“You say your contributors don’t matter,” Kerry responded. “And that you’re too worried about the budget to fight for better health care.
“Let’s look at that. In the last budget deal, a mysterious provision suddenly appeared, delaying cheaper generic drugs from going on the market. Letting them go wouldn’t hurt the budget. It involves no taxes on anyone. The only people opposed to it are the pharmaceutical companies.” Kerry jabbed a finger at Mason. “Andyou. Could it be all the campaign money you’ve received from these same companies? Let’s go through the list . . .”
Kerry was doing real damage now, Lara saw. She felt a hand on her shoulder.
Flinching, she turned to Nate. As he leaned forward, his voice was soft, almost apologetic. “I need to talk to you, Lara. Alone.”
Despite her surprise and apprehension, Lara managed to keep her tone equally quiet and, she hoped, controlled.
“Fuck you,” she said, and turned to watch Kerry again, filled with fear of what Nate might make public before Tuesday, of what Mason might say tonight.
* * *
Sitting to the left of the stage, Kerry’s side, Clayton checked his watch. Twenty minutes to go, and they were out of this free-for-all unscathed.
Kerry had become quicker, crisper, and every comparison he made was tied to a central theme—that he was the innovator and that Mason was too compromised to lead. But the more Kerry damaged him, the more desperate Mason might become; Clayton could not stop second-guessing his decision to keep Finnerty’s warning to himself.
“What these examples point to,” Kerry concluded, “is the need for comprehensive reform of our corrupt system of campaign finance. A fight in which you, Dick, have been conspicuously AWOL . . .”
“Gentlemen,” the moderator interjected, “as is my privilege, let me redirect this somewhat intense discussion of family issues to another subject that excites no emotion whatsoever: the rights of gays and lesbians.”
The dry remark drew a smile from Kerry and, somewhat belatedly, from Mason. “In recent years,” the moderator went on, “federal legislation to outlaw job discrimination against homosexuals has been narrowly defeated, while Congress passed the Defense of Marriage Act, barring same-sex marriages. Now Californians are hotly debating Proposition 244, which—if passed—would ban so-called special rights for gays and lesbians.” He turned to Mason. “Starting with the Vice President, where do each of you stand on the issue of gay rights?”
Mason leaned forward, achieving an expression of sober thoughtfulness. “Our administration,” he began, “opposes discrimination against citizens who pay taxes, hold jobs, and contribute to our society. That meansany citizen, regardless of sexual orientation. And we will rededicate our energies to win the fight against AIDS.”
Pausing, Mason leaned toward the camera. “But Americans aren’t ready to change the definition of marriage, which is thousands of years old and derives, not from government, but from the Old Testament and beyond.” He turned to Kerry. “You’ve accused me of being AWOL, Kerry. But when the Defense of Marriage Act came up for a vote,you were conveniently absent. So let me ask you this: howwould you have voted?”
Duck it,Clayton silently implored.There’s only fifteen minutes left.
Kerry smiled. “Of course, I was in China at the time, inquiring into human rights abuses. On whichyou’ve been virtually silent.”
“Not true . . .”
With a slight shrug, Kerry continued, seemingly quite relaxed despite the touchiness of the question. “I’ve read the same polling data you have, Dick. So I know that you’re right to suggest that if you ask most people if they’re against ‘gay marriage,’ they’ll say yes.
“The difference between us is that’s where it ends for you—with the polls.”
Don’t do this,Clayton begged. He saw a look of undisguised astonishment flash across Mason’s face, as if he had not dared to hope that Kerry would hand him such a gift. The audience was intent, still, as if straining to hear.
“What if we ask the question differently?” Kerry said to Mason. “What if we asked people whether, because someone is born gay or lesbian, we’re going to treat that personworse than everyone else? That’s never been the kind of thing that Americans agree with.
“I don’t know if you need to call it ‘marriage.’ But there is a cluster of rights that go with legalized partnership—health benefits, the right to visit a loved one in the hospital, the right to make medical decisions, the right to pass on your estate, the right to Social Security.
“These are not ‘special rights.’ I mean, who among us really wants to deny gay people the right to visit a dying partner in the hospital? Very few of us, I think.” Kerry’s tone softened. “It’s as if you’ve forgotten, Dick, that Americans are a compassionate people. And once you’ve forgotten that, you can’t help bring about the same healing that’s already happened in so many American families who have accepted a daughter or a son for what they were born to be.”
The faces around him, Clayton saw, wore various expressions—open, even moved, skeptical, unpersuaded. But everyone listened intently; Mason looked frustrated, as if he saw a defining moment slip away.
“I don’t accuse you of bad will,” Kerry said to him. “I don’t even think you believe in this bill. But youdid advocate signing it.
“I’d have vetoed it. And that’s the difference between us.”
The ripple of applause caught Clayton by surprise. Clearly stung, Mason spoke through it. “The difference,” he retorted, “is that I respect what the American people in their settled wisdom believe marriage should be. And I don’t need any instruction fromyou when it comes to opposing discrimination. I was leading that fight when your brother held the seat that you hold now and you were still in law school . . .”
Mason was genuinely angry, Clayton saw, and so—at this condescending reminder of his debt to Jamie—was Kerry. His eyes narrowed, and he fixed Mason with a chill stare. “So would you have signed this bill,” Kerry snapped, “ifyou were President? Would you have spoken out for it as a senator? Would you have introduced it? Or is it just another ‘problem’ you wish would go away?” Kerry leaned forward. “Suppose I introduce a bill to repeal the Defense of Marriage Act. What will you dothen ?”
Abruptly, Kerry had changed the terms of the argument—it was about whether Dick Mason was a leader or an equivocator. And unless he waffled again, many of his gay and lesbian supporters might switch to Kerry Kilcannon. Nervously checking his watch, Clayton saw that only ten minutes remained.
Mason leaned forward, voice tight with strain. “Let’s talk about something that’s not quite so speculative, Kerry. Let’s talk about a woman’s right to choose. Everyone’s watching, and now’s the time for truth.”
* * *
Kerry stared at Mason.
Three feet separated them. For the first time, Kerry could see the unbounded fear of losing etched on Mason’s face, hear a tremor in his voice which jangled Kerry’s nerves.
“A woman’s right to choose,” Mason said accusingly, “is newly threatened by the Supreme Court itself. If you were President, would you appoint justices who shareyour belief that a fetus is a ‘life’?”
Kerry willed himself to stay calm. “I’d appoint justices who share my belief in the right to privacy—”
“That means nothing,” Mason said harshly. “What if they agree with you about ‘life’? Would you appoint them? Or would you decide that a justice who shared your beliefs is too dangerous to a woman’s most basic right?”
It was clever, Kerry realized: if such a justice was “dangerous,” so was Kerry himself. “I’m not interested in personal beliefs,” Kerry retorted, “but in legal philosophy.”
“So you’d select nominees who disagree with your deep personal beliefs, and reject those who agree with you?”
“You’re not listening, Dick—”
“I’ve been listening,” Mason interrupted. “You say you’re pro-choice, but your real mess
age is that women should be ashamed of choosing. How can they trustyou to protect them?”
“Because I’ve committed myself,” Kerry retorted. “And I’m not in the habit of lying—”
Suddenly he heard himself, and stopped.
“Not in the habit of lying,” Mason repeated, his voice now quiet. “What if the choice involved you?”
Stunned, Kerry froze.
Mason seemed to hesitate, as if looking into an abyss. With a tense, terrible certainty, Kerry thought,It was you. The space between them seemed to have closed; the moment felt visceral, as if the studio, the audience, the press, no longer existed.
For a last instant, Mason looked as appalled as Kerry felt, and then he pressed on in a tighter voice. “Supposeyour girlfriend wanted an abortion. What would you say to her?”
In a blinding instant, Mason’s intentions became clear to Kerry—to shake him so badly that he completely lost his composure.And even if you don’t, Mason had just warned him,your only choice is to withdraw. The sole question was whether Mason would end by asking,What if the baby would damage your career, Kerry? What would you do then?
Sickened, Kerry drew a breath. The two men’s eyes met, and Kerry felt Mason stretch out the moment. “Isshe entitled to choose, Kerry? Or would you insist on your own beliefs?”
He must stop this now, Kerry knew. Abruptly aware of the audience, Kerry felt the feral atmosphere, a collective intake of breath. “Is this the level to which we’ve sunk?” he asked softly. “Should I ask if you still beat your wife?”
Startled, Mason blinked.
Kerry watched his face, just as he had watched Anthony Musso in a Newark courtroom. He saw doubt become fear, then certainty, sapping Mason’s energy like a blow to the stomach.
“No answer?” Kerry inquired. “Then let me answeryou . I support a woman’s right to choose, period. But anyone with an ounce of compassion must acknowledge how hard that choice can be.
“That’s what I’d feel—compassion. And, I hope, love.”
* * *
Watching, Lara swallowed. She looked as sickened as Nate Cutler felt.
“Mason,”he murmured, as much to himself as to Lara.
She could not answer, or even think.
* * *
“I’d be grateful that shehad a choice,” Kerry continued, “and that it was safe. And deeply sorry for the anguish she—and perhaps I—might suffer.” Reining in his emotions, Kerry saw the sweat on Mason’s face. “If making something that can be so painful sound cut-and-dried is a qualification for the presidency, then I’m not qualified to serve. But I don’t think it’s a qualification, and I doubt many women do, either.”
Mason hesitated, the moment hanging in the balance. Then he drew himself up, turning from Kerry to the camera. “I don’t believe in code words,” he began. “I won’t hide behind vague statements about judicial philosophy to obscure my own beliefs. The first question I’ll ask any judicial nominee is whether he or she supports the right to choose . . .”
Kerry inhaled, more deeply now. Smoothly, Mason was back on message, scoring his usual points on choice. What lay between them would be settled elsewhere.
* * *
For Lara, the last few minutes were a blur.
The debate became mechanical, prescripted lines delivered to the camera, confrontation kept to a minimum. Mason’s closing statement focused on “experience, maturity, a tested capacity to lead.” Only at the end of Kerry’s closing statement did Lara regain her concentration.
“I want to win this election,” he said. “I want to become your President.”
“But I’d rather you vote against me than not vote at all. Because that’s the first step to ensuring that your government belongs to you—not to special interests, and not to less than half of us . . .”
* * *
In the applause that ended the debate, Kerry waited for the sound system to switch off.
He stood first, extending his hand to Mason. With a wan smile, Mason took it, and then Kerry moved within inches of the Vice President, resting one hand on Mason’s shoulder as he looked up into his face.
“Pray, Dick,” Kerry said under his breath. “Pray you can put the genie back in the bottle. Because if you can’t, I’m going to take this very dirty stick and jam it up your ass.”
* * *
Tense, Nate Cutler followed Lara to the “spin room,” where the campaign spokespeople were stationed, ready to explain to the media why their man had decimated his opponent.
His mind was moving rapidly again. Tracing the letter to Mason would complete the story, exposing not only when personal issues become public ones, but how Mason had treated Kilcannon’s private life.Then let the voters decide.
Ahead of him, Lara still looked shaken. Never, Nate was quite certain, could she have imagined that her affair with Kerry Kilcannon would be used in a veiled public threat by Mason himself. And there was a second threat Nate could not miss:Print this, or we’ll go to someone who will.
“So,” Lee McAlpine said, catching up with him. “What was allthat about?”
Nate considered how best to conceal what he knew. “Hard to say,” he said finally. “It was out of character for Mason to be so overbearing—it was like the ‘what if someone raped Kitty’ question Bernie Shaw asked Dukakis in the ’88 debates. And Kilcannon handled himself well.”
Turning, Lee looked at him with sudden directness. “What’s the story you’re working on, Nate?”
Nate flashed a reflexive smile, still glancing at Lara. “Kilcannon’s affair,” he answered. “With Jeannie Mason.”
Lee gave him a narrow-eyed glance, unamused and undeflected. Together, they entered the spin room, where Lee made a beeline for Bob Kerrey and Ellen Penn. Turning quickly to ensure that Lee was occupied, Nate resumed following Lara, to see how she did her job.
* * *
For the cameras, Jeannie gave Kerry a perfunctory handshake, her blue eyes grave and deeply troubled. “What are youdoing , Kerry?” she murmured. “Is it what I think?”
Suddenly Kerry felt tired, drained. Glancing around them, he saw that they had a moment’s privacy. “This doesn’t just involve me,” he answered. “There’s someone else he could hurt, quite badly. Do you know whatDick ’s doing?”
She gave a brief shake of the head. “No,” she said in a flat voice. “But he’s frightened. He never thought you’d come this far.”
Kerry exhaled. “And you never thought I’d stoop this low?”
For a moment, her eyes shut. Then she opened them, looking into his. “He never did it again, Kerry. You should know that.”
Heart heavy, Kerry nodded. He watched her return to Mason’s side, smiling for the cameras.
FIVE
Watching Kilcannon on the screen, Sean felt isolated, as if the enthusiasm of Kate Feeney and the others came from a party he was watching through a window.
When Kate took his hand, he flinched.
“Don’t you think Kerry was good?” she asked. “He’s so human, and Mason’s like this stiff.”
Sean said nothing. Rick Ginsberg emerged from the celebrants, suddenly quite businesslike.
“You two,” he said to Sean and Kate. “Stick around—we’ve got a countdown meeting with the advance team and the Secret Service to plan tomorrow’s rally. We can celebrate on Tuesday.”
Sean could only nod.
* * *
“Based on a preliminary sampling of two hundred Californians,” the anchorman said, “forty-five percent of viewers feel that Senator Kilcannon won the debate, thirty-nine percent feel the Vice President did better, and sixteen percent called it a draw. Critically, women choose Kilcannon by forty-six to thirty-six . . .”
“You pulled it out,” Frank Wells told Kerry. “The bastard’s really hurting now.”
They were huddled around the television screen in Kerry’s suite—Frank, Kit Pace, and Kerry. But Frank’s tone was more worried than elated; he knew too well what Mason had threatened, but not
how Kerry had stopped him.
“Well,” Kerry said, “we’ll see how it affects Jack’s tracking polls. If at all.”
“Oh, it will.” Kit’s look mingled affection with a sadness that Kerry understood: at the height of his achievement, Kerry might be driven from the race. “You were gutsy and compassionate, Kerry. It’s not in Mason to match that.”
The last phrase had a bitter undertone; the one unalloyed emotion in the room was hatred of the Vice President. “Perhaps the most dramatic moment,” the anchorman was saying, “was when the Vice President confronted Senator Kilcannon on the issue of choice . . .”
The picture switched to Mason. In a thick voice, the Vice President demanded, “Supposeyourgirlfriend wanted an abortion . . . ”
Softly, Frank asked, “Where’s Clayton?”
“Don’t know,” Kerry answered. On the screen, he told Mason,“If making something that can be so painful sound cut-and-dried is a qualification for the presidency, then I’m not qualified to serve. But I don’t think it’s a qualification, and I doubt many women do, either . . .”
“You were so good,” Kit murmured. To Kerry, the words seemed retrospective, as if his campaign were already over.
Kerry smiled faintly. “It sounds like a eulogy, Kit.”
She turned to him, shaking her head, her mouth set in a determined line. “Not to me.”
The door opened, and Clayton walked in.
Everyone looked up. “The networks are saying you won,” Clayton informed Kerry. “Dick looked too shrill, and unhappy doing it. Someone should have told him what any trial lawyer knows—don’t try to be someone you’re not.”
“A prick?” Kit asked. “He’s much better at it than he looks.”
“So are we,” Clayton answered, and glanced from Kit to Frank. “Mind if I take a few minutes with Kerry?”
Frank looked at him a moment, questioning and perhaps a little annoyed. Then he and Kit congratulated Kerry again, and left.
* * *
Unknotting his tie, Kerry felt tired. Faces flashed across his mind—a startled Mason; Jeannie with her eyes shut; and, most of all, his imaginings of Lara watching the debate. Then his thoughts returned to the present, the practical.
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