* * *
At least Callister had the decency, Kerry thought, to look pained. "I remember meeting your wife's family," he said in his direct midwestern way. "I was heartsick at what happened."
"I know. You wrote me about it."
Callister's frozen look hinted at his embarrassment. "I tried to call you, Mr. President. They wouldn't put me through."
"They'd been dead for two days," Kerry answered quietly. "Lara's mother, sister and niece, murdered with a gun and bullets Bowden purchased at a gun show. The very transaction you wouldn't agree to stop two days before they died." Pausing, the President slid a letter across his desk. "And so you sent me this."
Callister's mouth compressed. "We had to make a proposal, and respond to what had happened. It was the only way to communicate with you."
"I suppose that's why you chose Paul Harshman."
Briefly, Callister looked down. "I'm not naive, Mr. President. Given all that had happened, we couldn't count on you to say that we'd even tried."
"Tried what?" In a tone tinged with irony, Kerry quoted from Callister's letter. " 'Lexington will pay for the cost of voluntary background checks at gun shows when any Lexington weapon is sold.'
"Who was going to volunteer, George? Bowden, or whoever sold it to him?" Kerry's voice was softer yet. "Reading the letter, I was embarrassed for you. Hearing Harshman read it, I was embarrassed for me."
This time Callister's gaze did not waver. "What is it you want, Mr. President?"
"It's very simple. I want you to endorse what I've proposed to Congress, and put it into practice at Lexington Arms. Support background checks on all your weapons sold at gun shows. Retrofit your guns so that they only take ten rounds. Stop making Eagle's Claw bullets. In short, I want you to take the actions which would have saved Lara's family."
Callister drew a breath. "I can't let that last part pass," he said slowly. "If Bowden hadn't found a P-2, he'd have bought someone else's gun. The result would have been the same."
"Maybe so. But then it wouldn't have been your gun, would it? Or your bullets. Or your responsibility. Don't hide behind the other guys. The law I'm asking you to endorse applies to everyone." Kerry's tone was clipped. "This is your chance to save lives, George. Don't tell me how sorry you are. Do something."
Callister's smile was faint and, to Kerry, melancholy. "For myself, I would. I think you know that. As president of Lexington, I'll work with you." Briefly Callister paused. "But I can't endorse your program. I'm certain you know why."
"The SSA."
Callister grimaced. "Their power is real, and it includes the power to wipe out jobs. Lexington isn't just about its guns. It's about its people . . ."
"And you wouldn't want them to become an 'endangered species.' Like the Lexington P-2."
Callister folded his hands, choosing silence. "For the rest of my life," Kerry told him with lethal quiet, "there won't be a day I don't imagine the six-year-old girl I danced with at our wedding, lying on an operating table with her insides torn out by an Eagle's Claw bullet. I don't want my next thought to be about your refusal."
For an instant, Callister looked away. Then he shook his head and, with a composure equal to Kerry's, said, "I'm very sorry, Mr. President."
Kerry stared at him, the only sound the spattering of rain against glass. Then he pressed the button on his intercom. "Mr. Callister's leaving," he told his assistant. "Take him out the West Wing entrance. The press is waiting for him."
Callister studied him with rising comprehension. "So they can find out what you asked of me."
"No need," the President answered softly. "It's rather like your letter, George. They already know."
PART THREE
THE
LAWSUIT
MID-SEPTEMBER–MID-OCTOBER
ONE
The next evening, the President and First Lady dined on the Presidential yacht, which Lara had renamed the Inez.
The gesture was a fond one. As children, neither she nor Kerry had had the means to sail. But both liked the sensation of movement on water, and so, Lara discovered before the wedding, had Inez. Sitting on the deck, Lara imagined her mother's bemusement at having metamorphosed into the Presidential yacht, restored to the Presidency by its owner after thirty years in private hands.
Surrounded by a flotilla from the Secret Service, they cruised down the Potomac in the failing sunlight of early fall. Though unannounced, the expedition had worried Peter Lake; on the open deck, both Kilcannons were exposed. But Lara had insisted; their world, both physical and mental, had become far too claustrophobic. So they sat in deck chairs, sipping wine and doing some catch-up reading between snatches of conversation.
Kerry leafed through Newsweek. Its cover showed him addressing Congress; the lead article, headed "KFK?" compared him to John F. Kennedy, calling his speech "the most persuasive call to action since Kennedy's speech on civil rights . . . a quantum leap in his efforts to reach a broader spectrum of the public." The inside photograph showed a grim George Callister emerging from the White House.
" 'KFK,' " Kerry mused, "sounds like a bucket of fried chicken. Thus far, my speech has completely failed to move Fasano."
Nor would it. In his first public comments, Fasano had counseled the Senate to "help craft prudent safety measures which don't infringe the legitimate rights of forty million American gun owners." This, Kerry knew, signalled a strategy of delay, in which Fasano hoped gradually to restore the Senate and the American public to their prior state of narcolepsy.
"As for Hampton," Kerry continued, "the messages he got yesterday were a lot more hostile.
"It's an SSA blitz, of course. Chuck owns his seat as long as he's still breathing. But there are a good half dozen Democrats who won't be so detached."
Quiet, Lara gazed at the wooden deck. Her weight had stabilized, and she looked more as she had before the murders. But there was a permanent sorrow in her eyes, reflecting a wound, Kerry feared, from which she would never quite recover. Part of her still could not accept, upon awakening each morning, that most of her family were dead, or that their murders had set in motion a brute exercise in power politics. And yet, coolly determined, she was directing secret negotiations for a primetime interview which, as one of the contestants put it, would be "the first words America will hear Lara Kilcannon speak since the tragedy which changed her life forever." Or, in the caustic aside of Connie Coulter, "the biggest media 'get' this side of your own wedding."
In fact, the media had responded with an avidity which impressed even Lara. "I've received enough floral displays," she told Kerry, "to fill a funeral home, and enough baskets of fruit to feed America's homeless.
"And the letters." Plucking a letter from a thick manila folder, she read, " 'Only through our network can people truly know of your thoughts and feel your emotions. A prime-time interview on Deadline could transform you into the most inspiring—and important—woman in our history.' " Lara shook her head. "If only my mother could have lived to see that."
This last, Kerry thought, was said with irony, sadness, and a certain melancholy humor. "Imagine," Kerry remarked, "what you could have accomplished by throwing in some sex."
"Or by killing someone myself." Lara began riffling through her file. "In a particularly dark moment, I asked Connie to find a web site I remembered, filled with letters from the media importuning the Unabomber for an interview. Try this:
" 'The only way to truly understand someone is to see their eyes, hear their voice, their inflections, their passions . . .' "
"Rasputin," Kerry interjected, "died too soon . . ."
"Or this: 'I was born not far from where you live now.' " Lara laughed softly. "Which, as it happened, was a maximum security prison in Idaho.
"Of course, not all of it was quite so droll. When I got to the letter saying, 'To many, you are a hero and a pioneer,' I realized what a mercy it was that Joanie's husband killed himself. Or the two of us would be competing for prime time."
F
or a moment, Kerry was silent. "What are you going to do?"
Lara looked up, her hair blowing in a light breeze. "Go with NBC, I think. I trust Cathie Civitch—she didn't try to endear herself, or exploit our past relationship. And they offered me Dateline and Today, which would give me the largest potential audience."
Spoken like a professional, Kerry thought. "Live or tape?" he asked.
"They want me to do Dateline live—the more spontaneous the interview, the theory goes, the more powerful it will be. No doubt they think more people will watch to see if I break down." For a moment Lara paused, as though interrupted by sadness and disbelief. "The tape will only be aired once, on Today—no snippets on Entertainment Tonight, Headliners and Legends, or some special on First Ladies. No prime-time interviews with Charles Dane, or anyone from the SSA." Her voice softened. "No questions about that tape of the murders. No footage of my family dying in the promos."
Once again, Kerry's heart went out to her. But all he said was "Good."
* * *
After dinner, when night had fallen, they sat on the deck drinking brandy. "This lawsuit," Lara said, "do you really think it's that important?"
"I think it's a fact of life. Could you stop Mary if you wanted to?"
Lara gazed into the darkness. "Probably not," she answered. "To Mary, I have a wealth of avenues for acting out my grief. She has only this."
Quietly, Kerry gazed at the white dome of the Capitol, glowing in the distance. "Since 1938," he told her, "every serious gun safety proposal has enjoyed overwhelming public support. But Congress weakened or rejected them all. In 1968, when Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy were shot, they couldn't even manage to ban bullets like the ones which killed Marie.
"For the SSA, this is Armageddon. They can't lose, especially not to me, or else the balance shifts. Once they're no longer invincible, they're a PR problem for the GOP and a lot less scary to Democrats. So they'll do anything to win, and they've put so much sweat and money into the Republicans that the Speaker and Fasano have no choice but to go along. As for Callister, they've got him by the balls."
"But a lawsuit could be your leverage."
"Mary's lawsuit," Kerry answered succinctly, "could destroy Lexington Arms. And that not even a President can do."
For a moment, Lara reflected. "And then you could break the SSA's stranglehold on the industry."
Kerry nodded. "In a lot of states, like Georgia, the SSA's been able to get laws passed immunizing gun companies from suits by public entities. The only kind of suit they haven't been able to wipe out is wrongful death actions by victims' families." He sipped more brandy. "The California legislature would never bar your sister from suing over the deaths of two women and a child millions of people came to know, and whose murders they witnessed on television. If I were George Callister, I'd be terrified of a jury."
As Lara listened, Kerry saw the pain of memory replaced by the cool scrutiny of the war correspondent she had once been. "Which would you prefer, Kerry? Destroying Lexington? Or forcing Callister to give you what you want?"
Kerry shrugged. "I'm indifferent. Either would show the gun industry that the SSA can't protect them."
Lara settled back, brandy snifter cradled in the palms of both hands. "There's just one problem," she said evenly. "This would be Mary's suit, not yours."
"We'd need to reach an understanding . . ."
Lara held up her hand. "Joan resented me to the end of her life. Now you want me to take over Mary's life."
Kerry touched her arm. "Once Mary sees what I'm after . . ."
"Just who," Lara broke in, "do you expect to make her see it? After all that's happened to us, I really can't believe you want me to do this. Have you completely forgotten how complex families are? And how little of mine is left?"
Kerry met her gaze. "So what do you do now, Lara? Do you help me honor their memory? Or let Mary just cash in?"
Lara fixed him with a long look of appraisal. "I thought I knew you," she said softly. "Heart and soul. What surprises marriage brings."
Quiet, Kerry stifled the urge to reach for her. "I'm sorry," he answered. "But liberals too often whine, while conservatives do whatever it takes." He paused, then finished evenly, "With Mary's help, we can redress the balance. She should have that choice."
TW O
"Thomas Jefferson did it," Avram Gold told the President. "To Aaron Burr, his own Vice President."
At Kerry's direction, Gold had entered through the East Gate, away from the press, and come directly to his private office. The fact of the meeting would be as private as its substance. Unlike the White House counsel, whose client was deemed to be the public at large, Avram Gold, a Harvard law professor and Kerry's unofficial advisor on legal policy, could counsel Kerry on personal legal matters covered by the attorneyclient privilege. In Kerry's mind, he could hardly do better—Gold was brilliant, imaginative and committed to Kerry's agenda. If there was a way to execute the complex stratagem Kerry had in mind, Avi Gold would find it.
"Jefferson?" Kerry inquired. "How?"
"After Burr shot Alexander Hamilton, Jefferson secretly directed his prosecution for treason. He torpedoed his own Vice President."
Kerry smiled. "The good old days," he said with mock nostalgia, "when Presidents could exploit the justice system in private."
"It's different now," Gold agreed. "Especially in this scenario. If Mary brings a lawsuit, you and the First Lady are very likely to be witnesses. Were I Lexington, I'd argue that Joan died from the effects of inadequate law enforcement and bad advice—including yours. There's no way they won't press for depositions from both of you—on videotape, if the judge allows it."
Kerry shrugged. "I expect that. All I care about is whether we'd have to answer questions about our role in the lawsuit itself. The idea that I'm behind it would be absolutely fatal to what I have in mind."
Gold leaned forward, hands pressed together, the keenness of his gaze confirming his pleasure in the intellectual challenge Kerry had placed before him. "Okay," he said crisply, "let's start with what you can't do.
"First, you as President can never talk to whoever ends up being Mary's lawyer—and I do mean never. It's hard to find a rationale for keeping that confidential, and it's far better for you to be able to say—in absolute truth—that you never met or spoke with her attorney." Gold's bushy eyebrows raised in cautionary emphasis. "That especially means Bob Lenihan, no matter who else you may bring in. Your last chat wasn't privileged, and he's way too self-enchanted to conceal how completely you rely on his advice."
"I appreciate that," Kerry acknowledged. "But I'm afraid we may be stuck with him."
"Bob has his virtues," Gold answered in a sardonic tone. "Chief among them a total lack of shame. As his cocounsel, Sarah Dash would have her hands full.
"Back to the list of 'don'ts.' You and Lara can't pay Mary's legal expenses. While that might create a privilege, it would look like you're doing exactly what you intend to do: run this lawsuit from the White House. And, for exactly the same reason, Lara can't be a plaintiff. Also, it would erode the sympathy you're expecting from her interview on NBC."
"Just so."
"On the other hand," Gold said with cheerful anticipation, "if you and the First Lady can legitimately refuse to answer questions, and do so in a sympathetic way, you leave Lexington and the SSA with the unattractive option of accusing you of doing exactly what you're doing without any proof that you are, in fact, doing it. That could look insensitive."
"And would be," Kerry answered dryly.
"Finally, even if Lexington challenges your assertion of privilege in court, it's a rare judge who will want to rule against you and the First Lady—let alone charge a President with contempt." Gold spread his hands. "So the only problem, Mr. President, is constructing a chain of privilege which holds up. For that, as I suppose you know, the First Lady is indispensable."
Silent, Kerry faced anew his deep ambivalence about weaving this web of his own crea
tion into the fabric of his marriage. "The spousal privilege," he said softly.
"That's the first part," Gold concurred, "and the easiest. The spousal privilege covers any communication between husband and wife, including those which begin with 'Tell your sister.' And the privilege lasts as long as the marriage does."
Eyes hooded in contemplation, Kerry gazed at his desk. "You should know, Avi, that I don't love this. I just can't think of any other way but using Lara."
Gold studied the President with dark perceptive eyes. "You don't need absolution from me, Mr. President, as long as you have it from Lara. I watched the film."
Kerry rested his chin on curled fingers. "What I tell Lara," he said at length, "is only the first link."
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