Kerry’s own gaze was unblinking. “For the nominee I think best.”
Gage frowned. “That’s fine, of course. That’s the privilege of your office. But there has to be a political point to it all, or it’s sort of like the war in Vietnam—a lot of carnage and bitterness, for nothing.”
Kerry had resolved not to be defensive, or to explain himself. “Not for ‘nothing,’” he answered. “For a principle.”
“What principle is that?” Gage’s voice was patient and sincere. “I have the sense, Mr. President, that you foresee some permanent residue of outrage should Caroline Masters meet an adverse fate. With your instinct for the public pulse, you can’t just be doing this based on the unlikely hope she’ll win. So I’d like to offer my perspective on reality.”
At this the President smiled. “Yes,” he said, “tell me about your reality.”
“All right,” Gage answered crisply. “In my reality, we’ve got one year and eight months until the next congressional election, and two years beyond that before we next elect a president. Americans are a blessed people, and among the things they’re blessed with is forgetfulness.
“That’s even more true of women than it is of us men—there’s a school shooting, and some pollster says how fervently the ‘soccer moms’ support new gun laws, but when it comes right down to it they don’t vote the issue. It’s much the same as abortion, though I doubt most women are nearly as pro-abortion as you liberals seem to think.” Abruptly, Gage’s tone became tough and practical. “But you know who does remember? Folks who are angry. Folks who believe that as a nation we’re headed in the wrong direction—whether it’s abortion, or taking their guns away, or this general degradation of our culture by music and films portraying violence, or everyone having sex with everyone else.”
For emphasis, Gage jabbed a finger at the space between them. “Those folks vote. I hear from them, by the thousands. They wouldn’t shake hands with Caroline Masters. They don’t want to be in the same room with her. They’ll never forgive you if you try to push her down their throats. And they’ll never forgive me if I don’t try to lay you low.
“So, what do we have? A nominee who’s likely doomed, and who’ll be forgotten by most people come election time. Except by millions of angry citizens who’ll see you as the Antichrist. Literally.”
Kerry smiled without amusement. “A grim prognosis, Mac. And very complete. How do I spare myself?”
This small irony produced a sigh from Gage. “Let her withdraw,” he said solemnly, “as gracefully as you need her to. Then send us someone who’s a little bit more reasonable.
“I don’t mean someone I’d appoint—you’re the President. Just someone I could vote for without embarrassing myself, or the party, with the millions of folks who rely on us to maintain some sort of balance.
“That’s what’s gotten lost here—a spirit of cooperation. You called Palmer before you nominated Masters, but never said a word to me. The Senate could have used a little deference from the new president—you know how we are. And now you and I have to deal with the mess.” Gage’s voice was soft. “We’ll never agree on policy. But we can have a constructive relationship, getting things done where we can, and disagreeing without being disagreeable. All we need is to remove the sty of Caroline Masters from our collective eye.”
Kilcannon listened, still and watchful. Though Gage credited the President with lightning—occasionally lethal—flashes of political intuition, he still struck Gage as unseasoned, mercurial, too young for the office. It was like awakening from a coma to learn that Brad Pitt was President.
“I agree,” Kilcannon said reasonably. “I should have called about Judge Masters—before I nominated her, and several times in the last few weeks. So, Mac, mea culpa …”
Gage raised a hand, a gesture of self-deprecation. “Plenty of blame, as I say, to go around.”
“That’s very gracious of you. In that spirit, I should make amends by sharing my reality.” Kilcannon’s voice was mild. “Those angry people you mention will never vote for me. They hated my brother, and they hate me. In fact, a lot of them hope some committed patriot will come along and blow my head off, too …”
“Not so,” Gage objected, startled less by Kilcannon’s feelings than his willingness to express them. “These are loyal Americans …”
“Who despise me, and everything they think I stand for.” Kilcannon’s tone remained cool. “I don’t worry about pissing them off. The angrier they are, the more useful they are to me. If you try to do their bidding, I’ll hang them around your neck like an anvil, until all those forgetful people you mention stop forgetting.
“Every kid who dies in a school shooting, you’ll hear from me. Sooner or later, you’ll conclude that being a wholly owned subsidiary of the NRA does not serve your best interests. And that will happen, believe me.”
Gage felt his face become a mask; surprised and angry, he forced himself not to interrupt.
“Let’s turn to Masters,” the President went on. “My reality is this: You’re wrong about the Tierney case. You’re hypocrites on adoption. You’ve tried to use her daughter against her and smear her as a lesbian. You’ve tried to vilify her as a person in every way you can. And, having done that, now you want me to make a deal with you.
“We’ll deal with each other, Mac. But first we have to define our relationship, and this is the time and place.” The President’s eyes turned cold. “For years in the Senate, I sat in the minority, watching you kill bill after bill—gun control, campaign finance reform, what have you. If you wonder why I wanted this job so badly, look in the mirror.
“You’ve tried to kill Masters in committee. Having failed, you want me to do it for you. But you’re going to have to take her down yourself.
“Before you try, listen well.” Now it was Kilcannon who leaned forward, though his tone, belying the intensity of his stare, was conversational. “What you’ve done to Caroline Masters is unacceptable to me. This is a woman who can better the lives of millions of Americans, long after we’re both dead. My job is to make her the next Chief Justice. And if I lose, to make you pay.”
Listening, Gage was appalled and, briefly, unnerved. Despite his long experience in judging men and motives, he could not tell whether this was a highly convincing act, or whether the man in front of him had somehow escaped his comprehension. But he was certain of one thing: there was no hope of dissuading Kerry Kilcannon, and trying might embolden him still more.
“Mr. President,” he said simply, “this is a grave mistake.”
The President smiled. “Yes. But whose?”
“Well?” Clayton asked.
Though Kerry’s instinct to confide in his Chief of Staff was reinforced by the tension of the meeting, he hesitated to renew their intimacy. Finally, Kerry said, “He’s wondering if I’m crazy, and he’s not quite sure. Of course, neither am I.”
“What’s he going to do?”
Pondering the question, Kerry felt an odd jumble of emotions—fatalistic, determined, depressed, uncertain. “Anything he can to beat her. He’s gone too far to back off, and doesn’t believe he can. He’s too mortgaged to the Commitment and the others on the right.”
Clayton folded his arms. “I talked to Chuck Hampton—he gave us a list of Democratic undecideds, senators you need to call.”
“How many now? Seven?”
“Six. He thinks we’ve got the other thirty-nine. He also thinks Mac’s still stuck at forty-seven.”
“Including Palmer and Jarman?”
“Yes. But Palmer won’t actively help Gage, and Vic Coletti says Kate isn’t happy where she is. So we maybe could still flip her.”
“If we know that,” Kerry answered, “so does Gage.”
With that, Kerry fell silent, thoughtful. He remained at his desk, chin propped in his hand, almost forgetting that Clayton was there.
At length, Clayton ventured, “You’re thinking Gage might try a filibuster.”
Kerry looked
up. “Yes,” he acknowledged. “It’s never been done that I know of. But neither was trying to kill a Supreme Court nomination in committee, and Gage nearly pulled that off.
“Gage may still worry he can’t dig up the four more votes he needs to get to fifty-one. All he’d need to sustain a filibuster is forty-one, and the willingness—or desperation—to sink the knife between her shoulder blades himself.”
Clayton shoved his hands in his pockets. “A lot could depend on Palmer.”
Kerry did not need to mention to whom he owed Chad Palmer’s distrust. Tersely, he answered, “I’ll call him. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear from me.”
NINETEEN
“TO START,” the President told Chad Palmer, “I wanted to say thanks. You could have killed her in committee.”
“Not easily.” Palmer’s tone was cool. “Harshman’s main reason—the daughter—was something I knew from the beginning. If I didn’t think it disqualified her before, I can’t very well say that now, can I?”
The implicit accusation suggested that Kerry had ordered the leak, making Chad’s position untenable. But it was also self-deprecating: within his own party, the best thing for Chad would have been to go along. “Whatever the reason,” Kerry answered, “I understand you have to oppose her, at least as a formal matter. But I’m wondering how far you mean to go.”
“I mean to vote against her—period. I’ve said that.” Chad paused, then asked bluntly, “What is it you want, Mr. President?”
“Not me—Gage. He asked to see me.”
“So your press people made clear. And?”
“He’s getting a little anxious, I think.” Kerry paused, then decided on frankness. “I know you’re pretty well hemmed in, Chad, and I think Gage is about to make things worse. I thought you should know.”
* * *
“We’ve done our part,” Barry Saunders told Gage. “We’ve taken on the Tierney case, raised three million dollars in a month, and put up TV spots opposing Masters for almost two weeks. That on top of giving over two million to your party in the last presidential campaign. We wonder what we’re getting for it.”
Sitting to one side, Mace Taylor looked from Saunders to Gage. The counsel for the Christian Commitment had demanded a meeting, and Taylor had arranged it; now the lobbyist’s glance at Gage conveyed a warning—with respect to Caroline Masters, both men needed to come through. But Gage felt resistant; the President seemed to have darkened his mood.
“What you got for it,” Gage answered, “is Kilcannon. He uses you as a foil. You should have heard him today—you’d better pray we win next time, or you’ve really got some problems.” He paused, choosing a more ingratiating tone. “Believe me, Barry, we’re grateful for all your help. We need it. But if we’re to realize our agenda—your agenda—we can’t look like you’re handing us our lines on marble tablets. That can cost us votes.”
Saunders pursed his lips in disappointment, his shrewd eyes fixed on Gage. “You’re sounding like Senator Palmer, Mac. You really are.”
It was time to remind this man, Gage thought, how limited the Commitment’s choices were. “If I were Palmer, you wouldn’t be sitting here. At best, Chad has granted God diplomatic relations—He’s fine as long as He knows His place. Chad feels somewhat less enthused about you.”
Saunders gave the smile of a poker player in a two-man game. “When we go looking for a president, it won’t be Palmer. We were sort of hoping it’d be you.”
“So was I,” Gage said comfortably. “So was I …”
“We can’t have this woman,” Saunders said abruptly. “Not only did she undo all our work in the Tierney case, but she’ll clearly favor this campaign finance reform Palmer and Kilcannon love so much. It would keep us from being players—and from helping you.” Abruptly, Saunders snapped his fingers. “Those millions you’ll be wanting next time? Up in smoke.”
Gage felt something—pride, or caution—keep him from delivering the answer which Saunders was expecting. Taylor gave him a puzzled glance, then said soothingly to Saunders, “Mac has a plan.”
With reluctance, Gage said, “I’m looking at a filibuster. All we’d need to keep Masters from coming to a vote is forty-one determined senators refusing to close debate.” He paused for emphasis. “But that’s a far riskier vote, Barry, than just saying you’re against her.”
Saunders considered this. “Undemocratic, you mean.”
“The Senate’s undemocratic,” Taylor rejoined. “That’s the beauty of Mac’s leadership position. All he has to say is that the Senate’s ‘working its will.’”
Though directed at Saunders, Taylor’s remark, Gage knew, was intended to prod him. “Except that,” Gage amended, “the Senate’s never ‘worked its will’ on a Supreme Court nominee in this particular fashion.”
Seemingly dissatisfied, Saunders glanced at Taylor. “I’m sure Paul Harshman would be willing to step up to the plate.”
“Sure he would,” Gage said. “And that’s precisely what Kilcannon wants. Paul has his virtues, but he’s far too easy to caricature. That’s not the image we need to put forth.” His voice grew firm. “I’m with you, Barry. I want her gone. But we have to do it just right.”
“Sometimes,” Saunders replied with equal conviction, “you just have to do it—period. You can’t treat us like some girl you’re seeing on the sly.
“You’re still not sure about your fifty-one. So go make sure about your forty-one. That’s ten votes easier.” Saunders’s voice abruptly lowered. “Don’t lose this one on us. Our people vote, and give you money. You can’t win without us.”
“Or with you,” Gage said gently, “if Kilcannon has his way. So where will you go, if not to us?” He raised a hand, forestalling an answer. “We’re all together here, my friend. It’s just a matter of approach.”
Saunders stared at him, unmollified. “Maybe Kilcannon thinks Paul’s amusing,” Taylor said to Gage. “But he wouldn’t laugh if Palmer were out front, would he?”
As Taylor had surely intended, Gage felt his freedom of action slipping away. The Christian Commitment wanted his pledge to defeat Masters by any means at hand; Taylor wanted a final reason to destroy Chad Palmer as a future candidate for President. And as wary as all this made him, both men spoke to Gage’s first ambition—to secure his party’s nomination, and run against Kerry Kilcannon.
“We’ll find a way,” Gage told both men. “The first thing is talk to Palmer.”
Even as the meeting began, Mac Gage sensed that he would look back on it as a symbolic turning point—though symbolic of what, he was not sure.
It was late afternoon, and the half-drawn curtains in Palmer’s office admitted thin rays of pale sunlight, turning his yellow walls a muted gold. Palmer greeted him pleasantly, if cautiously; Gage’s eyes were drawn to the photograph on his desk, Chad and Kyle Palmer smiling at each other. If only our lives were as simple as we pretend, Gage mused; even in his own family, the most fortunate and upright, his fourteen-year-old granddaughter was experimenting with drugs and alcohol. Yet this was all the more reason, Gage affirmed to himself, for those in power—whether senators or parents—to draw lines.
But his mood, despite the tension, was also faintly elegiac. In this spirit, he stopped to examine his colleague, his rival. For all that he had been through, the years seemed to have touched Chad Palmer little: he was still trim, blond, blue-eyed—the golden boy, as youthful and as lucky as the country which he served. Except in the shadows of his family: perhaps it was this that accounted for the reserve with which Chad—who usually treated the most difficult moments with at least a show of blitheness—had greeted him.
“So,” Chad said at length. “Masters.”
“Yes. Does it sometimes feel to you, Chad, like Caroline Masters has always been with us?”
Chad smiled in acknowledgment. “She’s made quite an impact on us all, in a few short weeks.” His voice turned dry. “Of course a bit of that’s my doing.”
Equably, Gag
e nodded. “A lot of it, Chad. With a considerable assist from the President.”
Chad shrugged. “Our entente cordiale—if that’s what you’d call it—has expired. I opposed killing her in committee because I think it’s wrong. But I’m voting against her on the floor.”
This much Gage knew—and therefore, he supposed, was Palmer’s way of sparring. He sensed this visit was no surprise, that Palmer had anticipated him. Quietly, he said, “I’d like your help, Chad. Beyond that.”
Chad’s lips formed another smile which did not reach his eyes. “A fiery speech?”
Gage prepared himself. “Yes. Against a cloture motion. I want you to help me round up the forty-one votes we need to maintain a filibuster.”
To Gage’s surprise, Chad laughed aloud. “A filibuster,” he said. “Our new president is such a clever boy.”
Gage felt mild alarm. “In what way?”
“He called a while ago. Predicted, in fact, that you’d be coming around to see me on this very subject.” The transient breeziness in Palmer’s manner yielded to seriousness. “Remember at the beginning of all this, when I told you not to underestimate him? It’s all coming true.”
Gage fought back his alarm. “Specifically,” he answered in his most pleasant tone, “you predicted this town would end up littered with the bodies of folks who’d underrated him. I’m afraid I didn’t take your warning for the kindness that it was.” Gage paused, taking the smallest sip of the bourbon Palmer had poured him—it would not do to dull his wits. “What else did Kilcannon say?”
“That it’s never been done. That if we take her down with a minority, we’ll look like tools of the far right. That he’ll say every vote against cloture is a vote for Masters, and that we’ve kept a nominee supported by a majority of senators from having a vote …”
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