"A straight-up vote on the tort reform bill—no filibuster from us. But only after a vote on my amendment stripping gun immunity out of the final bill."
To Fasano, this was no surprise. The one way that Hampton—and the President—could beat back gun immunity was to force a vote on that alone. "The only way I'll ever consider that," Fasano answered, "is if we vote on tort reform before Kilcannon's gun bill."
"How long before?" Hampton parried. "I want a date certain."
"If we can bring up tort reform the Tuesday after next, we'll bring up the President's gun bill two weeks after that. But only after we vote on our gun bill."
"A poor thing," Hampton observed with a smile, "but all the SSA allows." After a moment, he stood, extending his hand. "Deal."
"Deal," Fasano answered, and the two men shook hands.
SEVENTEEN
To Sarah, much of Ben Gehringer's appearance had the otherworldly aspect of a high school nerd—thick glasses with fleshcolored frames; thinning, slicked-back brown hair; the posture of a comma on a frame so thin it looked unhealthy; pale skin with strawberry blotches on his cheeks, seemingly untouched by sunlight. But any innocence had been cauterized by fanaticism and distrust; behind the glasses, his blue eyes had the feral keenness of a bird of prey. Knowing she was poised at the edge of a breakthrough, Sarah felt tense.
The setting, a stark room in a federal prison in Idaho, resembled that for the deposition of George Johnson, and the cast of characters was much the same: John Nolan, Harrison Fancher, a court reporter, and a federal public defender, this one a stout, fortyish man in a shapeless grey suit. But this time her adversaries were prepared.
"For the record," Sarah asked the witness, "when were you arrested?"
"A week ago."
"And the charges?"
"Trafficking." His answers were terse and grudging, as though every word were a precious coin. "Stealing a crateload of Lexington P-2s."
"Where did you steal them," Sarah prodded, "and with whom?"
"Phoenix. With George Johnson."
He spoke the name with the contempt of someone spitting on the sidewalk. Nolan placed a pen to his lips, staring at the witness. "Where did you sell them?" Sarah asked.
The witness hesitated—unwilling, Sarah guessed, to confess to more than he needed. "At a gun show in Vegas."
"When?"
Impatient, Gehringer shifted in his chair. "Around Labor Day."
Sarah placed a photograph in front of the witness. The silence became so complete that it felt eerie. Except for the reporter, the others were still.
"I show you a photograph marked 'Gehringer Exhibit One.' Can you identify this man?"
A brief glint appeared in the pale blue eyes. "Yes."
"Where did you first see him?"
"At the gun show."
His terseness had begun taxing Sarah's tenuous patience. More sharply, she asked, "Did you speak to him?"
"Yes."
"About what?"
"Buying a P-2."
Sarah's skin felt clammy. "Did you sell him one?"
Silent, the witness clasped his wrist with a clawlike movement of his right hand. However detached from normal sensibilities, Gehringer clearly grasped the enormity of the question—the answer could have him placing a P-2 in the hands of the man who had used it to slaughter the mother, niece and sister of the First Lady of the United States. Then an unpleasant smile crossed Gehringer's face—whether in satisfaction at the fact of this, or at what the answer might gain him, Sarah could not tell.
"Yes."
The cold monosyllable seemed to echo in the room. More calmly, Sarah asked, "Did he tell you why he wanted a P-2?"
"Not exactly."
Damn you for your indifference, Sarah thought. "Did he indicate to you—in words or substance—the reason he was buying a Lexington P-2?"
Gehringer's eyes still rested on Bowden's face. "He showed me an ad."
Nolan's expression became a studied blank. Opening a manila folder, Sarah said, "I have here a copy of The Defender magazine, premarked as 'Gehringer Exhibit Two.' Was the ad he showed you in this magazine?"
"Yes."
"Had you seen the magazine before?"
Gehringer flipped its pages. With the same detachment, he said, "I subscribe to it."
"Is there a particular reason?"
"It has a calendar of gun shows. That's how I knew about the show in Vegas."
To Sarah's left, Fancher scribbled a note. Taking the magazine from Gehringer's hand, she turned to a page marked with a paper clip. "I show you page fifty-five. Is this the advertisement?"
"Yes."
"The one for Lexington Arms?"
"Yes."
"And next to it is an ad for a gun show."
"Yes." The witness paused. "That was another reason I came to the show. I knew I'd have some customers."
All at once, Nolan's causation defense—that Sarah could not prove Lexington's ad had drawn Bowden to Las Vegas—was gone. Feeling the invisible hand of Kerry Kilcannon, she wondered how he had brought this moment about, and what it might cost him.
"When did you learn Bowden's name?" Sarah asked.
Gehringer's mouth twitched. "After he was dead. From television."
"Not at the gun show?"
Gehringer studied the page before him. "I'm not a licensed dealer," he said with faint derision. "Under the law, I don't have to run a background check."
"Did you discuss this with Bowden?"
"Yes. He didn't want a background check. Said he didn't have time."
Sarah pushed The Defender to one side, gaze fixed on Gehringer. "How much did you charge him?"
"Five fifty."
"Did he bargain?"
"No." An edge of disdain entered his voice. "He complained. He said the Gun Emporium was selling them for less."
"Did he say why he was paying you a premium?"
The unsettling smile reappeared. "The Gun Emporium ran background checks."
Nolan pressed his palms together. It struck Sarah that, outside this room, no one—save for George Johnson, a few federal prosecutors, or those in the chain of information leading to the President—knew the damning facts which the reporter, stone-faced, was recording in black and white. But its public impact could be devastating. Like Bowden and his victims, Ben Gehringer put a face—in Gehringer's case, an inhuman one—on the need for Kilcannon's gun bill. Once again, she chafed at the order through which Gardner Bond had entombed the facts until Congress could entomb this case.
"Did you," Sarah inquired, "discuss with Bowden the features of the Lexington P-2?"
"Yes."
"For what reason did he buy one?"
"The same reason that we stole them." For the first time, Gehringer chose to elaborate, speaking in the clipped tone of an expert. "More firepower, adaptable to a higher-capacity magazine."
"Did you discuss that feature with Bowden?"
"Yes. He figured ten bullets weren't enough."
An image shot through Sarah's brain—Marie Costello, blood oozing from her shredded abdomen. "Did you also discuss the bullets?"
"Yes."
"And what was that discussion?"
Next to Gehringer, his lawyer gazed soberly at the SSA's Defender. "If he needed to shoot someone," the witness answered in a matter-of-fact tone, "he wanted to be sure he killed them."
* * *
"Why are you testifying?" Nolan asked with feigned incredulity.
The breakthrough, Sarah realized, had only hardened her dislike for Nolan and his methods. "Objection," she interposed. "The question is vague and overbroad. Why does anybody testify?"
Nettled, Nolan turned to the reporter. "Please read back the question."
"Why?" Sarah snapped. "It won't get any better."
"Yes," the public defender agreed. "I'd like you to rephrase the question."
Nolan stared at the witness. "Do you," he asked in an accusatory tone, "have an agreement with plaintiff's counsel regarding
your testimony here today?"
"You mean like yours with Martin Bresler?" Sarah asked. "Let me clear that up for you. We've never met with Mr. Gehringer. Except for scheduling matters, we've never spoken to his counsel. We have no deal with either one.
"What about you, John? Did you meet with Martin Bresler? Did you help choose his lawyers? Did you and Bresler's lawyer work out some arrangement? Or did Mr. Fancher do all that?"
Nolan turned from her in icy disdain. "Why don't you answer the question?" Sarah persisted. "I answered yours."
Nolan remained silent, plainly reining in his temper. Then he asked the witness, "Do you have any arrangement with the United States government which includes your testimony in this lawsuit?"
As Gehringer stared at nothing, his lawyer intervened. "Any answer," he said, "is governed by the attorney-client privilege . . ."
"Nonsense," Nolan interrupted. "Any deal goes to this witness's credibility."
"There is no deal," the lawyer answered firmly. "That's all I'm privileged to tell you."
Abruptly, Harrison Fancher jabbed a bony finger at Sarah. "You know what's happening here. Kilcannon fed you this witness. He's abused the power of the federal government to resuscitate a worthless case."
"That kind of abuse," Sarah retorted mockingly, "cries out for exposure. Why don't you two go to Gardner Bond and ask him to unseal this deposition. Then you can call a press conference and give copies to the media. I'm sure they'll share your moral outrage."
Fancher's mouth worked. Raising his head, Nolan allowed himself only an angry smile. Sarah wished that this brief moment of pleasure could salve her hatred and frustration.
EIGHTEEN
On the television in her office in Portland, Maine, Cassie Rollins watched an obese actor caricaturing a trial lawyer rip the stars off an American flag.
Tell Cassie Rollins, the voice-over intoned, that it's time to stop greedy plaintiffs' lawyers from raising prices and wiping out our jobs. The white print at the bottom of the screen gave the telephone number of Cassie's Washington office and the name of the ad's supposed sponsor "Citizens for Consumer Rights."
"Tell the SSA," Cassie remarked wryly, "that it's un-American to use an alias." She turned to her Chief of Staff. "How many calls have we had on this?"
"About four hundred," Leslie Shoop responded. "But the ad has only been running three days."
Cassie had a new appreciation of the term "punch-drunk." A fullpage ad called "The Case for Tort Reform" was running in Maine's daily papers; political writers were reporting rumors of a primary challenge by the SSA's pet candidate; her office was receiving a rising tide of phone messages, letters, faxes and e-mails; groups she had never heard of—such as "Maine Women for Self-Defense"—were calling to demand a meeting.
"It's like an avalanche," Cassie had murmured to Kate Jarman of Vermont as they left the Senate floor. "I'm spending every weekend back home, and my approval rating's five points down."
Chuck Hampton's junior colleague gave her friend a shrewd but sympathetic look. "It's not an avalanche," she had answered. "It's Frank. The SSA wants this, so he can't afford to lose. He's given them a hunting license—as it were."
Cassie nodded. "He as good as told me that. Never doubt him."
"I never did." Kate kept her voice low. "Frank wants to be President, and he knows who's got the money, and the votes. Maybe Chuck can get by with supporting Kilcannon—their party's different. But I'm not bucking Frank on this one. A lot of my gun owners are figuratively up in arms, and they're not nearly as fervent as yours."
To Cassie, this warning was more disheartening for its source, a fel low moderate whose judgment she respected. "In other words, I'm being dumb."
Kate looked at her askance. "Never dumb, Cassie. I'm not up for reelection, and you could get nailed either way. But the safe play may be to cave in to Fasano."
Perhaps so, Cassie mused as she watched the screen. But she did not like the influence of gun owners and fundamentalists within her party's base, the increasingly shopworn claim of her fellow moderates—even as the right wing marginalized them in the Senate—that they were working for change from within. On her television, Governor Abel Randolph appeared, brandishing a gun.
"This is the newest one," Leslie Shoop advised her.
The setting was a press conference held to dramatize Randolph's support for safety locks. As he fumbled with the device, failing to unlock it, his audience began to snicker. The camera caught the state's lieutenant governor, a woman, vainly trying to suppress a smile.
If this were a rape, the narrator said, not a press conference, how much time would you have to protect yourself? Call Cassie Rollins and tell her you're not laughing. This time the white print read, "Maine Women for SelfDefense."
"At least this clears up who they are," Cassie said. "Charles Dane in drag."
"True. But they sure make Abel look dumb." Leslie hit the remote. "It's both an invitation, and a warning. The warning is obvious—'look at what we're doing to you.' The invitation is 'look what we'll do to Abel Randolph for you if you give us what we want.' "
For a moment, Cassie gazed at the blank screen. Then they left for a Kiwanis meeting, the start of a busy weekend.
* * *
Four days later, on the floor of the United States Senate, Senator Charles Hampton of Vermont moved to strike the gun immunity provision from the Civil Justice Reform Act.
Afterward Hampton crossed the aisle and, smiling, placed a hand on the shoulder of his friend Chad Palmer. "I only did it to get you time on C-SPAN," Hampton assured the senior senator from Ohio. "After all, this sterling piece of legislation came out of your committee."
Hampton saw a flash of irritation, perhaps embarrassment, and then a more equable expression returned to his colleague's handsome face and, with it, the look—belied by the harshness of Chad's life—of the all-American boy, one of life's winners. "My finest hour," Palmer answered with a shrug.
Hampton's own gaze turned sober. "I'm glad it's someone's," he said. "This is going to be a bloodbath."
* * *
In her office on the first floor of the Hart Building, the junior senator from Maine took a call from her erstwhile colleague. Dryly, she inquired, "Is this the artist currently known as 'KFK'?"
"Yes," the President answered with a laugh. " 'Kentucky Fried Kilcannon.' Or so your leader hopes."
"My leader," Cassie rejoined, "is a serious man."
"So am I, Cassie. I've been trying to figure out what to threaten you with. I can't think of anything nearly as good as the SSA, except to help Abel Randolph."
"To do what, Mr. President? Operate a safety lock?"
This time the President's laugh was rueful. "It's a lesson to us all. I've been practicing at night."
His candor and capacity for humor in adversity reminded Cassie of why, as peers, she had been so fond of him. But since he had been President, and particularly since the murders, he had seemed far graver, much less inclined to laughter. "It's certainly a lesson to me," she admitted. "Up in Maine, these people are playing for keeps. And they've got access to more cash than me or Abel."
"I know," the President answered with droll resignation. "So I'm forced to ask you to vote with me because it's right."
Alone in her office, Cassie smiled. "Really, Mr. President, have you no respect? I was hoping you'd deem me worthy of what you dished out to Leo Weller and, rumor has it, Slezak."
She heard his quiet laughter. "That's the problem." Kilcannon's tone was serious now. "I do respect you."
This was true, Cassie was quite certain. "How many times," she inquired, "are you hoping I'll do what's right? Once, or twice?"
"Twice. Hampton's amendment on gun immunity, and then my gun bill."
Cassie sat back in her chair, gazing out at the failing sunlight halfconcealed by her blinds. "Twice is a lot," she answered. "Once is a lot. They probably weren't the rage in Newark, but have you ever been to a hunters' breakfast?"
"No. Wha
t's that?"
"It's a Maine tradition, passed down from father to son. On the opening day of hunting season, in town after town, men meet for a hearty breakfast at some local spot before heading off for the woods with their hunting rifles.
"It's more than a tradition. For a lot of them it's ritual, part of the Maine mystique. Some believe that our culture may have gone to hell, but they still can hang on to their way of life as long as they've got their guns." Pausing, Cassie tried to convey this depth of feeling. "It's not ideological so much as it's psychological, almost mythological. Even people who don't have guns view them as woven into the fabric of who we are."
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