“Mr. Azoff.”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Baltry.”
“Yes.”
Inexorably, the fateful count proceeded, and then the telephone rang.
On the floor, Chad watched the votes fall out, governed by a range of factors from the noble to the crass, the magisterial to the parochial. The first undecided, George Felton, gave him a brief glance of apology, and then looked away.
“No.”
Hands folded in front of his belly, Gage nodded in satisfaction. Briefly, Chad shut his eyes.
“Mr. Izzo.”
“No.”
All Gage needed, Chad realized, was one more vote, and Ellen Penn could not break a tie. From the chair, Ellen gazed down at Kate Jarman.
“Ms. Jarman.”
Kate remained sitting, with an inward expression, as though pretending to ignore the tension. To the astonishment of the galleries, she remained silent until the roll call moved on.
Having postponed her vote, she briefly closed her eyes.
Amidst a collective expulsion of breath, the vote proceeded on, the yes’s and no’s falling into line again.
“Ms. MacIntire,” the clerk called out.
Tense, Gage watched her. One more “no” and it was done.
Hands folded in front of her, Clare MacIntire hesitated, her small dark person the focus of a vast silence.
“Yes,” she said firmly.
“Yes,” Adam Shaw said under his breath; Kit Pace pumped her fist in the air.
“What did you give her?” Clayton asked the President. “The heavens and earth?”
“Nothing. It seems she despises Gage.”
Once more, the vote resumed its inexorable path toward the last undecided, Cassie Rollins. Chad faced her, raising his eyebrows.
This morning, they had met alone.
“I’ll miss you,” Cassie said. “I wish you weren’t going.”
It touched him. “You understand, Cassie.”
She nodded. “I do. We all do.” Then, to his surprise, she smiled a little. “You want my vote, of course. Problem is, what can you do for me once you’re gone?”
Chad did not answer. “You know Gage did it, Cassie.”
“I don’t know that for sure. But I know we should do better.” She smiled again. “Consider this a going-away present …”
“Ms. Rollins?” the clerk called.
Cassie stood, tall and blond, looking like the former tennis star she was. “Yes,” she called out, and smiled at Chad Palmer.
Quickly, Gage rose and walked toward Kate Jarman’s desk. Kate sat, arms folded, as the roll call ground on toward its inevitable conclusion, save for Kate—fifty no’s, forty-nine yes’s.
When Gage reached her side, she did not appear to notice him. Touching her shoulder, he whispered, “Kate?”
She looked up at him, eyes cold. “You lose,” she said.
* * *
Chad watched the roll call reach its end.
Kate Jarman stood. “Madam President?”
Ellen Penn nodded. “The Chair recognizes the Junior Senator from Vermont.”
Now Kate Jarman was the focus of an awesome silence. “On the roll call just concluded,” Kate asked, “how am I recorded?”
“You are not recorded.”
As had Cassie Rollins, Kate Jarman turned to Chad. “I now wish to vote yes.”
A deep murmur rose from the gallery. On the floor, senators turned to one another, absorbing what had happened. Only Macdonald Gage was still.
But Chad no longer saw him. Instead he recalled his daughter on their last evening together, filled with hope as she showed her mother and father her portfolio …
The Vice President cracked her ivory gavel, returning him to the present.
“The Chair,” she said with barely concealed emotion, “votes yes.”
Conscious of a moment passing into history, the Vice President paused.
“On this vote,” she announced, “the aye’s are fifty-one, the nay’s are fifty, and the Senate does advise and consent to the nomination of Caroline Clark Masters.”
Caroline bent forward, hands covering her eyes. She felt Blair Montgomery’s arm around her shoulder.
“You made it,” he said. “Was there ever a doubt?”
Whooping, laughing, all speaking at once, the others clustered around the President.
As Kerry stood, Kit embraced him, then Adam Shaw, seized by a sense of moment, solemnly shook his hand. “You just changed the Court, Mr. President.”
Kerry smiled. “As I remember, that was the original idea.”
He turned to Clayton. Tentative, Clayton touched his shoulder. “Congratulations, Mr. President. You did it.”
Others, the President knew, would be waiting in the Oval Office, and he should call the new Chief Justice at once. But he paused for Clayton—for all that had happened, his friend. Softly, he said, “We did it, pal. It just took sorting out.”
For the first time in weeks, Clayton’s guard slipped, and his eyes misted. Quickly, he became stoic. “How should we react?” he asked.
Kerry paused, remembering all he had risked, feeling at last the release of pressure. Then he grinned. “I think it’s time for a victory statement in the Rose Garden. The first of many.”
“What will you say?”
“That it’s a triumph for democracy.” Though he smiled, Kerry’s voice was quiet again. “Then I’ll take some questions. Just enough to crucify Macdonald Gage.”
THIRTY-TWO
TENSELY WAITING with Mary Ann for Martin Tierney, Sarah thought of the first time they had met.
The girl sat rigidly on Sarah’s couch. Sarah was not yet used to Mary Ann’s comparative slimness, her absence of a belly. Nor, at times, did Mary Ann seem accustomed to it.
“How could I have stood it,” she had asked Sarah the night before, “if the baby had been normal?”
Sarah had no answer. But, for the most part, Mary Ann was determined to see herself as right; the outcome of her abortion, Sarah sensed, had changed the balance between Mary Ann and her parents.
“I’ve talked to your father,” Sarah had told her the day before. “They want you to come back.”
That was when Mary Ann had asked about the baby.
Now, though, she waited for them. And what else could she do? She had been inundated with offers of help—scholarships, places to live, even offers of adoption. But from strangers. These were her parents, and she was fifteen; in her heart and mind she had nowhere else to go. And so Sarah had not acknowledged that she had asked Martin Tierney what he would have done.
There was a brief silence. “Love her,” he said quietly. “As before.”
But he did not sound convinced—such had been his commitment, at any costs, to preserve his grandson’s life. “Still,” Sarah said, “you must feel relieved.”
This time the silence was far longer. “In some ways,” he conceded, “it’s better. It’s better for all of us. But the outcome will be used to justify late-term abortion. You’ve already used it, and so has the President, to salvage Caroline Masters. I fear it’s opened the floodgates.”
“That was the chance you took,” Sarah said bluntly, “when you decided to take chances with Mary Ann.”
Tierney sighed audibly. “We’ll never reconcile our world-views. So let’s not try.”
After all the conflict, Sarah thought, nothing between them had changed. “What did we learn from this?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he answered. “Nothing we didn’t already know. We just know different things, and always will.”
And so Mary Ann and Sarah attempted desultory chatter until, at last, the buzzer sounded, and Sarah pressed the security button to open the main door. As she did, she was overwhelmed by doubt—whether Mary Ann and her parents could truly reconcile their differences, whether reentering their home would damage her still further, whether parents or child would ever regain their privacy.
Glancing out the window, s
he saw no reporters on the sidewalk. This much was good: Mary Ann seemed as determined as Sarah not to speak of this in public, to reclaim what normal life she could. The outcome, confirmed by autopsy, was enough for her; Sarah’s decision to help the President and Caroline had, to her relief, helped Mary Ann as well.
Turning, Sarah looked at her, poised on the edge of the couch with her suitcase packed beside it, and thought again of how terribly young she was. And, once more, of the first day they had met.
“Well,” Sarah said, “we’ve gone through the worst part.”
Seconds from her father’s arrival at Sarah’s door, Mary Ann looked ever more apprehensive. “I’m still going through it.”
This was true, Sarah acknowledged, and there now was little Sarah could do.
The doorbell rang.
Quickly, the girl stood, her face tight with anxiety. Sarah embraced her. “I hope it’ll be okay,” Mary Ann murmured.
Sarah paused for a moment, flooded with her own doubt. “Call me,” she said. “Once things settle down.”
Mary Ann leaned back, tears filling her eyes. “I love you, Sarah.”
Choked with emotion, Sarah held her tight. Then, managing to smile, she released Mary Ann and went to open the door.
Martin Tierney stood there, hands folded in front of him. How strange this must be, Sarah thought: however he felt, his daughter had suffered a trauma, and he had not been at the hospital. Now he gazed past Sarah at his daughter.
“Mary Ann?” It was spoken with such uncertainty that he seemed to question whether she would come with him.
Tentative, she stepped forward.
Her father glanced toward the suitcase. “Is that all you have?”
“Yes.” Mary Ann hesitated. “My normal clothes are still at home.”
And a normal life, Sarah could only hope.
Martin Tierney picked up the suitcase. “Are you all right?” he asked his daughter.
“Yes. I’m all right.”
“Then let’s go.”
He still had not touched her, nor she him, and Margaret Tierney was not here. The Protection of Life Act, Sarah thought with renewed bitterness, had done its work well. Then, with an uncertainty close to deference, Martin Tierney took his daughter’s arm.
Facing Sarah, he merely nodded. Sarah realized that she still hoped for some understanding between them, a clearing of the air, even as she realized that this was not to be. So to Martin Tierney she said nothing. To Mary Ann she repeated, “Whenever you want to, you can call.”
The girl seemed to freeze, caught between Sarah and her parents for the last time. And then she smiled, a small, sad movement of the lips, and went with her father.
Sarah watched them from a window, feeling far less relief than she had imagined at the loosening of the bonds which, for seemingly endless weeks, had left her with no other life, and had surely changed the one she had before.
Martin Tierney grasped the suitcase in one hand; the other lightly touched his daughter’s elbow. They stopped by a blue Volvo. To Sarah’s surprise, the front passenger door opened, and Margaret Tierney got out.
On the sidewalk, Mary Ann was still. Then her mother’s encircling arms lightly cradled her shoulder blades. Her forehead touched Mary Ann’s.
After a moment, Mary Ann got in the back seat, and the blue Volvo disappeared. Tears came to Sarah’s eyes.
But she was free.
Alone, she considered the question which, only in the last few days, had begun to emerge from her subconscious: What now?
The immediate answer was that, tonight, friends she had hardly seen in all this time were taking her out to celebrate; tomorrow, other friends from the firm were having a party at which, she was humorously assured, John Nolan and the executive committee would appear to give her an award. The meaning of the joke was clear: in her accomplishment—and, yes, her fame—Sarah had transcended caring.
She was twenty-nine, a lawyer barely long enough to sign her own brief in the Supreme Court, and she had achieved what most lawyers never would.
She was free—and now was free to consider what that meant. It did not, she imagined, likely mean pursuing a partnership at Kenyon & Walker. Somewhere in the last two months, she had realized that the burdens of the Tierney case had obscured the blessings of representing what she believed in.
Perhaps that was what this meant to her. She would not, she suspected, ever become a judge; she had made herself too controversial too early. But there was much else she could do: in time, Clayton Slade had intimated, there might be a place at the White House—the President admired her abilities.
Sarah had smiled to herself: she had learned enough to perceive this as seduction—the Chief of Staff had wanted something. But perhaps it was real, as well, and in any case this hardly mattered; regardless of the future, Kerry Kilcannon had turned out to be a president worth helping.
One thing she was sure of. F. Scott Fitzgerald was wrong: there are second acts in American lives—and third acts, and a thousand permutations in between. Whatever befell her, Sarah believed that she could face it with serenity.
All this, she thought, because of a fifteen-year-old girl.
THIRTY-THREE
LATE THAT afternoon, Macdonald Gage awaited three colleagues who had asked to meet with him in privacy.
For twenty-four hours, Kerry Kilcannon’s victory had dominated the news—most strikingly, his impromptu press conference in the Rose Garden. Though by now Gage could have recited much of it from memory, he found himself intently watching clips of Kilcannon’s performance on CNN’s Inside Politics.
The President looked fresh, invigorated. He had begun with the expected: that the confirmation of Caroline Masters had “reasserted the independence of the judiciary by placing integrity above politics.” Only when the questions began did his hidden purpose emerge.
“You’ve been severely criticized,” Sam Donaldson called out, “for abusing the investigative powers of the FBI. Wasn’t its seizure of documents allegedly passed on by former Senator Taylor a raid in search of a crime?”
In close-up, Kilcannon looked expectant and, Gage thought, faintly amused. “Let’s start with what we know happened. First, Kyle Palmer’s consent form was illegally stolen, violating her right to privacy. Second, three copies of that form were leaked; on each copy, Mason Taylor’s prints appear.
“That,” Kilcannon said with palpable contempt, “is not merely despicable. It is not only the predicate for her death. It suggests a conspiracy to violate Kyle Palmer’s civil rights—which is a federal crime.
“I’ve asked the Justice Department to determine who else may have engaged in this conspiracy and, if warranted, to seek indictments.” Kilcannon’s eyes were cold, his voice quiet. “I won’t forget Kyle Palmer. Before those we’ve identified try to conceal the involvement of others, they should remember that.”
“Does ‘others’ refer to Senator Gage?” Kelly Wallace of CNN inquired.
The President shrugged slightly. “I’m referring to anyone involved. Whoever they may be.”
“But do you think he should remain as Majority Leader?”
The President smiled slightly. “I don’t presume to know the results of the Justice Department inquiry, and I certainly don’t propose to tell my Republican friends in the Senate who should or should not lead them.” Pausing, Kilcannon seemed—or, Gage was certain, pretended—to search for words. “I will simply say this,” he finished. “Anyone involved in the death of Kyle Palmer will not be welcome here.”
Gage flipped off the television.
It was a made-up crime, he thought angrily—two of the smartest lawyers in Washington had told him it was a stretch, that “conspiracy” was a ruthless prosecutor’s way of casting the widest possible net. But in the last twenty-four hours Mace Taylor had not returned his calls.
Fretful, he dialed Taylor again.
Nothing.
Slamming down the telephone, Gage began to pace. He had not known what Ta
ylor would do—let alone when or how. His awareness of what Taylor knew, and that sooner or later he would use it, did not amount to complicity—let alone “conspiracy.” And it was in Taylor’s professional interests not to implicate anyone else.
But Taylor could, if Kilcannon scared him enough. Taylor could trade Gage for a deal, or for immunity, by lying about Gage’s role; the government could not win such a case, but it might leave an imperishable stain. Once more, he regretted his decision to accept Mace Taylor’s help, reprised his own well-judged concern that Taylor’s methods would entwine him.
Taylor’s and—he belatedly realized—Kilcannon’s.
“This town,” Chad Palmer had told him, “may wind up littered with the bodies of people who’ve underrated Kerry Kilcannon.”
All day Gage had heard rumblings—meetings which did not include him; rumors of unrest about which the Majority Whip, his second in command, was dismissive; stories, even, of calls to and from the White House. And now he waited for his visitors: Leo Weller, Paul Harshman, and Kate Jarman.
They were an odd assortment—Weller, a traditional conservative; Harshman, a firebrand with a narrow but zealous following among his peers; Jarman, a representative of the party’s embattled moderates. That anything united them enough to request a meeting was worrisome indeed.
Composing himself, Gage called on all his reserves of wisdom and calculation.
Entering, Gage noted with apprehension, they seemed awkward. Harshman did not attempt to smile; Weller’s smile was feigned to the point of ghastliness; Kate Jarman was quiet—waiting for someone else to take the lead. With a minimum of small talk, they sat, Kate and Harshman glancing toward Leo Weller.
Weller’s twinkling good cheer vanished, replaced by a cool gray-eyed gaze better known to Gage than to the voters of Montana. “I guess you know why we’re here,” Weller said.
“I have no idea.” Gage was pleased that, even now, his tone combined a casual air with a tone of cold command. “Yesterday we lost in the Senate by a single vote. Today Kilcannon’s having his little moment. It hardly seems worth a deputation, with all of you as grave as a mortician at grandma’s funeral.”
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