The Ambition (2 page)

“No, it’s not that. I mean, yeah, you know I’d like to get married. But I’m realizing that we shouldn’t continue to be, um, intimate until it’s, like, y’know — official. It’s just … what I feel.”

When he didn’t respond, Gina continued. “Strider, I love you. I’m sorry this comes on such a bad day for you. I’m not saying we shouldn’t be together; I’m just saying we shouldn’t be sharing the same bed anymore. Not for a while.”

“So you’re going to live out here?”

She sighed. “No, I’m moving in with Kelli and Jen.”

“You’re
leaving?”
Strider rose to his feet, his eyes riveted to her.

“No, I’m not leaving you.” She stood to face him. “I want us to be together — just not
living
together. Not until we get married — and I’m ready to do that whenever you are. This isn’t about breaking up; it’s about doing what’s right.”

“What’s
right?”
That heightened Strider’s suspicions. “Where is this coming from? Is this about the church that Kelli’s been dragging you to? Is that what this is about?”

Tears pooled in Gina’s eyes. She hated it when Strider raised his voice to her; it reminded her of her father’s drunken tirades when she was growing up. The last thing she wanted to do was cry.

Softened by seeing her tears, Strider pulled her toward himself. “Babe, what’s this about?” he asked in a gentler tone. She hugged him back, and now the tears flowed.

“I know … everybody lives together,” she said between sobs. She kept her head on his shoulder; it seemed easier to talk without looking him in the face. “But I’ve just been thinking a lot about relationships and love and sex — the pastor at Kelli’s church has been teaching on it, and I think he’s right about some things. I don’t want to lose you, Garry. Let’s just try it this way for a while. Please?”

Strider was seething, but he knew enough not to argue with Gina when she was emotional like this. And he didn’t blame her, really — she was still young, impressionable. No, what he wanted to know was who this sanctimonious preacher was to butt into their lives? What kind of fundamentalist garbage was he peddling?

“Please,” she whispered.

Strider didn’t know what to say. “Gina …” He pulled away slightly, holding her by her shoulders and looking her in the eyes. “Gina, it’s not the right time for this.”

“There’s never a right time. But let’s work this out. It’s not the end — just a new phase.”

Strider drank in the sight of her. Man, she was beautiful! Those deep brown eyes. He loved the way her short–cropped dark hair, tinged with auburn, fell so naturally into a perfect tousled look. He knew right then that he didn’t want to lose her, but didn’t know if it was within his power to keep them together.

In many ways, they were an unlikely pair. They had met two years earlier when Gina, an elementary teacher who had penned a few short stories in college, dropped by a workshop at Loyola University that she thought was going to be about creative writing. But the seminar, sponsored by the
Examiner,
actually was focused on writing articles for newspapers and magazines.

Strider, the main speaker, regaled the audience with insider stories about his colorful exploits at the paper, never failing to emerge as the hero of his own tales. She would later admit that she thought he was arrogant; spotting her in the small crowd, he thought she was pretty and insightful, asking the most provocative questions of the morning.

Afterward, he sought her out for coffee. He felt more comfortable with her away from the spotlight, chatting at length about her interest in teaching and writing. They talked about their favorite books (his:
All the President’s Men,
the catalyst that fueled his interest in investigative reporting when he was in college; hers:
To Kill a Mockingbird,
which she’d discovered in high school and restored her hope in human dignity and justice).

They laughed easily, the pauses in their conversation pregnant rather than awkward. The difference in their ages — she was twenty–nine; he was forty–one — seemed to evaporate.

Gina had been attracted to his slightly disheveled appearance — his corduroy sports coat was a little rumpled, his burgundy tie a bit outdated, his blue jeans shapeless, his wire rims unfashionable. But his stories about his adventures as a reporter — well, she had to admit they
were
pretty exciting. So when he asked her to dinner for that evening, she didn’t hesitate — and from there, the relationship grew.

After the succession of cynical colleagues Strider had dated — users like that conniving Shelly Wilson — he found Gina to be surprisingly different: honest and sincere and genuinely caring. She brought such vibrancy and optimism into his life — and, as it turned out, she was the only woman who could put a governor on his impulsiveness and outbursts of anger. If she were a little naïve because of the age difference, then so be it.

When Gina moved into his townhouse about a year after they met, she became an anchor for his life. Over time she transformed his chaotic bachelor lair into a cozy, welcoming refuge from the oppressive stress of the
Examiner
newsroom. For Strider, Gina was much more than just a warm and generous and attentive lover; she really was the best friend he’d ever had.

No, he thought to himself as they stood facing each other in his living room, he didn’t want to lose her. He knew that with as much certainty as he knew anything.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said finally. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Gina smiled, pulling his face toward hers and giving him an enthusiastic kiss. “Honey, this is the right thing. You’ll see.”

Strider smiled back — weakly — and turned to walk toward the kitchen. “I’ll take that lasagna,” he said. “We can discuss this more in the morning.”

The whole situation left Strider confused. Gina had grown up in a large Italian family. Catholicism was part of the package. She always seemed so casual, comfortable even, whenever anything about God or religion came up — no big deal. He, on the other hand, remained indifferent to the whole notion of personal faith, deterred by the hypocrisy he read about in the paper whenever the latest scandal broke around some wayward church leader. But their religious beliefs had never gotten in the way of their relationship.

Why this all of a sudden? What educated, thinking person would adhere to these archaic beliefs in the 21
^st
century? What else was she being force–fed at that sprawling, ultra–modern cathedral in suburban Diamond Point?

Strider had seen Pastor Eric Snow, founder of Diamond Point Fellowship, interviewed on national media several times — he was one of the most prominent evangelical leaders in the country, glib and self–assured, his hair combed just a little too perfectly.

And he continued to get more and more ink lately as he ventured out of the pulpit and increasingly into the public square. President George W. Bush had sought his counsel on a regular basis. He had successfully campaigned for a few select ballot initiatives pushed by the governor, and he gained statewide acclaim as something of an economic whiz when he co–chaired a task force on urban transportation issues.

His congregation had a reputation for being upscale, which made sense based on how much the guy had made in the dot–com world before shifting focus to ministry. His church was known for running with the clock–like efficiency of a high–tech Japanese factory — more like a NASDAQ corporation than a ministry.

Strider suddenly smiled to himself. There was one other thing that he knew as well: some twenty years earlier, the
Charlotte Observer
won the Pulitzer Prize for exposing the misuse of funds at evangelist Jim Bakker’s television ministry.

A church cannot be as big and influential as Diamond Point, mused Strider, and not harbor some ugly secrets. Immorality? Manipulation? Fraud? Abuse of its tax–exempt status? Hypocritical pastors cashing in on the gullible flock?

He was looking for a new investigative project anyway, something Pulitzer–worthy. As painful as this thing with Gina was, it couldn’t be coming at a better time.

CHAPTER
TWO

I

The announcement stunned Eric Snow’s inner circle. In retrospect, maybe they should have detected some clues that this was coming, but nevertheless they all felt blindsided. No wonder he’d asked them all for pledges of confidentiality.

“Diamond Point Fellowship has been the center of my life for the past dozen years,” Snow told the gathering in the wood–and–leather den of his expansive stone house. “You know what I’ve always said about churches —”

“That they’re the hope of the world,” blurted Bob Reardon, who had been a member of the church’s volunteer leadership team, called the Board of Elders, from the very beginning.

Indeed, that phrase — which Snow lifted from another megachurch pastor named Bill Hybels — was almost as common around Diamond Point as “amen.” It neatly summarized Snow’s conviction that an urgently needed renewal of morality in America would only come through a spiritual revival that would spring forth from vibrant churches around the country.

“Yeah, I really believed that,” Snow said.

“Believed — as in past tense?” interjected Snow’s associate pastor, Art Bullock, who was sitting on a red–padded ledge under an imposing fireplace. “What’s up, Eric?”

Bullock was the voice of the fourteen senior staff members, elders, and key volunteer leaders scattered around the room, men and women who had dedicated their lives to fulfilling this vision of the local church. Some left lucrative careers and took big pay cuts in order to serve in full–time ministry with Snow. Others sacrificed personal fortunes and endless hours to make that motto a reality. And now, suddenly, here was Snow shaking the ground beneath them.

“Of course I still believe in that vision,” Snow assured them. “The church has an enormous role to play in reclaiming America. No doubt about it. But maybe it’s not the
only
hope. Maybe there are other pathways to setting a new vision for the country.”

Paul Ridge, a paunchy and balding restaurateur who had known Snow longer than anyone in the room, put down his iced tea and leaned forward in his chair. “Eric, you’d better just talk straight here. We trust you. If you’re seeing the need for a big course correction, then you’re going to have to spell it out for us.”

Snow ran his hand through his thick black hair, which obediently fell back into place. With no hint of gray, a chiseled jawline, and well–toned physique, he looked at least a decade younger than his forty–nine years.

“The future is still all about changing America from the inside out — returning to family, faith, and the kind of biblical morality and economic responsibility that our country was founded on,” he said.

“The question is how can we best accomplish that? In twelve years, we’ve become one of the biggest congregations in America. We’ve got fourteen thousand people coming on weekends, bringing nearly four thousand kids with them. We’re having an incredible impact on a lot of lives.

“But are we changing the community? Are we impacting the state and the region? I’ve been thinking about the hundreds of thousands of people who live within a twenty–mile drive of our campus. Are we seeing a decrease in their divorce rate? Are porn shops closing? Are abortion clinics going bankrupt? How are we going to change the entire community over the next few years when only a small portion of people are venturing into our church?”

Everyone was listening with rapt attention. One of the qualities that attracted people to Snow was his ability to peer into the future. As a young and only moderately religious entrepreneur, he was among the first to envision the full business potential of the Internet.

A college friend contributed the engineering expertise, but it was Snow, wielding an intuitive, razor–sharp business acumen, who was the driving force behind Snow Visionary Software, a company that pioneered ways to make the Internet safer for financial transactions. By the time Snow cashed out at age thirty–one, he had pocketed millions.

Bored by the typical pastimes of the newly rich, Snow felt empty. It was this spiritual ennui that prompted him to seek answers — and fulfillment — by delving deeper into Christianity. At age thirty–three, he had a profound conversion experience that radically transformed his values, character, and priorities.

He immediately became convinced that if others could encounter Jesus as he had, their lives would be revolutionized as well — and through them, the entire nation would find new purpose. Since then, this has been the focus of his life.

“We’ve been hammering this nail for a dozen years,” Snow said. “But lately I’ve been wondering, is this what we should keep doing for the next two dozen years? Or might God have other plans?”

Dick Urban, Snow’s long–time lawyer and golfing partner, spoke up. “Like what, Eric?”

Snow’s reply shocked the room: “Like politics, only done God’s way.”

The silence spoke volumes about his team’s skepticism. As Snow scanned their faces, he saw a lot more dismay, confusion, and disappointment than support.

These are people who are used to parsing the text of the Gospels, organizing food drives, and leading worship services. Partisan politics seemed so petty to them. Their calling was higher, purer — and ultimately, in their view, much more important. They dealt with matters of salvation and eternity, not public opinion polls and divisive rhetoric.

Undeterred, Snow continued. “Look at Obama. In just a few years, he went from community organizer, to the state senate, to the U.S. Senate, to the White House. He earned the political capital to produce sweeping changes.”

“But government can’t produce change
inside
people,” Bullock shot back. “God transforms lives and reengineers values. Then, once enough people are changed, together we can create a country that reflects his teachings. It doesn’t work the other way around.”

“I’m going on fifty,” Snow replied. “The question I’ve been asking is, ‘Where can I be the most effective?’ If I continue to lead Diamond Point, I see only incremental progress over time. But if I can influence the seats of power, I can help lead the entire country in a new direction. And as America goes, so goes the world.”

Bullock wasn’t convinced. “You’re leaving God out of the equation. Who knows what he can do through Diamond Point over the next twenty years? This isn’t just a business enterprise where we can do sales projections into the future. God can surprise us, Eric. This sounds like you’re starting to believe your own press coverage.”

Bullock was referencing a memorable editorial in the
Tribune.
The governor of Illinois, faced with a crisis in the Regional Transportation Authority, the agency that oversees mass transit in Chicago and surrounding counties, had appointed Snow cochairman of a ten–person, bipartisan task force to sort through what had become a bureaucratic quagmire that was headed for bankruptcy.

Using his business and leadership skills, Snow ended up spear–heading an initiative to overhaul the RTA by stabilizing its tax revenue and getting its spending under control. His impressive performance was widely lauded by the public and news media; in fact, the
Tribune
opined that Snow might be a good replacement for the unpopular governor himself.

“Ever since the RTA experience, you’ve been drifting further and further away from the core of the church,” Bullock said. “You’ve been hanging out with big shots in Springfield and Washington. Don’t forget the power of the local congregation.
This
is where lives are changed.”

Snow ignored the intensity of Bullock’s critique. “What the RTA experience proved is that God can use me to make a difference in the governmental arena,” he said.

“Is it God — or the ambition of Eric Snow?” Bullock retorted, and then immediately regretted his words. Snow had always appreciated — even solicited — pushback from his team, but he didn’t tolerate anyone questioning his motives in the slightest. Bullock crossed the line.

“Art — c’mon,” said Snow. “You know me better than that.”

“Yeah, that came out wrong. But this isn’t just tweaking our mission statement; this is a totally different direction. Frankly, I can’t see you suddenly declaring your candidacy for public office and then spending all your time and money on a campaign.”

Snow glanced across the room to the newest elder. She was a former high–profile federal prosecutor who was now a partner at a prestigious Loop law firm. “Actually,” said Debra Wyatt, “the timing’s providential. This is confidential, but the feds are getting close to charging Senator Barker with tax violations.”

The investigation of Illinois’ junior Republican senator was hardly a secret; the media had been full of articles about his mounting problems with the IRS. But Wyatt’s pipeline into the prosecutor’s office had yielded much more revealing information.

“They’ve got him cold. There’s a deal being worked out behind the scenes,” she said. “He’s going to be charged with tax evasion — and he’s going to plead guilty in return for eighteen months in prison.”

“He’ll have to resign,” Urban observed.

“That’s right,” Wyatt said. “And under Illinois law, the governor must appoint a successor to serve until the next congressional election, which is almost two years from now.”

Urban slumped back in his chair. “Wow,” was all he could utter.

“The governor’s party is in disarray,” Wyatt continued. “Down–state Republicans are fighting collar county Republicans, who are feuding with Chicago Republicans. He’s not going to want to appoint anyone from one of those factions and get everyone else mad at him. He’s going to want an outsider — and in light of the Barker scandal, he’s going to want someone who’s squeaky clean and doesn’t carry any political baggage.

“Of course,” she continued, “whoever gets the appointment is going to have nearly two years in office to prove himself. He will have a tremendous advantage when the next election rolls around. It could be the jump–start of an incredible political career.”

Everyone in the room knew that Governor Edward Avanes loved Eric Snow’s calm, professional demeanor and practical approach to matters of faith. Avanes’ daughter served as a volunteer coordinator at the church and had been filling her father’s ears with glowing stories about Snow’s executive prowess for years. Snow, with his corporate track–record, had already proven himself successful in business and he passed the RTA challenge with universal acclaim. His integrity had been unquestioned.

“When is all this going to happen?” asked Urban.

“The indictment and plea should take place within the next few weeks,” Wyatt said. “Eric is too modest to tell you, but the governor has already approached him.”

“I’ve been praying about it for a while,” added Snow. “Friends, this might be a God–ordained opportunity to influence America at the highest levels.” Again his eyes surveyed the room; clearly, it was going to take a lot more work to win them over. “I’d appreciate your advice and prayers.”

There were a multitude of unanswered questions, but Bullock focused on one of the most practical. “Who’s your competition, Eric?”

It was Wyatt who answered.

“The governor’s old law partner really impressed people when he cleaned up the Cook County court system after several judges were convicted of corruption a few years ago. He’s a former prosecutor and state representative, and now he’s got the reputation of being a reformer. Without a doubt, I’d say Eric’s biggest competition is Chief Cook County Criminal Courts Judge Reese McKelvie.”

II

Tom O’Sullivan had one inviolate rule at the Friday night poker games: never bet more than the cash that he had in his pocket. As long as he did that, he saw no harm in joining the “friendly” game run in an austere back room of the Gardenia Restaurant by some former clients he’d successfully represented in court.

For several months, Tom lived by his credo — until one evening when he kept coming tantalizingly close to winning several big pots, only to be busted time after time by an improbable hand held by someone else.

Still, that night he felt lucky, hopeful in a way he couldn’t remember, on the verge of scoring big. Pulling the last bill from his pocket to chase an inside straight, he succumbed to Dom’s casual offer to spot him some cash. His card didn’t show on the flop, but he stayed in with his borrowed bankroll. It was coming; he could feel it. And sure enough, the queen of hearts on the river. What he didn’t feel, though, was the higher straight held by Dom’s cousin.

Every hand seemed to go like that. Maybe the booze fueled his poor decisions. It didn’t really matter, because by dawn, as the game was finally breaking up, Tom was thirty thousand in the hole.

And not just in any hole — he owed the money to Dominic Bugatti, the youngest brother of Tony Bugatti, the long–time
sotto capo,
or second–in–command, of the West Side mob. With street interest, the debt ballooned to forty thousand dollars before Tom knew it — and that was approximately forty thousand more dollars than he had.

So when Dom, looking agitated and desperate, pounded on Tom’s door at two in the morning and said he would erase a chunk of the debt in return for an “errand,” Tom knew he had no choice. Besides, this wasn’t really an offer: it was a command.

And so here he was, Tom O’Sullivan, sitting across a massive wooden desk from Judge Reese McKelvie and feeling as nervous as a teenager in front of the principal. Tom’s boyish face, with pale freckles across his nose, didn’t help, giving him a youthful appearance that disarmed opponents in poker games but did him no favors in court.

McKelvie, on the other hand, looked every bit the role of the chief criminal courts judge: flowing black robes, black–rimmed spectacles, regal crown of wispy white hair, and triple chins cascading over his tightly buttoned collar.

“I don’t have much time. I’m meeting you because I was a very close friend of your father’s. Why was it so pressing to meet in chambers?” McKelvie asked.

Tom took a deep breath. He clicked open his briefcase and put it on the floor before removing a bulging manila envelope he then held in his lap. “I have something from Dom,” he said.