanton, this is your cue.”

Andy snapped to attention in time to hear the pastor say, “Please welcome one of the most influential men in America today, an advisor to presidents, a pastor, a broadcaster, and, most importantly, a man who preaches the gospel in season and out of season, when it's popular or unpopular, ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Andy Stanton!”

Andy bounded up on the stage as the crowd rose to their feet in a standing ovation. He hugged the pastor and stepped to the pulpit, soaking in their love. In the back of the sanctuary, there were several cameras on sticks, including FOX News, CNN, and ABC. Andy made a mental note to himself:
don't say anything stupid.

“Thank you, thank you, God bless you!” He raised his hands, signaling for the congregation to sit down. “What a privilege to occupy the pulpit, if only for an evening, of one of the greatest churches not only in the Florida panhandle but in America. And what a joy to share this evening with my good friend and your pastor, one of the finest pastors of any church in the country today. You are truly blessed to have this man.” He pointed at the pastor as the congregation broke into appreciative applause. The pastor nodded and smiled.

“Brothers and sisters, in thirty-six hours the American people will go to the polls,” said Andy, his hands gripping the edges of the pulpit, his face a portrait of earnest zeal. “Actually, here in Florida you've already started voting. But before we cast our final ballots, we need to pray.”

“Amen!” shouted several voices.

“We need to pray for forgiveness. Before we point the finger at the liberals, the radicals, and secularists, if we want to know how our country got into such dire straits, we need to look in the mirror.” The crowd murmured in assent. “
We
allowed this to happen.
We
failed to be the watchmen on the wall.
We
cowered in the comfort of our stained-glass ghetto while our cities were on fire and families disintegrated and marriages broke up and our children were swept up by drugs and crime. It is we who must repent, brothers and sisters.”

A smattering of applause rippled through the sanctuary. Andy was just warming up.

“After we humble ourselves, we must pray for God to forgive us and heal our land,” said Andy, now on a roll, stepping to one side of the pulpit. “We need modern-day Esthers and Nehemiahs who will stand up and rebuild the walls of our society, which have been broken and violated because of our disobedience and failure to honor God.” The applause built to a full-throated cheering. People began to rise to their feet and raise their hands to the heavens. “Now is the hour of decision! We must fall to our knees and rededicate ourselves to restoring ourselves, our homes, and our country to dependence upon Almighty God through Jesus Christ, the strong Son, our Savior and Redeemer!”

“Amen! Hallelujah!”

In the back of the sanctuary, Ross stood in the shadows studying Andy and the congregation like the seasoned political operative he was. He knew from the Federation's nightly polling that Marie Lightfoot was closing fast. Would she overtake Jefferson in the closing hours? He feared the worst.

Ross turned to one of his harried staff members, who parachuted into the state for the final two weeks. “How many volunteers do we have knocking on doors here?”

“Four thousand, most of them deployed in the panhandle and along the I-4 corridor. Half of those are being paid. At fifty doors knocked per day per volunteer, that's four hundred thousand doors in the final weekend.”

“I sure hope it's enough.”

“We've done all we can. Now it's in the hands of the Lord.”

“That's what worries me,” said Ross.

41

A
black Town Car carrying Sal Stanley and his wife pulled up in front of an elementary school in a light drizzle. Stanley stepped into the rain without an overcoat, wearing a charcoal suit and a light blue tie. His reddish-gray hair perfectly combed, a pocket square flawlessly folded, his pasty face looking like a marathon runner at the finish line, he wore a forced smile. Mrs. Stanley walked beside him, her weathered face wrinkled, her hand covered with age spots and blue veins and curled over his arm.

Stanley entered the school through a side door as photographers snapped away. He approached the table where poll workers issued cards for the voting machines. He signed the voter register, took his ballot, and walked to a voting booth, pulling the curtain.

A few minutes later he emerged from behind the curtain, flashing an awkward smile as the camera flashes exploded. He stepped out on to the sidewalk to hold an impromptu election-day news conference.

“How do you feel, Senator?” asked AP.

“I feel good,” said Stanley in a hollow voice. “It's been a hard-fought campaign. I believe I made a strong case to the people of New Jersey.”
Click-click, whir-whir, flash.
“Now it's in their hands. They've never let me down before. I don't think they will now.”

“Did Mike Kaplan's conviction hurt you politically?” asked ABC News.

Stanley stiffened. “That's for others to decide. I think the campaign will be decided on the issues, and I expect to win.” He paused. “This is my tenth time on the ballot in New Jersey, and I've never lost. I don't intend to start now.” His eyes began to well with tears. His lower lip trembled. A tear trickled down his left cheek and he pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes, slightly regaining his composure.

“You seem emotional,” said CNN, sticking the knife in. “Is it because this could be the last time your name is on the ballot?”

Stanley's eyes shot darts. “I expect to be on the ballot and in the U.S. Senate for many years to come. And I expect to be majority leader when the new Senate organizes in January.” He lowered himself into the Town Car. The car pulled away and he was gone.

The stakeout over, the press drifted to their own cars and vans in the parking lot. They had their money shot: a tearful Sal Stanley overcome by emotion on the day that might mark the end of his storied political career. How great was that!

MARVIN MYER'S ASSISTANT BROUGHT A UPS package into his office and set it on his desk. “I thought you might want to open it yourself,” she said. “It's from Ed Dowdy.”

“Jillian Ann Singer's lawyer?”

“Yes.”

Curiosity piqued, Myers stared at the overnight package. A book proposal, perhaps? No one would want it with Singer dead. He tore open the package and pulled out a two-inch thick stack of papers, his eyes scanning the contents. When he realized what it was holding in his hands, he nearly fell out of his chair. Dowdy sent him the complete client list for Adult Alternatives, complete with names, credit card numbers, cell phone numbers, and supporting documentation. He tried to breathe but felt no air reach his lungs.

A simple act of self-interested faux generosity, helping Singer obtain a literary agent, nabbed him one of the biggest scoops of his career. When his eye paused at a name on the third page of the stack, he wanted to jump on his desk and do a victory dance.

“Hold my calls for the rest of the afternoon,” he said into the intercom to his assistant.

KERRY CARTWRIGHT HUNKERED DOWN AT Drumthwacket (Scottish for “wooded hill”), the Governor's Mansion in Princeton. He sat in his study nursing a sore throat with a cup of herbal tea laced with honey. On his laptop he pecked away at what he hoped was a victory speech.

The phone rang. The butler entered the room. “Governor, Jay Noble from the White House is on the line, sir.”

Cartwright picked up the phone. “Jay?” he asked.

“Governor, I just left the Oval and the president wanted me to check in with you,” said Jay smoothly. “How's it going up there?”

“We feel good,” said Cartwright guardedly. “No guarantees, but it all looks good.”

“We're going to have a big night tonight, and it wouldn't have happened without you stepping up to the plate,” said Jay. “I wanted to call and say thanks. The president and I are going to be watching the returns from New Jersey with a great deal of interest.”

Cartwright felt warm fuzzies passing through his body. “I was happy to do it,” he said in a raspy voice. “And I'm glad I did it, regardless of what happens.”

“Well, it's going to be a good night. For whatever it's worth, we think you're going to win.”

“Just remember . . . it is New Jersey,” joked Cartwright. “You know, where dead people vote and Jimmy Hoffa disappeared?”

Jay laughed. “This time the good guys are going to win.”

“We left it all on the field, brother, that's for sure.” He shifted gears. “What about Florida? What are you hearing?”

“It's going to be close, but Don should win,” said Jay. “Lightfoot's widow may win on election day, but she's lost too much ground in the early vote and absentees.”

“What about the House?”

“It's on the bubble, but Gerry and his guys should hang on by five to seven seats,” said Jay, his voice like melted butter. “Anyway, we'll wait until the votes come in. The president will call you later.”

“I look forward to it.”

“We're happy for you and for New Jersey. Have fun tonight.”

Cartwright hung up the phone and looked out over the manicured grounds of the Governor's Mansion. If he got lucky, he was going to be only the third person in history to defeat a sitting Senate majority leader. And when Long's presidency was over, he might be running for president himself. Cartwright took a sip of herbal tea and allowed himself a smile.

Jay hung up the phone and turned around to see Lisa standing in the doorway, her face etched with terror. “What's going on?” he asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

SHE CLOSED THE DOOR AND sat down across from his desk. “I just got a call from Marvin Myers.”

Jay knew that wasn't good. “What does he want?”

“He says he's got proof Whitehead was a client of Adult Alternatives.”

Jay leaned back in his chair and let out a pained sigh. “I was afraid this might happen.” He spun around to face her. “It's true.”

“What?” Her facial expression was complete shock. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“I wish. Johnny told the president shortly after Perry Miller was murdered.”

“Why didn't anyone tell me?” asked Lisa, her eyes aflame.

“The president told me and Charlie. He wanted a lid on it. We were hoping it wouldn't break.”

“That's ridiculous. Something like this always comes out.”

“Lisa, the president was adamant. He wanted to try to protect Johnny. He wouldn't let us get in front of the story.” He shrugged. “It is what it is.”

“Well, now what? Needless to say, Myers will post something on his Web site within the hour, whether we confirm it or not.”

Jay looked at his watch. “Can you get him to hold it until the polls close?”

“I doubt it.”

“We have to. Make it happen. Offer him an exclusive with Whitehead. Heck, offer him the president. We can't have this break until the polls are closed on the West Coast.”

“And what if he agrees?”