Smiling quizzically, Nate turned to the second press release.
It quoted Kerry Kilcannon’s reaction. “ ‘If enlightenment takes getting shot,’ ” it said in its entirety, “ ‘I’m just glad it worked the first time.’ ”
Nate looked across at Sheila. “That’sall ?” he asked.
“That’s all.”
Nate reread the sentence and then began to laugh. “Too good—God, it really istoo good.”
Courtney Wynn kept staring at the releases, unsmiling. “There goes one leg of the story,” he finally said. “The ethically compromised reporter. At leastin futuro .” He turned to Sheila Kahn. “How’s Costello’s reporting from two years ago?”
Kahn, too, looked dazed. “Bulletproof,” she answered. “Just like her campaign stuff. She may have done him favors, but it doesn’t show.”
With the suppressed nervousness of the frustrated smoker, Jane Booth hastily finished her can of Diet Coke. “The competition’s caught up with us now,” she said in an agitated tone. “Tomorrow they’ll be all over this, trying to ferret out what ‘personal friendship’ means.”
“And they’ll probably find what we did,” Wynn replied. “A lot of detail that looks very telling but doesn’t quite get us behind closed doors. And Kilcannon’s ex-wife won’t helpanyone , it sounds like.”
Booth gave him a pointed look. “You forgot the counselor’s memo.”
In the uncomfortable silence, Courtney Wynn contemplated the table. Everyone knew that his second marriage had begun as an affair with an ex-colleague, precipitating the end of his first; Wynn was too self-aware not to feel the irony, and too good a journalist not to fight it.
“They’re lying about an affair,” Nate told the group. “Even if we can’t prove it. But, to me, this isn’t about adultery—there’s too much of it around, and we’ve got no evidence that Kilcannon’s pathological. It’s about whether Lara Costello aborted Kerry Kilcannon’s child, and what role Kilcannon played in that. And now that they’re going to be America’s sweethearts, the story takes on a certain ‘yuk’ factor—” Cutting himself off, he gazed at Sheila Kahn across the conference table. “Do you have any sense this counselor’s crazy enough to have made the whole thing up?”
“Crazy? Sure. Who else would do what she’s done? But I don’t think she just made it up.”
With a tentative air, Martin Zimmer leaned forward: he was the rich amateur who had purchased the others’ talent and, for all his success on Wall Street, they seemed to intimidate him. “Isn’t this situation,” he asked, “the reason you’re still supposed to needtwo sources? You’ve shown me an affair, I’m pretty sure, and I think we know Costello was at the clinic. But did she tell anyone besides this woman—with ties to the Christian Commitment—that the baby was Kilcannon’s?”
Jane Booth frowned. “The circumstances argue for authenticity,” she said. “It’s like confessing to a priest, or a lawyer.”
“Do you want Dick Mason to be President?” Zimmer asked her bluntly. “Or whoever the Republicans finally choose?”
Jane looked genuinely irritated. “As political editor,” she answered, “I don’t wantanyone .”
“Well, you’d be choosingsomeone . Just not Kilcannon.” Zimmer turned to Nate. “We’re sure Mason planted this, right?”
Nate nodded. “The debate made that clear.”
“That’s what Nat Schlesinger says.” Zimmer shifted in his chair, more subdued. “We had another call from him—Courtney and I. The question he asked is this: Do we torpedo Kerry Kilcannon on the basis of a single source, provided by Dick Mason?”
Nate watched Courtney Wynn; without moving, Wynn subtly seemed to disassociate himself from his publisher, so that no one would think he was carrying water for the Kilcannon campaign. But Schlesinger’s question, Nate had to acknowledge, was an excellent one.
Before anyone tried to answer it, Wynn’s secretary arrived with a message on a slip of paper.
Wynn went to a corner, picked up the telephone, and had a brief conversation while the others listened. Turning, he explained, “That was a friend at ABC. They’ve done their first exit polling: they can’t release the results yet, but it looks like Kilcannon’s ahead.”
Across from Nate, Martin Zimmer raised his eyebrows.
“This is out there,” Jane Booth said at last. “And it’s like the sword of Damocles. What if the Republicans use it to take Kilcannon down? How do we justify not printing it?”
Courtney Wynn gave her a measured look. “That depends on whoelse wants to print it,” he responded. “The Republicans can’t do it alone, any more than Mason could. Even if they want to. Somy question is this: Who sets our standards—usor somebody else? And is this the kind of storyNewsworld wants to run—at least without more than we have now? Or have we become Matt Drudge?”
Nate gazed down at the press releases. Alone among the others, he could sense what the laconic words had cost two people, and how much more their risk might cost them yet. Then Martin Zimmer broke into his thoughts. “I don’t like this story,” he said simply. “Is there anyone here who does?”
Jane Booth grimaced. “This whole thing smells,” she persisted. “Clayton Slade let Costello in the ambulance becausehe knows the truth. And I don’t think anything that’s happened—not the shooting, not this meretricious story they’ve ginned up—cures the ethical problem of a reporter warning a candidate about a story. Especially whenthey’re the story. Jesus, what kind of journalistic standards are we tolerating here?” Facing Nate, she demanded, for Zimmer’s benefit, “You’resatisfied she went to Kilcannon, right?”
Nate nodded. “Or to his people.”
“But can you prove it?” Wynn asked them both.
Jane’s eyes narrowed. “No,” Nate answered. “But you could pick up the vibrations.”
“ ‘Vibrations,’ ” Zimmer repeated.
Jane turned to Nate again. “After I asked you to follow her,” she asked, “did you see anything?”
Nate hesitated. This was her final hope, he knew, of keeping the discussion alive.
“No,” he said at last. “But then who would be that dumb?”
TWO
It was almost over.
By seven o’clock, Jack Sleeper had called Kerry to say that his numbers forecast a substantial victory. “An hour to go,” Kerry reminded him—at eight o’clock, the polls would close, and speculation would be overtaken by fact.
When Kerry hung up, Lara asked, “Did you reach Kate Feeney’s parents?”
He nodded. “Do you know what her mother told me? That they’d gotten out to vote for me today. I suppose it’s a way of keeping her alive.”
“If that’s so,” Lara answered, “then it meant all the more to hear from you.” She wished there were more comfort she could give him: for the rest of his life, Lara knew, Kerry would be shadowed by the thought that he had abandoned John Musso and thus set Kate’s death in motion.
Kerry had fallen quiet again. “I need to see Peter Lake,” he said at last. “Before my mother comes.”
“I’ll go look for him,” Lara answered.
She found Peter in the hospital cafeteria, drinking coffee by himself. Lara hesitated, but only for a moment: however adrift she felt, unsure of her new life and of what it held for her, she was discovering a relief, close to joy, in her freedom to acknowledge Kerry.
Peter looked up at her and smiled. “Big day.” Briefly, he paused. “All the way around, I guess.”
Lara nodded. “Kerry wants to thank you. Now I can, too.” She paused, as well, and then returned Peter’s smile. “I guess it’s a good thing that you’re the Secret Service. Still.”
Peter’s grin betrayed his own deep relief that Kerry had survived. “Very secret,” he replied.
* * *
By ten o’clock, there were three of them sitting with Kerry—Lara, Clayton, and Mary Kilcannon.
Kerry had not wanted his mother to come until now, Lara knew; he had feared that the sight of h
im so badly injured would be a traumatic reminder of Jamie, and of Mary’s own blessing for Liam’s wish that Kerry enter politics. But Mary’s gratitude that he had lived shone from her still-handsome face and, with only mild bewilderment, she seemed to accept Lara’s presence as God’s gift to her remaining son.
We both have Catholic mothers, Lara thought with a certain amusement—sooner or later, it would occur to Mary that Kerry was too decent to ask Meg for an annulment, and therefore Kerry could not remarry within the Church. But that worry was a luxury which would come only when Mary could take her son’s recovery for granted. On this night, all she seemed to feel was love, nurtured for a lifetime.
“Kerry was so precious to me,” she murmured to Lara. “Always.”
Lara nodded. “I know.”
* * *
With the others, Kerry watched the returns come in.
They were sluggish—as always, it seemed, Los Angeles County was slow in reporting. To fill the time, CNN showed a tape of the attempted assassination.
Mary Kilcannon turned away; Lara gripped Kerry’s hand. As did Clayton, Kerry became quite still.
On the screen, in slow motion, Kerry pushed Clayton aside and reached out to John Musso. Watching, Kerry felt his stomach churn.
“Well,” Clayton said softly, “you did it again.”
“Among California voters,”Bill Schneider’s voice intoned,“Senator Kilcannon seems to have benefited from relief at his survival and admiration for his effort to protect those around him . . .”
It was the last way, Kerry thought with distaste, that he had wanted to win this primary. But there was this, he supposed: out of whatever impulse he had acted, this time he had not failed.
The film clip froze on John Musso’s agonized face.
Silent, Kerry remembered a damaged young boy, then another boy.
What, he suddenly wondered, had helpedhim rise above his own abusive father? The answer both made him grateful and added to the weight of his failings—the difference must surely be the concern of a loving mother, the quiet presence of Liam Dunn. And, perhaps, the cautionary example of his older brother, so determined to escape Michael Kilcannon that it consumed him.
Suddenly the picture changed: a newswoman spoke from Kerry’s Los Angeles headquarters, surrounded by celebrants.
“CNN,”she began,“has now projected that Senator Kerry Kilcannon will win the California presidential primary over Vice President Dick Mason by a margin of sixty-two to thirty-eight percent. This means that Senator Kilcannon will likely win all of California’s delegates, and gives him a virtual lock on his party’s nomination . . .”
“Allright ,” Clayton said with quiet elation. “We’ve done it.”
“The senator’s press secretary, Kit Pace, is expected here shortly to read a statement from Senator Kilcannon . . .”
Lara’s fingers curled tightly around Kerry’s. “You’re going to be President, Kerry. I can feel it.”
Kerry felt too much to answer.
“We understand that the senator is resting comfortably, watching the returns with his mother, Mary Kilcannon, and a few close friends . . .”
If only Liam Dunn could be here, Kerry thought. And Jamie.
This was not false sentiment, he knew. He and Jamie would have much to share now: Kerry had come a long way since, by a tragic accident, his brother had cleared the path that Kerry was meant to follow. Now Kerry had traveled it, and they stood on equal ground.
“Senator Kilcannon’s victory,”the reporter continued,“follows his acknowledgment of a relationship with NBC correspondent Lara Costello who—until last month—had been stationed overseas . . .”
“I was planning all along,” Lara murmured, “to launder us through Bosnia. I’m just sorry that it took two years.”
Turning, Kerry gave her a quiet sideways smile.“Kit Pace,” the reporter went on,“has declined further comment, except to say, ‘Even candidates and correspondents get to have a life.’ ”
“Now that,” Clayton remarked, “reallyis news.”
Softly, Kerry laughed, and then became pensive.
Soon it would begin again: the travel, the speeches, the crowds, the unceasing calculation, the constant struggle to remain—as Liam had—a decent man in a complex world. He should savor this moment while he could.
Quiet, he gazed at his mother, who had given him so much; at Clayton, his closest friend; at Lara, to whom, someday, he would be closer yet. Then she smiled at him, and Kerry realized that, no matter what came, he was something James Kilcannon had never been: deeply lucky, profoundly blessed. And that their one safe place would be with each other and, in time, their children.
Tomorrow, Kerry knew, he would tell her this. For now, it was enough that she was here.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The least I owe the many people who helped me is to start by separating research and imagination. This is not a roman à clef but a work of fiction, all the essential elements of which I developed in 1995, before interviewing anyone or following the recent presidential campaign. To the extent that any events in the campaign paralleled my preconceived plot, that is a coincidence. Similarly, the book was finished by the end of September 1997 and prefigures, rather than reflects, any political events thereafter.
Equally fundamental, while I have grounded my story in the context of such ongoing issues as abortion, gun control, race, campaign reform, and the role of the press in reporting on the private lives of public officials, the positions, personalities, and attitudes of my central characters are not those of contemporary political figures. To me, this is a matter not only of fairness to men and women who put up with enough in real life but also of novelistic principle; in fiction, I believe, the deepest insight combines an authentic background with realistic, but invented, people. Nor is this book intended as a partisan comment; rather, successful or not, my intention is to provoke thought.
Finally, and I hope equally obviously, the attitudes expressed by Kerry Kilcannon do not reflect—in fact, frequently contradict—those of the political leaders and advisers who helped enhance my understanding of Kerry’s world. None of them “approved” the book or are in any way responsible for its contents. Rather, Kerry’s views reflect my sense of where his background and psychology would take him, my assessment of the possible components of an insurgent candidacy, and, at times, some biases of my own. For the book’s politics, as well as any errors, the buck stops with me.
That said, I’m very grateful to all those who provided such good advice in the midst of their own busy lives:
A number of people from the real world of politics helped with my imagined one, including Rich Bond, William Cohen, Peter Fenn, Marlin Fitzwater, Barry Gottehrer, Tom King, Peter Knight, Jim Lauer, Susan Levine, Christine Matthews, John McCain, Bill McInturff, Bob Squier, George Stephanopoulos, Joe Trippi, Donna Victoria, Nelson Warfield, and, in particular, Mandy Grunwald. And Senator Bob Dole and his campaign staff, including Steve Duchesne and Jenny Ryder, graciously allowed me to tag along.
Several journalists schooled me in the rudiments of campaign coverage and in the complex of issues surrounding whether Kerry Kilcannon’s private life deserved a public airing. Special thanks to Lorraine Adams, Candy Crowley, David Finkel, Blaine Harden, Jill Zuckman, and, above all, Paul Taylor. And, in particular, the book’s journalistic aspects were enriched by the late Susan Yoachum, political editor for theSan Francisco Chronicle , whose intelligence, wit, and insight reminded me of one of the real privileges of writing—meeting people like Susan.
Others who shared their knowledge included novelist Maynard Thomson; psychiatrists Ken Gottlieb and Rodney Shapiro; psychologist Margaret Coggins; Carl Meyer and, especially, Terry Samway of the Secret Service; surgeon Dr. Bernard Alpert; Elizabeth Birch of the Human Rights Campaign; Robert Walker of Handgun Control, Inc.; Robert Allen, writer, teacher, editor ofThe Black Scholar , and a director of the Oakland Men’s Project; and Susan Breall, head of the domestic violence unit of the
San Francisco District Attorney’s Office. As always, I could not have done without the perceptive comments of Anna Chavez, Fred Hill, and Philip Rotner, the consistent insight of my gifted assistant, Alison Thomas, and the day-by-day involvement of my wife, Laurie. And many thanks to Knopf and Ballantine—in particular, to Sonny Mehta—for their enthusiasm for, and encouragement of, a project so different from my other recent work.
California has a political and social dynamic all its own. I am grateful to prosecutor Al Giannini, campaign worker Lorrie Johnson, San Francisco Treasurer Susan Leal, advance specialist Walter McGuire, political adviser Phil Perry, and demographer Rosemary Roach for their advice and, especially, to political consultant Clint Reilly for all his help and time. Similarly, Newark is a unique place, and Kerry Kilcannon had a distinctive early life. Many thanks to Dennis Caufield, Father Pat Donohue, Tom Giblin, Denis Lenihan, William Marks, and Al Zach, all of whom helped me fill in the blanks.
Some writers inspired me without knowing it, by writing. I first read Jack Newfield’s memoir of Robert Kennedy nearly thirty years ago and remain struck by its vivid portrait of a complex and contradictory man, and by its effort to discern the connection between personal psychology and political beliefs. If there is a model for my approach to Kerry Kilcannon, it resides not in any living politician but in Newfield’s portrait of one we lost too young. Similarly, Hedrick Smith’sThe Power Gamewas instructive on the problems of public life in Washington, D.C. And by writing thoughtfully about abortion, John Leo, Ann Roiphe, Edward Tivnan, George Will, and Naomi Wolff helped me feel my way through this difficult subject—to the satisfaction of almost no one, I am sure.
Finally, there are George Bush and Ron Kaufman. A few years ago, to my surprise and delight, I received a kind note from President Bush—a man I have long admired—aboutDegree of Guilt . When I conceived of this project, I wrote him, asking if he might help me understand what it feels like to run for President. His gracious response led to a meeting, much generous advice and help, and a friendship with President and Mrs. Bush that has been one of the great pleasures of Laurie’s and my recent life.
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