Balance of Power

SE VEN

"This is our biggest challenge," Charles Dane told Senator Frank Fasano. "At least since 1968."

He did not mention the murders of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. He did not need to. That they met in Kelsey Landon's K Street office, not the SSA's or Fasano's, said enough about the volatility of the moment.

The SSA's choice of Kelsey Landon as its consultant spoke to this as well. A small, well-knit man with silver hair and a perpetual expression of shrewd but pleasant alertness, the former senator from Colorado's fund-raising prowess had secured him a unique influence among Senate Republicans, cementing his closeness to Frank Fasano: when Fasano had set out to succeed Macdonald Gage, Landon had quietly passed the word that major Republican donors and power brokers favored his aspirations. Now, deferring to Fasano, Landon merely responded to Dane's comment with a wry smile of acknowledgment—a cue, Fasano sensed, that he should remind Dane of how much the SSA needed them both.

"It's the worst I've seen," Fasano said bluntly. "Especially in the Senate. My moderates are worried—they've seen the numbers for Kilcannon and the First Lady. And Lexington's not warm and fuzzy."

Seated in an elegant wing chair, Dane wore a pin-striped Savile Row suit which accented his air of power and ease. "In the end," he told Fasano, "Americans will respect individual responsibility. Bowden pulled the trigger, not George Callister."

"That's not good enough," Fasano said. "At least right now." Pausing, he added softly, "Some would say that Martin Bresler had the right idea on trigger locks and gun shows. And that it's too bad someone crushed him."

From behind his desk, Fasano noticed, Landon followed the exchange with the air of a connoisseur of tennis watching two veteran players testing each other's game. "Bresler crushed himself," Dane admonished. "Sometimes you'd be better off, Frank, envisioning gun owners not as a 'special interest,' but as members of one of the great religions of the world. The core of our membership would give us everything they owned before they give Kilcannon an inch on guns."

"Sounds like religion," Fasano answered. "I know it isn't politics. The Kilcannons have hung Lexington with an image problem that'll be hard to overcome."

"That's the real problem," Landon told Fasano. "It's not just Kilcannon's gun bill—it's our old friend Robert Lenihan. He can't help bragging—seems like he's signed up Lara Kilcannon's sister for a wrongful death suit against Lexington. If Lenihan's doing this, Kilcannon's pulling his strings . . ."

"It's been like synchronized swimming," Dane interjected in sardonic tones. "First the tape of Bowden killing them, then Kilcannon's speech, then Callister turns him down, and then Mrs. Kilcannon gives her interview. At this rate Lexington will have to look for neutral jurors in caves."

"The gun manufacturers," Landon added smoothly, "are petrified. Lenihan can finance this with millions in tobacco money. If he delivers George Callister's head on a platter, the trial lawyers can write their own ticket in the Democratic Party. And the gun industry may well cave in to whatever Kilcannon wants."

So far, Fasano reflected, the meeting had gone as he had expected. The SSA, he suspected, had compelled the manufacturers to take a hard line, and now had to show that it had the power to protect them. And Dane needed results for special reasons of his own: he was both intimidator and beseecher, whose tenure as SSA president depended on pleasing a board of governors whose intransigence on gun rights was equalled only by its hatred of Kerry Kilcannon. Evenly, Fasano inquired, "What is it that you want, Charles?"

Dane folded his arms. "A bar on lawsuits by people like Mary Costello."

"Just 'people like Mary Costello'? Or do you want us to kill her lawsuit?"

"What we want," Dane said succinctly, "is a law barring all lawsuits against the manufacturers of guns for deaths and injuries caused by someone else's criminal misuse. That means suits by anyone."

Fasano found himself studying Landon's bust of an Indian warrior, the gift from a grateful tribe for whom he had secured exclusive gaming rights. "If you're right about Lenihan," he told Dane, "Mary Costello will file any day now. We'd have to cut her off in mid-lawsuit."

Dane frowned. "No choice, Frank. We've passed laws like this in other states, but we lack the wherewithal in California. So you're the only game in town."

Though Fasano was prepared for this, the pressure building in the room had begun to feel like a vise, tangible and sobering. "You don't want much," he told Dane. "Only that the United States Senate stomp all over Lara Kilcannon's sole surviving relative, with the bodies of the others barely cold."

"Not just the Senate," Dane responded coolly. "The House of Representatives. Speaker Jencks is ready to go."

"Well, good for Tom," Fasano said dismissively. "Even if both of us can pass this bill of yours, Kilcannon will veto it. To override a veto, you may recall, we need a two-thirds vote of the Senate.

"By my count, that means sixty-seven senators will have to spit in the President's eye. Or, as Kilcannon will have it, on the graves of the First Lady's family." Turning to Landon, Fasano continued, "You can do the math as well as I can, Kelsey. I've got fifty-four Republicans. I can count at least five who are up for reelection next year and don't want Kilcannon's very warm breath on the backs of their necks. They'd sell their souls not to cast this vote."

Kelsey Landon smiled. "You remind me of what my predecessor used to say: 'Half my friends are for it, half against, and I'm all for my friends.' Except that your friends are in this room, and we're all for you."

For Fasano, the soothing bromide eliminated all doubt—the SSA had engaged Kelsey Landon not just as an advisor, but to bring all the pressure at his command to bear on Frank Fasano. For a brief, intoxicating moment, Fasano imagined telling them both to go to hell. Then he weighed yet again the political impracticality of offending the SSA, the risks and rewards—both monumental—of waging this fight against Kerry Kilcannon.

"I don't like these lawsuits," he said to Dane and Landon. "And Kilcannon's fully capable of running this lawsuit from the White House. But you're asking me to put five seats at risk—which, as it happens, would lose us the majority."

"You wouldn't have a majority," Dane said bluntly, "without our help. In the last election cycle, the SSA gave the Republican Party over $2.5 million in soft money and spent millions more in support of progun candidates. We turned out our people in nine close Senate races, and you won six."

By whose count? Fasano wondered. "Charles," Landon told him in a soothing voice, "knows that you'll need protection. I believe he's prepared to give it."

"To begin," Dane said, "we'll put up more money than we did the last time—at least four million."

The bargaining, Fasano knew, had begun. "What else?"

"Anything that's legal." Dane's voice was cool and businesslike. "After all, this is the last election before Chad Palmer's misbegotten campaign reform bill takes effect. We'll form groups to run 'independent' ads to support any senator who votes our way. We'll run an onslaught of radio and TV ads at the grassroots level. We'll tell our members to send the most generous checks they can to senators of our selection, and to the Republican Senatorial Campaign Committee."

"The problem," Fasano told Dane, "is that it'll be the SSA versus the President, with Kilcannon calling us SSA stooges . . ."

"One more reason," Dane retorted, "for you to pass this now. The election's not for thirteen months. By that time, the Costello shootings will have cooled off—especially if there's no lawsuit. And we're much too smart to resurrect the issue in an election year.

"Most of our ads won't even be about guns. We'll hit the candidates who run against your people on crime, antiterrorism, prayer in school, lowering taxes—whatever works from state to state. The way the law is now, the Democrats won't know who ran them until six months after they've lost.

"Even you won't know, Frank. But you'll still have your majority, maybe bigger. And that will make you the preeminent leader of your party."

At this unmistakable allusion to his Presidential prospects, the room became silent. Kelsey Landon had stopped smiling.

"You know what Charles can do," Landon said at length. "Not just with money, but by turning out his people.

"If Republican senators don't go along, he'll invest in Democrats who will—in Montana, the Dakotas, the South, or wherever gun companies are key employers. He'll engage the folks who work in the chain of distribution: dealers, distributors, employees. He can rally four million members, not to mention reaching the nearly forty million households which own guns . . ."

"Our message is simple," Dane interjected. "Today it's the P-2 and the Eagle's Claw, but tomorrow it's your gun. Right now, we could gen erate mail, calls, and faxes ten to one in our favor on any gun immunity bill we propose.

"I've made our own head count of shaky Republicans and persuadable Democrats. Do your damnedest, Frank, and we'll help get your sixty-seven votes. After that, Kerry Kilcannon won't be the most powerful man in Washington. It'll be you." As Dane leaned forward, his gaze, penetrant and unblinking, impelled attention. "As for us, if we can quash this lawsuit, and then defeat Kilcannon's gun bill, we'll bury gun control for a generation. Maybe for good and all."

Fasano stared at him. "Not if you bring a bill Kilcannon can claim is meant to 'quash' the memory of a murdered six-year-old. Then it would be about the Eagle's Claw. You'd be better off trying to put a cap on damages."

"That's not enough," Dane shot back. "The legal fees alone are bleeding the industry to death. And we don't want Kilcannon using Bob Lenihan to root around in Lexington's files, or interrogate its employees."

What, Fasano wondered, was the SSA afraid of? Quietly, he said, "Then you'd be better off with a law that never mentions guns. Something like 'No manufacturer, dealer or distributor will be liable for the use of a legal product in an illegal act by any person not under its direction or control.' "

Briefly, Landon smiled—an affirmation that, all along, Fasano had been one move ahead. In response, Dane's eyes, again fixed on Fasano, were keen.

"Tell us how to pass it," Dane said.

"By playing well with others," Fasano answered. "You need to tuck your language in a major tort reform bill backed by every lawyer-hating institution in America: the airlines, aircraft manufacturers, liquor and tobacco companies, auto makers, tire companies, employers with environmental problems, even the people who make farm implements.

"Then you reach out beyond the obvious—to fast-food businesses, for example, or accountants, or investment bankers. You immunize teachers against lawsuits, thereby neutralizing a union which always supports Democrats. You get HMOs to form 'Citizens for Better Medicine' and saturate the airwaves. You even limit punitive damages against charities like the American Cancer Society."

Pausing, Fasano looked from Landon to Dane. Both were silent, attentive, expressionless. "Most important," Fasano continued, "you rally all their employees to the cause.

"We need to bury the idea that we're pandering to the merchants of death. Our bill is a job protection measure, keeping greedy lawyers like Bob Lenihan from bankrupting companies and putting ordinary people out of work. It's also a consumer protection measure, insulating other ordinary people from outrageous verdicts which they wind up paying for in the form of higher consumer prices.

"That's the message we should keep on driving home: spurious lawsuits clog the courts and subvert our core belief in individual responsibility. Coffee is supposed to be hot—if Aunt Minnie spills it and burns her fingers, it's her fault, not McDonald's. Or yours." For the first time, Fasano smiled. "After that, we can depict Kilcannon and the Democrats as the wholly owned subsidiary of America's most loathed minority—the trial lawyers who buy corporate jets, two-hundred-foot yachts, and baseball teams which overcharge for hot dogs."

"The Chamber of Commerce," Dane reminded Fasano, "has tried to pass that bill for years. They never have."

"That's because they've never had the troops. You do. With your muscle and your money, placed at the disposal of a broad coalition, perhaps you can get this through . . ."

"And you," Dane interjected, "will have made your business constituency happier than it's ever been."

"Of course," Fasano said with a shrug. "Why stop with you?"

"I'm sure that's fine with the SSA," Landon put in. "But up to now the tort reform community has avoided the gun issue like the plague."

"And they've lost, haven't they? As Charles points out. By now, a lot of them will want the same provision which immunizes gun manufacturers.

"Let me give you an example. A couple of years ago our leading auto manufacturer was sued in San Francisco—where, I'm sure, Lenihan intends to bring this suit. The plaintiff was drunk, was speeding, and plowed into an embankment on his own. The gas tank in his car exploded, killing both of his children. But instead of blaming the driver, the jury focused on the fact that the company had done a cost-benefit analysis of the money required to make its gas tank one hundred percent safe, and decided that perfection wasn't worth it. So the jury awarded a billion dollars in punitives to a drunk who killed his kids." Pausing, Fasano said with irony, "Understandably, the company's chief lobbyist talks about it still. So I think you'll find him newly sympathetic to your goals."

"We need more than sympathy," Dane retorted. "A bill that broad will buy us a battle with Kilcannon and the trial lawyers tantamount to nuclear war . . ."

A quiet knock on Landon's door interrupted Dane as Landon's very pretty assistant entered with a silver tray—assorted sandwiches and small desserts, with a Diet Coke for Dane, a mineral water with lime for Fasano, and a bourbon on ice for Landon. Sipping it, Landon waited until she left.

"Frank's right," he told Dane. "And so are you. Frank would have to persuade your silent partners to share the cost of some pretty expensive fun." Sitting back, Landon tasted the bourbon on his lips. "The bill would come through the Commerce Committee—Chad Palmer's committee, unfortunately, since the shake-up when Frank replaced Gage as Majority Leader. You'll need a lobbyist to work each committee member. Also, you should make a donation to the state party of any of the members who are up for reelection."

Dane's smile held a trace of cynicism. "I assume you can help us direct all that."

Landon nodded. "If you like," he said amiably.

Fasano watched in silence. He had seen the process before—an interest group setting out to use its muscle finds itself muscled back by those it intends to use. Dane's needs were obvious and urgent. And by hiring Landon for his ties to Fasano, Dane had given both men leverage: for Fasano, to secure his dominance of the party; for Landon, to augment his wealth and influence. Finishing his bourbon, Landon leaned back in his chair, as though widening his field of vision. "If we're all agreed on our approach," he said in a conciliatory tone, "let's talk about what Frank can do for you. And how he best can do it.

"I don't know what Frank Fasano will decide his future holds. But to my mind, and I'm sure to yours, he has potential well beyond the Senate. It's in all of our interests to spare him needless controversy."

"In other words," Dane said with brusque impatience, "Frank can't take the lead. So who will?"

Dane cast an inquiring gaze toward Fasano. "Dave Ruckles, perhaps?"

This, Fasano thought, suited his own needs perfectly. As Majority Whip, Ruckles was already chafing under Fasano's leadership. Ruckles was nakedly ambitious—even if he saw the potential pitfalls, the temptation to ingratiate himself with such a wide array of interest groups would be too great to resist.

"That sounds right," Fasano concurred. "Dave should introduce the bill—Paul Harshman's image is too hard-line. You'll also want a woman to cosponsor, maybe Clare McIntyre. Or Cassie Rollins, assuming she's persuadable."

"In Maine she should be," Dane replied. "But she's up for reelection. In election years, the Yankees try to sit on the fence."

"The Yankees," Fasano knew, was Dane's pejorative for New England moderates Dane considered unreliable on gun rights—Kate Jarman of Vermont, Dick Stafford of Connecticut, John Smythe of Rhode Island, and Cassie Rollins of Maine. " 'The Yankees,' " Fasano replied, "are my department. As is my party as a whole."

Dane paused, appraising him. "How so?" he demanded.

It was time, Fasano decided, to spell out how things would be. "You want me to deliver," he said coolly. "So you play by my rules.

"I direct the money you give to our party. I allocate it to the national party, the Senate committee, and the individual senators I select. I pick the candidates you help, and I clear the Democrats you support. End of story."

Dane's eyes seemed to narrow. "Your story ends with you as the most powerful senator in living memory. Using our money to do it."

Fasano nodded. "True. But with the SSA more well positioned than ever. Because I am."

Now Kelsey Landon only watched. Coldly, Dane countered, "Then I want your commitment to go all out. No taking SSA money, then making some token effort and telling us it's all too bad."

Fasano's own expression was grim. "Fair enough. But I'm the Senate Majority Leader, not your hired hand. You screwed up with Martin Bresler's group, and then I let you get between us and Bresler. If Kilcannon or the media ever hears about that one, they'll say I'm holding the bag on three dead bodies.

"So I'm in charge of this one. I know how best to protect my party, and our majority. Respect that, and you won't have to live with a Senate controlled by Kerry Kilcannon."

For a long time, Dane stared at him. "Is that all?"

"Not quite. Kilcannon will use this lawsuit to drive a wedge between Lexington and the SSA, and Lexington and the rest of the industry. If Lexington caves, you've got no bill . . ."

"How long," Dane interrupted, "would Lexington last if our four million members stop buying its products. Or gun dealers refuse to stock them?"

"This involves much more than keeping Lexington quiet and in line," Fasano answered. "If you're that worried about what Lenihan might uncover in their files, Lexington can't let Mary Costello's lawsuit gain any traction whatsoever. That demands a scorched earth defense by the meanest lawyers they can find."

This induced a longer gaze from Charles Dane. "We've got the lawyers," he said at length. "They're not just mean, but establishment mean—as smooth as corporate lawyers come. We're confident that Lexington will agree to hire them." Abruptly, Dane's manner became commanding. "How long will it take you to pass a bill?"

"This bill? Three months at a minimum."

"Then you should find a way to speed it up."

"What clever trick would you recommend? Tacking it on some other bill? Kilcannon would veto the bill in a heartbeat, and pillory us in the bargain.

"We'll do this by the numbers," Fasano continued. "Introduce the bill; refer it to the Commerce Committee for a hearing; get it out of Palmer's clutches with a favorable committee vote; put it on the calendar; work out an amendment process with Hampton; kill his amendments gutting your provision; and pass it with sixty-seven votes. All of which takes time."

"Three months," Dane retorted, "is too much time. As soon as Kilcannon's people figure out what's in the bill for us—and they will—he'll try to rally support like he's been doing on his gun bill. The more time he has, the more our opposition hardens."

"Frank didn't say," Landon interposed, "that there was nothing you can do to make this easier. I think there is."

Dane turned to Landon. "Such as?"

"Start with the House of Representatives. Let Tom Jencks pass the tort reform bill without the gun immunity clause. Keep that language out of the Senate bill you send to Palmer. That way, there's nothing for Kilcannon's people to spot . . ."

"And we get nothing for our investment . . ."

"But then," Landon continued smoothly, "a few days before passage, someone like Paul Harshman inserts your gun immunity provision in the bill to be voted out of Palmer's committee. It's easily done. Suddenly the bill coming to the floor includes what you want, and, with luck, it will be a while before the President and Hampton notice that. Let alone rally support.

"With enough luck, they'll be too late. And once your bill passes the Senate, we go back to the House, wherein Tom Jencks swiftly inserts the gun immunity language."

Silent, Fasano watched Dane evaluate Landon's suggestion. At length, he turned to Fasano. "There's just one glaring problem. Palmer. Committee chairmen are dictators. And the last time I saw him he told me to go fuck myself."

Fasano smiled. "Sounds like Chad. I'll talk to him about you."

"Palmer," Dane objected, "is in the way . . ."

"I'll deal with Palmer," Fasano snapped. "You take care of Lexington."

"The sine qua non is to keep everyone together—Lexington, the SSA, and all the other entities in our great antilawyer, pro-job, pro-consumer coalition." Looking from Landon to Dane, Fasano paused for emphasis. "Our only chance of surviving Kilcannon's veto is to keep the gun provision in the final bill, forcing every senator to vote 'yes' or 'no' on the most sweeping reform of civil justice ever to pass the Senate."

Thoughtful, Dane seemed to withdraw from the conversation. "Is there any chance," he mused aloud, "that Kilcannon could be persuaded not to veto such a bill?"

For the first time since the meeting began, Fasano was surprised. "One that wipes out Mary Costello's lawsuit? That's a primal challenge to everything he holds dear."

At this, Dane looked up at him with eyes so placid that it took Fasano aback. "Still, Frank, your life would be much easier if you never had to get to sixty-seven."