Kerry did not answer, and did not need to. He had traveled a path even longer than Lara’s: an abusive father; a difficult childhood; his adult self-image as the smaller, less gifted brother of James Kilcannon—a freshly minted Irish-American prince who, until his assassination, had been a senator from New Jersey. At thirty, his brother’s accidental successor, Kerry was forced to find his own way. Few, then, had imagined him as President; Kerry never had.
Lara took his hand, watching his face in profile. Lean and fine-featured, every aspect of it was dear to her now, especially the eyes—their green-flecked blue irises were larger than most, giving a sense of deep intuition, of secrets withheld.
“How long,” she asked, “before I turn into a pumpkin?”
“Oh, Clayton’s commissioned a poll on that. In California, you get to sleep here. But sixty-eight percent of Alabamans want you to leave right now.”
“California made you President,” Lara retorted. “The citizens of Alabama didn’t even want you sleeping here alone.”
Kerry’s smile was rueful. “True enough. But we’ve learned about the problems, and long ago.”
With their reluctant acquiescence, Clayton Slade had designed rules for the President and his lover: Lara and Kerry must be engaged; she could not preside at White House dinner parties or otherwise presume to act as First Lady; though she had strongly held political views, anything she felt must be said to Kerry in private. And rule number one— Lara could not sleep over. Tonight, of all nights, the White House staff would be careful to log her out.
To others, their reasons might seem obvious. The White House held a special place in the American mind, and the President remained a figure of awe. It would not do, in these merciless times, for Kerry and Lara to seem arrogant or cavalier: from the Post to the slick women’s magazines, the press was avid for details of their relationship. And if the forces who despised Kerry could find no other way to tarnish him, Lara would do nicely.
This was more than enough. But there was also a deeper reason, dating back several years, a secret which made the rules compulsory: that Lara, then a New York Times reporter, had fallen in love with a senator trapped in an emotionless, childless marriage. Kerry was prepared to leave his wife for Lara; loving him, she did not wish to harm his chance of becoming President. When she had become pregnant, Lara, against his wishes, had arranged an abortion and accepted a posting abroad.
Two years of separation—punctuated by Kerry’s divorce— had followed, and then, still deeply in love, they came together again. For several months preceding Kerry’s election, the media and his political enemies had dogged their present and investigated their past. Though pro-choice as a matter of public policy, Kerry was, like Lara, Roman Catholic: that Kerry had pled with her to keep the child made his feelings about abortion more conflicted, their private history—potentially fatal to his candidacy—more painful and ambiguous. By concealing their affair and her abortion, Lara had freed him to become President, and committed them to do nothing to inspire further inquiry, or to hurt each other still more.
So tonight they had an hour or so. Not enough time to resolve what divided them: his desire to have children as soon as possible; her lingering unease about life as First Lady and the threat posed by their past; their resulting inability to agree on the White House wedding Kerry’s media consultant was so desperate for. Just time enough to make love.
“Do you ever miss how we were?” she asked. “Before?”
He cocked his head, a characteristic gesture. “The privacy, you mean.”
“Yes. All we cared about was each other. And not getting caught.”
Kerry shook his head. “The world of an affair is like that. But we both know better than to call it real life.”
Lara touched his face. “And this will be?” she asked gently.
“It’s become my real life. Only it’s like no one else’s.” His smile, Lara saw, masked worry. “You’re not bailing out already, are you? I can see the headlines: ‘President Sworn In, Shafted.’”
She returned his smile. “No,” she answered. “I don’t want anyone else. And I always believed you should be President.”
“So marry me.”
Lightly, Lara kissed him. “Do you think,” she inquired, “I could see the bedroom first?”
Afterward, he held her, warm and silent in the dark.
His stillness, so familiar to her, was one of deep thought. As if to acknowledge this, Kerry said quietly, “I was thinking about all I have to do now. About Roger Bannon, really.”
This, too, was familiar. Death haunted him, and its randomness was a living presence in his mind. This was more, Lara was certain, than the dark and light of the Irish—it was the legacy of James Kilcannon.
“What about Bannon?” she asked. “That he didn’t want you here?”
“That he should have retired before he wore himself out. And that his death was so pointless. Because I am here, and the last thing I’ll do is put another Roger Bannon on the Court.”
“Who will you appoint, Kerry? Any ideas?”
“None of my own. But Ellen Penn was whispering in my ear.”
“So that,” Lara replied, “is why she cut in when we were dancing. I wondered why she’d run the risk.”
The remark, as Lara intended, lightened his mood. “It’s the new political dilemma,” he agreed. “Presidents dancing with vice presidents. Do I lead? Does she follow? Does that make me a chauvinist, and Ellen too vice presidential? She finally decided the hell with it.”
Lara’s reporter’s reflexes might be rusty, but her political sense was still acute. “She must want you to appoint a woman.”
She felt Kerry smile at her prescience. “Not just any woman,” he amended. “A very particular woman.”
PART II
THE NOMINATION
ONE
“CAROLINE MASTERS,” Ellen Penn urged Kerry, “is perfect.”
She sat beside Clayton in the Oval Office, facing Kerry’s desk. If nothing else, Kerry reflected, this meeting would reveal how well his Vice President and Chief of Staff might coexist. In looks and manner they were opposites—Ellen small, bright-eyed, and intense; Clayton bulky, calm, and practical— and their relations were, at best, edgy. Clayton had not favored her selection: intensely loyal to Kerry, he saw Ellen as far too independent, a Roman candle of feminist enthusiasms. Even worse, Kerry suspected with some amusement, Clayton worried that her passions might skew Kerry’s judgment: one of his earthbound friend’s postinaugural missions was to save Kerry from his own worst impulses.
Part of this, Kerry knew, was born of a friendship so intimate that they could read the other’s thoughts. Years ago, Clayton had schooled Kerry in trial tactics; Kerry was godfather to Clayton’s twin daughters; Clayton had managed each of Kerry’s campaigns—two for the Senate, one for President. Only Clayton knew the truth about Kerry and Lara.
But, Kerry cautioned himself, Clayton’s motives were neither simple nor selfless. It was clear he wanted to become the first black Attorney General; after that, Kerry surmised, Clayton aspired to his own spot on the Court. These ambitions depended on Kerry’s own success: a failed nomination, brokered by Ellen Penn, would not serve Clayton’s interests.
Watching Clayton at the corner of his eye, Kerry spoke to Ellen. “I remember the Carelli case,” he said of Caroline Masters. “She handled it well. But ‘perfect’?”
“Perfect,” Ellen repeated. “You owe California; you owe women. And there’s never been a woman Chief before.
“This is the woman. She’s young, telegenic, and articulate. She’s a great witness for herself—four years ago, when she was nominated for the Court of Appeals, she breezed through the Judiciary Committee on a unanimous vote. Chad Palmer and Macdonald Gage both voted to confirm her. What are they going to say now—that a woman shouldn’t be Chief Justice?
“They’d hardly dare. The Republicans’ stand on abortion has repelled women by the truckload. That’s why we won, an
d they lost.” Ellen snapped forward in her chair, as if impelled by the force of her own argument. “Chad Palmer knows that, and he also wants your job. Gage wants it, too. You could use a Masters nomination to divide them.”
“Why the rush?” Clayton interjected. “This is the most important appointment a president can make.”
Ellen did not turn to him. “The Court’s deadlocked,” she said to Kerry. “That argues for a new Chief ASAP, and creates more pressure on Gage and Palmer to get out of the way. And with Caroline, they’ve got no weapons. The FBI and Justice vetted her for the appellate court and came up without a negative—no controversial political associations, no drug use, no personal problems of any kind.
“But she’s got one more big advantage, at least in the current environment.” Turning at last to Clayton, she granted him a smile of benign sweetness. “She has no record on abortion: no articles, cases, or public statements. There’s nothing Gage can pin on her.”
Seeing Clayton’s look of bemusement, Kerry asked, “What is she, Ellen—the Manchurian candidate? I almost believe you about the drug use. For that matter, maybe she’s a vestal virgin. But how does a forty-nine-year-old woman have ‘no record’ on abortion? And what does that say about her?”
Stung, Ellen faced him. “She’s not a cipher, Mr. President. She’s progressive on the environment, affirmative action, labor issues, and First Amendment rights. But even where she was out of step with Bannon, the Supreme Court never reversed her. And she’s called for liberalizing adoption procedures to help minority children find homes. How can the Republicans complain about that?”
Kerry gazed at her, then at his desk, lit by a square of winter sunlight. “I want the best, Ellen. Not just the most confirmable. Or even the most congenial to the people who put me here.
“Caroline Masters, if I chose her, could still be Chief when all of us are dead. And her impact on the lives of ordinary people would last far longer than that. I don’t want some bloodless technician, even if she turns out to be the darling of legal scholars across America. I want a terrific lawyer who also gives a damn about the world outside her courtroom.
“Maybe she’s both. But I need to know much more than what you’ve told me.”
“For example,” Clayton followed at once, “how do you know that she’s even pro-choice? The last thing we need there is a surprise.”
The Vice President folded her arms. “She’s pro-choice, Clayton. Trust me.”
“Did you ever ask her?”
“I don’t need to. She’s an independent woman, a Democrat, and a feminist. Nothing about her suggests that she’ll try to repeal Roe v. Wade, or start ordering women to have children they don’t want.”
Clayton gave her a pensive look. “Does she have children?”
“No. But neither does the President, I might point out.”
Kerry examined the square of sun again. Evenly, Clayton answered, “That doesn’t make it a plus, as the President would be the first to agree. What about marriages?”
“None.”
“Then how do you know she’s not a lesbian? Mac Gage and his friends have an unwholesome curiosity about things like that.”
Kerry looked up at Ellen. Tight-lipped, the Vice President answered, “She keeps her private life private. But I’ve known her for almost twenty years, since I was a San Francisco supervisor. There’s never been a whisper of anything like that.” Facing Kerry, she added, “Maybe she’s got no children of her own. But her position on adoption speaks to family values.”
Ellen was sounding defensive, Kerry knew. Perhaps Clayton and he had pressed her hard enough; she clearly believed in Caroline Masters, and wanted to put her imprint on a new administration. And it could not be easy to subordinate her views to a man who had been her younger colleague in the Senate, and whose election she had helped ensure.
“I’ll put Judge Masters in the mix,” he told her. “Please make sure the White House counsel’s office has everything you’ve got.”
While gracious, this was also a dismissal. Ellen hesitated, then stood. Clayton did not; Kerry watched Ellen register a reality of power—that Clayton Slade would always be the person left alone with Kerry Kilcannon, and no one else would know what passed between them unless Kerry or Clayton wished them to.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” she said, and left.
Clayton stood, arms folded. “You weren’t just humoring her.”
“No.”
Clayton glanced back at the door, to make sure that it was closed. “I don’t trust her judgment.”
Kerry raised his eyebrows. “If she had better ‘judgment,’ Clayton, she’d have supported Dick Mason for the nomination when he was thirty points up in the polls. Or maybe it’s just that we both have judgment that is better than you think.”
With a faint smile, Clayton considered his friend. “Sometimes.”
“So what is it you don’t like?”
“This woman’s life. You’re right about that part—it’s too sterile. I grant you it’s harder for a woman with a family to have gotten this far this young. But, whatever her reasons, she is single, and childless.”
“So am I.” Kerry’s voice was soft. “A liability, as you were kind enough to point out.”
Clayton met his gaze, unblinking—sustained, Kerry knew, by a friendship tested by time and circumstance. “So why compound it? The same folks who wonder if she’s gay will wonder if you’re fucking her.”
“Now there’s an option I hadn’t considered.” Propping his head in his palm, Kerry leaned against the armrest of his chair. “I got three hours sleep last night. So why don’t we cut to the merits.”
“She’s clearly qualified,” Clayton answered promptly. “Women’s groups like her—the defense in the Carelli case was self-defense against attempted rape, and Masters allowed it. And she could lead the Court away from the judicial graveyard where Bannon parked it.
“But that’s the long view. First we have to get her past Macdonald Gage, who’s looking for an opening, and maybe Palmer. It doesn’t matter how they voted before—the august duty of the Senate to approve your nominees is never more sacred than for a new Chief. Or more critical to the people who’ll help decide whether Gage or Palmer is their choice to run you out of here. That’s a lot riding on a woman you know almost nothing about.”
“Then find out about her. Soon.” Kerry stood. “I’d like to skip the usual vapid Kabuki theater, where we trot in all our interest groups to tell us who to pick, then leak a virtual rainbow coalition of prospective chiefs. We can just say this one’s the best, period. Whoever it is.”
“We’ll look naive. Like Jimmy Carter.”
“We’ll look principled. If people weren’t so sick of calculating pols, Dick Mason would be sitting here with his finger in the wind.” Smiling, Kerry added, “The more refined calculations appear not to be that at all. Besides, we’d take Mac Gage and his reactionary playmates completely by surprise. That will give them something to think about.”
Clayton considered Kerry across the desk.
No, he amended, Kerry was not naive. He was a rare combination of principle with an instinctive, but quite sophisticated, sense of how his principles played out in the world of politics. And a sometimes cold-eyed way of getting where he wanted to go.
“We’ll be all right,” Kerry said mildly. “Between the two of us, Clayton, we make at least one adequate human being. Maybe even a president.”
The comment was at once wry, affectionate, and, if Clayton needed it, a subtle reminder of who occupied this office. Smiling, he answered, “I’ll take this on myself, Mr. President.”
TWO
THE HEAD of the firm’s pro bono committee gave Sarah a wide-eyed look which combined fascination, amusement, and incredulity.
“We’re talking angry clients,” Scott Votek said. “Pissed off parents. Picket lines full of Bible thumpers. Rotten publicity. Security problems. In a firm where too many partners still think that ‘dead white mal
e’ means ‘role model.’”
Though disheartening, Votek’s list of consequences was not surprising, nor was his satiric tag line. Along with his bright shirts, wire-rim glasses, and ginger beard, Votek cultivated the image of an iconoclast, with a subversive devotion to liberal causes. In the culture of the firm, Sarah counted him a friend, professionally and personally; he was one of the few people to whom she had turned when, a few weeks before, she had broken off her engagement to her boyfriend of three years.
“Sarah,” he said flatly. “This case will eat you up.”
“What about Mary Ann Tierney?”
“Believe me, I know. The Protection of Life Act is bullshit: I’d love to see us take this on—us, of all firms.” Briefly, he smiled at the thought. “The old guys couldn’t show their faces at the Bohemian Club.”
“I can live with that, Scott.”
“Can you?” Votek exhaled, folding his hands in his lap. “Things are better now, I’ll admit, and a fair number of women are junior partners. But it’s their elders who can still make you their partner—or blackball you. All it takes is one.”
Sarah gazed at Votek’s Bokara rug. “Can they still do that?” she asked. “They have to get along with all the other partners, the ones who help decide their candidates. In nuclear terms, it’s like ‘mutual assured destruction.’”
Votek shook his head. “Don’t overrate yourself. And I mean that in the kindest possible way. Even Caroline Masters—the only woman superstar we’ve ever had—didn’t find her life here easy.”
“She survived, didn’t she?”
“She came in as a partner, and a celebrity. No one was going to run her out. For her it was a way station—a couple of years with the Establishment, making contacts and rounding out her résumé. And about all she could take.” Jerking loose his tie, Votek warmed to his speech. “You’ve got some real advocates here—me included. But we can’t help it if certain other people don’t want you. Instead of saying you’re ‘too political,’ they’ll use code words. Like ‘judgment.’
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