Balance of Power

TWELVE

On the crisp Sunday morning before Thanksgiving, Kerry and Lara kayaked across Chilmark Pond.

Martha's Vineyard was sunny, fortuitous for their weekend away. The rambling home on the pond, new to them, was quiet and filled with books. They did not stay on Dogfish Bar, or even visit. On Saturday, they had read and talked and enjoyed each other, renewing themselves. On Sunday, more ambitious, they packed bagels and a thermos of coffee and set out in two kayaks for the beach. They moved steadily across the water toward the dune concealing the ocean, Lara rotating her paddle with a graceful, almost mathematical precision, Kerry making up in vigor what he lacked in form. A breeze rippled the pond, bright with sunlight, stirring the sea grass at its edge. The only sound was the soft thudding of outboard motors powering the rubber rafts driven by the Secret Service; the only other humans visible were two more agents atop the dune.

Beaching their kayaks, Lara and Kerry climbed the wooden catwalk which traversed the dune, pausing at its top to gaze out at the blue sweep of the Atlantic, curling outward on their right to the Gay Head cliffs. In late fall, the water seemed a chalkier blue, and the confluence of sand and surf and distant cliffs had a stark severe beauty marred only by the figures of more agents stationed along the shoreline. Taking the catwalk to the beach, Kerry and Lara spread out a woolen blanket and poured steaming black coffee into two mugs, warm in their cupped hands.

"I almost hate to bring this up," Lara said. "But where do we stand on gun immunity?"

It was the first reference since their arrival to politics or, more obliquely, to the loss of Lara's family. Kerry chose to address the question as asked. "In the House," he answered, "the SSA will jam it through. But it's close in the Senate and the final push begins tomorrow.

"Chuck Hampton thinks we've got roughly two weeks. It's time for me to start personally leaning on the Democratic swing votes—promising to campaign or swapping dam projects and jobs for relatives; pressing Chuck to withhold money from the Senate Campaign Committee for senators who vote with Fasano."

"Will he do that?"

Kerry sipped his coffee, its warmth as bracing as the cool breeze in his face. "Maybe," he replied. "As with Fasano, Chuck's leadership is on the line. The carrot is that we've done some polling, to show people like Torchio and Coletti how they can sell a vote against the SSA." Kerry put down his mug. "I'll do whatever I need to do. Losing this would feel like death to me."

Lara turned to him. "How can I help?"

Her words reminded Kerry—despite all that had happened—of the ways in which the tragedy united them. Not only did they share a common goal, but Lara understood what a President must do and accepted it without judgment.

"Joe Spivey," Kerry answered, "wants you to campaign for him. He thinks that could help him clean up his problems with pro-choice women—especially his vote against Caroline Masters."

As Lara smiled at this, Kerry saw the irony of an ex-reporter who once had covered the senator from Missouri—with all the disillusion bred by that experience—and who recognized that, as First Lady, she now had the power to help him perpetuate his mediocrity for yet another term. "Tell Senator Spivey," she authorized her husband, "that I've got no more shame than he does. But only if he gets it right this time."

* * *

Monday morning, the President began calling, or summoning senators for breakfast or lunch or cocktails in the residence or Oval Office.

On the telephone with James Torchio, he promised a personal call to Torchio's principal fund-raiser. Over breakfast with Ben Jasper of Iowa, he politely inquired if the SSA could help the senator with flood relief, or whether that was something which might require a President. In the Oval Office, he more pointedly asked Jason Christy of Maryland—who badly wanted to succeed him when Kerry's term was over— whether he thought he could win their party's nomination over the opposition of the incumbent. All of this involved the usual trafficking in favors, a knowledge of each senator's motivations reinforced by their clear understanding of Kerry's; hence none of it surprised him. The exception was Hank Westerly of Nebraska.

They sat in Kerry's private quarters in the White House, sipping Scotch from crystal glasses. Westerly seemed so tormented by his dilemma that Kerry felt something close to pity. "I often thought," he told his former peer, "that being a senator would be terrific if we never had to vote."

But Westerly seemed beyond the salve of humor. He blinked at Kerry behind thick glasses, his genial midwestern face a portrait of uncharacteristic misery. "I'm afraid of these people," he blurted out.

"The SSA?"

"Yes." His tone became confessional. "I mean, physically."

This was one fear for which Kerry was not prepared. Reading the President's face, Westerly seemed to wince, recoiling from this admission to a man who had not only lost his brother and the greater portion of Lara's family to guns, but had also been shot himself. Softly, Kerry answered, "Unlike the pro-life fanatics, the pro-gunners don't seem to shoot their adversaries. Although I suppose there's always a first time. But if my experience is any guide, it probably won't be you."

The senator made no attempt to answer. With the same quiet, Kerry said, "I need your help, Hank."

Sipping Scotch, Westerly pursed his lips, his wrinkled face a blueprint of unhappiness. "I'd like to, Mr. President. Believe me. But I just don't know that I can."

Kerry felt all compunction vanish. "Then let's consider your life this side of heaven. If you want anything—a dam, a road, or that federal building with your name on it—I can make it happen, or not. If you want me to campaign for you, or just raise money, I will—or I won't.

"I plan to be here for another seven years. That's a long time to spend in purgatory. Assuming, of course, that you make it to the end." The quiet of Kerry's voice held no hint of mercy. "Life is choices, Hank. You get to choose what scares you most."

* * *

But the most unpleasant meeting in this sequence was made so by its absence of humanity.

In Kerry's informed estimate, Jack Slezak of Michigan was crude and amoral, a politician whose sole interest was to amass power, and to eliminate all rivals by whatever means at hand. Kerry disliked him on instinct and on principle. As part of Slezak's complex calculus of survival, he had become an advocate of gun rights, judging that this could help him with a core of voters who usually voted Republican without offending his blue-collar base, many of whom owned guns. A similar calculus had led him to support Vice President Dick Mason over Kerry in the Michigan primary and, Kerry was certain, had inspired a scurrilous last-minute round of phone-banking—casting Kerry as irreligious and antiunion—which had contributed to his narrow defeat. Though it was early evening when Slezak came to the Oval Office, Kerry did not offer him a drink.

"I need your vote against gun immunity," Kerry said. "Simple as that."

Beneath Slezak's swept-back reddish hair, his shrewd green eyes peered back at Kerry from a broad Tartar face, all planes and angles, which, Kerry had always suspected, originated when Genghis Khan and his hordes had swept across some vulnerable part of Eastern Europe, pausing to rape the village females. "Not so simple," Slezak said without deference. "I'm up for reelection next year. What do I gain by crossing the SSA?"

The answer, Kerry knew, was the President's help in raising campaign money from sources to whom Jack Slezak was anathema. But for Kerry the knowledge that this was what Slezak expected, despite his efforts to deny Kerry the office they now sat in, demanded a different response. "My forbearance," Kerry said. "You think I'm only concerned with the next election. In the last election, I lost your primary—thanks in large measure to you. Now you're facing a primary against Jeannie Griswold, and if you lose, you're gone for good. This election, it's pretty much up to me."

Slezak's face took on an adamantine cast of someone who would not be moved. "Michigan's my state, not yours. I thought we settled that the last time."

Kerry shook his head. "No," he answered. "All we settled the last time is that I want you gone. And if you screw me on this, some other folks are going to share my vision. One thing is sure—the response will be a lot more elegant, and far better deserved, than a round of sleazy phone-banking."

Slezak folded his arms. "Like what?"

"Any number of things. But I'll give you a clue to one—keep an eye on Leo Weller."

Slezak's eyes hardened. "Those asbestos ads."

Kerry smiled. "You've already heard. But, of course, you don't have asbestos mines in Michigan. So let me explain what this is about for you.

"A twelve-year-old boy in Detroit was shooting baskets on a playground when a teenage neighbor shot him in the spine. Now the boy's a quadriplegic for however long he lives.

"The shooter bought his gun from a dirty dealer who didn't bother with background checks, despite the fact that the guns he sold kept popping up in crimes. The dealer's chief supplier, a gun company in Southern California, kept shipping him guns even after they knew that. One of their guns left this boy paralyzed.

"His mother sued. This bill you're thinking about supporting would wipe out her lawsuit and immunize that same company and the crooked leader." Pausing, Kerry leaned forward. "Vote for it, Jack, and I'll make you a promise.

"Two weeks before your primary against Jeannie Griswold, the trial lawyers are going to put that boy and his mother all over the airwaves. I won't have a thing to do with it. But what I will do is raise millions of dollars for Jeannie, and then campaign against you wherever it hurts the most.

"You'll lose, and I'll get Jeannie Griswold in your place." Kerry's voice was cool, indifferent. "My only problem is that I don't much care what you decide."