Balance of Power

    Clayton raised his eyebrows. 'How so?'

    'The middle sister is also a battered wife. Last night, she called us.'

    As Kerry summarized the call, Clayton settled back. His expression, though empathic, became guarded.

    'Get me the D.A.'s private number,' Kerry finished. 'As soon as I'm through meeting with the gun executives, I want him and his domestic violence person on the phone.'

    Clayton considered this. 'Watch your ethics,' he admonished. 'If this was a federal prosecutor instead of a local, you'd probably be breaking a law or two. Presidential fingers on the scale of justice.'

    'These people don't work for me,' Kerry rejoined. 'I'm just going to walk them through this, make sure it all goes right.'

    'Maybe so. But this isn't a random phone call from a casual friend. This is the President calling.'

    'Which is why I won't have to call them twice.' Kerry paused, voice level and determined. 'This can't keep happening to her, Clayton. Not on my watch.'

EIGHT

At ten o'clock, Jack Sanders, the President's Chief Domestic Policy Advisor, ushered Martin Bresler and five CEOs of gun companies into the Oval Office.

    Collectively, the seven were an ill-assorted group. Slender, scholarly and intense, Sanders was a generation younger than the rest, a political scientist from Princeton. Bresler—small, dark, loquacious, and frenetic— headed the Gun Sports Coalition, an industry group formed to soften the image of gun manufacturers and, Bresler hoped, steer a middle ground between two implacable enemies, Kerry Kilcannon and the SSA. The CEOs were the first subjects of this improbable experiment: middle-aged and white, burly except for one, they looked as uncomfortable to Kerry as suspects in a lineup. Though respectful, they were reticent; Kerry was quite certain that none had voted for him. As Kerry greeted them, only George Callister, the CEO of Lexington Arms, returned his handshake with an unflinching gaze which bespoke a quiet confidence.

    The White House photographer hurried in. Serially, each CEO posed with Kerry for the obligatory 'grip and grin' shot; struck by the awkwardness of it all, Kerry idly wondered if any of these photographs would end up on a wall. Waving them to the u-shaped couch and wing chairs, Kerry amended his mental image of a lineup—they seemed more like prisoners on the wrong end of a firing squad.

    The absurdity of this made Kerry smile—when all else fails, he thought, make an offering to the god of laughter. 'Believe me,' he told them, 'I know how tough it is to be seen with me. But don't worry— right after the ceremony we're putting all of you in the witness protection program.'

    There was tentative laughter. Smiling, Bresler asked, 'Are you telling our wives?'

    'We already have,' Kerry rejoined. 'They all wish you guys a lot of luck.'

    The chuckles felt more genuine now. But even as George Callister joined in, Kerry felt Callister assessing him with genuine curiosity. With his grey crew cut, stocky build, broad face, and midwestern accent, Callister reminded Kerry of an engineer, the kind of man who worked with his head and hands. Instinctively Kerry felt that, among this group, Callister was important. Though careful to look from face to face, Kerry focused his attention on the CEO of Lexington.

    'Seriously,' he told them, 'I'm grateful that you're here. Too many gunshot accidents can be easily prevented, too many involve young children. Look at cars—air bags, seat belts, and changes in design have all saved lives. So will this.

    'To me, it seems so simple—by putting safety locks on all your guns, you're preventing needless tragedy. But I know you're bucking the SSA.'

    Bresler nodded. 'We're willing to stand with you, Mr. President, and see where it goes.'

    'I appreciate that.' Kerry leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him, looking intently from one face to the other. 'Let me tell you where I hope it goes. Supposedly, our current laws prevent felons, wife-beaters, drug abusers, those convicted of violent misdemeanors, and the adjudicated mentally ill from buying handguns. That only makes sense— instead of locking them up after they've already killed someone, we run background checks to prevent the most dangerous among us from buying guns.

    'But the SSA and its friends in Congress confined the background checks to federally licensed dealers, exempting anyone who claims to be a so-called private seller.' Pausing, Kerry focused on George Callister. 'As one example, that means that someone convicted of a violent crime can go to a gun show, and buy enough semiautomatic handguns to arm the whole Al Qaeda network. Which makes no sense.'

    'Maybe to you, Mr. President,' Callister responded soberly. ' 'But what if your private seller's a bona fide hobbyist,' the SSA would say. 'Why should he wait three days for a background check to sell a handgun to a law- abiding citizen?' '

    'Because law-abiding citizens,' Kerry rejoined, 'don't need gun shows to buy weapons. They can pass a background check and buy from licensed dealers.

    'Look, George, we all know the realities. Gun shows shaft lawabiding dealers and put your guns in the hands of criminals who wind up killing someone. So you end up with terrible PR and a raft of lawsuits from people who think you should be held responsible for who gets guns that can fire ten rounds in seconds.'

    'But we're not responsible.' Callister's voice was grim. 'Let's be blunt. The man who shot you got a used Lexington gun on the street. We didn't know the seller, we didn't know the shooter. What would you have had us do?'

    Kerry's gaze and voice were level. 'I didn't sue you, did I? But here's what you can do: refuse to let your dealers sell your guns at gun shows unless the promoter runs background checks on every gun sold. The promoter will have no choice but to agree.

    'We have to get this done. Or by next month, or the month after, we'll have that many more deaths on our hands. I doubt there's anyone in this room who wants them on their conscience.' Pausing, Kerry focused on George Callister. 'I appreciate that the SSA is a problem. But I will be, as well. I'd like to think it matters which one of us is right.'

    Callister wore a skeptical frown: 'right' is one thing, his expression said, power another, and no executive of a gun company can overlook the difference. Quietly, Kerry finished, 'If all of you stick together, you can liberate your industry from your 'protectors' at the SSA. Saving lives will be a bonus.'

    There was an uncomfortable silence, and then Martin Bresler intervened. 'One step at a time, Mr. President. We can't take too much excitement.'

    At this, Kerry smiled, standing. 'Ready for the Rose Garden?' he asked. 'I'll stick my head out first, and see who's shooting.'

* * *

    When Kerry returned to the Oval Office it was close to eleven-thirty, eight-thirty in San Francisco. By now, Kerry calculated, Marie would be in school, John Bowden on his way to work. It took a minute to track down the D.A. for San Francisco, one more to conference in the chief of his domestic violence unit.

    'Mr. President,' Jack Halloran began. 'To what do we owe this honor?'

    The D.A., Kerry thought, sounded dazed by more than hearing from him. A onetime student radical of dubious stability, Jack Halloran liked to drink too much. To Kerry, this threatened whatever clarity Halloran retained: it was Kerry's private theory that Halloran had rewired his brain with hallucinogens sometime in the 1960s, well before his bewildering reincarnation as a Democratic pol. At the very least, his judgment was impaired—Kerry only hoped that his deputy, a woman named Marcia Harding, was as capable as she needed to be.

    'It's my future sister-in-law,' Kerry said without preface, and tersely described Joan's call. 'She's in trouble,' he concluded. 'And her daughter has seen far too much.'

    'Will Joan fill out a complaint?' Marcia Harding asked.