The Abduction

2

All four thousand red velvet seats at Atlanta’s Fox Theatre were filled with partisan politicos. Signs and hats were prohibited inside the auditorium, but the political buttons fastened to lapels indicated an audience fairly evenly divided between Leahy and Howe supporters.

Immediately following Allison’s Monday-night acceptance of General Howe’s challenge, the Commission on Presidential Debates scheduled the debate in Atlanta on Thursday, twelve days before the election. Allison had spent the balance of Wednesday night and all of Thursday studying up on the issues, meeting with advisers, and gathering last-minute tips from her consultants.
Allison stood behind a mahogany podium to the audience’s left. She wore a bright blue St. John suit, and her hair was up in a stylish twist that completed the serious but feminine look that had graced the cover of thousands of magazines. Lincoln Howe was to the right, dressed in a well-tailored suit with a light blue shirt, red tie, and gold cuff links. He’d campaigned in civilian clothes all along, of course, but he had somehow always looked like a soldier caught out of uniform. Tonight, he looked decidedly presidential.
“Good evening,” said the moderator, “and welcome to the Campaign 2000 presidential debates. We have an unusual format tonight. A panel of four distinguished journalists, two selected by each candidate, have absolute freedom to ask whatever questions they wish.”
Allison scanned the audience as the moderator introduced the panel. She shared a subtle smile with her husband, who was seated in the second row. Peter Tunnello was, according to Business Week magazine, “a visionary self-made millionaire” who had pioneered the plastic recycling business—a highly profitable and politically correct line of work for a politician’s spouse. At age fifty-six he was eight years older than Allison, with distinguished flecks of gray in his hair and dark eyes that could charm his wife or chill his enemies. They’d dated casually a few months before Emily’s abduction. He’d never been gorgeous, but if the ensuing tragedy and endless search had proven anything, it was that Peter was that rare breed of man who came through in times of need.
Allison was no slave to intuition, but something in the air—the vibes, the setting—was suddenly making her feel as if tonight could be one of those times of need.
The moderator continued, “As this is the third debate, we will dispense with opening statements and move straight to questions.”
Allison sipped her water, relieved that she wouldn’t have to hear the general recite his résumé yet again. Certainly it was impressive. A Medal of Honor from Vietnam. His bold triumph as the four-star general in charge of the Special Operations Command that had liberated thirty-eight American hostages from heavily armed terrorists in Beirut. The well-earned reputation as a fearless hawk at the Pentagon. She wondered, however, when his strategists would finally realize that all the military machismo was making even his biggest fans nervous about electing a president who might be a little too eager to send their sons and daughters marching off to war.
The moderator turned to the panel. “Mr. Mahwani, we begin with you, sir.”
Abdul Kahesh Mahwani was a radical but respected former president of the National Association of Black Journalists. He’d made a name for himself covering the civil rights movement in the sixties, then turned Muslim and changed his name. His dark shaved head glistened beneath the stage lights. His wrinkled hand shook as he slowly removed the folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his moist forehead.
Mahwani was one of General Howe’s selections. Of the four panelists, he made Allison most nervous.
“Mr. Mahwani, your question, please.”
The distinguished old gentleman shuffled the note cards on the table before him, then laid them aside. He removed his reading glasses and held them in his hand, like a professor with his pointer.
“Congratulations!” he shouted, startling everyone. “Congratulations to both of you, for what will surely be a healthy discussion of important issues.”
He leaned back in his chair, as if he were no longer speaking to the candidates, but to the world. His voice took on the rhythmic cadence of a southern preacher. “Come November seventh, however, the American people will do more than choose sides on issues. They will choose a leader. A person to lead them in this new millennium. A man or a woman who they will call their president.
“This campaign has been utterly bankrupt of any discussion of the character of either candidate. Yet I’m certain that millions of people watching at home tonight are asking themselves some fundamental questions. How can a president lead, if not by example? Is this man, or this woman, a model citizen for our children?”
Mahwani leaned forward for effect, then looked at each candidate—first at Howe, then at Allison. His voice took on a hushed tone, forcing everyone in the auditorium to listen more carefully. “My question to both candidates is simply this: Have you ever broken your marital vow of fidelity?”
The audience fell silent. After an uneasy pause, the moderator spoke up. “Ms. Leahy. Your response, please.”
Allison swallowed hard. Going first always had risks, but responding first to a question like this one raised special concerns. She thought carefully about the question, measuring her response. She found Peter’s eyes again in the second row. He seemed stoic but supportive. Finally she answered, speaking to the audience at large rather than directly to Mahwani or even her husband.
“First of all, let me say that while I respect Mr. Mahwani’s right to ask whatever he likes, this character question is completely out of step with the tone of the issue-oriented campaign that both I and General Howe have waged so far. I’m proud of the fact that this presidential campaign—unlike many of those in the past—has been conducted in a civilized and informative manner. I’m proud that both candidates have refused to stoop to the character bashing, personal insults, and attacks on family members that have sadly become a trademark of American politics.
“Mr. Mahwani’s question really raises a larger issue. Will we as Americans hold fast to this important step forward we’ve taken and talk about issues, rather than resorting to insults? Or will we move backward to a time when running for office meant open season on a candidate’s most intimate and personal secrets, no matter how irrelevant to the issues in the election?
“Please understand what I’m saying. I can see circumstances where extremely personal questions might be relevant. If a candidate directly challenges the media and puts his or her marital fidelity at issue, that candidate should be prepared to answer some probing questions. If a credible third party comes forth with evidence that a candidate has engaged in immoral conduct, the public should expect a response. I do not think, however, that every candidate in every election should be forced as a matter of course to let the media look inside their bedroom.”
She paused, but her voice remained resonant. “Therefore, in the interest of restoring a level of dignity to American political debate, I decline to answer the question simply as a matter of principle.”
A hearty applause rose from the left side of the auditorium. She glanced once again at her husband in the second row. He too was applauding. She breathed a discreet sigh of relief.
“Quiet, please,” said the moderator.
The applause slowly faded. Mahwani looked away, shaking his head in visible disgust.
“General Howe,” said the moderator. “Same question. Your response, please.”
All eyes turned to the general. Mahwani, in particular, shot him a steely glare—though Allison could swear she detected the silent exchange of an insider’s smile between the two men.
Howe gripped the podium, squaring his shoulders to the center television camera.
“My fellow Americans,” he said solemnly. “Nearly four decades ago, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., stood on the marble steps of the Lincoln Memorial and proclaimed to the American people, ‘I have a dream.’ He dreamed of a day when all people were judged not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.
“I share that dream. All people should be judged by the content of their character. That includes men; that includes women. That includes whites, blacks, and people of all races. And most of all, that includes candidates for public office—men and women who seek a public vote of trust and confidence.
“It would seem that my opponent and I hold a very different set of principles. While Ms. Leahy refuses to answer the question as a matter of principle, I will answer it—based on my principles.”
Howe looked directly into the center camera. “No, I have never broken my vows of marital fidelity. And I would never stand silent on something that, in my view, is the most sacred test of character for any man.” He paused, then shot a judgmental glare at Allison. “Or for any woman.”
The Howe half of the auditorium erupted with a standing ovation. The moderator raised his arms. “Quiet, please. Quiet.”
The cheers only grew louder.
Allison’s heart thumped. The lights overhead suddenly seemed hotter. Her palms were sweating. She glanced at David Wilcox, who had warned her about an ambush from the very beginning. He was normally poker-faced in public. This time, however, his eyes said it all.
The rest of the night was irrelevant. She’d just been slaughtered.