Protect and Defend

by Richard North Patterson

  “That’s rhetoric. We’ll all survive that.”

  “He also said that two can play—that with forty-five Democrats in the Senate he can filibuster anything we want to pass. That presidential vetoes will start falling like autumn leaves. In other words, that he’ll use the power of his office to fuck you.”

  Palmer sat back. “On a somewhat higher plane, he warned that you’ll set a precedent for future Supreme Court nominations by Republicans. Specifically, that you’d ‘reduce the Senate to a Hobbesian state of nature.’”

  Palmer’s tone, Gage noted, was dispassionate, neutral. “Do you agree with that?” he asked.

  “Some of it.”

  “Enough to oppose our filibuster?”

  Chad placed his palms on his desk, bending forward to look into Gage’s eyes. “Mac,” he began, “years ago, we let people like the Christian Commitment in the tent. We never thought they’d own the tent. Now they do, or think they do.

  “Politics requires compromise, a messy process conducted to achieve a common good. But their belief system precludes compromise, and it’s changed our party for the worse.”

  Palmer, Gage realized with alarm, was speaking from the heart. “I know you think I’m pious,” Chad continued, “a self-anointed truth-teller. But I honestly believe what’s bad for our country can’t, in the long run, be good for us.

  “Some moments are defining, Mac. This is one. How we defeat Caroline Masters—if we do—is more important than that we defeat her.

  “Maybe I’ll make the religious right unhappy. Maybe they’ll keep me from becoming President.” Briefly, Palmer smiled. “If so, it would be a damned shame for America. But at least I can respect myself.

  “What about you, Mac? Is that kind of Faustian bargain worth it to you?” Palmer’s tone was even. “As you recently pointed out to me, we’re not friends. We both want the same job, and have different views of how to get it. But, at bottom, I have too much respect for you to think you want to sell your soul to them. Or won’t regret it if you do.”

  It took a while for Gage to respond; he was restrained by a sense of foreboding, combined with the knowledge that—although Gage believed it too simplistic—Palmer’s view of the world contained a core of truth. “So,” Gage compelled himself to say, “to be clear about your position …”

  Palmer looked disappointed, then resigned. “I’ll oppose her. But I won’t support a filibuster. We beat Masters straight up, or not at all.”

  Gage folded his hands. He had never liked Palmer, and did not care for him now. Nor was he squeamish about the requirements of political life. But in this moment, he felt regret, and something akin to desperation.

  Softly, he said, “Get out of the way, Chad. For your own sake.”

  For an instant Palmer seemed startled, and just as quickly recovered. “Are you telling me something, Mac?”

  For a moment as fleeting as Palmer’s alarm, Gage considered telling him the truth, then realized he never could. “No,” he answered. “Nothing you don’t already know.”

  TWENTY

  THE PRESIDENT’S day was tightly scheduled—telephone calls to senators, a speech to a lawyers’ group on the Masters nomination, a strategy meeting with Chuck Hampton—and the last-minute intrusion annoyed him almost as much as its source. With repressed impatience, he said to Katherine Jones, “Clayton tells me this concerns the Masters nomination. And that it’s important.”

  Jones nodded brusquely. “Not just important. Critical.”

  The touch of self-importance irked Kerry further. Of the major pro-choice leaders, women whom Kerry generally admired, Jones was the only one he disliked. She reminded him of a Buddha without the compassion: gimlet-eyed, heavy-lipped, and self-satisfied, with a mindset so adamant that Kerry found it counterproductive. Her militant group, Anthony’s Legions, had demonstrated against Kerry in the primaries, and though he could not prove it, he believed Jones was personally responsible for spreading rumors about his relationship with Lara Costello. Their truce since then had been, at best, uneasy. Only her urgent request that they meet alone, and his knowledge she would not lightly exhaust her limited chances for a private hearing—gained solely through her support of Caroline Masters—had secured her this appointment.

  Now, despite her assertiveness, Jones appeared nervous; sitting in the Oval Office, she traced with an index finger the edges of the flat letter-size envelope she held. “‘Critical’?” Kerry repeated. “How so?”

  Standing, Jones passed the envelope across his desk. With an unwonted softness of tone, suggesting hesitance and, perhaps, discomfort, Jones answered, “Read this, and you’ll understand.”

  Though Kerry could not imagine what was inside, he paused before opening the envelope and withdrawing the two pieces of paper it held. He looked at Jones: her gaze, rapt and tense, remained on the paper in front of him. Then he began to read.

  He first perceived the nature of the document, and then whom it pertained to; disbelief was followed by a slow, stunned acceptance which altered his sense of human motivation, at least in one instance, and of the dynamics he had been playing with in ignorance.

  For some moments, staring at the first piece of paper, he did not speak. Looking up at last, he softly inquired, “Where did you get this?”

  Jones’s eyes remained on the document; it was a ploy, the President guessed, to keep her from meeting his stare. “In the mail,” she answered.

  “From whom?”

  “I have no idea. But the next page is a typed list of names, with a description of who they are and how they know. It’s like a witness list.”

  The President flipped the page. The list included addresses and telephone numbers—the work, he was certain, of a private investigator. “You have no idea,” he repeated.

  “None.”

  “Oh, but they know you, it seems. And perhaps think they know me, as well.”

  The edge in his voice forced Jones to look up. “What do you mean, Mr. President?”

  “Let me ask you a question first, Katherine. What do you propose I do with this?”

  Jones seemed to maintain eye contact with difficulty. “This is critical information, Mr. President. I thought you needed to know.”

  Kerry felt distaste becoming anger. “What,” he asked calmly, “do you expect me to do?”

  Jones did not answer. “I see,” the President said. “This is the act which dares not speak its name. But ‘blackmail’ comes to mind.”

  For an instant, Jones’s jaw clamped tight. “I could have leaked this,” she answered. “And didn’t.”

  “Instead, you came to me.” Kilcannon’s tone was flat. “For you to leak it would merely ruin him. But if he knows I know, think how malleable he’ll become. Especially about Masters.”

  Jones crossed her arms. “They leaked Masters’s daughter, Mr. President. It’s time for us to fight back.

  “I didn’t ask for this—it just arrived. It’s not for me to decide what to do with it. But he’s never been a friend to us, and isn’t now.” Her voice rose, defensive. “Masters is critical, Mr. President. To all of us.”

  “Indeed.” Kilcannon’s coolness seemed to unnerve her more than anger. But he was far too conscious, as Jones could not be, that he, through Clayton Slade, had unwittingly caused this moment. “Critical enough,” he continued, “for you to think I’d use this on him. So before you leave, I want you to know precisely what I will do.”

  Pausing, Kerry placed his finger on the document. “If this comes out and I think it comes from you, you’ve sat in this office for the last time. If it’s you who dug this up in the first place, the Justice Department will turn your organization inside out, until you feel like you’re living in the grand jury room. And if whatever you’ve done to get it isn’t a federal crime, I’ll make sure that we invent one.”

  Jones stared at him, mouth slightly opened. Abruptly, Kerry felt his disgust at her turn upon himself.

  “You’ve done what you came to do,” he said
. “And now I know. I’ll deal with this from here.”

  He wished he had more time. But being President, he had discovered, often left too little time to reflect, and even less to feel.

  He could see now what had happened. Chad was cornered, and Kerry had helped corner him. Only now did the President understand how complex Chad’s response had been to his own maneuvers and yet, at heart, how simple. But there was nothing simple about the decision Kerry faced.

  To tell him, the President realized, would be in itself a form of blackmail—for the fear it would create, the debt it would imply. Chad might well believe, with justice, that this was another trick of Kerry’s or even, though the President hoped not, that this information had been uncovered at his instance. But if Jones had received these papers, others would, or could: in the end, the President’s only option was to warn him.

  And so at last, ignoring the list of undecided senators, Kerry picked up the telephone himself.

  “I hope this isn’t about Masters,” Chad told him. “We’ve used up my nine lives.”

  “It is,” Kerry answered tightly. “I have to see you, ASAP.”

  The President’s tone of voice produced a brief silence. “We can’t play footsie anymore …”

  “Come here after hours,” Kerry interjected, “through the east visitors’ entrance.”

  “You’re dredging up painful memories,” came the sharp retort. “The last time we did this, you’ll remember, I got burned.”

  Once more, Kerry felt deep regret. “I know,” he answered. “But your problem’s much worse than that.” He hesitated, adding quietly, “This is about Kyle, Chad. And Allie.”

  For a time, as the President looked on, Chad Palmer simply stared at the document.

  It was dark; in the dim light of the President’s study, Chad’s expression had a painful intensity. Kerry found it hard to watch.

  Softly, he asked, “Do you know where this came from?”

  When Chad looked up, he was pale, but composed. “No,” he said. “Do you?”

  Kerry felt a flash of indignation, which died as quickly. Palmer had good reason to blame him for the leak regarding Caroline’s daughter; in the hall of mirrors which the Masters nomination had become, he could offer no assurance—even to himself—that the document had not come from a source closer to him than he knew.

  “No,” the President answered. “I don’t.”

  Distrust merged with distaste in Chad’s cold-eyed expression. “Then what do you want?”

  “Nothing.” Kerry maintained his calm with difficulty. “I’ve shown this to no one. I’ve made no copies. Once you leave, we’ll never talk about it again. It won’t exist for me.”

  Palmer’s expression did not change. Their meeting, Kerry knew to his regret, was fraught with ambiguity; whatever he intended, he was placing Palmer in his debt, and Chad would leave here knowing that the President had the means to destroy him. Nor could Palmer be sure, or Kerry assure him, that this was not the President’s intention—or even that he had not uncovered this document himself.

  “I’m not asking for your help,” Kerry told him, “and I don’t expect it. So before you pin this one on me—or my source—consider the motives of whoever mailed this.

  “He doesn’t just want your vote, or he’d find another way to use this. Instead he sent it to a group which supports Masters, one willing to put this in my hands.” As he spoke, Kerry leaned toward Chad, as though to emphasize his words. “Why, I keep asking myself? One answer is that he may think I exposed Caroline and her daughter, and won’t hesitate to use this as well.

  “Whoever did this wants to ruin you as a person and a presidential candidate. If I blackmail you into voting for Masters, you’re damaged within your own party. And if then they feed it to the media, you’re finished. Which, in combination, is far more lethal than just exposing you at once.”

  Once more, Chad gazed down at the document. Kerry could imagine all too easily how it felt to see—perhaps for the first time—Allie’s signature on the consent form for their daughter’s abortion. He found himself wondering if Chad had even known: though he assessed Chad’s marriage as a good one, he was too aware, from his own failed marriage, how much could be concealed, from a partner and from others.

  To Chad, the President looked haunted. But whether this was because of what he had learned, or what he had done, Chad could only guess. The exposure of Caroline Masters’s daughter, and Kilcannon’s skillful use of it, had left no room for trust.

  “Before you decide it’s me,” he heard the President say, “or one of her supporters, consider who else might try to use us as a cutout.”

  Chad looked up sharply. “Such as.”

  “Ask yourself who—other than me—doesn’t want you to run for President. Someone you’ve offended.” The President’s voice became softer. “Someone who sees you as a threat, and who’s ruthless enough to do this.”

  “Get out of the way,” Gage had told him. “For your own sake.”

  “Are you telling me something?” Chad had asked.

  “Nothing you don’t already know.”

  Chad felt darkness shroud his thoughts. In years past, given a choice between trusting Kilcannon and Gage, he would not have hesitated. But now he must. “Or,” Chad said coolly, “I can ask myself who’s desperate enough to try and launch me at Gage’s throat.”

  “If you still think I’d use this,” Kilcannon answered with genuine anger, “I’ve wasted my time on you. Just pray I’ve managed to keep it quiet. Though that’s nothing I control.” The President stopped himself. “I don’t want anything from you. Just watch out for your family, and hope that whoever leaked this shares my special quality of mercy. Although I wouldn’t count on that.”

  If Kerry was telling the truth, Chad knew, this last prediction was surely true. His enemies, whoever they were, did not care about what they did or whom they hurt. All at once, Chad felt the weight of his family—Kyle’s fragility, Allie’s desperate love for her—and the harshness of his own solitude.

  He had never told anyone what had happened, nor voiced his doubts about himself as a father. Before the last two weeks, he might now have found an odd comfort in Kerry Kilcannon’s knowing what had happened; with his curious blend of toughness and sensitivity, Kerry might have helped to ease his burden. Now, Chad could only wonder what becoming President had done to the man in front of him. Presidents might grant favors, but few of them were free.

  Folding the two pieces of paper, Chad put them in his coat pocket, and left.

  Kerry could hardly blame him.

  Since Clayton’s act of cynicism, which Kerry had exploited, there was no way to expect trust. As President he could not explain to anyone what had happened; in the harsh and unforgiving environment of Washington, it would amount to a self-indictment, and doom Caroline Masters.

  For Kerry, that was the worst of it; the realization that Chad must have concealed Caroline’s past, at least in part, from empathy—Caroline had acted to protect her daughter, as Chad had his. Just as Chad’s belief that personal lives should be private had turned out to be deeply personal.

  And so was Kerry’s. If he could have told Chad Palmer why, Chad would have to believe him—the pain and risk for Kerry would have left no doubt. But for many reasons, beginning with Lara, he could not. So both men would remain where they were, hemmed in by their secrets, each trying to protect themselves and the people they loved most.

  The envelope mailed to Katherine Jones remained in his desk. Opening the drawer, the President studied it. Then he returned to the list of undecided senators, and began placing calls.

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWO NIGHTS later, Kerry was back in his study, still telephoning senators on behalf of Caroline Masters. But he had solidified the Democrats: forty-one had declared their support for Caroline; the other four, though formally undecided, had pledged the President their votes if this could supply the margin of victory. The latest national poll now showed a plurality
favoring Caroline Masters—forty-seven to thirty-eight—with the difference reflecting a twenty percent edge among women. Directed by Clayton, the administration was orchestrating speeches and articles which stressed the role of an independent judiciary, and called the opposition to Caroline Masters an attack on judicial integrity.

  This was having its effect, both on opinion leaders and, through them, on the Senate. In the closely scrutinized battle for Republican moderates—covered by the media like a horse race—Macdonald Gage had not added to his total of forty-seven, four short of what he needed. He was in a difficult position, Kerry estimated: without fifty-one committed votes, Gage could not risk calling a vote on the nomination; with every day of delay, Kerry seemed to gather strength. And, beyond anyone’s control, a great imponderable hung over the process: the imminent Supreme Court decision on whether to hear Martin Tierney’s appeal, and the abortion which would follow should it decline.

  All of this, the President understood, increased the pressure on Gage from his party’s right wing to defeat the nominee by the only other available means: if Gage could persuade forty of his forty-seven loyalists to support a filibuster, keeping Caroline Masters from coming to a vote, the nomination would be dead. For the last two days, Kerry knew, Gage had been sounding out support.

  For the last two days, Chad Palmer had been silent.

  Other Republicans, looking to Chad for cues, received none. He took no position on a filibuster. He did not reiterate—or withdraw—his opposition to Caroline Masters. He said nothing in public.

  Nor did he contact Kerry Kilcannon. Once or twice, Kerry had imagined Chad’s painful conversation with Allie. Only later did Kerry learn that Chad—trying to spare his wife and daughter anguish; hoping to find his way through the maze without making them feel responsible for what he chose to do; believing there would still be time—had delayed two days in telling them.