Balance of Power

EIGHTEEN

Amidst the ornate trappings of the Old Senate Caucus Room, Lara Costello Kilcannon faced the Senate Commerce Committee.

Seated to her right was Mary Costello, looking overwhelmed and yet, Lara suspected, feeling resentful at her renewed dependence on her older sister. To her left sat Henry Serrano's widow, Felice. Behind them were Felice's son and daughters, the parents of Laura Blanchard, and Kara Johnson—the slight young woman who, by now, would have been the wife of David Walsh. The room was bright; angled toward them were the cameras which broadcast Lara's testimony on CNN, MSNBC and Fox. From a raised platform, seventeen senators peered down at them, aides hovering at their shoulders. As Chairman, Chad Palmer sat in the middle, with eight Republican senators to his right, eight Democrats to his left. Though she was tense, to Lara nothing was unfamiliar—not the hearings, any number of which she had covered for the New York Times; nor the necessity of speaking live and under pressure, a staple of her life in television news. The only new element was the outrage she felt.

For his part, Senator Palmer looked as though he wished to be elsewhere. He listened to her statement with grave courtesy, deferring to the senior Democrat, Frank Ayala of New Mexico. Senator Ayala's questions— pre-scripted with the White House—were designed to elicit sympathy without contention. Only when Senator Paul Harshman commenced asking questions did the atmosphere change.

Even now, Lara thought, it was difficult for Harshman to conceal how deeply he despised both Kilcannons. For the hard right wing, which Harshman embodied, they were a nontraditional marriage in a permissive society that had discarded the roles, and the rules, which had once made life in America so decent and predictable. After a perfunctory expression of sympathy, Harshman said, "As I recall, Mrs. Kilcannon, you're not a lawyer. So you're not claiming firsthand knowledge of the many excesses which the Civil Justice Reform Act seeks to correct."

Taking her time, Lara fixed Harshman's gaunt face and bald pate with a gaze as level as she forced her voice to be. "No, Senator. The 'excess' of which I have firsthand knowledge is this new language in the bill, which I understand you support, the effect of which is to destroy— retroactively—the right of those whose loved ones have been killed by guns to their day in court, a jury of their peers, and whatever protections state law now affords them . . ."

Harshman leaned forward. In a condescending tone, he interrupted, "As an attorney and a legislator, I cannot agree with your interpretation of this law . . ."

"Surely," Lara cut in, "you're not suggesting to Mrs. Serrano that your 'reform' doesn't eradicate her right to seek recovery from Lexington Arms. You're not saying that, are you, Senator Harshman? Unless you are, please let me finish . . ."

* * *

Watching CNN in his office, Fasano said to Gage, "I told Paul to let her go."

"That's the problem," Gage answered sardonically, "with having deeply held beliefs. But the real problem's Palmer."

Fasano shook his head. "What could he do? Stiff the First Lady of the United States? Or cross-examine her? We all know that the Kilcannons must be mixed up in Mary Costello's lawsuit. But all of us—even Paul, I hope—know that there'll be a better time and place to raise that."

Felice Serrano, Lara Costello continued, has a twelve-year-old son, two daughters aged seven and four, and the modest insurance policy which was all that she and her late husband could afford.

The grief they feel at Henry Serrano's death is terrible enough. But the loss of a husband and father blights their future in yet another respect—their financial security died with him. Now, Senator, you propose legislation which would kill their sole remaining hope of replacing the only thing which can be replaced: enough money to keep their home and secure the college education Henry Serrano never had, but was determined to provide them . . .

Some would say, Senator Harshman interjected, that John Bowden killed it when he killed their father.

That will surely be true, Senator, if you pass this legislation. Lara's gaze swept the other senators, and then returned to Harshman. You question my qualifications to speak to this issue. In one sense, my qualifications are no different than those of Felice Serrano, my sister Mary, the Blanchard family or Kara Johnson. None of us are lawyers. Our expertise is in grief and loss . . .

"Why does Harshman bother?" Fasano murmured. "Has he totally forgotten who she is?"

But I do have one other credential, Lara continued. In my former life as a reporter, I covered the Congress. And so, rather early in my career, I immersed myself in the phenomenon known as "special interest legislation."

This provision, to be plain, is a particularly squalid piece of special interest legislation, which revictimizes victims and insults the memory of those they loved.

"What you've just witnessed," Fasano told Macdonald Gage, "is the sound bite which heads the evening news. Paul Harshman's finest hour."

* * *

"In fairness to Palmer," Clayton told the President, "he handed her this moment. He could have tried to sneak this through without you knowing."

On the screen, Lara continued, If this Committee cares about their loss, and shares their grief, it will protect them from this injustice.

Kerry shrugged. "Chad chose to do Fasano's bidding, then tried to maintain his 'honor.' So now he's about to pay for both."

* * *

Propelled by her sense of outrage, Lara turned to Palmer.

"Accordingly, Senator Palmer, we request that before this committee votes on whether to send the bill to the full Senate, you hold a separate vote on whether it should immunize gun manufacturers from victims seeking justice.

"If you do, I cannot help but believe that this shameful provision will never reach the Senate floor."

From the platform, Palmer held her gaze. A month ago he had been in her wedding party. Now, in her imaginings, he felt too much shame to look away.

Beneath the table, Mary, who had danced with Chad at the wedding, touched her sister's hand.

* * *

"It's so tangled," Lara said to Kerry.

The time was close to midnight. Lara had stayed up late, listening to Mary's fears about the lawsuit, trying to ease the strain beneath the surface of their truce. Now Lara could not sleep.

"You and Mary?" Kerry asked.

"That. All of it, really. Facing Chad today, wondering why he's doing this, and how he could. Speaking for Felice Serrano, when I'm also speaking for you in a power struggle with Fasano. It's like our fam ily was murdered, and somehow Mary and I—and you and I—got sucked down the rabbit hole."

Lying beside her in the dark, Kerry pondered what to say. "A rabbit hole," he answered softly, "where we make up the rules as we go, and real becomes unreal. Until no one knows what's real anymore."

Lara was quiet. "Are we real?" she asked.

Kerry drew her closer. "I want to be. Again."

After a moment, to his surprise, she kissed him. The surprise was not in the kiss itself, but the nature of it, and what this told him without words.

Gently, for the first time since the murders, Kerry and Lara made love.