Balance of Power

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.'

THIRTEEN

Because of what she knew, the deposition of Dr. Larry Walters held a tension that Sarah alone could feel.

    John Nolan sat across from her, set to cross-examine. But not until he finished would Sarah hand him a revised witness list which now included Norman Conn, and a notice of deposition for a federal prisoner named George Johnson. For the next several hours, Nolan would question her expert witness without knowing that his answers were the foundation for the lethal damage which—she fervently hoped—Conn and Johnson would visit on Nolan's defense.

    As unaware of this as Nolan, Walters exuded a calm precision. His wire-rimmed glasses and careful speech suggested the academic he had become, a Ph.D. in criminology who published extensively on the phenomenon of gun violence in America. But in a past career he had been a firearms expert who had served as a senior administrator for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. This was enough to induce caution in John Nolan but not, to Sarah's satisfaction, the deep wariness he would feel had he known of her surprises. For the moment, knowing what Walters would say was more than enough to give her pleasure.

* * *

'The Lexington Patriot-2,' Walters told Nolan, 'is a weapon of war.'

    Combined with his tone, the simple statement caused Harrison Fancher to lean closer, Nolan to hunch in a defensive yet determined posture. 'On what do you base that statement?'

    Referring to the document before him, Walters marshalled his thoughts, presenting them without inflection or emotion. 'Begin with how Lexington describes the P-2 in its manual. It describes a weapon with a 'militaristic combat sling' which facilitates 'spray firing.' It depicts the P-2 being used in 'hip-fire mode at shortest range.' It represents that its design facilitates 'rapid sustained fire impossible with most handguns' . . .'

    'Why,' Nolan interrupted, 'might not a gun fancier enjoy the P-2 simply for its advanced design?'

    Walters looked up from the manual with raised eyebrows. ' 'Advanced design'? Its sights are crude, it weighs too much, and it's unwieldy to shoot. In short, this gun is not designed for any serious recreational purpose. Nor am I aware of any instance when the P-2 has been used for household self-defense. What it is good for—as this manual suggests—is shooting multiple human targets during rapid sustained fire.' Pausing, Walters finished, ' 'Advanced' is in the eye of the beholder. But as a matter of 'design,' Mr. Bowden applied the Patriot-2 to its only useful purpose.'

    'On what do you base that opinion?'

    'Among other things, I reviewed the tape of the murders.' Glancing toward a video screen at the head of the conference table, Walters said mildly, 'Unless you'd prefer otherwise, I'm prepared to walk you through it.'