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  “Longer,” the senator interrupted.

  “Whenever. Back in the Carter administration there was this restaurant near the National Democratic Club called The Rotunda. The maitre d’ was this really suave-looking Persian. He drove a forty-thousand-dollar Porsche and had a house in Georgetown.”

  “Not an apartment,” the senator emphasized. “A house.”

  “Yeah, well, one day our pal was found in the back of his Porsche with a bullet in his head. He was supposedly supplying drugs to the staffers on the Hill.”

  “I never liked that restaurant,” the senator said. “Even on the sunniest day the place was dark as a tomb.”

  “Nobody’d go in there after that,” Robinson went on. “So they closed it down and the Democrats moved their club in there.”

  “On Saint Patrick’s Day Tip O’Neill would come in and sing ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,’ then dance a jig.”

  Throughout the leisurely lunch the senator and the party chief entertained their freshman colleague with bits of Washington lore, the latest gossip, predictions over who would be picked for the choicest posts within the new administration, and instructions about how the new boy on Capitol Hill was expected to field certain major issues. Silverwood kept his mouth shut and listened. These men could be his most powerful allies or his worst enemies.

  John Silverwood was from old Carolina stock. He often pointed out that relatives still worked a tobacco farm which was a hundred years older than the United States of America. The fact that the only farming he had ever done was plant a few flower bulbs was seldom mentioned.

  Silverwood was not a big man. He stood an inch under six feet, but most people thought of him as taller because he intentionally held himself very erect. He maintained a rigid workout schedule, pumping iron and playing racquetball four times a week. Those ninety minutes of unleashed fury were the only time he let himself go from the emotional armor he showed to the outside world.

  The junior congressman was a patient man. It was not the patience of a calm sea, however; it was more the tension of a steel cable pulled taut by a thousand-pound load. He had waited through two terms in county politics, six years in the state legislature, and eleven of the longest pre-election months of his life to get to where he was now. Waited, listened, and learned.

  He was one of the new breed, set to wheel and deal in the world of modern Washington politics. The centralized power structure, where rule of might was balanced between a strong president and the senior members of Congress, was crumbling. Nowadays power was in perpetual flux, passing from back-room staffer to newly elected congressman to assistant secretary and back again, its movement governed by the issue of the moment. Who held the reins was determined more by the media and special interest groups than by experience or seniority.

  John Silverwood had studied this long and hard. He was determined to become an expert at headline-grabbing media politics. He knew that the player’s identity was far less important than how the media portrayed him. He had trained to develop a solid television image. He was armed, he was elected, and as soon as Congress convened he would be stalking his elusive prey: Power.

  He was careful not to let any of this show. The Old Guard was solidly entrenched in the North Carolina Republican party. They allowed no threat to the established pattern. Fresh blood was admitted only after showing themselves to be true followers of the system. Silverwood had long since developed as bland an expression as his craggy features would allow. What he really felt, what he really wanted, remained buried deep.

  Over coffee the conversation turned to his recent election. Self-satisfied backslapping over the addition of his district to the Republican ranks led to optimistic predictions on how the trend might continue.

  “Been a right busy week,” Senator Erskins said. “What with meeting the new administration and the committee going hard on all the new appointments.”

  “Tough,” Silverwood said, silently envying him.

  “Had lunch with one of our new hotshot power-brokers this week. What was his name, Ted?”

  “Jim Lockes. He’s responsible for senior appointments. Slated to be Chief of White House Personnel after the January swearing-in.”

  “Said they were looking out for some skirts and colors.”

  Silverwood looked a question at Robinson.

  “Women and minorities,” Robinson explained. “They’ve got a staff over there right now, reminds me of some southern college fraternity.”

  “Diversity,” the senator added. “Fellow said they were looking for a little more diversity in the ranks. Had this little wispy voice, like, ‘Please let us know if there’s anyone we should be talking to.’”

  “And we thought about your friend,” Robinson said.

  “Or Ted did,” the senator added. “I’d heard something about him, of course, but Washington’s kept me so busy I don’t know which way’s up anymore. That reminds me, son. I hope you know how sorry I am that I couldn’t make it back to give you a hand more often during the campaign.”

  Silverwood made some vague noise and seethed inside. The senator had shown an initial preference for a second Republican candidate, one who had previously worked for Erskins’s own reelection. But the polls had shown early on that the other fellow had a snowball’s chance in the Sahara of getting elected. So rather than lending his support to Silverwood, the party’s chosen candidate, Erskins had hibernated for eight months in Washington. He had not shown his face a single time in Silverwood’s district.

  “I heard something about how this black fellow may have made the difference,” the senator went on. “What was his name again?”

  “Thomas Jefferson Case,” Robinson replied, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level. Credit was never voiced loudly in Washington. “And there’s no ‘may’ about it. John’s sitting here with us right now because of what that man did.”

  “He definitely tipped the balance,” Silverwood agreed.

  “Crossed over party lines in the middle of the campaign, did I get that right?” The senator patted his coiffure into place. “The man must be a fool.”

  “Not at all,” Robinson countered. “I’ve met him on a number of occasions, and the man is anything but a fool. He chose to stand on his principles even when it meant committing political suicide.”

  “What was the issue?” the senator asked. “Something about education, wasn’t it?”

  “He wants to establish special programs for gifted children,” Silverwood replied. “Education’s been the basis of his entire political career. He finally decided that the Democratic ideal of equal education for all just wasn’t working. Put an awful lot of thought and work into it. Spent over two years traveling the entire southeast, gathering statistics and talking to local authorities. The report he put together for the Democratic Party Caucus last year was nothing less than incredible.”

  “You’ve read it?” the senator asked.

  “Most of it.”

  “So did I,” Robinson said. “That was one of the issues we had to agree on before he’d give his support to John. I thought at first we were just dealing with another black who’d had his pride hurt. But not anymore.”

  “He took it to the Democrats not once, but seven different times,” said Silverwood. “They patted him on the head, made some kind of polite noises, and sent him away. So he got involved with the local school system, monitoring the four regional high schools. Then he took it to the papers.”

  “Seems I recall seeing some headlines about that,” the senator said.

  “‘Showdown Over Educational Policy,’ “ Silverwood supplied. “That was back, oh, the summer before last.”

  “The Asheville paper dubbed him ‘The Lonely Knight,’ “ Robinson said. Asheville was the original stronghold of the state’s Republican party, and home to the only right-leaning newspaper in North Carolina.

  “This was not some casual decision,” Silverwood informed them. “When he finally came to see me, the man was in agony. Real
ly at the end of his rope. He did it because he just couldn’t stand there and let them destroy our educational system. That’s exactly what he said.”

  “Seems amazing that you’d get this from a black man,” the senator mused. “I’d have thought he’d believe special ed would wind up being just for the little white kids.”

  “That’s the most amazing part,” Robinson said.

  “As long as the program is really open to everybody on the basis of merit alone,” Silverwood explained, “his study shows that there’s an incredibly high proportion of minority students who come in. His study went against every grain of Democratic policy-thinking for the past twenty years. The key issue, TJ feels—”

  “That’s what he’s called? TJ?”

  “TJ Case,” said Robinson. “Mention that name in Democratic party circles these days and you’ll have a dozen stroke victims on your hands.”

  “TJ feels that the key is not to equalize education but to equalize the availability of education,” Silverwood continued. “And the way to do this is to set the gifted schools in the center cities.”

  “In the slums?” The senator was shocked.

  “Right in the middle of minority neighborhoods,” Robinson explained. “Pour a bunch of government money into renovating one of the old schools, make it into a model kind of place. They’ve done one in Raleigh, and it’s pretty incredible. TJ walked me through it. The neighborhood has been totally transformed in just five years. I’m not kidding you. Five years. Rich families raise a stink because the neighborhood’s not safe for their kids, so police protection picks up. The area gets too hot for the nasties, so all of a sudden it’s kind of a nice place to live. New people start moving in. Not the really rich—they mostly send their kids to private schools anyway. Upper middle class, young professionals. Minorities living next door to whites. I tell you, the difference is incredible.”

  “Why haven’t I seen this?” The senator looked at both of them accusingly. “You’re telling me something like this is going on right under my nose and I’ve never even heard about it?”

  “Reggie, it’s one school in the whole state,” Robinson said soothingly. “Four hundred kids out of how many? A hundred thousand? We only found out about it because Case made us go down and look it over.”

  Silverwood held his peace. There was little to be gained from stating the obvious. Senator Reginald Erskins was rock-steady and well-informed on the issues he considered primary, but he turned an almost blind eye to everything else.

  Erskins gave his staffers enormous power. On secondary issues they made both the initial and final policy analyses, then simply told him how to vote. In return the senator demanded unswerving loyalty. Anyone foolish enough to disagree with him on a primary issue was given five minutes to pack.

  Some senators knew every state legislator back home by their first name. They considered it a matter of principle to know exactly how each felt about issues of key interest to the state. Erskins held no such views. He had once been heard to refer to the state legislators as those folks riding at the back of the bus.

  The people had elected Erskins because of what he stood for. His job was to make his stand as hard and fast and noisy as possible. Any issue not directly related to this premise was shunted aside for his staffers to handle. So it was no surprise that he had not heard of the recent developments in education, nor that he had only a vague knowledge of TJ Case. Education was nowhere near the top of Senator Erskins’ list.

  “TJ Case is real strong on building the equal opportunity concept into this program,” Silverwood went on. “He gets pretty hot about racial bias in schools.”

  “What does he call it?” Robinson smiled his tight little grimace. “‘Teaching our children the absolute worst of what we are,’ something like that.”

  “‘Showing a casual disregard for the basic teachings of Jesus Christ,’ “ Silverwood said. “I like that one best.”

  “So did the papers,” Robinson agreed, adding for the senator’s benefit, “He’s a strong Christian and makes no bones about it.”

  “You really like this fellow, don’t you?” the senator observed.

  Robinson hedged in his best political manner. “He’s impressed a lot of people, Reggie. Right across the color line.”

  “I seem to recall that the papers made a big thing of his endorsement,” the senator said.

  “Went all over the district with me,” Silverwood agreed. “Introduced me to all the local leadership. Made I don’t know how many speeches.”

  “We about worked that man to death,” Robinson said.

  “What are you trying to tell me? That he did all this out of the goodness of his heart?”

  “All we promised was that we would get his ideas a hearing in Washington,” said Robinson. “It could be a powerful move, though. Bring this man up to Washington, hold him out to the southern blacks as an example of how the Republican party would treat them.”

  The senator mulled this over, said, “The blacks sure made the difference in the last election.”

  Robinson nodded grim agreement. After a bitter four-month battle, the Democratic candidate had carried the state’s second senatorial seat by a margin of less than two percent of the total vote. There was no question that the solid backing of the black vote had tipped the balance.

  “Something like this could make all the difference the next time we go to bat,” Robinson agreed.

  Erskins leaned back in his chair and focused his gaze on the far wall. The other two sat and watched and let him muse in silence.

  “If we put him on our staff, it’ll look too much like we’re making a token payoff,” he said, thinking aloud. “The blacks are getting too smart to swallow that sort of thing. It needs to be something independent.”

  There was another long pause; then he turned to Silverwood. “So do you think we could get your friend to Washington?”

  Silverwood made his expression doubtful. “I don’t know. This is a real local boy we’re talking about here. He’s lived in North Carolina all his life. There could be some chance, but I’d have to work on him hard.”

  The senator nodded his understanding. “But he’s a good man?”

  “The best,” Silverwood agreed. He hesitated, as though the thought had just come to him. “What about something in the White House?”

  “Might not be a bad idea,” the senator agreed. “Since he’s so devoted to this education thing, we could try Special Assistant to the President for Education?”

  “The White House,” Robinson exuded. “Great. The blacks’d love it.”

  “It’s perfect,” Silverwood agreed. He had to clench down tight on the jitters in his belly to keep his emotions from showing. TJ Case would be his own little White House mole. He was going to pump Silverwood full of inside information. Being the first in the know was vital to gaining real power.

  “I’ll talk to that fellow Lockes soon as I get back to the office,” the senator said. “The incoming administration and I are at loggerheads on a couple of major issues here, so there’s room for a little horse trading.”

  “You might bring up the fact that they haven’t tapped many people from North Carolina to serve on the President’s staff yet,” Robinson suggested. “That might be good for a couple of extra points.”

  “Leave that to me,” the senator replied, still looking into the distance. “The President’s made education a priority issue. This wouldn’t be a bad place to have our own man, eh, Congressman?”

  “Not at all,” Silverwood replied.

  “Special Assistant to the President for Education,” Robinson repeated, clearly pleased. “The black voters’ll eat it up with a spoon.”

  “It’s better than I’d hoped,” Silverwood agreed, impressed with this casual show of power and determined that they wouldn’t overlook his role in all this. “I’m pretty sure I can get TJ to accept it. I’ll have to push hard, but I think it can be done.”

  “Then it’s settled,” the senator d
eclared, and waved for the check. “Get in touch with my secretary tomorrow. I should know by then if we can work it out.”

  “When you talk with this fellow Case,” Robinson said, “make sure he understands what we’re doing for him. We’re not out for gratitude. We want his loyalty.”

  “And make it sound urgent,” added the senator. “Easier to push a man if he thinks the fate of the nation rests on him making a decision in the next fifteen minutes.”

  Chapter Three

  When TJ and Catherine pulled up to the boat dock, Jeremy was waiting at the end of the pier. Beside him pranced their youngest granddaughter, five-year-old Macon. She was waving her one free hand wildly over her head and struggling to break free, as though she wanted to jump in the water and rush out to greet them. Which was probably why Jeremy held her other hand in a death-grip.

  “Her mother went home an hour ago” were his first words. “Said it was either drown her or leave her with me.”

  “Did not,” Macon corrected. “Daddy got a ‘mergency and Uncle Jeremy said he’d wait and come back with y’all.” Macon’s daddy was a surgeon in Raleigh, and her mother was TJ and Catherine’s eldest daughter.

  “If I let go your hand, do you promise to behave yourself?” Jeremy asked.

  “Don’t try squeezing blood from a stone,” Catherine warned knowingly. To Macon she said, “Honey, run take this to the car.”

  Jeremy watched Macon struggle down the pier with a suitcase slightly smaller than she was, then turned back and said, “Everything okay?”

  She glanced toward the cabin of the boat, where TJ was busy shutting down all systems. “Yes and no.”

  “I didn’t loan you my boat for y’all to go out there and fight.”

  Catherine did not smile. “Let’s wait till we’re home, Jem. There’s a lot to talk about.”

  TJ chose that moment to come out of the cabin. He reached across the rail to grip Jeremy’s hand. “Hello, Jem.”

  Searching his friend’s face, Jeremy spotted something he’d never seen there before. A calm strength—and something else. There was a mighty peculiar light to his eyes.