Balance of Power

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.

FIVE

The next morning, when Kerry returned to the Oval Office, he brought with him a copy of the SSA Defender magazine.

    The cover featured a caricature of President Kerry Kilcannon sipping champagne in white tie and tails, captioned in bold letters, 'Has this man ever been to a gun show?' The article inside praised gun shows as a place for 'American families to enjoy the sporting traditions central to our way of life.' Kerry flipped to a page he had marked with a paper clip, a calendar of gun-related events.

    Underlined in red was a gun show in Las Vegas. He placed it next to a typed itinerary for the next two days, built around a speech in San Francisco. Then he picked up the telephone and called Kit Pace. 'I want to change tomorrow's schedule,' he told her.

* * *

    Bernadette Fasano was one week from her due date and her husband—who despised cell phones, but was committed to being present for the delivery of each of their children—had stuffed a phone in his pocket before he left home. It was still there when, at noon, he ate a sandwich with Charles Dane in the SSA's conference room.

    Dane pressed the start button on a VCR. 'What you're about to see,' he said in an orotund impression of a television reporter, 'is just one of the many important pro bono services of America's trial lawyers.'

    On the screen appeared photographs of Henry Serrano, David Walsh, and Laura Blanchard, the other victims in the Costello shootings. Scrolling beneath them were the words of Lexington's advertisement in the SSA magazine. Their faces faded to black, and a quiet voice asked, 'Just who is the 'endangered species'? '

    'Is this from Lenihan's group?' Fasano inquired.

    'Yup. They've started running ads in major media markets. We're compiling their greatest hits.'

    The next spot focused on Felice Serrano, holding a photograph of her late husband playing a board game with their children. I pray that every member of Congress will remember George before they vote against gun safety . . .

    'Shameless,' Dane remarked. 'She may be mouthing the words, but I can hear Robert Lenihan speaking to a San Francisco jury.'

    Abruptly, Felice was succeeded by the faces of several children under ten, appearing with their ages above the words 'killed by classmates.' These, the voice-over explained, are some of the eighty children killed every week by guns. But Senator Fasano thinks that safety locks to save their lives threaten our freedom. What's more important than the freedom to grow up?

    Despite his hard-earned thickness of skin, Fasano realized that he felt defensive. When Dane gratuitously observed, 'They're making you the target,' Fasano considered responding, And it's you who put the bull'seye on my forehead.

    He was restrained by the images of a former press secretary and his wife, who had become gun safety activists after the husband's wounding by a would-be assassin. The husband had suffered a grave cerebral injury; in clear but halting speech, he said, I'm all for hunting and sport shooting. All I want is to make our country safer. Nodding, his wife looked into the camera, That's why we were so offended when Senator Paul Harshman told the SSA convention that 'next to Kerry Kilcannon,' my husband was the 'leading enemy' of gun owners in America.

    'Do me a favor,' Fasano remarked. 'Quit inviting Paul to speak. It's like giving gasoline and matches to a pyromaniac . . .'

    He was cut off by a metallic beep—his cell phone. 'Bernadette,' he murmured. As Dane hit the stop button, Fasano turned away. 'Sweetheart?' he answered softly.

    'I'm sorry,' Bernadette's voice was wan but wry, 'but if I'm any judge of these things, our newest product in development is about to go on-line.'

    Through his anxiety, Fasano felt himself smile: their sixth child in nine years qualified Bernadette as an expert. 'Will he or she hang on until I get there?'

    'I'll tell 'her' to,' Bernadette said, hoping aloud for a daughter. 'But this one time I want your promise to 'be home soon' to be more than aspirational.'

    'Promise,' Fasano said, and hung up.

    'Another Fasano on the way?' Dane inquired amiably.

    'My wife's never wrong. Got to run.'

    Dane nodded toward the screen. 'Too bad. You're missing the best one—a knife in Leo Weller's back.'

    Fasano reached for his briefcase. 'Why am I not surprised? But I'm afraid it'll have to keep.'

    'Don't let all this worry you,' Dane told him. 'We're ready to respond to this garbage. We promised to protect you and your people, and we will—big-time.'

    He was supposed to feel grateful and beholden, Fasano knew. Nodding, he headed for the glass door.

    'Good luck,' Dane said. 'I guess you don't know what flavor this one is?'

    'We never ask.' Briefly, Fasano paused in the doorway. 'When you're in my business, Charles, you treasure