Balance of Power

ONE

There were days, rare ones, when Senator Chuck Hampton approached his work as Minority Leader with a fierce combativeness so pure that it was akin to joy.

This was such a day. As a rule, Hampton's pride of leadership was tempered by the complexity of dealing with the forty-six egos—including his own—who comprised the Democratic caucus; the soul-grinding paranoia of dueling with a shrewd and relentless foe, Frank Fasano, who as Majority Leader held the upper hand; the knowledge that Kerry Kilcannon placed his own priorities as President above Chuck Hampton's more parochial concerns, such as ensuring the survival of Hampton's flock and thus Hampton's survival as leader. There were even days when Chuck Hampton half wanted to tell the several Democrats who aspired to replace him that any of them could have the fucking job, which he clung to out of the primal, Darwinian knowledge that giving it up would feel even worse than keeping it. But today he spoke during morning business with a deeply satisfying sense of power, purpose, and outrage.

"Three days ago," he told the scattering of assembled senators, "as the majority party stalled, the five thousandth American was killed with a gun since the day that the First Lady's family was slaughtered."

Turning, he pointed at the picture of a young African-American boy with cropped hair and a bright aspect which shone through the compulsory smile of a school photograph. "Antonio Harris was twelve. He lived in Philadelphia with his mother, and two older sisters who adored him. He was murdered in a drive-by shooting by a sixteen-year-old who mistook him for the younger brother of a member of a rival gang. The shooter bought the murder weapon from another gang member who had stolen it from his uncle—a spousal abuser who was able to buy it because the record of his conviction was never entered into the system."

Turning from the boy's photograph, Hampton continued with genuine anger. "If the President's proposals were law, Antonio might not have died. Now it is too late for him. But the clock is running on other Antonios, day by day and hour by hour, whose lives are in our hands, and whose deaths will haunt our consciences." Facing Frank Fasano, he added, "Or, at least, the conscience of some of us."

Fasano seemed to freeze. Hampton, too, paused, just long enough to note the still attentiveness of Cassie Rollins, a principal target of his remarks. "But what has the majority offered us? Nothing. Until yesterday, when Senator Fasano and the leadership offered us a bill which is worse than nothing." An edge of scorn crept into his tone. "And what does it contain? A 'commission' to 'study' the causes of violence among our young people. Were he alive, I'm quite certain that Antonio would have been fascinated by its findings—assuming, hypothetically, that we'll receive them during what would have been Antonio's normal life span."

At the periphery of his vision, Hampton saw Chad Palmer's brief, grim smile. "But never let it be said," Hampton went on, "that Senator Fasano's bill leaves the gun-show loophole unaddressed. To the contrary, it promises an instant background check once ninety-nine percent of records of felonies, violent misdemeanors, and adjudicated domestic violence are entered into the national computer system.

"And how will we fund this extraordinary feat? Unlike the President's bill—which would allocate the millions necessary to do so—the money Senator Fasano proffers might be sufficient to overhaul the records in, say, Rhode Island, or even, perhaps, my own state of Vermont. But not, regrettably, Senator Fasano's home state of Pennsylvania. Where Antonio Harris was murdered."

Fasano, Hampton noted, listened with the inward, impenetrable expression that Hampton was learning to associate with concern and, perhaps, anger. "But there are much cheaper ways," Hampton continued, "to prevent such a death. Combination safety locks on guns, for example, to prevent people who steal guns from using them. About which the senator's bill says not one word."

Now Hampton faced Frank Fasano directly. "Perhaps I am doing my friend from Pennsylvania a disservice. Perhaps—despite the suspicions of some cynics in my caucus—he does not intend his bill as cover for the opponents of meaningful laws to reduce gun violence. Perhaps, after all, he does not plan to bring this up for a vote prior to the President's bill, to provide further cover for his drive to pass a bill extinguishing Mary Costello's lawsuit. Perhaps this bill is as innocent of hidden motives as it is ill written and ill considered."

Hampton's expression became wry, his tone etched with an astringent humor. "But just to be sure, I intend to offer an amendment to the senator's bill to ensure full funding for his ambitious goal of near-total compliance for background checks, and to bar tort immunity for gun manufacturers. I may even offer the President's bill as an amendment to the senator's own." Abruptly, his speech became slow and very serious. "And if the senator attempts to bar us from debating these amendments, the 'cynics' in our caucus will keep his bill from coming to a vote—unless he permits the President's bill to be considered simultaneously."

Briefly, but to Hampton's satisfaction, Fasano looked skeptical and surprised, as though he doubted Hampton had the forty votes necessary to sustain a filibuster. Hampton rested one hand on the Styrofoam board which framed Antonio's picture. "This," he said, "is not done simply out of the respect that this body owes President Kilcannon. It reflects the decent regard we owe to the memory of Antonio Harris. Anything less should embarrass us all."

With this, Chuck Hampton sat down.

* * *

When morning business had ended, Hampton crossed the aisle to speak to Frank Fasano.

Fasano had long since retrieved his air of imperviousness; only the glint in his eye betrayed his annoyance. "That was quite a performance," Fasano said. "Almost worthy of KFK himself."

Feeling his sense of satisfaction deepen, Hampton paused a moment before indulging it fully. "I'm beginning to take that as a genuine compliment, Frank—especially after the beating he gave you on his tort reform proposal. My colleagues noticed it, too. So I'm delivering a message from all forty-six of us—even those whom the President's bill makes nervous."

"And what might that be, Chuck?"

Hampton smiled. "Deal straight up with KFK's bill," he answered in his most amiable tone. "Or we'll screw you like I just promised we would."

* * *

Arrested by Hampton's speech, Cassie Rollins returned to her office preoccupied. Which was not the proper state of mind for a Republican senator up for reelection and fifteen minutes late for a meeting with Charles Dane.

She found him watching C-SPAN in her reception area, and ushered him to her office with a graceful apology. "This was one morning," she concluded, "when I thought it best to hear out Chuck's body count to the unusually bitter end. He seems to have been eating his Wheaties."

"I saw." Dane's manner was respectful but direct. "So there's no need for either of us to mince words. This is the vote, Cassie."

Cassie rested a curled finger to her lips, eyes narrowing in an expression which was good-humored yet pointed. "Exactly which vote," she asked, "is 'the vote'? The one against Kilcannon's gun control bill? Or in favor of your tort immunity bill?"

Dane's already intent look deepened. "Both," he answered flatly. "They're the same vote—the acid test of who our friends are, and who cares to remain our friend. Where do you stand, Senator?"

The abrupt switch to her formal title, Cassie knew, was meant to signal Dane's willingness to consider her an adversary. Though this put her on edge, Cassie kept her voice even and, to her satisfaction, seemingly unruffled.

"Tort immunity," she observed, "is one thing. But the President's bill is largely focused on keeping guns out of the hands of criminals and wife-beaters, not law-abiding gun owners."

Dane leaned forward, his posture suggesting suppressed impatience. "Why should 'law-abiding gun owners' be subjected to intrusive background checks, whether at gun shows or elsewhere? It's the first step toward keeping ordinary people from owning guns—confiscation by harassment and inconvenience, where neighbor can't sell a gun to neighbor, or a father give one to his son."

Crossing her legs, Cassie sat back in her wing chair, her chin resting on clasped hands. "Before I accept that, Charles, I'm going to ask you to persuade me that it's so. From the sound of Hampton's speech, you'll have the time.

"As for immunity, I think these lawsuits are pretty flimsy, and you know my strong position in favor of tort reform. But the one lawsuit everyone knows about is Mary Costello's. Effectively, you're asking us to vote against Lara Kilcannon, her surviving sister, their three murdered relatives, and three other families whose loved ones Bowden slaughtered by accident. Why make your 'friends' cast that vote if your lawyers can get this judge to throw Mary Costello out of court, which is what the best legal minds I've talked to think he'll do. If we can restrain ourselves from trampling on the First Lady before he gets the chance."

Dane paused before responding, seeming to measure his words. "She's not only the First Lady," he said quietly. "She's the wife of our foremost enemy. Her sister, their pawn, has sued the SSA itself. You can't give them aid and comfort and be our friend."

Despite the softness of his tone, Cassie felt that this response—simplistic, with a whiff of melodrama—betrayed a desperation at variance with Dane's accustomed self-assurance. For the first time, she sensed this was not simply about ideology, or power: for whatever reason, Cassie guessed, the lawsuit worried him. "I'm always your friend," she assured Dane in a placating tone. "Whenever gun rights come up, I have a bias in your favor . . ."

"Not on the assault weapons ban," Dane interrupted pointedly. "That nearly cost you your party's nomination."

This was going to be unpleasant, Cassie realized. She mustered a smile. "You have a long memory, Charles, and so do I. That was five years—and many a pro-gun vote—ago." Her voice assumed the faintest tinge of defiance. "I'm entitled to the occasional show of independence. But I understand that this is fundamental to you. I take you, and that, very seriously—and will before I vote. In the meanwhile, my door is always open to you and to your members."

Dane frowned, rested his arms on his knees with—Cassie noted wryly—his index fingers pressed together, pointing toward her like the barrel of a revolver. "I don't like to do this," he said bluntly. "But you've earned fair notice. If you vote against us on either bill we're prepared to run George Bolt against you in the primary."

Cassie was genuinely startled. George Bolt was a crusty former governor, moderate on many issues but adamant in support of gun rights—a far more serious opponent than some right-wing stooge. "George Bolt," she answered coolly, "is savvy enough to know that a man of seventyone, who hasn't run statewide in a decade, is past it. He's got no organization left. Why embarrass himself?"

Dane gave her a brief smile, a chilly play of the lips. "To save Maine from the embarrassment of a senator who's betrayed the Second Amendment. As for organization, we'd fill the gaps nicely."

And so they would. Was George Bolt's law practice flagging so badly, Cassie wondered, that he needed the renewed attention? And then she wondered, with a piercing onset of real fear, why she—or her mentor Warren Colby—hadn't seen or heard this coming. "George can't beat me," she repeated. "And if he does, he'll lose to Abel Randolph in the general. Precipitating a primary fight against me is all it will take to persuade Randolph to make the race. Either way, you'll enhance your chances of trading me for Abel."

"That's right," Dane answered calmly. "And your colleagues will remember that when you're gone. So will you—even if you manage to scrape by." Dane paused, finishing with an air of regret. "This isn't personal, Cassie, and we don't want to do it. But you need to know before it happens, in the hope that it never will."

For a long time Cassie gazed at him. "I hope so, too," she said simply.