Balance of Power

prove where he bought that gun, or why.'

    'Kilcannon,' Dane answered, 'doesn't concern himself with fairness. Let alone the niceties of evidence.'

    Under 'existing law,' Kilcannon continued, the maker of this deadly weapon placed it in John Bowden's hands . . .

* * *

    Listening, Chad Palmer glanced at his Republican colleague, Cassie Rollins. Her profile—the short blonde hair, the angular face of the athlete she had been—was still. Her attention was more than justified: in Maine, where Cassie would run for reelection, guns and hunting were ingrained.

    'The essence of this tragedy,' the President said in an incisive tone, 'is that it makes no sense. Especially to the many millions of responsible gun owners who know these simple truths:

    'That no 'sportsman' uses weapons that will kill twenty deer—or twenty people—in less than twenty seconds.

    'That no 'marksman' uses bullets designed to tear human flesh to shreds.

    'That no act of self-defense requires a gun designed for acts of war.

    'That no license to hunt deer rests on the license to hunt down women and children.

    'That no freedom in our Bill of Rights frees criminals and terrorists to turn those rights against us . . .'

    All at once the gallery was standing, with the Democrats launching a wave of applause and cheers that seemed as though it would not stop. Awkwardly, the Republicans rose as well, most, like Fasano, applauding tepidly. Paul Harshman, Palmer observed, stood with folded arms.

    'The SSA,' Cassie murmured to Chad, 'will have to go all out.'

* * *

    As the applause continued, Charles Dane went to his wet bar and poured himself a bourbon and water. 'Universal background checks,' he said to Fell and Campton. 'That's where this is headed.'

    Fell shook her head. 'Too big a stretch. He must know he'll never pass it.'

    Dane took his first sip of bourbon. 'Do you?'

    Under 'existing law,' Kilcannon called out through the applause, criminals are prohibited from buying guns. But forty percent of gun purchases are made through private sellers—often at gun shows—whom 'existing law' does not require to run background checks to see if the buyer is prohibited.

'Existing law,' in short, is an honor code for criminals . . .

Dane emitted a short laugh.

    For too long, Kilcannon continued, the debate about guns has been a matter of faith and fear, driven by a fanatic few who just can't sleep at night unless they feel that someone, somewhere is out to get them. Kilcannon paused again, and then said in a clear, commanding voice, No longer.

    No longer should this fanatic few be allowed to claim that commonsense laws to prevent criminals from buying weapons are the first step to confiscation by a tyrannical government of their imagining.

    No longer should they be heard to say that our only defense against criminals is to buy more guns, until America is an armed camp of the lawless and the fearful, and the body count which follows dwarfs the carnage we know today . . .

    His listeners rose yet again. 'We need Democrats,' Dane instructed Carla Fell. 'That's the only way to ensure that no president, Republican or Democrat, feels free to make this kind of speech again.'

    As the applause died down, Kilcannon's voice became soft with scorn. The same magazine that directed John Bowden to his Lexington P-2 told its readers that our only means of crime prevention is 'meeting evil force with proven protection' through 'armed self-defense for all peaceful Americans.' If only Mae Morgan had been quicker on the draw, I suppose this means, her son Louis would not be, effectively, an orphan.

    On the screen, Louis Morgan appeared in close-up, listening with stolid grief. Beside him, Lara Kilcannon touched his arm.

    'No shame,' Bill Campton said.

    All of us, Kilcannon called out, owe Louis Morgan better.

    Once more, the listeners rose, applauding. 'That's the fourteenth standing ovation,' Carla Fell reported.

* * *

'Eighty-three percent,' Kit Pace said in wonder.

    With deep satisfaction, Clayton smiled. 'A dinner at D C Coast says he hits eighty-five.'

    'You're on. For eighty-five, I'd gladly throw in a bottle of wine.'

    Some will say, the President said softly, that this is personal to me.

    It is. It is also personal to the families of Henry Serrano, David Walsh, Laura Blanchard, Mae Morgan, and to the millions of other Americans who have lost a parent, a child, or husband; or who've been maimed or paralyzed, their dreams forever shattered; or who live in fear for themselves and those they love.

    Kerry stood straighter, his voice determined. There is only this difference: I am the President. And I will act . . .

* * *

    Kerry paused again, surveying the faces before him. He felt a kind of transcendence, a calm, unhurried resolve to convey at last the weight of all he knew and felt.

    'And so I've come to the Congress,' he continued, 'in the name of humanity and common sense, to ask you to act with me.

    'For their part, Americans ask little enough of their elected representatives. Decent health care. Schools that teach. A fair chance to use their talents. Safety from external threats. Protection from random violence . . .'

* * *

'A modest program,' Dane said wryly.