Balance of Power

FOURTEEN

When Cassie Rollins arrived on the Hill from a long weekend visiting her constituents in Maine, she remained, as she had told them, undecided on both tort reform and the gun bill. She was listening to their voices, she had assured them. In truth, the voices were a cacophony, and she felt buffeted by the SSA and Kilcannon's visit to her backyard. She did not look forward to her meeting with Fasano.

Glancing at the Capitol, Cassie stopped.

Customarily, she took a private entrance. Today, drawn by a crowd of demonstrators, she walked up the marble steps of the Senate side.

What gave her pause were the shoes.

They were carefully arranged on the steps—the empty shoes of women or children, row upon row. The demonstrators, mostly women, held signs saying "Help Our President Save Lives," and "No Immunity for Murder."

One, a pleasant, round-faced woman with grey hair, stood beside a pair of black pumps and a smaller pair of tennis shoes. Gazing at the endless rows of shoes, Cassie gently asked her, "Whose shoes are these?"

"Women and children murdered by abusers." Pausing, she glanced down at the shoes beside her. "Those were my daughter's and grandson's."

Nodding, Cassie touched the woman's arm, and then went on her way. But as she entered the Majority Leader's suite of offices, the empty shoes stayed with her.

* * *

"I saw them," Fasano acknowledged.

"Did you also see the coverage of Kilcannon with those hunters? He's getting pretty good at this."

Fasano did not respond to her directly. "The week after next," he said at length, "I'm planning to bring up tort reform. I need you to be with me."

Cassie pursed her lips in thought. "I'd like to be, Frank. But I'll admit that this one bothers me—personally, and politically."

Fasano gave her a shrewd, pragmatic look. "Is there something I can give you?"

"Yes," Cassie answered promptly. "A compromise with Kilcannon on his gun bill. A real one."

Fasano slowly shook his head. "I've gone as far as I can go. You already know that."

"I know all about the SSA," she said tiredly. "But have a care, Frank, about who's using whom. You could wind up like the boy who chose to ride the back of the tiger. Maybe you won't get eaten, but the tiger will decide where you should go."

Once more, Fasano was silent. At length, he said, "Only one of us will get eaten, Cassie. And that's you.

"I accept the deal you had with Mac Gage when he was leader. Three out of ten votes you'll cross me to please some part of your electorate. Some of those votes will be on abortion and even, on occasion, guns. In turn, I get seven votes out of ten, and a Republican senator who helps keep us in the majority, and me as leader.

"I'm not into jihads. You understand that, I hope."

"I do," Cassie said with a nod of deference. "And I appreciate it."

"Then this is where you show me." Though any movement was imperceptible, Fasano suddenly seemed closer to her, and his voice became flat and cold. "I expect both your vote on gun immunity and against Kilcannon's bill. Our party has to deliver and those votes are too damned close. If you oppose me, I can't control the SSA. I won't try. And by next November you won't be here anymore. So you'll be spared the consequences of having to deal with me."

She had run out of room, Cassie realized. In the same tone of civil deference, she thanked Fasano for his candor and promised him every consideration. But not, as of yet, her vote.

* * *

Unlike his Democratic colleagues, Leo Weller preferred, at this sensitive juncture, to keep his distance from a President who so inflamed his right-wing base. So to spare him further embarrassment, Kerry contacted the senator by phone.

"I just saw some polling data," he observed with mock solicitousness. "I've never seen an incumbent senator drop nineteen points in fourteen days. Your approval rating's in free fall, Leo."

"It's temporary," Weller said stubbornly.

"Temporary? You're dying from asbestosis. And Beltway tunnel

vision." Kerry's tone maintained the same ironic sympathy. "Believe me, I understand how this can happen. You're playing golf with the president of an asbestos company, who starts complaining about how all these bogus lawsuits will drag his company under. You, too, hate bogus lawsuits, and plaintiffs' lawyers, and your golf buddy is so committed to your common principles that he's already raised three hundred thousand for your next campaign.

"So you're glad to stick an immunity provision in Fasano's tort reform bill, and sign on as its cosponsor. The problem is that you've got constituents who are dying off from asbestosis—but not quite fast enough to keep them from voting against you." Kerry's voice became crisp. "And now they've started dying off on television. Airtime in Montana is cheap, and the victims are plentiful. They'll be dying on you from now until next November. Then it's your turn."

This, as Kerry expected, induced silence. "What do you want?" Weller asked.

"They're not my ads, Leo. Only the trial lawyers can help you. But I can suggest what a sensible man in your position would do.

"I wouldn't vote in favor of my gun bill—too risky. But before another day passes, I'd take my name off that tort reform bill and promise to vote against it." Kerry's voice hardened. "The whole bill. Then the trial lawyers will have to find some other way of getting rid of you."

Weller responded with more silence. The man might be a fool, Kerry knew, but he had his pride. He disliked being made an object lesson in such a public way—the helpless symbol of Kerry's resolve—and the humiliation which would follow such a public change in the balance of the Senate. "I'll consider it," Weller said in grudging tones.

"You do that, Leo," the President replied. "Personally, I find those ads truly painful to watch."