Balance of Power

SIX

At nine the next morning, Sarah sat next to Lenihan at Bond's red mahogany conference table. Glancing at Nolan and Fancher, she pondered the twelve-million-dollar offer from Charles Dane which neither knew of. Mary Costello's dilemma was as complex, and as delicate, as any Sarah could imagine.

"The first order of business," Bond said, "is to set some dates. First, for hearing defendants' summary judgment motions. And then, should the Court deny them, for a trial."

Silent, Sarah shot an untrusting glance at Lenihan. Since his effort to settle the case around her, they had struck a wary truce, agreeing that Mary's interests—whether in going to trial or further enhancing the settlement offer—were best served by stepping up the pressure on Lexington and the SSA. Part of this strategy was to appear unfazed by politics. After all, as Sarah's hasty reading of this morning's Times had confirmed, with three days left for a veto message no senators seemed inclined to switch their votes. If that held—and Sarah could not see why it wouldn't—the Senate would sustain Kilcannon's veto.

"Give us George Callister," Lenihan said on cue, "and we're ready to move swiftly. His deposition's all we need to oppose the defendants' motions, or prepare for an early trial. Frankly, I wish we were deposing him tomorrow. If Lexington hadn't held him out so long, we'd be in trial right now. As matters stand, and subject to your convenience, we're prepared to respond to any motions within five days of his appearance, and to go to trial two weeks later."

"This case is too complex for that," Nolan began in protest.

"Really?" Bond interjected tartly. "You've given me the impression that it was simple. The words 'frivolous' and 'groundless' leap to mind."

"If aggregated in sufficient bulk," Nolan rejoined, "even frivolous arguments and groundless assertions demand a detailed rebuttal. Preparing our motions will require more time than Mr. Lenihan proposes."

"Which brings us back to Mr. Callister," the judge replied. "Five days ago I gave you two weeks to produce him, and plaintiff's counsel complains that they still don't have a date—let alone a mutually conve nient venue." Bond's tone combined patience with a trace of judicial testiness. "I've given you all of the discovery you've asked for, whenever you asked for it—often at considerable inconvenience to Mr. Lenihan and Ms. Dash. So where do things sit with Callister?"

Sarah expected Nolan to commence a mournful litany of difficult logistics, the intricacies of Callister's extended business travels, and then ask for another week—giving the Senate sufficient time, should Senator Fasano muster the votes, to override the President's veto. Bond knew this very well: in Sarah's estimate, the judge's show of huffing and puffing was only that. In the end, Nolan would innocently wonder aloud what possible difference one more week could make to Mary Costello, and Bond would give him the sternest of warnings that this was his last delay. Merely another piece of theater, a moment from Gilbert and Sullivan.

"Mr. Callister," Nolan responded calmly, "is willing to interrupt his travels to assuage the Court's concerns." Turning to Lenihan and Sarah, he asked, "Would five business days from now, in San Francisco, meet your needs?"

Three days past the veto deadline. Astonished, Sarah briefly thought to press for an even earlier date, but could find no basis for complaining. Nor, it seemed, could Lenihan.

"Cat got your tongue?" Bond asked him. "Or do you want to hold the deposition in your living room?"

Lenihan glanced at Sarah. "No, Your Honor. Our San Francisco office will do just fine."

"Good, Mr. Lenihan. Then let's thrash out the remaining dates."

Moments later, leaving the judge's chamber, Sarah glanced over her shoulder. "What was that about?" she whispered. "I expected to depose Jimmy Hoffa before we saw George Callister. Why so amenable at the eleventh hour?"

Lenihan grimaced. Pointedly, he answered, "Maybe somebody from Nolan's firm reviewed all of our discovery with Callister, and reassured themselves that he's a complete dry hole. Which bears on our next appointment, doesn't it?"

Both fell silent. Their next appointment was with Mary Costello, and it overshadowed the conundrum of George Callister. Once more, Sarah and Lenihan would be adversaries; today was the deadline for responding to Dane's offer.

* * *

They met in Sarah's office. Even by the standards of her prior behavior—quiet, confused, often overwhelmed—Mary Costello seemed unusually subdued. But then, Sarah supposed, not many women had been offered eight million dollars in exchange for their murdered relatives.

"This is it," Lenihan told her. "Not just the deadline, but defendants' moment of maximum uncertainty, and your moment of maximum leverage. The President's poised to veto the bill; Callister's set for deposition; the trial date's set in stone. That may be good for a couple of million more."

"If the President can hold his veto," Sarah retorted, "your leverage will mushroom exponentially. Lexington and the SSA do not want a public trial, with our evidence trumpeted in the media, and neither does Fasano. Even if you decide to settle—and I hope you won't—don't do it now. Do it on the eve of trial."

Mary gazed at her so steadily that it seemed artificial, an effort of will. Sarah had a curious memory: that she herself had used this expression as a teenager, when she'd tried concealing something from her mother. To her dismay, Sarah wondered if Lenihan and Mary had reached some private understanding, and that this meeting was yet another charade that only Sarah could not comprehend.

"Mary," Lenihan countered with quiet insistence, "the leverage Sarah imagines will exist only if the President wins. If he loses, and he still may, this lawsuit ceases to exist. There'll be no money, no trial, no justice for your family . . ."

"Is a sealed settlement 'justice for her family'?" Sarah asked. "A secret payment in return for a dismissal, perhaps dooming the President's chances of sustaining a veto? Instead of trying to save lives, Mary would be helping the SSA to keep anyone else from suing the gun industry, ever. So why don't we call this what it is, Bob—blood money."

A flush crept across Lenihan's neck. "At least the SSA will have paid for what happened. They'll know it, and Mary will know it. There are a thousand ways to dedicate some of this money to the memory of Inez, Joan, and Marie, ways that would have touched them."

How many ways, Sarah wanted to ask, can you say 'venal'? She felt the clutch of her stomach, and then, glancing at Mary, decided that silence was more eloquent than speech.

Head lowered, Mary was rubbing her eyes. Even Lenihan knew enough to join Sarah in her quiet.

They both watched Mary for some moments. Then, squaring her shoulders, Mary looked up at Lenihan, her voice quiet but clear. "I just can't do it," she told him. "No matter what."

Sarah felt a brief spurt of elation. But there was no defiance in Mary's words, no hope of a public triumph. Only a curious resignation, a note of weary fatalism. Perhaps the torment of this decision had exhausted her but, if only for her own sake, Sarah selfishly wished for a greater show of spirit.

Lenihan saw this at once. "Exactly what are you saying, Mary?"

"That it's wrong to take money from these people." A hint of steel crept into Mary's voice. "Tell them that for me."

* * *

For the two days after Lenihan's call, Charles Dane worked the phones, pressuring Fasano, cajoling senators to switch their votes. The surface of Washington—including what Dane alone felt as an eerie silence from the White House—remained unchanged.

On the final day, Kerry Kilcannon appeared in the White House press room. "This morning," he began, "I have vetoed the Civil Justice Reform Act . . ."