Balance of Power

    'Yes,' Kerry said, and hoped that it was so. 'Once she does, can you get a kick-out order before Bowden gets home tonight?'

    'Sure.' To his relief, Harding sounded unruffled. 'After notice and a hearing, we'll go for an emergency protective order, finding that he's a threat to the safety of his wife and child, and barring him from stalking, harassing, threatening, or using force. We'll also ask for an order keeping him away from Marie.'

    'Can you get him into a program for batterers?'

    'There's a backlog, Mr. President. But pretty soon.'

    'What about guns? This guy's a stick of dynamite.'

    'The cops will search the house, his car, anywhere he might keep a weapon. And the judge will order him to turn in any guns.'

    'That's all fine,' Kerry told her, 'but worry about Bowden buying another.'

    'We'll do our damnedest, sir. Once the judge issues the order, the cops enter it into our computer system. California law's much stronger than federal law—anytime anyone transfers a gun, like at a gun show, they have to run a background check. Bowden will come out denied.'

    'Then please, do me a favor, Marcia. Enter the order yourself.' Standing, Kerry began to pace. 'I used to do this work. Too often the guy at the computer is some bitter old cop with a bad arm, stuck with a menial task because he's disqualified for street duty.' In a softer tone, Kerry added, 'I'm sorry if I sound anxious. But this is Lara's niece and sister, and I know what can go wrong.'

    'Don't worry, Mr. President.' It was Jack Halloran, anxious to regain center stage. 'I will personally enter this order.'

    Please, Kerry thought, don't. 'If Marcia says she will,' the President responded mildly, 'that's probably best. Everyone knows you, Jack—if you do this yourself, it could hit the papers.

    'That's the final favor I'm asking: please try to keep this out of the media. That could only inflame Bowden, and it would be humiliating for Joan. She shouldn't have to suffer because her sister's marrying the President.'

    There was a momentary silence. 'I can't issue a guarantee,' Harding answered. 'But I've got no reason to tell anyone who Joan's sister is, or mention that you called me. Battering is battering.'

Kerry sat again. 'Thank you,' he said with relief. 'Lara will be grateful, too.'

* * *

By late afternoon, the police had arrested John Bowden. The lead article in the Washington Times was 'President, Gun Companies Announce Pact.' Martin Bresler was quoted as hailing 'a new maturity and moderation in the American gun community.' The final quote was from the president of the SSA, Charles Dane: 'No good can come to those who stand with Kerry Kilcannon.'

NINE

'I've checked the Saturday of Labor Day weekend,' Kit Pace said to Lara. 'In terms of television, it might seem pretty good for a wedding—no conflicts with major sports events, no big network specials. But that's because the networks know better: who wants to be inside watching television on the last weekend of summer?'

    With a sense of resignation, Lara looked at the others. They sat in the yellow Oval Room of the President's private residence: Kit, Kerry's press secretary; Clayton; Connie Coulter, a savvy young public relations expert Lara had asked to become her press secretary; and Francesca Thibault, the White House social secretary. Kerry sat next to Lara; the others, sworn to secrecy, were the planning group for their wedding. At Lara's insistence they had chosen Sunday afternoon—with its diminished scrum of reporters outside the West Wing—for their first meeting.

    'It doesn't matter,' Lara answered blithely. 'We're planning on a two-line announcement: 'The President and his fiancee, Lara Costello, were married today. Ms. Costello plans to keep her name.' '

    'Three lines,' Kerry amended. 'You can add 'The happy couple is honeymooning at an undisclosed location.' '

    Kit's smile was tentative, as if she were worried that, beneath the levity, Lara was drawing a line. 'Are you two planning on a second term?' she inquired dryly. 'If so, to affirmatively include the country in your wedding would be absolutely unifying.'

    Lara managed to smile. 'I'm all for unity,' she said. 'My modest hope is for a wedding somewhat more subdued than halftime at the Super Bowl. Consistent with the wishes of the media, Kerry's political advisors, and the Democratic National Committee.'

    The wry edge in Lara's tone elicited, from Kit, a sympathetic shake of the head. 'During the transition,' she responded, 'I had a meeting with my predecessor. He'd run a computer search to identify the subject on which he'd gotten the most inquiries. The winner—by over ten times more than the war in Kosovo—was the President's acquisition of Frisky, his Boston terrier. The questions included whether Frisky would get spayed, and the existence of protective measures to keep him from disemboweling the First Lady's pet Siamese.

    'Your wedding, it goes without saying, is somewhat bigger than the acquisition of a dog . . .'

    'I'll take that as a compliment,' Lara interrupted with a smile.

    'Lara,' the President informed Kit, 'is wondering whether Frisky at least got to keep his job.'

    Kit threw up her hands in mock dismay. 'Welcome,' she said, 'to the theater of the absurd.'

    Dark, elegant, and dangerously thin, Francesca Thibault hastened to infuse a note of seriousness. 'The challenge,' she interjected, 'is to have a public event which is true to who you are.

    'This is not an old-fashioned society wedding. You and the President are the American meritocracy. So we can style it as a private event— scaled down, with a touch of informality; a wedding party comprised of friends and family; and a larger reception to include the guests we just can't do without.'

    'Can we 'do without' guests who actively hate us?' Lara asked.

    'Not really,' Clayton answered, deadpan, 'but we can probably set a quota.'

    'Jokes aside,' Connie Coulter said to Lara, 'the composition of the guest list is important. It can't be so big that an invitation is meaningless or so political that it looks crass.'

    'But what is 'it'?' Lara asked. 'A wedding, or our reception?'

    'A White House wedding,' Francesca Thibault answered firmly, 'whatever the guest list.' Turning to the President, she said, 'The last time a President married at the White House was almost ninety years ago, and that was Woodrow Wilson . . .'

    'A White House reception,' Clayton corrected. 'The wedding should be in a Catholic church.'

    Lara glanced at Kerry. 'Clayton,' Kerry told her baldly, 'wants to clean up my problems with the Church. Until the annulment, I was a divorced, pro-choice opponent of prayer in public school, whose selection for Chief Justice is absolute anathema to the Catholic hierarchy. And, in particular, to Cardinal McKiernan, the archbishop of this diocese.'

    'It's not just the hierarchy,' Clayton said to Lara. 'Last November, Kerry only carried fifty-two percent of the Catholic vote. The bloodbath over making Caroline Masters Chief Justice—after she ruled in favor of late term abortion—has made those numbers even worse.'

    The lightness of spirit Lara felt had vanished. As the others did not, Clayton knew of her abortion: to the extent he could, he was trying to inoculate Kerry against scandal by cloaking their marriage in the blessings of the Church.

    'What about St. Mathew's?' Francesca Thibault asked. 'Where the President goes to Mass. It's a magnificent structure . . .'