This time Fasano said nothing to Senator Harshman. He did not need to—it was Harshman who had stripped the CDC of funding at the behest of the SSA.
"Finally," the President concluded, "mandatory safety locks on every new gun sold, including combination locks which keep guns from being fired by someone other than the owner. It makes no sense to protect children from design flaws in toy guns and candy cigarettes, and do nothing to prevent them from killing themselves—or being killed—by real guns."
* * *
"Eighty-six percent." In her elation, Kit Pace grinned at Clayton. "You win."
Clayton nodded. In close-up, Kerry appeared relaxed now, more confident than Clayton had ever seen him.
Let me be clear, Kerry was saying in the gentle lilt that, to Clayton, held a trace of Irish poetry. I do not accept that violence in America is caused by guns alone. I support the right of all law-abiding citizens to own a gun for any lawful purpose. And I believe that gun owners and non–gun owners can share a common dream: to someday make deaths like these so rare that our grandchildren will learn of them with disbelief and wonder.
Together, we can do this. I call on you to join me. I implore the Congress to act. And, for my own part, I will do my best to reach across the senseless divisions of the past.
There is, I believe, a first step I should take . . .
"Here it comes," Clayton said to Kit.
Several days ago, I received a letter from George Callister, the president of Lexington Arms. Senator Harshman read it to the Senate. But in the difficulties of the moment, I could not find the words to respond.
I do so now.
To Mr. Callister, I say, I fully appreciate and understand the spirit of your letter. I invite you to meet with me, alone, to seek ways to end these needless deaths. With lives at stake, we must not fail.
"Callister," Clayton murmured with a smile, "will regret that letter more than he could ever know."
On the screen, the President gazed up at the gallery, and then at the members of Congress. Before he was murdered by a man with a gun, Kilcannon finished, Robert Kennedy admonished us "to tame the savagery of man, and make gentle the life of the world."
In the name of our common humanity, let us begin.
Beginning among the Democrats, a deep roar of approval issued from the well of the House, swelling as members applauded with both hands raised aloft for the President to see. Utterly still, Kilcannon made no move to leave. And so President Kilcannon, the commentator intoned, has launched a personal crusade against gun violence in America . . .
"Eighty-eight percent," Kit said. To her utter surprise, her eyes had welled with tears.
* * *
Dane turned from the screen. "We can't let him split off Lexington," he told the others. "The little bastard means to pressure George Callister."
"We stopped Callister before," Fell answered.
"It'll be harder now." Dane turned to Campton. "Get onto the Internet. Ask our members to e-mail Congress, especially Democrats. And tell them how to reach everyone on Lexington's board."
Campton nodded. "How do we respond?"
"With care. Fasano's right about that. The line should be that we sympathize with Kilcannon, but that he's drawn the wrong lesson—you should be able to pass down a gun to your eighteen-year-old son, or sell one to your next-door neighbor, without putting them through a background check. This isn't a police state, after all. At least not yet.
"As for safety locks, he's proposing the 'Criminal Protection Act.' Think some rapist will wait for his victim to fiddle with a safety lock?"
"Kilcannon's overreaching," Campton agreed. "But what's the right lesson?"
"Tougher law enforcement. John Bowden should never have been out on bail. We support better domestic violence records, and stiffer sentences. Period."
After five minutes, Wolf Blitzer was saying, the applause for President Kilcannon continues unabated. On the screen, Lara Kilcannon gazed down at her husband.
This is the crest, Dane promised them. Tomorrow begins the fall.
"As soon as you can," he ordered Fell, "set up that meeting with Fasano."
* * *
Hours later, having said goodbye to the families, Kerry and Lara lay in bed.
"You were right about Mary," she told him. "Bob Lenihan has approached her about suing Lexington Arms."
Kerry laughed softly. But he had begun to feel the residue of a sustained adrenaline rush—a vague depression, the first echoes of self-doubt. In a quiet tone, he told Lara, "I did the best I could."
"The best anyone could," she assured him. With that, knowing that he needed this as much as she, Lara slipped into his arms.
THIRTEEN
The next morning, after a lengthy telephone call with the Secretary General of the United Nations, Kerry greeted Bob Lenihan in the Oval Office. "Your speech was perfect," Lenihan assured the President. "As incisive as a final argument to a jury."
Why was it, Kerry wondered with some amusement, that even Bob Lenihan's compliments sounded like self-praise. "This jury," he answered wryly, "is considerably larger. And in the case of their elected representatives, a good deal meaner and more self-interested. I needed to make them wonder if voting against me might not be riskier than they thought."
Lenihan smiled. "Seems like you succeeded."
And so, this morning, it did. The editorial reaction across the country was uniformly favorable, and the media's overnight polls confirmed Clayton's instant soundings. Congress, Alex Cole reported, already had been inundated with phone calls, faxes, and e-mails, in which—for once— support for Kerry outnumbered the dire warnings of gun rights supporters. "For now," Kerry cautioned Lenihan. "But the Speaker and Frank Fasano have just started to dig in."
Lenihan sat back, as though soaking in the sunlight through the windows of the Oval Office. But even in repose, his imposing frame and visage—square jaw, restless blue eyes, determined pouter pigeon's mouth—reminded Kerry of a man bent on consuming everything around him. Others found this feral aspect close to frightening; Kerry accepted Lenihan's boundless self-absorption as the necessary engine of a plaintiffs' lawyer's makeup, which—albeit with caution—the President could usefully employ. "That's what I wanted to talk about," Lenihan said at last. "The long haul. Has Lara thought about suing Lexington Arms?"
Kerry summoned an expression of mild surprise. "A wrongful death action? There's no way, Bob. It would make last night's speech—in fact, everything we say or do—look like we're bent on lining our own pockets."
Lenihan's blue gaze was shrewd and appraising. "I understand, Mr. President. But it really is too bad. The part of the speech I most enjoyed was when you summarized Lexington's paltry response to the murders, and then set up this guy Callister. By the time you're through with him, I'd bet there'll hardly be a prospective juror in America who won't be hell-bent on taking Lexington to the cleaners."
Kilcannon smiled briefly. "Is that what I was doing last night? Poisoning the jury pool?"
"In a word—yes." Lenihan's own smile was knowing. "A fortuitous by-product of 'making gentle the life of the world.' "
Lenihan was no fool, Kerry thought again, when it came to hidden motives and complex calculations. No doubt it came from Lenihan's clear understanding of his own. "Even if that was what I intended," Kerry responded, "and even if Lara could bring suit, what would it buy me except for a distraction I don't need?"
"Leverage. And a public relations tool of incalculable value." Lenihan made a quick chopping motion, as if cutting to the core of Kerry's challenge. "Right now you're playing in two arenas—Congress, and the 'court of public opinion.' To win in those two dimensions, and beat the SSA, you need a third dimension: litigation.
"A lawsuit against Lexington for its role in bringing about the wrongful death of Lara's mother, sister and niece will transform the gun debate. We can turn that fucking company inside out."
"Whereas I can't."
"How could you, Mr. President? B
y setting loose the Justice Department? Under what pretext? You'd look like the tyrant the SSA's always claimed you are." Lenihan's mouth framed a smile of anticipation. "I can expose Lexington's greed and calculation—how they marketed to criminals, the way they developed the Eagle's Claw, why they kowtow to the SSA—then feed it to the press. I'd take George Callister's deposition and pillory him for days. It might not even get that far.
"They're already scared of me," Lenihan finished with absolute certainty. "Arm me with this case, and they'll give you everything you want on gun control before they'd dare to face me in front of a jury."
"Lexington?" Kerry inquired softly. "Or the SSA?"
"Both. Do you think the SSA wants me to expose that it controls the American gun industry? Hell no." Lenihan's own voice softened and his smile became complicit. "I can hardly believe, Mr. President, that none of this has occurred to you."
Kerry shrugged. "Perhaps I had a mental block," he answered coolly. "I can't quite see what this scenario has to offer you. Not money, surely—Lexington's nowhere near as rich as Philip Morris."
"True," Lenihan rejoined, "but there's a certain moral equivalency.
"You nailed it last night—guns and tobacco are the only two products in America not regulated for consumer safety. We can't even get safety locks, which is why six-year-olds blow their playmates' brains out by accident, and sixteen-year-olds commit suicide with someone else's gun." Lenihan's voice became stentorian. "I've got all the money I need, Mr. President. This is about morality.
"We both know these bloodsuckers market to criminals and crazies. We both know that they're perfectly aware that the fucking Lexington P-2 is a weapon of choice for drug lords.
"How much would it have cost them to retrofit the P-2 so it wouldn't take a forty-round magazine? And wouldn't you like to see how they tested the Eagle's Claw to make sure it could shred somebody's liver? Hell, I wouldn't put it past those bastards to prop up a cadaver . . ."
Kerry began to laugh. " 'Morality,' Bob? Is that all?"
"Okay." Lenihan opened his arms in amiable capitulation. "I'm an excitement junky, and this would be the Super Bowl of litigation. All these moving parts—Congress, the Presidency, the SSA, the media, the courtroom, human drama on a scale that would make the O. J. Simpson trial look like dinner theater in Dubuque."
And you, Kerry thought, pulling all these strings—including mine. Calmly, he said, "We're talking about Mary, of course."
This time Lenihan's smile, confined to one corner of his mouth, never reached his eyes. "Yes," he answered. "I was hoping you'd recommend me.
"I can take on the big boys, Mr. President. With a two-hundredperson firm, we've got the bodies. All we need is Mary Costello."
Silent, Kerry gazed at him. "I know Mary's talked with you," he answered. "As I understand from Lara—and I'm sure you understand— she's not yet prepared to embrace the rigors of a lawsuit.
"But that's up to her. If Mary asks my advice, Bob, you can count on me to tell her that there's simply no one like you."
After a moment, Lenihan nodded his satisfaction. "That's all I can ask for, Mr. President."
Kerry was careful not to smile.
* * *
Shortly before noon, Clayton interrupted Kerry as he prepared for a meeting on Social Security reform.
"We've lost three men in the Sudan," Clayton told him.
Three soldiers, Kerry thought. Not fifty thousand, as in Vietnam. But three more grieving families to console, three more lives lost as a consequence of his orders.
Kerry put down his briefing book. "Are they flying the bodies into Ramstein?" he asked.
"Yes. We're getting the contact information for the families and, as we can, any plans for funerals or memorial services. Kit's drafting a statement now."
"I'll want to deliver it myself. And get me everything you can about those soldiers. When I call, their survivors should almost feel as though I knew them. At least as much as possible." Looking up at Clayton, Kerry added quietly, "I'd be a lousy wartime President, Clayton. I hate death far too much."
Slowly, Clayton nodded. "Speaking of which," he asked after a moment, "how was your meeting with Lenihan?"
"Much as I expected. He congratulated me on loading the dice against Lexington in Mary's future wrongful death action. I felt like Dr. Frankenstein, sitting in the Oval Office with a monster of my own creation."
"A large and powerful monster," Clayton amended, "who's placed millions of dollars at the disposal of the Democratic Party, and whose trade association of trial lawyers is looking for a way to maintain their influence in the brave new world of campaign finance reform. A monster to be handled with care." He smiled slightly. "But a very useful monster, in his place. As you told me just two days ago."
" 'In his place,' " Kerry answered. "That's the key."
Clayton considered this. "Will Mary sue?" he asked.
"Lara thinks so, in the end. But this lawsuit is only as good for our purposes as our ability to influence the way it's run.
"Lenihan wants glory—and, no matter what he says, money. I want to transform our public policy regarding guns. I can't count on Bob to know his place."
Clayton sat down. "I telephoned the Kilcannon Center, as you asked. They've brought on Sarah Dash—the lawyer who represented Mary Ann Tierney in the abortion case—to handle any litigation against gun companies."
Kerry nodded. "I can't elbow Lenihan aside—too delicate, and he brings some real weapons to a lawsuit. But perhaps we could induce Mary to engage a cocounsel. The Kilcannon Center is extremely well funded, and, other than by surname, I have no connection to them whatsoever. But they'd no doubt be more sensitive than Lenihan to what we want . . ."
"Sensitive? Or malleable?"
"That, too. After all, the Center was founded by my brother's key supporters as a memorial to the causes he embraced." Pausing, Kerry added mordantly, "Many of those people still see me as a memorial with a pulse—certainly not Jamie, but all the DNA that's left. They'll go along."
Clayton reflected. "Before you ask them," he admonished, "you'd better figure out how. As well as how you intend to try to control this lawsuit."
"Not directly." Kerry's voice softened. "That's among the many lessons of my mishandling of John Bowden. Today's meeting with Lenihan is potential evidence. If I were to become a witness in Mary's lawsuit— which I very well might be—I could be cross-examined about it. So no more meetings with her prospective lawyers. I don't want my fingerprints on this one."
Gazing out the window, Clayton pondered this. "Lara?" he asked.
FOURTEEN
The following Monday brought a fresh outburst of violence between Israel and the PLO and, for Kerry Kilcannon, a vexing reminder of the limits of his power. He considered the leader of the PLO to be treacherous and a liar; the Israeli Prime Minister to be obdurate and obtuse; and neither of them willing to urge upon their people the steps necessary to achieve peace, or even stop killing each other into the next generation. "Tell your people the truth," he snapped by telephone at the head of the PLO. "For once. They're not going back to Israel to reclaim their parents' ancestral homes. Either get them to accept that, or they'll fester for another fifty years in these squalid refugee camps terrorists use as training grounds. If you can't do that, what's the point of you?"
But the Israeli Prime Minister was little help. "We have to defend our settlements, Mr. President."
"Which you never should have put there," Kerry retorted. "They're an utter provocation.
"Let me explain something. We're morally committed to your survival as a nation. But the day is past when you can use that to define our Middle Eastern policy. You've got the next Saddam Hussein two countries over, developing nuclear and biological weapons, and we can't very easily take him out—even if we decide to—because our Arab 'friends' won't help us as long as you and the Palestinians keep slaughtering each other. I'm not waiting until his anthrax hits New York for you to get this right . . ."
>
"Mr. President," the Israeli interrupted, "I can't make the concessions you want. To make the peace, I must keep my majority in Parliament . . ."
"Tell your friends in Parliament that the first nuclear missile will land on them, not us." Kerry softened his voice. "The Holocaust is one of history's nightmares. The humanitarian debt it created is Israel's precious moral capital. It's been fascinating to watch you do your damnedest to deplete it . . ."
When this conversation had ended, the skies outside were dark, and a fresh wind drove sheets of rain against the windows. Kerry glanced at his watch. He had kept George Callister waiting for forty minutes.
Balance of Power Page 24
