Kerry looked up at her. "A couple of weeks of this and Leo may be a tad more flexible on tort reform." He briefly shook his head. "It's exactly what I wanted them to do—put their money on the screen. It's also what Chad Palmer and I spent half our careers complaining about— except now the trial lawyers are almost as powerful as the corporations, and they're both at least as powerful as the parties they're trying to buy. All that's changed is that we've all become a little worse, and the system a little worse off."
Kit did not answer. Kerry realized that the plane had slowed; glancing out the window, he saw the mirage which was Las Vegas.
"Do you really want to do this?" Kit asked. "You've got no idea in the world what will happen."
Kerry smiled faintly. "Just stand back from me a little. With any luck, they'll miss you."
SIX
At two o'clock in the afternoon, Lara and Avram Gold entered the conference room of Nolan's firm.
Though it felt awkward, Lara greeted Sarah with polite formality. The others—Lenihan and the defense lawyers, Nolan, Fancher, and their associates—shook her hand with deference, a receiving line of litigators. This false decorum made her edgy. Despite all of her experience as a public person, the risks she had run as a war correspondent, she had not been able to eat since breakfast. There was a knot in the pit of her stomach.
She sat across from Nolan. Somewhat theatrically, Avram Gold looked about the room. "What," he inquired with a mocking edge, "no video camera?"
To Lara, a trace of cynicism showed beneath Nolan's mandarin air of calm. "For Mrs. Kilcannon," he answered smoothly, "we didn't feel it necessary."
Lara studied him. His face was broad and flat, his forehead high, and he wore a double-breasted blue pinstripe like an armor of wealth and privilege. Lara detested the fact that this stranger—the representative of so much she disliked—could make her relive the worst moments of her life, or account for her relationship to those whom she had lost. She determined to give him nothing—no emotion, no pretense of cordiality, only a cool façade. They would see who would be the first to crack.
"Please state your name for the record," Nolan said to Lara.
"Lara Costello Kilcannon," she replied, and the deposition began.
* * *
In the first few moments, Nolan established that she once had had a living mother, Inez; a sister, Joan; and a six-year-old niece, Marie. To Lara, the familiarity with which he spoke their names was an affront.
"When," Nolan inquired, "did you first realize that John was abusing your sister?"
"During a trip to San Francisco with my husband, shortly after the President was elected." She paused briefly. "When I went to see Joan she had bruises on her face."
"How long had this abuse been going on?"
"I don't know, exactly. But I gather for some time."
Nolan raised his eyebrows. "Why is it that you didn't know?"
It was starting, Lara knew—the implication, slowly planted, that Joan's negligent family, by failing to help or intervene, had sown the seeds of its own tragedy. Part of her tensed with anger; another part wished to cry out in grief and protest, pleading for exculpation. But this deposition was not a human process, and Nolan far from her confessor. "I'm afraid," she responded coolly, "that only Joan can answer that."
Though expressionless himself, Nolan paused. "Then why do you believe that it had been happening for some time?"
"Joan indicated that to my husband."
"In your presence?"
"No."
Facing Nolan, Gold leaned forward between Lara and her interrogator, palm raised to interrupt the questioning. "To the extent that the question asks the witness to divulge confidential conversations between husband and wife, that is covered by the marital privilege, which exists to protect the sanctity of that relationship. As to those, the witness will not answer."
Coldly, Nolan asked Lara, "Is it your position, Mrs. Kilcannon, that you will refuse to provide any information about your sister's abuse—or the circumstances leading to her murder—if you discussed them with your husband?"
Lara paused, gripped by disbelief that this obtrusive stranger could keep her in this stifling room, forcing her to parse his twistings of a tragedy which had seared her soul forever, and about which he cared nothing. "No," she answered. "Mr. Gold stated my position. Why don't you have the reporter read it back."
Lara felt the others watching, tense and quiet. Nolan seemed to gauge her, weighing his choices.
"Did you ever," he demanded of Lara, "discuss with Joan, your sister, her history of abuse?"
"Not my sister, Joan. Was there some other Joan you were curious about?"
Across the table, she saw Nolan assimilate the dimensions of their contest: Lara felt under no compunction to cater to him, and was determined not to indulge the human impulse to justify her actions or inac tions. She would reserve any display of her humanity—with its more elaborate answers—for the jury.
"Were there," Nolan persisted, "strains in your relationship with Joan?"
"Not on my part. My deepest regret is that I was so far away, in Washington or overseas . . ."
"What about on Joan's part?"
"Joan always knew I loved her. I'm only sorry that she's not here to reassure you of that herself."
Nolan leaned forward. "For what reason, then, did you never discuss with her what must have been a nightmare of abuse?"
Lara folded her hands in front of her. "Because it was a nightmare, and I knew she was ashamed. Kerry was also family, and a former domestic violence prosecutor—the best possible person for Joan to talk with. It seemed cruel to make her repeat the painful facts to me in person, just out of some warped sense I was entitled to that as her sister. Helping Joan was about what was best for her, not me."
Once more, she watched Nolan calculate how to find the iceberg of dysfunction he seemed certain lurked beneath her answers. Abruptly, he asked, "Precisely how did you help her, Mrs. Kilcannon?"
"Through my husband."
Faced with the same cul-de-sac, Nolan shifted ground. "Did you refer her to a counselor?"
"No."
"Did you call the police on her behalf?"
"No."
"Or the District Attorney?"
"No."
"What about her protection? Did you play any role in that?"
"Outside of conversations with my husband? Not directly."
"Did you think her protection was adequate?"
In a spasm of memory, Lara saw the Eagle's Claw bullet ripping through Joan's jaw. Softly, she answered, "At the time. What your client did was beyond our imaginings. As my husband may have mentioned."
Nolan placed his palms on the table. "To be clear, Mrs. Kilcannon, what do you believe my client did?"
"Specifically? Lure a spousal abuser to a gun show in Las Vegas, where he could buy its deadly weapons without a background check, the better to kill my mother, niece and the sister for whom you're showing such concern." Swiftly, Lara thought of Kerry's plans. "As far as I know, Lexington is still doing that, and still more people will die as a result. Or have they at last started protecting people like Joan?"
Nolan stared at her. "Did you . . ."
"Are you," Lara cut in, "going to answer my question?"
Nolan managed a brief smile. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Kilcannon. But as Professor Gold may have informed you, depositions are a one way street. I'm only a lawyer here . . ."
"With no moral responsibility as to whether your client still makes its guns available to prospective murderers, and sells them bullets to help ensure that they succeed. Will you at least have the decency to be embarrassed if you find out that they do?"
Nolan's smile vanished. "Did you," he persisted, "transfer your obligation to help your sister to your husband?"
"No, Mr. Nolan. My husband acted on our behalf."
"And on behalf of his own political interests?"
Lara paused, marshalling anew her air of calm. "I'm sorry, Mr. Nol
an. I don't understand your question."
"Then let me approach it another way. Was the decision to expose John Bowden's abusive nature on television driven by politics?"
"No . . ."
"Specifically, Mrs. Kilcannon, to eliminate a major distraction from your televised wedding, and the political boost it was intended to give the President."
"Oh, come off it," Lenihan interjected in a tone of disgust. Beside her, Avram Gold leaned forward. "That's not merely out of bounds, Mr. Nolan. It's offensive, insulting and outrageous."
"Even worse," Lara said with a tenuous smile, "it's wrong."
Nolan turned from Gold to Lara. "Didn't your husband decide to expose Bowden to eliminate a family embarrassment and fight off charges of undue influence in a domestic violence prosecution?"
Lara gazed at the ceiling, as though pondering the question. "It doesn't sound like Kerry," she replied. "Did you ask him?"
"I'm asking you."
Lara's eyes turned cold. "Then ask me something that's not absurd."
"Why absurd, Mrs. Kilcannon? Did you play any role in that decision?"
"The person who decided," Lara answered promptly, "was Joan."
"Did you discuss it with her?"
"Not directly, no."
"So you didn't know, of your personal knowledge, who decided to expose John Bowden, or what your husband and sister may have discussed?"
"I wasn't there."
"After the murders, did you discuss it with your husband?"
"Care to talk about it? " Kerry had asked.
"About hating myself? " she had answered. "What is there to say? I abdicated my responsibilities in every possible way—assigning Joanie to you, helping the media to take her life over. Now they're all dead."
"All such conversations," Avram Gold admonished, "are subject to the marital privilege."
With a satisfied expression, Nolan said to Lara, "Is that your position, Mrs. Kilcannon?"
"My position," Lara answered, "is that Kerry and I are entitled to whatever peace we have left."
"Are you at least willing to discuss your conversations with Ms. Dash?"
"Any such conversations," Gold responded for Lara, "are covered by the attorney-client privilege. As I understand Ms. Dash explained during Mary Costello's deposition, as a prospective plaintiff, Mrs. Kilcannon also has the right to Ms. Dash's confidential counsel."
"Is that your position, Mrs. Kilcannon?"
"Yes."
"It is true, is it not, that you suggested to your sister Mary that Ms. Dash represent her?"
"Mr. Nolan," Gold interrupted with an air of weariness, "that's been explained to you, as well. As they are both parties in interest, Mrs. Kilcannon's conversation with her surviving sister—at least concerning this lawsuit—are privileged."
"Including any inducements for Mary to employ Ms. Dash?"
"Yes," Gold answered. "If any."
Nolan spun on Lara. "Is that your position, as well?"
"It is."
"Are you also unwilling to tell me whether it was your husband who suggested Ms. Dash in the first place?"
At last, Lara felt the trap shut, could feel the full impact of the warning beneath Nolan's line of questioning. At trial, she would become the callous and indifferent sister who left Joan's problems to her calculating husband, and then helped manipulate her surviving sister, Mary, for Kerry's political gain. Nolan meant to create two soulless ciphers and then pillory them in public, destroying Lara's relationship with Mary in the bargain.
Lara raised her head. "I'm unwilling to tell you anything about what my husband and I may say to each other—ever. Or even whether something was said. The same is true with Mary." She paused, adding quietly, "Our family's much smaller now. What's left of it is too precious to share with someone like you."
* * *
That evening, Lara wept alone.
She had not cracked; at last, Nolan had run out of questions. But he had made his point and, worse, ripped open wounds which had barely begun to heal. Now she wondered if they ever would, and what would happen if she and Kerry stayed on this collision course with their enemies on the right.
Through a film of tears, Lara saw their bedside clock.
She had, perhaps, another ten minutes to grieve. Then she must repair herself and once again become First Lady. In Kerry's absence, she was hosting a dinner for the winners of the Special Olympics and their coaches, and this was a cause dear to Lara's heart.
SEVEN
Landing, Kerry was struck by the jagged brown rocks of the mountain range beyond the city, outlined against a thin blue desert sky. The vista had a shimmering quality, enhancing Kerry's sense that Las Vegas was surreal, perhaps dropped from the moon by some impresario of excess, Walt Disney on acid. Kerry's motorcade streamed down the strip, past a sequence of enormous hotels which, together, comprised a time-bending theme park: an ersatz Paris, Venice, New York City, the Rome of the Caesars, Luxor, and Camelot, punctuated by a space needle. Kerry felt a bemused admiration for the ambition and inventiveness of man, unconstrained by the limits of either money or good taste. The unusual number of billboards advertising tort lawyers reminded Kerry of Robert Lenihan.
Turning from the window, he steeled himself for the task ahead.
Two hours before, an advance team, unannounced and unobtrusive, had circulated through the gun show, reporting back on what they had seen. Only then did Kerry make his final decision. Kit had not alerted the press until they landed. Avid, they followed in two buses, although Kit had designated only one pool camera and three reporters to accompany the President inside the convention hall. As his limousine pulled up to the glass doors of the sprawling tan complex, Kerry's Secret Service detail spread out amidst the startled, loitering smokers.
For a last moment, Kerry remained inside, frozen by the risk and volatility of what he was about to do. Exiting the car, he imagined John Bowden's arrival at another show just weeks ago and, despite the searing heat, felt chill.
A phalanx of Secret Service agents surrounded him. Startled, a beefy smoker wearing a T-shirt with an Iron Cross above the slogan "NO FEAR" uttered a one-word obscenity as Kerry and his protectors pushed inside.
The cavernous hall had a steel web of lights and catwalks high above hundreds of tables marked by placards offering armaments of every kind. The people crowding the tables remained unaware of Kerry's arrival. At first glance, they were white, most of them male, and their appearance evoked an urban liberal's overheated fantasy of a gun show— caps, T-shirts, beards, ponytails, tattoos and sloping bellies—reminding him of the bitter cultural divisions in the country which he governed. He would find few Kilcannon voters here.
"This way, Mr. President," Peter Lake directed.
With the Secret Service detail as outriders, the alien cluster headed for Kerry's objective. Beneath a sign proclaiming "No SSA, No Gun Shows," two grim-faced men and a petite, pretty woman glared at him in anger and surprise.
"Gun-grabber," one of the men called out. Tempted to confront them, Kerry hewed to the mission he had come for.
The stir of people noticing him rose to a din of protest. Moving down a corridor between two rows of tables, Kerry looked from side to side, feeling tension pass through him like a current from the hate-filled faces, the weaponry all around them—sniper rifles, handguns, swords, knives, bayonets, plastic guns designed to slip through magnetometers. One booth sold hand grenades; another hawked "pre-banned AK-47s" and forty-round magazines; another offered freeze-dried survival rations and gas masks beneath the warning, "You Can't Fight If You Can't Breathe." A plethora of American flag decals competed with bumper stickers, one of which portrayed a black man anally penetrating another. "Save Our Military" it admonished, "Just Say No."
"Patriotic," Kit observed.
A crowd had massed around them. Behind a woman with two kids in a stroller, her mouth spitting venom he could not quite hear, Kerry spotted his objective in the dead center of the hall: a sign proclai
ming "Eagle's Claw Ammo."
Imagining Bowden drawn by the words, Kerry felt his nerves twitch.
As the press of bodies slowly parted for the wedge of his security detail, Kerry moved forward. A bearded man stood behind a table displaying armor-piercing bullets; high-capacity magazines; and a row of black metal guns labeled, "Lexington P-2—The Patriot's Weapon of Choice." Beside him was a life-size cardboard image of Kerry and Lara with concentric circles imprinted on their chests.
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