The initiative died, but its failure turned out to be a boon for Arch. The newspapers painted him as a truth-telling idea man. He didn’t have the support of the mayor’s office or the city council. But he had the papers, especially the Herald, owned by Engage South, a media company belonging to a Yeatman alum. And the television stations could never resist a pretty face. Arch looked like a savior to the white working class, just as disgust with politicians was peaking.

How did a guy like Arch Creigh—born into wealth, educated privately from pre-K through graduate school, married to the daughter of a billionaire, as handsome as a film star, with family ties going back almost to Jamestown—become a Man of the People? After all, the People were the ones who shopped at Wal-Mart, who spent their lives traveling back and forth between backbreaking jobs and weary inertia at home, who ended up being forced to live off disability and Medicaid benefits. How on earth could the People see a guy who lived on Belle Meade Boulevard as their champion?

There is nothing in this world to which people connect more willingly in uncertain times than the appearance of genuine certainty. If there was one true thing that could be said about Arch, it was this: he seemed so sure of himself that people couldn’t help but believe in him.

All of which led up to that moment on the quad at Yeatman.

“Just a little more than a decade ago,” he said, “I sat where you boys are sitting now, at the end of six years of the hardest work I’ve ever done. Trust me, Wall Street is a piece of cake after AP Physics and Latin during football season. So when I was asked to speak to you today, I was a little intimidated. I know from experience that you hear a lot of speeches. You might get a little numb to so much good advice.”

Laughter rippled across the assembly. They were all primed to love him before he even opened his mouth.