Balance of Power

EIGHTEEN

On the television in her office in Portland, Maine, Cassie Rollins watched an obese actor caricaturing a trial lawyer rip the stars off an American flag.

Tell Cassie Rollins, the voice-over intoned, that it's time to stop greedy plaintiffs' lawyers from raising prices and wiping out our jobs. The white print at the bottom of the screen gave the telephone number of Cassie's Washington office and the name of the ad's supposed sponsor "Citizens for Consumer Rights."

"Tell the SSA," Cassie remarked wryly, "that it's un-American to use an alias." She turned to her Chief of Staff. "How many calls have we had on this?"

"About four hundred," Leslie Shoop responded. "But the ad has only been running three days."

Cassie had a new appreciation of the term "punch-drunk." A fullpage ad called "The Case for Tort Reform" was running in Maine's daily papers; political writers were reporting rumors of a primary challenge by the SSA's pet candidate; her office was receiving a rising tide of phone messages, letters, faxes and e-mails; groups she had never heard of—such as "Maine Women for Self-Defense"—were calling to demand a meeting.

"It's like an avalanche," Cassie had murmured to Kate Jarman of Vermont as they left the Senate floor. "I'm spending every weekend back home, and my approval rating's five points down."

Chuck Hampton's junior colleague gave her friend a shrewd but sympathetic look. "It's not an avalanche," she had answered. "It's Frank. The SSA wants this, so he can't afford to lose. He's given them a hunting license—as it were."

Cassie nodded. "He as good as told me that. Never doubt him."

"I never did." Kate kept her voice low. "Frank wants to be President, and he knows who's got the money, and the votes. Maybe Chuck can get by with supporting Kilcannon—their party's different. But I'm not bucking Frank on this one. A lot of my gun owners are figuratively up in arms, and they're not nearly as fervent as yours."

To Cassie, this warning was more disheartening for its source, a fel low moderate whose judgment she respected. "In other words, I'm being dumb."

Kate looked at her askance. "Never dumb, Cassie. I'm not up for reelection, and you could get nailed either way. But the safe play may be to cave in to Fasano."

Perhaps so, Cassie mused as she watched the screen. But she did not like the influence of gun owners and fundamentalists within her party's base, the increasingly shopworn claim of her fellow moderates—even as the right wing marginalized them in the Senate—that they were working for change from within. On her television, Governor Abel Randolph appeared, brandishing a gun.

"This is the newest one," Leslie Shoop advised her.

The setting was a press conference held to dramatize Randolph's support for safety locks. As he fumbled with the device, failing to unlock it, his audience began to snicker. The camera caught the state's lieutenant governor, a woman, vainly trying to suppress a smile.

If this were a rape, the narrator said, not a press conference, how much time would you have to protect yourself? Call Cassie Rollins and tell her you're not laughing. This time the white print read, "Maine Women for SelfDefense."

"At least this clears up who they are," Cassie said. "Charles Dane in drag."

"True. But they sure make Abel look dumb." Leslie hit the remote. "It's both an invitation, and a warning. The warning is obvious—'look at what we're doing to you.' The invitation is 'look what we'll do to Abel Randolph for you if you give us what we want.' "

For a moment, Cassie gazed at the blank screen. Then they left for a Kiwanis meeting, the start of a busy weekend.

* * *

Four days later, on the floor of the United States Senate, Senator Charles Hampton of Vermont moved to strike the gun immunity provision from the Civil Justice Reform Act.

Afterward Hampton crossed the aisle and, smiling, placed a hand on the shoulder of his friend Chad Palmer. "I only did it to get you time on C-SPAN," Hampton assured the senior senator from Ohio. "After all, this sterling piece of legislation came out of your committee."

Hampton saw a flash of irritation, perhaps embarrassment, and then a more equable expression returned to his colleague's handsome face and, with it, the look—belied by the harshness of Chad's life—of the all-American boy, one of life's winners. "My finest hour," Palmer answered with a shrug.

Hampton's own gaze turned sober. "I'm glad it's someone's," he said. "This is going to be a bloodbath."

* * *

In her office on the first floor of the Hart Building, the junior senator from Maine took a call from her erstwhile colleague. Dryly, she inquired, "Is this the artist currently known as 'KFK'?"

"Yes," the President answered with a laugh. " 'Kentucky Fried Kilcannon.' Or so your leader hopes."

"My leader," Cassie rejoined, "is a serious man."

"So am I, Cassie. I've been trying to figure out what to threaten you with. I can't think of anything nearly as good as the SSA, except to help Abel Randolph."

"To do what, Mr. President? Operate a safety lock?"

This time the President's laugh was rueful. "It's a lesson to us all. I've been practicing at night."

His candor and capacity for humor in adversity reminded Cassie of why, as peers, she had been so fond of him. But since he had been President, and particularly since the murders, he had seemed far graver, much less inclined to laughter. "It's certainly a lesson to me," she admitted. "Up in Maine, these people are playing for keeps. And they've got access to more cash than me or Abel."

"I know," the President answered with droll resignation. "So I'm forced to ask you to vote with me because it's right."

Alone in her office, Cassie smiled. "Really, Mr. President, have you no respect? I was hoping you'd deem me worthy of what you dished out to Leo Weller and, rumor has it, Slezak."

She heard his quiet laughter. "That's the problem." Kilcannon's tone was serious now. "I do respect you."

This was true, Cassie was quite certain. "How many times," she inquired, "are you hoping I'll do what's right? Once, or twice?"

"Twice. Hampton's amendment on gun immunity, and then my gun bill."

Cassie sat back in her chair, gazing out at the failing sunlight halfconcealed by her blinds. "Twice is a lot," she answered. "Once is a lot. They probably weren't the rage in Newark, but have you ever been to a hunters' breakfast?"

"No. What's that?"

"It's a Maine tradition, passed down from father to son. On the opening day of hunting season, in town after town, men meet for a hearty breakfast at some local spot before heading off for the woods with their hunting rifles.

"It's more than a tradition. For a lot of them it's ritual, part of the Maine mystique. Some believe that our culture may have gone to hell, but they still can hang on to their way of life as long as they've got their guns." Pausing, Cassie tried to convey this depth of feeling. "It's not ideological so much as it's psychological, almost mythological. Even people who don't have guns view them as woven into the fabric of who we are."

The President's sigh was audible as was, now, his weariness. "I met with them, too," he answered. "I don't think they're a lost cause. In the end, they can't believe their way of life is about the bullet that killed Marie."

His tone was etched with wonder and despair. In the end, Cassie thought, politics was a very human process and—as ruthless as he could be—Kilcannon hoped to appeal to the better angels of human nature. "I'll think on what you've said," she promised. "All of it."