* * *
Back in the Oval Office, Clayton remarked to his friend, "What an embarrassment for poor old Frank. How much time do you think you cost him?"
"Days," the President answered with a smile. "Maybe weeks. Vic Coletti will be lonely for a while."
EIGHT
Ten minutes into John Nolan's questioning, Dr. Callie Hines's expression remained as impassive as her tone was flat. To Nolan, Sarah guessed, it must feel like Hines was looking through him.
For her own part, Sarah found the trauma surgeon a fascinating study. Interviewing Hines before the deposition, Sarah was greeted with an imperviousness which could be taken for hauteur: the process of socialization which drives most people on first meeting to attempt to be engaging or, out of shyness, to appear uncomfortable, seemed never to have touched this angular and handsome woman. She did not smile, and evinced no particular emotion—let alone any desire to ingratiate; only Sarah's instincts, or perhaps imagination, led her to sense that another Callie Hines assessed her from behind the mask. As they spoke, Sarah found herself conjuring the layers of experience—as a black confronting prejudice; a woman in a profession still dominated by males; a virtuoso in a specialty which required nervelessness and self-control— which made Hines seem so utterly indifferent to the trivial niceties of human interchange.
Then, toward the end of their meeting, Hines had done something which Sarah found quite astonishing—searching her office for a file with her back turned to Sarah, Hines had begun singing snatches of blues lyrics in a clear and resonant voice. Hines found the file: handing it to Sarah, she had resumed their laconic conversation as though nothing at all had happened. Sarah realized that she had never before liked a person so much who made so little effort to be liked.
This, plainly, was a reaction John Nolan did not share. Nolan had the frustrated manner of someone who had been trying to charm a wall. After a few moments, he had dropped any effort to establish a rapport, and begun to ask questions in a rapid-fire rhythm. Sarah wondered if the timing of Hines's responses—a few seconds would pass before she uttered her first word—was intended to unsettle him.
"What is your experience," Nolan asked now, "with injuries caused by guns?"
Pausing once again, Hines took no note of the others present— Sarah, Fancher, or the court reporter. "Extensive," she answered in the same flat voice. "In San Francisco, gun violence is the second leading cause of death by trauma."
"Can you estimate the number of times you've treated gunshot wounds?"
"Once a day, on average, every workday for the past six years. Roughly fifteen hundred surgeries."
Nolan raised his eyebrows. "In the course of all this experience, have you become familiar with particular types of guns?"
"Handguns."
"For what reason?"
"They're responsible for ninety-five percent of the deaths or injuries I see. The majority of those involve semiautomatics like the Lexington P-2."
Nolan's tone became faintly hostile. "On what do you base that, Doctor?"
"Fifteen hundred surgeries." Though her tone did not change, something in Hines's manner suggested her impatience with belaboring the obvious. "Semiautomatics can fire more rounds. That causes more deaths and injuries."
"Are you personally familiar with the Lexington P-2?"
"Not at firsthand." This time the pause came in mid-answer. "Only the bullets."
Nolan's gaze hardened. "And what is your experience with the Eagle's Claw?"
"Removing them."
Nolan shifted in his chair. Tense, Sarah awaited the first mention of Marie. Among Nolan's purposes in discovery—as Sarah well knew—was to ferret out bad news. Of the prospective witnesses, Callie Hines was potentially the most dangerous to Lexington.
"In how many cases?" Nolan inquired.
"Roughly twenty-five to thirty."
"In these twenty-five or thirty cases, what were your surgical observations regarding the Eagle's Claw?"
"That it teaches one humility."
The answer was so surprising that Nolan groped for a follow-up. At length, he said, "Please explain that."
This was greeted with the same unnerving silence. "The Eagle's Claw," Hines finally answered, "is designed to tear up human flesh. The effect is that of a buzz saw—maximum tissue damage, more bleeding, greater trauma to internal organs and wounds which are harder to repair.
"For a trauma surgeon, these difficulties are enhanced by the jagged edges of the bullet, which can cut the surgeon's tendons and end his or her career. As it did to one of our residents."
The flatness of her tone, Sarah realized, made her answer seem more lethal. In response, Nolan, too, became expressionless. "Could you," he asked evenly, "describe Marie Bowden's injuries?"
For the first time, Hines seemed drawn into a very specific memory. "The patient," she said at length, "had a wound to her lower abdomen. On opening the cavity I encountered a grape-sized hematoma—a collection of blood. It immediately burst, complicating our efforts to remove the bullet and locate the wound." Hines paused and then continued with the same dispassion. "The wound, when I found it, was severe. An ordinary bullet would create a hole. This bullet shredded the vena cava."
Nolan cocked his head. "Describe what you mean by 'shredded.' "
"Torn apart," Hines answered tersely. "On impact, the point of the Eagle's Claw becomes six razor edges. They ripped apart the vein in three different places. The ends of each wound were ratty."
The description seemed to give Nolan pause. "As a surgeon, what was your response?"
"Limited. The patient's blood pressure was crashing, her temperature was falling quickly and her blood had lost the capacity to clot." Once more Hines's pause came in mid-answer. "I determined to pack the wound and close her up as best I could. The hope was to raise her temperature, stabilize her, and operate in twenty-four hours. There wasn't time."
In Sarah's mind, this clipped account conveyed a purposeful frenzy, swift improvisation, and almost superhuman self-control. But Nolan seemed not to hear it. "Why didn't you attempt to repair the wound?"
At once, Hines refocused on the man in front of her. "Because," Hines answered succinctly, "she was dying.
"With an ordinary bullet wound, I could have operated right away. An adult would have had a ninety percent chance of surviving, and a six-year-old girl more than half. But the Eagle's Claw had functioned as intended."
The final sentence—with its intimation of Callie Hines's true feelings—caused Nolan to sit upright. "Do you have a personal antipathy toward Lexington Arms?"
For the first time there was no pause. "I'm a doctor," Hines answered in even tones. "I described the cause of death exactly as it occurred. Therefore—as a doctor—I consider your client an accessory to murder. There's nothing personal about that."
Nolan stared at her. "It's nearly ten o'clock," he said at last. "Let's take a fifteen-minute break." Only then did Hines, standing, favor Sarah with a glance, the hint of a bitter, complicit smile in her deep brown eyes.
NINE
After a quick stop at a fund-raiser for Paul Harshman, Senator Cassie Rollins of Maine dined at the Cosmos Club with her predecessor, Warren Colby.
In a blue pin-striped suit, wing-collared shirt, and his trademark gold cuff links, Colby—as always—looked fit, trim and impeccably tailored, and his clear blue eyes and still-black hair lent him an aura of youth. At once suave, principled, and unusually literate, Colby was a particularly urbane model of the Washington insider, whose reputation for integrity and balanced judgment had led to his appointment, though a Republican, as Attorney General under the prior Democratic administration. This selfless record of service, Colby had wryly observed, might help him achieve his ultimate ambition—Commissioner of Baseball. In the meanwhile, he had to content himself with frequent mention as a possible Supreme Court justice; the income of a named partner in a prestigious Washington law firm; and a second marriage to a beautiful and savvy woman who ran th
e city's premier public relations group. His life, as he remarked to Cassie, was truly a bitter pill.
Their dinner, a monthly ritual, had begun when Cassie had become a senator. Before that, she had been an aide in Colby's office, then his Chief of Staff. Blonde and freckled, with an open face and a wholesome outdoorsy appeal, Cassie had proven a quick learner. When Colby had determined not to seek reelection, Cassie, with his support, had literally started running: a former tennis star and marathoner, she had campaigned by jogging from town to town, crisscrossing the state, until she had run through every county. Though victorious, her margin had been thin. Since then, she had walked a fine line between the moderation of Maine voters and the demands of the Senate leadership, far more conservative, and now she faced the next election with apprehension.
It was after dinner, as Colby swirled Courvoisier in a snifter, that he broached what proved to be his own concern. "You have a secret admirer," he said.
"And who might that be?"
"Chuck Hampton. We had a meeting the other day, regarding the
government of Lithuania's heady aspirations to join NATO. Afterward, he mentioned you with fondness." Skipping a beat, Colby added dryly, "And worry."
Cassie smiled. "Over guns?"
"Indeed. He hears that Fasano's positioning you to vote with the SSA and wondered aloud if that would damage you in Maine." Reflective, Colby studied the dim-lit dining room, the clusters of members, principally older men, engaged in quiet but amiable discourse. "It was all very artful. Chuck is going to war."
This made Cassie smile again. "This one," she told him, "is shaping up to make a reunion of the Borgias look like pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. As for Hampton, to my surprise, it looks like he's going to the barricades with the newly minted 'KFK.' That's not good news."
" 'KFK,' " Colby mused aloud. "When he first came to the Senate, who'd have thought it?
"In any event, this could be a classic. I've always thought of Fasano as fusing the best of Lyndon Johnson and the KGB: pragmatic, shrewd, hard as nails and a master of indirection. Whereas Kilcannon's essentially a romantic, which—combined with a considerable inventiveness and what the generous might call his strength of will—makes him the most dangerous man in Washington. Because he'll cut your throat in the service of a higher cause." Colby sipped his brandy. "I hear he plans to visit every state where a senator is on the fence. It seems that may implicate you."
Cassie nodded. "The threats and blandishments have begun to fly from all sides. Dane's demanding a meeting—with scant courtesy, I might add."
"I can imagine. It feels wonderful, I must admit, to have graduated to statesman." Pausing, Colby adopted an encouraging tone. "You should be all right, Cassie. Granted, I don't think you've ever shot anything, but you're foursquare for hunting and that recent photo of you trout-fishing was inspired. The last time I looked, your approval rating was well over half, and there wasn't any talk—serious talk, at any rate—of a primary challenge. Which, as of now, leaves you with only one problem: Abel Randolph. Assuming he decides to run against you in the general."
"Oh, he'll run," Cassie said with certainty. "He's a popular incumbent governor, term-limited, with nowhere else to go and approval ratings at least as high as mine."
Thoughtful, Colby gazed past her. "There are certain constants," he said at length. "You'll win the conservative areas upstate, and Abel will carry Portland and most of the other cities.
"The fulcrum will be the suburbs. They're largely populated by moderates—plus the new people moving up from Massachusetts, which is not the best thing in the world for you. But you're positioned to do well enough to win: conservative on taxes and defense, moderate to liberal on social issues like abortion. And being a woman helps you there." Pausing, Colby looked at her directly. "Aside from prescription drug costs, the one joker in the deck—the one that loses you our seat, if anything does—is guns."
Cassie placed her napkin on the table. "The SSA has tolerated me," she said. "But they don't love me, and Maine's got the second highest gun ownership per capita. There's no way that Charles Dane is giving me a pass on these two bills."
Colby finished his brandy. "The SSA," he acknowledged, "accounts for some of my most shameful votes in the Senate. The price of survival, I told myself."
"I only wish," Cassie said tartly, "that selling out this time was so easy. I don't even know which way to sell out.
"The last election showed how fenced in I could be. A week before the primary, I was leading Bill Poole by thirty percent. Then in the final debate he pushed me into saying something favorable about the assault weapons ban. The SSA sent out one hundred thousand orange postcards headed 'voter alert,' pointing out my left-wing deviation to everyone on their mailing list." Cassie gave a sardonic smile. "My polls went into free fall, and I won by six percent. Another week and I might have lost."
"Maybe. But then you won the general election."
"By the grace of the SSA," Cassie retorted. "When the Democrats put up Sam Towle, they overlooked his sins. Not only did he vote for the assault weapons ban in Congress, but he'd sponsored a bill advocating safety locks, and banning cop-killer bullets like the Eagle's Claw. This time the hundred thousand orange SSA postcards identified Sam as the author of the 'Burglar Protection Act.'
"By this time I'd learned my lesson—I kept quiet about the Eagle's Claw, and loved the Second Amendment like the child I never had." Pausing, Cassie added quietly, "When I think about Lara's family, I remember that. But I beat Sam Towle by four percent, and the SSA may well have made the difference."
Colby's face was sober. "Sam," he remarked, "is a good man. He's also finished in Maine politics."
"I know. But Hampton's right this time—either way, I've got a problem."
Colby pondered this. "Not that, on gun issues, I'm any model. But if the only factor you were to consider is what's right, where would you come out here?"
Cassie touched her finger to her lip, her blue eyes clouded by doubt. "I'm not sure," she finally said. "I've always been for tort reform—to me, the Lenihans of the world are parasites. I also worry that this Costello lawsuit is more about politics than law, and that antigun lawsuits in general stretch the law way too far.
"But then why should anyone need an Eagle's Claw?" She shook her head. "There, my judgment is complicated by emotion—I've liked Lara ever since she covered the Hill. I like him, too: whenever I saw him in the Senate, I had the strange desire to hug him . . ."
"Must be a gender thing," Colby interjected wryly. "I never had that problem. But then I've never kissed a cactus."
Cassie gave him a knowing smile. "I never said, Warren, that Kerry Kilcannon wasn't as ruthless as he needs to be. But there's also this feeling of vulnerability, and of seeing other people as something more than chess pieces on the political landscape.
"When I first came to the Senate, I found a place full of 'real guys' who were exactly who you expect them to be—ambitious, self-involved, and as introspective as a rock. But with Kilcannon, you always had the sense that whatever he'd been through had caused him to feel more, not less, and made him more interested in other people than most. For several years he was the only male senator who asked about my life in more than a superficial way, and the only one besides Chad Palmer I'd trust with anything personal." Cassie sipped her brandy. "They were two of a unique kind, at least in the Senate. Neither talked about himself very much. They didn't want to, and didn't need to. Especially Kilcannon."
"Perhaps so, Cassie. But it changes nothing."
"Oh, I know." Her voice was level, fatalistic. "If I oppose the President, there'll be consequences. If campaigning in Maine will help Abel Randolph, Kilcannon will come. If staying away and raising money for Abel is what's best, he'll do that. And on the other side I've got Dane and the SSA."
"So what is right?" Colby persisted.
Cassie summoned a look of deep contemplation. "There is this place," she mused, "called Siberia. Maybe they need a senator."
Colby smiled faintly. "Keep me posted."
TEN
As Martin Bresler began to testify, Sarah felt edgy.
This was natural: Bresler was central to Mary Costello's case against the SSA—that it effectively controlled the gun industry, including Lexington, and had prevented an agreement between Lexington and the President which could have kept John Bowden from buying a P-2. But there were smaller, nagging worries. Since being listed as a witness, Bresler had obtained a lawyer, Evan Pritchard—a lanky, sharp-eyed Southerner with a soft voice and cool manner—who had explained to Sarah, without apology, that further contact between her and Bresler would compromise Bresler's credibility. So Sarah watched, barred from talking with her own key witness.
And Bresler's manner had changed. At Sea Ranch, Sarah had noted his expressive eyes, the fluttery hands which seemed to punctuate each phrase with some new gesture. But now, in the conference room of Nolan's firm, he was almost as still as the lawyers who watched him. Sitting beside her, Robert Lenihan studied Bresler with skepticism.
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