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social liberal, attractive, articulate, represented a third of the Congressional district and had a celebrity lesbian daughter with a nationally syndicated radio talk show. He had been assured, inaccurately, that Cronin-Reynolds was not going to run when he made the decision to get into the race. His consultants told him the district was ready for a non-politician, someone completely unlike the disgraced Thomas Relihan, convicted of financial improprieties, who resigned after representing the district for twenty-one years. And when he announced his candidacy for the special election six weeks ago, it appeared being a venture capitalist with no political résumé but a semi-infamous father might just be the right formula. And though the Third District had not elected a Republican in eighteen years, it was possible.
    It also delighted his father, Harold Rokeby, the former state Attorney General who had resigned under a cloud of suspicion after Stephen’s mother died of an apparent suicide in 1989. Since then Harold lived a reclusive life in a decaying house in the North Shore town of Boxford near the much grander house where Stephen and his sisters were brought up. The only satisfaction in his life was vicarious as he watched his children marry and rack up accomplishments. But those occasions were occurring less and less. Now Stephen’s older sister, Renee, was barely surviving as an emerging artist in New York. His younger sister, Claire, married five years ago and lived with her husband in a Western Massachusetts farmhouse with one child. Stephen, the closest to him, still had great potential.
    Stephen never wanted to be in politics. He loved making money too much and was the mushiest sort of Republican who felt free to vote for or contribute to anyone he liked. But when Relihan was indicted, Harold convinced him he had a path to be a Congressman. It was an open seat and the public was sick of politicians. Someone like him, clean, fresh, non-ideological, could catch on. His consultants, who were paid handsomely to create winning candidacies out of egos, agreed. Supposedly, there were enough independents to make it happen for him.
    He knew he’d made the mistake of his life within an hour. Someone asked what he wanted to do to raise middle-class wages, a subject he knew a great deal about but had to give a misleading answer, suggesting the government could raise wages by “enacting smarter tax policies.” When the potential voter followed up, he dug the hole deeper by saying taxes should “encourage investment in new capital.” Investment in new capital would actually create more employment and therefore lower wages, he later explained to his consultant. But the consultant told him to stick to the answer and stop elaborating. The campaign wasn’t “the place for a discussion of economics.”
    Then there was the constant asking for money, which his investment firm did day in and day out. But he had never asked for himself. And every time he did, he felt a tinge of guilt, knowing he was throwing good money into a sort of black hole that had none of the qualities he looked for in an investment. The prospects for a stable rate of growth were awful, there was an unknowable risk, he was not in control of the operation, and the message was muddled. Rokeby was supposedly a “fresh, clean alternative.” His name was still associated with his father, who was anything but, and he’d never run for office before, making him inexperienced rather than fresh. There was a huge difference.
    His driver parked the Buick SUV, which he was obliged to lease and drive instead of his BMW, behind the campaign office in downtown Framingham. It was a stiflingly hot day and given the spike in commodities prices that morning, Stephen figured he could have made $35,000 in fees if he had been working.
    â€œI’ve got that list of questions from the woman in Westborough,” he said, referring to