The Presence (35 page)

He leaned back, kept his eyes trained directly on the camera, said, “There must be a federal system to carefully monitor these schools, especially their academic levels. Each school must have an appropriate percentage of minorities to be eligible for this program. And a minimum of ten percent of all places must be held for students from needy families. These children will be awarded grants from the federal government according to the income level of their family. The federal government loses no money—it would be spending the same or more to give the child a place in the public school system. But simply because a child comes from a background of poverty should not mean that his or her choice, or the choice of the parents, must be restricted.”

TJ turned back to the monitor, said, “Mr. Morgan, this nation was founded upon the principle of individual freedom. All I am saying is that the time has come for this freedom to be extended to the education of our children. Without penalty. Without burdening the family with additional costs. If a family chooses to hold fast to a strong Christian faith, they should be allowed to entrust their children to schools and teachers who share this faith.”

TJ turned back to the camera and finished, “If there are viewers who agree with this, do not write me. Write your congressman. Write your senator. Write to the President himself. Let them know how you feel. It will probably take a constitutional amendment to make this reality. The work must be done by you. Every person who feels strongly about the education given his or her child must accept the responsibility, and
act
.”

He stopped, his talk completed, turned his attention back to the monitor, and waited.

Victor Morgan's voice sounded strangled when he spoke. “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Case. We will pause now for a word from our sponsors.”

****

There was an impromptu party in the parking lot after TJ had removed his makeup. Sandra Hastings supplied the Dr. Pepper and the warmest smile. “I can't believe how Vic let you go on like that.”

“Believe it,” Jeremy said, toasting TJ with his can.

“I mean, sure, I saw it, but he
never
does that. He's always interrupting, dominating the interview.”

“I'm not sure old Vic had much choice in the matter,” Jeremy said.

“The White House is going to go bananas when they hear about this,” Nak predicted.

“Yeah, well, I suppose that's all part of the plan,” Jeremy said, and to TJ, “Sounds like you did good in there, old son.”

“He was fantastic,” Sandra said. “It was an incredible performance.”

“I just did as I was told,” TJ said, feeling totally drained now that it was over. “Do you really think they'll air it?”

“No question,” Sandra Hastings replied. “Victor Morgan made a lot of enemies in his scramble up the ladder. Even if it was awful, they'd show a piece that puts him in his place like this. Your interview has the additional advantage of being really good.”

“Dynamite, from the sounds of it,” Nak replied. “The earth is going to shake over on Pennsylvania Avenue.”

“What's it like?” Sandra asked TJ. “Is it some voice out of the sky?”

“More like out of my heart,” TJ replied tiredly.

“Looks to me like you better sit down before you fall down, TJ,” Jeremy said. “C'm on, everybody. The show's over. Sure was nice meeting you, Miss Hastings.”

She seemed reluctant to let them go. “I look forward to hearing you tomorrow morning, Mr. Case.”

“I'll be sure that someone is there to meet you,” TJ said, and wondered if tomorrow's prayer session might be the last one he would give.

The West Wing was in truth a small separate building connected to the White House proper by a long covered promenade. It housed the working quarters of the President and some of his senior staff, as well as the Cabinet Room, White House mess, security, press pool, a second conference room, and a few other offices. The Oval Office, so named because that was exactly its shape—oval—stuck out of the back left-hand corner of the West Wing like a man-made egg, facing unto the Rose Garden and connected to the promenade by private doors and two small patios. Between it and the Cabinet Room, which also faced the Rose Garden, was an office that under some administrations had housed the President's confidential secretary. Nowadays it housed the President's Chief of Staff, Norman Greenbaum, a slick Boston lawyer and former legal advisor to the board of a Fortune 500 corporation. Usually a man of great polish and almost unruffable cool, today he was sweating mightily.

It was his habit to arrive in the West Wing no later than six o'clock. He rarely needed more than five hours sleep, and the ninety minutes of quiet before the other staffers began to arrive were usually enough to complete his correspondence and do an itemized rundown of the day's major activities. This morning, however, he had scarcely had time to sort through the morning's messages before his phone rang.

“That you, Norman?”

“Yessir, Mr. President. Good morning.” Though he had known President David Nichols for more than twenty years, it would not have occurred to him to call the man anything else.

“I want to see you,” the President said. “Now.”

Norman Greenbaum gathered up the file containing the most crucial matters to be covered that Wednesday morning. There were a number of urgent issues, especially as President Nichols had been in New York and Boston all the day before. But as Norman Greenbaum hurried down the promenade and entered the White House proper, he was fairly sure that the reason for this early call had nothing to do with the ongoing international monetary crisis.

The President was sitting in his breakfast alcove, an untouched meal shoved to one side, several morning newspapers scattered across the table in front of him. “You seen these?”

“Yessir.” There was no need in asking which particular item the President meant. It had made the front page of almost every single paper in the nation.

“Do you have any idea how many calls the White House has received over the past twenty-four hours in regard to this?”

“I haven't spoken with them since last night, but—”

“Over nine thousand,” the President said. “At last count, running fifteen to one in favor of what this man proposed.”

Norman Greenbaum whistled softly. The kitchen door swung silently open; he nodded a greeting to the staff waiter, pointed to the President's coffee cup. The door closed.

President David Nichols was a born and bred New Englander, from the tip of his aquiline nose to the surprising strength of his slender hands. Political cartoonists often portrayed him as a weakling carried into office by the continued tide of pro-Republican sentiment. Those who worked with him closely knew otherwise. He was a brilliant man, not always the case with people who held the necessary charisma to become president.

His political work was incisive, his acumen sharp and direct when it came to major policy work. He knew exactly what he intended to have completed during his reign. He demanded complete and unswerving loyalty from his “troops,” as he called his staffers. What was more, he received it.

The staffers considered President Nichols a good man to work for. He made an effort to ensure that compliments filtered down to those who had actually done the work, a rare event in Washington. He allowed no end-runs around his senior men; all contact and all information had to come through proper channels, via the appropriate Cabinet official to the Chief of Staff and then on to him. Public squabbling was absolutely forbidden and was one of the few things that stripped off the President's normally friendly demeanor and exposed a scathing temper.

The majority of his staff respected his orders, and in truth liked knowing exactly what the score was. Staffers who preferred snaking along more circuitous routes were dealt with swiftly. Lesser mortals whose passing caused no public hue and cry were out with thirty minutes' notice. Those whose ousters might have generated negative publicity simply found themselves buried under mounds of bureaucracy, their access to higher officials denied, and all confidential information kept out of their grasp. The proper term for this act of isolating a disloyal staffer was “layering.”

“Nine thousand,” the President repeated. “I've just called downstairs again. The calls've already started up again. The switchboard is flooded. At six o'clock in the morning.”

Norman Greenbaum fiddled with his glasses, started, “Mr. President, I can't tell you—”

“I want to know two things,” the President continued. “First, I want to know exactly who this man is. And, second, I want to know how this disaster is going to be neutralized before it gets any worse.”

Norman Greenbaum opened his file, extracted the first sheet of paper, more to have something in his hands than because he needed to refer to it. “Thomas Jefferson Case is an attorney from North Carolina, black, fifty-three, served five terms with the state legislature, gave up his political career to switch parties and back a Republican candidate for Congress.”

“I remember that. What's the young congressman's name again?”

“John Silverwood, sir.”

“Yes, that's right. His name's come up recently in regard to something else, I believe.”

Once more Greenbaum was amazed at the President's grasp of minute detail. “That's correct, sir. There seems to be a rising tide of support for him to take over the open seat on Ways and Means.”

“Incredible that they'd even consider giving that to a freshman congressman. But that's off the subject.” The President paused while the waiter served Greenbaum coffee and freshened his own cup, said, “Tell me about this Case.”

“He was brought up here on the basis of his work with gifted children. Made quite a name for himself locally, pushing various educational programs specially designed—”

“This has nothing to do with gifted children! Do you realize what this madman has done? He's gone out on national television and demanded the dismantling of the nation's school system! How in the dickens did this thing get started?”

Norman Greenbaum ran a nervous hand over his bald spot. He could not recall ever having seen the President so upset. Not with him, in any case. “I really don't know, sir. From what I can gather, it seems he's been involved in a prayer group over in the OEOB.”

“A
prayer
group!”

“Yessir, I know it doesn't sound like much, but from what I can gather, it's grown rather large.”

“How large?” The President had grown ominously calm.

“Reports vary, sir, but I think it's close to five hundred people.”

“Five hundred of my staffers attended a prayer meeting held by this Case? Where?”

“In the main conference hall, sir.” He swallowed nervously. “But it wasn't just once. They do it every day.”

“Five hundred White House staffers meet every morning right here under my nose, and this is the first I've
heard
of it?”

“They're not all White House. I believe some come from other agencies and Capitol Hill. I think it's five hundred, sir. That's how many the room seats, and from what I understand it's usually full.”

President Nichols turned and looked out the window, his jaw muscles jumping. “And the press caught wind of it.”

“I—I understand so, sir. They did an interview with him last week, which I've been told went over very well.”

“Who did?”

“WBTV News. It went so well, in fact, that it received quite a bit of coverage nationwide.”

The President turned back toward his Chief of Staff. “Why wasn't I told of this earlier?”

“Mr. President, sir, I—”

“You've had your chance to contain it, and you've failed. Don't try to deny it. This thing is burning like a prairie fire.” He leaned across the table, his eyes boring holes in his Chief of Staff. “I told you the first day we came together, and I'm telling you again now. If there's anything I hate it's not being absolutely certain that my entire team is behind me one hundred percent. This isn't even an end-run, Norman. The man's so far out in left field he isn't even playing in the same game.”

“Mr. President, I'm sure—”

“Yes, and that's your problem. You're so sure of how the whole shooting match is under your thumb that you don't see a major political time bomb ticking away right there in front of your eyes!” He slammed his fist down hard enough to spill coffee over the papers. “I didn't become President of the United States to be outmaneuvered by some religious twerp!”

Norman Greenbaum mopped up the worst of the spill with his napkin and held his reply to a quiet, “Yes, sir.”

The President stabbed a finger at his aide, ordered, “Now you get out there and find me a way to turn this thing around!”

****

TJ Case walked down the OEOB hall, his footsteps echoing hollow and lonely in the early morning emptiness. He had not slept well the night before, waking every hour or so to wracking doubt and worry. It was hard to face up to the fact that whatever chance he might have had to develop an education policy designed specifically for gifted children was now wiped out. He knew politics well enough to realize that anything he proposed would now be shot down simply because it came from him. The rebel. The man who spoke out of turn.

The evening had held a few bright spots, however. Jeremy had manned the front door, and Catherine the telephone, as dozens of well-wishers had called or dropped by to thank him for what he did that morning on television. It seemed a very large number of devout Christian parents were truly worried about the education given their children. The question they raised was u
NIV
ersal: how can we combat the wickedness of this world if we are forced to hand them over at such a young age to people who simply do not know the Lord nor even care about His existence?