Balance of Power

TWO

In the Oval Office, the President and the Majority Leader met alone.

Fasano had requested the meeting. Kerry did not need to ask why; gun immunity hung in the balance of power between the President and the senator who intended to displace him. Though there were nine days left for the President to act, Kerry could veto the Civil Justice Reform Act at any moment. Then there would be no time for second thoughts, no brake on their collision course. The final reckoning was at hand.

As to Fasano, the President's habits of mind had long since formed: Kerry assumed a cold, undeviating self-interest which made thinking of Fasano in human terms a waste of time. The President did not trust him; did not try to charm him; and thought the small amenities they must observe as hollow as a dumb show. He supposed, without caring, that Fasano felt much the same about him. In his most philosophical moments, Kerry might ponder the psychic costs of such learned indifference. But he had come far since Newark, and the harshness of his enemies had taught him that such reflections were a luxury.

And there was Lara. Fasano might have a wife and children. Perhaps he even loved them. But Fasano the would-be President meant to seal Lara's tragedy to propitiate the SSA. Facing him now, Kerry felt far more than coldness.

"Well," he said. "What is it?"

Perhaps surprised by Kerry's dismissal of even superficial pleasantries, Fasano erased all expression from his face. His dark eyes met Kerry's without flinching. "I think you're going to lose, Mr. President."

Kerry stared at him. Forced to elaborate, Fasano said evenly, "Tort reform trumps guns. You're asking thirty-four senators to sink it merely because you want them to. All I need is one of them."

With a chill smile, Kerry glanced at his watch. "Then don't waste time on me, Frank. You'd best get to it before someone else gets shot."

The laconic brutality of this response induced silence. The President watched Fasano weigh his words. "This isn't personal to me."

Kerry shrugged at the implied rebuke. "What is?"

To Kerry's surprise, Fasano summoned a look which approximated compassion. "I understand your feelings, Mr. President. I've got no wish to humiliate you, and it wouldn't serve my interests. Let's try to discuss this in that spirit."

Fasano's unblinking composure was, to Kerry, as annoying and impressive as his hubris. "That's why we're meeting," Kerry said with tenuous patience. "So what are we discussing?"

Fasano settled back on the President's couch. "A deal."

"That's hard to imagine. Your interests are irreconcilable with mine."

"Substantively, yes." Fasano's expression became one of deep sincerity, his tone quieter. "But a train wreck would damage both of us, and our parties. Unless both of us choose to stop it."

The President considered him. "Frank," he said crisply, "this isn't just a meeting between us two statesmen, moving to a higher plane. The SSA knows you're here. They authorized your call to me. So explain to me the statesmanship which can accomodate all three of us."

Fasano smiled without humor. "I've consulted them, yes. We all have our Robert Lenihans."

Do we not, the President thought. He wondered if Fasano knew of Dane's back-channel offer, but could find no way to probe this. "Please go ahead," the President answered. "I can always call Bob later."

"All right. The first part of my solution's simple: you don't veto tort reform."

The President smiled. "Of course. That way you don't run the risk of trying, but failing, to immunize Lexington—after which it's exposed at trial as a bloodsucker effectively run by the SSA, your bankers. So what's the rest?"

Fasano seemed unfazed. "The rest is equally simple. I promise you a straight up-and-down vote on your gun bill—no amendments, no tricks, no filibuster. If you can get your fifty votes, you pass it. If not, you get to run on it."

That Fasano's air was so matter-of-fact, Kerry thought, made the context of his offer almost breathtaking. Behind Sarah's back, Dane had used Lenihan to ask Mary Costello to sell out both her sister and Kerry's political interests. Now, to Kerry's face, albeit through Fasano, Dane was asking the President to sell out Mary, Lenihan, Sarah—and Kerry's own wife. The only rein on Kerry's anger was his fascination with Fasano himself; if Fasano knew of Dane's offer to Mary Costello, his selfpossession was truly superhuman.

Another thought gave Kerry pause. On the level of cold-blooded abstraction—of sheer calculation—the offer had its merits: the swap of a veto he might lose for a clean shot at passing a bill which would certainly save lives. And, if Kerry failed, the chance to use it in the open against Fasano and the SSA.

For a moment the President could say nothing. Clayton had been right from the beginning—Kerry was now caught in a web of his own design, the personal and political so hopelessly intertwined that he could never disentangle them, or even parse his own motives. And for that moment, he envied Senator Fasano his detachment.

But, in the end, there was only one answer.

"No," he told Fasano.

* * *

Lara gripped the telephone. "Mary," she said quietly, "if we take the money on those terms, our settlement will seem like an apology. Or worse."

"Worse?"

"A sellout. In either case, the votes to uphold Kerry's veto will begin to melt away."

Speaking from her efficiency apartment in San Francisco, Mary sounded wan. "Did I hear you say 'we,' Lara?"

At once, Lara realized her blunder. "I'm sorry," she said. "I was thinking of our family."

"That's good," Mary answered. "Because it's different for me than you. It seems like from the moment I was born you were already this great success."

The myths of families, Lara thought sadly. "I was in second grade, Mary—a seven-year-old who was scared to death of our own father. Now I'm a woman who, like you, has lost the rest of her family but for a sister."

"A woman," Mary repeated in a tone Lara heard as both stubborn and defensive, "who's also married to the President and made millions with NBC. Coming from you, 'we' sounds false."

Stop, Lara thought. "Do you think the SSA's eight million dollars," she shot back, "will make you a 'success'? It's like selling our own mother to these people." Abruptly, Lara heard herself. "I apologize, Mary—really. Like you, I'm frayed. I understand that I've been lucky, that our lives are nothing alike. But this offer's just appalling."

On the other end, Mary was silent, perhaps stunned by the harshness of their conflict. "Lara," she said in a trembling voice, "I'm not selling our mother—or Joanie and Marie. If I were, I wouldn't have called Sarah. That's as good as calling you."

Not only was that true, Lara saw, but Mary's thrust was a fresh reminder of her intrusion into Mary's suit. "I apologize," Lara said in a mollifying tone. "I understand the difference between having money or not . . ."

"Well, I don't understand the difference, Lara. I've never had the chance."

Once again, Lara heard the justice in her sister's words, felt the yawning gulf in their perceptions. With an anxiety close to desperation, she promised, "I can help you, Mary. If it still matters, I can even help get you a contract for that book on our family you mentioned. Whatever I can do."

"What if I take this settlement?"

Lara paused to speak deliberately. "It would be hard to imagine a book, Mary, with that as its ending."

Her sister began to cry.

* * *

As soon as Clayton entered the office, Kerry knew from his friend's expression that he was troubled.

"What's up, pal?" the President inquired. "It's been a long day."

"Slezak wants a meeting."

"And here I thought there were no surprises left. He must have heard about Jeannie Griswold."

"He already knew you'd do that," Clayton demurred, and sat wearily in front of Kerry's desk. "He says it's a private matter—'extremely sensitive'—which can't wait another day. And that no one should know he's coming."

Abruptly, Kerry felt the pulse of Clayton's instinct, the first glimmer that Slezak's insolence made a certain awful sense. With a fair show of calm, he answered, "Doesn't sound like an apology, does it? You'd better tell him to come tonight."