Balance of Power

TWELVE

In his commodious office at the SSA, Charles Dane watched CNN, waiting for Kerry Kilcannon to enter the House of Representatives.

With him were his legislative and communications directors, Carla Fell and Bill Campton. Silent, they watched as television cameras swept the chamber, crowded with congressmen and senators, members of the cabinet, the Supreme Court, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Even had he not known the circumstances, Dane would have sensed that this occasion was extraordinary. The chamber was unusually hushed, the assembled dignitaries forgoing the whispered asides and knowing smiles of those accustomed to pomp and power, instead choosing, on this night, to sit silent and somber. Briefly, the cameras caught Frank Fasano, his hooded gaze inscrutable, and then Lara Costello Kilcannon, sitting in the gallery with her sister, Mary, and the families of the other victims. Beside the First Lady was a black teenager whom Dane could not identify, but was grimly confident had lost a relative to gunfire.

Mr. Speaker, the Sergeant at Arms called out, the President of the United States.

The door of the chamber opened, and Kerry Kilcannon entered.

Save for his brief statement before the funeral, the President had not been seen in public. Almost none of those assembled had spoken to him since the wedding. Now they stood, the applause swelling and supportive. As he moved, unsmiling, down the aisle to the rostrum, Kilcannon paused to accept the condolences and good wishes of senators and congressmen, some of whom touched his arm or whispered their remarks. The aisle became crowded; Kilcannon stopped repeatedly, making no effort to hurry. The applause kept rising, mingled with cheers.

This, said Wolf Blitzer on CNN, will no doubt be remembered as one of the more remarkable moments in the recent history of Presidential addresses to Congress.

On the screen, Chad Palmer stepped forward, giving Kilcannon a firm handshake and a brisk word of support. Then the President continued on, turning one way, then the other, as legislators crowded around. The camera captured Kilcannon's perfunctory handshake and quick nod to Frank Fasano and then, just before he proceeded to the rostrum, a much longer moment with Senator Chuck Hampton. Bracing the President's shoulders, Hampton spoke softly; head lowered, Kilcannon listened, nodding, and then briefly grasped Hampton's arms, a display of warmth which seemed so genuine that Dane found it unsettling.

"The key," he told Carla Fell, "may be how hard Chuck Hampton works for him."

"Maybe so," she answered, "but in the end it'll all come down to Palmer and Fasano."

Kilcannon reached the rostrum, to be greeted by Speaker Thomas Jencks, a stocky, grey-haired Republican, and Vice President Ellen Penn. Silent, he handed each of them a copy of his message. For almost five minutes, the respectful applause continued unabated, with Kilcannon utterly still, eyes downcast in an attitude of deep reflection and humility. Only when, at last, the sound slowly receded did Thomas Jencks speak the ceremonial greeting.

Members of Congress, I have the high honor and distinct privilege of presenting to you the President of the United States . . .

Those attending rose as one.

* * *

From the rostrum, Kerry Kilcannon watched them, his chest tight with emotion. He recalled like yesterday the tumult as he accepted his party's nomination, the chill day of his inaugural address, but never a speech so fraught with moment. As the silence fell at last, he remembered Inez Costello, then Joan, and finally Marie, smiling with delight as he danced with her at the wedding. And then, stepping forward to the rostrum, he looked up at his wife.

* * *

On television, Lara Kilcannon's lips moved, as though in a silent encouragement only he could hear.

"They're certainly milking this one," Bill Campton said to Dane. And then Kilcannon began to speak.

Thirteen years ago, the President said in quiet tones, my brother James Kilcannon died of a fatal gunshot wound. Thirteen days ago, three more members of our family were murdered with a gun . . .

Dane stared at the screen in wonder. "This is a mistake. He's making it all about them."

* * *

The chamber was hushed, as though muted by an opening so personal in nature. Taut, Lara watched, holding her sister's hand and that of Louis Morgan, knowing that Kerry had written these words himself.

"Because they were part of our family," he continued, "you know their names. As we have mourned, you have mourned with us. And no words of mine will ever match your grace and generosity . . ."

* * *

Pausing, Kilcannon seemed to gaze straight into Dane's office, and then his voice grew stronger.

But if this were solely a family tragedy, four senseless deaths separated by thirteen years, I would not have come here.

I am here because in those thirteen years, almost four hundred thousand other Americans have died from gunfire. Now Kilcannon looked up at the gallery, speaking slowly and respectfully. When Lara's mother, niece and sister died, three more people died with them—Henry Serrano, a devoted husband and father of three; David Walsh, whose wedding would have taken place tomorrow; Laura Blanchard, one day from commencing her sophomore year at Stanford. And on that same day and hour, only a few short blocks from where we are gathered now, Mae Morgan was shot to death by her estranged husband.

Their families are here with us tonight . . .

* * *

As Kerry recited their names, each survivor stood to more applause— Felice Serrano and her children; David Walsh's young fiancée; Laura Blanchard's parents, and, beside Lara, Mae Morgan's fourteen-year-old son, Louis. "I'll do my best," Kerry had promised them before the speech, and so he would.

"Mae Morgan," he went on, "died as eighty people die every day in this country—mourned by her family, invisible to the media, unknown to the rest of us." Pausing, Kerry's gaze swept the chamber. "Why is this? Because the carnage is so great that only the mass slaughter of schoolchildren, or the death of a public figure, ever gives us pause.

"All of us know that every assassination of an American President was committed with a gun. All of us then living remember our ineradicable grief when John F. Kennedy was murdered. But all too few of us know that since that awful day more Americans have died from gunshot wounds than died in all the wars of the twentieth century, the bloodiest hundred years in world history . . ."

* * *

Chuck Hampton could hear the passion in Kilcannon's voice, could feel the rapt attention of those who watched.

"Day after day," the President told them, "guns claim ten more children, three more women at the hands of a husband or intimate partner, eighty more people in all.

"Year after year, this terrible toll of death exceeds by at least ten times that of the next twenty-five industrialized nations combined." Kilcannon stood straighter, voice filled with anger. "Only in America, in this city, do surgeons prepare for combat duty by training at an urban hospital . . ."

"Did you know that?" Hampton whispered to Vic Coletti. Silent, Coletti shook his head.

"Only in America," Kilcannon said with sudden softness, "do we protect the right to sell bullets designed to tear apart the internal organs of their victim—in the case of our family, of Lara's six-year-old niece, Marie.

"What causes this? Are Americans less humane than the Japanese, or Australians, or the Swedes? Do we truly believe that the random slaughter of the innocent is part and parcel of the right to own a gun? Or that the death of a Mae Morgan is the price that we must pay?

"It is not." Now Kilcannon's voice resonated with moral urgency. "It is the price of our collective failure to pass laws to keep criminals and drug addicts and spousal abusers from taking the lives of women like Mae Morgan, or children like Marie . . ."

Led by Senator Chuck Hampton, the Democrats stood to applaud.

* * *

In Clayton's office, he and Kit watched instant polling, transmitted by closed circuit, appear beneath the President's face. Moment by moment, his approval numbers rose.

"Seventy-one percent," Kit murmured.

* * *

Watching, Lara's throat constricted. "What," Kerry called out, "do those companies who sell these weapons—and design these bullets—say to the death of Marie Bowden?

" 'We didn't know her father.

" 'We didn't ask him to slaughter his family.

" 'All that decency requires of us is to express our sympathy—yet again—and say that we should punish the perpetrators after they've misused a gun.' "

Once more, Kerry's voice grew quieter. "Well, John Bowden is not alive to punish. And even if he were, and then we took his life, it would not resurrect the six other lives he took.

"Our only chance to save those lives was to deny this man a gun which could murder seven people in less than seven seconds . . ."

Yes, Lara silently told her husband. This is good.

* * *

"Those who would keep things as they are," the President continued, "tell us we only need to 'enforce existing laws.' So let us consider that.

"Under 'existing law,' we took away John Bowden's gun at the time of his arrest.

"Under 'existing law,' we entered his name into a computer, so that he could not buy another gun from a federally licensed dealer." Once more, Kilcannon's voice was etched with irony. "And so—under 'existing law'—John Bowden flew to Las Vegas and bought a gun and a magazine which could hold forty Eagle's Claw bullets.

"Under 'existing law,' 'private sellers' at gun shows don't have to run background checks before they sell a gun.

"Under 'existing law,' the provisions limiting gun magazines to ten bullets don't apply to those manufactured before the law was passed." Yet again, Kerry's voice softened. "Under 'existing law,' the eleventh bullet from her father's gun murdered Marie Bowden . . ."

At this, Fasano turned to Harshman. "You'd better have an answer," he said under his breath.

"How," Kilcannon asked, "did Bowden come to buy this gun? Because he read two advertisements in The Defender magazine.

"The first warned that the Lexington P-2 was an endangered species, 'banned in California.' " Briefly, Kilcannon shook his head in wonder. "And just in case John Bowden would not know where else to buy one, The Defender placed it next to an advertisement for a gun show in Las Vegas, featuring the Lexington P-2."

* * *

"They can't read a dead man's mind," Bill Campton said to Dane. "No one can prove where he bought that gun, or why."

"Kilcannon," Dane answered, "doesn't concern himself with fairness. Let alone the niceties of evidence."

Under "existing law," Kilcannon continued, the maker of this deadly weapon placed it in John Bowden's hands . . .

* * *

Listening, Chad Palmer glanced at his Republican colleague, Cassie Rollins. Her profile—the short blonde hair, the angular face of the athlete she had been—was still. Her attention was more than justified: in Maine, where Cassie would run for reelection, guns and hunting were ingrained.

"The essence of this tragedy," the President said in an incisive tone, "is that it makes no sense. Especially to the many millions of responsible gun owners who know these simple truths:

"That no 'sportsman' uses weapons that will kill twenty deer—or twenty people—in less than twenty seconds.

"That no 'marksman' uses bullets designed to tear human flesh to shreds.

"That no act of self-defense requires a gun designed for acts of war.

"That no license to hunt deer rests on the license to hunt down women and children.

"That no freedom in our Bill of Rights frees criminals and terrorists to turn those rights against us . . ."

All at once the gallery was standing, with the Democrats launching a wave of applause and cheers that seemed as though it would not stop. Awkwardly, the Republicans rose as well, most, like Fasano, applauding tepidly. Paul Harshman, Palmer observed, stood with folded arms.

"The SSA," Cassie murmured to Chad, "will have to go all out."

* * *

As the applause continued, Charles Dane went to his wet bar and poured himself a bourbon and water. "Universal background checks," he said to Fell and Campton. "That's where this is headed."

Fell shook her head. "Too big a stretch. He must know he'll never pass it."

Dane took his first sip of bourbon. "Do you?"

Under "existing law," Kilcannon called out through the applause, criminals are prohibited from buying guns. But forty percent of gun purchases are made through private sellers—often at gun shows—whom "existing law" does not require to run background checks to see if the buyer is prohibited.

"Existing law," in short, is an honor code for criminals . . .

Dane emitted a short laugh.

For too long, Kilcannon continued, the debate about guns has been a matter of faith and fear, driven by a fanatic few who just can't sleep at night unless they feel that someone, somewhere is out to get them. Kilcannon paused again, and then said in a clear, commanding voice, No longer.

No longer should this fanatic few be allowed to claim that commonsense laws to prevent criminals from buying weapons are the first step to confiscation by a tyrannical government of their imagining.

No longer should they be heard to say that our only defense against criminals is to buy more guns, until America is an armed camp of the lawless and the fearful, and the body count which follows dwarfs the carnage we know today . . .

His listeners rose yet again. "We need Democrats," Dane instructed Carla Fell. "That's the only way to ensure that no president, Republican or Democrat, feels free to make this kind of speech again."

As the applause died down, Kilcannon's voice became soft with scorn. The same magazine that directed John Bowden to his Lexington P-2 told its readers that our only means of crime prevention is "meeting evil force with proven protection" through "armed self-defense for all peaceful Americans." If only Mae Morgan had been quicker on the draw, I suppose this means, her son Louis would not be, effectively, an orphan.

On the screen, Louis Morgan appeared in close-up, listening with stolid grief. Beside him, Lara Kilcannon touched his arm.

"No shame," Bill Campton said.

All of us, Kilcannon called out, owe Louis Morgan better.

Once more, the listeners rose, applauding. "That's the fourteenth standing ovation," Carla Fell reported.

* * *

"Eighty-three percent," Kit Pace said in wonder.

With deep satisfaction, Clayton smiled. "A dinner at D C Coast says he hits eighty-five."

"You're on. For eighty-five, I'd gladly throw in a bottle of wine."

Some will say, the President said softly, that this is personal to me.

It is. It is also personal to the families of Henry Serrano, David Walsh, Laura Blanchard, Mae Morgan, and to the millions of other Americans who have lost a parent, a child, or husband; or who've been maimed or paralyzed, their dreams forever shattered; or who live in fear for themselves and those they love.

Kerry stood straighter, his voice determined. There is only this difference: I am the President. And I will act . . .

* * *

Kerry paused again, surveying the faces before him. He felt a kind of transcendence, a calm, unhurried resolve to convey at last the weight of all he knew and felt.

"And so I've come to the Congress," he continued, "in the name of humanity and common sense, to ask you to act with me.

"For their part, Americans ask little enough of their elected representatives. Decent health care. Schools that teach. A fair chance to use their talents. Safety from external threats. Protection from random violence . . ."

* * *

"A modest program," Dane said wryly.

We have all sorts of excuses, Kilcannon went on, beginning with cost, as to why our schools are failing, our health care flawed, our chances in life unequal, and the world unsafe. But we have no excuse for the death of a Mae Morgan, when saving her life would have cost us next to nothing . . .

"Will it be 'Mae Morgan's Law,' " Bill Campton wondered aloud. "Or 'Marie's Law'?"

* * *

"Next to nothing," Kilcannon repeated softly. "Like John Bowden, Mae Morgan's husband was a batterer. Unlike John Bowden, he bought his gun from a licensed dealer after passing a background check.

"How? Because under 'existing law,' Congress has failed to allocate sufficient money to allow most jurisdictions to enter domestic violence convictions into a computer—in this case, the government of our nation's capital, where the records of Samuel Morgan's spousal abuse languished in a cardboard box . . ."

With a small smile, Hampton turned to Vic Coletti. "Think we'll be hearing quite as much from Fasano about the virtues of 'existing law'?"

Coletti looked uncomfortable. "The President's doing what he needs to—reframe the debate. I just hope he doesn't sink my constituents who work at Lexington Arms."

On the podium, Kilcannon's voice was tinged with scorn. "Where 'existing law' is not riddled with loopholes and exceptions, those who argue for its enforcement have done their best to make it unenforceable.

"In theory, 'existing law' prevents licensed dealers from selling to those convicted of felonies or violent misdemeanors, spousal abuses, drug offenses, and the adjudicated mentally ill.

"Under 'existing law,' half the states have entered less than sixty percent of all criminal convictions into their computer systems.

"Under 'existing law,' thirteen states have never recorded a single domestic violence restraining order.

"Under 'existing law,' almost no state has automated records of those incarcerated for mental illness.

"Under 'existing law,' illegal aliens—including Islamic terrorists—can and have bought weapons to use against us."

Kilcannon paused, and then finished pointedly. "And even though alcohol is a leading cause of gun homicides, under 'existing law' even those convicted of multiple DUIs are allowed to buy a weapon . . ."

"That was the alcohol lobby," Coletti murmured to Chuck Hampton. "One of their better efforts."

"And one of our more craven," Hampton replied.

" 'Existing law,' " Kilcannon said succinctly, "exists in defiance of common sense."

* * *

"I don't need this," Cassie Rollins whispered to Chad Palmer.

Palmer suppressed a smile. "Does Fasano?" he whispered back.

Above them, Kilcannon seemed to be leaning forward, as though propelled by his own momentum. "Common sense," he told the Congress, "requires a law which keeps guns away from those who pose a threat to innocent lives.

"This is what I propose:

"A background check on every transfer of every gun. It makes no sense to bar the dangerous and deranged from buying weapons, and then make sure that they can buy one.

"A federally funded system for computerized background checks, effective in all fifty states. It makes no sense to bar violent felons from buying weapons if we don't know who they are.

"A law requiring that we retain the records of all background checks. It makes no sense that law enforcement could trace the purchase of fertilizer to Timothy McVeigh, but not the purchase of a weapon."

Kilcannon's delivery was staccato now. Palmer watched his fellow legislators—jaded though many were—become caught up in the rhythm of his words.

"A ban on all high-capacity magazines and cop-killer bullets. It makes no sense to treat weapons suited to the mass slaughter of the innocent as a household tool of self-defense . . ."

The gallery stood, emitting a cry of approval, and suddenly the Democratic congressmen and senators were on their feet. Watching, the President briefly nodded.

* * *

"Look at the little demagogue," Harshman murmured to Fasano.

Fasano glanced at him sharply. "You look at him, Paul. When you chose to read that letter aloud, you teed this up for him."

He turned back to appraise the President. This time, Fasano noted, Kilcannon had let the roar subside, speaking softly into the silence. "More funding," the President continued, "to prosecute all those committing gun crimes. It makes no sense to say that we should enforce 'existing law,' and then ensure that we lack the resources to enforce it.

"Full funding for the Centers for Disease Control to conduct research regarding the impact of violence on public health. It makes no sense to do this for accidents involving cars and then cut every dime of funding—as Congress has—to suppress the truth about the causes and costs of deaths and injuries involving guns."

This time Fasano said nothing to Senator Harshman. He did not need to—it was Harshman who had stripped the CDC of funding at the behest of the SSA.

"Finally," the President concluded, "mandatory safety locks on every new gun sold, including combination locks which keep guns from being fired by someone other than the owner. It makes no sense to protect children from design flaws in toy guns and candy cigarettes, and do nothing to prevent them from killing themselves—or being killed—by real guns."

* * *

"Eighty-six percent." In her elation, Kit Pace grinned at Clayton. "You win."

Clayton nodded. In close-up, Kerry appeared relaxed now, more confident than Clayton had ever seen him.

Let me be clear, Kerry was saying in the gentle lilt that, to Clayton, held a trace of Irish poetry. I do not accept that violence in America is caused by guns alone. I support the right of all law-abiding citizens to own a gun for any lawful purpose. And I believe that gun owners and non–gun owners can share a common dream: to someday make deaths like these so rare that our grandchildren will learn of them with disbelief and wonder.

Together, we can do this. I call on you to join me. I implore the Congress to act. And, for my own part, I will do my best to reach across the senseless divisions of the past.

There is, I believe, a first step I should take . . .

"Here it comes," Clayton said to Kit.

Several days ago, I received a letter from George Callister, the president of Lexington Arms. Senator Harshman read it to the Senate. But in the difficulties of the moment, I could not find the words to respond.

I do so now.

To Mr. Callister, I say, I fully appreciate and understand the spirit of your letter. I invite you to meet with me, alone, to seek ways to end these needless deaths. With lives at stake, we must not fail.

"Callister," Clayton murmured with a smile, "will regret that letter more than he could ever know."

On the screen, the President gazed up at the gallery, and then at the members of Congress. Before he was murdered by a man with a gun, Kilcannon finished, Robert Kennedy admonished us "to tame the savagery of man, and make gentle the life of the world."

In the name of our common humanity, let us begin.

Beginning among the Democrats, a deep roar of approval issued from the well of the House, swelling as members applauded with both hands raised aloft for the President to see. Utterly still, Kilcannon made no move to leave. And so President Kilcannon, the commentator intoned, has launched a personal crusade against gun violence in America . . .

"Eighty-eight percent," Kit said. To her utter surprise, her eyes had welled with tears.

* * *

Dane turned from the screen. "We can't let him split off Lexington," he told the others. "The little bastard means to pressure George Callister."

"We stopped Callister before," Fell answered.

"It'll be harder now." Dane turned to Campton. "Get onto the Internet. Ask our members to e-mail Congress, especially Democrats. And tell them how to reach everyone on Lexington's board."

Campton nodded. "How do we respond?"

"With care. Fasano's right about that. The line should be that we sympathize with Kilcannon, but that he's drawn the wrong lesson—you should be able to pass down a gun to your eighteen-year-old son, or sell one to your next-door neighbor, without putting them through a background check. This isn't a police state, after all. At least not yet.

"As for safety locks, he's proposing the 'Criminal Protection Act.' Think some rapist will wait for his victim to fiddle with a safety lock?"

"Kilcannon's overreaching," Campton agreed. "But what's the right lesson?"

"Tougher law enforcement. John Bowden should never have been out on bail. We support better domestic violence records, and stiffer sentences. Period."

After five minutes, Wolf Blitzer was saying, the applause for President Kilcannon continues unabated. On the screen, Lara Kilcannon gazed down at her husband.

This is the crest, Dane promised them. Tomorrow begins the fall.

"As soon as you can," he ordered Fell, "set up that meeting with Fasano."

* * *

Hours later, having said goodbye to the families, Kerry and Lara lay in bed.

"You were right about Mary," she told him. "Bob Lenihan has approached her about suing Lexington Arms."

Kerry laughed softly. But he had begun to feel the residue of a sustained adrenaline rush—a vague depression, the first echoes of self-doubt. In a quiet tone, he told Lara, "I did the best I could."

"The best anyone could," she assured him. With that, knowing that he needed this as much as she, Lara slipped into his arms.