Balance of Power

by Richard North Patterson

  Kerry's whole being felt taut. "You're in time for the final curtain. Cassie's about to vote."

  * * *

  Aware of the drama of the moment, the clerk peered at the junior senator from Maine through glasses so thick that they magnified his eyes—which, at the moment, resembled those of a startled bug. Smiling, she said, "Doing a brisk business, I see. Where does the vote stand?"

  "Fifty 'no,' " he answered. "Forty-eight 'yes.' "

  "Close. What do you think I should do?"

  Mute, he looked up at her, unwilling to venture a response. Cassie felt her colleagues crowding in behind her, straining to hear whether her vote would be "yes" with the President and Hampton, or "no" with the Majority Leader and her party. "Oh, well," she told the clerk. "Record my vote as 'yes.' "

  Behind her she heard a stir. Glancing up at the Vice President, Cassie gave Ellen Penn a smile. After all, there were so few times a Vice President got to seize the limelight, and one of those was voting to break a tie.

  * * *

  "It's all on Slezak," Kerry told his wife.

  Standing behind him, Lara gripped the top of his chair. Her fingers were white, she noticed. For a moment, remembering the murders, the tortured dealings with her younger sister which had led to the filing of the lawsuit, she had been unaware of herself.

  "Please, God," she murmured, an utterance which was half prayer, half superstition. Reaching back, Kerry touched her hand.

  * * *

  On the floor of the Senate, the gazes of her colleagues—some direct, some more circumspect—moved to the junior senator from Michigan.

  Slowly, Slezak walked forward. "He can't bolt now," Chad whispered from behind her. "He'd be cutting Kerry's balls off."

  That was probably right, Cassie thought. Odds were that Slezak had been holding back his vote to find out, through Cassie, whether the vote would make a difference to the leader of his party. But when she glanced at Senator Hampton, he was standing stock-still, watching Slezak's progress with the same raptness as the others. With Paul Harshman at his shoulder, Senator Fasano pressed close to the clerk's desk.

  As Slezak reached the clerk, head butting forward, Fasano edged aside. Briefly, Slezak glanced at him, and nodded.

  * * *

  On the screen, the tally hung suspended, fifty to forty-nine. Kerry and Lara knew only that Slezak had cast his vote.

  A white numeral changed, a "zero" became a "one."

  The President stood in disbelief. "We lost," Clayton said tersely. "Slezak fucked us."

  Standing, Kerry turned to Lara, heedless of anyone else, and took her in his arms. "It's not over," he promised. "All I need is thirty-four votes against the final bill."

  She would know this, of course, just as she knew that the struggle to hold those votes could be even more vicious than what had gone before, political trench warfare waged senator to senator. It was just that he felt the need to speak. In answer, Lara held him close.

  * * *

  Shortly after eight o'clock that evening, by a vote of sixty-six to thirty-four, the Senate passed the Civil Justice Reform Act. Senators Rollins and Coletti voted with the majority.

  PART SIX

  BALANCE OF

  POWER

  EARLY DECEMBER–CHRISTMAS WEEK

  ONE

  Early the next morning, the President responded.

  His first call was to Jeannie Griswold, the Attorney General of Michigan, promising as much support, funding, and campaign assistance as she needed to unseat Jack Slezak in the primary. After thankyou calls to Vic Coletti and Cassie Rollins, he gathered Clayton and his congressional relations team to determine the best course for sustaining his intended veto of the Civil Justice Reform Act.

  Once vetoed, the bill would return to the House of Representatives and, should it override the President, to the Senate. The House was hopeless, all concurred; the bill had passed by a margin well in excess of two-thirds. The battle would be in the Senate, where, at the moment, Frank Fasano was one vote shy of the two-thirds needed to overcome Kerry's veto. All effort would go there.

  The next subject was timing. Kerry had ten days to sign a veto message. The question was whether he was served by waiting, or by sending the bill back to Congress quickly, decisively and dramatically. The conferees read the morning's headlines like tea leaves. The most prominent of these, the Senate's vote, warred with the disclosure of documents adverse to Lexington and Judge Bond's order—public only in its bottom line—that George Callister be deposed.

  Jack Sanders, Kerry's Chief Domestic Policy Advisor, and Alex Cole, his Congressional Liaison, reached opposite conclusions. Sanders favored rapid action to underscore Kerry's resolve. Cole believed that the momentum of events—the arrest of Ben Gehringer; the leak of Lexington's documents—meant that Kerry could use the full ten days to build support and solidify Senate Democrats. Kerry dismissed the meeting with the tentative decision that he would wait before returning the bill to Congress.

  Only Clayton lingered. When the two men were alone, he pointed out, "You can control your timing, Mr. President, but not Fasano's. He can wait to schedule an override vote until this Congress ends—up to a year, by my reckoning, choosing whatever time you're weakest. That argues for throwing the bill back in his face tomorrow and daring him to act."

  Briefly, Kerry looked out the window at the bleakest of days, the steady drizzle spattering the glass. "I've considered that. But no matter what I do, Fasano won't wait, even if he has to keep the Senate in session up to Christmas Eve." Turning back to Clayton, the President added, "He can't."

  A fleeting smile crossed Clayton's face. "Mary's lawsuit."

  "Yup. Fasano's patrons can't let it go to trial or even risk more leaks. So Fasano's stuck in a vise between me and the SSA."

  Clayton considered him. "And you," he said pointedly, "want to give the lawsuit time to blow up in public before Fasano can hold a vote. Maybe some tidbit from George Callister's deposition."

  "It's only an idle wish," Kerry answered with a shrug. "No point in sharing it with Jack and Alex."

  Clayton chuckled softly. With no change of expression, but in a cooler tone, Kerry asked, "Did you confirm our information about Lexington?"

  "Yes. Its British parent, Shawcross Holdings, has a major interest in North Sea Oil Leasing and, not-so-coincidentally, is an ardent supporter of the Prime Minister. Who has a considerable say about the future of North Sea drilling."

  "As between guns and oil, what does Shawcross care about most?"

  "Oil. There's way more money in it."

  The President thanked him. Leaving the Oval Office, Clayton marveled at the intricacy of Kerry's four-sided chess game with the SSA, Fasano, and Bob Lenihan and Sarah Dash, so subtle and complex that no reporter would ever divine it.

  * * *

  Alone, the President placed his scheduled call to the Prime Minister.

  The two men, telegenic leaders of a similar age, liked each other. So the exchange of pleasantries was genuine, as was the respect with which they exchanged views on their painstaking war against the Al Qaeda successors of Mahmoud Al Anwar. Only toward the end did Kerry observe, "I took a bit of a black eye yesterday."

  "Yes," the Prime Minister said with sympathy. "I saw. Fortunately, under your system they don't run you out for losing one vote in the legislature."

  "Not yet. But I certainly wouldn't care to lose again." Briefly, Kerry paused. "On a tangent to that, I have a favor to ask—assuming you feel free to grant it."

  "If I can, Kerry. As long as you're duly grateful."

  "Always," Kerry answered. "A man named George Callister seems to have washed up on your shores. His ultimate employer is Shawcross Holdings. It's dawned on me that a word from you might hasten his return."

  "It might," his ally answered pleasantly. "What do I need to know?"

  * * *

  "Twelve million dollars," Sarah said, gazing coldly at Lenihan. "When—if Mary hadn't—did you intend to tell me?"

/>   Lenihan crossed his arms. "Nolan and Fancher still don't know. There was no point in telling you unless Mary had an interest."

  "In what?" Sarah snapped. "Telling me? Don't bullshit me, Bob. You and Dane were trying to settle this case around me. And might have if Mary hadn't fulfilled your obligations."

  Their client sat between them in the interior conference room of the Kilcannon Center, an unhappy wraith at the meeting Sarah herself had demanded. Glancing at their client, Lenihan folded his arms. "Don't accuse me of being some sort of fifth column for those Nazis at the SSA. Or is how CNN got those documents still a mystery to you?"

  The boldness of this statement gave Sarah pause. "That's another thing," she said more slowly. "Bond could have hung us both, and with it Mary's case. But I suppose it's all worthwhile to you if it made Dane up his offer."

  "Of course it did. Don't be naive."

  "I'm hardly that," Sarah rejoined. "If Mary settles, that would remove the biggest obstacle between Fasano and a veto override.

  "Dane's stated condition is that the settlement amount never be disclosed, and that the files remain nonpublic. Why? Because without disclosure the public will think we're acknowledging that the case has no merit." Turning to Mary, Sarah added softly, "You get eight million, and Bob's firm gets four million as its contingent fee. And no one will be able to sue a gun company or the SSA, ever again. Because you'll have helped cause the President to lose."

  Now Lenihan spoke to Mary. "The President," he countered, "may well lose anyway. Then you'll end up with nothing."

  Mary looked sallow, thinner, so diminished by their conflict that Sarah, feeling both empathy and alarm, turned her focus back on Lenihan. "I'm all for Mary being compensated. But isn't this lawsuit also about saving lives?"

  "Of course . . ."

  "Of course," Sarah said with the edge of disdain. "So shouldn't this settlement require Lexington to discontinue making the bullet which ensured Marie would die? Or the gun Bowden used to kill her, Inez, and Joan? And wouldn't a public disclosure of settlement terms help the President and encourage other gun companies to alter their behavior?"

  Lenihan slammed down his coffee mug. "And requiring George Callister to commit public hari-kari would send an even stronger signal. But the SSA won't agree to any of that, and they're the ones who'll put up most of the money." Facing Mary, he said more quietly, "It's not just that the President may lose. Even if he doesn't, we may—because of Gardner Bond. It's not a betrayal of anyone to make a prudent assessment of the risks, and where you may wind up in the end."

  "They're scared," Sarah retorted. "Far more scared than we are. In the last three weeks we've been killing them, and now Callister's coming up. If the President hangs on in the Senate—unless Bond throws us out before trial, which I don't think he can now—we're going to try this case in front of God and everyone." Urgently, Sarah turned to Mary. "That's why Dane went to Bob. Unless you stiff the President, this case will be worth a whole lot more than twelve million dollars. And you'll have the power to change how the American gun industry does business.

  "Bob's partners made an investment. They're worried they won't get it back. But that's the risk they took, and this isn't about their mother or sister or niece." Sarah's voice softened. "It's about yours. Before you take eight million dollars of hush money, please search your soul. Because it's also blood money. Once you take it, you can never give it back."

  Mary's face betrayed a silent agony. Once more, Sarah felt the depth of her dilemma, paralyzed by her complex relationship with Lara and the President; her duty to her murdered relatives; her obligation to future victims; an offer of more money than she had ever imagined; and the diametrically opposed reactions of her lawyers. With palpable strain, she asked, "How long do I have to decide?"

  "Seven days," Lenihan answered. "After that, Dane's taking all twelve million dollars off the table."

  Mary touched her eyes. "Seven days," she repeated dully.

  TWO

  In the Oval Office, the President and the Majority Leader met alone.

  Fasano had requested the meeting. Kerry did not need to ask why; gun immunity hung in the balance of power between the President and the senator who intended to displace him. Though there were nine days left for the President to act, Kerry could veto the Civil Justice Reform Act at any moment. Then there would be no time for second thoughts, no brake on their collision course. The final reckoning was at hand.

  As to Fasano, the President's habits of mind had long since formed: Kerry assumed a cold, undeviating self-interest which made thinking of Fasano in human terms a waste of time. The President did not trust him; did not try to charm him; and thought the small amenities they must observe as hollow as a dumb show. He supposed, without caring, that Fasano felt much the same about him. In his most philosophical moments, Kerry might ponder the psychic costs of such learned indifference. But he had come far since Newark, and the harshness of his enemies had taught him that such reflections were a luxury.

  And there was Lara. Fasano might have a wife and children. Perhaps he even loved them. But Fasano the would-be President meant to seal Lara's tragedy to propitiate the SSA. Facing him now, Kerry felt far more than coldness.

  "Well," he said. "What is it?"

  Perhaps surprised by Kerry's dismissal of even superficial pleasantries, Fasano erased all expression from his face. His dark eyes met Kerry's without flinching. "I think you're going to lose, Mr. President."

  Kerry stared at him. Forced to elaborate, Fasano said evenly, "Tort reform trumps guns. You're asking thirty-four senators to sink it merely because you want them to. All I need is one of them."

  With a chill smile, Kerry glanced at his watch. "Then don't waste time on me, Frank. You'd best get to it before someone else gets shot."

  The laconic brutality of this response induced silence. The President watched Fasano weigh his words. "This isn't personal to me."

  Kerry shrugged at the implied rebuke. "What is?"

  To Kerry's surprise, Fasano summoned a look which approximated compassion. "I understand your feelings, Mr. President. I've got no wish to humiliate you, and it wouldn't serve my interests. Let's try to discuss this in that spirit."

  Fasano's unblinking composure was, to Kerry, as annoying and impressive as his hubris. "That's why we're meeting," Kerry said with tenuous patience. "So what are we discussing?"

  Fasano settled back on the President's couch. "A deal."

  "That's hard to imagine. Your interests are irreconcilable with mine."

  "Substantively, yes." Fasano's expression became one of deep sincerity, his tone quieter. "But a train wreck would damage both of us, and our parties. Unless both of us choose to stop it."

  The President considered him. "Frank," he said crisply, "this isn't just a meeting between us two statesmen, moving to a higher plane. The SSA knows you're here. They authorized your call to me. So explain to me the statesmanship which can accomodate all three of us."

  Fasano smiled without humor. "I've consulted them, yes. We all have our Robert Lenihans."

  Do we not, the President thought. He wondered if Fasano knew of Dane's back-channel offer, but could find no way to probe this. "Please go ahead," the President answered. "I can always call Bob later."

  "All right. The first part of my solution's simple: you don't veto tort reform."

  The President smiled. "Of course. That way you don't run the risk of trying, but failing, to immunize Lexington—after which it's exposed at trial as a bloodsucker effectively run by the SSA, your bankers. So what's the rest?"

  Fasano seemed unfazed. "The rest is equally simple. I promise you a straight up-and-down vote on your gun bill—no amendments, no tricks, no filibuster. If you can get your fifty votes, you pass it. If not, you get to run on it."

  That Fasano's air was so matter-of-fact, Kerry thought, made the context of his offer almost breathtaking. Behind Sarah's back, Dane had used Lenihan to ask Mary Costello to sell out both her sister and Kerry's
political interests. Now, to Kerry's face, albeit through Fasano, Dane was asking the President to sell out Mary, Lenihan, Sarah—and Kerry's own wife. The only rein on Kerry's anger was his fascination with Fasano himself; if Fasano knew of Dane's offer to Mary Costello, his selfpossession was truly superhuman.

  Another thought gave Kerry pause. On the level of cold-blooded abstraction—of sheer calculation—the offer had its merits: the swap of a veto he might lose for a clean shot at passing a bill which would certainly save lives. And, if Kerry failed, the chance to use it in the open against Fasano and the SSA.