"No need, Frank. He speaks to me through the Reverend Christy. The Christian Commitment is going national with ads calling the Kilcannons morally unfit to lead us. Your political base hasn't been so galvanized since Kilcannon crammed Caroline Masters down their throats." Dane's tone became imperative. "They understand that overriding Kilcannon's veto is their first chance to strike while this is hot. Gun rights is now the issue which will break the little bastard for good and all."
Beneath this conversation, Fasano thought, was another: that Dane had set Kilcannon's downfall in motion; that Fasano's tacit knowledge made Dane the new proprietor of a corner of his soul; that—at least for this political moment—Fasano must carry out the SSA's directives. "My obligation is to win," Fasano parried, "not to schedule the quickest possible vote to override.
"On the final vote for passage, I carried our entire caucus except for Leo Weller. Kilcannon only had thirty-four votes—all Democrats. The votes you need may have to come from there. Before I schedule an override vote, I want to know that the votes are there."
"Vote," Dane snapped. "Singular. Weller's ripe for the picking—this scandal gives him cover for turning on Kilcannon, a distraction from his screwup on asbestos. Schedule the override and we'll make sure you win. All you need to do is keep Palmer and your fucking moderates in line, and get this done. Then the very next order of business will be defeating Kilcannon's gun bill."
Dane's insistence on haste made Fasano wonder again whether something about the Costello lawsuit concerned him or, now, whether Dane worried that this morning's scandal might in time be laid at his door. But there was objective sense in his demand. In the aftershock of Kilcannon's exposure, the political leverage belonged to Fasano, not Kilcannon, increasing the pressure on Fasano to deliver for the forces whose support he needed to become President himself. Dane had devised the perfect trap, pitting him against Kilcannon like two scorpions in a bottle.
"Deliver me Leo," Fasano told him, "and you'll get your instant vote."
* * *
It was nearly six before Cassie Rollins arrived at Fasano's office. Winter darkness had fallen, and the black rectangle of Fasano's window framed a distant, spotlit view of the Mall. Somehow Cassie knew that it was cold outside.
"Well?" Fasano inquired.
The monosyllable carried the reminder of her betrayal on gun immunity, an intimation that she must earn her way back into her leader's good graces or face banishment to some senatorial Siberia—or worse, the humiliation of a primary loss, the end to her career in politics.
"How are you going to play this?" was Cassie's blunt response. "We can't keep quiet forever."
Fasano shook his head. "My staff's preparing a statement. You can read it if you like."
"Give me the Cliff Notes."
"The A-words—adultery and abortion—never cross my lips. This problem is a lack of candor, and its real victim is the American people, including the next generation, who are losing trust in those who seek to lead them. As for me, I don't want to dwell on the President's personal life. I'm simply 'as disappointed as I expect the rest of the country is.' "
It was shrewd, Cassie thought. "No freelancing," Fasano continued, "from Paul or anyone. I'll expect all of you to 'echo the sentiments expressed by the Majority Leader' and then soberly proceed to override Kilcannon's veto, and send his gun bill to defeat. That should about do it for his Presidency."
Balling a fist, Cassie rested it beneath her chin. "Where do you suppose this story came from?"
Fasano shrugged. "The important thing is that nobody think that we played any part in it. That's why we all need to be as sober as an undertaker."
"That won't be hard for me," Cassie answered quietly. "I feel sorry for the Kilcannons—both of them. From what I can see, every conservative so-called journalist is swarming to Fox News to complain about Lara's ethics. But in my experience with her as a reporter she always played it completely straight. No one's ever claimed that she cut Kerry any breaks."
Fasano gave her a wintry smile. "Or Kilcannon's former wife."
"Believe me, Frank, I'm not going to be out defending their affair. But if a lifetime of marital fidelity were the test of fitness to serve in the Senate, there'd be only you and me left to turn out the lights. And that's only because I've never been married."
Fasano's smile compressed. "I don't love this, either. But we didn't make Kilcannon do it, and this is business. Where do you stand on his veto?"
"Where I stood before. I don't like gun immunity, but on balance I favor the final bill. So you've got my vote to override." Cassie gazed at him intently. "As for what's happening to the President, I don't like the feel of it. Not just because of the blackmail and whose interests it serves—a thought which, by the way, does not lead me to the Chamber of Commerce or their friends in the business community. It's that there are too many moving parts here, too much I don't know."
"And never will, I suspect. Nor will I."
Eyes narrowing, Cassie studied her nails. "There's something else," she said. "Lara exercised a right I happen to believe in, and now the President's being pilloried for it. My reading was that most of his statements in favor of choice were shot through with ambivalence." She looked up at Fasano. "Now I think I know why. If I had to guess, I'd say that Lara did it on her own, and that Kilcannon's refusing to say so."
"What?" Fasano said with incredulity. "You're suggesting that he wanted her to have a child and ruin his career? But that now he's too noble to say so? How many death wishes can someone that ambitious entertain?"
"You and I," Cassie responded, "have always disagreed about the nature of Kerry Kilcannon. I contend he has a soul—unlike many of our colleagues, I might add. That's why he and Chad always got along." Having delivered this veiled barb, Cassie changed subjects. "His motives aside, the President was clever about one thing. He got the story over with quickly—the press won't be trying to prove what he's already admitted. By tomorrow they'll be fixated on the identity of the blackmailer. Dollars to doughnuts it's someone who's a 'friend' of ours." She smiled briefly. "And Slezak's, Kilcannon seemed to imply. That would narrow the field a bit."
At once, Cassie saw this thrust strike home: Fasano's face became a mask, and his eyes froze on her face. He knows, she thought for a split second, and the instinct for self-preservation gripped her, the fear of standing too close to Fasano too soon. Then Fasano conjured a belated smile. "Why not just say what you mean, and get this off your chest."
It was a reminder that the subject was radioactive, and that a careless word, conveyed to the wrong person, could cost her a great deal. "I've said what I had to say," she answered.
Fasano's voice and manner changed abruptly. "Eleven days ago you crossed me on a leadership vote. The next one is on Kilcannon's gun bill. For you, I'd call it sudden death."
Cassie met his gaze. "Because the SSA will mount their primary challenge?" she inquired coolly. "So either they'll beat me there, or weaken me for a race against Abel Randolph. And you won't raise a finger, or a dime, to stop them."
"That's how it is."
"Not quite." Sitting back, Cassie drew a breath. "Believe me, Frank, I'm respectful of your position. But I'm less enamored of mine than I was when I woke up this morning. Tiptoeing through sewage does that to me.
"So you can tell the SSA to give me a little space. If you don't feel free to do that, then let them do their worst. Even if they disinter George Bolt and pump him full of embalming fluid, he won't beat me in a primary. And if that miracle occurs, there's no way on earth he'll defeat Abel Randolph in the general." Pausing, Cassie kept her voice more dispassionate than she felt. "That gives you two alternatives—a new Democratic senator who may threaten your majority, or one very disaffected female incumbent." Cassie smiled. "The last time our leadership fucked around with a Republican from New England, he left the party to become an independent. He seemed a whole lot happier than I feel right now."
Quiet, Fasano paused to appraise her si
ncerity. "Some people like being pariahs, Cassie. I don't sense that in you."
"Then give me a fit home, Frank. And the next time you want my vote, or anything from me, speak for yourself instead of for Charles Dane."
NINE
The following morning, an overnight poll showed that fifty-three percent of respondents felt the President's effectiveness was impaired, and that twenty-seven percent favored resignation. But with no denial to fuel the story, speculation began to center on its origin. Jack Slezak had given a carefully orchestrated interview stressing that his purpose was not to promote blackmail by his unknown caller, but to allow the President "time to do the right thing in a difficult personal situation." Republicans had confined themselves to muted statements of disappointment and disapproval, leaving the calls for impeachment to the more fervid of the talking heads. Democrats, still finding their way, ventured the tepid defense that the President's preelection personal life should be separate from his Presidency. On the Senate floor, as morning business opened, Fasano called for a speedy vote to overturn the President's veto.
As Kerry watched on C-SPAN, Hampton responded. Why this unseemly haste, he asked the Senate, where there is no deadline for an override except the end to this Congress itself, over a year from now? Are the proponents of gun immunity so desperate to extinguish Mary Costello's lawsuit? Are they so afraid that if the courtroom doesn't go dark until mid-trial it will be too late to conceal who bears the blame for the murder of six people? Why not wait for the judge and jury to decide?
It was the best Hampton could do, Kerry thought—attempt to shift the spotlight from Lara to her sister, from abortion to the victims of gun violence. And it was a sad reminder of how much damage the President had sustained.
* * *
Speaking to the President by telephone, Hampton sounded worried but determined. "This could happen to you, I keep telling our people. If we don't step up, we'll all be hostage to whatever has happened in our personal lives for the rest of our public lives."
"How is that going down?"
"They understand. But they're worried about being associated with
your so-called moral lapses. They're living in the here and now. What might happen to them will happen down the road."
"What about the override? Can we hold our votes?"
"I don't know. No one's told me they're jumping yet—they don't have an answer when I ask what this story has to do with gun immunity. But I'm getting foreplay from a couple of them, like Torchio and Spivey, softening me up for a potential fucking. More than a few are looking around, wondering who will be the first to flip." Hampton's tone admitted to his frustration. "The real problem's Weller—I imagine Fasano and the SSA are doing everything but plant a severed horse's head on his pillow. If he switches sides, there may be a deluge."
Kerry felt his own discouragement deepen. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Other than locating the blackmailer?" Hampton paused, as though groping for an answer. "You can make some private calls to senators. In your current position, public arm-twisting could blow up in your face."
Restless, Kerry stood. "I know that. But if we lose Weller, we need to pick up a vote somewhere."
Hampton hesitated. "Is there any way to force Slezak to tell the truth? After all, if someone saying he was the president of the AFL-CIO had really called Slezak's office, wouldn't his receptionist remember?"
"I've thought of that," the President answered. "But imagine the reaction if I turn the FBI loose on Slezak's office? The most his receptionist will say is that he or she doesn't remember a call from one of the most important figures in the country. Implausible to you and me, but an absolute dead end. Slezak's told the perfect lie—a phone call which never happened, which no one can disprove.
"Maybe the press will get this counselor to say who she gave her notes to. Maybe in that sphere I could even get the FBI involved, and try to trace this story to its source. But whoever is involved will lie as well, and the columnist who printed it will never reveal his source. In the meanwhile, I'd be accused of unleashing the Gestapo to distract attention from my sins. As a matter of practical politics, I have to save the FBI for later." Kerry began to pace. "Even if we let them loose, I doubt the FBI could trace the story before the vote to override my veto. Or even the vote on my gun bill." Pausing, Kerry finished, "That's happening next, I suppose."
"We think so." Hampton's tone was sardonic. "Fasano may be deeply saddened by what's happened to you, but he's adjusted rather quickly to its uses."
Kerry was quiet. What had saved him from dwelling on his own personal humiliation, and Lara's, was to focus on its political aspect, the fight to regain his standing in time to save his veto. Now his feelings overwhelmed him. "You know," he said, "I could have never imagined how this would be for Lara, or for me. Or how it would feel to have it define my Presidency."
Hampton was silent. Kerry guessed at his thoughts: that, burdened by this secret, Kerry should not have run for President; that Hampton had gone out on a limb for him, not knowing what could happen; that Hampton's life as Minority Leader would be brutal, arrayed with a wavering caucus of Democratic senators against an implacable Frank Fasano and a now more compliant group of Republicans, and supported only by a President perhaps too wounded to survive. "Mr. President," Hampton said evenly, "I don't blame you for where we are. Frankly, you've been a better President than I thought you'd be—better, I'm now convinced, than Dick Mason would have been. You've given us more reason to be proud of our party than we've had in a good while."
For twelve years in the Senate, Kerry reflected, he and Hampton had been colleagues, but not friends. Now Kerry wondered why he had underrated Hampton's mettle, and undervalued his decency. "When you were my leader," Kerry told him, "I should have been a better soldier."
Softly, Hampton laughed. "Good soldiers," he said, "don't always make good Presidents. Chad Palmer used to tell me that before he mislaid his soul."
At this mention of his friend and rival, Kerry faced again the dimensions of his problem. "We needed Chad on this," he said. "It would have helped."
"So it would have."
They both had spoken in the past tense, Kerry realized. He thanked the Minority Leader, and got off.
* * *
When her private line rang, Cassie Rollins picked up the phone herself. "Cassie," her caller said quietly, "it's Lara."
Startled, Cassie blurted, "I'm so sorry about what's happened."
"So am I," Lara replied. "I've been sorry for years, and now I'm even more sorry for Kerry than I was. He didn't want it to begin with."
At this revelation, so personal and painful, Cassie suppressed a sigh—the meaning of "it" was unmistakable. "I'd guessed as much," Cassie said. "Not that it matters to me."
"That's why I called you. Better than most people, I understand the pressures you're under. I can't make them disappear, or even help. But what's happening is wrong, and we both know it."
"We do," Cassie agreed. "But it's also the world we seem to live in, I'm afraid."
"But should it be?" The First Lady stopped abruptly, taming the note of protest in her voice. "He doesn't know I'm calling, Cassie. I'm not even sure what I'm asking you to do. But it makes no sense to vote down Kerry's gun bill, or wipe out Mary's lawsuit over this."
"I understand," was all Cassie could say, except to wish the President and First Lady well. And so she did.
* * *
When, Fasano wondered, had Leo Weller begun shrinking? Perhaps the process had started with the trial lawyers and asbestosis, but a half hour with Charles Dane had left his colleague so stripped of his usual bluster that he seemed, quite literally, smaller. Even the residual shrewdness in his eyes reminded Fasano less of a crafty politician than a woods animal cornered by a predator.
Although he knew the answer, Fasano asked, "How was your talk with Dane?"
" 'With,' " Weller answered with wounded dignity. "You make it sound like a conversation. He reminded me they'
ve got more money than the trial lawyers, and that there's no way I win a primary if they don't want me to. The kindest name he called me was 'capon.' I'm a United States Senator, Frank, not his fucking employee. I won't be treated like that."
Fasano mustered a look which combined sympathy and detachment. "That's what happens when you turn out to be the vote we need to override Kilcannon's veto. It's the perfect storm of political screwups, Leo. You've alienated the trial lawyers, your supporters in the asbestos industry, the SSA, and your own leadership in the Senate. Now you're standing on the precipice, staring into the abyss of a career even deader than Kerry Kilcannon's. It's not a spectacle I've enjoyed watching."
Sinking farther into Fasano's couch, Weller folded his arms. "It doesn't have to be like this."
"But it is like this," Fasano said, not unkindly. "You're not suggesting that you've never beaten someone senseless with their own mistake— real, or imagined? As I remember, you got here by accusing your opponent of 'flirting with the gay agenda' because he'd agreed to meet with somebody from the Human Rights Campaign—and only because his son, who is gay, asked him to hear them out. There's no one here who hasn't, at some time, been as tough as they needed. So why complain when the SSA feels aggrieved enough to do the same to you."
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