He had been married then, to Meg. That had cost him a child with Lara. Then two years followed without seeing her, during which he used his uphill, insurgent race for the Presidency as an antidote, until it had consumed him. When Lara at last returned, Kerry, since divorced, discovered that he wanted two things equally—the Presidency, and a life with her.
Now he had them both, and Laura and he had paid an incalculable price. Often he wished that he could return to the days before the abortion; he would divorce Meg and marry Lara, so that they could live their life as a family, never feeling as they both did now. Then he would have seen her once-familiar smile of amusement—clean and white and sharp— instead of the sorrow he now read in her eyes, a reminder of her constant grief, the obligation she felt to Kerry's drive against gun violence, the only fit memorial they could offer.
One night Kerry told her all of that.
He had not planned to. She had been in their bathroom, brushing her hair before bed. Kerry had been preoccupied. Still in jeans and a sweater, he had stretched out on the bedroom couch, contemplating the complex calculus of the Senate, the thorny and uniquely vicious politics of guns. And then he looked up, and saw her reflection in the mirror.
The change he felt was surprising, almost chemical. For a time, he simply watched the graceful curve of her neck, the dark eyes, filled with thought, indifferent to her image in the glass. Then he went to her.
When his face appeared behind hers, she looked surprised, and then her reflection smiled faintly at the sight of his. When he kissed her neck, she leaned back against him.
"What is it?" she asked.
He told her.
Her eyes in the mirror were soft, intent. Only after he was done did she turn to him, resting her forehead against his chin. "I know," she murmured. "But that's not how it is for us."
Kerry held her. And then he felt her hands slip beneath his sweater to trace the line of his back. As she arched back, looking up at him, he untied the sash at her waist. With a whisper, her silk robe slipped to the floor.
"Yes," she said softly. "Yes."
* * *
Afterward they lay awake in the dark, the fingers of one hand curled in the other's, and talked about the past—not with regret, but remembering the signs, trivial and deep, that they were falling in love without yet being lovers. "When something happened," she recalled, "good or bad, you were the person I wanted to call. Or an issue would pop up, and I wanted to know what you thought.
"It was ridiculous, of course. You were married, a senator, perhaps even a future President. I was the highly objective professional who viewed you with the utmost skepticism. And suddenly I stopped." Her voice filled with remembered warmth. "It was a rotten trick, transforming yourself from a subject into a person."
"No choice," he said casually. "It was the only way I had of sleeping with you."
"Really? When did you start flattering yourself that that would happen?"
"About a minute before it did." His tone was serious now. "I never felt entitled, just lucky. I still do."
"Looking back, Kerry, you were inevitable. The night it happened, from the moment I kissed you, I wanted you so much I couldn't think straight." Pausing, she added quietly, "Sometimes I felt like we were the same person. What you needed from me, I did from you."
Kerry hesitated. "And now?"
"I still do." Her voice was quieter yet. "More than ever."
His fingers tightened around hers. For several minutes they were silent.
"Lying on the couch," she inquired, "what were you thinking? You were so still that it was like you were somewhere else."
"You were watching me?"
"Oh, I do that sometimes. Typically when you're too preoccupied to notice. Which describes a fair chunk of your day."
"Have I become that bad?"
"You were always like that—here, and then gone. I never minded." Another moment passed. "So what was it?"
"Other than you?"
"Yes."
Carefully, he explained his calculation.
After he finished, she was silent for some time. But in the relaxation of her grasp, Kerry could feel her keen political mind focusing wholly on his problem. "The key," she finally said, "is Lenihan. Handle him and the SSA's in trouble."
* * *
The next morning Kerry took Air Force One to Chicago for a speech on stem cell research and therapeutic cloning.
The subject was delicate. In tone and content, his message—that "respect for life requires using medicine to save the living"—would further inflame the religious right and its allies in the House and Senate. But, in conscience, Kerry felt he had no choice. To him, the plight of those afflicted with Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, paralysis and the like far outweighed the presumptive plight of a frozen embryo already slated for destruction. Carefully, he read and reread his speech, changing words and phrases. Satisfied, he put it aside, gazing out the window.
Below, the woods and fields of Ohio, Chad Palmer's state, were burnished with the last colors of late fall, its farms and villages dots on the tinted landscape. As he often did, Kerry found himself imagining the lives represented by the dots. Never more than in Air Force One, crossing the American continent, did he feel the depth of his responsibility for the country he loved, the people he was sworn to serve. He brooded on this awhile longer, and then called Robert Lenihan.
* * *
"The House will pass tort reform this week," he told Lenihan. "In the Senate there's still a logjam, mostly over gun immunity. But it could break any day—if it breaks against us, it might pass fairly quickly."
"It never has before," Lenihan answered.
His tone was weary but resistant, that of someone too preoccupied to accept bad news and, perhaps, resentful of Lara's—and, inferentially the President's—intercession with Mary on behalf of Sarah Dash. "This year's different," Kerry said. "Fasano's managed to unite the SSA and the business interests. We need to re-divide them."
"What do you suggest?"
Steeling himself for a burst of outrage, Kerry answered calmly, "That we offer the business interests a watered-down version of tort reform . . ."
"Any tort reform," Lenihan said with indignation, "is a sellout to the big boys. What in hell do Democrats stand for if not for the average American?"
"That's not a lecture I need, Bob. But, in this case, I plan on making Frank Fasano the 'average American's' new best friend."
"How is that?"
"Because I'm putting him to a choice between the business interests and the SSA. And I already know which one he'll choose." The President's voice was no less commanding for its softness. "I won't let you be my SSA. That's the difference between me and Frank Fasano."
* * *
"Lenihan signed on?" Chuck Hampton asked the President.
Even in the motorcade shrieking toward the Blackstone, Kerry could hear the astonishment in Hampton's voice. Dryly, he answered, "With some reluctance."
"I can imagine. Did you tell him what you have in mind?"
"Most of it, including that your Democratic colleagues could use some cover on tort reform. But not quite all." Pensive, Kerry gazed out the tinted window at the streets of Chicago. "Unless I've misjudged both Fasano and Charles Dane, it won't matter. All I really need is to put the business coalition in motion."
* * *
It was the first time since Kerry's election that Tony Calvo of the Chamber of Commerce had been invited to the White House. That he found himself in the Oval Office, meeting privately with the President, seemed to deepen his astonishment.
Slowly, Calvo repeated, "You're proposing, Mr. President, to limit contingency fees for plaintiffs' lawyers. And to cap punitive damages."
The President smiled. "I hope I haven't upset you," he said wryly. "All these years, when you were complaining about punitives and greedy trial lawyers, I thought you really meant it. This is your chance." Abruptly, the President's voice became cool. "The bill Fasano's pushing is a wish list
—I'd have to veto it even if it weren't a Trojan horse for gun companies. Your last, best hope to pass anything is to work with me, or wait three years for the voters to run me out of office. And seven if they don't."
Calvo gazed past him out the window, as though imagining the futility stretching before him. "The trial lawyers have actually signed off on this?"
"Yes. Specifically, Bob Lenihan and his group. All I need is you, Tony, and we can pass it."
Soberly, Calvo faced him. "I assume that there's a price."
"Only one," Kerry answered succinctly. "I'm replacing the gun immunity provision in the current bill with language providing that none of its protections apply to lawsuits involving guns. I'll expect you to support that."
Dismay crept into Calvo's eyes. "There's the SSA, Mr. President."
Kerry shrugged. "The SSA got greedy, and piggybacked on your bill. That's intolerable to me."
Somber, Calvo weighed his choices. At length, he responded. "I can't give you an answer on my own. Not about this."
"Of course not. So talk to your allies. And then go to Frank Fasano." Kerry's voice softened. "Ask Fasano if he wants to do something for you, or just wants chits with the SSA. I hope you don't find out that I'm your only friend in town."
SIX
In the SSA's main conference room, replete with a wall display of historic handguns and rifles, Sarah Dash interrogated Charles Dane across a lacquered table.
Hawk-faced, Harrison Fancher sat next to Dane, tautly vigilant to any traps concealed in Sarah's questions. Her strategy, as risky as her task was delicate, rested on a single fact: in one week, plaintiff would have to list its prospective witnesses at trial—among them Martin Bresler. By deposing Dane before this deadline—despite the absence of a concrete foundation for her cross-examination—she hoped to lure him into sworn testimony which Bresler would then refute. This would have two virtues: discrediting Dane as a witness—including with respect to his dealings with Callister—and, thereby, buttressing Sarah's claim that deposing Callister was essential. But this required a considerable deftness; her questions must be pointed, yet general enough to conceal Bresler's cooperation. Ten minutes into the deposition, Sarah remained on edge.
At the far end of the table sat John Nolan, relegated to the role of onlooker; at the other was a natty court reporter in horn-rimmed glasses and bow tie. Glancing at the copy of The Defender magazine which Sarah slid across the table, Dane answered her pending question in a tone of boredom, "Of course I've seen this, Ms. Dash. Including the advertisements."
"Did anyone from the SSA review these ads for content?"
Tall and lean, Dane conveyed an impression of ease and power, and his expression combined indifference with the contempt of an important man inconvenienced by a lower species. "I wouldn't know."
"What is your understanding, Mr. Dane, as to The Defender's obligation to review the contents of advertisements such as these?"
"I have no understanding."
Sarah kept her face expressionless, her manner unruffled. "In your view, is an advertisement calling the P-2 'lethal in split seconds' acceptable?"
"Yes."
"Or one which calls it the 'deadliest military-style weapon on the market'?"
For the first time, Dane seemed amused. "Are you saying that's not true?"
"Are you saying that the SSA's sole obligation was to determine whether Lexington's description of the P-2's killing capacity is accurate?"
"We had no obligation." Dane's tone resumed its tightly reined impatience. "Not unless we knew for a fact that this language was deceptive."
Sarah pointed at the magazine. "So claiming that the Eagle's Claw 'opens a massive wound channel' is also fine with you."
Dane shrugged. "As far as I know, the Eagle's Claw 'opens a massive wound channel.' If it doesn't, then Lexington's to blame."
To Sarah's annoyance, Nolan smiled faintly. "What," Sarah asked, "is your magazine's obligation with respect to Lexington's statement that the gun is an 'endangered species,' 'banned in California'?"
A smile appeared at one corner of Dane's mouth. "It's true, isn't it?"
"So an ad inducing Bowden to come to Nevada, in order to buy a gun banned in California, is acceptable to the SSA's Defender?"
"Ms. Dash," Dane responded with a hint of righteous anger, "selling the P-2 in Nevada is protected by federal law. You're suggesting that we should assist you in your goal of disarming America . . ."
"I'm just trying to determine your standards—if any. Are you saying that Lexington's description of the killing capacity of the P-2 and Eagle's Claw creates no duty unless the SSA considered it less deadly?"
"Without the sarcasm—yes." Dane leaned forward. "The information in this ad is protected by the First Amendment. Americans have the right to know it. Just as they have the Second Amendment right to buy this gun and these bullets . . ."
"Prior to the murders," Sarah said abruptly, "did you ever discuss with George Callister whether Lexington would continue to sell the P-2 and Eagle's Claw?"
Seemingly surprised, Dane hesitated. "Objection," Fancher said sharply. "Your question is outside the scope of your own complaint."
Sarah kept looking at Dane. "In a deposition," she answered, "a question need only be 'reasonably calculated to lead to the discovery of admissible evidence.' If the SSA influenced whether—or under what conditions—Lexington would continue selling these deadly products, that goes to the heart of our claim . . ."
Fancher grasped Dane's wrist. "I'm directing the witness not to answer," he snapped. "You can take your fishing expedition to Judge Bond, and find out if he thinks it relevant."
Sarah turned to Dane. "Did you," she persisted, "ever discuss with Mr. Callister whether he would enter into an agreement with President Kilcannon regarding sales at gun shows?"
"Same instruction," Fancher said in a monotone. "The right of political association is granted by the First Amendment. We don't have to reveal our discussions regarding gun rights."
This assertion, Sarah knew, was thin—except, perhaps, in the courtroom of Judge Gardner Bond. And, without a judge, no one present could force Dane to answer now. Facing Nolan, Sarah said politely, "It seems that you have an interest here, John. Are you willing to let Mr. Callister answer the questions Mr. Dane declines to answer?"
Surprised, Nolan glanced at Fancher. "We are not."
"And so both of you are withholding any and all testimony regarding whether Mr. Dane and Mr. Callister discussed the President's proposal?"
With plain annoyance, Nolan answered, "The record speaks for itself."
"Just checking." To Dane, she said, "Let's see how far this goes. Did you threaten Mr. Callister with a boycott if Lexington cooperated with the President?"
"Boycotts are legal," Dane answered smoothly. "If our members are displeased with a company or its products, it's their privilege to buy elsewhere. We don't have to threaten anyone."
Sarah cocked her head toward Nolan. "Mind if we check that out with Callister?"
Nolan scowled. "You already know our position."
Sarah turned to Dane. "Did you discuss with any other gun manufacturer the prospect that a boycott might put Lexington out of business?"
"We refuse to answer," Fancher interjected. "Your question implicates perfectly legal conversations protected by the First Amendment."
"Then let's try this," Sarah said to Dane. "Did you discuss with other manufacturers whether they might profit from a boycott of Lexington Arms?"
"Same instructions," Fancher snapped. "There's nothing illegal about discussing what might happen within an industry."
Smiling, Sarah turned to Nolan. "Surely Lexington must want an answer? Under my theory, you've got a lawsuit against the SSA."
Nolan's own smile failed to neutralize the hardness of his eyes. "Thank you for your advice, Sarah. Which our firm no longer has to pay you for."
"Speaking of which," she inquired mildly, "who's paying your fees in this matter—Lex
ington or the SSA?"
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