Balance of Power

FOUR

Trying to suspend her disbelief, Sarah watched the President of the United States face John Nolan across a conference table in the Washington office of Nolan's firm.

Sitting beside the President was his personal lawyer, Professor Avram Gold of Harvard Law School. Sarah had known—because Lara Kilcannon had told her—that Kerry Kilcannon would not resist Nolan's demand for a deposition. To comply, Sarah had agreed, would provide a telling contrast with Lexington's resistance to producing George Callister. But Nolan's barely reined-in aggressiveness was palpable. From her tenure as Nolan's associate, she knew that he regarded Kilcannon with the bonedeep loathing—irrational to Sarah—that the Republican right reserved for this particular President. Drawn by this admixture of history and emotion, the other principal combatants surrounded the conference table: both Lenihan and Sarah; Harrison Fancher and his chief associate; the lead associate for Nolan. To commemorate the occasion, and to ensure that any flashes of Presidential temper or embarrassment were captured on film, Nolan had obtained an order from his fellow ideologue Gardner Bond that the proceedings be videotaped. From a corner, a cameraman aimed his lens directly at Kilcannon.

Briskly entering the room, the President had seemed a magnetic figure, regarding its occupants with an air of detachment which, Sarah sensed, concealed his distaste at being there and his antagonism toward those representing Lexington and the SSA. But, given his own stake in the proceeding, Sarah was certain the President was intimately familiar with the issues and thoroughly prepared for Nolan's attack. Meeting him, Sarah felt a current of energy and hyperalertness. He paused, looking directly into her eyes as though to convey a sense of complicity and warmth complemented by the lilting quiet of his voice. "I watched you in the Tierney case," he said with a smile. "If you weren't already taken, my friend Professor Gold would be holding your coat. As it is, I suppose I'll have to reserve you for impeachment."

The remark—with its wry acknowledgment of how hell-bent the right was to be rid of him—made Sarah's nervousness at meeting him dissipate. Then she felt a second, more embarrassing, reaction: that the always-present possibility of her attraction to a man had focused—for a brief, intense moment—on Kerry Kilcannon. Covering this thought with a smile of her own, she answered, "Thank you, Mr. President. If I have any pointers, I'll pass them on through your interim counsel."

But—at least in the initial stages—it was clear that Kerry Kilcannon needed no coaching. Ignoring the camera, he kept his responses calm and concise while Nolan led him into the legal and psychological minefield of the events leading to the murders.

"You were aware, were you not, that Joan Bowden was relying on you for advice on how to deal with her husband's abuse?"

Kilcannon nodded. "Acutely aware."

"And did you advise her to leave the marriage?"

"Yes."

Pausing, Nolan fixed the President with a contemplative gaze. "As a former domestic violence prosecutor, would you agree that the point at which a battered spouse breaks off her relationship marks the moment at which her life is in the greatest danger?"

Kilcannon changed expression, a slight narrowing of the eyes. "Not necessarily, Mr. Nolan. The point of greatest danger could be when the abuser beats her to death before she decides to leave."

The response made Nolan hesitate. "Nonetheless," he persisted, "you were aware from your own experience that batterers often react to a loss of control by escalating the violence from battery to murder."

" 'Often'? I don't know that I'd agree. But it can happen that way."

Nolan leaned slightly forward. "In fact, didn't your first domestic violence prosecution end in the murder of the victim by her estranged husband?"

Kilcannon folded his hands. "I believe that's a matter of public record."

"Did you happen to mention that to Joan?"

The President hesitated. Softly, he answered, "I don't believe I did."

"Because you were afraid she wouldn't leave?"

Betraying no anger or antagonism, the President seemed to consider this. "Her husband had been beating her for years, and it was affecting her six-year-old daughter. The night before she left, Bowden held a gun to her head and threatened to kill her. I didn't think she needed to be told she was at risk, either way. She was as in touch with that fact as she was with the gun at her temple. What Joan—and Marie—needed was to be free from Bowden before it was too late."

"But you knew from hard experience that, by leaving, she might enrage John Bowden enough to kill her."

"I considered that, yes."

"But you didn't see fit to warn her."

Next to Sarah, Lenihan whispered, "This is unbelievable."

"Try odious," she whispered back. She had never despised John Nolan more, both for the nature of his questions and the utter lack of deference with which he posed them.

But Kilcannon gave no sign of noticing. In an even tone, he answered, "Joan and Marie were living under monstrous conditions. I didn't 'see fit' to frighten her into staying."

Nolan gave him a quizzical look. "So you decided to assume the risk for her?"

With a long, deliberate silence, Kilcannon studied him. Softly, he answered, "I didn't think there was any risk to me, Mr. Nolan. If there were, and Marie and Joanie would have been safer, I'd gladly have assumed it. Or have I misconceived your question?"

If anything, Sarah thought, the quiet of Kilcannon's voice enhanced the tension in the room. The others around the table seemed as rapt as she.

"Isn't it true, Mr. President, that Bowden's threats against his wife escalated after she went to the police—pursuant to your encouragement?"

"Yes. Predictably. I couldn't stop that."

"So what did you do?"

Before answering, the President seemed to inhale, suggesting to Sarah a patient man whose patience was being tried. "I called the District Attorney, made sure the police took away Bowden's guns, and monitored the issuance of a restraining order. When his threats persisted, I saw to it that the police searched his apartment yet again, and hired private security people to protect both Joan and Marie." Briefly, the President paused. "For my pains, the Chronicle contacted my press secretary, demanding to know whether I was using 'special influence' on their behalf."

"And that's why you and the First Lady chose to expose Bowden as a batterer on ABC?"

"Chose?" Kilcannon considered Nolan with muted disdain. "You can't be expected to appreciate this, Mr. Nolan. But in dealing with the media, a President's choices are often limited. Faced with the prospect that the Chronicle would string this out, we decided the better course was to get it over with."

"Whose interest did that serve?"

The President stared at him. "Joan's, I thought. Unless we got this out, the media would have hounded her for days. As well as Bowden."

Nolan tilted his head in an attitude of skepticism. "With respect, Mr. President, wasn't one of your concerns to put your role in this matter in its most appealing light?"

A faint smile did nothing to diminish the new hardness in Kilcannon's clear blue eyes. "With respect, Mr. Nolan, that question is beneath contempt."

Nolan sat back. After a moment, he said, "Whatever your emotions, sir, I'd appreciate an answer."

The smile lingered. "What about my previous answer did you fail to understand?"

Lenihan emitted a short, sardonic laugh. Hearing this, Nolan froze, but did not look toward Lenihan. Sitting beside the President, Avram Gold—clearly under instructions not to intervene—raised his eyebrows at Nolan as if to ask what he'd expected. Unable to resist, he inquired, "Would you like the reporter to read the answer back?"

Scowling, Nolan checked his watch, as though to indicate that any attenuation of the deposition was Kilcannon's own doing. Then, wisely, he gave up on the question altogether.

"In giving the interview, Mr. President, didn't you consider that you might inflame Mr. Bowden to violence?"

"To the ultimate violence? I couldn't know. I was certain he'd not only be inflamed, but humiliated. But no more than he would have been by a story in a hometown paper with a circulation of a million, which then would have been picked up by every national and local media outlet in America . . ."

"Given that, did you take additional measures to protect Joan and Marie?"

"They were with us at the time, under the protection of the Secret Service. What I did do was make sure that the private security firm which we'd hired to watch Joan's home also met them at the airport." The President paused, and his voice became soft with regret. "What I failed to consider was that your client's advertisement would induce Bowden to travel to a gun show in Las Vegas, where a convicted spousal abuser could acquire a Lexington P-2 and Eagle's Claw bullets. And that those at risk included Lara's mother."

This stopped Nolan. For a moment, he seemed undecided as to his course. Then, from a folder to his right, he slid a copy of a document with the jagged scrawl Sarah knew at once to be John Bowden's.

As she watched, appalled, Nolan asked the reporter to mark the paper as "Kilcannon Exhibit One," and then slid it in front of the President. "Can you identify this document?"

Gazing at Bowden's words on paper, Kilcannon seemed to pale. "It's a letter from John Bowden. The contents speak for themselves."

"In that John Bowden blames you for the murder he intends to commit?"

"Yes."

"Given this, would you still have exposed him before an audience of roughly forty million people?"

The President drew a breath, still gazing at the fateful words. "There isn't any aspect of what I did," he answered softly, "that I don't question every day. And will, every day for the rest of my life. But I truly believe I did everything I could to protect Lara's family—including disarm John Bowden." Pausing, the President looked up at last. "But there was no way, Mr. Nolan, to completely protect them from your client."

Briefly, Nolan seemed taken aback. Then, with a rising undertone of anger, he asked, "Isn't it true, Mr. President, that you're attempting to blame Lexington Arms for your own decision to provoke a man who you knew was prone to violence?"

The words "Mr. President," Sarah noted, were spoken with a slighting emphasis which suggested that Kerry Kilcannon did not deserve the office. "No," Kilcannon answered in a cold but even tone. "I'm blaming Lexington for its own decision to market uniquely lethal weapons to criminals and wife-beaters. I blame Lexington for its failure—even after this tragedy took three members of Lara's family and three members of other families—to lift a finger to keep still more deaths from happening. Or do anything at all, it seems, except to hire you to deflect their blame onto what remains of a family still grieving for our losses.

"That's why you've brought me here—despite the fact, which you occasionally seem to recognize, that I am the President and, as such, somewhat busy. Perhaps even busier than the President of Lexington Arms. Nonetheless, I'm answering your questions. So where, I have to wonder, is Mr. Callister?

"I haven't heard from him. He hasn't been seen. In fact, Professor Gold tells me that you're refusing to produce him for a deposition. What are you afraid of, Mr. Nolan? That the experience will be insuffi ciently congenial for him? Please assure him for me that he'll be treated with respect."

Watching, Sarah felt a deep surge of satisfaction, both because the President had, at last, retaliated and because he had so pointedly contrasted his own availability with Callister's. Were she John Nolan, Sarah thought, she would burn the videotape before anyone could see it.

This seemed to have occurred to him. Staring at the President, Nolan shed the last veneer of courtesy. "Isn't it true," he asked in a hectoring tone, "that Mr. Callister refused your demands to change Lexington's marketing practices?"

"No, it isn't true," Kilcannon answered calmly. "But he did decline my request in that regard. Both before and after the murders."

"And it's also true, is it not, that you blame the SSA for Congress's failure to enact the kind of gun laws you think should exist?"

"In some measure, yes. I also blame myself for failing to get them enacted. I'm trying to rectify that."

"In fact," Nolan pressed, "isn't this lawsuit part of an effort to do that?"

"Whose effort? I'm not a party. And if anything tarnishes your client, it will be the facts you seem to be trying to suppress . . ."

"Isn't," Nolan snapped, "Mary Costello conducting this lawsuit at your direction?"

"Mary," Kilcannon answered, "has never talked with me about this lawsuit."

Nolan scowled in disbelief. "Have you discussed it with Ms. Dash?"

Briefly, the President glanced in Sarah's direction. "I admire Ms. Dash's work. But I've never spoken to her before this morning."

"But you do know Mr. Lenihan. And have for some time."

"True."

"In fact, he's your leading supporter."

"I try to encourage a little competition for that title. But he's certainly been supportive."

"And have you discussed this lawsuit with Mr. Lenihan?"

"Once. Shortly after the murders, he asked me if Mary might require representation. I replied that, if she did, I couldn't think of anyone better. Nothing more was said. Sometime thereafter, I learned that Mary had engaged Mr. Lenihan as cocounsel."

"Do you know how Mary Costello came to engage Ms. Dash?"

The President shrugged. "I think Lara may have suggested it. What did Mary say?"

Frustrated, Nolan renewed his attack. "Did you discuss Ms. Dash's engagement with the First Lady?"

The President sat straighter, looking straight at Nolan. "Lara's my wife, Mr. Nolan. Three of her family members were slaughtered. You can fairly surmise that, from time to time, the subject comes up—even, on occasion, Mary's lawsuit. In fact, we may even discuss this deposition over dinner. But that's not for you to know."

"Are you refusing to answer?"

At this, Avram Gold began to speak. Gently, the President placed a hand on his wrist. "Lara and I may be public figures," he told Nolan. "But we have the same privilege of privacy between us as any other couple . . ."

"Are you," Nolan cut in, "directing this lawsuit through Mrs. Kilcannon?"

" 'Directing'? No. That's the job of the lawyers, I would have thought."

"Then you can clear all this up, Mr. President, by telling me whether you're using your wife as a conduit for your instructions to Mary Costello and her attorneys . . ."

"There's about to be some 'directing' done," Avram Gold interjected. "By me. By asking your last question you're trying to get the President to waive the marital privilege, now and in the future. I'm directing the President not to answer any questions about his private marital communications with the First Lady. That's the law, and it's also a matter of simple decency. It's a shame that I have to remind you of either."

"Are you," Nolan demanded of Kilcannon, "refusing to answer my question?"

"Yes." The President's faint smile returned. "Out of respect for Professor Gold. And, of course, my wife."

Nolan drew himself up. "I must advise you, sir, that we may be forced to bring a motion to reopen your deposition. And that the necessity of doing so may delay your sister-in-law's case from coming to trial."

"We're both lawyers," the President answered. "So we both know that such a motion would be groundless—your effort to manufacture yet more delay, not mine.

"You have, I understand, managed to conceal all discovery from public view. I can certainly see why. But you'd have to bring this motion you're threatening in open court, before the press and public, urging that Lexington has the right to insinuate itself into our lives even more than it already has. I'd welcome the chance to respond. So, I think, would Lara."

For once, Nolan seemed without words. His motion, Sarah felt confident, would never see the light of day. Next to her, Lenihan inquired lazily, "Are we through here, John? Some of us have things to do."

* * *

That night, as Lara slept, Kerry went to the Oval Office.

In the top drawer of his desk was a file of notes written in his own hand—conversations with Joan, the telephone number of the District Attorney's office and, later, the security firm. The final document was his own copy of John Bowden's letter.

He had not dared to look at it in weeks. Now he could not stop reading it. All that served to distract him from the words was his even more indelible memory of the murders themselves.