The telephone rang.
It was the media, Caroline thought at once. Then she realized it might be Clayton Slade, or even the President himself. Walking to the kitchen, she answered with a curt, “Hello.”
“Aunt Caroline? It’s me.”
Caroline took a moment to find her bearings. With relief she said, “I thought you were a reporter. I’m glad I decided to answer.”
“Me, too. I wanted to see how you are.”
Alone, Caroline wished to say. Clinging to a foolish hope, unable to let go. And then it struck her that she teetered on the brink of self-revelation which, once begun, she was uncertain she could stop. “Fairly lifelike,” she answered dryly, “for a corpse. When Jackson called to say how brave I’d been, I felt like I was attending my own memorial service.” Pausing, Caroline tried to put a smile in her voice. “I suppose it’s hard to keep all this attention from going to my head.”
Brett did not laugh, and her tone was soft. “You’re trying to sound like it doesn’t bother you. But I know it must.”
There was compassion in her voice, and a hint of frustration, as though she wished to penetrate her aunt’s reserve. “It does,” Caroline said finally. “Quite a lot. But there’s nothing I can do.”
“Is there something I can do?”
Come see me, Caroline thought. But Brett was not her daughter, and never had been. She had her own life.
“You already have,” Caroline told her. “But you might send me another short story. The last one was sublime.”
“Starting with her daughter,” Ellen Penn told Kerry, “she’s acted with complete integrity. Especially when she wrote the opinion. So let me ask you this: Do you think she was wrong?”
When Clayton began to interrupt, Kerry held up his hand, eyes fixed on the Vice President. “No,” he conceded. “I don’t.”
Ellen expelled a breath. “Okay, then. She stood up for what you both believe the Constitution says. For that, we propose to dump her. Because it’s ‘smart.’
“That’s not how you got here, and I don’t think it’s smart.” Glancing at Chuck Hampton, she said, “Chuck can tell me if I’m wrong. But Reagan didn’t suffer for standing by Robert Bork. And I’d guess the senators in our party are waiting to see what kind of president you are. They can live with a vote of conscience now and then, as long as you take the lead. But first you have to ask.”
“A vote of conscience is one thing,” Clayton objected. “But this is like gays in the military. A complete nonstarter, politically. However we might accept the principle.”
“It’s nowhere close to that,” Ellen retorted. “If we frame this principle right—standing up for a woman of integrity— we can bring along the women and swing-voters.
“Dump Caroline now, and we disappoint our friends, draw the contempt of our enemies, and tell all of them we’re gutless.” Once more, she turned to Kerry. “Even if she loses, we’ve got an issue. Let’s see how much taste Gage has for turning this into a jihad, or for looking like the kind of paternalistic creep women are thrilled they didn’t marry. Or, even worse, did marry.”
“This isn’t just a game of chicken,” Kerry replied. “Winning matters. If the only ‘upside’ is losing, I’ll pass.”
“I think you can win.” Pausing, Ellen angled her head toward Clayton. “I understand Clayton’s point about the AFL-CIO But the last thing they want is Gage with a stranglehold on the Senate. If you can bust him on this one, they win.”
“True enough. But that gets us back to Palmer. The AFL-CIO cuts no ice with him.”
For the first time, Chuck Hampton intervened. “I’m not spoiling for a fight here, Mr. President. But Chad knows elections are won in the middle, and he wants to sit where you’re sitting. I doubt he thinks he gets there by blindly following Gage, and I’m damn sure he doesn’t want to. If you can manage to keep Palmer neutral, and build support, maybe we’ve still got a shot at getting Masters on the Court.
“Split Palmer from Gage, and it’s easier for us to pick off the remaining votes we need—Republicans from swing states. They may be scared of Gage, but it’s the voters who keep them here. They’re Chad’s people, and they may hope he’ll give them cover.”
Kerry concealed his surprise. He had expected Hampton to counsel surrender; now he wondered whether the Minority Leader was trying to prove his mettle—or, perhaps, was probing the complexities of Kerry’s relations with Chad Palmer.
“For Chad to risk that,” Kerry answered, “we’d have to accomplish more than he thinks we can—or should. Turn the country around on late-term abortion.”
“We can do what Sarah Dash did,” Ellen suggested promptly. “Give the issue a human face. We roll out real women to talk about how late-term abortion got them three kids down the road, or kept the kids they already had from becoming orphans. That means being shameless—bringing them to the White House, putting them on talk shows, and using their husbands, too. We can even give them their own Web site.
“It’s one thing to talk about disassembling babies. It’s another thing to have two loving middle-class parents look America in the eye and say, ‘We know how tough this is—it happened to us.’ With that kind of platform, we can start reaching out to the high-end media—editorial pages, and news magazines like Nightline and 20/20.” Buoyed by improvisation and inspiration, the Vice President added, “That’s where Lara would be perfect.”
Kerry felt Clayton’s glance of warning. Quietly, the President said, “That’s for her to decide.”
Ellen seemed to wait for some elaboration. When there was none, she said, “Then talk to her, because we need her. We could also use some religious leaders to say that protecting a mother’s life, health, and fertility is moral, and helps keep families intact. That would hit Gage where he lives. And it may help keep Palmer from coming out against her.
“Remember, you have to make the case to an audience of two hundred seventy million before you reach an audience of one: Chad Palmer.” Glancing around, Ellen included the others in her peroration. “One of his charms is that he’s actually open to argument—especially if it serves his interests. As for our interests, consider what you gain by winning.”
Kerry smiled. “And what is that, precisely? You’ve raised so many dazzling prospects I forget.”
Ellen gazed at him, unsmiling. “You get Caroline,” she answered. “And you—not Gage—get to run the country.”
“Remember your advice about juries?” the President asked Clayton. “Back when I was a rookie lawyer?”
The meeting was over, and the two men were alone. Accustomed to silence, Clayton had waited for his friend to think aloud.
“I told you a lot of things,” Clayton answered brusquely. “About half the time, you listened.”
“I always listened,” Kerry responded. “What you said was, ‘Don’t try to be someone you’re not.’ And you were right. My worst day in the campaign was when I ducked the vote on the Protection of Life Act. I looked like a kid caught in a lie.”
Clayton shrugged. “It was necessary.”
“I agree. But it was also a moment when Gage understood me perfectly. Because I was doing what he’d do in my place.” Kerry sat back. “And if I take Caroline Masters down, Gage will understand again. Because it’s the percentage move.
“But that’s not why people sent me here. They expect me to keep my commitments, and act from core beliefs. Which is exactly what I came here for, or I’ve missed the point of my own campaign.” Kerry’s tone grew harder. “That’s when I scare Macdonald Gage. Because he’s not sure then what drives me, or what impact that will have on him. He may not want an all-out war with someone quite that incomprehensible.”
“And if he does?”
“Maybe I beat him. If not, I’ll make him pay the price for beating me—letting the country get a good look at him.”
“They’ll take a good long look at everyone,” Clayton admonished. “A nomination in trouble is a magnet for all the scalp hunters in th
e media. They’ll be scavenging for leaks from the committee files and the FBI, putting garbage from private investigators on the Internet, grubbing for anything in Caroline’s background …”
“All of which,” Kerry finished for him, “puts her daughter at greater risk. And Palmer.”
“Of course. Palmer’s already sitting on the ‘rumor’ that Caroline has a daughter. Your ‘all-out war’ increases exponentially the chance that Harshman breaks Palmer’s stranglehold on the files, or that some right-wing group digs it up on their own.”
“Maybe. But that’s Caroline’s problem. And Chad’s.”
Clayton looked at him in some surprise. “You don’t care?”
“Not nearly as much as they do. I promised I’d protect her, and I have. But Caroline made ‘a decision for life,’ as Gage is so fond of saying. If she’d have let me, I’d have made it public myself.”
“That was before the hearings,” Clayton retorted. “Remember Harshman’s question—‘How can you understand families if you don’t have kids?’ They’ll say she lied to him.”
Kerry shrugged. “Let them. Let them reopen the hearings. You saw her testify; if some old white guy like Harshman starts beating on her for that, he’ll come out the loser. And having her explain why she didn’t abort a talented girl with a working cerebral cortex would be a welcome change of subject.”
Clayton’s gaze became a stare. “And if they all blow up,” he answered coolly, “so does Gage.”
Kerry nodded. “It’s a little like playing with matches. A smart man keeps his distance.”
“Including you,” Clayton shot back. “Tell me you’re not going to do this.”
“I don’t know yet. But by tomorrow morning, I will. That’s all the time I’ve got.”
Slowly, Clayton shook his head. “Your instincts have always been good, Kerry—in ways that still surprise me. But this one worries me, for you. It really is a game of chicken, and that’s risky for a president. Especially a new one.”
Kerry considered him, grateful for his concern, uncertain of who was right. “This President,” he said quietly, “means to be President. Macdonald Gage or no, I chose Masters to be Chief Justice.”
“And you can unchoose her,” Clayton answered stubbornly, “like every president before you. What can I say to talk you out of this?”
All at once, Kerry felt the weight of his decision, the warmth of Clayton’s loyalty. “You already have,” he assured his friend. “Don’t think I won’t consider it.”
Clayton fell quiet. “While you’re doing that,” he said at length, “consider Lara.”
THREE
“ONLY YOU can stop this,” Sarah said.
In the cramped confines of his office, she faced Martin and Margaret Tierney; though the USF campus was tree-lined and commodious, to Sarah the room at night felt like a prison, allowing the tension between them no release.
“By not appealing?” Tierney asked quietly.
“Yes. In thirty-six hours, the stay will expire.” Sarah kept her own voice low. “You’ve been true to your beliefs, Martin. But that’s not been enough.”
Behind his bare wooden desk, Martin Tierney steepled his fingers; sitting next to Sarah, Margaret Tierney stared at the tile floor. Such close proximity felt uncomfortable to Sarah, but all other choices—the Tierneys’ home; Sarah’s apartment; the offices of Kenyon & Walker—were patrolled by the media and demonstrators from the Christian Commitment. Caroline’s ruling, Sarah reflected, seemed to have unleashed forces which had overwhelmed them all.
“It’s not that simple,” Tierney told her. “Even if we withdraw, the Justice Department will petition the Supreme Court. This is an act of Congress, and it’s the government’s duty to defend it—no matter what this President may want.”
Sarah glanced at Margaret Tierney, who now watched her husband with pained intensity. “There’s another way to end it,” Sarah ventured. “However hard that might be.”
Tierney’s spectral eyes fixed her with a bleak stare. “Consent to an abortion?”
“Yes. That should moot the case—there’d be nothing for the government to stop, even if it were willing to risk an adverse ruling.” Sarah turned to Margaret Tierney. “This already has marked your daughter for life. Now she’s caught in the middle of a Supreme Court nomination. Either she’ll be the reason Caroline Masters withdraws, or the President will decide to fight—in which case all hell breaks loose.”
“What happens to the President,” Tierney interrupted sharply, “or Judge Masters, is no concern of ours.”
Margaret Tierney still gazed at her husband in what Sarah hoped was a silent plea. “But Mary Ann is,” Sarah countered. “If you don’t stop them, she’ll never get her life back. She’ll be like Patty Hearst by a multiple of ten: in twenty years, some rag will put her on the cover with a caption like ‘The Girl Who Changed Supreme Court History—Where Is She Now?’”
Sarah paused, looking from husband to wife. “Where she is now,” she finished, “is waiting. For me to come back to my apartment, where she now lives. For you to say that you love her, and forgive her, and hope for her forgiveness. And that you’ll allow her to protect herself as she thinks best.”
At this, Margaret Tierney turned from her husband to Sarah, her voice tremulous. “How is she?”
Sarah searched for the most honest answer. “Scared,” she said. “Damaged. Hoping against hope you’ll change your mind.
“Part of her still thinks about how all of you were before the pregnancy, and wishes she could go back. Sometimes she wakes up, she says, and she’s that girl again. And then she remembers she can never go back.” Sarah softened her voice. “I know you love her. But do you have any idea how much you’ve hurt her?”
“Oh, a little,” Margaret answered with quiet sadness. “We’re the parents who denied her birth control, and I’m the mother who never spoke to her about sex. Which, unfortunately, isn’t true …”
Surprised, Sarah stifled a question.
“Yes,” Margaret told her. “I told her much, much more than ‘just say no.’ I suppose, perhaps understandably, that she wishes to forget that. And who would believe a mother who wants to pass on the curse of her own infertility?” She quickly closed her eyes, as though clearing them of tears. “We’re the adults, and she’s the child. Who I love, and hurt for, more than you— or Judge Masters—will ever know.”
Heartsick and confused, Sarah recalled the different versions of a family which sometimes divided her from her parents— the events, so vivid to one, which another recalled quite differently. But here she foresaw something more fateful: the possible disintegration of this family and, perhaps, this marriage. “If you love her,” she urged Margaret, “you’ll need to let that transcend your own beliefs. All it takes is one of you to consent, and the other to forgive.”
Margaret’s lips parted. “Beliefs are hard,” she said at last. “Betraying them is worse. I don’t want that for Mary Ann.”
The telephone on Tierney’s desk rang.
It made Sarah start, breaking her silent connection with Margaret Tierney. Irresolute, Tierney stared at the blinking light. Then, with palpable reluctance, he answered.
“Yes?”
Listening, he seemed to sag. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, “I can’t talk to you right now. We’re meeting with Ms. Dash.”
Through the telephone, Sarah heard a voice rise in alarm, tinny and indecipherable. Gripping the phone to his ear, Tierney listened for some moments, in obvious distress.
At length, he interrupted. “Barry,” he said tightly, “I will have to call you back.”
In the moment which followed, Tierney’s face was blank. “Yes,” he promised. “Soon.”
Without awaiting an answer, he put down the phone.
Margaret Tierney watched her husband, tension creasing her forehead. “They’ll never let you alone,” Sarah told them. “Not until your family’s destroyed. Unless one of you puts an end to this.”
&nb
sp; There was silence, and then it was Martin Tierney who answered. “An end to our grandson, you mean. Of all the actors in this miserable drama, we’re the only ones who are trying to save them both.” He shook his head, as though to clear it. “We need to be alone, Sarah.”
In mute appeal, Sarah turned to Margaret Tierney.
For an instant, the pain etched in her face gave Sarah hope, and then she turned away. “Please,” she murmured.
Without speaking, Sarah left.
FOUR
LYING IN BED, Kerry heard the sound of water running in the bathroom, Lara showering. From his television, Caroline Masters gazed back at him.
The Christian Commitment had used selected photographs from the hearing, transmuted into a grainy black-and-white to make Caroline look imperious and remote. The text for the thirty-second spot was blunt:
“Ninety percent of Americans,” the woman’s voice said, “oppose the barbaric procedure called ‘partial birth abortion.’
“This woman supports it.
“Call President Kilcannon and tell him that a judge who favors infanticide is unfit to be Chief Justice of our highest court.”
The Commitment, Kerry realized, must have cut the ad before the ruling became public—no doubt because of a leak from the court itself. Now they meant to ensure that he abandon Caroline Masters: according to Clayton, the spot was running hourly on NBC—Lara’s employer—and the three major cable news networks.
Fretful, Kerry snatched his bedside phone and hit the “re-dial” button. Three rings were followed by Allie Palmer, reciting the message which tonight Kerry had learned by heart.
“This is the Palmer residence …”
When the message ended, Kerry said simply: “Chad, it’s Kerry again. You know the number. Call me no matter how late.”
When Kerry hung up, the picture had changed.
A live broadcast on CNN showed a candlelight vigil at the Lincoln Memorial. The camera focused on a handmade sign: LINCOLN FREED THE SLAVES—NOW FREE THE UNBORN. In a haunting, near-religious tableau, the demonstrators huddled like communicants before the monument: a grave and massive Lincoln, lit a yellow-bronze, seated behind white pillars.
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