Balance of Power

by Richard North Patterson

  "Start with the public. Maybe twenty percent believe guns are sacred. Another twenty percent—which you seem to represent—thinks guns should be melted down and turned into manhole covers . . ."

  "Remind me," Kerry interjected, "to propose that."

  Callister did not smile. "The rest," he continued, "are all those folks in the middle, who go back and forth, swayed by events, and yet hold the balance of power.

  "Next are the politicians, who need the people in the middle to keep their jobs. So every time some lunatic shoots up a day-care center, you Democrats take up the cry for gun control, hoping to convince enough mothers that some new gun law will actually protect their kids . . ."

  Nettled, Kerry held up his hand. "If you're saying I'm cynical about this . . ."

  "At least I'm not questioning your manhood." There was a glint of amusement in Callister's eyes. "I accept that you're different, Mr. President. You've certainly got reason to be. But I've learned not to trust a class of people whose first priority is self-perpetuation. And I sure as hell don't trust them to be fair.

  "Frankly, I think a lot of your Democrat friends would rather keep the issue alive, and complain about the SSA, than pass a law. Others would rather take credit for passing a bullshit law which sounds good but does nothing. Because all they really care about is winning the next election."

  Whatever quarrel Kerry might have with this, he had no doubt that Callister's bleak view of politics was deeply held. "So far," he said, "we've got the public, which is fickle, and the politicians who exploit them. What makes that problem unique to you?"

  "The lawyers." Callister's voice combined disdain with resignation. "The plaintiffs' lawyers—your fervent supporters—are always looking for the next big thing. Five years ago it was tobacco: that's where they got all the money they keep giving to politicians who treat lawsuits as the American way. After tobacco, they decided to take a run at us.

  "They dress it up in a lot of noble rhetoric, trying to make us out to be the moral equivalent of R.J. Reynolds. But these lawsuits all come down to a single bogus theory: that because guns can be used to kill people, we're responsible whenever somebody actually uses a gun to kill someone—particularly if they can call it an 'assault weapon' . . ."

  "If the suits are bogus," Kerry interrupted, "why worry?"

  "Bogus or not, they cost money. We have to hire our own lawyers, who keep sending bills and telling us we'll win. But by the time we do win, we've paid them millions, and taken a hellacious beating in the media. Because the plaintiffs' bar has used the press, politicians, and any other weapon they can to try to taint the jury pool by poisoning the public mind." Pausing, Callister sounded genuinely weary. "Most presidents of gun companies are middle-aged white guys like me, who aren't media-slick or even photogenic. We make pretty good villains—especially with our own lawyers advising us to shut up and keep our heads down. When was the last time you saw a gun company get a break on 60 Minutes?"

  Kerry nodded. "Being ambushed by Mike Wallace," he responded, "is worth avoiding."

  "That's the fourth dimension—the media. They live off sensationalism, not enlightenment—off tragedies like Columbine and extremists on both sides. Why ask a boring guy like me about the realities of our business, when you can put on some Aryan supremacist or the president of the SSA?"

  "You can complain about the skinheads," Kerry retorted, "but you've let the SSA speak for you. You've stood silent while they've gutted the laws, even though whenever someone who shouldn't have a gun kills somebody else, the gun companies share the blame. And now they've trashed Martin Bresler for trying to get you out of a legal and public relations mess the SSA has put you in. It's a joke."

  "Anyone who controls your customer base," Callister replied, "is no joke. How do you think the SSA gets its power? By scaring the bejesus out of millions of people who buy and own our guns.

  "For the SSA, you're the man who'll strip Americans of their gun rights, and only they can stop you. And so their members—our customers—vote how the SSA says to vote, and send the SSA the money it uses to fund your political opponents, or to scare the hell out of them as well. And then the SSA goes about scaring the hell out of the rest of America by describing all the criminals who'll be beating down their doors once you've snatched their guns away. You complain about Lexington marketing fear? Our ads are nothing compared to the six o'clock news and the SSA propaganda machine.

  "I've got no way to reach my own customers, Mr. President. Let alone to reason with them." Callister stopped, his gaze holding Kerry's. "A few years ago, the president of our biggest rival was fool enough to say that he thought licensing gun owners was inevitable. The SSA didn't bother complaining to him: they used the media and their own magazine and e-mail list, and pretty soon our rival company found themselves on the wrong end of a consumer boycott which drove it to the brink of bankruptcy. Which is exactly what will happen to Lexington if the SSA finds out I'm here."

  Kerry considered him. "Tell me about Bresler," he demanded.

  Callister studied the table, then looked directly at Kerry. "Nothing pretty about that, not even a veneer of civility. They just put his head on the block . . ."—with a swift, chopping motion, Callister hit the table with the edge of a thick hand—"then mailed it to me."

  "The SSA?"

  "I can't prove that." Pausing, Callister spoke more quietly. "Whatever the SSA did, they did without me. But Bresler was a threat to them. As public relations, the safety lock agreement he made with you was brilliant—it was the first good media we've gotten in years, and maybe down the road it'll spare us lawsuits where some six-year-old kills little sis, with the gun Dad was too dumb to lock up. But the SSA lives off conflict, and the perception of its power: if we can compromise with you, and someone else can broker that deal, then the SSA is out of business . . ."

  "So they got Bresler."

  "That's what I believe. But all my fellow CEOs would say was that Bresler was too much of a self-promoter, that he was dividing the gun rights lobby."

  Kerry shook his head. "Your fellow CEOs," he observed, "may have had their reasons. But they put me in mind of lemmings."

  Callister turned, surveying the valley. "Someday," he said bleakly, "a gun company will be destroyed by a lawsuit based on some loophole the SSA and its surrogates in Congress created to protect the 'rights' of gun owners. But my colleagues can't look ahead that far, except to hope it won't be them. Because the SSA can destroy them here and now." He turned to face the President. "This may be hard for you to fathom. But I love this company, and I care about the folks who work there. I don't want Lexington Arms to be the one that goes."

  Kerry stood, taking his turn at surveying the view around them. But his mind was on his next few words. "Then the only question," he said at length, "is how to ensure that doesn't happen." Turning, he gazed down at Callister. "Right now, you're like a man in a catatonic trance— perfectly aware that you could get run over, but unable to move, or even cry out for help."

  Callister's smile mingled resentment with an acknowledgment of his dilemma. "What would you do?"

  "Take control of my own fate, for better or worse." Kerry sat again, meeting Callister's gaze. "I'll think about all you've said. I'd like you to think about how to avoid lawsuits, and what Lexington needs to survive the SSA. The next time we meet, I'll have a deal to propose. If you're willing to listen."

  For a long moment Callister studied him. "I'll listen to a President," he finally answered. "I don't need the SSA's permission for that."

  FIFTEEN

  "The President's wedding," Peter Lake said dryly, "must be the nightmare of the event-planning business."

  The head of the President's Secret Service detail sat in Clayton's office with those summoned to review the security for Kerry's wedding and reception: Kit Pace and Francesca Thibault from the White House; Connie Coulter on behalf of Lara. There were smiles all around, and then Francesca Thibault allowed, "It is a bit more challenging than the Easter
Egg Roll."

  "Or pardoning the White House Turkey," Peter rejoined. "From a security standpoint, it's more like the wedding of Charles and Diana." Surveying the others, Peter sat back, a burly, even-tempered man with a law degree, a philosophical bent, a deep spiritual commitment to his Roman Catholic faith, and, above all, a total dedication to protecting Kerry Kilcannon. "It's a unique opportunity," he continued, "for highprofile mischief—terrorists, crazies, protestors of every stripe, malcontents wanting to make a point, anyone who thinks he has a grievance against the President. We're not only telling people like Mahmoud Al Anwar the time and place, we're offering them the cover of hundreds of guests, and thousands more hoping to get a glimpse of the President and new First Lady."

  Francesca nodded. "What do you need from us, Peter?"

  "Lists, for openers. Every guest for the wedding and reception— name; date of birth; Social Security number; how they're getting here; how they're leaving. We'll need all that to get them in . . ."

  "Hopefully," Francesca interjected pointedly, "without offending them, or making the reception look like a detention camp."

  "I understand," Peter replied. "But all of you know the problem: Kerry Kilcannon is a human lightning rod. And the angry and unstable are drawn to the myth of the Kilcannons like moths to a flame.

  "James Kilcannon was killed, this President nearly so. There are a thousand copycats hoping to finish the job and secure a place in history. The President excites passions other politicians don't: pro-life fanatics hate him, and a lot of hard-core gun folks are convinced he's out to get them. And now he's taken on Al Anwar.

  "Every time he goes somewhere, we go there knowing that a lot of people want him dead." Facing Clayton, Peter finished, "I realize his political people are hoping for the maximum exposure. But I'm not much willing to compromise when it comes to Kerry Kilcannon."

  Clayton nodded. "I'll make the President conscious of your concerns," he answered. "As far as he's concerned, he's never had so much to live for."

  The Chief of Staff 's voice was bland. But the comment reminded Peter of what they knew that the others did not: that Kerry and Lara had been lovers in secret. During the California primary, three nights before Kerry Kilcannon was shot, Peter had let Lara into Kerry's room; the night after the shooting, Peter had assured a worried Lara that he would never tell anyone. Nor had he—not his superiors in the Secret Service, or even his own wife.

  "What about media?" Peter asked.

  Clayton glanced at Connie Coulter. "Lara's given in," Connie said. "The wedding will be televised. But nothing afterward."

  This, Peter knew, was a concession—the Lara Costello he had come to know was intensely private. "Two nights before the wedding," Connie went on, "the President and Lara will do a live interview from the White House, on ABC. The night before there'll be a private dinner at the White House, for the wedding party and family." She glanced at a piece of paper. "On the eve of the wedding, Lara will move from her apartment to a suite at the Hotel Madison. Two hours before the ceremony a limousine with her family will leave the White House and go to her hotel. There'll be TV coverage of their departure and arrival at the Madison, but only the White House photographer will be allowed into the suite. From there, they'll proceed to the wedding."

  "And the day after . . ."

  "Lara will be taking her family out to Dulles Airport for the return trip to San Francisco. And then she'll meet the President at Andrews Air Force Base for the flight to Martha's Vineyard."

  "Will the Costellos be doing any media?"

  "Perhaps a few selected interviews, some with the Hispanic media." Pausing, Connie said wryly, "Very selected."

  From this, Peter inferred that Lara was, as he expected, resisting the no doubt limitless requests that she offer up her family to the press. "I'll want their schedule," Peter told Connie. "Especially for whatever time they'll be spending with Lara."

  "Absolutely," Connie answered, and then Clayton's telephone rang. With a puzzled expression, he rose from his chair and answered.

  Placing the receiver down, he turned to Peter Lake. "As soon as we're finished, Peter, the President would like to see you."

  * * *

  When Peter entered the Oval Office, the President motioned him to a comfortable couch, and sat in a nearby chair.

  "It's about Lara's family, Peter. I need your help."

  This was said with a sobriety which suggested, to Peter's trained antennae, that the President was deeply concerned. This was underscored by the absence of the President's usual inquiries about Peter's own family, or even the casual greetings suitable to two men who spent much time together, one of whom saw the other in unguarded moments few other people witnessed. Peter Lake considered Kerry Kilcannon an extraordinary man, with a grace and kindness at odds with the coldminded politician his enemies portrayed. The President had never asked for secrecy regarding his affair with Lara, and seemed to trust him utterly. That he also had never mentioned the nearly successful attempt on his life which had occurred on Peter's watch, but instead expressed great pleasure at Peter's assignment to the White House, only intensified Peter's determination that no harm would ever befall this President.

  "Anything I can do, Mr. President."

  "As much as you can, I'd like you to watch out for them while they're here—if not directly through the Service, through the D.C. Police." The President leaned forward. "They're not public people, and I don't want them harassed. Worse, they'll be targets of opportunity—for Al Qaeda or whoever else. I can't let anything happen to them."

  This was more concern, Peter thought, than Kerry Kilcannon had ever shown for himself. "I'll make sure they're well protected," Peter answered, and then paused before adding gently, "And the First Lady–to-be."

  With a faint smile, the President considered him. "I know that. But there's something else I need your help on, in confidence."

  Peter made no answer. He did not need to.

  "You'll remember the problems with Joan's husband." The President steepled his fingers, eyes remaining fixed on Peter Lake. "Last month she got a court order that he stay away from her and their six-year-old daughter, and had the cops take away his gun. He's threatened suicide or even murder."

  "And you think that's more than talk."

  "It could be." Pausing, the President spoke in a lower voice. "This morning, he went to court on the battery charge. Joan told the court that—if he agreed to a program for batterers—she didn't want him jailed. So that's what the judge did.

  "For a lot of men, these programs really help. But I can't assume that about John Bowden. The only thing I'm sure of is that he's free."

  Peter considered this. "You can't be sure he won't try to get another gun. And he can always snatch Marie, with or without one."

  "My problem is that I'm stuck." The President stood, hands in his pockets, as if his lack of power made him restless. "I can't ask the Service to protect them. And I can't ask the police to guard them without creating a lot of problems—including publicity, which Joan doesn't want and which might only make Bowden worse. The only recourse Lara and I seem to have is hiring private security, like everyone else. For whatever that's worth."

  Briefly, Peter reflected. "There are things we can do," he answered. "If someone who might attract a violent person is in proximity to you or the First Lady, we take over. As for the rest, we can have our field office in San Francisco in touch with the police, monitoring her situation."

  "I appreciate that. But it doesn't guarantee Joan's safety. Or Marie's."

  "If you want to set up personal security," Peter said, "one of our exagents has a security firm in San Francisco. Anything you want—security monitors, twenty-four-hour protection for Joan, someone watching her daughter's school—my friend Tom Burns can do. It all depends on how much you want to spend."

  At once, the President looked relieved. "Money's no object," he replied. "At least until this guy's calmed down."

  * * *

  At
seven forty-five that evening, the President took a call in his upstairs office.

  "Sorry I'm so hard to find," Robert Lenihan told him. "But I'm in the middle of a securities fraud trial, with close to five hundred million dollars in damages. Another corporate rip-off."

  His tone was less apologetic than self-satisfied, tinged with the suggestion that Bob Lenihan's work approached in import the President's own. In recent years, his personal wealth swollen by millions wrested from tobacco companies, Lenihan and his trade association of plaintiffs' lawyers, Trial Lawyers for Justice, had become major donors to Democratic campaigns. Fueled by ideological passion and the desire for headlines—in Lenihan, Kerry had found, these motives were impossible to separate—Lenihan had recently launched a series of high-risk lawsuits against the gun industry on behalf of American cities, asserting that companies who marketed semiautomatic handguns were responsible for millions of dollars in costs incurred by public hospitals in treating the dead or injured. The kinship Lenihan felt this established with the President was only enhanced by two million dollars in television ads that Trial Lawyers for Justice had run in support of his nomination of Caroline Masters to be Chief Justice.