A pastor wondering whether his church is a big enough
platform to make real difference in society. A judge
reputed for cleaning up corruption but taking bribes. A
cynical newspaper reporter anxious to find his next big
investigative story. An attorney with a soiled legacy. A
mafia kingpin on a mission. This is the stuff of which THE
AMBITION is made.
Not quite a roman a clef, since it is completely fictional,
THE AMBITION is written in a similar vein as Tom Wolfe's
Bonfire of the Vanities. Lee Strobel's debut novel, THE
AMBITION, is about the intersections of faith, politics,
media, and the justice system. Who is driving whom? Who is
right and fair? Who is corrupt, greedy and uncaring? The
answers are not as simplistic nor as easy to discern as one
might think.
Strobel intended, I think, for readers to consider the role
and responsibility of churches, especially megachurches,
whether the media is making or reporting their stories,
whether the U.S. justice system is indeed just and can be
trusted. The action is fast-paced, the characters equal
parts well-intentioned and misguided, and the ending
unsuspecting. I enjoyed how the multiple storylines
converged to a final conclusion. Some readers might take
issue with a few of the plot threads being left dangling at
the end, with only a hint of what might transpire after the
story ends, but the decision to tell the story in this
manner only adds to making readers think, as Strobel wants.
Mafia defense lawyer Tom O'Sullivan has bribed Judge Reese
McKelvie to help settle a gambling debt with mobster Tom
Bugatti. O'Sullivan recorded the transaction—a
recording that threatens the lives of anyone who hears it.
Discouraged investigative journalist Garry Strider has just
been passed over for the Pulitzer. After drowning his
sorrows, he returns home to find his girlfriend moving out.
She's found faith at the Diamond Point Fellowship. Ever the
cynic, Strider begins investigating the megachurch and its
poster-boy pastor, Eric Snow.
Snow, a former .com millionaire, decides that politics
– not faith – will transform America. He becomes
a candidate for the vacant seat of a corrupt former senator.
His opponent: Judge Reese McKelvie.
Excerpt
Chapter One
I
As he walked toward the metal detector in the lobby of the
Cook County Criminal Courts building, Tom O'Sullivan's
heart pounded so hard and so fast and so loud that he was
almost afraid a sheriff's deputy would hear it. Or that
someone would notice the sweat on his upper lip. Or that a
security guard's suspicion might be aroused by his awkward
smile, a rather transparent attempt to act naturally.
Through the years, Thomas Ryan O'Sullivan III, attorney at
law, had entered the squat, concrete building on Chicago's
West Side countless times to defend drug dealers and
second-rate thugs charged with felonies. But this time was
different; today this scion of a once-powerful political
family was coming to commit an egregious crime of his own.
A sheriff's deputy picked up Tom's attaché case from where
he'd dropped it on a table for inspection. The deputy made
brief eye contact with him; there was a glimmer of
recognition, and the officer didn't even bother to open the
case. Tom had counted on the fact that attorneys warrant
only casual attention from the security force, especially
frequent visitors like himself.
"G'morning, counselor," the deputy said with a nod, handing
Tom the briefcase after he emerged from the metal detector.
Tom didn't linger. "Have a good one," he said, grabbing his
case with one hand and scooping his watch and car keys from
the plastic container with his other. He turned and walked
briskly toward the elevator. His footsteps echoed loudly in
the cavernous hall, and he forced himself to slow down.
Is the deputy still watching me? Should I have shot the
breeze for a few minutes? What about the security
cameras—will anyone watch where I'm going?
Reaching the elevator, Tom glanced back toward the entrance.
The deputy was busy patting down a defendant who had
arrived for trial. Tom sighed deeply, shoved his personal
effects into his pocket, and pushed the call button. He
took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the perspiration from
under the modest wave of reddish-brown hair that swept
across his forehead.
How many times, he wondered, had his father dispatched
thugs—the kind Tom usually represented—on clandestine
missions like this? It was the first time he had ever
allowed himself such a thought. He preferred to remember
his dad the way he saw him while growing up—powerful,
connected, warranting universal recognition and admiration.
He tried to suppress memories of the way his father's life
ended—the dishonor and ignominy, their entire family
buried in humiliation. And now, here he was, wallowing in
the same corruption—the last place he ever expected to find
himself.
More than anything, Tom wanted to run, to hide, to escape,
to call off everything. But he knew he had no choice. And
in a twisted way, that provided some comfort. The decision
had been made. There could be no backing out. The
consequences of abandoning his assignment went beyond his
imagination.
He gave his lapels a yank to straighten out the gray
pinstripe suit. The only thing he could do at this point
was to concentrate on not getting caught.
II
Garry Strider threw himself into a maroon vinyl booth at
Gilke's Tap. "The usual," he called over to the bartender.
"Just keep 'em coming, Jerry."
The place was virtually empty. Jerry glanced at his watch—a
little after three—and let out a low whistle. He hustled
together a J&B Scotch with a splash of water and
brought it over, slipping into the seat across from his
long-time customer.
"Had lunch?" Jerry asked. "Want a burger?"
Strider didn't hear the questions. "It's unbelievable.
Unbelievable!" he said, gulping his drink.
For seventeen years, Jerry had run a hole-in-the-wall tavern
strategically located between the offices of the Chicago
Tribune and the Chicago Examiner. During that
time he had learned more about newspapers than most ivory
tower journalism professors would ever know.
For him, the clues on this particular day were obvious: it
was mid-afternoon in the first week of April and the chief
investigative reporter of the city's second largest paper
looked like he should be on suicide watch.
"So," said Jerry. "The Pulitzers were announced."
Strider downed the rest of his drink and removed his
wire-rim glasses, tossing them on the table and massaging
the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut.
"We worked eighteen months on that series," he said, more to
himself than to Jerry. "We proved that lousy forensic work
by the Chicago police lab had tainted dozens of criminal
cases. Scores of cases. Two guys were released from
death row. Seven cops resigned; a grand jury is
investigating. We may nail the chief yet. We won every
award in the state. What more do we have to do?"
Jerry knew more drinks were in order. He stepped behind the
bar while Strider kept talking. "And who do they give it
to? The Miami Journal for a series on nursing homes.
C'mon—nursing homes? Who even cares, except
in Florida?"
Jerry shoved another drink into Strider's hand and plopped
down a bowl of pretzels.
"You remember Shelly Wilson," Strider continued. "The
redhead? Nice legs?"
"Oh, yeah, I had to pry the two of you apart a couple of
times." Strider shot him a sour look. "Don't tell me she
won it."
"She was an intern when I hired her," Strider said. "I
taught her everything—undercover work, public records,
Internet research, milking informants. Maybe I taught her
too well—she dumped me and ran to the Journal
when they offered her more money and her own team. And now
she screws me again."
Jerry shook his head. He felt terrible for his friend. For
as long as he had known him, all of Strider's focus had
been on winning a Pulitzer —although Strider had never come
right out and admitted it.
They both knew it: a Pulitzer turbo-charges a career like
nothing else. It means a shot at the New York Times
or Washington Post. It becomes a proud label for the
rest of a reporter's life: "In his commencement address at
Harvard University, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Garry
Strider said yesterday that blah, blah, blah ..." It
would have been in the lead of his obit someday.
Most importantly, bagging the Pulitzer would have gotten
John Redmond off Strider's back. Hard-driving and
relentlessly arrogant (and, yes, recipient of a Pulitzer
back in 1991), Redmond demanded big results from Strider's
three-person investigative unit. His willingness to let
Strider spend month after month pursuing a single series of
articles was predicated on him bringing home a prestigious
Pulitzer for the paper.
Now that he had failed—again—to win the big one, it
was unclear what the future would hold. Would he get one
more chance? Newspapers were cutting investigative
reporters around the country. When tough economic times
hit, they were often the first to go.
"You told Gina yet?"
Strider slipped on his wire-rims. "Yeah, I called her. She
listened; she sympathized. What else could she do? Then she
said she had some news of her own." He polished off his
drink, holding out the glass for another refill.
"Unbelievable."
III
On the fourth floor of the Criminal Courts Building, Tom
O'Sullivan walked up to the door of Chief Judge Reese
McKelvie's courtroom. He grabbed the brass handle—then
paused, shutting his eyes tightly.
How did he get to this point? How did everything go so
terribly wrong?
He was such an unlikely candidate for something like this.
For much of his life, he had lived a golden existence—never
having to work hard, never having to worry about his
future. In Chicago, the O'Sullivan name had been the key to
opening any door that was worth going through.
The O'Sullivan legacy went back to his great-grandfather,
Ryan, who emigrated from Ireland in 1875 and bullied his
way into a job as an organizer for the new American
Federation of Labor.
Ryan's eldest son, Big Tom O'Sullivan, was the first to make
a mark on Illinois politics. Gregarious and brash,
conniving and charismatic, Big Tom scratched his way
through law school and then gained notoriety by
successfully defending six Irish teenagers who had been
framed for a killing committed by an off-duty cop. When the
alderman of his heavily Irish Ward died of cancer, Big Tom
rode a wave of popularity into office.
Over time, he systematically consolidated power. The street
smarts he had garnered at the knee of his father, mixed
with his larger-than-life personality, made him an
irresistible leader. His lock on Ward politics continued
until his death in 1957.
His son—Tom's father—blended seamlessly into the Ward's
political machine during the last several years of Big Tom's
life, but his ambitions were loftier. The year after his
father's death, Tommy Junior was elected to the Illinois
General Assembly.
Though not as affable or loquacious as his father, he was
equally adept at manipulating the levers of power. After
three terms, he easily advanced to the state Senate, where
he gained control of key committees dealing with
appropriations and transportation.
Growing up an O'Sullivan in Chicago meant every door flew
open for Tommy Junior's namesake son, his only male heir.
Tom had learned quickly that mediocrity was more than
sufficient in a world that revolved around his
well-connected dad.
He partied through college and used his father's clout to
get into law school. But then everything collapsed
overnight when the Examiner disclosed that Tom's
father had been caught sponsoring a "fetcher bill"—a
proposed law whose only real purpose was to negatively
impact a particular industry so that it would "fetch" a
payoff in return for killing the legislation.
Headlines came fast and furious as allegations multiplied.
Contractors told the grand jury that Tommy Junior had
steered highway construction projects to friends in return
for a piece of the action. It was classic Illinois "pay to
play" corruption.
Before long, the investigation, led by Debra Wyatt, a
bulldog federal prosecutor intent on making a name for
herself, spread like cancer. The senator never discussed
the investigation with Tom or his sisters. The closest he
came was one morning when he walked into the kitchen and
found them reading the Examiner.
"Lies," he muttered without looking up. "Wyatt wants to be
governor—that's what this is about."
Then came the seventeen-count indictment: mail fraud, tax
evasion, extortion, racketeering. Tommy Junior's health
collapsed. And that's when prosecutors turned up the heat.
Come into the grand jury, Wyatt whispered in his
ear, and implicate every friend. We'll cut you a deal.
Not a soul expected him to turn state's evidence—until a
story by Garry Strider, based on a leak from prosecutors,
landed on the front page of the Examiner, alleging
that the senator had agreed to tell everything.
The leak was a lie, designed to chase away Tommy Junior's
friends so he'd feel isolated and more likely to testify
against his colleagues. He could've shouted from the top of
the John Hancock Center that he wasn't cooperating with the
authorities and nobody would have believed him. His fate as
the biggest pariah in state politics was sealed. But within
seventy-two hours of the story hitting the streets, Thomas
Ryan O'Sullivan Jr. was stricken by a massive heart attack.
Tom still blamed Debra Wyatt and the Examiner for
hounding his father into an early grave.
Tom barely made it through law school and still wasn't sure
how he'd done it. The O'Sullivan name became political
poison. He passed the bar on his first attempt, but then
nobody would hire him. He ended up opening his own office
and taking run-of-the-mill criminal cases—anything to pay
the bills.
Only one thing still reminded him that he was
alive—gambling. The thrill of placing the bet, the rush of
eternal optimism that this one was it—this horse, this
hand, this roll of the dice. Only he was losing more and
more, the price steeper as his financial hole deepened.
Now, as he swung open the Chief Judge's heavy oak door, he
was taking the biggest gamble of his life. And the odds, he
feared, were stacked against him.
IV
Jerry's coffee did a pretty good job of clearing the buzz in
Garry Strider's head. The walk through the cool air to the
front of his DePaul area townhouse helped too. But opening
the door and seeing the living room couch made into a
bed—well, that's what finally jolted him back to full
mental acuity.
"Uh, Gina?" he called, closing the door behind him.
She emerged from their bedroom, carrying a pillow and a
newly laundered pillowcase. Her fresh-faced beauty still
startled him at times—how did he get so lucky? Strider
braced himself, figuring she was going to lambaste him for
his drinking binge. Instead, she smiled and greeted him
with a quick kiss on the cheek.
"Hi, Strider," she said—everyone called him that.
"I'm really sorry about the Pulitzer thing. Honestly,
they're idiots. You okay?"
"Total disaster," he said. "Someone spending the night?"
Gina clad the pillow and tossed it onto the couch. "Honey,
no. Listen, we should talk. You eaten? There's lasagna I
can heat up."
"What's with the couch, then?"
"You want a sandwich?"
"I want to know about the couch. What's going on?"
Gina sighed and eased her slender form onto the sofa's edge.
"Look, sit," she said. Strider lowered himself into a
recliner. She thought for a moment, then gestured toward
the makeshift bed. "This is for me."
Before Strider could interrupt, she added: "Now, don't get
all excited. This isn't the end of the world. I just think,
well, that we should cool it a bit—at least physically. Not
forever—just until ... well, if we get married."
For Strider, this did not compute. "What is this—the 1950's?
We've lived together for nearly a year! Suddenly, you don't
want to sleep together? If this is pressure to get married—"
"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."