Balance of Power

NINE

The following morning, an overnight poll showed that fifty-three percent of respondents felt the President's effectiveness was impaired, and that twenty-seven percent favored resignation. But with no denial to fuel the story, speculation began to center on its origin. Jack Slezak had given a carefully orchestrated interview stressing that his purpose was not to promote blackmail by his unknown caller, but to allow the President "time to do the right thing in a difficult personal situation." Republicans had confined themselves to muted statements of disappointment and disapproval, leaving the calls for impeachment to the more fervid of the talking heads. Democrats, still finding their way, ventured the tepid defense that the President's preelection personal life should be separate from his Presidency. On the Senate floor, as morning business opened, Fasano called for a speedy vote to overturn the President's veto.

As Kerry watched on C-SPAN, Hampton responded. Why this unseemly haste, he asked the Senate, where there is no deadline for an override except the end to this Congress itself, over a year from now? Are the proponents of gun immunity so desperate to extinguish Mary Costello's lawsuit? Are they so afraid that if the courtroom doesn't go dark until mid-trial it will be too late to conceal who bears the blame for the murder of six people? Why not wait for the judge and jury to decide?

It was the best Hampton could do, Kerry thought—attempt to shift the spotlight from Lara to her sister, from abortion to the victims of gun violence. And it was a sad reminder of how much damage the President had sustained.

* * *

Speaking to the President by telephone, Hampton sounded worried but determined. "This could happen to you, I keep telling our people. If we don't step up, we'll all be hostage to whatever has happened in our personal lives for the rest of our public lives."

"How is that going down?"

"They understand. But they're worried about being associated with

your so-called moral lapses. They're living in the here and now. What might happen to them will happen down the road."

"What about the override? Can we hold our votes?"

"I don't know. No one's told me they're jumping yet—they don't have an answer when I ask what this story has to do with gun immunity. But I'm getting foreplay from a couple of them, like Torchio and Spivey, softening me up for a potential fucking. More than a few are looking around, wondering who will be the first to flip." Hampton's tone admitted to his frustration. "The real problem's Weller—I imagine Fasano and the SSA are doing everything but plant a severed horse's head on his pillow. If he switches sides, there may be a deluge."

Kerry felt his own discouragement deepen. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Other than locating the blackmailer?" Hampton paused, as though groping for an answer. "You can make some private calls to senators. In your current position, public arm-twisting could blow up in your face."

Restless, Kerry stood. "I know that. But if we lose Weller, we need to pick up a vote somewhere."

Hampton hesitated. "Is there any way to force Slezak to tell the truth? After all, if someone saying he was the president of the AFL-CIO had really called Slezak's office, wouldn't his receptionist remember?"

"I've thought of that," the President answered. "But imagine the reaction if I turn the FBI loose on Slezak's office? The most his receptionist will say is that he or she doesn't remember a call from one of the most important figures in the country. Implausible to you and me, but an absolute dead end. Slezak's told the perfect lie—a phone call which never happened, which no one can disprove.

"Maybe the press will get this counselor to say who she gave her notes to. Maybe in that sphere I could even get the FBI involved, and try to trace this story to its source. But whoever is involved will lie as well, and the columnist who printed it will never reveal his source. In the meanwhile, I'd be accused of unleashing the Gestapo to distract attention from my sins. As a matter of practical politics, I have to save the FBI for later." Kerry began to pace. "Even if we let them loose, I doubt the FBI could trace the story before the vote to override my veto. Or even the vote on my gun bill." Pausing, Kerry finished, "That's happening next, I suppose."

"We think so." Hampton's tone was sardonic. "Fasano may be deeply saddened by what's happened to you, but he's adjusted rather quickly to its uses."

Kerry was quiet. What had saved him from dwelling on his own personal humiliation, and Lara's, was to focus on its political aspect, the fight to regain his standing in time to save his veto. Now his feelings overwhelmed him. "You know," he said, "I could have never imagined how this would be for Lara, or for me. Or how it would feel to have it define my Presidency."

Hampton was silent. Kerry guessed at his thoughts: that, burdened by this secret, Kerry should not have run for President; that Hampton had gone out on a limb for him, not knowing what could happen; that Hampton's life as Minority Leader would be brutal, arrayed with a wavering caucus of Democratic senators against an implacable Frank Fasano and a now more compliant group of Republicans, and supported only by a President perhaps too wounded to survive. "Mr. President," Hampton said evenly, "I don't blame you for where we are. Frankly, you've been a better President than I thought you'd be—better, I'm now convinced, than Dick Mason would have been. You've given us more reason to be proud of our party than we've had in a good while."

For twelve years in the Senate, Kerry reflected, he and Hampton had been colleagues, but not friends. Now Kerry wondered why he had underrated Hampton's mettle, and undervalued his decency. "When you were my leader," Kerry told him, "I should have been a better soldier."

Softly, Hampton laughed. "Good soldiers," he said, "don't always make good Presidents. Chad Palmer used to tell me that before he mislaid his soul."

At this mention of his friend and rival, Kerry faced again the dimensions of his problem. "We needed Chad on this," he said. "It would have helped."

"So it would have."

They both had spoken in the past tense, Kerry realized. He thanked the Minority Leader, and got off.

* * *

When her private line rang, Cassie Rollins picked up the phone herself. "Cassie," her caller said quietly, "it's Lara."

Startled, Cassie blurted, "I'm so sorry about what's happened."

"So am I," Lara replied. "I've been sorry for years, and now I'm even more sorry for Kerry than I was. He didn't want it to begin with."

At this revelation, so personal and painful, Cassie suppressed a sigh—the meaning of "it" was unmistakable. "I'd guessed as much," Cassie said. "Not that it matters to me."

"That's why I called you. Better than most people, I understand the pressures you're under. I can't make them disappear, or even help. But what's happening is wrong, and we both know it."

"We do," Cassie agreed. "But it's also the world we seem to live in, I'm afraid."

"But should it be?" The First Lady stopped abruptly, taming the note of protest in her voice. "He doesn't know I'm calling, Cassie. I'm not even sure what I'm asking you to do. But it makes no sense to vote down Kerry's gun bill, or wipe out Mary's lawsuit over this."

"I understand," was all Cassie could say, except to wish the President and First Lady well. And so she did.

* * *

When, Fasano wondered, had Leo Weller begun shrinking? Perhaps the process had started with the trial lawyers and asbestosis, but a half hour with Charles Dane had left his colleague so stripped of his usual bluster that he seemed, quite literally, smaller. Even the residual shrewdness in his eyes reminded Fasano less of a crafty politician than a woods animal cornered by a predator.

Although he knew the answer, Fasano asked, "How was your talk with Dane?"

" 'With,' " Weller answered with wounded dignity. "You make it sound like a conversation. He reminded me they've got more money than the trial lawyers, and that there's no way I win a primary if they don't want me to. The kindest name he called me was 'capon.' I'm a United States Senator, Frank, not his fucking employee. I won't be treated like that."

Fasano mustered a look which combined sympathy and detachment. "That's what happens when you turn out to be the vote we need to override Kilcannon's veto. It's the perfect storm of political screwups, Leo. You've alienated the trial lawyers, your supporters in the asbestos industry, the SSA, and your own leadership in the Senate. Now you're standing on the precipice, staring into the abyss of a career even deader than Kerry Kilcannon's. It's not a spectacle I've enjoyed watching."

Sinking farther into Fasano's couch, Weller folded his arms. "It doesn't have to be like this."

"But it is like this," Fasano said, not unkindly. "You're not suggesting that you've never beaten someone senseless with their own mistake— real, or imagined? As I remember, you got here by accusing your opponent of 'flirting with the gay agenda' because he'd agreed to meet with somebody from the Human Rights Campaign—and only because his son, who is gay, asked him to hear them out. There's no one here who hasn't, at some time, been as tough as they needed. So why complain when the SSA feels aggrieved enough to do the same to you."

Unable to answer, Weller gave a shrug—part protest, part acknowledgment. "This is worse."

"Agreed," Fasano said, his tone a mixture of commiseration and curiosity. "Just how do you get out of it?"

Weller grimaced. "That's what I'm asking, Frank. The asbestos companies are pissed at me. If I vote against the SSA it's suicide. But if I vote with the SSA, then the trial lawyers come after me, and put all my dying constituents right back up on television."

And you want me to save you, Fasano thought. The neatest trick since Lazarus was summoned back to life.

"I can't grant you absolution," Fasano said. "Not from the SSA. But if you get out front, and switch your vote, you could precipitate the avalanche which buries Kerry Kilcannon. That could purchase a fair amount of amnesia from Charles Dane."

Slowly, Weller nodded. "But that leaves the asbestosis," he ventured.

Fasano feigned reflection. "That's where I can help, I think. Suppose you vote for the Civil Justice Reform Act, and then introduce a bill establishing a special fund for asbestosis victims and their families."

Weller cocked his head. "How would it work?"

"We'd have to think through the details. But once we get up a bill, Hampton can't oppose it and Kilcannon can't veto it. Because without lawsuits, your bill would be the families' best shot at a real recovery." Fasano smiled. "I can imagine that our Senatorial Campaign Committee might have an interest in running ads that show you meeting with grateful families. Who knows, the SSA might even finance a few of those itself."

That a cynic like Weller could look so genuinely grateful told Fasano how frightened he was. "Frank," he said in a voice filled with emotion, "I think that could really help."

"It just might," Fasano assured him comfortably. "I really would hate to lose you."