"No."
"Try three percent. Did it dawn on you that a considerable number of the people who reported acts of self-defense might, instead, be crazy?"
Reaching for the water pitcher, Glass reminded her of Reiner. After a leisurely swallow of water, he said, "I have no reason to believe that."
"Or disbelieve it. So let's turn to the broader problem of selfreported acts of self-defense." Briefly, Sarah checked her notes. "For example, are you aware of a 1994 Harvard survey concerning acts of selfdefense in a five-year period, where fifty of those responding reported thirty-five acts of self-defense, comprising seventy percent of the incidents reported?"
Carefully, Glass placed down the water. "No."
"Then I'd suggest you read it." Briefly Sarah paused. "What about the Washington Post survey of fifteen hundred Americans as to whether they'd seen an alien spacecraft in the preceding year."
Glass mustered a wan smile. "I don't follow aliens, Ms. Dash."
"You might find it interesting. Accordingly to the Post, one hundred fifty-one of these respondents reported having seen an alien spacecraft— an affirmative response of ten percent."
Nolan turned to his witness. "As I said," Glass responded in a stubborn tone, "I'm not aware of that."
"So you're also unaware that sixteen people of those responding— approximately one percent—reported actual contact with an alien."
"Yes. Again."
Sarah's mouth twisted slightly, a smile suppressed. "Isn't it possible that your one percent was the same as the Post's one percent, and that what you came up with is the incidence of defensive uses of a gun against alien invaders?"
"Enough," Nolan cut in bitingly. "If you have a serious question, ask it."
"Silly answers," Sarah retorted, "tend to provoke silly questions. As does fuzzy math." Turning to Glass, Sarah asked coldly, "Are you at least aware that the New England Journal of Medicine reported that for every gun in the home, it is three times more likely that a family member will be killed than if the gun weren't there?"
"No."
"Or that such families showed roughly five homicides of family members for every act of self-defense?"
"Enough, counsel," Nolan interrupted. "He said no. Move on."
Sarah sat back with a smile. "Actually, John, I'm almost through. I've just identified a Martian, and I'm dying to report him."
TWENTY-TWO
After dinner in the residence—pepperoni pizza, because they felt like it—Kerry rubbed Lara's shoulders as she described the funeral of a woman killed in Maryland by a random sniper, at which the family had implored her to speak. "I felt so ambivalent," Lara told Kerry. "I didn't know the victim, and by coming to her funeral I'd drawn a crowd of demonstrators. Demonstrators, Kerry, at a funeral.
"But there they were. So I felt I owed the husband whatever comfort I could give him. Like me, he'd had no time to say goodbye." Leaning back, she rested the crown of her head against Kerry's cheek. "And unlike me, he had no one to lean on."
"And the demonstrators?"
"Were the crazy ones." Kerry felt, rather than heard, her sigh of resignation. "I know they don't represent most people who own guns. But they reminded me of why this debate is so intractable—the complete absence of any empathy or imagination. In their minds, the widower and I should put aside what happened, and realize that guns are a sacred right and our families merely collateral damage—the price of America's Second Amendment freedoms.
"In its own way, it's almost as dissociated from humanity as what I saw in Kosovo. And when I think of John Bowden, it scares me just as much."
This was as much as she had said, Kerry realized, since their retreat to Martha's Vineyard. "It's good to talk," he told her. "We've spent so much time in motion, trying to make it all mean something. Especially you."
"Me?" Lara gave a quiet laugh. "It's been like 'don't look back, grief might be gaining on you.' Or fear."
"That something may happen to you?"
"Not really. About that, I worry much more for you."
Kerry did not tell her that at moments, as at the Lincoln Memorial the night before, he was struck by the fear of a sudden death—more piercing because of his love for her, for whom he feared much more. "These days," he told her, "I'm the safest man in America—Peter sees to that. So what is it you're afraid of?"
"Of failing. That we'll do everything we can, but that we'll fail in the end. That people will keep on dying for nothing, like the woman we buried today. And that all this will turn to ashes."
This, Kerry acknowledged, was his own deepest fear—to live with failure as he was already forced to live with guilt, for the rest of his life, for the deaths that Lara suffered from even more than he. He kissed her, and returned to the West Wing.
* * *
Looking up from his desk, Clayton was surprised to see the President.
"Go home," Kerry told him.
Clayton smiled. "Easy for you to say. You are home—I've got a couple of hours yet."
"Two too many. When was the last time you had a normal dinner with Carlie?"
Clayton laughed. "Four days ago. Who are you, Dr. Ruth? I thought you were King George."
"That was then. This is now." Kerry sat, looking like a man prepared to stay. "Between the residence and here, I had two minutes to reflect. I try to do that now and then."
"Bad for you, Mr. President. You should be beating up senators."
"Oh, I intend to. But it occurred to me to waste a little time with you beforehand." Kerry, his friend realized, looked unusually thoughtful and self-questioning—not for the man Clayton had known long ago, but for the harder man which circumstances, and ambition, had wrought from a lonely Irish boy, his family's less favored son. "Politicians," Kerry continued, "are users. Presidents are the worst. All that matters is our success, and what others do to ensure it. 'Friend' becomes an elastic term.
"That's fine. I accept that. But not for you and me." Kerry's tone was quiet. "Before I ever went into this business, you were my closest friend. As Chief of Staff, you've made me a better President." Briefly, Kerry smiled. "Give or take the occasional screwup. But as a friend, there's only one of you. Go home."
Touched, Clayton did that, his gift to Kerry Kilcannon as much as to his own wife.
* * *
"So," the President asked abruptly when Senator Hampton answered his phone. "Where are we on gun immunity?"
"Rollins, Coletti, Slezak," the Minority Leader answered crisply. "My count says we need all three."
"I've done all I can with Cassie—an appeal to conscience."
Briefly, Hampton laughed. "Desperate measures for desperate men. The SSA is doing more."
"No help for that. What about Slezak and Coletti? Did the Silent Witness demonstration make any kind of impression?"
"Nope. To those two guys it was all sound and fury—signifying, as usual, nothing. Slezak and Coletti are both pro-choice; they figure they've already got all the women they're going to get. So their concerns are more local—and practical.
"Coletti's got Lexington right in his backyard. He's been hearing from employees who are scared about their jobs. And he's got all those insurance companies in Hartford who feel no love for guys like Lenihan . . ."
"And Slezak?"
"Is just a prick. Besides that, he figures he's got elbow room on the left, but that the SSA can help him on the right. It doesn't help you that a lot of blue-collar guys in Michigan own guns."
"Even though I threatened him with a primary fight?"
"I expect that worries him, Mr. President. But Michigan's a funny state. Even with you against him, he's got some careful calculations to make."
Depressingly, this matched Kerry's assessment. "What else is left to offer them?"
"Nothing. Except the chance not to piss you off."
"I'll remind them of that," the President answered.
* * *
Ten minutes later, the White House switchboard tracked down Vic Coletti.
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The senior senator from Connecticut was at the bar of the Caucus Room, having drinks with his finance chairman and two well-heeled backers. Against the backdrop of talk and laughter, Coletti spoke softly into his cell phone.
"It's a tough vote, Mr. President, is all I can say at the moment." Briefly, Coletti paused. "On your gun bill, I'm with you. But this lawsuit thing? Frankly, what looks like a defendant to your sister-in-law is a major constituent to me. I hate to say so, but that's the truth of it."
"A 'major constituent,' " Kerry repeated with mild scorn. "I understand about the insurance companies. But how many of Lexington's employees voted for you in the first place?"
"Less than half," Coletti acknowledged promptly. "But they've got families—wives and kids and parents—a lot of whom vote, too." He lowered his voice still further. "In Connecticut, Lexington's not a villain— it's a home state employer. Maybe if there were bad stuff coming out of this lawsuit, like in the tobacco litigation, I'd have a public relations counterweight. But there's nothing."
Kerry considered his response. "There's something. And for Lexington, it's going from bad to worse. Keep the lawsuit alive, and it'll all come out at trial."
Coletti pondered this. "What if I vote against gun immunity," he asked, "and Fasano jams it through anyhow? Then the lawsuit's dead, and I've got no cover. And for what? By my calculation, unless Rollins and Slezak both vote with you, my vote doesn't matter."
It was a reminder, if Kerry needed one, of Vic Coletti's shrewdness. "Vic," he said quietly, "I mean to be here for the long haul. And over the long haul, you succeed or fail with me. I can accept a vote on tort reform. But if I lose a vote involving guns—after all of this—the balance of power will shift to Frank Fasano. If you're any part of that, I'll use whatever's left of my diminished power to ensure you pay for it."
In the silence, Kerry heard more laughter issuing from the bar. "I'll think on it," Coletti promised soberly. "Very hard."
* * *
The last manhunt conducted by the switchboard, for Senator Jack Slezak, ended at eleven p.m.
The senator was sleeping, Kerry was told, and could not be disturbed. Putting down the telephone, Kerry wondered what had made the senator from Michigan so arrogant—or so secure—that he refused to accept a call from a President who could ruin him.
* * *
Three thousand miles away, in Beverly Hills, the telephone rang in Robert Lenihan's den.
He was reviewing his calendar for the next three months, a tangle of conflicting demands which included a complex but potentially lucrative trial—perhaps deferred, much to the discontent of his partners, by the possible hearing in Mary Costello's lawsuit. Preoccupied, Lenihan hesitated before deciding to answer.
"Is this Bob Lenihan?" the deep voice inquired.
The question was asked with a tone of portent which, combined with the strange familiarity of the voice itself, made Lenihan instantly alert. "It is."
"This is Charles Dane."
Is this a joke? Lenihan almost asked. And then, reviewing the tone of voice and the logic of events, he was certain that it wasn't. "Are you calling to surrender?" Lenihan inquired. "Clients usually do that through their lawyers."
Dane's voice held no answering humor. "Our lawyers don't know I'm contacting you. Nor does anyone else. Unless it stays between us, this call goes no further."
Lenihan paused, parsing the permutations of such a request. "All right," he answered in a businesslike tone. "What's on your mind, Mr. Dane?"
"That you're going to lose."
More from a sense of challenge than conviction, Lenihan laughed. "Have you read Mike Reiner's deposition? I hear Fred Glass wasn't too great, either. I promise there's more to come."
"We know all about that," Dane said with cold assurance. "It doesn't matter. None of it does."
"And why is that?"
"Because the House just voted to bar your lawsuit. By this time next week, the Senate will have done the same."
"The Senate's still in play," Lenihan answered calmly. "Thanks to Leo Weller. And if the Senate passes the Civil Justice Reform Act with a gun immunity provision, the President will veto it before you can open the champagne."
"If he does," Dane answered in tones so somber that the word sepulchral popped into Lenihan's mind, "Kilcannon is finished. The least of which is that the Senate will override his vote."
Now Lenihan laughed aloud. "This conversation is happening in the Twilight Zone. No wonder you don't want me to repeat it."
Dane laughed as well, but softly. "I don't want you repeating it, because you don't know what it means. Or nearly enough about your President.
"You're an amateur, Robert. You think castrating Leo Weller is the ultimate in realpolitik. That's why you're going to lose."
Lenihan's amusement vanished: the thought that Dane was overdoing it was superseded by the disturbing realization that the man who had called him was a far different proposition than the indignant populist patriot who had spoken on the Mall. "And so you want me to be emotionally prepared? Nonsense. You're worried about this lawsuit, and you damned well should be."
"Worried? No. I'm allowing you to make a choice. One choice is to be the trial lawyer who not only had the Costello case snatched out from under him but, by bringing it, helped bring about the passage of the most comprehensive tort reform in our history. As matters stand, you teeter on self-parody. That would make you a buffoon."
Stung, Lenihan fought back the instinct to respond in kind. Dane's laser focus on his fears—public humiliation, the loss of political power and legal reputation was far too telling. "And the second choice?" he inquired coldly.
"Settle the case. Before our allies in the Senate pass gun immunity, then override Kilcannon's veto."
Though he had known this must be coming, Lenihan felt the residue of surprise. "Merits or politics aside," he answered, "I can't settle this case alone. I've got cocounsel to consult, and our client is the ultimate decision-maker."
"We've been wondering who your client is. But not much."
"Mary Costello," Lenihan snapped.
Dane emitted the same quiet laugh. "Assuming that's true," he answered, "then you've got no need whatever to consult with Sarah Dash."
Lenihan paused. More softly, he asked, "What are you suggesting?"
"That Mary Costello can continue on as her sister's puppet—the plaintiff in an aborted case—or ten million dollars richer. Minus the three-million-plus dollars which go to your firm."
Lenihan's own laugh was a startled reflex. "You are scared."
"Talk to your client," Dane retorted calmly. "Or by next week your lawsuit will be worth its weight in Tsarist Russian bonds."
TWENTY-THREE
On the morning that John Nolan cross-examined Dr. David Roper, the atmosphere in the sterile interior conference room of the Kilcannon Center was quiet, the cluster of lawyers sober and silent.
Roper was Sarah's final expert, a professor at Columbia with a doctorate in public health, whose work focused on refuting the assertion that increased gun ownership makes Americans safer. In manner, Roper was the opposite of Dr. Glass: clipped and precise, a scholar who conveyed his passion through a seriousness of speech and attitude. As an expert witness, Roper was allowed under Bond's order to review all depositions, and he had done so with great care. "What Fred Glass practices," he told Nolan flatly, "is theology, not science. The myth of self-defense is as essential to the SSA as the biblical theory of Creation is to fundamentalism: without it, their belief system—their whole rationale for being—crumbles."
Nolan studied him. "Why," he inquired, "do you call the belief in armed self-defense a myth?"
Dark and lean, Roper returned the intensity of Nolan's gaze. "Because it ignores what social scientists call 'opportunity theory': the more of something there is, the more that something is likely to be used. And misused.
"In particular, Dr. Glass overlooks how firearms enhance the opportunity to kill." Roper counte
d his points on the fingers of his left hand. "First, you can kill at a far greater distance. Second, you can kill at far greater safety to yourself. Third, you can kill with far more certainty. Fourth, the decision to kill becomes irrevocable far more quickly—unlike a knife, you can't pull back a bullet." Glancing at Harrison Fancher, he finished, "Using 'scientists' like Dr. Glass, the gun lobby not only perpetuates its myth of self-defense, it actually strips us of the means of genuine self-defense. Because it has the political power to convert quack science into tragedy."
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