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.