"His trial's coming up." Her voice became constricted. "I'm scared for him, scared for us. If he loses his job . . ."
"He's trying to scare you. It's emotional terrorism . . ."
"Listen," she insisted, and her husband's plaintive voice filled the Oval Office.
I can't go to work, Joanie. I can't even get out of bed . . .
"He managed to send you flowers," Kerry interjected. "To make phone call after phone call . . ."
You're destroying me. Bowden's tone approached hysteria. You've taken my home, my daughter, my reason for living . . .
"It's like he's in the room," Joan was saying. "I can feel him." Her husband's voice sounded muffled by choked tears.
Marie. I miss my little girl . . .
Softly, Kerry requested, "Please, turn him off."
There was a moment's delay, and then Bowden's pleading went silent in midsentence.
Kerry exhaled. "There's nothing new here. 'I'm the victim,' John keeps saying. 'Come back into my closed-off world, or terrible things may happen.' "
Kerry waited out her silence. Tiredly, Joan asked, "What if I just tried it . . ."
Hearing her despair, Kerry fought his worry and impatience. "Last week, Joanie, he put a gun to your head."
There was a knock at Kerry's door, and Clayton stuck his head in.
Switching off the speaker, Kerry picked up his telephone. "Hang on," he said to Joan, and stared at Clayton. In silent inquiry, Clayton raised his eyebrows.
"I'm on with Joan," Kerry snapped. "What is it?"
Clayton's brusque nod was, Kerry knew, meant to telegraph his concern about Joan Bowden. "Sorry to interrupt," Clayton answered, "but Martin Bresler's on the line, sounding close to suicidal."
Kerry frowned. While useful, Martin Bresler struck him as someone whose sense of disproportion might lead him to deem every internecine skirmish worthy of a President's attention. "Try Jack Sanders," Kerry instructed. "He's Bresler's contact person."
"I suggested that. Bresler says he has to talk to you. Do you want to just say no, or set another time?"
Pausing, Kerry thought of Joan. "How much time do I have right now?"
"The AIDS activists have been waiting for ten minutes. After them you've got the National Security Council."
Kerry glanced at his watch. "Tell the AIDS people I'll be with them in five, and put Bresler through."
Clayton briefly disappeared, giving instructions to Kerry's secretary. With fresh urgency, Kerry said to Joan, "Please, hang in there until the hearing. Keep calling to check in."
"Okay." She sounded unsettled and unsure. "It's just so hard . . ."
Distracted, Kerry motioned Clayton to take a seat. When Joan said a wan goodbye, he picked up his second line.
"Martin?" he asked. "What's up?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. President. The gun-show deal's off."
Bresler sounded jangled, like a man who had drunk too much coffee with too little sleep or food. "Why?" the President asked.
"They just did it." Bresler's speech was rapid. "I really can't talk about that. I just wanted to tell you myself. I was proud to work with you, Mr. President. But now I've got no job . . ."
"Is there something I can do?"
"No." Bresler's voice lowered. "You've got no idea how much they hate you."
Kerry did. But there was no point saying that to a man in extremis. "What if you expose what the SSA is doing . . ."
"That would ruin me, Mr. President." Abruptly, Bresler summoned a belated dignity. "I just wanted you to know, and to thank you for your courtesies."
Feeling anger overwhelm his pity, Kerry repeated, "If I can be of any help . . ."
"I wish you could." With these last dispirited words, Bresler thanked him again and got off.
Kerry slammed the phone.
Clayton stood. "What is it?"
"The SSA. Somehow they got Bresler, though he won't say that directly. It's their message to anyone who tries to deal with me on guns." Belatedly, Kerry stood as well. "They must have put the screws to the gun companies. Maybe the antitrust division should take a look at this."
Clayton folded his arms. "Hardball's not illegal—if it were, you'd be in jail. Bring in the Justice Department, and you'll be the overreaching proto-dictator the right wing says you are."
"In my dreams, Clayton."
"Maybe in your second term. In the meantime, it's enough to try and conquer AIDS."
At this reminder, Kerry headed for the door. But he could not let go of his anger. "We'll conquer AIDS," he said over his shoulder, "before we ever stop slaughtering each other with guns. AIDS doesn't have the SSA behind it—at least officially." Opening the door, he turned and ordered, "Track down that guy George Callister, from Lexington Arms. I'd like to have a word with him."
ELE VEN
On the following Sunday, two days after the public announcement of Kerry's wedding date, the President met in secret with George Callister.
The date and place were carefully chosen. A weekend offered Kerry some relief from press vigilance, and a chance for seclusion; on this weekend, the prospect of a presidential wedding—setting off a spate of stories and a headlong competition for interviews with Lara, Kerry, or both—consumed the media's attention. Thus it seemed only natural that, on a balmy Sunday morning, the President would seek respite at Camp David. The press did not know that, an hour before, George Callister had arrived.
Among the White House staff, only Clayton and Jack Sanders knew of this meeting—Callister, as he assured the President, had told no one but his wife. "Unlike you," Callister observed dryly, "even the devil himself doesn't want to confiscate our guns." For Kerry's part, he had determined to go slowly—it was enough, in this first meeting, to take the measure of George Callister.
Now, in the wooded seclusion of the Catoctin Range, the two men toured Camp David. Hands in the pockets of his blue jeans, Callister stopped on the wooded trail to breathe in mountain air, cooler by degrees than in the flatlands of the capital. "I grew up in Minnesota," he told the President. "My father and I spent weekends in the woods, fishing and hunting. The things his father taught him."
Kerry did not miss this implicit statement of their differences. "I'm a city boy," he answered. "I grew up liking sun and ocean and beaches. Sometimes Camp David's so quiet at night that I imagine hearing the Manson family."
Callister looked at him wryly. "But it's secure. And very private."
"It is that. We're in the middle of a national park, with absolute restrictions on overhead flights and unauthorized visitors, surrounded by a double cyclone fence, attack dogs, sensors, concrete barriers, the Secret Service and at least one hundred Marines. We're safe from Mah moud Al Anwar and the New York Times." Kerry paused a moment, adding, "Even the SSA."
Callister did not take the bait. "Still, you don't like it."
Kerry looked about him. "There's a lot I do like. There's so much history here—Roosevelt and Churchill planning the Normandy invasion, Carter brokering the peace agreement between Begin and Sadat." Pausing at a rise above the trees, Kerry pointed at the valley below, a sequence of rolling hills which softened in the distance of a sun-streaked mist. "It's hard not to appreciate views like that. The White House is a gilded cage—elegant, but hardly private. Here Lara and I can open the front door and walk out in the yard, or play a mediocre game of tennis completely unobserved." As they began walking again, Kerry added, "When I was a kid, I couldn't imagine having a vacation home of any kind. Even on loan from the government."
Callister gave him a sideways glance. "Neither of us had money, Mr. President. Like you, I worked my way through school."
Kerry nodded. "That's not all bad, of course. But law school was a little short on leisure time."
"Did you ever hunt?"
"Shoot Bambi? No thanks. To me, hunting is the only sport where your competition doesn't know they're playing. I've never even fired a gun, though my father wanted to teach me." Kerry stared at the trail wending towa
rd his lodge. "He was a cop, I guess you know. He used to carry a Lexington Peacekeeper."
Kerry left the rest unsaid—that he associated his father's gun with mindless brutality, the questionable killing of a black man who had "resisted arrest." But Callister paused once more to look at him. "With respect, Mr. President, how can you understand a product you've never used?"
Kerry turned to him. "It's true," he answered in level tones. "I've never shot a gun. But I've been shot, and I've lost a member of my family. So have a lot of other Americans. We have reason, you and I, to try to narrow our differences."
* * *
After breakfast, they sat beside a swimming pool near Kerry's cabin. Once more Kerry was struck by Callister's midwestern solidity and unflinching gaze. A man not given to artifice or flattery, or saying what he did not mean.
Callister put down his mug of black coffee. "My industry isn't a big moneymaker, Mr. President. Most of us are in it because we know and appreciate guns and respect the craft of making them.
"I've been in this business twenty years. Of all the manufacturers, Lexington may have the proudest history—we've been arming our military and police going back to the Civil War. When I took this job six months ago, it wasn't to get rich but to help this company survive."
The President nodded. "I've got no quarrel with that, George. But Lexington makes weapons no law-abiding civilian needs, like handguns good only for killing people quickly. Cop-killer bullets, too. I'm wondering why."
Callister shrugged. "A gun, Mr. President, is only as good or bad as the man who uses it. But the weapons you're complaining about all preceded my arrival." Pausing, he fixed Kerry with a steady, inquiring gaze. "Just how much do you know about the business of selling guns?"
"Not as much as you."
"Well, guns are like Singer sewing machines—treat them right, and they don't wear out. Some of our revolvers from the Civil War are still in circulation." Callister allowed himself a brief, sardonic smile, as if amused by the President's need for this tutorial. "In short, guns aren't consumable. There's no such thing as obsolescence. All we can offer is newer and better.
"Our problem is 'to whom?' The times are running against us—there are still hunters out there, and sport shooters, but fewer of them. Maybe women are becoming a bigger slice of the consumer pie, but not for us . . ."
"Unless you scare them to death."
Callister gave Kerry a keen look. "Yes, we market self-defense to women—to everyone. It's their right to protect their homes and families."
"Is that all you're selling? Self-defense for Mom and Dad? Or do they have to worry about criminals armed with even deadlier Lexington guns?"
Callister frowned again. "We can't be held accountable for a buyer's motives. Would you say that gun fanciers have no right to buy a semiautomatic handgun, or that someone with a deep belief in the Second Amendment shouldn't buy whatever weapons he wants?"
"The whole Second Amendment argument," Kerry countered with some impatience, "is senseless—this idea that the Constitution is a sui cide pact, with the Founding Fathers hell-bent on arming private citizens to overthrow the government they'd just created. They thought that's what voting was for."
At this, Callister briefly laughed. "Please, Mr. President—say that in public. The four million members of the SSA will fill our coffers by arming themselves to the teeth. This may pain you, but the three weeks after your election were our most profitable in years. Every speech you give on gun control is worth hundreds of thousands in free advertising."
Kerry could not help but smile at the irony. "You're saying that my great crusade is more like 'rope a dope,' when Muhammad Ali let George Foreman punch himself into exhaustion. And that I'm George Foreman."
"Much slimmer, Mr. President. And certainly no dope." Callister's expression became serious again. "But that's the problem with this whole debate. Gun controllers aren't so much stupid as flat ignorant— they don't know the guns they're trying to ban, or see the consequence of what they're asking for. They pass a law banning so-called assault weapons and cutting magazine capacity to ten rounds, and help create by inadvertence a whole new market for handguns which can fire ten rounds in seconds . . ."
"Or in Lexington's case," Kerry cut in with a caustic edge, "take advantage of an SSA-created loophole allowing small, concealable handguns to accommodate the forty-round magazines Lexington made before the law was passed."
Callister frowned. "You've done your homework, Mr. President. But a lot of manufacturers did that."
"Well that's the problem, isn't it." Leaning forward, Kerry spoke with new intensity. "Lexington could have made guns safer, looked for ways to ensure a gun could only be used by its owner—not by his kid, or against him by intruders. But instead you made them more concealable and more lethal. Then told Americans they needed more and deadlier guns to protect themselves from all those other Americans with even more and deadlier guns. You can't credit me for that."
Callister met his gaze. "Guns aren't going away, Mr. President. As for safety, why not teach it to kids? We wouldn't have half the accidents we do. But the gun controllers are like the folks who want to stop teen sex through abstinence education—teaching safe sex means fornication, and gun safety means more gun owners. Which is exactly what they don't want."
Silent, Kerry gazed into his coffee cup, then beyond them at the sweep of mountains. "We can debate this all day," he said at length. "At the end, on average, eighty more people will have died."
"If that's true," Callister replied, "they'd be dead regardless. If we're going to get anywhere, you'll have to understand how hard it is to get there. And why."
Kerry looked at him steadily. "I'm willing to listen, George. And then I may have a proposal for you. If you're willing to come back."
Callister considered this, eyes narrow, and then nodded. "I'm willing, Mr. President. But only if no one leaks it."
TWELVE
Beneath the ov erhead light in her kitchen, Joan Bowden sat at the table, staring at a stack of unpaid bills. Through the answering machine her husband blamed her.
I've lost my job. You've emasculated me . . .
Swallowing, Joan choked back tears.
Did you hear me, Joan . . . ?
John's inflection wavered between pleading and hysteria. Hand trembling, Joan reached for the telephone.
"John?"
His voice suddenly gained strength. "You've gone too far, Joanie . . ."
"What's this about your job . . ."
"I couldn't work." His timbre became high-pitched, as insistent as a child shifting blame. "I told you that. You've taken everything away from me."
Through her fears, she could feel his isolation. More quietly, she said, "I didn't want to. I was just so scared . . ."
"Why do I hurt so much? I hurt all the time now—physically, like a sickness . . ."
Impatience overcame Joan's guilt. "Why is it up to me, John? Why can't you help yourself? I keep asking you about counseling . . ."
"It's too late for that. I've got no family now. You're sending me to jail. There's nothing left to live for . . ."
"Stop it."
As if he were strengthened by her panic, John's voice calmed. "What's to stop me from coming to the house and blowing my brains out with a gun?"
Startled, Joan blurted, "Marie."
"I can't see her, remember? You've taken her from me. But I won't leave her to you, Joanie. That's what you want, isn't it?"
Joan sat down, trying to stay rational. "What do you mean?"
His tone retained its eerie calm. "I won't go by myself, Joanie. You'll go with me."
It was as if, Joan thought, she was caught in John's descent into madness. "Then Marie would be an orphan . . ."
"My parents could raise her."
"Your parents. How could you do that to her?"
"It would be your fault." The words mingled accusation with pity. "You never face your own responsibility, do you?"
Nerves f
rayed, Joan cried out, "This is crazy—you turn everything around . . ."
"You've turned my world inside out." His tone turned soft, ominous. "But now it's happening to you, isn't it. And you can't take it."
There was silence. The sound of the click, John hanging up, terrified her more than anything he had said.
* * *
Tuxedo tie dangling around his collar, Kerry glanced at his watch. As though she could see him, Joan interrupted her narrative.
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