"Then what's this about asbestosis?"
"Vermiculite," Clayton answered, "turns out to be a form of asbestos. But the company, Montana Mines, assured the workers it wasn't harmful. So they were bringing it home on their clothes, also exposing their wives and children. Essentially, the entire town was infected with asbestosis. The death toll's over fifty, with a lot more folks on respirators, fixing to breathe their last."
Angry, Kerry shook his head. "Stories like this give the lie to laissezfaire. Some poor guy shows up at work, thinking to support his family, and what he's really doing is killing himself. And maybe them, as well." He paused, reverting to the practical. "So what's Leo done about it?"
"Worse than nothing. When a victims' group from Libby asked to see him, he sent an aide. Now he's put a clause in Fasano's tort reform bill, immunizing Montana Mines from liability." Clayton's tone became sardonic. "To my complete surprise, the CEO is one of Leo's chief supporters—and fund-raisers."
"I always knew," Kerry said disgustedly, "that Weller was one of the dumbest men in the Senate. But to be so callous, and such an obvious whore, suggests that Leo still has room for growth."
Clayton nodded. "As you say, Leo's a prime subject for TV spots."
"No one," Kerry agreed, "can say he's not deserving. I wonder how Bob Lenihan's group of trial lawyers might react to Leo's blunder."
Clayton studied him. "Who would tell them? If our fingerprints are on the ads, you'd be accused of coordinating your own political operation with outside groups. Which, as you'll recall, may well violate the law."
Kerry smiled. "Do you really think that our man Robert can't get there on his own? If so, I'll have to pray that he's telepathic."
There was a buzz on Kerry's intercom. "The First Lady's calling," his assistant said.
Clayton chose to leave. Picking up the telephone, Kerry said, "I just heard something you need to know."
"So did I," Lara replied. "But you go first."
* * *
"Bowden's gun was stolen?" Kerry repeated the next morning.
Clayton nodded. "After the murders, Lexington told the ATF it had no record of shipment. But within forty-eight hours of a theft, the law requires licensed dealers to report it to the ATF—complete with the serial number of any and all guns taken. When the ATF went back and pushed the right button, Bowden's P-2 came up. It turns out the gun was part of a batch of fifty or so P-2s stolen from a major gun dealer in Phoenix, Arizona."
"When?"
"About six months ago. With fifty more stolen P-2s out there, it's a fair bet that some of them have already popped up in crimes—or soon will. If so, it may be possible to trace one back to the seller of Bowden's gun."
"Then push the ATF on that," Kerry ordered. "Whoever sold to Bowden may be trafficking in stolen guns. Where better than a gun show?"
Clayton folded his arms. Quietly, he said, "I assume this is for the lawsuit. So I can only hope you're being careful."
Silent, Kerry felt the painful memory of the murders flooding back to him, as fresh in his mind and heart as the faces of Inez and Joan, the moment of dancing with Marie. Now he might know who put the gun in Bowden's hands—and where.
"Just get the ATF to do it," he directed. "I'll worry about the rest."
* * *
"It's a start," Lara told Sarah Dash. "If I find out any more, I'll call."
Grateful, Sarah thanked her, and got off.
Elbow propped on her desk, Sarah rested her forehead against tented fingertips. The migraine had intensified, throbbing from the cords of her neck to her eyes, turning her stomach to a persistent pit of nausea. But through the pounding in her head she tried to focus on what Lara Kilcannon had just told her: that, for good or ill, they might finally know the truth of Bowden's trip to Las Vegas.
Her telephone rang again. Sarah reached for it, trying to summon a veneer of crisp professionalism. "Sarah Dash."
There was silence. "Is this a secure line?" her caller finally asked.
It was a man's voice—high, and almost screechy. But it was the oddity of his inquiry that caused Sarah to sit up. "Yes," she answered. "Who is this?"
"I visited your web site." The caller paused, and then the timbre of his voice fell. "I work at Lexington Arms. I know things."
Tense, Sarah tried to ignore the throbbing in her temples. "What things?"
There was another pause. "Information damaging to the company," the man answered. "Covered up by my supervisors."
"By Callister?"
The man's voice remained tight. "If I tell you, I may lose my job. Or worse."
Sarah tried to think swiftly, searching for what was best to say. Some whistleblowers are paranoid, Lenihan had told her, some are on a mission from God, some see wrongdoing where there is none. But some— the ones you pray for—can turn a case upside down.
"I can offer you absolute security," Sarah assured her caller. "Unless you authorize it, I won't use whatever you tell me."
The man hesitated. "How can I be sure of that?"
"I'm a lawyer. If you're coming to me for legal advice, even if you don't retain me, the state ethics rules require me to keep this in strict confidence. I could lose my license if I don't."
"Because if I come to you," the man persisted, "I don't want you outing me. Now what about my job?"
Involuntarily, Sarah thought of Bresler, her own fear of having yet another witness flip. "There's a risk," she acknowledged. "Did Lexington make you sign a confidentiality agreement, promising to protect internal corporate information unless you're under oath?"
"Yes." The man's voice fell off. "Everyone had to sign."
Skull pounding, Sarah rubbed her eyes. "That only goes so far. Lexington can threaten you with a lawsuit. But under Connecticut law, you can bring a wrongful termination action if Lexington fired you for reasons which violate public policy. If you tell me what you know, I can advise you."
Her last statement, Sarah realized, had the desperate tone of a plea. Perhaps in response, her caller fell silent. "Can you at least tell me your name?" she urged. "Or a number where I can reach you?"
"Not yet," the man said softly. "I have to think."
Before Sarah could answer, the line went dead.
PART FIVE
THE
VOTE
EARLY NOVEMBER–EARLY DECEMBER
ONE
There were days, rare ones, when Senator Chuck Hampton approached his work as Minority Leader with a fierce combativeness so pure that it was akin to joy.
This was such a day. As a rule, Hampton's pride of leadership was tempered by the complexity of dealing with the forty-six egos—including his own—who comprised the Democratic caucus; the soul-grinding paranoia of dueling with a shrewd and relentless foe, Frank Fasano, who as Majority Leader held the upper hand; the knowledge that Kerry Kilcannon placed his own priorities as President above Chuck Hampton's more parochial concerns, such as ensuring the survival of Hampton's flock and thus Hampton's survival as leader. There were even days when Chuck Hampton half wanted to tell the several Democrats who aspired to replace him that any of them could have the fucking job, which he clung to out of the primal, Darwinian knowledge that giving it up would feel even worse than keeping it. But today he spoke during morning business with a deeply satisfying sense of power, purpose, and outrage.
"Three days ago," he told the scattering of assembled senators, "as the majority party stalled, the five thousandth American was killed with a gun since the day that the First Lady's family was slaughtered."
Turning, he pointed at the picture of a young African-American boy with cropped hair and a bright aspect which shone through the compulsory smile of a school photograph. "Antonio Harris was twelve. He lived in Philadelphia with his mother, and two older sisters who adored him. He was murdered in a drive-by shooting by a sixteen-year-old who mistook him for the younger brother of a member of a rival gang. The shooter bought the murder weapon from another gang member who had stolen it from his un
cle—a spousal abuser who was able to buy it because the record of his conviction was never entered into the system."
Turning from the boy's photograph, Hampton continued with genuine anger. "If the President's proposals were law, Antonio might not have died. Now it is too late for him. But the clock is running on other Antonios, day by day and hour by hour, whose lives are in our hands, and whose deaths will haunt our consciences." Facing Frank Fasano, he added, "Or, at least, the conscience of some of us."
Fasano seemed to freeze. Hampton, too, paused, just long enough to note the still attentiveness of Cassie Rollins, a principal target of his remarks. "But what has the majority offered us? Nothing. Until yesterday, when Senator Fasano and the leadership offered us a bill which is worse than nothing." An edge of scorn crept into his tone. "And what does it contain? A 'commission' to 'study' the causes of violence among our young people. Were he alive, I'm quite certain that Antonio would have been fascinated by its findings—assuming, hypothetically, that we'll receive them during what would have been Antonio's normal life span."
At the periphery of his vision, Hampton saw Chad Palmer's brief, grim smile. "But never let it be said," Hampton went on, "that Senator Fasano's bill leaves the gun-show loophole unaddressed. To the contrary, it promises an instant background check once ninety-nine percent of records of felonies, violent misdemeanors, and adjudicated domestic violence are entered into the national computer system.
"And how will we fund this extraordinary feat? Unlike the President's bill—which would allocate the millions necessary to do so—the money Senator Fasano proffers might be sufficient to overhaul the records in, say, Rhode Island, or even, perhaps, my own state of Vermont. But not, regrettably, Senator Fasano's home state of Pennsylvania. Where Antonio Harris was murdered."
Fasano, Hampton noted, listened with the inward, impenetrable expression that Hampton was learning to associate with concern and, perhaps, anger. "But there are much cheaper ways," Hampton continued, "to prevent such a death. Combination safety locks on guns, for example, to prevent people who steal guns from using them. About which the senator's bill says not one word."
Now Hampton faced Frank Fasano directly. "Perhaps I am doing my friend from Pennsylvania a disservice. Perhaps—despite the suspicions of some cynics in my caucus—he does not intend his bill as cover for the opponents of meaningful laws to reduce gun violence. Perhaps, after all, he does not plan to bring this up for a vote prior to the President's bill, to provide further cover for his drive to pass a bill extinguishing Mary Costello's lawsuit. Perhaps this bill is as innocent of hidden motives as it is ill written and ill considered."
Hampton's expression became wry, his tone etched with an astringent humor. "But just to be sure, I intend to offer an amendment to the senator's bill to ensure full funding for his ambitious goal of near-total compliance for background checks, and to bar tort immunity for gun manufacturers. I may even offer the President's bill as an amendment to the senator's own." Abruptly, his speech became slow and very serious. "And if the senator attempts to bar us from debating these amendments, the 'cynics' in our caucus will keep his bill from coming to a vote—unless he permits the President's bill to be considered simultaneously."
Briefly, but to Hampton's satisfaction, Fasano looked skeptical and surprised, as though he doubted Hampton had the forty votes necessary to sustain a filibuster. Hampton rested one hand on the Styrofoam board which framed Antonio's picture. "This," he said, "is not done simply out of the respect that this body owes President Kilcannon. It reflects the decent regard we owe to the memory of Antonio Harris. Anything less should embarrass us all."
With this, Chuck Hampton sat down.
* * *
When morning business had ended, Hampton crossed the aisle to speak to Frank Fasano.
Fasano had long since retrieved his air of imperviousness; only the glint in his eye betrayed his annoyance. "That was quite a performance," Fasano said. "Almost worthy of KFK himself."
Feeling his sense of satisfaction deepen, Hampton paused a moment before indulging it fully. "I'm beginning to take that as a genuine compliment, Frank—especially after the beating he gave you on his tort reform proposal. My colleagues noticed it, too. So I'm delivering a message from all forty-six of us—even those whom the President's bill makes nervous."
"And what might that be, Chuck?"
Hampton smiled. "Deal straight up with KFK's bill," he answered in his most amiable tone. "Or we'll screw you like I just promised we would."
* * *
Arrested by Hampton's speech, Cassie Rollins returned to her office preoccupied. Which was not the proper state of mind for a Republican senator up for reelection and fifteen minutes late for a meeting with Charles Dane.
She found him watching C-SPAN in her reception area, and ushered him to her office with a graceful apology. "This was one morning," she concluded, "when I thought it best to hear out Chuck's body count to the unusually bitter end. He seems to have been eating his Wheaties."
"I saw." Dane's manner was respectful but direct. "So there's no need for either of us to mince words. This is the vote, Cassie."
Cassie rested a curled finger to her lips, eyes narrowing in an expression which was good-humored yet pointed. "Exactly which vote," she asked, "is 'the vote'? The one against Kilcannon's gun control bill? Or in favor of your tort immunity bill?"
Dane's already intent look deepened. "Both," he answered flatly. "They're the same vote—the acid test of who our friends are, and who cares to remain our friend. Where do you stand, Senator?"
The abrupt switch to her formal title, Cassie knew, was meant to signal Dane's willingness to consider her an adversary. Though this put her on edge, Cassie kept her voice even and, to her satisfaction, seemingly unruffled.
"Tort immunity," she observed, "is one thing. But the President's bill is largely focused on keeping guns out of the hands of criminals and wife-beaters, not law-abiding gun owners."
Dane leaned forward, his posture suggesting suppressed impatience. "Why should 'law-abiding gun owners' be subjected to intrusive background checks, whether at gun shows or elsewhere? It's the first step toward keeping ordinary people from owning guns—confiscation by harassment and inconvenience, where neighbor can't sell a gun to neighbor, or a father give one to his son."
Crossing her legs, Cassie sat back in her wing chair, her chin resting on clasped hands. "Before I accept that, Charles, I'm going to ask you to persuade me that it's so. From the sound of Hampton's speech, you'll have the time.
"As for immunity, I think these lawsuits are pretty flimsy, and you know my strong position in favor of tort reform. But the one lawsuit everyone knows about is Mary Costello's. Effectively, you're asking us to vote against Lara Kilcannon, her surviving sister, their three murdered relatives, and three other families whose loved ones Bowden slaughtered by accident. Why make your 'friends' cast that vote if your lawyers can get this judge to throw Mary Costello out of court, which is what the best legal minds I've talked to think he'll do. If we can restrain ourselves from trampling on the First Lady before he gets the chance."
Dane paused before responding, seeming to measure his words. "She's not only the First Lady," he said quietly. "She's the wife of our foremost enemy. Her sister, their pawn, has sued the SSA itself. You can't give them aid and comfort and be our friend."
Despite the softness of his tone, Cassie felt that this response—simplistic, with a whiff of melodrama—betrayed a desperation at variance with Dane's accustomed self-assurance. For the first time, she sensed this was not simply about ideology, or power: for whatever reason, Cassie guessed, the lawsuit worried him. "I'm always your friend," she assured Dane in a placating tone. "Whenever gun rights come up, I have a bias in your favor . . ."
"Not on the assault weapons ban," Dane interrupted pointedly. "That nearly cost you your party's nomination."
This was going to be unpleasant, Cassie realized. She mustered a smile. "You have a long memory, Charles, a
nd so do I. That was five years—and many a pro-gun vote—ago." Her voice assumed the faintest tinge of defiance. "I'm entitled to the occasional show of independence. But I understand that this is fundamental to you. I take you, and that, very seriously—and will before I vote. In the meanwhile, my door is always open to you and to your members."
Dane frowned, rested his arms on his knees with—Cassie noted wryly—his index fingers pressed together, pointing toward her like the barrel of a revolver. "I don't like to do this," he said bluntly. "But you've earned fair notice. If you vote against us on either bill we're prepared to run George Bolt against you in the primary."
Cassie was genuinely startled. George Bolt was a crusty former governor, moderate on many issues but adamant in support of gun rights—a far more serious opponent than some right-wing stooge. "George Bolt," she answered coolly, "is savvy enough to know that a man of seventyone, who hasn't run statewide in a decade, is past it. He's got no organization left. Why embarrass himself?"
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