Ennis Chaney is weary. It has been two years since the Republican senator from Pennsylvania buried his mother, and he still misses her dearly. He misses visiting her in the nursing home where he used to bring her his specialty pork dish, and he misses her smile. He also misses his sister, who died eleven months after their mother, and his younger brother, whom cancer stole from him only last month.

He clenches his hands tightly, his youngest daughter rubbing his back. Four long days have passed since he received the call in the middle of the night. Four days since his best friend, Jim, died of a massive heart attack.

He sees the limo and security car pull up the driveway from the dining-room window and sighs. No rest for the weary, no rest for the grieving. He embraces his wife and his three daughters, hugs Jim’s widow once more, then leaves the house, escorted by the two bodyguards. He pinches a tear from his deeply set eyes, the dark pigment surrounding the sockets creating the shadow of a raccoon’s mask. Chaney’s eyes are mirrors to his soul. They reveal his passion as a man, his wisdom as a leader. Cross him, and the eyes become unblinking daggers.

Of late, Chaney’s eyes have grown red from too much crying.

Reluctantly, the senator climbs into the back of the awaiting limousine, the two bodyguards getting into the other vehicle.

Chaney hates limos; in fact, he hates anything that calls attention to himself or reeks of the kind of preferential treatment associated with executive privilege. He stares out the window and thinks about his life, wondering if he is about to make a big mistake.

Ennis Chaney was born sixty-seven years ago in the poorest black neighborhood in Jacksonville, Florida. He was raised by his mother, who supported their family by cleaning white folks’ homes, and by his aunt, whom he often referred to as Mama. He has never known his real father, a man who left home a few months after he was born. When he was two, his mother remarried, his new stepfather moving the family to New Jersey. It was there that young Ennis would grow up. It was there that he would hone his skills as a leader.

The playing field was the one place where Chaney felt at home, the one place where color didn’t matter. Smaller than his peers, he nevertheless refused to be intimidated by anyone. After school, he would push himself through thousands of hours of drills, channeling his aggression to develop his athletic skills, learning discipline and self-control along the way. As a high-school senior, he would earn second-team, all-city honors at quarterback and first-team, all-state in basketball. Few defenders ever challenged the scrappy little point guard who would sooner break your ankle than allow you to steal the ball; but off the court, you couldn’t find a warmer, more affectionate young man.