"Look, George, we all know the realities. Gun shows shaft lawabiding dealers and put your guns in the hands of criminals who wind up killing someone. So you end up with terrible PR and a raft of lawsuits from people who think you should be held responsible for who gets guns that can fire ten rounds in seconds."
"But we're not responsible." Callister's voice was grim. "Let's be blunt. The man who shot you got a used Lexington gun on the street. We didn't know the seller, we didn't know the shooter. What would you have had us do?"
Kerry's gaze and voice were level. "I didn't sue you, did I? But here's what you can do: refuse to let your dealers sell your guns at gun shows unless the promoter runs background checks on every gun sold. The promoter will have no choice but to agree.
"We have to get this done. Or by next month, or the month after, we'll have that many more deaths on our hands. I doubt there's anyone in this room who wants them on their conscience." Pausing, Kerry focused on George Callister. "I appreciate that the SSA is a problem. But I will be, as well. I'd like to think it matters which one of us is right."
Callister wore a skeptical frown: "right" is one thing, his expression said, power another, and no executive of a gun company can overlook the difference. Quietly, Kerry finished, "If all of you stick together, you can liberate your industry from your 'protectors' at the SSA. Saving lives will be a bonus."
There was an uncomfortable silence, and then Martin Bresler intervened. "One step at a time, Mr. President. We can't take too much excitement."
At this, Kerry smiled, standing. "Ready for the Rose Garden?" he asked. "I'll stick my head out first, and see who's shooting."
* * *
When Kerry returned to the Oval Office it was close to eleven-thirty, eight-thirty in San Francisco. By now, Kerry calculated, Marie would be in school, John Bowden on his way to work. It took a minute to track down the D.A. for San Francisco, one more to conference in the chief of his domestic violence unit.
"Mr. President," Jack Halloran began. "To what do we owe this honor?"
The D.A., Kerry thought, sounded dazed by more than hearing from him. A onetime student radical of dubious stability, Jack Halloran liked to drink too much. To Kerry, this threatened whatever clarity Halloran retained: it was Kerry's private theory that Halloran had rewired his brain with hallucinogens sometime in the 1960s, well before his bewildering reincarnation as a Democratic pol. At the very least, his judgment was impaired—Kerry only hoped that his deputy, a woman named Marcia Harding, was as capable as she needed to be.
"It's my future sister-in-law," Kerry said without preface, and tersely described Joan's call. "She's in trouble," he concluded. "And her daughter has seen far too much."
"Will Joan fill out a complaint?" Marcia Harding asked.
"Yes," Kerry said, and hoped that it was so. "Once she does, can you get a kick-out order before Bowden gets home tonight?"
"Sure." To his relief, Harding sounded unruffled. "After notice and a hearing, we'll go for an emergency protective order, finding that he's a threat to the safety of his wife and child, and barring him from stalking, harassing, threatening, or using force. We'll also ask for an order keeping him away from Marie."
"Can you get him into a program for batterers?"
"There's a backlog, Mr. President. But pretty soon."
"What about guns? This guy's a stick of dynamite."
"The cops will search the house, his car, anywhere he might keep a weapon. And the judge will order him to turn in any guns."
"That's all fine," Kerry told her, "but worry about Bowden buying another."
"We'll do our damnedest, sir. Once the judge issues the order, the cops enter it into our computer system. California law's much stronger than federal law—anytime anyone transfers a gun, like at a gun show, they have to run a background check. Bowden will come out denied."
"Then please, do me a favor, Marcia. Enter the order yourself." Standing, Kerry began to pace. "I used to do this work. Too often the guy at the computer is some bitter old cop with a bad arm, stuck with a menial task because he's disqualified for street duty." In a softer tone, Kerry added, "I'm sorry if I sound anxious. But this is Lara's niece and sister, and I know what can go wrong."
"Don't worry, Mr. President." It was Jack Halloran, anxious to regain center stage. "I will personally enter this order."
Please, Kerry thought, don't. "If Marcia says she will," the President responded mildly, "that's probably best. Everyone knows you, Jack—if you do this yourself, it could hit the papers.
"That's the final favor I'm asking: please try to keep this out of the media. That could only inflame Bowden, and it would be humiliating for Joan. She shouldn't have to suffer because her sister's marrying the President."
There was a momentary silence. "I can't issue a guarantee," Harding answered. "But I've got no reason to tell anyone who Joan's sister is, or mention that you called me. Battering is battering."
Kerry sat again. "Thank you," he said with relief. "Lara will be grateful, too."
* * *
By late afternoon, the police had arrested John Bowden. The lead article in the Washington Times was "President, Gun Companies Announce Pact." Martin Bresler was quoted as hailing "a new maturity and moderation in the American gun community." The final quote was from the president of the SSA, Charles Dane: "No good can come to those who stand with Kerry Kilcannon."
NINE
"I've checked the Saturday of Labor Day weekend," Kit Pace said to Lara. "In terms of television, it might seem pretty good for a wedding—no conflicts with major sports events, no big network specials. But that's because the networks know better: who wants to be inside watching television on the last weekend of summer?"
With a sense of resignation, Lara looked at the others. They sat in the yellow Oval Room of the President's private residence: Kit, Kerry's press secretary; Clayton; Connie Coulter, a savvy young public relations expert Lara had asked to become her press secretary; and Francesca Thibault, the White House social secretary. Kerry sat next to Lara; the others, sworn to secrecy, were the planning group for their wedding. At Lara's insistence they had chosen Sunday afternoon—with its diminished scrum of reporters outside the West Wing—for their first meeting.
"It doesn't matter," Lara answered blithely. "We're planning on a two-line announcement: 'The President and his fiancée, Lara Costello, were married today. Ms. Costello plans to keep her name.' "
"Three lines," Kerry amended. "You can add 'The happy couple is honeymooning at an undisclosed location.' "
Kit's smile was tentative, as if she were worried that, beneath the levity, Lara was drawing a line. "Are you two planning on a second term?" she inquired dryly. "If so, to affirmatively include the country in your wedding would be absolutely unifying."
Lara managed to smile. "I'm all for unity," she said. "My modest hope is for a wedding somewhat more subdued than halftime at the Super Bowl. Consistent with the wishes of the media, Kerry's political advisors, and the Democratic National Committee."
The wry edge in Lara's tone elicited, from Kit, a sympathetic shake of the head. "During the transition," she responded, "I had a meeting with my predecessor. He'd run a computer search to identify the subject on which he'd gotten the most inquiries. The winner—by over ten times more than the war in Kosovo—was the President's acquisition of Frisky, his Boston terrier. The questions included whether Frisky would get spayed, and the existence of protective measures to keep him from disemboweling the First Lady's pet Siamese.
"Your wedding, it goes without saying, is somewhat bigger than the acquisition of a dog . . ."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Lara interrupted with a smile.
"Lara," the President informed Kit, "is wondering whether Frisky at least got to keep his job."
Kit threw up her hands in mock dismay. "Welcome," she said, "to the theater of the absurd."
Dark, elegant, and dangerously thin, Francesca Thibault hastened to infuse a note of seriousness. "Th
e challenge," she interjected, "is to have a public event which is true to who you are.
"This is not an old-fashioned society wedding. You and the President are the American meritocracy. So we can style it as a private event— scaled down, with a touch of informality; a wedding party comprised of friends and family; and a larger reception to include the guests we just can't do without."
"Can we 'do without' guests who actively hate us?" Lara asked.
"Not really," Clayton answered, deadpan, "but we can probably set a quota."
"Jokes aside," Connie Coulter said to Lara, "the composition of the guest list is important. It can't be so big that an invitation is meaningless or so political that it looks crass."
"But what is 'it'?" Lara asked. "A wedding, or our reception?"
"A White House wedding," Francesca Thibault answered firmly, "whatever the guest list." Turning to the President, she said, "The last time a President married at the White House was almost ninety years ago, and that was Woodrow Wilson . . ."
"A White House reception," Clayton corrected. "The wedding should be in a Catholic church."
Lara glanced at Kerry. "Clayton," Kerry told her baldly, "wants to clean up my problems with the Church. Until the annulment, I was a divorced, pro-choice opponent of prayer in public school, whose selection for Chief Justice is absolute anathema to the Catholic hierarchy. And, in particular, to Cardinal McKiernan, the archbishop of this diocese."
"It's not just the hierarchy," Clayton said to Lara. "Last November, Kerry only carried fifty-two percent of the Catholic vote. The bloodbath over making Caroline Masters Chief Justice—after she ruled in favor of late term abortion—has made those numbers even worse."
The lightness of spirit Lara felt had vanished. As the others did not, Clayton knew of her abortion: to the extent he could, he was trying to inoculate Kerry against scandal by cloaking their marriage in the blessings of the Church.
"What about St. Mathew's?" Francesca Thibault asked. "Where the President goes to Mass. It's a magnificent structure . . ."
"Which," Kit interjected, "would televise beautifully."
Lara glanced at the others, then at Kerry last, and saw his look of reflection. Clayton, too, looked at Kerry before speaking to Lara. "Cardinal McKiernan," he told her, "would see it as a tribute. So would Catholics nationwide."
"So would everyone," Kit told the President. "Suppose we have pool coverage only, and a stationary camera . . ."
"What's to keep them," Kerry interjected, "from treating it like the New Hampshire primary? While Lara and I are repeating vows, CNN is saying, 'Our instant tracking polls are showing that the President's numbers among Catholics are up seventeen percent.' Just how exploitative do we want to look?"
"We can set the ground rules," Kit answered. "We can even select the commentator. We've got the leverage here."
"What about still photographs?" Lara suggested. "Won't that be enough?"
"It's not the same," Kit insisted. "This isn't about show business, or even politics. It's a unique moment in American history, and Americans will want to share it. Please consider giving them that."
There was silence, and then Francesca Thibault spoke. "What about a small wedding at St. Mathew's?" she asked. "Televised with dignity. Then a larger but still manageable reception at the White House, with the White House photographer and perhaps our own video crew. Elegant tents on the South Lawn, dancing in the East Room."
"With a mariachi band?" Lara asked.
Only Clayton did not smile. "Actually," he said, "that's not such a terrible idea."
Connie Coulter gave Lara a quick glance. "We can only avoid a charge of elitism," she argued, "by including the American people. But we can't let in random tourists—in the age of Mahmoud Al Anwar, that would be a Secret Service nightmare. One could argue that televising the wedding is more intimate and meaningful than televised toasts and dancing."
Listening, Lara felt the wedding slipping away from her in the cross current of advice. "Who would officiate?" Kit was asking. "Cardinal McKiernan?"
"My old parish priest," Kerry said promptly. "Father Joe Donegan."
Clayton raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that the cardinal's call?"
"I'm the President, Clayton. Vince McKiernan can pass out wafers."
Clayton smiled at this. "A simple nuptial mass," Francesca Thibault offered, "with tasteful liturgical music."
Kit glanced at Lara. "Who might be in the wedding party?"
"Beautiful people," Francesca suggested dryly, "without a hint of scandal."
"My college roommates," Lara said. "Anna Chen from NBC is one of my closest friends. My sisters, of course."
Kit gave an emphatic nod. "That's great. The media, including the Spanish language media, will want them before the wedding . . ."
"Oh, absolutely," Lara said with mock sincerity. "Hispanics and women carried California. And who better to help with Catholics than my family?"
"They're part of who you are," Kit answered. "It's your burden, Lara, to be more popular than the President."
"We're all proud of Lara's family," Kerry interjected. "But having them with us is enough. We don't want anyone to use them."
Lara touched his arm. "For Kerry's sake," she told the others, "I'll do my part. I'll learn to live with becoming 'Lara Costello Kilcannon.' I'll even consider television. But about my family, I want everything—and I mean that—to go through Connie and me."
"Of course." Clayton said this so quickly that Lara wondered if he and Kit had used her family as a cat's-paw, hoping for other concessions to political practicality. Like a televised wedding at St. Mathew's.
"Concerning the gown," Francesca Thibault suggested brightly, "this is a chance to put your stamp on contemporary fashion. But the designer has to be an American—perhaps Vera Wang or Carolina Herrera . . ."
* * *
When the meeting was over, Clayton asked to speak to them alone.
"About the honeymoon," he observed, "isn't Martha's Vineyard too much of a privileged enclave?"
"We like it," Kerry answered crisply. "Sorry, pal, no Yellowstone. Or pup tents with mosquito nets."
Clayton's smile came and went. "The other thing is Lara's sister. Joan."
"What about Joan?" Lara asked.
Clayton turned to her. "For a week now, the President's managed to keep her problems quiet. But once the media knows you're getting married, there'll be more focus on your family—including your brother-inlaw. Your chances of keeping that from becoming public will diminish day by day.
"Imagine some tabloid story two days before the wedding—embarrassing your family, sapping some of the joy out of what, for them and all the rest of us, should be a wonderful day . . ."
Listening, Lara imagined Joan's sense of betrayal. "We're trying to protect her, Clayton."
"Then talk to her about a carefully managed disclosure, sooner rather than later. Perhaps softened with a broader message on combating family violence."
Lara stared at him. Glancing at her, Kerry said softly, "Remember my mother? You know how I feel about this."
Clayton was unflinching. "What happened to your mother ended twenty-five years ago. You're President now and the media's very different. You won't be able to control this."
"We can damn well try," Kerry told his closest friend. "Beginning with you."
TEN
Standing in her kitchen, Joan Bowden held the telephone to her ear, one finger of her other hand resting on the replay button of her answering machine. Her throat was dry. The living room was filled with flowers; the answering machine jammed with messages. It was only two p.m.
"I didn't want to call you," she said to Kerry. "But it's been like this since I got the stay-away order. Deliverymen ringing the doorbell, John leaving message after message. He sounds more desperate every day."
"What does he say?" the President asked.
"Listen," Joan said, and pushed the button. Her husband's disembodied voice echoed in the kitchen.
"Did you talk to him?" Kerry cut in.
"Yes. I asked him to go with me to counseling . . ."
I don't need therapy, the recorded voice said. I don't need anyone but you. We can fix it together . . .
Joan stabbed the stop button. Wearily, she said, "He just keeps saying that, over and over . . ."
* * *
As Kerry listened, her words over the speakerphone sounded in the Oval Office. Their tension kept him taut and still. "Joanie," he entreated, "don't let John pull you back in . . ."
Balance of Power Page 6
