Balance of Power

SEVENTEEN

To Sarah, much of Ben Gehringer's appearance had the otherworldly aspect of a high school nerd—thick glasses with fleshcolored frames; thinning, slicked-back brown hair; the posture of a comma on a frame so thin it looked unhealthy; pale skin with strawberry blotches on his cheeks, seemingly untouched by sunlight. But any innocence had been cauterized by fanaticism and distrust; behind the glasses, his blue eyes had the feral keenness of a bird of prey. Knowing she was poised at the edge of a breakthrough, Sarah felt tense.

The setting, a stark room in a federal prison in Idaho, resembled that for the deposition of George Johnson, and the cast of characters was much the same: John Nolan, Harrison Fancher, a court reporter, and a federal public defender, this one a stout, fortyish man in a shapeless grey suit. But this time her adversaries were prepared.

"For the record," Sarah asked the witness, "when were you arrested?"

"A week ago."

"And the charges?"

"Trafficking." His answers were terse and grudging, as though every word were a precious coin. "Stealing a crateload of Lexington P-2s."

"Where did you steal them," Sarah prodded, "and with whom?"

"Phoenix. With George Johnson."

He spoke the name with the contempt of someone spitting on the sidewalk. Nolan placed a pen to his lips, staring at the witness. "Where did you sell them?" Sarah asked.

The witness hesitated—unwilling, Sarah guessed, to confess to more than he needed. "At a gun show in Vegas."

"When?"

Impatient, Gehringer shifted in his chair. "Around Labor Day."

Sarah placed a photograph in front of the witness. The silence became so complete that it felt eerie. Except for the reporter, the others were still.

"I show you a photograph marked 'Gehringer Exhibit One.' Can you identify this man?"

A brief glint appeared in the pale blue eyes. "Yes."

"Where did you first see him?"

"At the gun show."

His terseness had begun taxing Sarah's tenuous patience. More sharply, she asked, "Did you speak to him?"

"Yes."

"About what?"

"Buying a P-2."

Sarah's skin felt clammy. "Did you sell him one?"

Silent, the witness clasped his wrist with a clawlike movement of his right hand. However detached from normal sensibilities, Gehringer clearly grasped the enormity of the question—the answer could have him placing a P-2 in the hands of the man who had used it to slaughter the mother, niece and sister of the First Lady of the United States. Then an unpleasant smile crossed Gehringer's face—whether in satisfaction at the fact of this, or at what the answer might gain him, Sarah could not tell.

"Yes."

The cold monosyllable seemed to echo in the room. More calmly, Sarah asked, "Did he tell you why he wanted a P-2?"

"Not exactly."

Damn you for your indifference, Sarah thought. "Did he indicate to you—in words or substance—the reason he was buying a Lexington P-2?"

Gehringer's eyes still rested on Bowden's face. "He showed me an ad."

Nolan's expression became a studied blank. Opening a manila folder, Sarah said, "I have here a copy of The Defender magazine, premarked as 'Gehringer Exhibit Two.' Was the ad he showed you in this magazine?"

"Yes."

"Had you seen the magazine before?"

Gehringer flipped its pages. With the same detachment, he said, "I subscribe to it."

"Is there a particular reason?"

"It has a calendar of gun shows. That's how I knew about the show in Vegas."

To Sarah's left, Fancher scribbled a note. Taking the magazine from Gehringer's hand, she turned to a page marked with a paper clip. "I show you page fifty-five. Is this the advertisement?"

"Yes."

"The one for Lexington Arms?"

"Yes."

"And next to it is an ad for a gun show."

"Yes." The witness paused. "That was another reason I came to the show. I knew I'd have some customers."

All at once, Nolan's causation defense—that Sarah could not prove Lexington's ad had drawn Bowden to Las Vegas—was gone. Feeling the invisible hand of Kerry Kilcannon, she wondered how he had brought this moment about, and what it might cost him.

"When did you learn Bowden's name?" Sarah asked.

Gehringer's mouth twitched. "After he was dead. From television."

"Not at the gun show?"

Gehringer studied the page before him. "I'm not a licensed dealer," he said with faint derision. "Under the law, I don't have to run a background check."

"Did you discuss this with Bowden?"

"Yes. He didn't want a background check. Said he didn't have time."

Sarah pushed The Defender to one side, gaze fixed on Gehringer. "How much did you charge him?"

"Five fifty."

"Did he bargain?"

"No." An edge of disdain entered his voice. "He complained. He said the Gun Emporium was selling them for less."

"Did he say why he was paying you a premium?"

The unsettling smile reappeared. "The Gun Emporium ran background checks."

Nolan pressed his palms together. It struck Sarah that, outside this room, no one—save for George Johnson, a few federal prosecutors, or those in the chain of information leading to the President—knew the damning facts which the reporter, stone-faced, was recording in black and white. But its public impact could be devastating. Like Bowden and his victims, Ben Gehringer put a face—in Gehringer's case, an inhuman one—on the need for Kilcannon's gun bill. Once again, she chafed at the order through which Gardner Bond had entombed the facts until Congress could entomb this case.

"Did you," Sarah inquired, "discuss with Bowden the features of the Lexington P-2?"

"Yes."

"For what reason did he buy one?"

"The same reason that we stole them." For the first time, Gehringer chose to elaborate, speaking in the clipped tone of an expert. "More firepower, adaptable to a higher-capacity magazine."

"Did you discuss that feature with Bowden?"

"Yes. He figured ten bullets weren't enough."

An image shot through Sarah's brain—Marie Costello, blood oozing from her shredded abdomen. "Did you also discuss the bullets?"

"Yes."

"And what was that discussion?"

Next to Gehringer, his lawyer gazed soberly at the SSA's Defender. "If he needed to shoot someone," the witness answered in a matter-of-fact tone, "he wanted to be sure he killed them."

* * *

"Why are you testifying?" Nolan asked with feigned incredulity.

The breakthrough, Sarah realized, had only hardened her dislike for Nolan and his methods. "Objection," she interposed. "The question is vague and overbroad. Why does anybody testify?"

Nettled, Nolan turned to the reporter. "Please read back the question."

"Why?" Sarah snapped. "It won't get any better."

"Yes," the public defender agreed. "I'd like you to rephrase the question."

Nolan stared at the witness. "Do you," he asked in an accusatory tone, "have an agreement with plaintiff's counsel regarding your testimony here today?"

"You mean like yours with Martin Bresler?" Sarah asked. "Let me clear that up for you. We've never met with Mr. Gehringer. Except for scheduling matters, we've never spoken to his counsel. We have no deal with either one.

"What about you, John? Did you meet with Martin Bresler? Did you help choose his lawyers? Did you and Bresler's lawyer work out some arrangement? Or did Mr. Fancher do all that?"

Nolan turned from her in icy disdain. "Why don't you answer the question?" Sarah persisted. "I answered yours."

Nolan remained silent, plainly reining in his temper. Then he asked the witness, "Do you have any arrangement with the United States government which includes your testimony in this lawsuit?"

As Gehringer stared at nothing, his lawyer intervened. "Any answer," he said, "is governed by the attorney-client privilege . . ."

"Nonsense," Nolan interrupted. "Any deal goes to this witness's credibility."

"There is no deal," the lawyer answered firmly. "That's all I'm privileged to tell you."

Abruptly, Harrison Fancher jabbed a bony finger at Sarah. "You know what's happening here. Kilcannon fed you this witness. He's abused the power of the federal government to resuscitate a worthless case."

"That kind of abuse," Sarah retorted mockingly, "cries out for exposure. Why don't you two go to Gardner Bond and ask him to unseal this deposition. Then you can call a press conference and give copies to the media. I'm sure they'll share your moral outrage."

Fancher's mouth worked. Raising his head, Nolan allowed himself only an angry smile. Sarah wished that this brief moment of pleasure could salve her hatred and frustration.