Unable to answer, Weller gave a shrug—part protest, part acknowledgment. "This is worse."
"Agreed," Fasano said, his tone a mixture of commiseration and curiosity. "Just how do you get out of it?"
Weller grimaced. "That's what I'm asking, Frank. The asbestos companies are pissed at me. If I vote against the SSA it's suicide. But if I vote with the SSA, then the trial lawyers come after me, and put all my dying constituents right back up on television."
And you want me to save you, Fasano thought. The neatest trick since Lazarus was summoned back to life.
"I can't grant you absolution," Fasano said. "Not from the SSA. But if you get out front, and switch your vote, you could precipitate the avalanche which buries Kerry Kilcannon. That could purchase a fair amount of amnesia from Charles Dane."
Slowly, Weller nodded. "But that leaves the asbestosis," he ventured.
Fasano feigned reflection. "That's where I can help, I think. Suppose you vote for the Civil Justice Reform Act, and then introduce a bill establishing a special fund for asbestosis victims and their families."
Weller cocked his head. "How would it work?"
"We'd have to think through the details. But once we get up a bill, Hampton can't oppose it and Kilcannon can't veto it. Because without lawsuits, your bill would be the families' best shot at a real recovery." Fasano smiled. "I can imagine that our Senatorial Campaign Committee might have an interest in running ads that show you meeting with grateful families. Who knows, the SSA might even finance a few of those itself."
That a cynic like Weller could look so genuinely grateful told Fasano how frightened he was. "Frank," he said in a voice filled with emotion, "I think that could really help."
"It just might," Fasano assured him comfortably. "I really would hate to lose you."
TEN
In the Oval Office, Kerry reviewed his phone messages. The last one, but the first the President answered, was from Senator Chad Palmer.
They had not spoken for weeks. "Weller's switching on tort reform," Chad said bluntly. "Fasano worked up some legislation to get him out from under asbestosis and the SSA. Fasano wants it secret until Leo meets the press tomorrow morning. But I thought you might care to know."
The magnitude of this understatement was exceeded only by the dire implications for Kerry's veto. In the House, where Speaker Jencks had set a vote for tomorrow, an override was certain, and now Fasano held a one-vote margin unless Kerry somehow found a way to steal one back. But as bad as this news was, the President was grateful to know it— what Fasano would define as Palmer's betrayal was, to Kerry, an act of grace.
"Thanks for calling," Kerry said simply. Chad did not put into words, and thus compel a response from Kerry, how sorry he was for what had happened to Kerry and Lara, or what seemed about to happen in the Senate.
* * *
"The Senate's close to terminal," Kerry told Lara. "I don't know how I can get that vote back."
This assessment was preface to what she was about to see—a TV spot hastily prepared by Lenihan's group, the Trial Lawyers for Justice. "Run it," she told him quietly.
Kerry pushed the remote button.
On the screen, the blurry faces of a man and a woman were slowly splattered with mud, each addition marked by a soft thud. And then, as slowly, the mud slid down the photograph, revealing Kerry and Lara.
This is what they've tried to do, the voice-over said, to make you forget.
"I can't believe this," Lara murmured.
As they watched, their own faces gradually morphed into a photograph from the wedding, Inez and Joan holding hands with Marie. The picture zoomed in on Marie in her frilly dress, bright-eyed with delight. Then, accompanied by the soft, repeated clicks of a camera, her face became that of David Walsh, then George Serrano, then Laura Blanchard. The picture froze on Laura, fresh-faced and blonde, a basketball trophy pressed to her cheek.
This is Laura Blanchard, the voice-over said. One more life too important to forget.
The "Civil Justice Reform Act," the voice concluded with disdain. It's not reform, and it sure as shooting isn't justice. Tell your senator to help uphold the President's veto.
Lara folded her arms, gazing at the carpet. "Where do they want to run it?"
"Any state where we have a fighting chance to flip a senator, with the telephone number for each. I'm not sure I could stop Lenihan's people if I wanted to."
With this admission of his helplessness, Kerry faced how much he was diminished—the forces of money and power on the left were overtaking him as surely as the vast resources of the SSA had overtaken Fasano. "We're approaching the time," he told Lara, "where politicians are bit players, and Presidents reduced to props."
"Like my family is, you mean." She looked over at her husband. "Do you suppose Lenihan's still angling for a settlement?"
The quietly caustic inquiry captured her own despair. After a moment, Kerry asked, "What do you want to do about this?"
"Tell them to run it. We're well beyond worrying about our dignity, don't you think?" Her tone became hard. "I won't accept that my family died for nothing. We need to keep our votes in place, then pray for something better."
* * *
At seven that evening, the telephone in Sarah's office rang.
She was still preparing for Callister's deposition, scribbling notes into her typed outline. By mutual consent, though Lenihan's was somewhat condescending, they had agreed that Sarah would stand a better chance of lulling Lexington's president into some misstep than a notorious trial lawyer who would set George Callister's teeth on edge. Immersed in the intricacies of her design, she put down her ballpoint with reluctance.
"Sarah?" the now familiar voice said. "It's Lara Kilcannon."
Sarah hesitated, looking for a way to express her sympathy. "How are you?"
The First Lady laughed softly. "Lousy," she answered. "Angry. Heartsick. Embarrassed. Feeling guilty about Mary and terrible for Kerry. Scared to death that I'll wind up being part of the reason our society keeps on killing people. All the emotions that make life worth living."
Sarah was surprised—Lara's expression of her torment in black comedic terms made her seem at once more human, and more despairing, than the grieving but collected woman Sarah had first encountered. "I've been pretty worried myself," Sarah answered frankly. "For you, and about what could happen to this case."
"You should be. Back here, things are slipping."
"The Senate?"
"Yes. The vote's set in three days, and as of now we're going to lose."
"I've been so afraid of that." Sarah paused, sorting through her emotions. "Not just because of how hard we've tried, or even because of how Mary hung in with me when I didn't think she would. But because I know about the evidence.
"We have depositions sealed in a lead-lined vault that would keep the Senate from overriding the President's veto. But I can't make them public because of Bond's order. In the guise of keeping us from indulging in selective leaks, Bond and the defense lawyers are perpetrating a cover-up."
Lara was silent. "Can you take the depositions to the judge," she inquired at length, "and ask him to change his order?"
"Even if he were inclined to change it—which he never will—it's too late. I'd have to file a motion, allow time for the defendants to respond, and then go before the judge. There's just no way to do that in three days." Sarah felt the frustration of explaining to a nonlawyer how indifferent a court could be to the ends of justice. "Besides, what can I say— that I want Bond to release the depositions in order to tilt the Senate? He knows all about the Senate and what it means. That's why he's hiding the files beneath the pious pose that the law should be above such things."
"So there's nothing you can do," Lara persisted.
At once, it struck Sarah that Lara's query involved more than a desperate hope, and that her openness with Sarah involved far more than venting. Bluntly, Sarah said, "No matter how I feel, I can't release the files. Unless my law
license goes, as well."
"I understand," Lara said simply.
This was offered with such promptness that Sarah wondered whether her answer had assumed more than the First Lady had asked. "George Callister's tomorrow," Sarah told her with resignation. "All I can do is put my blinders on, and cross-examine him like it matters. What happens in the Senate is out of my control."
ELE VEN
At nine o'clock the next morning, Sarah faced George Callister.
It was the last desultory moment before the deposition would commence. To one side of Callister was John Nolan and, separated by an empty chair, Harrison Fancher on behalf of the SSA. To Sarah's left, Robert Lenihan sipped water. Between the combatants was a silver carafe of coffee and Nolan's copy of the New York Times, displaying an article above the fold headed "Weller Expected to Switch on Tort Reform." The court reporter, young and strawberry blonde, hunched over her stenotype machine at the end of the table. Standing behind Sarah, a ponytailed technician in blue jeans and a T-shirt adjusted his video cam to focus on the witness.
Arranging her papers in front of her, Sarah surreptitiously studied the witness and his lawyer. With a casual air, Nolan chatted with Callister about the Super Bowl prospects of the New England Patriots, Callister's team of choice. As always, Nolan projected confidence, the entitlement of those accustomed to authority.
But Callister was different. For weeks, Sarah had imagined this elusive figure as a corporate version of Charles Dane, scornful of the process she was seeking to inflict on him. But the real man projected the practical aura of a midwesterner who would as happily tinker with an engine as populate a boardroom. He had a naturally gruff voice with the intonation of the Great Plains, a greying flattop to match, a nondescript blue suit, and freckled, thick-fingered hands which clasped the Styrofoam cup of coffee he brought in from the street. His grey eyes were level and his range of expressions did not lend themselves to social exaggeration. His responses to Nolan bespoke polite interest, his smile was measured, and he seemed to regard his lawyer with the detached but not unpleasant appraisal he had trained on Sarah at first meeting. He did not strike her as a man who was easily fooled, or rendered implausible in the eyes of a jury.
"Ready, gentlemen?" Sarah asked.
Callister glanced at his lawyer. "We are," Nolan answered, and the deposition began.
* * *
For the first ten minutes, Sarah established the preliminaries: that Callister was an engineer by training; that he had spent most of the adult portion of his fifty-six years in the American gun industry; that, less than a year ago, Lexington's British parent had hired him as CEO with a mandate to make the company both profitable and stable; that he had carefully reviewed the company's revenues and product line in order to chart his course. Then Sarah turned to the subject of the Lexington P-2.
"In your view," she asked, "what was the market for the P-2?"
"People who wanted firepower."
"Including criminals?"
Nolan placed a hand on Callister's sleeve. "Objection," he interjected. "Calls for speculation."
Sarah kept her eyes on the witness. "You may answer, Mr. Callister."
Callister smiled slightly. With the air of the good soldier, he responded, "You're asking me to speculate."
This would not be easy, Sarah thought—men of Callister's generation had not climbed the corporate ladder by disobeying orders, and this man knew very well the risks presented by this lawsuit. She settled in for hours of trench warfare.
"Are you aware," she said, "that tracing records compiled by the ATF indicate that—in the last two years—the P-2 has been used in more crimes than any other semiautomatic handgun?"
"I've seen those numbers," the witness answered calmly. "But you have to put them in perspective. Arguably, the P-2 outsells all of its competitors. If you sell more guns, more of them are likely to be misused."
Nolan, Sarah noticed, looked serene. Not only was Callister buttressing their defense, but he did so with a practical and nondefensive air which lent his answers credibility. "Did you," she continued, "also review Lexington's internal records of trace requests to assess the frequency of the P-2's use in crimes?"
"I did not."
"For what reason?"
Callister placed down his cup, contemplating his hands as he rubbed them together lightly. "Understand something, Ms. Dash. I've wanted to discontinue the P-2 almost since the moment I arrived. I didn't need to go rooting through our files."
Though direct and more than a little surprising, Callister's response, Sarah sensed, hinted at something unsaid. The answer—closely analyzed—was really no answer at all. Though her instincts were aroused, Sarah deferred until later the line of questioning this suggested. Instead, she asked, "Why did you want to stop making the P-2?"
"Two reasons." Callister's tone was impersonal but pointed. "It was drawing bad publicity, and attracting lawsuits like yours. Our industry's profit margins are too thin as it stands. The P-2 was becoming more of a problem than a solution to our problems."
There was nothing wrong with the gun, Sarah heard him saying—just with an ecology populated by gun controllers and trial lawyers. Little wonder that Nolan had chosen to produce him.
Sarah's coffee had become lukewarm. Nonetheless she sipped it, taking the moment to appraise the man in front of her while she searched for the question. Then she put down her mug, gazing at him closely.
"You just testified that you never examined trace requests received by Lexington regarding the use of the P-2 in crimes, is that right?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever attempt to do so?"
The ghost of a smile moved one corner of Callister's mouth, so quickly that Sarah wondered if she had imagined it. "Yes."
For the first time, Sarah felt her nerve ends stir. "And when was that?"
Any trace of humor vanished from Callister's face, and his level grey eyes turned cold. "After the First Lady's brother-in-law killed three members of her family and three other people who were in his way."
As Nolan watched the witness intently, Sarah asked, "Did you ask anyone to look for those records?"
"Mike Reiner."
"And what was the result?"
Folding his hands in front of him, Callister looked straight at Sarah. "Reiner told me that we had no policy about retaining trace requests."
"And therefore had none in your files?"
"That's what he reported."
"Did you believe him?"
Callister's eyes seemed chillier yet. "I believed that we had no policy. And that the records were gone."
Sarah felt Lenihan lean toward her, preparing to whisper advice. "When you say 'gone,' " Sarah asked, "do you mean destroyed?"
"Yes."
"Before or after John Bowden killed six people?"
"I had no way of knowing." Pausing, Callister spoke in measured tones. "It's important to remember, Ms. Dash, that this occurred before you filed this lawsuit and served us with a demand for the records we're discussing."
In other words, as Sarah understood the answer, no one had obstructed justice. "Nonetheless," she inquired, "did you believe that Mr. Reiner himself had destroyed the records you asked for?"
Callister's eyes narrowed. "Before or after I requested them?"
Surprised, Sarah hesitated for an instant. "After."
"Again, Ms. Dash, I had no way of knowing."
Sarah placed both arms on the arms of her chair, leaning slightly forward. "Did you suspect that?"
Briefly, Callister hesitated. "Yes."
"For what reason?"
Nolan, she saw, looked hyperalert now, but lacked the grounds, or perhaps the inclination, to interfere with Callister's answer. "I asked for other records," the witness responded, "and was told that they were also missing."
"Told by whom?"
"Reiner."
"What records were those?"
"Records showing the volume of P-2s sold in states adjacent to California." Pau
sing, Callister added more pointedly, "Also the invoices showing where we'd shipped the murder weapon."
Sarah glanced at Nolan. "What did Mr. Reiner tell you?"
"That no effort had been made to retain them."
Balance of Power Page 66
